by Baker, Alex
“You are the best, Dwayne.”
“Tell me something I don't know, girl.”
“See you soon.” Laura ended the call and tossed the phone into her purse.
At the Richmond crime scene, Dwayne had put his phone down and taken another look in the open mouth. He pulled back, shocked. “Oh. Okay. No friggin way.”
In Vegas, Laura sneaked out of the interrogation room and made her way to the forensics investigations department. She approached a woman, who was wearing gloves and goggles and mixing something in a vial. Laura flashed her badge quickly to avoid the woman noticing she was not local. “I need an RFID reader.”
The woman pointed to a nearby table. “It's the small mpg player looking thing with the cable attached,”
Laura grabbed the reader, mid-stride, and headed for the door. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” The forensics worker went back to mixing the chemicals. Part way through filling her beaker, she stopped. “Hey. You didn't sign that out.” The door had already shut.
Hurried, Laura exited the building and headed for her car. Standing beside the vehicle, she pulled out the electronic bug and held it up to the reader on the RFID. Numbers scrolled across the display. Plugging the device into her cell phone, she got in the car and started driving towards the coordinated destination. “Got you. I'm coming, Roofy.”
43
Silhouetted, Roofy stared out of the entrance tunnel and into the empty ninety-five hundred seat Orleans Arena. He had performed in many venues around the country, but it was the first time he could recall feeling the seclusion that ebbed through the lonely structure.
Dark, except for a lone spotlight shining down on a wrestling ring in the middle of the coliseum's floor, the place seemed more like a tomb than a building that was normally filled with crowded exuberance. Roofy assumed the ring had been set-up for the following night's UWA event, but if it had, the road crew was long gone.
Coming out of the tunnel, he started down the aisle. The walk to the ring had always passed quickly because there was so much to take in. The music, yells, and hoards of people reaching out to touch him had been all encompassing. Now, the rows of empty seats seemed endless. Glancing up, Roofy noticed the jumbo score box hanging like a giant eye, watching things unfold.
A lone figure entering the ring caught Roofy's attention. He struggled to make out details from a distance, but as he closed in and saw his former partner, he was certain he had hallucinated.
A luchadore style performer, Miguel had wrestled under the ring name El Angel and had chosen light blue tights, with white wings on the hips and a white belt line, and white boots, with light blue trim for his outfit. As with all luchadore competitors, he wrestled in a mask. His was light blue, with white detail around the eyes and white wings printed on the sides, and it hung loosely from his hand.
Cautiously, the big Russian entered through the ropes, having to bend down to get through the top two.
The two men stood half a ring apart. Miguel was a head shorter than Roofy, but he was, by no means, a small man.
“Miguel?”
The Mexican wrestler took a step closer. “Yes, Roofy. It's me.” The luchadore was pleased to see, by the Russian's apprehension, that his appearance had the desired effect. He had rushed directly to the arena after cutting the power junction at the police station lock-up, which had allowed little time for preparing for the confrontation. Never-the-less, he was more than ready.
As Miguel spoke, the big Russian was sure he had seen two long, pointed teeth, one on each side of the upper row. It was not the only thing that bothered him. There were dark circles under El Angel's eyes, which were shining like a cat’s. They reminded him of the man named Ambrose that had visited him at the jail. “I do not understand. You could not walk.” Not only could he stand on the legs that Roofy understood he would never use again, the luchadore was in excellent physical condition.
“Some things change, my friend. I have evolved,” he responded, pleased by how uncomfortable he was making his former partner. “And, I have waited such a long time for this opportunity.” How long had he been confined to that insufferable wheelchair? He had once been a great performer, plying his trade each night, under the lights, in front of live audiences; only to be reduced to half a man, unable to even wipe himself. He would have given up everything to get revenge, and now, he had.
Roofy, apprehensive yet still on guard, tried to piece everything together. “You are not man I see at jail.”
“Mi padre a traves del renacimiento? No, I am not him,” Miguel postured. His new father had approached him over a year ago, offering him what he had desired so badly. The promise to walk again was hard to accept at first, but what did he have to lose? All it took was one bite from his master to begin the change, and one sip of the master's blood to complete it. There was pain at first, but it gave way to lust. His body healed, and as it did, the craving for flesh and blood increased. To satisfy it, he hunted the weak humans around him. And why shouldn't he? He was their superior now.
Through the master's instruction and tutelage, Miguel had learned to use his enhanced low-light vision to feast under the cover of darkness. People would call them monsters. The master called them perfection. “I have been given the glorious pleasure of eliminating you, while the father deals with your little friend.”
Roofy understood what the luchadore was implying, and it disgusted him. “What? Where is girl?” he asked, anger overriding his trepidation.
El Angel started putting his mask on. “Oh, my friend, if you want to know that, you will need to work for it.” He tied the strings that cinched the winged facial covering in place.
Roofy knew what he had to do, and it started with wiping the smug look off Miguel's face. He removed his jeans and t-shirt and dropped them over the ropes to the floor below.
Across the ring, Miguel loosened up, swinging his arms and hopping a bit.
