Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  FBHS tech identified the mutt as Benjamin Crowley, an otherwise unremarkable teenager. Yvonne and I went to assimilate his family into the program.

  Invasive Tagging Requests were the worst. The job's violence was definitive and necessary. Walking into a visceral massacre and shooting the monster was simply a requirement. The process after death, going to John Doe's house and putting surveillance on his family, friends, kids and cat; that was crap.

  We went to the home of Arlene Crowley who had obtained sole custody of her grandson, Benjamin, and his three surviving brothers. The neighborhood's fence looked like the sides of cargo freight boxes plunked into the earth and covered indiscriminately with a blur of graffiti. Wouldn't stop a renegade mule, much less a mutt. No locked gate, but a miniature militia of six boys in red shirts leaned against the wall, eating ice cream. The tattletales scampered away to inform someone of our arrival.

  “Shouldn’t they be wearing blue?” I said.

  “Regime change,” Yvonne grumbled.

  We found the Crowley apartment complex. I parked in the community lot and we crossed the lawn. Yvonne rang the doorbell, straightened her gray suit jacket, and patted her hair. My fingernails were clogged with dirt. A little old lady opened the door, dishtowel in hand, flour on her slacks.

  “I'm sorry for your loss,” Yvonne said.

  I contemplated the words and couldn't say them. Ms. Crowley seated us. Her quaint living room held an excess of doilies, a jungle of family photographs, and a modest accumulation of dust on ceramic horse figurines. My teammate talked about “personal safety” and “public good” while I nodded occasionally. I didn't have energy to contribute to the bullshit.

  Arlene sat on the couch with Benjamin's brothers, a line of red-eyed, baffled people who had lost a loved one. The boys displayed a mixture of spite and grief.

  Full of unfair questions, I stared at each of them.

  Why hadn't they seen this coming? How could they be blind to changes in Benjamin? Didn't they know something was wrong?

  I wanted easy answers, something to indicate this wasn't the random onslaught of another epidemic. I didn't like the trend. Infection percentages rolled in waves. Phoenix currently enjoyed a lull in action, resting in a trough of steady incidents. The peace could disappear in an instant. How long had Benjamin been L-pos? How many had he infected?

  The practiced mutt had navigated the public school system and roamed through the community, potentially spreading his monstrous plague.

  I was going to lose sleep.

  Routine questions didn't bear fruit. No one knew where or when the disease took hold of Benjamin. Arlene couldn't even recall him behaving strangely. She repeated, “You know how boys are,” as if she, in fact, had no idea how boys were.

  Yvonne finished her survey and retrieved tags from the orientation packet.

  The RFID tag had once functioned purely as a GPS, but now it performed a blood pressure and hormone analysis so intricate that it knew precisely when the wearer took a shit.

  “I don't want that thing on me,” Ms. Crowley said.

  Mild resistance happened occasionally, and she was old enough to remember the concept of personal freedom. Unfortunately, the more she struggled, the longer the bureau would keep her tag active.

  “It's merely a safety precaution, ma'am,” Yvonne said.

  Ms. Crowley shook her head, her big curls bobbing like clouds around her skull. Tears streamed steadily and quietly down her face, and the shaking of her head sent single tragic drops flying into her lap.

  “She doesn't want it,” the older boy said. Stuart? Stan? I couldn't remember.

  “I know these things can be hard,” Yvonne said. “And this is a horrible time to ask anything of you, as you're grieving, but I assure you, this tool will keep you safe. If you allow me to help you assimilate to the device, you'll scarcely know the tag is there. Boys, I'm sure you're all brave enough to help your grandmother through this difficult time. She needs your love and support.”

  Yvonne sat forward to put the necklace around Ms. Crowley's neck. The older woman gasped like she couldn't believe what was happening and put her hands over her face. She sobbed, shoulders shaking like gelatin, breath keening like a kitten's.

  “Get away from her,” a boy said, throwing his arms around his grandmother. Angry voice. Fifty kilos, wiry but growing into clumsy elbows and feet. Stanley was his name. His eyes never met mine; they rested on my cheek or forehead but never met my gaze. Possibly because I killed his brother? Maybe he had something to hide. Most likely, he was distraught.

