Urban Gothic Read online

  DEADITE PRESS

  205 NE BRYANT

  PORTLAND, OR 97211

  www.DEADITEPRESS.com

  AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY

  www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

  ISBN: 1-936383-44-6

  Copyright © 2009, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Cover art copyright © 2011 Alan M. Clark

  www.ALANMCLARK.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  Author’s Note

  Although this novel takes place in Philadelphia, I have taken certain geographical liberties with the city. If you live there, don’t look for your street corner or block. You won’t like what’s lurking beneath the sidewalks.

  OTHER DEADITE PRESS BOOKS BY BRIAN KEENE

  Urban Gothic

  Take The Long Way Home

  Jack’s Magic Beans

  A Gathering of Crows

  Acknowledgements

  For this new edition of Urban Gothic, my thanks to everyone at Deadite Press; Alan Clark; Kelli Owen, Mark ‘Dezm’ Sylva and Tod Clark (who pre-read the original); James A. Moore; Paul Synuria; Mike Lombardo (for the Phillipsport shirt); Mary SanGiovanni; my sons; and my loyal readers.

  For Edward Lee, who once gave me crabs . . .

  ONE

  “Shit happens,” Javier grumbled from the backseat.

  A car rolled slowly past, its underside so low to the ground that it almost scraped against the road. The windows were tinted, and they couldn’t see the driver, but the vehicle’s stereo was turned up loud enough to rattle their teeth.

  Brett sighed in frustration. “Now’s not the time, Javier.”

  But he’s right, Kerri thought, gazing out of the passenger window. Javier is right. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes, events just spin out beyond our control. Sometimes, no matter how careful we are, no matter how much we try sticking to the script or routine, our day gets off track, and nothing we say or do will fix it before night comes around. Shit happens. And when it does, things get fucked up.

  Like now.

  However, while the situation they were in now was indeed fucked up, it wasn’t just a simple case of “shit happens”—at least, not entirely. Perhaps some of it could be blamed on fate, but the rest of it was purely Tyler’s fault.

  Kerri wondered how it was possible to simultaneously love and hate her boyfriend—because that was how she felt.

  They’d driven in from the suburbs of East Petersburg to attend the Monsters of Hip Hop show at the sprawling Electric Factory club in downtown Philadelphia. While the venue wasn’t in the best part of the city, the show had definitely been worth it. Headliner Prosper Johnson and the Gangsta Disciples had gathered together some of the biggest names in hardcore, gritty hip-hop for a nationwide benefit tour—Lil Wyte, Frayser Boy, T-Pain, Lil Wayne, Tech N9ne, The Roots, Mr. Hyde, Project: Deadman, Bizarre, Dilated Peoples, and Philadelphia’s own JediMind Tricks. The girls preferred hip-pop, rather than hip-hop, but they tagged along anyway because it was an excuse for all of them to hang out together and get out of East Petersburg for a night. They were in Philadelphia, after all. It sure beat the hell out of hanging around Gargano’s

  Pizzeria for another evening.

  Kerri and Tyler.

  Stephanie and Brett.

  Javier and Heather.

  They’d been friends since elementary school—long before they’d actually started dating and paired off into couples. Now things were changing. Graduation was over. College loomed. Adulthood. The real world. Although none of them verbalized it, they all knew that this could very well be the last time they’d all be together like this. Most of them were going their own way in a few months, so they were determined to live it up. One last great time before life intruded.

  When the concert was over, all six of them had shuffled out to the parking lot with the rest of the crowd. They piled into the old station wagon Tyler had inherited from his brother Dustin, after Dustin went off to Afghanistan. Dustin had always kept the car running like it was fresh off the factory floor. The engine had been tuned to purr when it idled and to roar when Dustin stomped the accelerator. When he’d first gotten the car, Tyler had made an effort to keep it in perfect shape. But eventually, he ran it ragged, just like everything else in his life. When Kerri asked him about it, Tyler’s excuse was that he wasn’t as good with his hands as his brother had been. He’d never been mechanically inclined. Tyler’s talents lay elsewhere—scoring a bag of weed or six third-row tickets for this concert. He liked to call these things “acquisitions.” He was the closest thing to street smart they had in East Petersburg, and he knew it, too.