Eyes locked like two predators coiled and ready to strike, the ring shook as the combatants collided like bulls in the center of the mat.
44
Dousing her headlights, Laura parked her car in a dark, empty parking lot outside of a dilapidated, small vehicle repair shop. Lit by the moonlight, she could see a door on the front of the building and two sliding garage doors, along with a regular entrance between them, on the side.
Turning the car off, she confirmed the location on the RFID. “Yep. It's always an old, creepy abandoned building.” Exiting the vehicle, Laura had drawn her gun, light and laser sight on, and leaned against the wall next to the front door. A small amount of light emitted through a board covered window next to the entrance. “Couldn't be a nice, brightly lit building with a full view.”
Testing the doorknob, she found it to be unlocked. Never a good sign, she thought. She could easily be walking into a trap. Regardless, Roofy and Constance depended on her, and she had the element of surprise. The detective barged through the aged wooden door, sweeping the room with her gun.
Empty, the dingy room had not been used for business in some time and was in disrepair. A quick inventory of the immediate area included an old desk, file cabinet, with one drawer hanging out, scattered papers and cans, and a single lamp, which was on. The latter item, along with freshly disturbed dust, was plenty confirmation of recent activity. Past the desk, leading away from the room, was a hall filled with a faint glow.
Cautiously, she entered the hallway and found three more doors. The one that she stood in front of was on the left, a second was further down on the right, and the third, which contained a frosted glass with soft light coming through, was at the end.
The closest door had a stick figure of a man and woman on it. Creaking, it opened easily, and the pungent smell hit her before the flashlight on her gun exposed the details of the room. Grease stains splotched the sink, and someone had left an unpleasant deposit in the toilet, which had not been cleaned since the business was in service.
She followed the same
protocol with the room on the right, finding a small cleaning closet behind the door. It contained a broom and bottles of cleaning liquids, which the condition of the bathroom proved had not been used even well before the shop had gone belly up.
One left, she thought, and eased up to the final door, which had a sign on it that read, “Work Area – Employees Only”. She took a deep breath, held it in, and opened the door.
“Oh dear God,” Laura gasped.
45
Roofy kicked El Angel in the gut, bending him over from the force of the blow and sending the luchadore back into the corner.
Miguel lay back against the turnbuckle, spreading his arms out to each side, and held on to the ropes.
A smack echoed throughout the empty Orleans Arena as the big Russian chopped the Mexican wrestler across the chest.
Miguel egged him on mockingly, “That's it, Roofy! Come on! You better give it your best!”
In response, Roofy delivered a solid shot to the luchadore's abdomen.
“That little girl is counting on you!”
Rage pulsing through him, the enormous Russian unloaded, raining down on El Angel in a barrage of bone crushing punches. Chest expanding rapidly from the exertion, he took a few steps back, leaving the Mexican wrestler slumped in the corner. No one could have withstood that beating.
“Oh yeah, that's the stuff, mi amigo.” Miguel brought his head up and rubbed his chin. “But, it won't get the job done, I think.”
“How is this possible?” Roofy asked in disbelief. He had hit the luchadore with everything he had, yet the man had shrugged it off with little more than a cocky chuckle and a busted lip. Miguel was a strong man, but Roofy knew from experience that the luchadore could not take what he could dish out.
Miguel, steadied on his feet, wiped the blood from his face. “As I said, I have evolved. I am faster. I am stronger. I am a night stalker. I am a blood dealer. I am your ending,” he threatened, closing the distance between them.
“Chto v adu?” Distracted by a flash of the luchadore's fangs, Roofy's guarded stance went lax, leaving him ill prepared for Miguel's sudden attack. The big Russian barely had time to make the slightest reaction.
The luchadore performed a move that began with jumping and spinning in the air and ended with a half scissor kick to Roofy's head.
Unable to brace himself properly, the big Russian ate the full impact, almost going down, but he still managed to swing an off balanced looping punch in retaliation.
Miguel effortlessly swayed out of the way and countered with a kidney shot. He could not help but revel in the pain etched on the Russian's face, determined to make it only the beginning of the suffering.
Roofy lurched forward with both arms in an attempt to grab the Mexican wrestler, who had already ducked under and away.
“Have you lost a step, amigo?” El Angel connected with a standing drop kick, knocking the Russian off his feet and to the canvas.
Frustrated, Roofy rose up on one arm and wiped his mouth, as Miguel stood over him. He had never known the luchadore to move with such speed, reminding him of a jungle cat, and he had been hit by Miguel many times, enough times to know that the Mexican wrestler had never been strong enough to do the damage he was doing. It left him with the sobering conclusion that Miguel had not lied about the physical changes he had undergone.
“You can stay down and accept your demise.”
Roofy answered the cocky suggestion by lunging toward his opponent.
The luchadore was already in mid-leap, as he jumped over the prone Russian and kicked him in the back.
Roofy planted hard on the mat. In severe pain, he dragged himself up from the canvas.
Miguel, having already taken off with blinding speed, bounced off the ropes and came back in time to give the just standing Russian a flying head scissor.
