Night of the Dead

Night of the Dead

Chapter Two

The Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. It sometimes takes that to see a truth that one refuses to see. What's most important to remember is that the tearing down of this structure, however painful, makes room for something new to be built.

He had read once, that to see your future you merely needed to stare at the dregs of your tea. But Harry didn't need that to see where he was headed. He was alone, had been alone his entire life, and he would be alone until he died.

This was why the flat space on top of his refrigerator housed several different - nearly empty -- liquor bottles, and why he was currently sucking on a cigarette as if it were a lollipop.

The chattering of the birds didn't help matters any, since he knew for a fact that it certainly wasn't normal to understand what they were saying. But, the birds in the tree outside his window refused to sing, and no matter how many fags he smoked in a row, they would continue to chatter away in what were unmistakably human voices. This was one of those moments when he needed to get out, to feel normal and human, and not like a man who could see razor-toothed pixies and understand bickering sparrows. Or who was occasionally consumed by false memories of people and a history that never existed.

Again in a moment of uncertainty he had nearly slit his wrists, the urge to get rid of the impossible overwhelming his senses. That the odd man and woman below his window had been there just moments before his decision hadn't mattered. The thought that they might be the cause of his problems never even crossed his mind. And now, a week later, it was all Harry could do to shower and get dressed, to prepare himself for leaving the building. He was out of food, and more importantly, cigarettes. He needed companionship for the night and possibly a good lay. Anything really, to make him forget.

Carefully he pulled a two-sizes-too-small red t-shirt over his head, liking the way that the old material draped along his prominent collarbones and shoulders. He wasn't ashamed of his thinness, and if anyone else was, they needn't look. After that was a pair of low slung, artfully torn jeans and combat boots laced only half-way up his calves. His naturally black and messy hair would fit in well with the look he was trying to go for, and that was the point wasn't it? Looking like this, he would blend in with the people at the bar and not be viewed as a freak.

The short walk to the club was uneventful, and the only thing to distract him was the hot baked smell of summer and cracked pavement. Plodding along, he struggled to appreciate the heat that caused his shirt to cling damply to his spine and shoulders. He knew the heat would last long into the night, and there would be no relief for hours, as the sun was only just now setting. Absorbed as he was in his own misery, he was unprepared for the staccato beat that hollowly echoed between the buildings and down the street towards him.

Like moths to a lamp, the neighbourhood attracted club-goers - perfectly plucked models arm and arm with their poet lovers, quiet boys with eyeliner smeared across their eyes and lips and countless others going to one bar or another.

The club he preferred to frequent was situated in the ground floor of an abandoned office building, surrounded by similar structures that were slowly being renovated to host their own bars and restaurants. An attempt to save the crumbling architecture and history of a city rotting from the inside out.

Ahead of Harry there was a crossroad, the traffic light changing smoothly through its pre-recorded motions, like a god directing cars: slow, stop, go. He knew that at that stoplight, and to the right, was his destination, but he was unable to see or hear it for the buildings lining the road. As he drew nearer, the oddly ricocheting sound settled into the steady stomp of many feet, and finally he could hear the chanting. The glass fronts of the buildings opposite his goal reflected back the amber-pink sunset and flashes of white that he didn't recognize.

Taking the final step, he turned the corner and found himself shuffled into a stationary crowd, all hissing at the activity a short way down the street, settled precisely in front of the entrance of the bar he planned on entering.

"God."

Harry watched stupefied at the dance of the protestors, their white signs waving fiercely above their heads. Only for a moment was he confused before their meaning sunk into his mind.

"Hates."

A few brave souls, mainly men, although there were a couple of women, attempted to break through the protesters. Harry was growing angry; how dare these people judge others?

"Queers."

Those that had tried to enter were pushed back roughly, and Harry quickly lost his previous anger, seeing where it might get him. Around him the crowd thinned out as people figured that it would be too much effort to attempt to join their compatriots. Harry thought to leave also, but then the telltale sirens reached his ears, and he settled in to wait.

Crouching along the edge of the sidewalk, feet on the curb, Harry unconsciously toyed with the bracelet on his wrist, the smooth bone of the skulls cool in the heat of the evening. He was joined by a few others who had also heard the sirens in the distance, a general feeling of comradery in the air; as if just by sitting there they were all fighting opposite the protesters. And maybe they were, since without leaving or joining the men and women who were still chanting even now, they were speaking their very thoughts on the subject just as loudly as if they had screamed. Indeed, the protesters appeared to have noticed, since they were now turning away from the oncoming traffic and directing their mindless rhetoric towards the patiently waiting clubbers. Inwardly, Harry could only thank that the night was still early and no one was drunk yet. He could only imagine the brawl that would have broken out if that were the case.

The picketers grew fervent as the police sirens grew louder, nervousness causing their movements to jolt sharply, their voices as broken as shattered glass and just as painful to hear. To Harry, they looked like jangling skeletons on a string, all pulled in a single direction and not allowed any thoughts of their own. Mindless golems with their painted shirts and wide-open mouths - like death, they refused to waiver from what they thought was their moral obligation, even in the face of such adversity. For once they were in the minority, and Harry could only admire how they stood up to that.

