by Schow, Ryan
He’s out there.
Slinking down in my seat, I try to make myself a smaller target. When we pull into the airport, I see the private plane touching down and the shack of a control tower behind it. I don’t think anyone is even in there. My mind goes to Gerhard. No. Enzo Holland.
Hmmm…interesting name.
Tapping back into the one I feel—the threat—I focus. Really try gleaning a sense of his motive. He’s a professional. Clear headed. No random thoughts at all. Just one: he’s thinking of a child.
His little girl.
Okay, I think to myself, he has children. Maybe the one whose head I’m in, maybe he’s not after me after all. Tuning into the paralayers of him, working to gather a sense of his distance—
“You cummin’ er what?” Macy says, pulling the seat forward and popping her head inside.
Sorry for being afraid, I want to say. Then again, if they knew what I had to do to get out of that place, what I had to become…move, I tell myself.
The plane lands, then turns and taxies the runway to meet me. When it arrives, I crawl out of the car, but scoot down low like I’m hiding.
“What in tarnation are you doin’ child?” Susan asks. She’s right out in the open and I almost tell her to get down. Or to just go. I think the man thinking about the child, I think maybe he’s going to try to kill me. “That’s yer plane, ain’t it?”
“It is.”
Now she’s making a big production of me ducking down, so I shut her mouth for her and say, “I need you to leave as soon as possible. For your safety.”
Her eyes shoot wide, then I let her mouth go.
“You do that?!” she asks. She wants to know if I shut her mouth for her.
Damn right I did.
“You’re in danger, Susan. Get Macy and go. Now. But don’t go home just yet.”
“Stop being so damn paranoid,” she says, like this is all just a misunderstanding blown severely out of proportion.
The plane stops. It’s just thirty feet away. Nothing but open ground between me and safety. I stand up, still connected to the man thinking of the child. Macy surprises me with a big hug.
What the hell is wrong with these people?
When she lets go, the private jet’s side door swings open and a staircase descends. Holland pops his head out, that attractive face (he is swimming with torment, a veritable madman) telling me to get in. To hurry up.
Letting go of Macy, I say, “I’ll mail your things back to you.” Then to Susan. “Thank you for the hospitality, as difficult as it was for all of us.”
She nods. I head to the plane, walking not slow, but not fast. So far so good.
Twenty feet.
No one around. My senses are on high alert. I feel only the man who is still thinking about his daughter, how she will be one on Monday, and he should get out of the business now that he has a girl.
Fifteen feet.
What business?
Then it hits me. Something so sharp and so violent it tears right through my heart, pitching my body forward with the force of a bazooka. At the same time that I’m falling, I hear the crack of a rifle some distance away. Milliseconds later, I hit the tarmac face first and it’s lights out.
As in dead.
Victoria’s Secret Model: The Zombie Edition
1
They drove all night. Brayden nodded off like three times and nearly crashed his hearse, but they made it. Georgia was still asleep in back when they arrived at Holland’s lab. They knocked on the front door, and when a handsome man looking to be in his late twenties or early thirties opened the door, Brayden glanced back out on the building to check the address.
“Brayden?” the man said.
Of course. He was too perfect looking to not be…modified.
“Yes. Is Dr. Gerhard here? He’s expecting me.”
“He goes by Dr. Holland now. Enzo Holland. Seems a little particular about it. But then again, he’s a bit off his rocker these days—”
“Uh, yeah. Shit. He told me that already. And yes, the man’s definitely off his rocker. This is Georgia, by the way,” Brayden said. Georgia moved around the front of him and put her hand out. The man took it and they briefly shook hands.
“You’re like me,” she said. “Changed.”
“Yes,” he replied, “but only recently and not for the purposes of vanity or healing. My change was precipitated by…ah…necessity. My name is Quentin Russell, pleased to meet you.”
“Your reasons are your own, Mr. Russell,” Brayden said, a bit cranky from the drive, and tired. “Where is Dr. Holland?”
“Out of the state, I’m afraid, on a rather pressing matter. He’ll be back later this afternoon.”
“And what do we do in the mean time?” Brayden asked, slightly peeved.
Just then a blonde girl, and then a black girl entered the front lobby in lab coats looking…non-modified. They were both pretty, both with the look of not being touched by science. That isn’t to say they weren’t great looking, they most definitely were. They just weren’t perfect.
The blonde girl said, “I’ll take her blood, compare it with previous blood work, and then create an anti-sequence of DNA that will hopefully counteract the DNA strand blocking access to Georgia’s core personality. That’s the best way to explain it in layman’s terms.”
With that, Brayden sighed with relief.
“And what about her other…abilities? Will she retain those or lose them?” Brayden asked. He was praying she would lose them.
“What other abilities are you referring to?” the black girl asked. Now all three adults in the room were looking at each other and seemingly wondering what it was they had not been told.
“I have a higher metabolism than before,” Georgia said. “Brayden is referring to my ability to eat what I want and not gain weight.”
“That is not an ability, per se,” the blonde woman said, “that’s a condition of your body’s genetic makeup.”
