by C. L. Nelson
I crawled away from the supply closet and dart between the cubicles. I stay as low as possible to remain unseen. I come across a woman who looks as though she tried to make a run for the supply closet. She must have been shot and left for dead by the gunman. Oh god, there is a lot of blood. I know I am supposed to be saving myself, but I just can’t crawl by her and not help her. I am not that cold.
I pull off the sweater that I had put on to hide the coffee stain on my blouse and hold pressure on the gushing wound near her shoulder. I don’t know if she has been shot anywhere else, the blood making it hard to check. She appears to be slipping in and out of consciousness. I stroke her head and push back the hair that is in her face. “It’s going to be okay. You are going to be okay.” I tell her, even if it is a lie. She seems to be comforted by this, her body relaxing while she simultaneously seems to become more alert.
I check her wound and it’s not bleeding as much. I am stunned when I inspect it closer. It looks like it has started to heal; the hole seems noticeably smaller. I watch a lot of doctor shows and that doesn’t seem normal, but I don’t have time to think about it.
“I think you are going to be okay, but I need you to play dead, just in case the gunman walks by,” I tell her.
She grabs my arm. “Please don’t leave me,” She begged as she started to cry.
I gently pat her head again. “You are going to be alright. Just stay calm and try not to move. Help will be here soon,” I whisper.
She stops crying and appears to visibly relax again. I have that effect on people sometimes. My voice must be soothing or something.
I spot the gunman. I am only mildly surprised to see that the gunman is a former employee who was laid off recently when the company had to downsize. Probably not so coincidentally, Harris received a sizeable bonus not long after the downsizing that he used as a down payment for a new luxury car. Or at least that is what the rumor mill was saying. This company doesn’t care about their employees and now we are all paying the price, not that any excuse would justify this man’s actions.
The gunman casually shot Harris’s assistant who was hiding behind her desk as he entered Harris’s office. My guess is that he is looking for Harris in particular, but he clearly isn’t discriminating when picking victims. He found Harris fairly quickly in his ingenious hiding spot and now has him at gunpoint. I am close enough to hear what is going on in his office. Harris is attempting to negotiate for his life by offering the gunman money or his car. The gunman is ignoring him while doing the evil villain monologue thing where he explains his plan and why he is doing what he is doing.
I figure this is my best chance to get by the gunman while he is distracted by his necessary diatribe. I start to get ready to bolt, but then I see people in SWAT gear coming up the stairs. Oh crap! I have a feeling it is about to look like the Wild West in here.
I see the shooter notice the SWAT team. He quickly ends his rant and kills Harris. Real big loss there. Just as quickly, he turns his semi-automatic weapon on the SWAT team. I feel like this was all happening in slow motion. I duck under the closest desk, close my eyes and pray I don’t get shot in the crossfire. I hear gunshots, but they are a lot quieter than I expected, almost like they are farther away. I open my eyes and realize I am under a much bigger desk. I come out from under the desk to find that I am in the main lobby on the first floor. How the hell did I get down here?
Chapter 2
KIAN
I glance at my watch. I still have a little time left before my first pickup is scheduled. I recheck the list that is sent daily to my phone unless it is one of my very rare days off. It’s not that I don’t get days off, but I’d rather be working. My list is slightly longer today with a total of eighteen pickups instead of the usual sixteen. Father is sick, so his list which usually only contains a few special pickups was added to mine. Luckily, today he only had two pickups, so I should still be back in time for my weekly dinner with my siblings.
I have just finished getting dressed in a pair of slim-fit black slacks, a light blue long sleeve button-down dress shirt with a grey sweater worn over it, and a matching black belt and dress shoes. I always dress in business casual when working, though there is no dress code. I just prefer to look professional for my pickups as it usually makes them feel more at ease.
I am the only one of my siblings that still lives in the same house as my father. I would move out too if it weren’t for my responsibilities keeping me here. Fortunately, it is a very large house, if you can even call this monstrosity a house. It is more like a large mansion with dozens of guest bedrooms and even more bedrooms in the living quarters for the servants. The mansion extends over acres of land and rises as high as four stories in some sections. The outside of the mansion is covered with stucco siding and as many windows as possible to show off the excessive opulence within. The only rooms with curtains are the bedrooms, but depending on who resides in them, those may also be open to see inside.
I head down winding hallways to father’s room to check on how he is doing. Not that I want to, but it is expected of me. I mentally prepare myself to interact with my father on the nearly half-mile walk to his room.
Alright, Kian, you can do this. Just don’t react to his words. You will be in and out of there in less than five minutes. So what if they will be the worst five minutes of your day? The rest of the day will go by smoothly and then you can unwind in the company of your favorite brothers and sister. Okay, let’s do this.
I arrive at my father’s bedroom and knock on his ornate door. After a minute, I am let in by his guards, some of which look happy to see me. I nod at them in greeting. The others are loyal to my father and hate whoever he hates. So here they are, looking at me like they wouldn’t mind slitting my throat if my father ordered it.
