CHAPTER VII - "Blood Kin "

A FUTURISTIC SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY.

         Blood Kin 
 
Betty pulled the aspirin bottle from the metal shelf above the burger
grill, wiped the grease from it with her stained apron, and flipped
open the top.  Three white pills rolled out into her calloused hand.
She popped them into her mouth and swallowed hard.
 
She'd been at the Mickey Burger Barn since long before the kids had been
let out of their week's studies, since before the teenagers who'd ordered
their Friday night burgers and cokes, since before Jason roused himself
out of bed to prowl the night with his friends. She pushed her worn gray
cardigan aside and kneaded her lower back with a fisted hand.
 
Still, she was thankful for the job.  It put food on their table and
clothes on their backs.  To her way of thinking, a body couldn't expect
much more than that.
 
She left the burger grill behind, threaded her way to the front counter and
its battered old cash register.  Tossing her keys onto the counter,
they clattered to a halt.  She hoped it would get Jason's attention.
It didn't.
 
Jason sat in the back corner booth, its orange vinyl seats faded and torn,
with a young boy at his side and one across the table.  To Betty he looked
no more than fifteen for all his twenty-two years.  What with his brown
hair shaggy, a wisp of dark growth on his chin that never quite filled
in, his lanky frame covered with a black shirt and faded jeans.
 
When her sister had died, she'd done her best by the boy.  What else
could she do?  What with him being her blood kin.  She gave the boy a
place to live, gave him first-rate schooling, at home, at first, in the
cabin in the mountains of Tennessee, then later she'd sent him off to
night classes at the local college.
 
Oh lord but it broke her heart now to look on him.  He still wore the
wire rimmed glasses, the ones he no longer needed.  He told her it made
him feel smart.  He wanted so to fit in, to be accepted.  If only he'd
learn that people had to make the best of what God gave them, no matter
what that might be.
 
"Kick your friends out and lock the door," she said and cringed at the
shrill note in her voice.  Harsh, cutting, the sharp edge an unspoken
accusation glued to each word.
 
Jason and the boys huddled closer together over the table as if they
didn't hear her.  But he heard her.  Even when he didn't answer, she
knew he heard her.  He always did.
 
She pulled the small cloth bank bag from under the counter then checked
for the baseball bat.  There it was, nestled amongst the white paper
bags, cups, and napkins.  Sometimes folks got the idea they could
take advantage.
 
She continued on to the breaker box on the far wall, flipped the switch
for the dining room lights off.  The safety bulbs, the ones that were supposed
to scare off the rabble, threw shadows across the room.
 
"Jason!" She checked her voice.  "It's time to close up.  Your friends
need to leave.  Now!"
 
The boy across from Jason jumped.  She thought his name was Lance but couldn't
be sure.  Lately, Jason had gone to bringing a string of different boys
through here every week.  This one, with his head clean-shaven, ratty
shirt, and old jeans, looked like so many of the boys that inhabited
this small town.
 
The boy next to Jason, a blond with a shoulder length ponytail and a too-tight
red shirt, picked up a cold fry, studied it, then let it drop.
He slipped out of the booth and headed off toward the bathrooms.
The click-clop of his sandals against the tiled floor echoed against
the silence.
 
He'd been a fixture for the last month.  To Betty's mind, he was
a troublemaker with no respect for his elders.  Even so, he had no
business with her Jason.  Jason was a hard case at times, strong willed.
She'd always had to keep a close eye on him.  When he was young, he was
a holy terror, always getting himself into some sort of trouble.
 
Now?  Now he could get plain ole dangerous.
 
"Hey, there's no lights back here!" called the boy from the back hall.
"How am I supposed to pee?"
 
"We're closed," said Betty.  "Go find a bathroom somewhere else."
 
The boy peered around the corner to the dining area.
 
"What do you mean, you're closed.  It's not 1:00."
 
"Close enough."  Betty returned her attention to the cash register,
pulled bills from the drawer and shoved them into the bag.
 
"Jason," said the boy.  "Toss me my lighter from the table."
 
