Accidental God -- Section 09a

[This is not the end of this section. It's just all I have time to get written before I run out the door to go see a movie with my dad. I'll try to finish this scene up by tomorrow, and then we'll move onto the next and the next and the previous and then back to the next.

[Don't try to make sense of that.

[Oh! Did I mention that I'm starting to outline? I now have six major sections outlined. Don't get me wrong: they're not very precise outlines. For example, to set the mood for one section, I wrote "Tuck and Paul." But I think this is a good thing. My hope is that my writing will be more fluid (and frequent) when I'm not having to make up the story entirely as I go. Anywho, enjoy.]

    Bradley walked, his hands in his pockets, his eyes over his shoulder. There was definitely something following him, and maybe two somethings. They kept to the shadows, few as dark spots were during the middle of the day. They lurked like grown-ups trying to give children candy, and it was hard to get a good look. In fact, every time he tried to really concentrate on the moving shadows, his eyes hurt.
    Bradley, his eyes tracking behind him, bumped into someone hard. He backed up, ready to apologize, and saw that it was a post. His glance followed the post up and over to the sign that stretched across the stairs. Miller Station, the Loop Subway Line. He looked down the stairs that led into neon-lit semi-shadow and thought what an absolutely terrible idea walking down there would be. Enclosed space, lots of people, nowhere to go--Bradley had no illusions about running along the tracks, like in the movies--and two shadowy somethings following after. But something was nudging him down that way, and after the chance he'd had to help JoBeth, he wasn't feeling inclined to ignore that kind of nudging.
    Bradley looked around again, smiling blindly at passing faces as he looked for...there one was, slipping under a parked car less than half a block away. For probably the first time in his life, Bradley reconsidered his general position on fire arms--he was opposed, usually--and he took a step into the belly of the beast.
    Maybe he was being overly dramatic. In fact, once he was down the stairs and his eyes had adjusted, he realized there were even fewer shadows in the underground halls than there were on the street. Lights everywhere, from the glowing screens of ticket machines to the green and red signals on the subway entrance chutes. Was that what they were called? Narrow spaces, channeling people through one-at-a-time, very much like cattle in suits, skirts, and jeans. Bradley pulled out his monthly travel pass, 'moo'-ed quietly to himself, and swiped the card. A few more yards and a bit of the dance that always goes on in crowded spaces--you first, no, you, no, all right--and he was on the escalator, standing and watching the people around him, the way he always did.
    Even with a lurking, predatory shadow or two following him, Bradley couldn't pull his eyes away from the mild crowd around him. White man, goatee, eyes round and bright, sloping his way into middle age but not unhappy about it. Two teenage girls, wearing tight enough clothing that they helped prove Bradley's theory that most people shouldn't wear tight clothing. A woman in a suit and blouse, smiling to something on an iPod with lips that made Bradley wish he were in on the joke. It was the rush of anonymity that Bradley loved, being among these people, being part of a group that demanded so little of each other. A bit of respect, little kindnesses, but no names and no needs, an intimate dance of here and gone with complete strangers that any moment might be friends--but not this moment, not now.
    Was Bradley wrong to love the separation from the people around him so much? He liked people, went out of his way to be kind when he could, spending time with family, with friends, but not as much time as he used to. In fact, living alone now was a bit of a dream come true. A lonely dream at times, but still a dream. Home and alone, there was something to be said for that.
    But now, almost to the bottom of the escalator, and very much not alone, he glanced back. There, on the roof of the tunnel, were those the shadows? They were dangerous, he was certain, but he didn't know how or why, exactly. Bradley said a quiet prayer that he hadn't put all these people around him at risk by coming here, stepped off the escalator, and kept walking.
    Where was he going? He wasn't sure. Someone was singing. Nice singing, actually. Maybe he'd go that way. Over toward the east-bound track, other side of the cement pillars. He followed the man's voice through the crowd. Whoever was singing was a tenor, the kind that could handle all the high pitched pop songs that strained Bradley's voice when he tried to keep up with the songs on his MP3's and CD's. Darn tenors. What was wrong with singing something where mortals could sing along? Bradley sighed and followed the music that somehow cut through the rumble and clatter and echo of a subway station.
"I'll find you there," sang the man, "stay with you there, and we'll sing our song together. Our deep-sweet song together."
