The Unnoticeables by Robert Brockway Page B

ripped T-shirts and meticulously dirty jeans.
    I was miming blow jobs to a bored blonde, who was trying to figure out the sexiest way to flip me off, when an argument broke out.
    â€œWhat is this, the tits-only section?” the kid hollered. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. His hair was done up in shoddy spikes, the telltale white crust of Elmer’s glue drying on the tips.
    I got a weird knot in my stomach, which I decided to chalk up to microwave burritos and Iron City.
    The guy blocking the door just laughed and roughly shuffled the kid away from the awning. The kid spat at him in reply. By the time the bouncer’s eyes went wide with fury, the kid was already bolting around the corner, down Seventeenth. A couple of the cleavage girls laughed.
    I turned back to Randall, who was watching the proceedings with a worried look on his face.
    â€œWeird,” he said, slapping me on the arm and gesturing to the crowd I’d just turned away from.
    I looked back and didn’t see it.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere’s, like, a dozen people following that kid,” Randall said.
    â€œI don’t—”
    It was only when he pointed right at them that I finally noticed.
    It’s not that I didn’t see them—they were completely visible—it’s just that it didn’t occur to me that there was anything weird about ten people breaking away all at once to follow some scruffy little punk-rock kid into an empty side street. Not until Randall pointed it out. And even after he did, a huge chunk of my brain argued.
    This is boring , my brain said; nothing to see here. Let’s do something else. Let’s start a fire.
    It was the way they moved: casual and natural, like somebody sliding past you on an elevator. You don’t even think to object when they brush against your junk; it’s just a thing that happens, sometimes.
    Only when you’re not looking for ’em do you notice how weird it is that you’re not looking for ’em.
    That’s what Matt the Black Unicorn had said.
    â€œHey, where’s Matt?” I shouted into the parasite huddle.
    â€œHe’s havin’ a squat behind the skip,” Jezza answered.
    Scuffed Flannel giggled.
    â€œCould somebody translate that from asshole to English?” I asked the huddle.
    â€œHe’s pooping behind the Dumpster,” Thing 1 answered. She did something with the string around her fingers and caught Wash’s hand tight.
    â€œDamn. All right. If he gets back, tell him me and Randall are heading up Seventeenth to fight those invisible people he was talking about.”
    â€œCool,” Wash said, trying and utterly failing to fathom the net of yarn wrapped around his wrist. “Wait—what?”
    I was already off jogging after the group, who had just rounded the corner and slipped out of sight. I heard Randall sigh loudly, and then his ratty combat boots were slapping the pavement right alongside me.
    We came skidding across a section of wet grating just as the Unnoticeables caught up to the kid. They were all around him, but it wasn’t until one reached out and grabbed his arm— a girl, blond hair, wait—brunette? Jesus, just focus on her, Carey —that he thought to object.
    â€œHey,” the kid said, struggling against the girl’s grip.
    The others moved in, closing a circle around him.
    â€œHey!” the kid tried again, panicking now. “Hey, fuck you!”
    I couldn’t see him anymore. The others were blocking my view.
    â€œHelp!” he screamed. “Somebody help!”
    The kid tried “fuck you” before he tried “help.”
    They shall not have this one.
    The mob was moving now, the kid caught in the middle as they forced him toward an open garage a half block up Seventeenth. A pale orange light flickered in there, like fire inside a barrel.
    I tried to think of something creative to say as I was sprinting up to them,