The Empty Ones by Robert Brockway

don’t think we have those.”
    â€œThey’re the big baddies,” Meryll said. “They start it all. There’s not much to them, just a big bright empty spot in your eyes, and static.”
    â€œOh,” Randall said. “The angels.”
    Meryll stopped so quick I ran into her from behind. I didn’t even have time to cop a quick feel before she wheeled on Randall. “Angels? You call them fucking angels? Jesus, but you Yanks really are stupid. They’re not angels. They’re not anything like angels. They’re pure bloody evil, through and through. At least with the Faceless and the Sludge and the Husks, they got something they want. Maybe that’s just to snatch you up, or melt you, or fuck your eyeholes from the inside out—but it’s still an agenda. The Flares don’t want a thing. There’s no reason to them, no telling what they’ll do or why—they show up, and people just stop being and then they’re gone, and they don’t even care. They’re the farthest thing from fucking angels you could possibly get. Jackass.”
    Randall was holding his hands up like an old-timey bank robber, trying to figure out how to apologize for something he didn’t understand that he’d done.
    â€œI think it’s ironic,” I said, not trying to help. “Like calling a big guy ‘Tiny.’”
    Meryll glared burning holes into my brain.
    â€œRandall named them, too,” I said.
    He started to say something, decided on a more effective means of communication, and slapped me upside the head instead. I jumped up to get a headlock on him and we tumbled into the flooded gutter. I pushed his head down—you know, just a bit of playful drowning—and the dickhead punched me in the kidneys. Totally uncalled for.
    â€œIdiots!” Meryll shouted, booting me in the side.
    Oh hey, wonder why you didn’t kick pretty lil’ Randall with those fucking hobnails?
    â€œCouple of drooling damned cavemen, playing grabass when an army of Faceless are probably on their way here right now.”
    â€œRelax,” I said, dragging my thoroughly soaked butt out of the chilly, greasy water. “They’re not exactly the Green Berets. Got no organization. They usually just go away for a while after a good old-fashioned ass kicking.”
    â€œMaybe where you’re from,” Meryll said, and she— you won’t believe this shit —she offered her hand to help Randall out of the puddle.
    And he fucking took it!
    â€œThey’ve got their act together on this side of the pond. If you see one, there are more around. If you get away from them, you’ve got a bloody army coming your way. So would you two morons”—she shook Randall’s hand away, a little display of self-conscious toughness—“put off humping each other long enough for us to get somewhere safe?”
    â€œI’ll try,” Randall said, sheepish grin nudging its way onto his face. “But you see the way he’s dressed. He’s asking for it.”
    Meryll laughed. I gave him the finger. He gave me two back. I went to unzip my fly, and Meryll rolled her eyes and walked away.
    It was a few biblically flooded blocks to the train station. I wasn’t much interested in watching their foreplay, so I hung back out of earshot. Either Randall was killing it, or Meryll was harder up than I could have imagined. She laughed at every other word out of his mouth. They bumped into each other a little more than Randall’s six-beer buzz would account for. If they hadn’t just met in a brutal bus wreck after nearly getting abducted by faceless attackers, the scene would be downright romantic.
    I turned my head to look at a chick passing by on the other side of the street— damn the hippie movement all you like, but I’m all for the lack of bras —and when I looked back, Randall and Meryll were gone. Just vanished. My