  Half-deaf from the concert, and adrenalized by the late hour, they’d driven out of the parking lot with the windows down, laughing and shouting at one another. It was summer and they were young. Happy. Immortal. And all the bad things out there in the world?

  Those bad things were supposed to happen to someone else.

  Until they’d happened to them.

  It started when, five minutes after pulling out of the lot, Tyler decided to visit a friend of his on the other side of the river, in Camden. No one in their right mind went into Camden, New Jersey, after dark, but Tyler swore that he knew what he was doing. He’d promised them this friend had great weed. Tyler navigated the station wagon through a bewildering maze of city streets, insisting that he knew where he was going. They drove past block upon block of row homes, seeing only the occasional business—a mattress store, a Laundromat, a pizza shop and a bail bondsman. A group of men were hanging out on the stoop of one of the row homes, watching as they drove by. Their intense stares made Kerri nervous. Despite his insistence that he knew where he was going,

  Tyler got flustered when the road he needed was under construction and closed. Orange-and-white oil drums topped with flashing yellow lights barred their passage.

  “What the fuck is this all about?” Frowning, Tyler pointed at the large, dented ROAD CLOSED sign.

  “It’s blocked off,” Brett told him.

  “I know it’s blocked off, shithead. Thanks for your help.”

  “You need a GPS,” Stephanie said. “My parents bought me one for my birthday last year. I never get lost.”

  Tyler’s frown deepened. “Your parents buy you everything, princess.”

  Stephanie shrugged. “Well, if you had a GPS, we wouldn’t be sitting here now would we?”

  “I’m surprised you know how to program the fucking thing.”

  “Hey.” Brett spoke up, trying to defend his girlfriend. His tone was nervous. “Chill out, Tyler.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Brett.”

  “There’s no need for that. Knock it off or I’ll . . .” Brett’s voice trailed off. He squirmed uncomfortably.

  “You’ll what?” Tyler teased. “Beat me at chess? Sit back and shut the fuck up, pussy.”

  Sensing his growing agitation, Kerri tried to calm her boyfriend. “Tyler, why don’t we just turn around and go home. We don’t need weed that bad.”

  Tyler’s handsome features pinched together for a second, and she saw him trying to control his temper. In private, when it was just the two of them, Tyler could be really sweet, but he also had anger issues. When his temper got the better of him, things usually ended badly. He’d never hit her or anything like that. But he said things—words more hurtful than any blow.

  He shook his head. “It’s all good. I can get around this. I just have to go down one block and then backtrack.”

  Ultimately, the detour t
ook them in the opposite direction of the Ben Franklin Bridge. Tyler’s calm demeanor cracked when they found themselves driving on a meandering stretch of the Lower Carlysle Thruway, winding through some of the worst parts of Philadelphia. Hookers roamed the streets, looking hollow and emaciated. A woman with haunted eyes and fire-engine red hair gave them the finger as they drove by. A huge herpes sore dotted one corner of her mouth. Brett waved at her. Steph nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.

  The road was rutted and cracked. The car bounced over a gaping pothole, thumping and rattling in ways that would have surely sent Dustin after his little brother with an assault rifle. Something scraped along the underside of the vehicle. Brett gasped from the backseat, and the others cringed at the sound as the car continued to scrape along.

  “Fuck me,” Tyler whispered under his breath.

  “You wish,” Kerri replied.

  He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. They’d continued down the street, slowing to a crawl. The landscape grew steadily bleaker. They drove past a cluster of seedy-looking bars, patrons lounging outside, bathed in garish neon. Then the bars gave way to pawn shops and liquor stores and rundown, shoebox housing.

  “Jesus,” Brett gasped. “Look at these houses. How can anybody live like this?”