I walk further into the room which is ridiculously opulent with high ceilings and over the top furniture. Seriously, the furniture has gold and precious jewels as part of their designs. I am disgusted with the excess when the money could have gone into better quarters for the servants or dozens of other projects that lack funds.
I keep my face neutral. “Father, how are you feeling today? Did the healers figure out what has caused the illness?” I asked. I am only concerned with his illness because it is nearly impossible for our kind to get sick.
I look him over to assess his health. He looks small. He doesn’t look like he could be over six feet tall and weigh more than two hundred and fifty pounds while he is lying there in his bed. Sweat from fever has slicked back his long black hair that has been streaked with white for years now. The alabaster skin of his face that is marred by a large burn scar is paler than usual, and his dark brown eyes look tired, but they retain the cruelty that I have long associated with him.
He looks at me like I am dog poop that he just stepped in with his best dress shoe. “You don’t actually care. I wouldn’t be surprised if you caused it, Kian,” he said, his cruel eyes glaring at me. “I know you want me dead.”
He is right, I do want him dead. I am almost certain that he paid someone to kill my mother or he did it himself. My mother was not his wife, but just one of several concubines he kept in his harem. Over the years, he grew more and more angry for some unknown reason and he grew tired of his harem. One by one, the concubines met untimely deaths that were ruled accidents. It is all too coincidental, but no one will question his ruling.
While I would not be sorry if he died, I certainly do not want him dead right now. If he died, then I would have to step up and take his place as his eldest son, and I am just not ready for that. I do not want that responsibility right now.
“Father, you are paranoid. I do not want you dead,” I said, my tone even as I pick imaginary lint from my sweater. “My first pickup is soon, so I must head out.”
As I turn to leave, my father grabbed my arm. “Kian, your last pick up today is one of my VIPs and you must bring her to me and only me once you have collected her,” he whispered so only I can
hear him.
“But Father, that is not proper procedure…” I started to say.
“Do not question me! Just obey!” he shouted. He starts having a coughing fit and the healers brush me aside to attend to him.
I take the opportunity to leave. There are only a few minutes left before my first pickup is scheduled, so I don’t have time to think about my father’s words. In mere seconds, I am at my first location.
Each collector is assigned a region where their job is to gather the scheduled pickups and bring them to their next stop. I have been assigned the state of Colorado, which is beautiful this time of year. I spend some of my rare free time here, climbing the fourteeners in the summertime.
My first stop is in Denver. I am here to collect a fifty-four-year-old man named Ethan Brown scheduled for 3:32 am MST. He was still in bed when I entered his home to collect him. He was a little confused, but after I explained everything, he came with me without a fuss. Everything went according to plan, and I dropped him off in time for my next pick up.
The subsequent pickups were also routine, and I have high hopes I will make it back home in time for the weekly dinner with my siblings. Thank the Creators no one gave me a hard time today. Sometimes the pickups don’t want to be collected and they resist. It takes more time to coax them into coming with me.
I only have one more pickup before I am free for the day. This pickup will take me out of my assigned region to the Northeast. Charlene James, age twenty-seven, is scheduled to be picked up in Braintree, Massachusetts, at 10:47 am EST from the office building where she works. I hate picking up the younger ones. The younger they are, the harder the pickup is. I don’t know what to expect from this pickup seeing as it is a VIP and VIPs are usually only handled by my father.
There is a lot of commotion outside of the office building where I am picking up Charlene James. The building is surrounded by the police and their cars, which are spread out to offer protection in case of emergency. Standing beyond yellow police tape are the bystanders, who are hanging around with hopes of witnessing someone else’s tragedy and talking about it on the local news. Media crews are just arriving on scene, setting up their equipment while the reporters are doing last-minute primping before they descend like vultures on the death of victims for ratings.
It is a good thing that I have the ability to remain unseen by those I am not picking up. I won’t be delayed by reporters asking questions or stopped by police from entering the building. As I walk through the crowd, I hear the media start reporting about an active shooter in the building and about the SWAT team storming the building to stop said shooter. I noticed there was a minute or two of silence in the building right before multiple guns start firing on one of the higher floors.
It is 10:46 am when I walk into the lobby. There are several others of my kind here to collect as this is definitely a mass collection situation. I nod to them in greeting and they give me a slight bow. I hate it when they do that.
It is a little harder to find the one you are collecting when more than one person is being collected at the same location. I close my eyes to feel the call of my pickup and scan the room. I open my eyes in the direction I feel my pickup’s call coming from. She is behind the lobby’s desk.
Just as I go around the desk to collect her, a woman pops up looking confused. She is stunning even though she is disheveled. She has blood on her hands and knees as if she had been crawling through puddles of blood. Her long wavy dark chocolate hair is out of sorts, and she has streaks of blood on her face where she has touched her flawless porcelain skin. Her full lips are parted as she tries to slow her breathing. She notices me after a few seconds and jumps to her feet.
“We have to get out of here! Some crazy asshole is upstairs shooting people!” she said frantically as she heads toward the exit.