  Children were not my favorite.

  Yvonne looked to me for assistance. I resisted a groan.

  I gave a sympathetic smile. “Although I can understand your hesitation, the tag is an essential safety protocol, Ms. Crowley. May I call you Arlene?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you, Arlene. As I was saying, the tag is simply part of our normal procedure. It's totally unobtrusive. You can tuck it under your clothes and most people won't even realize you're wearing it. By the by, that's a fantastic smell coming from your kitchen. The delicious scent of home cooking is bringing back some of my older, happiest memories. Are you making chocolate chip cookies?”

  She nodded again.

  “Well, it smells amazing. My granny used to bake cookies for me every time I visited, but she'd never let me help. I tended to junk up the recipe, you see, and the cookies would always taste like biscuits. Plus, I later discovered she had a secret ingredient, so the whole affair was rigged from the get-go. I’d wager you have a secret ingredient in your cookies?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I thought so. You look like a magician in the kitchen. My granny was like that too, and she could bake up a storm. She'd make a seven course meal out of leftovers and a handful of rice. She loved us a lot, like crazy bunches, and she'd take our pictures with her to brag about us at Bingo. I bet you're the same way with your grandsons. Do you carry their pictures in your purse?”

  “Yes,” she said, proudly.

  “And I'm sure you love them very much.”

  “More than anything, yes.”

  “And you want to help us keep them safe, right, Arlene?” Who says no to that? The trick is helping a person say yes, over and over, until ‘no’ sounds unreasonable. “Don't you want your grandsons to be protected?”

  “Of course, yes.”

  “This device can help save them. It's a 911 call in a little piece of jewelry that you'll hardly notice. I've been wearing one for years.”

  I lifted the tag from under my shirt. The wretched thing twinkled cutely.

  “Has it ever saved your life?” Stanley said.

  “Countless times.” Never. Interesting question though. I returned my gaze to Arlene. “And I know my granny, rest her soul, is looking down, appreciating that I have a whole team of people on earth watching out for me. It's like an angel on my shoulder.” Or a devil digging a knife into my chest. I smiled gently, patiently. “Would you allow me to help you, Arlene?”

  After we tagged her, the boys went meekly and we stood to leave. Ms. Crowley sent us with a bag of cookies, which meant it wasn't the shittiest day in the world after all. On the front porch, Yvonne said, “Thanks for stepping in. I thought you were going to make me do the whole thing myself.”

  That was a complaint, right there, accompanied by an accusation. I gave her a warm, gooey cookie. Eating the delectable confection, I felt irritated. Grumpy because I lied to Ms. Crowley. Frustrated because something was off about the kid, Stanley. Also, peeved that the street lighting was so shitty in this neighborhood.

  “Let's get out of here,” I said. “I need a warm bath.”

  “That's cool about your granny.”

  “A complete lie. My grandmother is alive, can't bake, and hates me.”

  “Wow. Good lie.”

  We walked around the apartment complex toward the parking lot. A few street lights clicked off, leaving us in a stretch of dark
ness with occasional splotches of dim light. Great place for an ambush, which, of course, is what happened.

  A young thug in ridiculously oversized jeans stood by my innocent truck. He thumped the side panel and six more males rose up from truck bed.

  “Back away from the vehicle,” I said. “And you better not leave any skanky teenage germs on it.”

  “I'll be giving the orders here, bitch,” said one, the broadest but not the tallest. Their designated leader. If I kill him first, the rest will lose steam.

  “Guess we found the new gang,” Yvonne said.

  “Luckily, we're federal agents authorized to kill anything that seems beastly. The way these boys are manhandling that precious truck looks rather predacious.”

  We both rested our hands on a weapon. Yvonne cast me a look, like she was on board with playing along but not ready to shoot young civilians. She'd be slow to back me up, if it all. For the first time, I missed riding with Vincent. Then again, he would have arm-wrestled Ms. Crowley into her tag.

  “Boys, go home before I decide you're all dirty mutts,” I said.

  “See, we are dirty mutts. Or we would have been, until you went and killed Benjamin. He was going to esteem us all, but now he's dead.”

  “You want to be diseased?” Yvonne said.

  “We want to be gods. This is Freki territory now.”