  They’d stopped at a red light. Thumping bass from the car next to them rattled their windows. A large group of black youths stood on the street corner, peering in at them. When one of the teens sidled up to the station wagon and gestured, Tyler gunned it, racing through the light. A car horn blared behind them.

  “Lock the doors,” Heather urged, staring wide-eyed.

  Tyler ignored her request, but everyone else rolled their windows up. After a moment, he begrudgingly did the same.

  “Where the fuck is the turn?”

  From the back of the station wagon, Javier said, “Dude, there’s a sign for Route 30. Doesn’t that take us back to Lititz?”

  “I don’t want to go back to Lititz. I want to go to Camden.”

  “Fuck Camden,” Javier shouted. “Have you looked outside? You’re gonna get us carjacked!”

  Tyler stared straight ahead. “You guys worry too much. For fuck’s sake, we just came from a rap concert. Now y’all are worried about driving through the city? Bunch of white-bread motherfuckers.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Brett said, “you’re white too, Tyler.”

  “I’m not white. I’m Italian.”

  Javier sighed.

  “Everybody just calm the fuck down,” Tyler continued. “We’ll be fine. Long as you don’t fuck with anybody, they won’t fuck with you.”

  He’d kept his voice calm, but his teeth were clenched. Kerri knew from experience that his anger was building inside again.

  The last of his facade shattered when the engine light came on and steam began billowing out from under the hood, blanketing the windshield.

  “Shit!”

  The engine sputtered, then died. The radio and head-lights died with it. Their speed decreased from forty miles an hour to five. They’d rolled a few more yards and then came to a halt. Another car horn blared behind them, the driver impatient. Tyler tried turning on the emergency blinkers, but they didn’t work.

  “Motherfucker.” He opened the door, got out, and waved the other car around them. Then he ducked back into the station wagon and pulled the hood latch.

  “Stay in here,” he said, then stomped off to the front of the car.

  And now here they were—broken down in the middle of the hood.

  Tyler’s fault.

  Kerri shook her head and sighed.

  “Shit happens,” Javier grumbled again.

  Heather nodded in agreement. “He just had to go to Camden tonight. If he’d listened to us, we’d be on the turnpike by now.”

  “Maybe we should go out and help him,” Brett suggested. “I mean, Tyler doesn’t know shit about cars. Dustin was always the motor head. What’s he gonna do out there?”

  Kerri frowned. “Tyler said to stay in the car.”

  “Screw that,” Brett said. “It’s hot in here, and there’s no way I’m rolling the windows down.”

  “You’re afraid to roll the windows down,” Heather said, “but you’d rather stand outside with Tyler?”

  “Yeah,” Javier said. “What’s that about, bro?”

  Smirking, Heather adopted a baby-talk tone. “He knows Tyler will beat up the big bad gangbangers if they mess with us. He’s afraid.”

  Brett’s ears turned red. Instead of responding, he opened the door and got out.

  “You know,” Stephanie said, turning to Heather. “That was a real bitch move.”

  Heather’s smile died. “I was just kidding.”

  “Well, Brett’s sensitive. You know that.”

  Sighing, Javier and Heather got out of the car to apologize to Brett. Stephanie remained seated, rummaging through her purse. She pulled out a pink cell phone and flipped it open. The display glowed in the darkness.

  “Who are you calling?” Kerri asked.

  “My parents. They’ve got Triple A. They can send a tow truck for us.”

  “Hold off on that. Let’s just wait a minute and see what’s wrong with the car first.”

  “Screw that,” Stephanie said. “I’m not sitting around here waiting to get mugged. Have you taken a look outside? It’s like Baghdad out there.”

  Kerri rubbed her temples. A headache was forming behind her eyes.

  “Please, Steph? Let’s just wait a few minutes. If you call them now, you’re just going to piss Tyler off even more.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I know you don’t, but you’re not the one who has to deal with him when he’s angry. Please? Do it for me?”

  Stephanie shook her head. “I don’t know why you put up with that shit. If Brett treated me that way, I’d have dumped him a long time ago.”

  “Brett lets you walk all over him. He’s done that since middle school. He’s a pushover.”

