by Mark Ayre
Never a good place to be.
Seething with resentment, he took deep breaths and planted his head against the dash. With one hand, he grabbed his knee and squeezed as hard as he could. With the other, he found one of his two blades and gripped the hilt. Within seconds, his knuckles had turned pale; his knee was beginning to throb.
Beyond the car’s windscreen, a light breeze whipped at the tarmac carpark and unsettled the leaves in the trees which stood sentry in a semi-circle around the building’s land. When Amira had opened her car door, Trey had heard the gentle flow of the river which wound it’s way past the flat on the opposite side to the carpark. Now the door was closed, all was silent.
All was silent, and Trey was where Mercury and Amira wanted him. Out of the way. In their eyes, he was useless. Out of pity, rather than compassion or because they thought he could help their cause, they kept him around.
Given Trey had stabbed Mercury and been complicit in Heidi’s plan to shoot Amira, pity was more than Trey deserved. He should have been grateful for anything more positive than loathing.
He could not be grateful. His parents and siblings had kept him around out of family obligation. They too had felt he was useless.
To prove otherwise, Trey had committed murder and helped perform the rituals which had brought three monsters into the world—Heidi and those who had possessed Mercury’s boyfriend Dom, and her mother, Fran.
Where Amira had ruffled his hair, messed it up, Trey ran a hand, smoothing it once more. He had released his knee but clutched the blade still.
Trey had sold his soul in an attempt to prove to his family he had value. In proving the same to Amira and Mercury, he hoped to win it back.
All he needed was a chance.
If there was a God, and that God listened to and on occasion even answered prayers, Trey would be a long way down the list of people worth helping. Regardless, no sooner had he wished for the chance to prove to Amira and Mercury he could be useful, an engine broke the silence of the night.
With every second, the engine grew louder. Trey had only decided it must be a motorbike when the visual evidence proved him correct.
The biker, kitted out in full leathers but sans a helmet, ignored the many parking spaces and pulled up within inches of the lobby doors. Kickstand down, he dismounted and unzipped his leather jacket. From the back of the bike, he withdrew a small bag and what appeared to be a machete. From the bag, he took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.
Cigarettes were dangerous, but mostly to the user. It was the machete which drew Trey’s attention. He watched as the biker leaned the frightening blade against the side of his bike, then lit a smoke.
The phone which Trey had waved in Amira’s face now rested on his leg. Instinctively he grabbed the handset and unlocked the screen.
Before he could find Amira’s number, he paused. The biker was now leaning against the wall, beside the entrance, blowing smoke into the air.
From inactivity, Trey’s phone went dark.
This was the scout. There was no doubt in Trey’s mind. The machete was a dead giveaway; not to mention the flouting of all available parking spaces.
The guy’s positioning was odd.
No doubt, he hadn’t entered the building because he was waiting for backup. Given how recently Amira, Trey and Mercury had arrived in town, backup was likely some time away.
Despite this, the biker had not hidden at the edge of the carpark, watching for Amira’s departure. Instead, he stood brazenly by the front door where Amira could not fail to see him.
Then again, the bike was inches from the door but to one side. Amira would likely not see it until she had exited the building.
Amira was always on guard, but would not expect a welcome party so close to her exit. When the biker heard her enter the lobby, he would ditch the cigarette and collect his weapon. A good swing with the machete could spell her end.
Except he was banking on the element of surprise, and there would be no surprise because Amira would have been forewarned.
Trey looked at the dark screen of his phone.
And let it slide to the seat, between his legs.
To prove to his family he had worth, Trey had murdered an innocent and brought forth a monster. To redress the balance, he would murder a monster and save an innocent. Once Trey had proven himself, Amira would look at him with respect, rather than pity. He would become part of the team, rather than their pet.
Trey opened the door, slid from the car, and closed it again, quiet as he could. His eyes on the enemy, Mr Machete, he planted his behind on the ground, pressed his back to Amira’s vehicle.
Thus positioned, he ensured he had both blades. The ordinary knife he stashed in his bag; the demon killer he held aloft.
Most likely, Mr Machete was an infected. From the little Trey knew about the possessors, smoking wouldn’t interest them. He believed it was better to be safe than sorry. The blade infused with the demon-killing concoction would end the life of either a possessed or infected. The ordinary knife would kill an infected, but prove useless against their possessed masters.
Weapon in hand, Trey judged the space between the car and building. Crouched, cautious, it would take him thirty seconds to reach the wall around the corner from Machete and the front door. The car by which he crouched was in line with the smoker and his bike. If Trey ran at an angle, within five seconds, he could be out of Machete’s eye line, if Machete turned his way.
It was a risk. A sudden movement as Trey burst from the car might register in Machete’s peripheral, might draw his attention and prompt him to investigate. If he moved immediately, Trey would be caught in open ground.
The infected were no stronger than your average human, but your average human was stronger than Trey. If he were to stand any chance against his enemy, he would need not only his blade but also the element of surprise.
His options were limited. Either he slunk back into the car and called Amira, like the coward people had always believed him to be, or he took the risk, made the run, and put everything on the line to prove he could do good, to prove he was not worthless.
