by Baker, Alex
“I gave him what he wanted: a way to save you. And, in return, I got what I wanted.”
“Let him back out,” Constance demanded feebly, accepting that the demon Roofy had spoken of was very real and, worse, in control.
“My, so ungracious.” Apocalypse feigned sympathetically. “Besides, he and I had an agreement.”
“I will only leave with Roofy.”
“Roofy is dead, and frankly, you don't look like you're going anywhere.”
“I don't believe you.” Despite her frailty, Constance held defiant.
“I don't care.” So did Apocalypse.
Across the room, the resilient Ambrose had risen up from the carnage of metal. Hat gone and coat tattered and ripped, he hunched, like an injured animal running on pure instinct and adrenaline. His evolved form had helped him survive the hit from the car and begin rapidly healing, and the target of his angst stood within his reach. Mustering his strength, Ambrose leaped at the demonic ex-wrestler.
The loud growl and sound of metal hitting concrete had given enough of a warning for Apocalypse to react. He planted his feet and managed to stay upright as the attacker landed on him.
The two tore and ripped at each other. Vicious punches landed, but neither gave any quarter.
Apocalypse's rage and anger swelled.
Constance's heart sank. She no longer recognized the good man who had traveled with her. Terrified and weak, she hanged from the ropes watching as shadows stretched out from the floor under the feet of the possessed Russian body.
It was as if they crawled out of him, like tortured souls searching for a victim to share in their torment. A shrill, high-pitched shriek accompanied the growing hellish shades.
Across the room, Detective Stenks started coming around. It took a moment for her to regain her faculties and shake the ringing from her ears. Looking around from her spot on the garage floor, she was perplexed. “Roofy?” Quickly, she focused. This was her opportunity. She began to crawl in the direction of the tool chests that Ambrose had landed against.
Having gotten the upper hand, Apocalypse slung Ambrose around and into the window and roof area of the wrecked Gran Prix. As the man's body hit the car, what was left of the window shattered and the roof crumpled in.
“Yeah!” the demon yelled, proudly.
“Roofy...,” Constance uttered softly, hoping that Roofy could still hear her from where ever he was trapped inside the demon controlled body.
Apocalypse spun around and barked, “I told you, it's Mister Apocalypse!”
“No, just a pale shadow,” Constance, brittle and bathed in the spittle from the foul being, insinuated.
Enraged, the demon barked vilely, “I'm the only thing keeping him alive, so maybe you should be...”
Ambrose, on the hood of the car, yanked Apocalypse back before he could finish the sentence. “Cretin!” he exclaimed, as he flung the Russian over and smashed him down on to the roof of the car, further caving it in.
Eyesight partially hazed from swelling, Laura paused to witness the scuffle. She could make out Ambrose driving a punch down into Roofy's prone body, which lay embedded in the top of the car. Bracing herself against the pain wracking her body, she continued her laborious crawl along the cement floor.
Apocalypse retaliated by kicking Ambrose, who was still bent over from his assault, in the face. The man staggered back to the front of the hood. The demon infused ex-wrestler tackled him off the car, and they both landed hard on the unforgiving cement floor.
Despite his increased strength and endurance, the physical punishment had mounted up on Ambrose. He had underestimated his opponent's prowess, and his plan to have used his lackey as a litmus test was now proving to be ill-conceived. Still, it would only take one beneficial opportunity to turn the tide or escape. Desire to kill the demon welling up to a frenzy, he made it up to one knee, but it was not fast enough.
Apocalypse, already on his feet, cupped his hands together and brought them down with tremendous force.
Ambrose tried to block the incoming blow with his arm, but the impact of the attack crumpled him over. He knew he needed to counter immediately, but he had difficulty concentrating. Darkness crept over him, and it felt like an icy hand was clawing at his corrupted soul. Already bent over, he noticed the shadows flowing out of the demon like black ink and slithering on to his body.