  “Odin's wolf,” I said. “Cute. Isn't it past your bedtime?”

  “You can be arrested as terrorists simply for admitting you want to be a lycanthrope,” Yvonne said. “You’ll be imprisoned for life if we learn you've been harboring the Crowley mutt.”

  We unanimously ignored her.

  “Get the hell off this street and don't come back,” the leader said. Eighteen? Hopefully. I hate killing minors.

  “Do you know who I am?” As much as I hated it, sometimes that cooled things down. “I'm Kaidlyn 'the Princess' Durant. I kill mutts for a living. Sometimes, I kill them for fun. And you think it's a good idea to harass me, my partner, and my truck? I've had a long day, so move on before you regret breathing.”

  Someday I'm going to learn how to squelch a fire instead of fanning the flames.

  The young men advanced on us, the broadest one first, the others more tentatively. Circling. A tightness started in my core: the sensation of being surrounded, suffocated, and overwhelmed. This could go so badly. They didn't feel like mutts: their movement was uncoordinated, unsure, unconvincing. Benjamin’s strength and disease probably started this little gang, but now the ringleader was gone and someone was trying to step into his shoes.

  The foremost boy approached the fight like we were standing in a ring. If he planned to play fair, I'd get my fistfight after all. He came close enough for a face-to-face standoff. He stared up at me (it pays to be two meters tall) but he carried an extra fifteen kilos.

  Two-against-seven? This was gonna hurt.

  Or I could pull one of my three guns and plug the dude. I stared into his eyes and considered shooting him down.

  Graciously, I said, “One last chance to get out of my way.”

  “Kaidlyn,” Yvonne said. “Kaid, this is a bad idea.”

  “They're not mutts, just street kids playing tough.” Which didn't rule out the possibility of them beating us to death with their bare hands.

  He pushed me. Unfair male strength jabbed my chest and shoved me back a good pace. Yvonne drew her gun and flagged the rest of the boys.

  “Stay back,” she said.

  “Jesus!” one said. “She can't shoot if we aren't wolves, right?”

  Not the toughest tool in the shed.

  “Actually, that's not true,” Yvonne said.

  They hesitated, wavering on the edge. The broadest boy didn't move, but he wafted his nasty breath in my personal space.

  I smiled at the boy in my face. “You're about to get beat up by a girl.”

  He pushed me again, a popular way men work up to hitting women. I slapped him. Why not? He swung, not disappointingly, and my forearm redirected the punch off my center line. Then I had his arm. I snagged him off balance and met him with a solid punch to his chin before he regained his center.

  My fight strategy revolved around one idea: move forward, never back, and don't stop punching. I can't rely on a single punch to knock my opponent down, especially when fighting the men folk. My right cross rocked him but didn't dumb him down. We clenched up, trading body punches as we muscled into each other. Breath thundering. Pulse revving. Adrenaline singing a sweet snappy song.

  Time stepped back. The thud and thwack of violence settled deep into my bones. Yes. Fighting felt right. Pain was penance for lying to Ms. Crowley after killing her grandson. For shooting Juan after talking about God. For earning all my scars and still breathing while others died.

  We rained insistent blows. Punches mashed my head and sides. Brilliant white noise took my brain, pushed out all thoughts, and filled me with cathartic fireworks. He loosened a rib that had never healed right. My face bled. Cheek split. I caught the corner of his open jaw with an elbow. Nearly dislocated it. He teetered. I clenched his head and yanked him down to my knee. Got him in the forehead. He dropped, and I kicked him twice more.

  Ah. That was good. I huffed and heaved. Blood dripped down my face, flowed off my chin. All in all, I felt much better.

  A scream rang in the background.

  Cindy from dispatch screeched in my ear, “Durant, the Crowley boys—their readings jumped off the charts!”

  The screams didn't last long. Ms. Crowley died making cookies and the tag didn't save her.

  I couldn't see the mutt in the dark, but I could hear the thunder of his footsteps, the snarl of his breath. I pulled a weapon, fatigued from a fight I should have avoided. Stupid. Couldn't see anything outside of the truck's headlights. The monster crashed across the pavement. Adrenaline made him sound closer, bigger, faster. I honed in on his breathing and opened fire. Yvonne joined me. Rapid fire, desperate bullets. A yelp told us we'd hit our mark.