Yet again, the thought that "Live and let live" was merely a meaningless string of words was enforced in his mind.

Three police cars arrived, and without much fanfare, the officers emerged from their vehicles, stiff faced as they surveyed the scene. Slowly, they took in the sitting clubbers and the agitated fundamentalists. One of the police, a brawny man of average height, approached the group that had been forcibly shoved away from the bar, and began to question them.

The police made their decision, and after a few sharp commands from the authority, the protesters left, but not without a few curses to all and sundry. They were followed closely by the police after a cursory check of the injured was made. With a grunt, Harry stood and dusted the bits of gravel from the seat of his trousers, craning his neck to check his arse and make sure that nothing unmentionable had sunk into the weave. It would be just his luck if he had sat for nearly half an hour in a spill of soda or mud, a perfect completion to a perfect week.

As one, the people who had been patient gathered at the entrance and paid their fee, merging into the crowded interior of the bar. The doorman grinned at Harry. "Bloody wankers!"

"Definitely," Harry replied while handing over the charge. "Honestly, do they think they're going to change our minds?"

The doorman, who was a notorious flirt, looked Harry up and down before winking. "I don't think so, not with the likes of you coming around." Harry blushed and didn't bother to reply.

Finally inside, Harry sighed with relief and slumped onto one of the stools at the bar. He gazed at the rows of liquor stacked in front of the mirrored back wall and was tempted by the vicious multi-coloured concoctions the tenders were called on to create, but ordered a lager instead. He already knew that he wouldn't be able to choke down one of the sticky-sweet drinks, no matter how good it was. Even now he could vividly remember a party in a stranger's flat a couple of years ago and the way he had thrown up over the balcony for what seemed like hours.

With a gleam of white teeth in a dark face, the tender nearest Harry dropped one of the maniacally grinning skull topped stirrers that was supposed to be for the mixed drinks into a long-necked bottle and slid the lager over. Fascinated, Harry stared at the condensing drops of moisture on the bottle before raising it to his lips. He smirked around the opening as the skull bumped against his nose, and in response, the bar tender's chocolate eyes widened. It was all Harry could do to keep from laughing at the tender's surprised expression. Most would ask why the hell the man had put the stirrer in a bottle of lager, but Harry just played along, appreciating the oddness.

Harry flashed another teasing grin at the man before turning on his stool to face the dance floor. The bar was well known for its openness to people from all walks of life, as was evident from the motley assortment of sweating, pounding humanity that was even now clinging to each other like one great creature that had yet to be discovered. This was part of the reason why he had chosen to come to the bar the first time, hyped up on tales spread by his co-workers, who insisted that it was the best place in town. He had agreed, and from then on he came back occasionally, attracted to the fury of the club.

At first glance the bar had come as a shock to him, the decorations just this side of tasteless, enough to make a person laugh at the sheer audacity of it all, but not quite enough to make them cringe in disgust. Packs of plastic snakes and insects that could be bought at a toy shop for a little boy's birthday party were strung on wire and hung from the ceiling. They glowed eerily in the blacklights and were enhanced by the sparkling glitter swathed in thick layers on to the black-painted walls and floors, like a galaxy swirl of your worst fears thrown into a club of techno-pulsing lights. And then, almost impossibly pulling together the unnerving décor, was the brushed chrome of the ceiling, bar, and tables which gleamed silver under the pure white frosted-glass lamps set on each surface, broken evenly by rusted steel uprights that reached from floor to ceiling.

Harry tired quickly of examining the neo-cyber-goth design and was on his third lager, already feeling a little tipsy, before he realized that he was staring off into space. He quickly focused his eyes and found that in his dazed state he had been staring at a blonde man, who was gazing back unabashedly over his dancing partner's shoulder. The girl leaned in so that the man could hear her over the music, and he threw his head back with laughter. Harry let his eyes roam hungrily along the man's pale neck down to his broad shoulders, feeling the tell-tale drop in his stomach, before wrenching away his gaze and turning back to the bar. No doubt the boy was straight and had been watching Harry with nothing more than curiosity. In a bar like this, a fight over if someone was a homosexual simply wasn't acceptable, so at least he didn't have to worry about getting the shit beat out of him.

Feeling rather child-like, Harry rested his feet on the bottom rung of the stool and bounced his knees. With a soft growl of frustration and pent up desire, he hunched over and mouthed at the bracelet on his wrist, relishing the click as the bones hit his teeth. He was beginning to wish he had never come or had at least remembered to buy cigarettes during his walk to the bar. He pulled a crumpled bill from his wallet and smoothed it out between his palm and the bar. "Another lager ... please." The friendly tender disappeared for a moment as he crouched to reach the icebox under the bar.

"What's wrong?" the man asked, speaking loud enough to be heard over the music. He placed the new bottle next to Harry's hand and chucked the old one.

Harry dug his fingernail into a dent in the chrome and cursed all bartenders who thought they were councillors. "Nothing."