  “Maybe. But he’s sweet, and he treats me the way I deserve to be treated. He respects me. Like I said, I don’t know why you put up with Tyler. He doesn’t respect anyone or anything. Not even himself. ”

  “I won’t have to put up with it for much longer. Once I’m at Rutgers, things will be different. We’ll drift apart.”

  “Why not just break up with him now?”

  Kerri paused before answering. “Because I care about him, and I don’t want to hurt him. I’m afraid of what he might do if I did.”

  “To you?”

  “No. Not to me. To himself.”

  Stephanie didn’t respond. She quietly closed her cell phone and stuffed it back into her purse.

  Kerri murmured, “I don’t think Tyler likes himself very much.”

  “You think?” Stephanie’s tone was sarcastic. “What was your first clue?”

  “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Pretty little Stephanie, who gets everything she wants. Some of us don’t have it that easy, Steph. You’re supposed to be my best friend. I don’t need that shit from you. You gave Heather shit for picking on Brett, but then you’re going to turn around and do it to me?”

  Scowling, Kerri opened the passenger door and stepped out into the street. Stephanie quickly followed her, offering apologies. They joined the others huddled around the open hood. The guys were peering down at the engine intently. Steam rose from the radiator. The motor smelled of oil and antifreeze. Heather was smoking a cigarette. Kerri bummed one from her. Stephanie made a disgusted sound when she lit up.

  Tyler raised his head and looked at them. “I thought I told you guys to stay in the car. Doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?”

  “It’s hot in there.” Stephanie tossed her head. “Want me to call my parents? They’ve got Triple A.”

  “No.” Tyler returned his attention to the engine. “We can figure this out.”

  “You’re doing a great job so far.”

  Tyler’s knuckles c
urled around the car’s front grille, clenching tightly. Kerri and Brett both motioned at Stephanie to be quiet. Another cloud of steam drifted up from the engine.

  Even though the sun had gone down, it was still excruciatingly hot outside. The heat seemed to radiate off the sidewalks and the pitted blacktop in waves. The air was a sticky, damp miasma. Kerri tugged at her blouse. Between all the sweating she’d done at the concert and the temperature here on the street, the sheer fabric stuck to her skin. She took another drag off the cigarette, but with the extreme humidity, it was like inhaling soup. She smelled food cooking. Gasoline. Piss. Booze. Burned rubber. Hot asphalt. Stephanie’s perfume. The mix was nauseating.

  Coughing, Kerri breathed through her mouth and looked around, nervously studying their surroundings. She’d heard the term urban blight before, but had never really understood it until now. Most of the streetlights weren’t working, and the few that were operational cast a sickly yellow pall across the neighborhood. Combined with the moonlight, it made for an eerie scene.

  They were surrounded by decrepit row homes, none of which looked hospitable. In the gloom, the squat houses seemed like monoliths, endless black walls with deteriorating features. Dim lights burned behind dirty curtains or through broken windows—some of which were covered with clear plastic or stuffed with soiled rags. Many of the buildings were missing roof tiles, and the outside walls had gaps where bricks or boards had crumbled away. Some were covered with graffiti—gang tags and names she didn’t understand. None of the homes had yards, unless you counted the broken sidewalks, split by the roots of long-dead trees and cracked by blistering summers and frigid winters. Cockroaches and ants scuttled on the sunken concrete amidst crack vials, cigarette butts and glittering shards of broken glass. Ruptured garbage bags sat on the curbs, spewing their rotten contents into the street.

  The sidewalks and stoops were deserted, except for a surly-looking gang of youths lurking on the street corner about a block away. Kerri’s gaze lingered on them for a moment, before moving on. The only businesses on the street were a pawn shop, a liquor store, and a newsstand. All three were closed for the night, shuttered with heavy steel security gates. Many of the businesses also had graffiti painted on them. So did some of the junk cars sitting along the curb. A few of the vehicles looked abandoned—shattered windshields, missing tires replaced with cement blocks, bodies rusted out and dented, bumpers hanging off or bashed in.