Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  I lifted it carefully, as if it were a snake that may or may not be poisonous. The stifling weight of history struck my chest. I gingerly removed the plastic. The thin book had worn edges, a taped spine, and pages that smelled of musty rooms.

  Took me two years and a few thousand dollars to acquire. If caught, I'd land in a work camp. Or in front of a firing squad.

  Creeping through my house with a piece of forbidden history was a lot like staring a half-ton mutt in the face. My pulse hammered, and my fingers felt like glass.

  I grabbed a dictionary because the language was old and I'm not smart. Treasure in hand, I settled onto the lumpy couch and parted the pages where I'd left off.

  “It was a thing hardly to be expected that in a popular revolution the minds of men should stop at that happy mean which marks the salutary boundary—

  I had to stop and find the definition of salutary before I could continue.

  —the salutary boundary between POWER and PRIVILEGE, and combines the energy of government with the security of private rights. A failure in this delicate and important point is the great source of the inconveniences we experien—”

  Someone pounded on the door.

  I jumped so high my gullet smashed into my brain. They came for me. I tucked the incriminating evidence into the waistband of my pants and pulled a gun. If they thought I'd go easy, they had another thing coming.

  “Yooo-hooo!”

  My kindly neighbor, Zelda.

  I went to the window and pulled the curtain enough to see if the elderly woman was fronting a Homeland Security tactical team. She wasn't. I shuddered with relief and unlocked the door.

  Zelda presented a basket of bread and a brown ceramic jug.

  “Evening, sweetie. I finally perfected the best acorn bread. Absolutely scrumptious. I would love for you to try it with me.”

  A tempting offer, but I had blacklisted literature stuffed in my pants.

  “Provided you let me in.” She smiled and hoisted the food beneath my nose. The smell of warm yeast and bitters wafted toward me.

  “Where are my manners?” I swung the door wide.

  Zelda's was all that was woman, which might be an odd thing to say about an old lady. To me, she looked exactly like what nature intended females to be. Her body was both plush and strong. Her shoulders were copper from constant work in her garden. Her blond-gray hair wound in a braid that fell heavily down her back. Her floral dress bore signs of dirt and flour. Sixty if a day, she remained as spry as a spring lamb.

  She made herself at home in the kitchen, pulling out plates, silverware, and two coffee mugs.

  “I was pressing flowers this morning, since you have to catch them at their best before the cold wilts them down to pale, limp things, and I recalled that my little brewery was ready to be reaped. Then I thought, what goes with homemade beer better than homemade bread? So here we are.”

  Her eyes widened. Her smile flattened.

  “Dear?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you planning to shoot the bread? I spent many a year perfecting the art of getting loaves to rise exactly so, and I'd hate to see bullet holes through it.”

  My gun sat in my hand.

  “Sorry!” I holstered the weapon.

  Her hand shook slightly as she wielded the bread knife. Most people weren't comfortable with firearms. My mild-mannered neighbor thought good herbs and home cooking could fix anything. I was more than willing to let her try.

  “Must have been a doozy of a day,” she said.

  “I put a full mag in a boy's head before breakfast—”

  “Please, dear. You know I hate such talk.”

  “Right. Sorry again. I have no manners.”

  “At least you don't eat with your mouth full.”

  We pulled stools together and sat at the counter between the kitchen and dining room. She laid out slices of sharp cheese and bread, then poured the beer into two coffee mugs. Brewing any sort of alcohol was perfectly illegal, but Zelda didn’t care. She was a dissident. We both toyed in piracy: me with my black books and illegal firearms; her with the herbs, home-brewed liquor, and witchcraft.

  “Kaidlyn, I couldn't help but notice our lovely neighbor erected new security cameras. Not to catch his cheating wife with the steady stream of roosters crowing at her open barn door! No, the nasty devices are aimed across the street at us. I don't think that's right, do you? What's the world coming to, audaciously snooping on neighbors? I don't suppose there's a law against it.”

  “As long as they're on Mr. Spears' property, no.”

  “Well, there should be.”