Roofy was back on the ground and dazed. By the time he realized where El Angel was, the Mexican wrestler had launched from the top turnbuckle of one of the ring corners.
The luchadore landed an elbow in the middle of Roofy's chest, causing him to yell out in pain.
The force of the collision made both men to bounce off the canvas.
Roofy lay on the mat wheezing and clutching his battered torso. He wanted to respond to the attack, but his body failed him. No, he had failed. His anger and underestimation of his opponent would cost Constance her life.
“It is over, mi amigo. It is over for you and the girl,” Miguel insinuated, triumphantly.
Exerting what little energy he had left, the Russian rolled over and made it up to his hands and knees. As he fought to get himself upright, drops of blood dripped to the mat, and a sharp pain shot through his head, causing him to clench his eyes.
El Angel, standing behind him, continued his degrading comments. “I can only imagine how sweet she will taste.” The Mexican born wrestler bent over and wrapped his arm tightly around Roofy’s neck, choking him. “I will suck her dry and rape her body before it’s cold.”
The big Russian clutched his head. “Da ponozhet mne Bog,” he said, but the crushing force on his throat made the words nearly illegible.
The luchadore squeezed tighter. “What are you mumbling about?” From his position, perched behind Roofy, he could not see that the Russian’s eyes had opened.
They had gone totally black.
46
Staring into blackness, Roofy felt an unwelcome presence approaching him. “Niet.”
“Oh, most certainly 'yes', my dear Roofy.”
Having spun around, the Russian came face to face with the menace he had fought so hard to contain. No one likes to believe that they may be the bad guy or have negative attributes. Realizing the alter ego he carried within him was a living manifestation of evil trumped that a thousand fold, and seeing the grotesque reflection sickened him to his soul.
It wore the same outfit, but there were significant physical differences: arms long and apish, with fingers ending in jagged, razor-sharp nails, skin detailed with scorch marks, a brow that was over-sized, coal-black eyes, and gnarly teeth.
“You are demon.” Roofy stated with certitude.
“That’s such a harsh way to put it,” it hissed, pretending to be insulted. “I’m simply another side of you. I am Mister Apocalypse.” Traces of steam started to rise from its body. “Not so different from other people really.”
“I am not the only one with demon?”
“Rapists. Murderers. Serial Killers. Politicians. So many demons out there.” The steam coming from its skin built into a thick smoke. “Our relationship is just more physical. But, you have been shutting me out. Denying me. That’s going to have to change if you want to get through this.”
Roofy did not believe the demon's sympathy at all, be he could not see any way out. “What will happen to me?” he asked, defeated.
“More importantly, what will happen to that little girl?” Small flames had begun to appear on its body as it waited long enough for the words to sink in. “Let me out, and I will save her. Fight me, and we all die.”
Roofy bowed his head. Either decision meant he was dead. At least he could save the girl this way.
Small flames almost totally engulfed Mister Apocalypse, accenting a maligned smile that spread across its face. It had finally won. After all of these years of waiting, it would be set free upon the world. All it had to do was ice the cake.
“But hey, it’s all up to you, Roofy.”
47
Detective Laura Stenks stared across the abandoned garage, past a lone wooden chair, a car lift in the down position, rusted tool chests, and car scraps, at Constance, who hung from a car lift that had been extended up as high as it would go.
In shock, Laura ran to the teen, heeled footsteps echoing on the oil stained concrete floor. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Barely opening her eyes was all Constance could do as she acknowledged the detective’s presence. The girl, pale skin and heavy eyelids
an exemplification of someone almost drained of life, hung from ropes that were tied around her neck, wrists, and ankles. Her arms were out to each side, and her legs were spread apart and at an angle that put them down and back from her upper body. Bite marks, with perforations, accentuated her neck and ran the length of her arms.
Doing a quick scan of the body for any additional injuries, the detective discovered dried streams of blood that had run down the legs from under the skirt Constance wore. That’s why he had her tied up at this angle, Laura thought. Wait…a skirt? The detective had been so caught up in the moment that she had failed to realize that the teen was dressed identically to her.
Nauseated, she took a few steps back and breathed slow and deep, fending off the urge to vomit as thoughts of her own childhood threatened to burst through. She knew the kind of hell this girl had been put through.
Constance tried to lift her head, but it settled back into a hanging position against the rope that held her neck, straining her breathing further. She wanted to communicate with the detective, but she was so tired. It was getting harder to fend off the sleep.
Laura went to work trying to untie the rope that bound one of the girl’s wrists. “Where’s Roofy?” She hoped Constance could respond to her for a couple of reasons: she was worried what had happened to the ex-wrestler, since she had expected him to be at the other end of the tracking signal, and she knew from her training that she needed to keep the girl awake and responsive until help arrived.
“He’s not here,” the teen managed to utter weakly.
“I’m going to get you loose.”
“Listen…,” Constance started and then paused as she concentrated on getting the words out.
“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
“You have to take care of Roofy. He’s very sick…brain tumor…” The words came out in wisps and faded.
