Rock and Ruin

by Saranna Dewylde

  The guard gave me a long, hard look. “If you’re sure, Miss?”

  “Absolutely.” I felt my lips pull into a cheerful smile, while the word not wailed helplessly in my head.

  “Have a good night, then, both of you.” The guard walked away

  The stranger draped an arm around my shoulders and my whole back went cold. “Wise decision, young one,” he murmured in my ear, the satisfaction in his voice like a hundred hissing snakes.

  “Where to?” A voice asked and I realized we’d reached the ticket window.

  “Two to Los Angeles,” the stranger said. “She’s always wanted to go there.”

  Chapter Three

  What had I done?

  I was standing in Union Station with a sunglasses-wearing stranger—whose touch left me wishing I could peel off my skin to escape—while I smiled at another, ticket-selling stranger, as he sold us tickets to the City of Angels.

  One thing was certain: Sunglasses was no angel.

  I was becoming increasingly convinced he was the exact opposite.

  Looking down, I found an odd red glow that seemed to hover at the corner of my eye. One minute it was coming from my chest, the next it disappeared when I looked straight at it. What the fuck…

  I blinked, stunned to find Sunglasses was pocketing tickets and I was walking beside him. Why couldn’t I just turn around and leave?

  He’s controlling me.

  The thought popped into my head, bizarre and somehow totally sensate all at the same time. He was using me, manipulating me like a puppet on a string. The red was him, messing with my energy—maybe even what I thought of as my soul. I didn’t understand the details. Didn’t really care.

  What mattered was getting away.

  I refused to be turned into some freaky toy for a sunglass-loving creep. I’d worked out what he was doing, so surely I could stop it, right? I willed myself to run away. It didn’t work, but the red light flickered and suddenly I understood one more thing: It cost him to control me.

  I needed to buy time, figure out how to break the chain.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Los Angeles,” I said. And it was true—I had. The red light around me rippled and I knew without being able to explain how, that the truth had registered with Sunglasses. More than that, it seemed to affect his control, buying me a flicker of freedom. Okay, let’s keep it going. “Thanks for your help, fifty-five bucks is a lot of money, and I really don’t want to go home.”

  Also true.

  Red light waned, softening from blood red to a lighter hue. “Of course it is.” Sunglasses graced me with a reptilian smile. “I see from your guitar that you want to be a musician. LA is the place to go for that. I can help you.”

  Bet you say that to all the girls, you creepy perv.

  “I’m already a musician,” I informed him. “I’m going to LA to be a star.”

  The red faded to a dull pink. “Of course you are,” Sunglasses purred. “I know just the people for you to talk to, petite.”

  “I need to use the bathroom. I really, you know, got to go.” I blinked up at him innocently. I felt, more than saw him hesitate and hastened to add, “I really hate having to go on trains. I’m always scared that a bump or curve is gonna be the one that does me in and rattles me out the door. That’d be the literal worst.”

  The pink glow vanished completely.

  “I much prefer sitting at the back,” Sunglasses agreed. “Why don’t I wait for you here and then we’ll go line up?” He positioned himself directly across from the entrance to the women’s washroom.

  I forced a cheerful grin. “Sure, that’d be great.”

  Calling out to the security guard never occurred to me as I slipped through the battered, graffitied door and into the white-tiled space. Moving in front of the mirror, I planted my palms on the worn, stained surface of the middle sink and stared into my reflection.

  Drooping red spikes, smudged eyeliner and wide brown eyes stared back at me.

  In short, I looked like refried hell. And I’d never been more scared in my life. I couldn’t go back out that door and I sure as shit couldn’t go anywhere with Sunglasses. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I’d watched enough true crime documentaries to know it wasn’t good.

  Okay… I turned slowly in a circle until my eyes landed on the bathroom window, propped open by some enterprising person seeking fresh air. I gave the pane a nudge. It moved, then stopped. Crap. That wasn’t far enough open.

  Putting my pack and guitar on the floor below, I wedged my shoulder into the gap and shoved with all my might. With a whining creak of rusted metal upon un-oiled hinges that had me flinching, the window gave way.

