Death and the Devil
Chapter One
Dear Reader,
The following is the first installment in a monthly, serialized fiction experiment we are calling DEATH AND THE DEVIL. Centered on an American city past its prime, our story explores themes of community and belonging, power and corruption, through a cast of intersecting characters.
When we first began acquainting ourselves with these characters and their world five years ago, they were fictional stand-ins for an inescapable sense of Millennial disaffection and arrested development. A few years on, the world feels a bit different – but if anything those traditional mile markers of adult life, which seemed so out of grasp then, seem even harder to come by for many.
Over time you will come to know Wyatt, Racine, Mattias, Caaji, and Fred — plus all the rest who will inhabit our vast world. Much like Armistead Maupin’s TALES OF THE CITY did in 1970s San Francisco, DEATH AND THE DEVIL will dip into their converging and diverging lives, and their changing neighborhood. It’s a mutating urban landscape, clawing its way back from decline – but it’s the people within the City who will represent our real and imagined histories; our real and imagined futures.
A 2008 Pontiac Grand Prix wheezed into the parking lot. The driver’s side door, lower third encrusted in salt stains, whined open on rusty hinges. Racine Brown grabbed her bag and an empty travel mug. With one boot already planted on the stained asphalt, she stopped short. Reaching nearly sideways for the glove compartment release, she unsheathed a single Twizzler from the open package within. On her way back upright, teeth already yanking into the stale candy, she glanced in the rearview mirror – and saw someone she’d much rather avoid.
Wyatt had thought he would take the bus, but it never came. So instead, he'd hiked the four stultifyingly flat miles to his old downtown studio apartment in order to prove to himself and his skeptical parents that he does indeed – sometimes – have initiative. He was breathing hard and did not notice Racine’s old car until he was nearly upon it. Now that he was seeing it, it occurred to him that what he actually lacked was bravery. The long trek back to his parents’ home, where he would once again return empty handed, suddenly seemed the better option.
Matias, the only other pedestrian on the block, tucked his head down, eyes narrowed against the wind. It was this posture that nearly caused him to collide with Wyatt, still fixed in his tracks on the sidewalk. At the last minute, Matias perceived the impression of boots, and angled his shoulders, creating just enough space to pass. As he stepped from the sidewalk and into the parking lot, he stole a glance back at the man on the street. Recognition washed through him and sent a jolt through his chest. Only, it couldn’t be who he thought. In the rotted wasteland of downtown, he didn’t feel inclined to turn fully around and find out. There are monsters about, after all. Better to get inside.
Caaji shut her laptop just as her boss was remembering the last thing he wanted to say. She spent an agonized moment debating whether to dial back into the call or pretend that she hadn’t heard him. Maybe she could actually enjoy this first weekend away with Racine. She thought about the way their conversations had once been breathless, comma-free, stumbling over the end of each other’s sentences in a rush of ideas, as though they might run out of time to fill each other in before they both fell asleep. Yet somehow their phone conversations had dried up without either of them noticing. The silences grew uneasy. But being here now, Caaji felt a renewed surge of love for her friend; with her feet curled up under the same bohemian throw pillow, on the same futon – unbelievably – that had once occupied their dorm suite.
She felt her work phone pulse in her pocket – yes, that would be Brooks, making sure she’d caught his last thought. The weekend would be spent appeasing the overlords back in New York by redoing the five-year financial projections before Monday’s 9am call. She should answer the call, right? A loud thud from the ceiling made the choice for her. A slew of muffled curses rang through the old floors of Racine’s converted loft building. Someone in trouble. Caaji sprang up to do what she always does. Take action.
He thought a four burner rangetop would surely suffice, but he’d been wrong. The counter was cluttered with not one but two camping stoves plugged into a single, tired power strip. Fred’s ambitions for the future, by necessity, had to start in his own apartment. The hand-pulled noodles came out just fine. So did the short ribs and the thai-inspired chili. The other four dishes were gurgling away in various stages of maturity.
With a moment to breathe, he sidled over to check his phone, plugged into the same strip, cord stretched across to the only unoccupied patch of laminate on the kitchen island. Last week was a good week. He was up four out of five. With confidence at an all time high, he’d put everything he could afford into the outcome of the next big one: today. The game had started and already his team was shitting the bed. “Choi, you dumbfuck!” he shouted to himself, without much malice. He wanted to throw the phone. Instead, he wadded up a rent notice from the counter and hurled it at the window. It fell pathetically in the space between the couch and the brick wall.
Fred didn’t even notice, though, because outside his window his eye caught a movement – it was Matias, walking away at an unnatural clip. Before he could fully wonder why Matias would be downtown, at this hour, on a weekday – Fred noticed something even more interesting. Rubbernecking with phone in hand, he tugged on the strained power strip. The camping stove pitched over the edge. Piping hot congee exploded out over the floor in a massive, glutinous firework. “GAH! FUCK ME! CHRIST! FUCKING–” The other pot tipped mutinously over the edge, too.
A lifetime of restaurant kitchens had inured him to chaos. Still cursing, he quarantined the congee behind a wall of rags and a bath mat, unplugged his phone and turned back to the window, ignoring a sharp banging at the door.
Caaji boldly let herself in, gasping at the molten congee lava flow. Racine's neighbor acknowledged her silently and inclined his head down towards the tableau three floors below in the parking lot. Caaji came closer to look. Racine’s posture, shoulders hunched, telegraphed both fear and fury. The man standing on the sidewalk raised both hands in front of him, apologetically, or perhaps defensively. Fred unlocked his phone and dialed 911. His fingers hovered over the call button.
Caaji groped for his wrist. “No! Wait! This might be what they both need.”
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