Apocalypse sensed his enemy's despair and pressed his attack. “I am getting sick of you!” he screamed and pounded down like a jackhammer, until Ambrose collapsed in a heap. Grabbing the fallen man-beast by the coat collar, he pulled part of the clothing aside, exposing Ambrose's neck and shoulder. Apocalypse leaned back in a victorious roar, his gnarled, piranha-like teeth ready to bite.
“Roofy, no,” Constance begged, but her frail plea was ignored.
The demon chomped down and sank teeth deeply into Ambrose's bare skin, drawing out a wail like a wild dog being torn apart.
Laura, who had reached the mangled pile of old steel tool boxes, rusted tools, and debris, stopped sifting and turned, in her seated position on the floor, to face the fight. “What in the hell?” Feeling time was running out, the detective pressed on in her search.
Apocalypse reared back, blood and gore dripping from his mouth. “Mmmm-yum.”
A large, gaping wound had been created in Ambrose's shoulder area, with sinew and muscle tissue exposed.
The demon, still holding on to the coat collar, readied for another attack, but a stabbing pain running through his head halted him.
Apocalypse unexpected recoil reminded Constance of the Roofy's episodes and struggles.
The big Russian pulled his hands away from his face and stared at them in disbelief. “Wait, what is this that happens? How is this? Chto sluchilos? Kak?” Becoming aware of his surroundings, Roofy found the teen behind him. “Constance?”
“Roofy, you're back,” Constance said, beleaguered yet relieved. It wasn't just the words and sound of Roofy's voice, all of his features seemed normal again.
“Look at what I have done to you.”
“No, Roofy, don't think that,” she assured the recoiling Russian.
Severe strain resonated throughout Roofy's body. Deep inside, he felt the demon fighting back for control, and he struggled to keep Apocalypse repressed.
Constance was also fighting. Life was slowly slipping from her, but the need to help the big man gave her reason to hold on as long as she could. “Roofy, what's wrong?”
“My head! It is him!” the Russian frothed, clutching wildly at his head.
“Fight it, Roofy. Don't let him win,” the teen said encouragingly.
Feeling like he was being pulled apart inside, Roofy dropped to one knee. He would not let the girl down again.
“Listen to my voice.” The bellows of Roofy's pain rang in her ears. Trying to speak again, Constance drew in a deep breath, and the air burned her parched throat. “Don't leave me again.” The contortion of the ex-wrestler's face told her all she needed to know about the agony he was in.
“Niet. Never,” Roofy resolved. If this was to be his end, he would go down fighting. The demon would not get the satisfaction of tearing them all down, and Constance would know he had fought; that he had control. Drawing back his hand, he palmed himself as hard as he could in the temple; the focal point of his pain, and the location the doctor had found the growing tumor. Gritting his teeth, he delivered another palm strike and then a third. There was a great pressure inside of his skull, and he dropped his hand down to help hold himself up. Room spinning and nausea building, a warm feeling rushed down through his head. Black and red blood poured from his nose and mouth, as he vomited uncontrollably. His lungs burned for air, while his abdomen contracted in spasms.
Constance's eyes were growing heavier, and it was near impossible for her to fend off the desire to sleep. “Roofy? Roofy, are you with me?” She could not recall ever having seen so much blood come out of a person in all the times she had watched medical shows; at least
not a situation where the person lived.
The Russian lay on his side in the pool of blood, as streams of it continued from his nostrils. “Moy prekrasnyy angel,” he gasped, exhaustion overwhelming him.
The Russian waned before Constance's eyes, going peaked and limp. With the strength she could muster, she called out to him, failing to get a response.
“How sentimental.” Ambrose struggled to his feet and swaggered over to the fallen Russian.
“No,” Constance despaired, helpless to stop the crazed assailant. Seeing his fangs caused her to tremble. She could still feel the teeth puncturing her skin over and over again, creating wounds that the maniac had sucked on.