  Breath caught in my chest, I stared at the bathroom door—had Sunglasses heard?

  Don’t wait, don’t wait, don’t wait. Run!

  Right. Better plan.

  Without bothering to check what was below, I snatched my pack and guitar off the floor and flung them out the window. I climbed up to the window ledge, caught hold of the sill and levered myself through until I was dangling from my fingertips. Looking down, I found a trio of shrubs had caught my belongings. Hopefully they’d catch me too.

  The door to the washroom started to swing inward and I let go.

  “Oomph!” The landing shocked my lungs. Jarring up my legs and sending pain shooting through my body. I struggled to gain my feet, ignoring the angry throbs from my legs and ass.

  “No! Stop.”

  The shout echoed through the open window above. Sunglasses.

  Pain forgotten, I scooped up my pack. Slinging my guitar across my back in a practiced motion, I ran down the rain-slicked street as fast as I could go. Could he fit through that window? I wasn’t waiting to find out. My shoes squished and squelched with every step. I skidded over patches of sodden leaves and abandoned food wrappers.

  The sound of my own ragged breathing rang harsh in my ears, but it wasn’t enough. I had to push myself harder. I had to go faster.

  I had to put as much distance between me and that… thing as possible.

  Was he following? The fear stabbing the back of my neck said yes, told me to keep going. I barreled around the side of the station and straight into the street. Lights flashed and horns blared as I barely evaded an oncoming car. I didn’t pause, just kept running across the busy street and onto the opposite pavement. I had no real idea of where to go other than away.

  Skidding around a corner, I risked a look back. My heart jumped straight into my throat, blocking the scream that tried to follow.

  He was close. Only a block away.

  I ducked into an alley, knocking over garbage cans with my pack as I raced to the other side.

  Reaching the street, I shot another look back over my shoulder.

  This time the scream made it out of my throat.

  Sunglasses didn’t jump over the cans. He ran up the alley wall; clinging to the tired bricks and mortar like a squirrel on a tree. It was official. Sunglasses was a Scary Thing—a creature that had no place being anywhere outside horror movies. Red light glinted from behind his dark shades. A black trench coat billowed behind him like the wings of death.

  Twisting away, I ran. Chest burning. Legs spiked with fatigue. Backpack biting into my shoulders.

  I hadn’t slept the night before. Hadn’t eaten properly in days. And it didn’t matter. There was no way I could outrun Sunglasses at the best of times. Rain smacked my face and blurred my vision, making it even harder to run fast. I had to find somewhere—someplace freaky night creatures couldn’t go.

  Church. Red-glowy-eyed creatures were always prevented from entering churches. There was some kind of church a couple blocks down. But I didn’t know what it was. Did the no-evil ban work if the church belonged to Scientologists, or did it need to be Catholic building?

  Manic with fear, I wondered if it was my religion that mattered or the monster’s?

  Sloshing down a dark, empty street, I risked yet another glance. I yelped. Sunglass
es was nearly on me, gloved hands reaching out.

  Shit, shit, shit. I wasn’t going to make it to the whatever-it-was church.

  He was going to sacrifice me to his dark lord.

  He was going to eat me.

  Or worse—both.

  Lights cut through the sheets of rain like a beacon from beyond. At that moment, the TriMet Number 8 was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The bus shelter was only a short distance ahead—and Sunglasses was only a short distance behind. Clenching my jaw tight, I tried to think of everything my hateful gym teacher had ever shouted at me.

  Don’t look back, it’ll slow you down.

  Keep going. Pump your arms. Move those legs, Alcantara.

  My chest burned, but that pain had nothing on the fires of hell that waited for me with Sunglasses.

  The Number 8 pulled to the side, and one lowly person stepped from the shelter. I tried to call out, but the downpour swallowed my words. The person stepped onto the bus, and the doors began to close.

  Gloved fingers brushed my neck.

  I felt his power reaching for me, caught flickers of red from the corner of my eyes.

  Panic gifted me with a burst of speed. I twisted sideways, spun round a metal signpost, and launched myself at the opening with everything I had.