  “Don't kill him!”

  The Freki gang turned on us.

  The leader grabbed me from behind and lifted me in a bear hug. You gotta be shitting me. I slammed my skull into his already broken nose. His grip loosened and I pivoted to shoot him.

  “Get down!” Yvonne screamed. I dropped to the pavement without taking the shot. A mutt sailed over my head, the whiff of fur and push of air revealing how close he had come. The beast bowled into the Freki boys and squished them. Screams of pain distracted the mutt. His maw snapped on a gang member's head with a sickening crunch.

  The Crowley boys really liked to munch on skulls.

  Yvonne fired silver into the animal's back and it writhed like a serpent. I rose to a knee and fired at his head. The plume of blood sparkled in my headlights. A full mag, bangbangbang. The mutt shuddered, heaved, and fell to the ground.

  Hands fumbled to swap mags, knuckles were battered from the fight, muscles fatigued. I was a pint low and in crappy condition. I had put Yvonne’s life at risk by playing games.

  Thunderous steps and loathsome growls carried across the parking lot. Not much time. We reloaded and huddled behind the truck. A Freki boy cowered by the front wheel and shrieked, “Kill it, kill it!”

  “Not so cool now, huh,” I panted. Adrenaline left my fingers cold and my mouth dry. Pain trembled up my arms and I could barely keep my grip. I stood and peeked over the truck, scouting for a steady shot. Overhead, a helicopter arrived and shone a spotlight on a mutt the size of a pony barreling down on us.

  Which didn't trouble me as much as what I didn't see.

  “Where's the third one? Shit!” I fired at the only visible target. The monster I couldn’t see was scarier. My voice shook: “Eyes on him?”

  “Can't see it.” Yvonne popped up and fired over the truck bed at the oncoming mutt. Bullets sprayed into his beastly shoulder. He stumbled and rammed into my truck, which rocked hard into Yvonne. Smacked her back. She dropped her weapon. Reached for her seconda
ry. The mutt’s head popped up like a groundhog from a hole. I fired into his eyes. He yelped and scrambled away while my partner rounded the truck to get a better angle.

  The third mutt had to be close. I squatted, changed mags, and scanned the dark lot behind us.

  The shadow came like a billow of smoke and struck me like a sack of lead. Lost my weapon on impact. Breath crushed from my body. Thoughts rattled from my head. The mutt stood over me, snarled, and snapped his knife-sized teeth over my torso. The vest groaned. My ribs ground together. He scraped me across the pavement like I was nothing but a paper doll. I forgot to breathe, unable to. Overwhelmed. I tried to gather my wits.

  Get it off me, I commanded myself and pushed uselessly on its neck. Black eyes, a skull the size of a beer keg. His roar vibrated through me.

  My second weapon was holstered on my hip. Inside the mutt's mouth.

  A flash of white light from the helicopter caught us and moved on, considered me as good as gone. Bastards.

  Alone in the dark with the monster.

  I jammed my fingers at his eye, my hands groping through fur made wet with blood. Felt a bullet wound on his skull. He bit harder, trying to get through the vest, but his teeth were too big and blunt. Hot dog breath pounded over my body, tickled my neck. Stench of blood and cookies. He shook his head from side to side like a terrier. Nearly snapped my neck.

  I shoved my arm through the mutt's mouth, scraping against his teeth, and pulled my weapon. Crammed the muzzle into his throat. Pulled the trigger. Over and over. Blasts of silver tore through the monster, sprayed blood contaminant everywhere, and shredded his neck. We fell. Bam. Teeth jabbed deeper. No air.

  I ejected the mag, slammed home another, and fired pointblank in his skull. Emptied the mag. Replaced it with my last spare, gasping like an elephant in labor. Skull obliterated, the mutt died fetal. Like a little boy.

  Yvonne! Where was she?

  I grabbed the truck and pulled myself to my feet, peering over the edge. She was upright. Good. The remaining Freki boys, the ones that could, ran. The others were dead and crushed.

  Lesson learned, boys.

  “You okay?” I said to Yvonne.