Partially impaired, Ambrose lofted an industrial sized ball peen hammer in his uninjured arm. “I've waited so long, you freak! You did this to me. You made me into this monster, and finally, you will pay the penance for it! You hear me, you demonic bastard child, I'm going to crush your worthless skull and send you to hell, once and for all!”
Time slipped into slow motion for Constance, watching the bloodsucker swing the hammer down.
Two shots rang out, echoing loudly throughout the near empty concrete garage.
Ambrose's body jerked back violently as bullets shredded through his left side, sending blood spraying. In surprise and pain, he staggered backward, using the ball peen as a cane to keep from collapsing. Across the room, he spied Laura.
“Guess what I found, you bag of shit.” Balanced against one of the tool chests, the detective had her gun outstretched, steadying wobbling arms long enough to try for the killing shot. Shifting her stance, her injured leg buckled under the pressure, and she sent a bullet into the ceiling. “Damn!”
Cashing in on the opportunity, the gimped Ambrose crashed through the exit, situated between the two large sliding garage doors, and out into the night.
“Come on Laura, get your ass up and moving.” Adrenaline coursing through her, the detective limped sluggishly across the room, past Constance and Roofy, and through the door. Outside long enough to accept their attacker had escaped, making it safe to tend the Russian and the teen, she came back in. “Gone.”
The detective went to work on getting Constance down. Straining battered muscles, she held the girl's body up with one arm long enough to loosen the ropes.
“Roofy?” the teen asked feebly.
“Save your strength.” Laura lowered Constance down as gently as she could manage, coming close to falling over on top of the teen. Regaining her balance, she propped the girl against the lift in a sitting position, mutilated arms draped out to either side.
Roofy lay near Constance's feet, saturated in his own blood. His breathing was shallow and light, and he had given no signs of movement since his collapse.
“You did it, Roofy. You won,” the fading teen spoke, hoping he could still her.
Constance's words rang out to him like the last ray of light, providing a warm comfort in the cold darkness that was enveloping him. A last image of her smiling face graced him as he eased out of consciousness.
Detective Stenks made her way to the door. “Hold on you two! I'm going to get my phone and get us some help!” Every step to the car was wrought with pain. Can't believe I left my damn phone in the car, she thought. It had been the logical move at the time, leaving her purse behind, as the bag would have only gotten in her way. Leaving the phone in the purse was just an idiotic mistake, and she knew it. Retrieving both satchel and cell phone, she called the Las Vegas P.D. on her way back into the garage.
Inside, she made a beeline for the fallen Russian while wrapping up the call. “Just get someone here asap!” Pouching the phone, Laura dropped to her knees and checked Roofy's pulse. “Shit!” Muscles spent and vision partially impaired from the increased swelling around her eye, she rolled the ex-wrestler on to his back and performed CPR.
Knees soaked in the big man's blood, the detective stopped to check his vitals again. “No, no, no! Come on, you big son-of-a-bitch!” Frantic and desperate, Laura pounded on his chest with both fists. “Goddammit! Fight!”
The sound of sirens wailed in the distance.
Laura wobbled to her feet and limped for the door. “That's them. I'm going to throw a traffic flare so they know exactly where we are.”
Constance listened to the detective's footsteps disappear outside. Vision blurred and energy drained, she drained the last of her reserves and leaned forward, letting the weight of her body carry her over to the floor. Her arms, feeling like two numb stumps, responded enough to drag her to the Russian's side. Lying her head on his chest and draping an arm over him, a calm settled in on her. “Goodbye, Roofy.” Accepting the inevitable, Constance closed her eyes and slipped into the darkness.
51
The red emergency lights of the ambulance rotated around, lighting up the outside of the dilapidated body shop.
Laura greeted the two paramedics, both of them carrying large medical kits.
“What do we have, Detective?” one of the them asked her.
“Two down. One male. One female. Both have lost a lot of blood.”
The medical workers were already rushing for the door.
“The male is not responsive,” she called out to them.
