Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  “Sorry I haven't called,” I lied.

  “Fine.”

  “How have you been?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Mentiroso.”

  “Thought you didn't speak Spanish.”

  “Guess we're both liars. Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “I've already had some.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No booze.” Juan jerked a thumb at his chest. “Desperate, not stupid.”

  How thin the line between the two.

  He rubbed his jaw, vigorously grating the skin until he felt his own burn scar, then abruptly stopped. I fumbled through my thin arsenal of therapeutic options. What do people turn to when family, drugs, and society can't help? I pursed my lips.

  “Do you go to Mass?”

  “No. Too many emotions there. Everyone believes they have something righteous to say. Inflammatory things. Dios. I stay away.”

  “Probably for the best. If God doesn't put you out, His followers will.”

  His chin went up a smidgen.

  “Kate, you come to these meetings like you're doing penance, but you don’t have hope. It’s misery-loves-company bullshit. Some of us need this place. Really need it, and shouldn't be made to feel like shit. You go ahead and do penance. We'll keep believing. It's about time you gave shit a chance.”

  He was right, I was wrong, and I didn't care.

  “Juan, you know crap about what I need.”

  “I do, in fact, now more than ever.”

  “I won't be lectured by some—” I paused, my instincts speaking louder than my brain. “Shit.”

  “What? Go on, some what? Felon? Spic? Druggie?”

  Mutt. I'd been about to say, mutt. He wasn't wearing a tag. Hell, he probably didn't know he was infected with the heinous disease. Poor guy was L-positive.

  I should have gone for my gun, but I didn't.

  The irregular hesitation stumped me. Why didn't I reach for my weapon and plug him with silver? If I let an L-pos walk around, he'd spread the contaminant. I genuinely suspected the city teetered on the brink of another heavy outbreak, so why not take him down?

  “I'm outta here,” he said, jaw ticking, eyes raging. Close to cracking. He left the building and limped to the dark parking lot.

  That was called a window of opportunity. I should follow, apprehend, and tag him. Leash him for the public good.

  I did none of that, and I didn't know why.

  Stunned, I went home and threw my mail next to the coffee pot. Slowly, something occurred to me, and then I pulled a gun and walked the house.

  I know my house like I know my own body. One floorboard dips more than the rest. The front door frame isn't perfectly square and rubs against the top. The couch sucks in the cushions whenever I sit on it. And then there's the way my habits fill the home. The aggressive way I draw my curtains and cram them together in the middle. How I toss the mail to the right side of the counter on the right side of the coffee pot because I always eat on the left. I push the blankets to one side of the bed and the pillow to the other. And I can never manage to close drawers all the way. I always spin the lock on the gun safe back to thirteen.

  My home is the only place I'd consider remotely safe and private.

  I know my house.

  And I know when someone has been in it. Ruffled the curtains. Fluffed the couch cushions. Spun the dial on my gun safe. Rummaged through my dresser drawers and mistakenly closed them all the way. Saw my embarrassingly empty fridge and the mountain of pending laundry...

  Oh boy.

  I scrambled, heart racing. What had I worn yesterday? The Green Lantern tee should be on top with the purple sports bra. Nope. The bra, check, but the green shirt was three layers down. Someone rifled through the pile.

  I upended the basket and poured out everything. I flipped the false bottom and looked inside for the hidden book. It was still there, wrapped precisely as I'd left it. Nothing different.

  If any law enforcement agency saw the book, they'd be all over me already. Assuming they didn't shoot me on sight, I'd be in the back of a van with a bag over my head. Torture rooms were available for many diverse information-gathering techniques; that's where I should be right now. This didn't make sense. Unless it wasn't the law.

  The big question was, why was the book still there? If pirates ransacked my house, wouldn't they have taken it? What if Lurch found me and learned I was a federal agent? Maybe I scared him off, or worse, he'd use this against me.

  I had screwed up three times tonight. Trying to meet Lurch, letting Juan walk away, and now this.

