It was muffled, but you could still hear it. They’d closed the air-conditioning vents—wasn’t like there was air-conditioning anymore—but still the desperate wail came up from the basement.
Howard was out at some kind of stupid meeting. Some big deal. Howard always had big deals.
Charles Merriman, who everyone called Orc, rummaged in the mess beside his couch. There had to be something left in one of these bottles. He didn’t want to have to go into the back room closet and get another bottle.
“It’s the only way. Sam! Sam! Tell Sam to do it!”
Orc wasn’t drunk. Not drunk enough to ignore the sound of that stupid girl’s voice. That took a pretty good drunk and right now he was only drunk enough that he didn’t want to get up off the couch.
His stony fingers lifted a bottle. Wild Turkey. Only about half an inch of brown liquid left in the bottom. He twisted the cork. The glass neck of the bottle shattered in his grip. That happened fairly often. Orc had a hard time gauging his strength when he was a little drunk.
He blew slivers of glass away. He raised the bottle high, careful to keep the sharp points away from his still-human mouth.
The one part of him that could be cut: his mouth.
Well, his mouth and his eyes.
He drained the fiery liquid into his mouth and swallowed. Oh, yeah. Yeah. But not enough.
Orc levered himself up. He was heavy, like you’d expect of a boy made of wet gravel. Like a walking creature of wet cement. He couldn’t fit on a scale although Howard had tried once to weigh him.
He had crushed the scales.
He stomped toward the booze closet where Howard kept his stash. With the exaggerated care of a person not in control of his body, Orc opened the closet door.
A few bottles of clear booze. A few bottles of brown booze. A couple bottles of Cabka, the liquor Howard made by distilling cabbage and rotten oranges. It was nasty stuff. Orc preferred the brown booze.
He snagged a bottle and after a few seconds of clumsy fumbling he gave up and twisted the glass neck off.
“Is that you up there, Orc? I hear you stomping around.” Drake. The girl Brittney was gone now, replaced by Drake.
“You still alive, you stupid, alcoholic pile of rock?” Drake taunted. “Still following Sam’s orders? Doing what you’re told, Orc?”
Orc stomped angrily on the floor. “Shut up or I’ll come down there and smash you like a bug!” Orc roared.
Drake laughed. “Sure you will, Orc. You don’t have the stones. Wait, that was a funny! The stone monster who doesn’t have any stones.”
Orc stomped again. The entire house shook when he did it.
Drake called him various names, but now Orc had about a quarter of the bottle inside him. The warmth spread throughout his body.
He yelled something equally rude back at Drake. Then he staggered back to his couch and sagged heavily into it.
He didn’t mind Drake so much. Drake was a creep.
It was the girl who made Orc want to cry.
She was a monster. Like Orc. Begging for death. Begging for someone to let her go to her Jesus.
Kill me, kill me, kill me, she begged every day and every night.
Orc took a deep swig.
Tears seeped from his human eyes and fell into the rocky crevices of his face.
Someone was knocking at the front door. Normally Howard would answer. But then Orc heard Jamal’s voice yelling, “Hey, Orc! Open up, man.”
Jamal was one of the very few people besides Howard who ever came to see Orc. Of course it was just so he could get a drink. But still, any company was better than listening to Drake or Brittney.