Left to stand alone in the dark, Detective Stenks pondered how things had happened so fast, yet now, the world slowed back to its normal speed. Normal, she thought, what was that? Nothing that had happened made sense, and yet, she had lived it. It was all so surreal. How do you go home after something like this, she wondered? How do you go back to a regular routine?
Sirens closed in on her as a police cruiser pulled up beside the ambulance, and an officer got out of the car.
Laura held up a hand to block the headlights as the officer addressed her.
“Back-ups on the way, ma'am. Heard we have two down? One is the suspect, Reiner?”
“Yes.” Being on the answering end of the questions had become too commonplace lately, Laura thought. She had never been questioned like a victim before, and she never wanted to be again.
Behind her, the two paramedics raced to the ambulance, grabbed a gurney, and ran back into the building.
Laura continued, “There was a third, with shoulder length salt and pepper hair and wearing a trench coat. The hostile was responsible for the attack on myself and the two inside. I tagged him twice, but he escaped.”
The police officer started for his car. “Couldn't have gotten far like that. I'll search the area for him.”
As the cruiser backed out and sped away, the two paramedics emerged from the garage with Constance strapped to the gurney. “Detective!” one of them called out.
Laura met the two men at the rear of the emergency vehicle. One of the paramedics was already up in the ambulance, while the other lifted his end of the gurney up. “The male is gone,” the medical worker outside of the vehicle said, addressing the detective.
Knowing their conditions, Laura had braced for the news, but it hit her like a kick in the sternum anyway.
“We had, what seemed like, a faint heartbeat on the female.” Stepping forward and pushing, he loaded his end of the gurney.
“Can you save her?”
The paramedic stepped up into the back of the vehicle. “Not sure. She's lost a lot of blood, and she's too unstable to transport. We'll do what we can.” He answered the question as reassuring as possible, picking up on the cracking in Laura's voice.
Detective Stenks was consumed by helplessness. Turning and wrapping her arms around herself, she stared off into the sky. She never, in her worse nightmares, expected to live through an experience like this again. Maybe it was better if the girl did not make it; there were many times she wished she hadn't.
The police cruiser pulled back up, and the officer approached her. “No sign of the perp. Forensics is just down the street, so they will be here any minute.”
The paramedic that Laura had spoken with walked up, his expression already telling her what she dreaded to
know. “I'm sorry, Detective. We've lost her.”
Quivering, Laura combated her grief enough to stay somewhat outwardly composed, while inside she screamed.
The forensics unit officers had arrived and joined them, tackle box-like kit in hand. “Where do we need to start?” one of them asked.
The paramedic responded to the woman investigator. “Both victims are deceased. The male is inside, where the main crime scene is.”
The two forensics officers headed for the building.
“I'm going to get the area taped off,” the officer said as he walked back to his car. “More officers are on the way.”
The paramedic patted Laura on the back. “Detective, I'm going to get her body out of here.” He took a few steps before pausing, sympathetically. “You know, you should come by the hospital and get checked out.” With that, he walked back to the ambulance, and the vehicle drove off, sirens screaming through the night.
Alone again, she thought. The detective let the entire scene play back through her mind. Was there anything I could have done different? She concentrated on the two shots. If only I had dropped him. I let that bastard get away. Wait, the two shots. That's it. She made for the garage.
Close to the door, she passed the two forensics workers. “We've got to get some more equipment out of the car, Detective. We'll be right back.”
Ignoring them, she stepped inside. Although she told herself she would not lament, Laura paused to stare at Roofy's body and the spot where Constance had lay. Knowing Ambrose was still out there and had to be stopped, she focused on the task at hand.
One of the forensics officer's kits sat opened nearby.
Laura, making sure no one was coming, knelt and took a vial, bag, and swabs. Quickly, she swabbed up samples of Ambrose's blood, stuck the swabs in the vial, and dropped the vial in the sealed bag.
The sounds of more sirens signaled the arrival of the expected officers; she exited the building discretely and made her way to her car.