    And then he stopped and Bradley was standing in front of him. A tallish man, good looking, clean and casual in clothing the way that Bradley had always admired and never felt he had the hope of achieving. He checked, and yes: the guy's belt matched his watch matched his shoes. He was in a class above.
    The man was looking at him.
    "Hi," said Bradley.
    "What's up?"
    "I liked your music."
    "I'm glad." The man kicked the guitar case next to his feet and coins rattled in the bottom. "Contributions are always welcome."
    "Oh. Right." Bradley reached for his wallet, then realized that the smallest thing he had was a twenty. "Do you give change?"
    The man laughed. "Don't worry about it. I don't really do this for the money anyway."
    "Why do you do it?"
    "Would you believe it's for the love of music?"
    "Sure I would."
    "Great."
    "Is it?"
    The man looked puzzled. "Is it what?"
    "Is it for the love of music?"
    The man's mouth made an 'o.' "Gotcha. No, not exactly. It's just my job. I love it, but still: a job."
    "But you said you didn't do it for the money."
    The man was smiling again. "You're an unusual commuter. Most people don't take the time to really notice I'm here."
    Bradley looked down at the reasonably significant amount of money in the guitar case. "They toss enough money in."
    The singer shrugged. "Sure, they enjoy the music, but they don't notice ME. Not enough to stop and talk. I'm Atty, by the way."
    He reached out his hand, and Bradley shook it.
    "Bradley. Nice to meet you."
    "And you. So what brings you to the subway, Bradley?"
    “Would you believe that I’m here to catch a train?”
    “Sure I would.”
    “Great.”
    "Is that why you're here?"
    Bradley glanced over his shoulder. "No."
    He turned back to face Atty, who had followed Bradley's glance with his eyes. The singer's eyes widened, then he looked back at Bradley, then back to the subway tunnel again.
    "Oh," he said. "You're one of those."
    "One of what?"
    "You see something back there, don't you."
    Bradley looked around again. People shifting, the echo of indistinct conversation, the thunder of an approaching train, but no gray shadows. He shook his head. "Not at the moment."
    Atty looked at the ceiling and smiled. "Okay, sure, not at the moment, but you know something is there."
    "Two somethings. Yes. At least, I think there are two."
    The singer nodded and bent down to fold up the guitar case. "There are two. If they are what I think they are, they always come in twos. Did this start recently for you?"
    "What?" asked Bradley, staring at the case.
    "Noticing unusual things. Seeing creatures that were never there before. Opening up to a world you've never known."
    "Just this morning, actually. I'm sorry, I know it's strange to ask, but why do you have a guitar case? Where's your guitar?"
    "Don't have one."
    "You just bought a case?"
    "No, the guy before me has the guitar. He just left the case for me. It's easier than having to empty out the money every time."
    Bradley blinked. "He left you his money, too?"
    Atty smiled. "I told you we don't do this for the money. Did you forget?"
    "A job, but not for the money."
    "Exactly. Look, I made all the money I could ever need seventy-five years ago, and it's mostly been growing since. It's not something I worry about." He picked up the case, still smiling, and swung it over his head, settling the nylon strap across his chest.
    "Thirty," said Bradley.
    "Two-hundred-sixty-three, but close."
    "No one is that old."
    "I am."
    "You're crazy."
    "No, but those things are, and they're coming closer, which I don't get. This is Divine Chuck's Temple. They ought to know better than to mess around in Chuck's place. Or with me." Atty raised his arms over his head and stretched side to side. "You must be having some unusual kind of awakening for them to be this gutsy. Hunger can do crazy things to a person. Speaking of which, you hungry?"
    "I'm sorry. What? I was distracted." Bradley had caught sight of one of the creatures, skittering across the roof of the tunnel and hiding behind the blinking lights of a sign that tracked subway arrival times. It had a tail, and moved like it had joints where there weren't supposed to be joints. He could almost imagine the snap, crackle, and pop of cartilage.
    "I asked if you were hungry." Bradley looked, and the singer was holding out half a bagel. "I broke it off, so you don't have to worry about germs."
    "Why do I want this?"
    "Because, as far as I can tell, you're about to be attacked by two Ipthakorians. Normally they like to stay out of sight and just latch onto your energy like leeches, but something is pushing these two to do things they'd never normally do. Now, I can handle this, but your part might involve some ducking, dodging, and other activities involved in keeping yourself alive. So take the bagel. You're going to need all the energy you can get, and you should never underestimate the power of a bagel."
    "I never do," said Bradley.