  I felt naked in the middle of Times Square. Exposed. Violated. Embarrassment and rage mingled in a vulnerable stew until I was in a downright swivet, about to have a case of the vapors.

  What if the intruder had everything he needed to make a case against me? The illegal books, poorly secured house, the lack of a flame-throwing dragon in my bedroom to char imposters: I hadn't been careful enough.

  This was all my fault. I had ignored simple rules. Don't associate with underground traffickers who are crazy enough to deal with a federal agent. Don't allow mutts to live.

  A lot of “what ifs” floated around my skull, and I hated all of them. What if Juan killed someone? Statistically, it was only a matter of time before he spread the contagion. Only ruthless discipline can keep the shit-storm at bay. I'd been sloppy and this was the result. My house ransacked, my sponsor diseased. My sole duty in life was to stand between chaos and order, but I'd been lazy.

  Only I could clean up this mess before it exploded. I would take care of the mutt issue and find the bastard who was in my house, in my freaking underwear drawer.

  Vulnerability shifted directly into righteous anger.

  I acted on instinct. When I made up my mind, there was no talking me down.

  A land-line was public info, and finding the residence was easy. I knew the area, where to park, where Big Fed's cameras were blind, and the fastest route to drive there. I sat in my beautiful truck, secured in her goodness, soothed by her warmth and noise.

  Everything was going to be okay.

  Juan lived in low income housing. The overgrown palm trees were downright shabby. The walled apartment complex bore a patchwork of graffiti. His neighbors were rowdy and violent, the neighborhood excelled in alcohol abuse, and the largest source of income was welfare and drugs. I was both amazed and appalled that Juan had survived this long.

  I was grateful to have three guns on me. Anything that could go wrong certainly would, especially here, especially tonight. I thumbed a silver bullet from a magazine and palmed it. Pulled the sweatshirt hood over my hair and walked to the apartment complex.

  All the windows were barred. The hanging planters held nothing but baked dirt. The stairs creaked and swayed. The main hallway was swathed in torn wallpaper and peeling paint. No one bothered to clean vomit off the floor. Neighbors bickered and children wailed.

  Previously when I called for Juan, I had been given a list of apartments: B7, B13, or B18. I visited the first, knocked, and said: “Juan? It's Kate. I could use a drink.” A boy toddler in a full diaper answered. I waved and closed the door. Tried the next apartment. No answer. At B18 I repeated the bait.

  A shadow passed under the door as Juan checked the peep hole. He let me in. What his apartment lacked in furniture, it made up for in junk. Hispanic newspapers, prominent in the poorest districts, towered in stacks. Flattened candy wrappers filled shoe boxes while unpaired shoes rested in a pile. T-shirts dried on a clothes line traveling through the center of his kitchen. Judging from the oil lamps and candles, there was no electricity.

  “Caught me eating dinner.” He picked up a can of cold turkey stew and dug into it with a spoon. An antique television, hollowed out and filled with soup cans, doubled as a dining table.

  In the candlelight, the lean mass of his body struck me as lovely. The mess of his home glowed intimately.

  My fingers shook. I set
them at my waist, squeezed my hip bones, and sought a calm resignation.

  “You were right, earlier,” I said. “What you said, I mean. It's true. Faith seems to help some people, and I shouldn't disrespect that, even if it doesn't work for me. I certainly shouldn't try to take it away.”

  His eyes flit and shifted like a moth's wings before he focused on my chin. Something about me intimidated him enough that he didn't meet my eyes. Maybe the stink of my guns registered in his subconscious. I had no doubts: the disease was settling in. Did he know? Or would this be a final revelation?

  God, if you're there, save Juan from me.

  No answer.

  “Should give God a chance before you condemn others for believing in Him,” Juan suggested.

  “After everything, I can't operate on faith. Not anymore.”

  He scraped his spoon around, making the tin squeal.

  “Kate, you can sit at meetings and not pray all your atheist-ass wants, but God got me this far, and He'll take me home. I know it in my heart.”

  “For once, I hope you're right,” I said.

  I tossed him the bullet.

  He caught it, asking, “What’s this?”