  “Where did you say these cameras were?”

  “On his porch by the mesquite tree. And then he comes strolling over to tell me that my flowers are dropping petals which blow into his yard, and would I please look into that? As if I control where the wind blows. The nerve! His yard could use some positive energy, anyway. I ought to throw wildflower seed over the fence and ruin his dastardly plain dirt.”

  I smiled. Revenge via horticulture.

  “And I was thinking, you know, there must be some way to get folks to mind their own business,” she said.

  “Unfortunately, getting into other people's business is all people want to do these days.”

  “What a shame.”

  The bread was amazing: rich with wheat and seeds, seasoned with the perfect blend of salt, yeast, and pepper. Went splendidly with the sharp cheese. The beer sat untouched in my mug, its frothy top beckoning and sublime. I earnestly bit into a slice of bread.

  She blew a bit of foam off the rim of her beer and sipped.

  “Wonderful food, Zelda.”

  “Thank you, luv.” She beamed a glorious, radiant smile. Her gentle spirit relieved the doom and gloom of my day. If not for her, I'd never eat anything that wasn't from a restaurant or can. She finished her slice of bread and flapped her dress to toss off errant crumbs.

  “I've got to get back and feed the felines. They are so demanding in a glass-half-empty sort of way. Why don't I leave that bread with you? I couldn't possibly finish it.”

  “That's so kind.”

  “If you ever want to learn to cook...”

  I laughed. “Maybe some other day.”

  She always offered and always received the same answer: maybe later. It was never going to happen.

  Zelda wagged her fingers and saw herself out, leaving the bread and beer. I stared at the ceramic mug filled with dark fluid. The foam ebbed and revealed a molasses-colored nectar, undoubtedly hearty. Touching the mug was trial enough. I picked it up, held it at arm’s length, and carried it to the sink.

  My reflection sat on the opaque surface.

  “Mirror, mirror.”

  I dumped it down the drain, immediately mourning its loss. I hadn't told Zelda about my problem because I was embarrassed. Part of me wanted the grandma I'd never had. Silly girl. Vincent was a drunk and he operated just fine, why did I have to make this so difficult? Why was life harder for me? I released the mug and let it clatter into the sink.

  Nothing like a dose of self-pity to sour a decent supper.

  I reached for my wallet, pulled out Juan's number, and dialed.

  The phone rang six, seven times. Finally someone answered.

  A young voice said, “Quien?”

  “Juan?” I said.

  “Which one, lady? B7, B13, or B18?”

  I hung up. Who needs him, anyway? I wrapped the bread, cleaned the dishes, and wiped the counter. Cleaned everything from the coffee pot to the fridge, where I stopped, because some jobs require more than a few hours. Afterward, I plopped face-first on the couch. The priceless book ruffled in my pants, but I was no longer in the mood to read.

  Television's mindless banter might numb my brain.

  I flicked on the news. A cheerful brunette with coral lips chattered with a middle-aged toupee about rising housing costs due to negligent homeowners who failed to provide current tenant information and r
eport even the most harmless crimes. The connection between cause and effect was, of course, ridiculous and went unquestioned by the mouthpieces. After a fifteen minute ditty about a charming new breed of felines soon to hit the market, they mentioned a local man suspected of terrorism. Apparently, he questioned the placement of a security camera in his workplace bathroom, so Homeland Security seized all his assets and he was terminated. Afterward, they started to discuss the Oviedo incident, how a man knowingly endangered not only himself but innocent neighbors.

  I flipped off the television and went to my bedroom to hide the book. I undressed, stacked on a few sports bras, and squared off with the treadmill in the corner of the living room. I hooked my gun holster over the front end of the machine and began to run. Just me in a quiet, empty house, the sound of my breath as I pushed myself up the incline, stressing my lungs and muscles and limits.

  Running accelerated my heart rate. I liked the exertion, but endorphins didn't come. I didn't get high from exercise the way most people do. Exercise was methodical, productive motion that eased my mind and prepared my body. Violent adrenaline gave me the desired surge, the rush, the rise to euphoria.

