"We Belong to the Night" by R. M. Bundridge

We Belong to the Night

by R. M. Bundridge

Rupert looked at the wad of cash in hands, mostly ones. Not enough for a cab, he thought, shifting his weight from one heeled boot to the other. I certainly don’t have enough in my account for an Uber. The gum in his mouth oozed artificial mint over his teeth and tongue. If he were on even half-decent terms with any of the girls, he would’ve asked for a ride; how was he supposed to know Xavier was off limits? Fucking, Mal Evolent and her claiming of souls like it was that simple. Put a creature of free will in a box, see how long it takes them to get restless. He wanted me to take him. Exhausted, he had said, by this whole world. Who was Mal to claim him then?

Heels twinkling in the streetlights, he tucked the cash into the ass of his sweatpants and tightened his coat around him; pulled the straps of his bag closer to his spine; with a swipe of his hand along his forehead, he caught a little bit of glitter and foundation. It fell away from his skin in the rain, and with that, began the mile walk home. In one pocket, a taser; in the other, a can of pepper spray.

A dampness clung to the air, earthy and wriggling. It had been this way for weeks. The sun had gone away, probably. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but the girls didn’t like to talk about those days. Theorists online raged about how society was to blame; mother nature reflected our souls. Alex Pretti and Keith Porter’s eyes watched Rupert as he passed, their faces stapled through to poles or taped over from top to bottom on windows and big blue mailboxes. A poster of Parady La had been ripped from a convenience store window. Renee Good’s face looked at every passerby; one smile left to watch the world burn. Humans came together that way, intertwining tragedy with immortalization in hopes of warning the future we won’t belong to.

The drizzle grew steadily, took a big breath, and unleashed a torrent that seemed to have been building in secret, conspiring against the mostly—inherently—good. He smirked at the quote—the memory of the film itself, really—and the devastation he had felt after watching that quaint little New England town succumb to the creatures in the mist. Now, coat soaking through, heels pushing droplets up from the sidewalk as he walked; the world seemed to disappear in the rain. It could really make you feel like the only one left.

Rupert felt the snap of his boot heel more than he heard it. An unevenness took shape in his hips, and suddenly he was a zombie on this night. What he did hear, though, echoed from many paces behind him: the skittering of a can.

Rupert whirled, squinting through the rain.  

Blocks away, there stood a figure weighed down with...gear? A vest atop a bulky belt. A mask covered all but a swash of the eyes and the bridge of a nose. Other than that, the man hid in plain view of the public.

He was approximately half a mile from his apartment. For fucks sake, he thought. I had to walk out of that damn club taller than the rest of them, didn’t I? His shoes were shoved to the bottom of his bag. Mal, you bitch. He had tasted so delicious, that Xavier. Now look where it got me.

Rupert made to turn around.

The figure took a couple steps, stopping beneath the sign of a Chinese restaurant, illuminating the three capital letters along the face of the vest.

“Excuse me,” Rupert tried. “I’m new to town. Is there any way you could point me to-”

Another step, but he didn’t stop this time. Closer. Closer.

Rupert stepped back, fearing a crack in the sidewalk.

Feet away now; its hands reached for the belt.

“I said, excuse me, can you point-”

The man took the word and reshaped it; made it benefit him.

He stopped before Rupert within spitting distance, barrel pointed above Rupert’s eyeline.

Ugh, he thought. I’m still full from Xavier. Oh well. Rupert took his hands from his pockets: wet and tired as hell. I could suffer a little indigestion. He grabbed the gun and gripped it, proving stronger than the mass of camo had anticipated.

Rupert put the barrel in his mouth, gorged on it until his jaw unhinged

“I’be bebber bne dis bedore,” he mouthed around the barrel.

Now, Rupert saw the man’s eyes. Ablaze with self-justification, fueled by money and the words of his boss. His God. On top of all, though, Rupert saw the confusion crease into crow’s feet: and widen in the same split second.

Rupert squeezed the trigger.

Metal cracked against linoleum until it shattered. His world spun. The back of his head opened like party poppers, and he heard fragments of himself clatter to the ground. Neck at an indisputably perfect right angle, rain traced the outline of his face, seeping into his hair until they freed themselves—only to die on the sidewalk like an innocent civilian.

It took a few seconds for Rupert’s jaw to lock back into place, for his skull to assess the wound and find itself again. When it did, he settled his spine, cracked his neck with a twist to the right, the left, and he looked through the rain at the trembling figure in front of him.

“Your soul is rotten.” Rupert said. “I can tell without having to coax it out of you.”

The terrorist didn’t move.

“So, I’m going to bend the rules. You’re familiar with that term, right? Don’t worry, this’ll be quick. Your favorite kind of kill.”

Rupert attached himself to the man’s throat. Esophagus and tongue and squished eyeballs puddled on the sidewalk. The coward collapsed.

“Fucking bitch.”