Despite his fear, he knew what he had to do. Machete was lounging, unfocused. The moment he twisted his head away from Amira’s car, Trey rose and ran.
After a five-second sprint, he slowed, bowing his head, crouching. No longer could he see Machete and, he hoped, no longer could Machete see him.
Half a minute later, he reached the wall. Trying not to breathe too heavily, for fear Machete would hear, Trey pressed his back to the wall and clutched the knife to his chest, blade tip an inch beneath his chin. He was three paces from the corner. The building entrance was set not in the centre of the block, but off to one side, only five paces from the corner around which Trey hid. Machete stood on Trey’s side of the door, maybe four paces away. His weapon, after which Trey had named him, leaned against his motorbike, out of reach but far closer to his hand than Trey was to his heart.
For want of a plan, Trey edged across like a crab, until his shoulder was an inch from the corner.
From here, he could smell the cigarette smoke—disgusting—and hear the sound of leather against brick as Machete shifted. Afraid his movements would be as audible, Trey stood stock-still, waiting not for a plan but for courage.
There was no need to plan because there was a single option. Trey knew where Machete was. All he could do was step around the corner and charge, praying that surprise would dull Machete’s reaction times. That, by the time he reached for his blade, Trey’s was already halfway through his heart.
Trey knew what he had to do. He needed only a sign from which he could derive strength to attack.
Machete released another long breath. Trey imagined the smoke rising. Wondered if it would catch Machete’s eye.
Then, something else. A sound which recalled to Trey his father’s favourite lieutenant, Victor. How often had Vicious Victor dropped his cigarette and squashed it with a boot before approaching Tr
ey to dish out another beating? As if the cigarette was a preview of what Trey was to suffer.
The memories could wait.
If Machete was stomping his cigarette butt, there was every chance he was looking at the ground, more distracted than he had been previously.
Driven by the hope that arrived with this tiny window of opportunity, Trey rounded the corner, lifted his knife, prepared to strike.
As he did, headlights fired through the trees, and an SUV rolled into the parking lot. Machete stepped forward, his hand raised. His mouth opened as though to call. Before he could speak, he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye.
Blade aloft, charging at his prey, Trey had only now considered the consequences of his actions.
Machete grabbed for his weapon, took the hilt of that shining blade.
Before he could lift, Trey plunged the knife into the man’s heart and threw himself away.
With a roar, Machete grabbed Trey’s knife and tore it free. Blood followed the blade as super fans will follow a pop idle. Machete screamed as Trey hit the floor and rolled, fast as he could, away from the splatter.
Blood hit the bike, the front doors, the pavement, and from all these locations, steam began to rise.
Blood covered Machete’s front. In his veins, the infected substance had been safe. Set free, it ate him alive. Still screaming, he dropped.
Trey was still rolling. When he stopped and rose, he saw from the rising steam he had avoided by centimetres having his legs eroded by the vile infected blood.
Having stood, he fell to his behind.
Trembling, shaken by his actions and his success, he wanted nothing more than to collapse where he was, close his eyes, and sleep.
No such luck.
The rumbling engines had fallen silent. Behind the first SUV, two more had followed. All three had parked at the far end of the lot, side by side. As Trey collapsed, doors flew open; boots hit the tarmac.
Amira had suspected a scout might spot their arrival into town and had anticipated that scout might call for backup.
Backup was supposed to be an hour or more away. Instead, it was in the carpark, talking amongst itself, staring at it’s melting scout.
And pointing at Trey.
Three
At first, Mercury could not tear her eyes from the dull metallic circle in the assassin's hand. Her stomach was a mess of differing, often conflicting, emotions. One burned brighter than the rest combined.
Longing.
"Afraid?" asked the assassin, smiling as she misread Mercury's expression.
Amira had found the spell with which they had ripped Heidi from Mercury's body. It had not been a clean break. What remained eroded Mercury's humanity, but also increased her strength, speed, agility and endurance. Than most humans, Mercury would be harder to kill. A direct explosion from the grenade would surely still end her life.
"You know my name," she said to the assassin. "What's yours?"
The assassin held aloft the grenade. Enhanced endurance and nerves of steel kept the shakes from setting in as she continued to best gravity.
"Heidi warned me about you," the assassin said. "Told me not to delay; to drop the grenade the moment I saw you."
Had the assassin dropped the grenade when Mercury appeared, it would have been over. There might have been time to register the object, falling, and to understand what was about to happen then—
Peace.
From the melting pot of emotion in the pit of Mercury's stomach, anger rose to compete with longing.
"You're going to be in trouble," she noted.
"That's true," said the assassin who had yet to assassinate. "I promised I'd be good, but I can't. How could I? No human could frighten Heidi, yet the way she grabbed my arm when she explained my mission, the way her eyes widened, there was something there. And such strict instructions would make anyone wonder."
The assassin seemed to drift into thought. She kept her eyes on Mercury, who held her own on the grenade. What was she supposed to do?
"What makes you so special?" asked the assassin.