  I ran hard, had a protein shake so thick it was more like pudding, and threw myself into the shower.

  Chapter 6

  Rainer

  Savage hunger tore me from sleep. Like a raging hard-on, the beast begged for attention and projected impulses.

  Go outside. Feel open air. Stretch legs. Eat. Eat something crunchy. Run. Chase. Hunt something crunchy. Eat. Hungry.

  I’d forgotten to feed the disease before bed and now it rebelled inside me. No matter how many hours of mind-numbing code I suffered to decipher, I should never forget to subdue my appetite.

  I stretched and my muscles lengthened as if they had no end. The beast wanted to expand past my body and bones, right into a wild change. Even my thick scars and bunches of ruined flesh weren't as stiff as normal.

  Lycanthropy saved me when I was nothing more than road kill, but the disease proved more of a curse than a blessing. Cliché but true.

  The beast consumed and I starved. I couldn't remember not being hungry. I spent every waking hour combatting my frustration, misery, and hunger. What's more, I couldn't recall anything I wanted out of life before this blight hijacked my flesh.

  Which was all a secondary concern.

  My life ended before I became L-pos. Everything I desired died before the metamorphosis, when I lost Shohreh. They killed her. She was gone. Irrevocably and forever.

  Then I had nothing.

  I can’t recall having anything of value before she entered my life. No purpose, no direction, no love that I could remember. Not that I had an awful upbringing. In my youth, I loved and was loved, received a stellar education, found independence early on, and then was murdered and rose to live again.

  If this was any life at all.

  More than once, I considered that I might be in purgatory, waiting for someone to bring me home or drag me to hell.

  Shohreh was gone and I couldn’t dream anymore.

  My stomach growled louder. One glance at my ill-equipped kitchen revealed the complete lack of protein bars. Barefoot, I strolled to the walk-in freezer and opened the heavy door, blasting my exposed skin with biting cold. I arched and breathed as my body came fully awake. The bitter cold sank past my deep scars. I stretched again, drinking the sensation into my body.

  I contemplated which type of animal I wanted for breakfast. Large bins held a variety of meat: beef, pork, chicken, lamb, elk, and rabbit. Certain types of protein appealed to different moods. Chicken bones crackle pleasantly when eaten, so I reserved it for a cheerful day. Lamb meant I was feeling biblical. Pork was cheap, tasted delicious, and provided extra fat. My gluttonous side loved pig, especially close to a full moon. Beef, the blank slate of protein, indicated a stable condition.

  Five pounds of beef in two-inch slabs would make a nice breakfast.

  I shivered slightly, deliciously, before the disease sparked and warmed my skin. The alien vitality killed my enjoyment. Shutting the freezer, I went to the kitchenette and turned on the grill. I picked at the wax paper and tried to think about anything other than hunger digging like a drill, twisting my guts.

  I fixated on Durant and her recent kills: the Oviedo family. She and her older partner, Charles Vincent, stomped into a private home and blew both suspects to shreds. According to my research, the Oviedo men hadn't killed anyone. Anything could have happened in that house, but the end result was two more dead civilians.

  The world celebrated their deaths as another victory for humankind.

  I dropped frozen steaks onto a hot grill. When it came to food, especially cooking, I was not a connoisseur. Hell, my skills were barely functional enough to feed me. Sustenance wasn't something to enjoy; it was a necessity, like taking a crap. I closed the lid on the grill to keep the steam inside and speed the cooking, but I grew impatient. Anger over the FBHS (fat bitch ho Satanists) killing spree fueled my hunger.

  The smell of red meat agitated me past tolerance, and I snatched the steaks off the grill and ate. I wolfed it down, hunched over my food even though there was no one around to steal it. The outer edge was hot, the core cold, and juices tracked messily over my chin and chest. Fibers wedged between my throbbing teeth. Never mind the silverware in the drawer. The disease intensified as the full moon loomed near, culling bits of civility to make way for the beast.

  Dessert was two cans of baked beans and a bag of dried apricots.