“Tell that to my mom’s fat ass,” Georgia said, even though her mother had no such thing.
Brilliant, Brayden thought. So she wasn’t as dull in the senses as he thought. It was just feeling she was missing. Not intelligence.
“My aim is for you to retain all of your other abilities, sweetheart.” And with that, the blonde took her hand and said, “Let’s get you prepped.”
“Wait,” Brayden said. Georgia looked over her shoulder at him. The last time she left for minor changes that would help distinguish her from the other non-triplets, she was taken to Canada where she nearly died, and then she was transformed into a fire-starting human robot. Brayden went to her, gently turned her around. Her hand slid out of the blonde’s hand.
“Just in case this takes longer than they expect,” he said, and then he hugged her.
A hug to her wasn’t the same as it was to him, but her disappearance was more troubling for him than he ever let on. He only hoped this time he could get the Georgia he knew back, and sooner than he had before.
“I’ll be okay,” she said. Then, as had become customary for her, she kissed him on the lips and said, “I’ll be just fine.”
“You know that kiss means more to me than it does to you, don’t you?”
She made herself smile. “I just let you think that.”
Looking over her shoulder at the blonde woman, he said, “Gerhard—I mean, Dr. Holland has my number. He won’t update me, but I would prefer to be updated daily of her progress. Last time he had a series of considerable complications, and everyone who cared about her was left in the dark for months, not knowing whether she was dead or alive.”
“Dr. Holland is a man of singular focus,” Quentin said.
“He’s a racist prick,” the black girl replied. The tiniest snort of agreement escaped the blonde’s mouth, a sound she immediately fought to stifle.
“He’s part genius, part sadist,” Quentin said. “One of us will stay in touch.”
“I appreciate that,” Brayden replied. Then to Georgia
: “I’ll see you soon.”
And with that, the blonde took her hand and walked her back into the lab while Quentin escorted Brayden to the front door.
Inside his hearse, he called his father and—when the man answered—he said, “Dad, I wonder if you would help me get a new car.”
“Is something wrong with yours?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s just not me anymore.”
A hearse was dark and edgy and cool, and it was not something any old rich kid chose to drive. Really, when he bought it, it was peacocking at its finest, a trait of some of the greatest pick-up artists in the game, but a hearse represented death. Lately, too many people around him had died. He could no longer stomach the idea of death, so he needed to purge himself of anything that either symbolized or represented death, which of course, meant getting rid of this thing.
“What are you wanting now?” his father asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that new Mustang GT. Maybe electric blue with black inside, and the windows tinted. And maybe you could lower it on 20’s.”
“Are you sure you don’t want something more…extraordinary? Money is not an issue for me if it’s not an issue for you.”
That was his dad. Generous not to a fault. Generous simply because he loved his son enough to want his total and complete happiness.
“It’s not about the money, dad. I just think the car looks cool. Plus it’s not a fortune, like some of the other cars kids are driving these days.”
“I’ll have my assistant order one. If you’ll send me the type of wheels you want on the car, I’ll get him to handle that as well, then arrange for pick up. Are you still in Vegas?”
“No, I’m in San Francisco.”
“Is everything…okay? Are you doing alright?”
“Better than last time we talked,” he said. “I’m out here with friends.”
It was a lie. He wasn’t much better. Abby was killed and brought back as…someone different. Someone less refined. Not herself at all. And Georgia? She was a revenant—a barely alive version of herself. No, she was less a revenant and more a Victoria’s Secret model from the Zombie Edition. So, yes, it was definitely a lie saying that he felt better. Still, he didn’t want his dad to worry, and that was how he justified his choice of truths, or mis-truths as it were.
“Good. Send me those wheel pictures and I’ll get the car to you in three, maybe four days.”
“Thanks, dad.”
“What do you want to do about the hearse?”
“Can you trade it in?”
“I’ll have my assistant bring the hearse back and I’ll wholesale it out. Shouldn’t be a big deal. You okay on money?”
“Yes.”
“I miss you, son.” It wasn’t just the way he said it that had Brayden tearing up, it was everything that happened this summer that brought him to this place of weakness, and vulnerability.
“I miss you, too. I’m going to come home for winter break, if you want. Maybe you can show me around whatever job site you’re working.”
“That sounds great. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”
“Will do,” he said. Then: “I love you, dad.”
“I love you, too, son.”
2
Checking his map, he slipped into traffic and headed to Mission Street at the Embarcadero Waterfront in the famed Financial District. There he checked into Hotel Vitale. While checking in he had but one last decision to make: city view, waterfront view, or the panoramic circular suite with a hundred and eighty degree view of the bay and the Bay Bridge.
“I’ll take the panoramic circular,” he said, then handed the desk clerk his ID with the modified birthdate (to make him twenty-five) and his credit card.”
“Have you stayed with us before?” the man asked, not exactly friendly, but not trying to be rude either. He always got that type of treatment staying at posh hotels and looking like a teenager. His ID, however, and his ability to pay, in the end, trumped their skeptical nature.