Jason rummaged through the boy's backpack and then tossed the
lighter towards him.  It bounced off his hand and skittered down the hall.
He disappeared around the corner after it.
 
Betty's irritation, hardly contained, spread across her face.  She pulled
out the baseball bat.
 
"This little game has gone far enough."  She tapped the thick end against
the counter.  "As soon as she gets back, I want all of you on your way."
 
Jason twisted in his seat and locked defiant eyes on Betty.  She shot
him the look, the one that said she meant business.  Before he had a
chance to smart-off, she set the bat down deliberately within arm's reach,
turned her attention back to the cash drawer.
 
The boy, returned from the bathrooms, scooted past Betty to the booth.
 
"Enough is enough, Jason."  She slammed closed the cash drawer.  "Out.
Now."
 
When Jason didn't move, she grabbed the bat, started around the counter
for the booth.  Lance eyed the bat and stood up.
 
"Sit down you idiot.  She's not going to use that thing," said Jason.
"We'll lock up later.  Just leave the keys."
 
"What did I tell you about this?" asked Betty.
 
A smirk spread across Jason's face.
 
"Awe, come on."  His teeth gleamed in the shadows.  "It won't hurt
anything to stay out a little longer."
 
He sat so still and beautiful, dark hair and bright eyes glistening
like an angel, like one of those paintings he'd showed her from his
college books.  Not a muscle moved, not even to blink.
 
Before she realized it, the change was on him.  It started in the eyes,
with the dilation of the pupils, the luminous preternatural look.
As if he watched everything and nothing at once.
 
"Oh Lord," said Betty.  "Jason!  Can you hear me boy?"
 
She took a firm double-handed grip on the bat and hoisted it over her
shoulder, ready.
 
The bathroom boy's knees slid out from under him as he eased himself back into
the booth across from Jason.
 
Betty launched into action, shook that bat at Lance while she propelled
herself the last few strides to their booth.
 
"You!  Get your buddy and get out of here this instant."
 
Lance's head swiveled from Betty to Jason and back to Betty.  Eyes wide,
face tense, he backed away from the booth.
 
Jason's shoulders began to tremble, an almost imperceptible tremor.
A small tick played at the corner of his mouth.
 
"Jason!  Jason!  Come back to me, boy!"
 
His fingers, more claws then human appendages, clung to the edge of
the table.
 
The bathroom boy's mouth opened in a silent scream.  He pushed himself into
the corner of the booth.  His sandals scraped at the edge of the seat,
slipped off again and again, unable to gain a hold.
 
Jason's hands shot out, pulled the boy across the table, and flipped him onto
his back.  With precision borne of instinct, he pushed the boy's shoulders
flat and yanked his head to the side with a fist full of blond ponytail,
exposing the soft flesh of his neck.
 
"Stop boy!  Do you hear . . ."
 
The boy's voice escaped in a piercing scream.
 
Lance ran for the door.  His fists pounded against the glass, reverberating
in a drumbeat across the room.
 
Betty swung the bat down against the table top with everything she had.
Splinters of laminate and fiberboard flew in all directions.
 
Jason lifted his head.  He sat docile over the boy.  His full attention
focused now on the boy at the door.  A drop of crimson trickled from
his lips.
 
The boy's eyes wild, feral, a rabid dog locked in a cage without escape.
The drumbeat grew incessant.
 
Betty grabbed a handful of red shirt and yanked the boy to the floor.
With a wary eye on Jason, she leaned down, fumbled for the boy's neck,
for a pulse.  Nothing.
 
"Stop that infernal pounding," she shouted.
 
"Let me out of here," Lance rasped.
 
A small sheen of sweat broke out on Betty's forehead.  She tensed her
grip on the bat.
 
"The keys are on the counter.  Get out!"
 
The boy, back against the wall, edged toward the service counter.
 
Betty moved her fingers to the right on the boy's neck.  Nothing.
 
"Why?" she asked.  "It's been seven months, boy.  Seven Months!  We had
it beat."
 
She'd had it beat.
 