  Shoving my shorts to the floor, I bee-lined for the shower and turned the water to extra hot, like I was trying to cook the underdone beef in my belly.

  I leaned against the stall and endured a shower so steamy that the smoke alarm began screeching, searing my brain with sibilant noise. Slipping on the floor, I lunged for it and clawed out the battery. Silence. I threw the alarm across the room.

  Dripping and naked, I mopped my hair with a towel. Droplets fell on my feet and reminded me of rain. The disease urged me to leave the bunker and go for a run. Out where society was cancerous, people made easy prey, and I could kill dozens before someone stopped me. Goose bumps rose to the surface of my skin.

  I stepped back into the shower. Resting my flanks against the stall, I seized my limp cock around the head and jerked off, furiously, sprinting to an ejaculatory finish line. Not a thought or fantasy occupied my head.

  Like I said, no dreams.

  The mechanics relaxed me more than the physical release, and I came with a matter-of-fact orgasm. I switched the shower to cold. My breath hissed through my teeth as icy water struck my abdomen.

  Fend off the beast, keep the body guessing.

  Finally I left the shower, dried, and sat ass-naked within my halo of computers.

  I had a bug up my ass about the Oviedo killings and was prepared to make a pest of myself. Next of kin was Janis Oviedo, seventy-six, impoverished and barely scraping together enough money for the medication that kept her ticking. The FBHS (flaccid-brained hoochie-suckers) sent Mrs. Oviedo a silver bill. Literally, they billed her for materials used to kill her son and grandson. Their gall never ceased to amaze me.

  Mrs. Oviedo couldn't afford twenty-seven bullets at two hundred dollars an ounce. She needed help settling the account. And what's this? Durant's bank numbers? How convenient. Anything to make the agent's life more difficult.

  Whistling, I flowed through minor code, surfed over petty firewalls, surpassed naive privacy barriers, toyed in Durant's debit account, and pulled out enough money to pay for the silver, some meds, and a month's rent. Easy to be generous when it wasn't my cash. Wiped my tracks clean. The bank would be pondering this “error” for a while. It would be months (if ever) before insurance replaced that money. They'd never find where it had gone, that's for certain.

  I enjoyed my job.

  Which was, namely, petty revenge.

  Plus, I could learn how Durant reacted under non-violent pressure. Maybe constan
t harassment would fluster her into a compromising position, and I’d be there to exploit it. Unexpected financial trouble might convince her to sell the manuscript I saw tucked in her pocket, and then I could use her piracy as blackmail. Discovering secrets and using them to my advantage was my motif. In the very least, I'd aggravate the ever-loving shit out of her.

  Feeling vindictive, I submitted Kaidlyn Durant's mailing address to a dozen pornography distributors, and not the quaint vanilla stuff. I pulled out all the stops. And ball gags, chains, crushing, orgies, facials, and barely-legal booty. Anything the average woman would find offensive, which probably included all the pornography I've ever seen or sold. She would soon receive enough erotica to keep an entire prison compliant.

  Grinning, I located my unsuspecting victim to see what the witch was doing.

  Perfect: her neighbor put up cameras. I could hug the guy. If I ever went outside again, that is.

  Top of the line, remotely mobile, zoom-lens with digital memory and a completely hackable brain. Previously, my view of Durant's street ended a hundred meters from the narrow side of the house. Now, I could see inside. Granted, only a slim view: a sliver through the living room window overlooking the yard. The woman had a thing for wandering around in the dark, but a slice of streetlight danced off her moving, sweating body.

  Was she having sex?

  No, running on a treadmill. No wonder her long stems were so damn fun to look at. I watched for a while, appreciating the new view. Watching her run was hypnotic. Cathartic, almost. When she finally stopped, I realized I’d been spying on her for the better part of an hour.

  Long after the last light went out and I was certain she'd gone to sleep, I poked around some more. Electronically, of course.

  Her archaic computer was obtuse and unfruitful. The ancient thing was incapable of talking and clenched up tighter than a nun in a dildo factory. It didn't even sync to a cloud.