“If you would feel more comfortable charging the card in advance for each night, that won’t be a problem. That way my stay will be more comfortable for you,” he said. He was not trying to sound like an ass jacket, but good freaking Christ, he was exhausted!
“That won’t be necessary,” the desk clerk said, relieved.
“And where are your bags, sir?”
“Right here,” he said, pointing to the bluish black circles under his eyes. “What I need is not a bellhop but a good ten hours sleep.”
“Very well, sir,” the front desk clerk said. And then he gave Brayden the room number and all the accompanying paperwork. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Will do,” he said as he made his way to the elevators.
The room he chose was a lot of buttercream and grey, with faux wood accents and taupe colored furniture. Heavy drapes were drawn to reveal the sprawling Bay Bridge, but it looked frigid outside. A few degrees over dismal. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, let his feet breathe. Closing the drapes, he tossed the teal bed pillows aside, then stripped down to his undies, crawled in bed and pulled the blankets to his chin, lying there only minutes before falling into a deep sleep.
Some time later he woke, picked up the phone and called Netty.
“Where are you?” she said.
“Back in town. Georgia’s personality disorder is an issue that needs solving, so I brought her to the lab. Hopefully Holland can get her straightened out before school starts.”
It was an ambitious thought, but he needed to have hope somewhere, lest the days get infinitely darker.
“Brayden,” she said, “it’s almost midnight.”
He looked at his phone. “Oh, wow. Sorry, I just woke up.”
“That’s fine. Did you drive here from Vegas?”
“Yeah, last night. Or this morning. Whatever. What are you doing right now? I’m at Hotel Vitale, on the waterfront.”
“Duh, putting on some clothes and coming over. My mom’s working and she’s not expected to be back before three.”
“Don’t make any assumptions,” he teased, “just because you have a later curfew.”
“This isn’t a booty call,” she replied, jovial as well.
“You’re right, it isn’t. We hooked up, but that isn’t everything. I think we should maybe order room service and talk.”
“What should we talk about?” she asked. He heard it in her voice, how she loved the game.
“You know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing terribly serious. I just want to get a feel for you, see if I really like you or if it’s just a phase you’re going through.”
“It’s a phase,” she said.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he told her, “I still want to have your baby.”
She giggled mercilessly on the phone, then said, “Give me your room number, I’m on my way.”
He made her write it down, and she did; when he hung up, he did so smiling. The phone rang a second later and he answered without hesitation. “Yes,” he said, low and seductive.
“Brayden James?” the very masculine, not-at-all-Netty voice said.
He straightened up.
“Who is this?”
“This is Detective Tyler Bateman with the Santa Monica Police Department and I would like to ask you some questions about Demetrius and Bryn Giardino. I believe you and your friend visited their home recently?”
His skin iced over the second he heard those two names. And then he did everything he could not to crap right through his shorts on the most excellent hotel bed sheets.
Blood Pancake with a Side of Bones
1
At Dulce Airport, from inside the Gulfstream G650 private jet, Holland watched, almost in slow motion, as Abby’s chest blew open in a showery bloom of red gore. Her back arched violently from the bullet’s impact. The expression on her face, it vanished, leaving her features slack as she pitched forward. Time stopped. The bullet, already having decimated its target, slapped
hard against the plane’s metal exterior, then ricocheted out onto the tarmac.
A split second. The entire world sucking in, then flexing all the way out. Instant awareness. His mind went from ten miles per hour to zero, then it shot all the way to a hundred. Able to move again, he practically dove back into the plane in case of more gunfire.
Abby was the target; the target was down.
Neutralized.
Holland crawled forward, peeked outside the jet’s drop-down staircase. A woman and her young daughter—simple folks by the look of it—they stood shocked on the blistering hot runway, stiff as a pair of erections. And their open mouths…both as useless as religion in a brothel. The two of them, on their faces, they had the dumb look dumb people make when their brains can’t seem to comprehend the things their eyes are seeing.
“Get down!” Holland barked.
He worked up the nerve to move. Scrambling down the staircase, he rushed to Abby, who had fallen face-first onto the concrete runway. Her body lay still. A lump on the tarmac. Dead. Her white shirt was turning red, blood pooling out around her.
“Unless you want to get shot,” Holland screamed at the woman and her daughter, “get the fuck down!”
Neither of them moved they were that paralyzed with fear and disbelief.
He reached Abby, rolled her over. “Jesus,” he said at the sight of the blood-soaked shirt. He put two fingers to her carotid artery looking for a pulse. Nothing. “Are you kidding me right now?” he mumbled.
Suddenly the girl was there with the woman in tow.
“She dead?” the girl asked.
Squatting over the body, the strength seemed to drain from him all at once. “I’m afraid so,” he said. He rocked back on his heels, dropped to his butt. Vanquished. It didn’t matter that the shooter was still out there. Not to him, or the women. Only Abby mattered. After suffering through so much, after surviving the impossible more than once, perhaps the girl’s life was never meant to be.
Stupid little bitch.
Right then, in his bright and shining moment of defeat, Abby’s eyes bobbed open and her lungs gulped in mammoth helpings of the oxygen-rich air.