  “Silver,” I said.

  His face twitched insidiously. Skin tightened along his cheekbones.

  I pulled the Jericho and shot him twice in the chest. His face stuck with surprise. He held the wounds and bled, then anger came. He clenched his teeth like he was chewing nails, like he was looking for the right words.

  A human would have been busy falling and dying.

  “Kate.”

  His voice roared like a sandblaster. I heard teeth in his words, a rough grating that was barely human, nearly a howl. I squeezed the trigger. The silver bullet entered his temple. Tipped his head back. The next bullet penetrated the bridge of his nose and he fell. I shot twice more. The back of his skull exploded.

  “Shit, Juan.”

  Nothing else to say.

  Given the neighborhood, no one came running when they heard gunshots. I pulled out my phone and called the office. I leaned against the wall and waited for Winters. I felt like Atlas, only the weight of the world hunched on my spleen.

  Vincent and Mullen would be so proud of me.

  I dropped the spent magazine and popped in a fresh, which I should have done as soon as I finished firing. The slip was proof I'd become too emotional about the ordeal.

  Christ, I was getting stupid.

  And forgetful of my own vulnerability.

  Mutts couldn't be trusted, not even before they shed and turned into homicidal monsters. They were a lot like humans in that respect.

  That night, I didn't try to sleep, I simply sat in front of a blaring television until I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore.

  Chapter 14

  The day after killing Juan, I was scheduled to ride with Yvonne. Being a nice person, I thought I'd pick her up a cup of joe. Unfortunately she didn't have a regular order. One day green tea, the next creamy chai, then iced coffee, and then a cranberry bubbly thing with tapioca pearls. The long line at the coffee shop afforded me plenty of time to ponder options.

  Exhaustion weighed on my skin. I rubbed my neck, massaging the band of scars at my collar. The tissue had stiffened way too much. I should make an appointment with my dermatologist to reclaim some mobility.

  I didn't know which was more unsightly: the scars left from claw and tooth damage, or the seams of skin grafts that made me look like a poorly-stitched doll. One ridge ran the entire length of my jaw, and I had tendency to tuck my chin.

  My scars made me look like a victim.

  “You're a survivor,” someone said.

  I snapped to attention, unnerved because the comment so accurately addressed my thoughts. A stranger stood nearby. He was tall, gorgeous, as dark as coffee beans, and structured like a pro athlete. Cleanly shaven from the top of his head as far as the eye could see. An instant later, I recognized him.

  The sexy, suspicious dude from the bar.

  I stood dumb.

  Do I shoot him? Walk away? Ask him what he's been reading?

  His teeth nipped his full lower lip. A tightness lingered around his eyes. His nervousness gave me courage.

  “No story here, dude. I'm simply a clumsy gal.”

  Was this Lurch? Couldn't be. Too attractive to be a bookworm. Lurch felt forty, overweight, and socially desperate. This guy did not.

  Maybe he thought a damaged girl would be an easy sexual conquest. His eyes were a bit too bright, point of fact. I put my hands on my hips and his eyes followed my neckline. The jerk was scar-gazing.

  “What, you have a scar fetish? Is that what gets you off? Getting hot for damaged tissue while you fantasize about broken fuck-dolls? Maybe rescuing an injured princess does it for the moron below your belt? Maybe you wank your little dick and dream about making the wounds yourself?”

  “Jesus,” he said. Voice rough. Eyes startled like he'd seen something surprisingly ugly. Me.

  “How about you move along,” I said.

  Gorgeous weirdo. I shook my head and remembered why I preferred to sleep with LEOs and soldiers: I didn't have to explain the guns and scars because they already knew, they had their own, and they wouldn't treat me like a carnival show. I couldn't afford to get involved with anyone else, no matter how pretty. Even so, I couldn't stop my eyes from admiring the form of his chest. Yeah, he was hot.

  Something new slipped into his gaze. Challenge. Interest. Five seconds ago he might have been tense, but now he was intrigued, too. I adjusted the hem of my shirt enough to reveal the obvious shape of my guns in their holsters. His eyes fluttered and reverted to the previous nervousness.

