A LADY AND THE BOYS by Greg Lammers
She walked past the boys – her name for them, though some were near 60. They leaned against and sat upon the crumbling wall in front of their empty lot, their bottles and cans now beside them on the ledge soon to be tossed into the grass among the cinder blocks, traded for others. Cigarette smoke mixed with warm breath in the cold. From above the green and gray military coats and old leather jackets, their eyes followed her. She felt their stares as she might have felt their fingers on her back.
One mumbled something for her. She didn’t need to ask what, she understood. She pulled her black coat’s collar up against her straight black hair, her long white neck, the wind, and their attention.
There was no traffic so she jogged across the intersection against the light.
The next day the same thing – like the day before and the day before that. She rounded the corner past the bar, then the liquor store, the laundromat and then the empty lot, the crumbling wall, the boys. There were the same stares, the same mumbling, that one of them stood to attention as she passed wasn’t lost on her.
The sun hung in the same spot veiled behind a near-twin of yesterday’s cloud when she passed them again. The nods, mumbling, and the rise of the brave one, all reenacted. This time he hollered after her. She looked back, paused, then continued…slower.
He followed her swaying blue jeans across the intersection, down the block and up a crumbling set of steps toward a cracked concrete structure like those on either side. She swung the old door open and strode inside with him on her tail.
Her black boots picked up speed on the stairs. He didn’t expect this acceleration and tried to match it. He wasn’t as fit as in his younger days when he may have matched a young woman up a flight or even two flights of stairs, but he did an admirable job considering the time he’d spent along the wall.
She let herself in a door near the end of the hall. He stopped outside the door for one breath, maybe two, then entered.
The room was empty save for a chair, one leg noticeably askew even to his glazed eye, it sat unoccupied as it had for years. He looked around the corner into the old kitchen, nothing.
He turned at a sound to see her standing before him, he could swear though that she’d just risen from landing as if she’d dropped from the ceiling. Her eyes were deep and brown, thin red lips smiled at him.
Her coat was gone. She wore a red long sleeved dress shirt, open at the collar. He moved toward her, removing his old coat. She stood stone still, allowing his approach.
He reached toward her as he drew near, she moved into him, ran her left hand up around behind his neck, under his long stringy blonde hair. He reflexively tilted his head back at her touch.
A pale right hand stifled the cry from his mouth as elongated canines gouged deep into his throat. His arms flailing uselessly he fell backward onto the dingy carpet and into his own blood, her hungry mouth never leaving him.