Dead Sea by Brian Keene Read Free Book Online

confidence only someone who'd lived there could have. She was skinny, her hair beaded with multicolored beads. Gold earrings dangled from each lobe. She wore dirty red shorts and a pink-and-white striped shirt. Her shoes were old and worn out, and one of the back heels flapped as she ran.
        On the second floor, she stopped in front of a door and raised her hand to knock. Before she could, I stopped her.
        "Your parents? Will they be okay with me being here? Maybe you should warn them first that you're coming in with a stranger. I don't want to get shot."
        Her voice softened and she stared at her feet. "We ain't got no parents. It's just me and Malik. He's my little brother. Momma, she…"
        Hesitantly, I put a hand on her bony shoulder. She jumped a little, but that was all.
        "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to stir up anything bad."
        "I'll be fine." Sniffling, she knocked on the door. "Malik, open up."
        "You okay?" the boy said from the other side of the door. He sounded defiant, but afraid. "That dude with you?"
        "Yes, he's with me. His name is Lamar and he's okay. He ain't gonna hurt us. He just wanted help. Now do what I told you and open the door."
        "Don't boss me."
        "Malik…"
        The door opened, revealing a small boy, maybe seven or eight years old, in a Spider-Man shirt and ragged black jeans. He frowned at me, refusing to step aside.
        "You cool?" he asked.
        I smiled. "Yeah, man, I'm cool."
        "You better be. I ain't no punk. I'm hardcore, G. You try messing with my sister and I'll mess you up instead. And if you think I'm playing, just try me."
        I choked down my laughter, careful not to offend him. The sincerity and ferocity in his voice was really something, and I had no doubts he'd try to do that very thing.
        "Malik," I said, holding up my hands, "I promise, you're in charge. I just needed to hide out here for a second. Okay?"
        "Okay." His attention was drawn to the pistol. "Cool. Can I try that out?"
        "Can't. No more bullets."
        "Damn. Well what good are you then?"
        Tasha waved her hand, angry and dismissive. "Malik, get the hell out of the way and let us in."
        "Don't boss me," he repeated. "What's that noise?"
        "There's dead folks beating on the door downstairs."
        Malik's eyes widened. "Oh, shit. I told you we shouldn't let him in. Now they know we're here."
        "It'll be okay," I assured them. "Just give me a moment to catch my breath, and then we'll figure something out."
        "Damn straight."
        I shook my head. "Did your mother let you talk that way?"
        "What do you mean?"
        "Did she let you curse like that?"
        "Shit, man. I'm eight years old. I can say what I want. Before she got sick, Momma said I was the man of the house."
        "No she didn't," Tasha said. "Momma told you to mind me. If she'd heard you cursing like that, she'd have washed your mouth out with soap and then beat your ass."
        "Nuh-uh!"
        "Uh-huh!"
        "Enough," I snapped. "Both of you knock it the hell off."
        Tasha got quiet, but Malik frowned at me.
        "You can't tell me what to do. You ain't my father."
        Sighing, I laid the empty pistol on the coffee table. Then I knelt down and looked the boy in the eye.
        "No, Malik, I'm not your father. You don't even know me. But I am a grown-up, and I do know things and I can help you and your sister, if you'll let me. I'd like to help. Would that be okay?"
        He shrugged. "I guess."
        "Good." I stood up and looked around the dismal apartment. It was small and cramped and dusty. Empty food wrappers and dirty plates littered the floor and coffee table. The furniture was threadbare. Soiled laundry lay heaped in piles. On one shelf was a picture of a heavyset woman: smiling, cheerful eyes beaming behind gold-rimmed eyeglasses, her