The hand which held the grenade remained steady. Any second those fingers might loosen, the bomb might drop. Mercury considered ways she might relieve the assassin of her weapon, even while wishing the explosion would come.
She said, "Heidi and I were bonded. During our time together, I peeked at her deepest, darkest secrets. So long as I live, there's a chance I’ll share what I know and embarrass her."
"What secrets?" The assassin's eyes were eager.
"She's afraid of the colour yellow. She wants a Poodle, and she wants to name him Fanny. She hates mushrooms."
Eagerness turned to confusion, turned to suspicion. At last, a groan of understanding.
"You're joking. This is a joke. That's so annoying."
"Sorry to disappoint," said Mercury.
"Besides, no one likes mushrooms."
"I like mushrooms."
The assassin made a face. "Maybe that's why Heidi wants you dead."
"Perhaps," said Mercury. She paused, glanced at last from the grenade, over the assassin's shoulder to Dom's side of the bed. An invisible force clutched her heart. To distract from it, she continued, "so, your name?"
The assassin considered, then shrugged.
"Betty."
"Old fashioned," noted Mercury. She was thinking about obligation. About how, to save the world, Liz had given her life.
While the foul remnants of Heidi eroded Mercury's soul, she wanted nothing more than to escape the future. Facing a similar fear, Liz had been brave. Had tossed aside selfish ambition to do what was right.
Mercury could not escape her longing for Betty to drop the grenade. She had to be better. For the time being, self-preservation had to be her aim.
She had failed Dom. Could fail no one else.
To Betty, she said, "And, what are you?"
"Sagittarius."
"Funny. Infected or possessed?"
"Maybe I'm an ordinary human."
"Maybe you're human. You're not ordinary."
"Ouch. Fine. What do you think I am?"
Having chosen what was right over what was easy; obligation over self-interest, Mercury needed a way to extradite herself from the present situation without getting herself killed.
A secondary aim would be to protect the house she so loved. Her only hope to achieve this was to talk Betty down. Whether this would be possible depended on what Betty was.
"You've crazy eyes like an infected," Mercury mused, examining the assassin, "but the confidence and rational speech of a possessed. You have a grenade and seem willing to let it explode in your face if it kills me, but that tells me little. The blast would kill an infected, but an infected would be happy to die fulfilling the orders of her master. A possessed wouldn't die so would have no need to fear the explosion. Hmmm."
"Tricky, isn't it?" said Betty. "Does it pain you to know you'll die without learning the truth?"
"Should I die today, I'll regret only not first killing Heidi."
"Aren't you noble?"
"Not particularly. Nor am I done reasoning."
"No?"
"No, and I won't die not knowing whether you're possessed or infected. I already know."
"That so?"
Mercury nodded. "Of course. If Heidi were to send an infected, she would send only one created by, and therefore devoted to, her. If you were infected, in your reverence of Heidi, you would have followed her orders to the letter. If you were infected, I would be dead; we would not be having this conversation. Therefore, you must be possessed."
“That," said Betty, "is excellent reasoning."
Mercury nodded but did not speak. Her mind was working. An infected would have been easier to defeat, but she would have had no time to tangle with it. In a straight fight, her chances of beating Betty were slim to none, but that did not render her optionless.
"Has our conversation run dry?" asked Betty. "I suppose I should delay no
longer in dropping this," she nodded at the grenade, "but it has been interesting, this brief parlay."
"Do you work for Heidi?" Mercury asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Just wondering. I mean, from those of your kind I've met, I thought, except for your all-powerful master, you were on the same level. You're taking orders from Heidi, so maybe I was wrong."
Betty did not at once respond. Her expression, calm and clear, gave little away. More telling was that the smile of moments ago had vanished. Nearly thirty seconds ticked by in silence. The smile did not return.
"You're trying to rile me," said Betty at last. "If you succeed, what do you hope to achieve? Will it make me sloppy, do you think? Give you a chance to escape?"
Mercury was playing with fire. Her eyes darted from Betty to Dom's side of the bed, to her carefully chosen wardrobe, her comfortable carpet. She loved this place. Amira had suggested, after today, they might never be able to return. Mercury believed her. Still, there was comfort knowing it was here, in case of a miracle.
"If you don't have to follow her orders," said Mercury, "maybe we could come to an arrangement that doesn't involve you killing me and destroying my home. That was my thought process."
Betty waited several seconds. She gave the impression of consideration, but Mercury did not believe she would switch sides. There was no chance Mercury could save her home. To try was foolish when there was work to be done. In the grand scheme of things, her beloved home was immaterial.
Betty said, "Our world is one of torment and terror. Generations ago, all political structures crumbled into ash. We found them unsustainable in the hell that was our home. Still—"
Mercury swung her left leg in an arc across her body, pirouetting so that, when she replanted her leg into the soft carpet, she was facing away from her would-be-assassin, towards the bedroom door.
Betty released a hiss of frustration. The arc of Mercury's kick had brought her foot into contact with Betty's hand, knocking the grenade free, sending it across the room.
While it remained in flight, Mercury's left leg landed. Without hesitation, she bounded from the room.