She'd slaughtered pigs, trapped stray cats, done everything she could to
manage the hunger.  After his mother died, she stayed on his schedule,
stayed with him at night, worked and slept by day, left him alone
only when necessary.  And when he wouldn't control himself, couldn't
control himself, when he was bad, she'd beat him back with the bat.
They'd always managed in their own way.  He'd always regained his senses.
 
"Oooh Lance."
 
The boy froze, trapped, unable to move, halfway between the doors and
the keys.
 
Betty rose on wobbly knees and stepped in front of Jason.  A trickle of
sweat ran down her neck.  She took the bat in a firm two-handed grip.
 
Jason leaned around her, across the table, ran his tongue across his lips.
The tips of his elongated incisors flashed white in the dark.
 
The boy Lance lunged for the door, scratched at the lock, clawed at
the windows.
 
Jason laughed and turned his attention to Betty.
 
"What did you think I was doing during those seven months?" he asked.
 
"What do you mean?"
 
His smile, foul, cold, shredded her fantasies.  The pounding in her head
exploded in a counterpoint to the animal grunts from the door.  The bat,
dead weight in her clammy hands, threatened to slip from her grasp.
 
Her stomach curdled at the thought of the first blow when bat connected
with flesh, fractured bone.  Thud, thud, thud against a thigh, a rib,
his scull.  He'd whimper.  He always whimpered, wounded, his head covered
with his arms.  She'd continue, until the whimpering stopped, until he
came to his senses.
 
"Lord, give me courage," she whispered.  "Listen to me boy!  Do you want
me to use this bat on you?"
 
She stepped forward, mustered all her remaining strength, took her
protector in two hands and readied for battle.
 
Jason stood up, sneer at her.  "You just don't have it in you any more,
old lady."
 
She let loose her swing, aimed at his head.  His arm shot out.  He took
the impact squarely in his right hand and pulled the bat from her grasp,
pulled her off her feet.    She landed hard on the cold tile floor.
 
"Don't you understand," he said.  "You're here because I want you here.
Not because I need you.  Not anymore." He pointed to the counter.
"Sit there and wait."
 
A chill ran across her.  She couldn't move.  He grabbed a handful of
her blouse and shoved her against the counter.  And then he turned his
attention to Lance.
 
"Oh Lord, what have I done?"
 
#
 
"Get up," he said.
 
She stared through him, numb, at the blood on the door, on the windows.
Thin stripes of red, one over another and another, left from tips of
raw fingers, skin shredded on the door lock, the metal window frames.
 
His hands clasped her shoulders, lifted her to her feet.
She winced at his grip, shook it loose.  Without a glance his way,
she straightened her cardigan about her shoulders and then walked to
the back for paper towels and window cleaner.
 
Mechanically, she approached the blood, sprayed the cleaner, wiped in
circles, round and round.  The scrape of the bodies across the floor
assaulted her ears, like fingernails grating across her flesh.
 
She sprayed some more.  Rivulets of blue mixed with red dripped down
the glass.  She wiped them away.  Over and over, even after the windows
shone without one spec of blood or dirt or dust.
 
He took the bottle from her hand, set it on the floor.  She froze, unable
to control her legs, to move away from him.  He reached past her, inserted
the key, unlocked the door, and nudged her through and into the night.
 
Lifting her hand, he opened the tight fist and slipped his fingers
around hers.  Soft.  Gentle.  Like he used to do when he was small,
when his Mama was still alive.
 
They walked in silence for some minutes.
 
"We'll have to clean up the mess," she said.  "Get rid of them bodies."
 
She met his eyes, clear, without the madness, without malice, without
remorse.
 
"I know," he said.  He grinned.  The puppy-dog grin as if he hadn't a
care in the world.  "Will you take care of it for me?"
 
She sighed, squeezed his hand in silent answer.  She'd do right by him.
What else could she do?  He was, after all, her blood kin.
 

Reviews

[Raven Starhawk]

I surely hope that the reason why this chapter has no reviews if because it is so amazing for words. I read it and the ones before and thought it was exquisitely designed.