  I landed in a sodden mass just on the inside step, a single tug brought my guitar into my arms.

  The doors shut behind me.

  I had just enough time to catch a glint of red watching from the dark before the bus pulled away and trundled down the road. Gasping, I crawled backward until my back butted up against the bus driver’s chair. He grunted at me in consternation. Ignoring him, I hugged my guitar harder.

  I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t get enough air.

  Everything was pins-and-needles. A volatile mix of fear and exhaustion burning through me.

  “Kid, you don’t get up and pay the fare, you’re off at the next stop.” The driver’s sooty, smoker’s growl shook me from my stupor. There was no way I was getting off this bus anytime soon. “And get off my leg, you’re getting me wet.”

  He was not the kind of bus driver that cheerful songs were sung about, but he had saved my life. I gave him the biggest smile my half-frozen face could manage. “I’ve got a pass,” I managed to stammer, digging it out of my pocket with cold fingers and holding it up with all the pride of a gold-star track champion.

  “Fine,” he grunted. “Then go sit down.”

  “Okay,” I agreed through chattering teeth. Almost limp from terror, I made my way carefully to the back of the bus and stared through the window into the night. Sunglasses was still out there.

  Could he run as fast as a bus? Maybe.

  I thought about the way he’d run along the side of the alley, like a damn spider-monkey from hell, and amended that to: probably. But something told me he didn’t want an audience. Besides, now I was out of reach, I guessed he’d go prey on someone else.

  Or that’s what I hoped.

  Pulling my knees up, I wrapped my arms around my legs and dropped my head into the supportive valley between my kneecaps. The thought of Sunglasses preying on another, unsuspecting victim did nothing to improve my mood.

  No, that wasn’t what I wished at all.

  I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

  Yet for some reason I couldn’t believe our encounter was random. He’d seemed so focused—on me. But I’d never been stalked by a red-eyed, sunglasses-wearing freak before, so maybe that’s what it felt like for all their victims?

  The thought sent another cold chill all the way through my marrow.

  All their victims…

  Tonight wasn’t a one-time deal. Sunglasses probably wasn’t the only one of his kind, there’d be others, and they’d have done awful things. Other girls like me had known that kind of primal terror, they’d been…

  I pressed my palm over my mouth to muffle my terrified breathing.

  Things that went bump in the night were all real, weren’t they?

  No, no, no. A panicked hiccup escaped my lips. I couldn’t follow that line of thinking too far down the rabbit hole, or I’d get lost and need more than those pink pills in my pack to find my way back. It was still possible this was all a grief-induced hallucination. No more messing around. I was going to take one of those pills when I got home and go to sleep.

  Home. Really?

  Was I seriously thinking about heading back to the apartment I’d just escaped? No. No fucking way.

  Pressing myself deeper into the bus seat, shaking, I curled around my belongings.

  For a few minutes, all I could do was hug my knees and drip over the vinyl-covered seat. Eventually, the familiar sway and bump of the bus began to calm me. Even after ten on a rainy November night, there was an assortment of people scattered through the lit interior. My heart slid back into my chest and my lungs stopped insisting that every breath be a gasping swallow.

  The bus passed by the church I’d been running for, and I glanced with some interest at the fluorescent sign boldly declaring it a Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Huh. I didn’t know if that was better or worse than Scientology for repelling evil and was very glad I hadn’t had to test it.

  I took the TriMet every day, I knew these routes and I’d make damn certain Sunglasses wasn’t behind me before I went anywhere.

  Finally, my hands steadied enough for me to unravel my knees and pull my backpack around to rummage through the main pocket. The damp black t-shirt crammed at the top of the pile wasn’t nearly as soggy as the rest of me; I dried off my face, trying to fix the worst of the make-up running from my eyes to my jaw. At least the stuff at the bottom of my pack was still dry.

  My chest vibrated and I jerked before realizing it was my phone.