The man leaned onto the bar with folded arms, the swirl of abstract black tattoos and brown skin exotically dark against the silver of the metal. Harry was compelled to look up before he lost himself in the maze of art on the tender's distractingly well-muscled forearms. The man smiled sympathetically, full lips creasing just enough for his dimples to show. "Doesn't look like nothing."

Harry gulped nervously, already knowing that this particular man didn't bat on the same team as he did. He had found that out the first night when, in his cups, he had professed his interest of the bartender to his open-minded co-workers. They had laughingly told him that the man was very straight, and that he would have better luck elsewhere. As it was, he would never tell him how badly he wanted to run his fingers over the short-curled nap of his hair, and in return, the man debuted unknowingly in many a shower fantasy.

Feeling the flush of his cheeks, Harry cleared his throat and forced himself to calm down before the situation in his pants grew more uncomfortable. "Well, you're wrong."

"Am I?" the man asked with high amusement, shaking his head in a bemused manner, before looking a short distance over Harry's shoulder. "Well, I think 'nothing' is coming your way."

Harry was more than a little confused as he watched the bartender leave to help another customer. In the crush of people trying to get their drink orders, he didn't pay attention to anyone beside him, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand landed hard on his shoulder. The boy he had been watching leaned casually against the bar between Harry and a woman who had sat beside him, dropping his hand from Harry's shoulder and shoving it into his pants pocket. He looked Harry up and down much like the doorman had before leaning in, causing Harry to shiver as the other's hot breath ghosted across his ear. "Hullo."

The boy, whom at this distance didn't look more than a couple of years younger than him, had a tenor voice with a hint of huskiness to it, leading Harry to believe that the boy sang or rather, screamed, in a band. Harry also knew that his own voice was just as rough, but for reasons far less innocent. He shied away from where that thought would lead him and smiled at the blonde. "Hi."

"You were watching me." It was a statement with buried hints, and Harry shivered at the feral look in the other's hazel-green eyes.

"I was," he conceded, breath catching at the thought of where this night might end.

"And, do you like what you see?" The boy shifted so that his outer knee pressed against Harry's. Harry nodded and couldn't quite stop the groan from escaping as his trousers became a smidgeon tighter.

Indeed, he liked what he saw; the boy's hair was shaggy-short and curled tightly, a dark honey blonde that looked like it would be soft to the touch. His jaw was square and stubborn under thin lips that enticed with a small white scar that ran across the bottom lip and down his chin. He had a strong nose that was sprinkled by freckles. He was what could be termed a masculine beauty - not Harry's normal type, but it seemed that tonight he was.

The boy leaned into the bar to order a drink and pulled a tube of chapstick from his pocket, which he carefully wiped across his lips. Harry noticed that he was comfortably clothed in a loose white oxford and a pair of baggy khakis over expensive white trainers. The perfect picture of someone with money slumming it, the image enforced by the thick gold watch on his wrist. Definitely not Harry's normal type.

With drink in hand the boy turned back and decisively placed a firm kiss on Harry's lips. Harry was surprised but returned the kiss, not noticing the way his eyes blurred behind his closed lids. Finally they broke, and Harry panted to get his breath back.

"Did you like that, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry replied, before realizing what the boy had said. "Wait, how did - what-who?" And then he noticed the way his voice murmured in his chest, struggling to emerge and sounding as if a hole had been poked into one of his lungs.

"Terrance Boot, though you might remember me as Terry."

Wide-eyed, Harry panted, the breath becoming harder and harder to draw in. He stood and reached for the man, fingers digging into his oxford clad shoulder as he fell to his knees, everyone in the bar other than himself and the man freezing at a single word from the man's mouth. Harry clawed at his throat as he stared up into the man's eyes, which had now taken on a decidedly blue cast.

The man's lips curled up in a smirk, and he watched as Harry gasped harder and harder. "Oh, is poor Potty finding it hard to breath?"

Harry collapsed onto the floor and began to pound at his chest. His vision swam and sparked with stars. He rolled into a woman's legs, knocking her into whomever she had been dancing with, and got to his knees, trying to crawl away from the man.

"To think that all it took was a play on your hormones. Voldemort should have tried that while we were still in school! And here I always thought you were into girls, but then again, that Chang bitch cried when you kissed her didn't she? Were you really that bad? And to think she spread like butter for me. But they all did, didn't they, with a little...persuasion."

The sound of the ocean was loud in Harry's ears as he lay on the floor, jaw slack and chest straining as he attempted to breathe in.

"Well, I do believe The-Boy-Who-Lived is going to finally die. And by my hands, no less." The man, who was slowly shifting into a new form, drank the remainder of Harry's lager and slammed it to the bar with a sense of finality. "Now this is a moment to rejoice, and I know exactly how to do it!" He lifted his foot and drew back, and Harry convulsed, eyes wide with fright and still fighting to breathe as he attempted to get away from the voice that was drawing near,

The first kick sent him sliding a couple of centimetres across the slick dance floor but not far enough away for him to avoid the next one. Then they began raining down on him, and Harry wasn't even able to scream at the pain of bones shattering. The world dimmed to a single white point, and he knew nothing but the blows.

He then gave up, the last words he would ever hear echoing into the tunnel of his remaining senses.

"Fucking poof."