She can’t be the one I am here to collect, but how else could she see me? Maybe the collection time was wrong on my list and I am early. She runs out of a back exit where her car must be parked. I follow her. This isn’t right. What is going on here? It is now 10:52 am. Pickup times have never been this wrong before. I stop her before she gets into her car.
“Charlene James?” I asked her.
She nods.
“Why aren’t you dead?”
She looked at me like I am crazy and started backing away. “Who are you? Why would you ask me that? Stay away from me!” she said as she looks around for help.
There are police stationed on this side of the building, but I am close enough to my pickup for them not to be able to see or hear her, even if she tried to call for help.
What am I going to do now? I can’t just let her leave. If she was on my list, then there was either a mistake and she wasn’t meant to die, or she was supposed to die and her being alive may cause the Balance to be thrown off. Why would my Father want me to bring her to him instead of bringing her to the Waiting where all souls go after they have been collected? Something definitely isn’t right here, and I need to figure this out to prevent the Balance from being disturbed.
“You can’t leave. You need to come with me,” I tell her.
I usually use more finesse with my pickups, but I am overwhelmed by the situation. I grab her arm to take her with me to the Waiting. We need to speak with the ladies in charge there. They will figure this out. Maybe if I take her there now, I will still be in time for dinner with my brothers and sister.
Abruptly, she pulled out of my grip. As I turned to face her, she punched me in the face. I am stunned for a moment. I am not fragile like a human, but she still somehow managed to break my nose. That shouldn’t be possible.
She yelled at me as I stare at her completely stupefied, blood pouring out of my nose. “Get the fuck away from me, asshole. I don’t know who you are, but I have had a really shitty day and I am going the fuck home.” She got into her car and locked the doors.
I let her drive away. I can feel the pull of her soul still and will be able to find her later. She doesn’t have a choice. She doesn’t belong here anymore. I will let her cool down and attempt to talk to her later, but first I will try to figure out what is going on.
***
I arrived back home and head straight to my father’s room. He must know what is going on or at least how to fix it. I knock, and I am let in by his guards. He still looks awful, but he is sitting up now.
“Father, you seem to be improving,” I said.
He looked around behind me expectantly and then glowered when he didn’t see anyone with me. “Where is the girl? I told you to bring her directly to me!” he yelled.
“There was an issue.” That’s a severe understatement. The world could be falling apart right now for all I know. I try to act calm. “Who is this woman that I was sent to collect? What is her importance?” I asked.
“That is none of your business!” he shouted. “What do you mean there was an issue? What happened?” he asked, his eyes widening slightly.
I tell him about the situation and how she wasn’t dead when I went to collect her. He paled, which if you’ve seen him in his sickbed, you wouldn’t think was possible.
He thought furiously for a minute, his eyes looking down and his hand holding his forehead, before saying, “Kian, you have to kill her and bring her soul to me. There is no other way. The Balance is in danger. Do not tell the Ladies of the Waiting. Just fix this mess.”
I don’t trust my father, but I have to believe he has the best interest of the Balance in mind. Our species was created to maintain the Balance, and our existence would end if the scales were tilted too far in either direction. I don’t know what to do, but I do know that Charlene James of Massachusetts cannot be allowed to continue on in her current life.
Chapter 3
CHARLIE
I probably shouldn’t have left the scene of a mass shooting. I don’t even know how I wasn’t stopped or shot by the police when I left the building. It’s like no one could see me. Maybe I am dead, but then how would I be driv
ing my car? Then again, it would make sense if I died. I don’t remember how I got to the first-floor lobby. Maybe I was killed by a stray bullet and I died. But then again, that strange guy asked me why I wasn’t dead. Oh my god! Was he some kind of angel or like the grim reaper?
I laughed to myself when I think about possibly having punched an angel in the face as I pull into my apartment complex and park in front of my building. I rest my head against the steering wheel for a moment. My brain has been going crazy during my forty-minute drive home, trying to figure out what the hell just happened to me.
I can feel the fatigue start to take over my body. I get out of my car slowly and head for my building. Thank goodness no one is around to see me covered in blood. I enter my second-floor apartment and lock the door behind me. I go to kick my shoes off and realize I am missing one. When did that happen? Oh well. I peel off my blouse and skirt and toss them in the trash. I am not even trying to get all those stains out. The clock on the microwave says it is 11:45 am. I knew this was going to be one of those days, and apparently, it is going to drag on forever. I fill up the kitchen sink with cold water. I remove my underwear and bra and toss them in. They are a cute matching set and they aren’t stained as bad, so I will try to salvage them.
I walk silently through my apartment. It’s a small apartment decorated with splashes of bright colors. I can’t afford much in Massachusetts on my salary, but I have tried to make it my oasis. The living room and kitchen are in one open space that is barely big enough to have two separate areas. In the kitchen, there is a stove next to the refrigerator, two small countertops with a sink in the middle, and a small bistro-style dining table with two chairs against the wall near the door to the apartment.