  No way was I ready to talk to anyone yet—I couldn’t risk the distractions. Without looking, I reached into my pocket and hit the mute button. It was the oldest of old phones, a chunky flip that only worked for calls and basic texts. Sometimes I hated the lack of emojis in my life. Other times, like now, I could kiss the hunk of plastic for having simple buttons—no looking required.

  Rolling the now soggy t-shirt into a ball, I dug around in my pack for a plastic bag to stick it in. My fingers brushed something hard and covered in a crinkling shopping bag. Pulling it out, I unwrapped it, finding small avatars of Mom and me smiling happily.

  A stab of longing shot through me.

  More tears burned my eyes, leaving me grateful for my dripping hair.

  She’d have known what to do—she always knew what to do. Except...when she didn’t. Our last conversation rang in my memory. I’d been so angry at Mom for calling Jim, who’d lurked uselessly in the hospital hallway outside. She’d taken my hands and held them tight, fingers still strong despite all the tubes running from her body.

  Ash, she’d whispered, I can’t leave you alone in this world. I barely survived foster care. Don’t make me go thinking you’ll have no other choice.

  He left us, I’d replied, all the while wishing she wouldn’t go. That it was somehow possible for her to fight harder. Sometimes it made me so angry that she’d lost the fight that I couldn’t do anything other than scream.

  It wasn’t all his fault, love. She squeezed my hands and tugged me forward until I rested against her side. I tried not to think about how skinny she was, or that I could count each and every rib pressing into my side through my hoodie. I tried to make him understand things he couldn’t, she said, and then I left before he had a chance to try. You have to give him that chance, Ash. Please. Promise me.

  I had promised her. Of course, I’d promised. And what was I doing now? Not what I promised.

  Like the worst kind of daughter, breaking a promise to her dying mother.

  But so what? She wasn’t here. She’d left me alone.

  Scrubbing my arm across my eyes, I shoved the photo back inside and stuffed the damp t-shirt in after it. The bus jerked to a halt and I looked up to find we’d
stopped at one of the major interchanges.

  Was it crazy to imagine Sunglasses waiting for me?

  Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Snatching up my things, I hurried off the bus and onto the next one I found waiting and ready to leave. Settling into a back corner, I carefully surveyed the passengers for any sign of Sunglasses. Ran my eyes over the sparse crowd populating the terminal. Nothing. Relief rushed through me.

  Only when the doors had closed, and we were on our way on a new route did I take out my ancient flip phone. The green-upon-green screen informed me I had three missed calls from Jim, two text messages—also from Jim—and a voicemail message I’d no intention of listening to.

  I glared at the phone and stuck it back in my jacket pocket.

  Staring blankly out the window at the passing lights and buildings, I tried to work out what I was going to do. I didn’t much like my options.

  I could go for help—but where? I had no family I could trust. No friends who were more than well-meaning hospital staff. The police weren’t going to do anything and, as far as the station security officer was concerned, I’d agreed that Sunglasses was my uncle. Shit. They might even give me back to him!

  The thought made my stomach roll.

  I was a seventeen-year-old Latinx kid with fire-engine-red dyed hair, a pierced nose, studded boots, and dressed entirely in black. I was about as far from believable as you could get in Portland. The authorities would take one look at me, smudged make-up and all, and assume I was on drugs.

  Everyone assumed I did drugs.

  It would’ve been less annoying if I did—when I’d been in a band, most of my friends had done them. But the one time I’d smoked up, I’d spent three hours in a corner, terrified of how everyone around me looked like skin-crawling zombies and not understanding why the walls were weeping blood.

  My friends informed me I was a freak, that no one saw things on pot. They were so fed up they even called Mom just so someone would cart me out of the party. By that time, I was so happy to see Mom that I didn’t care how lame I looked.

  Mom held my hair for a few hours while the toilet and I got to know each other better. She’d given me chicken broth and explained that drugs didn’t mix well with people in her family. When I’d asked her why she’d gotten all oddly evasive. And I hadn’t felt up to pushing the issue. In the end, I just sort of accepted it; I didn’t need help to see weird, creepy things—ergo no drugs. No biggie. Too many music stars let drugs or alcohol get the better of them. So I was already ahead of the game.