Darkness came down. The crowd in the park ebbed and flowed. Matches flared; cigarettes were shared; gray powder poured and was wasted on the wind.
He listened to their talk, but kept to himself, watching Pete lock up and skulk down the avenue through the cold wind and fog, sunk down in his high collar, beret sliding gutterward.
“Fresh batch of Easy,” someone was saying.
“Yeah, where’d this one come from?”
“Shit, man, a box of the stuff sitting in an alley, same as usual. Plenty for everybody. Man from Glad found it first—he’s got a nose for the stuff. You know what I think? I think there’s some fat dude sitting up in one of those towers, mixing it up with government money—”
“That’s where my VA loan went, man!”
“—and handing it out free to all us sick fucks, so that we’ll be happy to stay where we are, and never climb up so high that we can spoil his day. Some kid, prob’ly. Spoiled brat. The higher he gets, the less he has to look at us.”
Raleigh thought of the guy in the dark glasses, skittering past him.
“Yeah? I’d like to get to that guy’s penthouse.”
“You? They wouldn’t let you in the fucking freight elevator. You better forget it and be grateful he thinks enough of you to give you free Easy.”
“Aw, man, stop talking about it and spoon it out.”
Knives in Raleigh’s gut prodded him to his feet. He grabbed onto a lamppost and wondered how long he would have to wait before things settled down enough to let him take a shot at the window. He could smash that glass door, run back into the office, grab the cashbox, and be out of there in thirty seconds.
But it would be the last thing he ever did of his own free will.
He could see all too clearly how such a move would screw him up completely and forever. The cops would catch him with the hamburger halfway in his mouth, then he could forget about ever getting back on his feet.
Raleigh clenched his stomach and huddled over, gritting his teeth. He could almost feel the rock in his hand, the one he would use to smash the glass. He could more readily imagine the cold manacles the cops would clap on his wrists.
I’ll never do it, he thought. I’ll starve first.
After a while he realized that there was a hand on his shoulder. When he felt it there, and knew it for what it was—the hand of an unknown friend, a sympathetic stranger—he started to sob.
A raspy voice said, “What’s the matter, hon?”
Was that a woman’s voice?
He looked up into a face he had seen once before. A face with wide, loose lips; sagging, black-circled eyes; a face with skin the color of Easy.
“I know what your problem is,” she said. “Come on, can you get up? Why don’t you come with me?”
She took him by the arm and pulled him up. He should have been the one helping her to rise, because she had only one leg.
“You’re a new one,” she said. “But I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?”
He clung to the lamppost.
“You want some Easy?” she asked.
He couldn’t speak; he shook his head.
“You want company?”
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” he shouted. “I’m not like you! Not like any of you, you understand? I’m not gonna get stuck here, numbed out of my skull, helpless and paralyzed….”
“Right on, brother,” someone said. “But how do you plan to get out?”
He realized that many of the faces in the park were staring at him. Conversations had broken off; cigarette tips hung unmoving in the dark.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“On your own?” asked the one-legged woman.
He drew away from her and spat the worst thing he could think of: “Fucking mutants.”
“That ain’t true,” she said, some vague hurt in her eyes. “We’re people. We take care of our own. And we’ll help you—”
“I’m not one of your own,” he said, “and I never will be.”
“That’s fine, hon. But how are you gonna make it through the night?”
He glanced down at her leg and felt the pain of her loss. It was all mixed up with his own regret.
“I’m sorry,” he said, breaking down now. “Christ, I’m sorry. I can’t handle this. I’m the mutant. I’m the one who can’t adjust. Stupid of me….”
He swung around the lamppost, staggering as if he were drunk—although he was merely weak—and strode toward the far, dark side of the park. He crossed the alley and went into the deepest shadows, where he was sure they couldn’t see him. And there he stopped. For all his denial, he was afraid to leave them. He was not one of them, but he was close enough.
He sank down, trying to ignore the burning hollow in his stomach, fending off the sparks that threatened to consume his vision. He felt himself deteriorating, breaking down into more isolated, desperate pieces. He tore at his fingernails. He forgot where he was.
Later—much later, it must have been—the sound of crying woke him. It was darker than before; the corner markets were shut down; the streets were deserted. He listened to the weeping for nearly a minute, then discovered that it came from himself.
Others had heard the sound. Shadows moved around him, blocking out the few streetlights that hadn’t been shattered or burned out. Shapes closed in, moving awkwardly, some of them hopping.
Terror took hold of him. He had called them mutants, insulted them, told them how he despised them. He thought of bloody bandages in the hedge.
My God, he thought. They’re going to show me. They’re going to make me one of them.
He backed up against the wall. One of the shadows put its hand over his mouth before he could scream. Two of them dragged him down the alley, to where it was even darker.
He struggled, but they knew just how to hold him.
Someone lit a match, back in the recess of the alleyway, and what he saw in that instant surpassed his ability to respond. He did not even try to scream. The asphalt was stained with blood; wads of clotted brown cloth were piled in the corners, stuffed down storm gratings; someone was holding a knife under a stream of alcohol. Bands of surgical rubber lay coiled like worms on the stains. The match went out, but they lit another, touched it to the knife. The blade glowed blue as neon, shining in the eyes of those around him.
“We know what you need,” said the rasping voice of the one-legged woman. “We’ve all felt the same thing. We understand.”
“No,” he mumbled, under the fleshy palm. “Please don’t do it.”
“Sometimes to get what you want, you gotta give something up. You make a sacrifice, and in return….”
“Please don’t.”
The blade flickered and went out, but not before someone touched it to a candle. The tiny flame gradually grew, filling the cul-de-sac with a thin radiance. A skinny, aging man sat in the farthest corner, staring up at them. Raleigh had never seen him before. The knife was in his hands.
“Please,” Raleigh pleaded. “Why don’t you let me go? I’ll find the people who crushed you, the people who hooked you on Easy, the fucking overlords. I’ll make it somehow; I won’t forget you, I swear. I just need—I just need—”
“You need us,” said the woman.
The man with the knife said, “Easy.”
Someone took out a crackling gray plastic bag.
“You need strength.”
“Easy!”
Raleigh didn’t try to move. He knew they wouldn’t let him. But he shook his head, and used his most reasonable tone of voice.
“I don’t want it,” he said. “I don’t need it.”
“Don’t worry,” said the woman with the raspy voice. “It isn’t for you.”