(This story is the third in the X series, and is intended to be read after "Xhalation" and "Xcogitate".)
"Xemplify"
Kev flinched at the sound of the knock on the door. Not just any old knock-he was used to greeting people at odd hours, people who maybe had a little bit of what you might call an urgency to their presence at his old town house in the middle of the night. Kev opened the door for people like that with a grin and a wave, his eyes bleary behind his thick round glasses but his smile warm and genuine. Late night people were Kev's kind of people.
But this was one of
those
knocks. Kev had gotten a little too used to them over the past few months, the sound of a fist swinging at the end of an arm that didn't quite understand how bodies moved anymore. A harsh, arrhythmic thud that smacked into his reinforced outer door over and over again, pounding with grim patience until he finally responded. Kev could almost imagine that if he didn't answer, they'd keep beating against the wooden surface until they broke every bone in their hand. He didn't think that would stop them.
Another knock. Then another, coming faster than usual. Kev sprang to his feet, his fingers worrying their way through his patchy, mousy brown beard as he staggered over to the security camera he'd installed after his first break-in. Kev had never really planned to become a drug dealer-it was a career he'd very much stumbled into by happenstance, and he'd learned most of what he knew through trial and error. And one of the big things he learned was that when dealing with addicts, you couldn't trust anyone.
There were two of them outside. Kev recognized Rowan, one of his regulars, and another woman, a Caucasian with blonde hair that he didn't recognize. No, wait. He did recognize her. She was with Rowan on her last visit, when the exotic dancer pulled up in a car that was practically begging to be stolen and rolled into Kev's waiting room with a wad of cash that she could barely get her fingers around and bought pretty much every last drop of X he had in the building.
He had a bad feeling about that deal when he was making it, but Kev knew better than to argue with a customer. If he didn't sell them their shit, someone else would, and one of the quickest ways to make an addict hostile was to make them think you were holding out on them. Kev had a few nasty scars from making a trial of that particular error. Rowan and... what was her name, Betty? They were either going to handle their shit or they weren't. He wasn't their dad.
Judging by the way they were hammering on his door, they hadn't. He didn't know how much X they'd taken, but judging by their wardrobe, it was a hell of a lot. Rowan had apparently pulled on a very stylish brown Burberry overcoat and absolutely nothing else, and Betty/Betsy had draped herself in a 1000-count linen sheet that she'd seemingly dragged through more than a few puddles on her way here. Kev had to imagine that they came on foot-not only did it explain the mud clinging to their toes, but they both looked like they didn't even know what a car was anymore, let alone how to drive it.
Well, fuck. And Kev liked Rowan, too. She was always good for a little company while she smoked, and at least a handjob depending on what she was on at the time. With a sigh, Kev pulled on a robe over his pale, skinny body and trotted downstairs to answer the door.
He went out into the waiting room, feeling the outline of the gun in his pocket to make sure it was still there. Not that he'd ever met a violent X-head, but there was always something about the way a truly dedicated X addict moved that unnerved and unsettled Kev. They had an awkward, ungainly gait, like they had climbed into the wrong bodies and needed to relearn how to perform basic motor functions. They jerked around every time they moved, their heads lolled and settled into odd positions... it just felt like they were always about to freak right the fuck out, even if none of them ever had.
Finally, after sliding back five deadbolts, Kev flung open the door. "Rowan!" he said, fixing them with an overly bright smile that emphasized his anxiety rather than hiding it. "And, um, Betsy!" If he was wrong, she didn't correct him. She only lumbered through the door, her legs alternately too stiff and too rubbery to make the motion natural. He closed the door behind them, hoping he wasn't making a mistake by sliding the bolts back home.
"It's so good to see you again!" he said with forced cheer, keeping as much distance as he could between himself and them as he circled back around toward the other door. "Been, what, two days since I saw you last? Don't tell me you went through your whole supply already, huh?" He held his breath, hoping to hear a 'no'-he didn't really believe it would happen, not when they both looked like they were right about at the point of no return, but Kev couldn't help crossing his fingers a little in the privacy of his own head.
They looked at him with eyes that were sea green where the whites should be. Then at each other. Then back at him. "We. Need. X," they said in near-unison. Their voices warbled in strange, affectless dissonance, as though someone was sitting at a keyboard full of words and hunt-and-pecking away for the ones they needed to communicate. It didn't sound like a sentence at all. It barely even sounded like speech. Kev could imagine someone programming an old synthesizer and coming out with a sound like that.
Well, fuck. Again. Kev ran his fingers through his grungy, matted dreadlocks, pretending to be lost in thought for a moment. "X, huh?" he said, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice and utterly failing. "Well, I don't have a lot at the moment-you cats kind of bought me out lock, stock and barrel last time you were here. I tell you what, you come on back into my office and I'll see what I can do for you, okay?" He took them both by the hand and ushered them quickly into his back room, closing and locking the door before they had a chance to say anything further. He half expected them to start pounding on it, but they seemed content to wait now that they knew he was trying to secure them a further supply.
"Shit," he muttered, pacing rapidly down the hallway to the doorway that led into his basement lab. "Shit shit shit shit shit!" Kev hated bringing unstable people into the private smoking room he called his office, but he didn't want to take a chance on anyone coming in and seeing the two of them blasted out of their fucking gourds on X in his house. He could feel the pressure closing in on him like a vise, making him jittery and tense. Had anyone seen them come here? They probably left muddy footprints all the way up the sidewalk, he'd have to hope that the weather took care of those before tomorrow morning.
"Shit!" He didn't even know who the other woman was, Betsy/Betty/Becky. Was she someone important? Rowan probably wouldn't be missed, women like that cut and ran all the time. But if Becky/Betsy was someone who held down a steady job or something, and they started looking for her... she looked like the kind of woman that news networks masturbated over, upper-class and white and just the kind of vulnerable that they could spend hours talking about on CNN. Kev racked his brain, trying to remember who else was around when Rowan brought her over the first time. Was it anyone who could identify her? Was it anyone who would talk to a cop?