  He hooked his thumb at the door. “Yep. Gotta go. Screw this.”

  “Wise choice,” I said.

  He left.

  Having strangers comment on my scars confirmed that I should have work done. I picked up the phone and called my dermatologist, Dr. Robles.

  “You won't be intoxicated,” she said.

  “Yes, ma'am.” I'd been drunk last time. The procedure hurt.

  “Unless this is urgent, I can't fit you in for a couple more weeks.”

  “No, that's fine.”

  She hung up.

  I looked at the disparagingly long coffee line, gave up waiting, and went to work. Better to let my teammate choose her own drink anyway.

  Yvonne chattered cheerfully, completely independent of my input. When we stopped for coffee, she added a repulsive mountain of sugar to her drink. I sipped my dark brew as she enjoyed a stream of one-sided dialogue.

  Our first scene brought us to a high school in a less fortunate neighborhood. An untagged mutt, identity unknown, had erupted out of nowhere. Including Juan, Oviedo, and the coffee barista who recognized me, four mutts had popped up off the grid, with no indication of how they acquired the disease.

  Outbreak, I thought.

  Cindy from dispatch sounded like a pack an hour smoker. She directed us to a soccer field near the shabby stucco public school.

  I drove onto the green and circled the scene. Not a soul in sight except for a hunched, sienna-colored mutt. Its massive jaws worried something on the ground: dinner. Snout rummaging through viscera and plumbing, it paid us no attention. With each jut of the mutt's nose, the corpse rocked, limbs dancing through the grass.

  The beast chomped down on its victim's skull. The crunch echoed over the field. I came to a stop and honked the horn. The mutt raised its head. Human flesh dangled from its maw. It snarled, flashing red teeth.

  We posted behind the truck's open doors, drew our weapons, and fired.

  Sound blasted through the cab, rang through my ears.

  The sienna mutt yelped and hopped. Snorted. Shook out its mane. Dropped its head and stampeded. My heart raced in an oh-shit kind of way. Not my vehicle, not again.

  Bullets plugged its face and chest. The beast stumbled to its knees, lumbered back up, and came at us. Clumsy. Bleeding out. Closing distance
nonetheless.

  “If you hurt my truck,” I whispered. The unfinished threat died in clouds of deafening gunfire.

  The mutt lurched, fell face first, and skidded to rest a meter from my bumper. Silver ripped flesh from its skull and exposed wet, broken bone. Heaving, it died. I reined in my breathing and checked Yvonne's status. She panted through her mouth, eyes as bright as mine probably were.

  No point in checking the human corpses, but we did. All their vitals were long gone. Guts and gore littered the grass.

  “Nothing left breathing,” I said.

  “At least they died human,” she said.

  Unable to think of anything smart, I mashed my lips together. Technically, she was right. We stood around the empty field, ears dull from the gun blasts. Something occurred to me.

  “Doesn’t the typical soccer team require at least eleven people?”

  “I don't know. Isn’t that football?”

  “Say eleven plus four benched. We have fifteen kids on a team, twice over, plus a coach, parents, and girlfriends.”

  “And?”

  “Teenagers practically self-destruct from hormones alone. Lycanthropy always makes it worse, but not this time. We've only got two dead bodies, which means this isn't a rampage. This mutt survived the crazed-hunger stage that drives them to kill anything they can get their claws in, whether they can eat it all or not. This mutt knew how much meat it needed to be satisfied. Meaning, it has experienced previous kills. We're talking about a coping contaminant in an adolescent.”

  “I hate when you talk that way. People aren't meat.”

  “We're meat alright. I'm not saying that's all we are, but come on.”

  She gave me a scathing look.

  I practiced keeping my mouth shut and waited for Winters.

  Disintegration began, reducing the mutt's bulk to human flesh with obliterated facial features and a distended gut. When Winters cut the beast open at the lab, he would find shards of a human skull. I didn't envy the doctor his job. Not much ranked worse than finding human scraps in a necropsy.