Black_Tide

by Patrick Freivald

  * * *

  "Wake up, bitch."

  Cruel man hands shook her, grabbed her by the hair and slapped her. Monica heard it, but didn't feel more than a dull heat. She tried to speak around a thick tongue, tried to gasp for water or something, anything to drink. Her throat screamed for relief, but nothing came out her mouth. He hauled her onto the coffee table, sweeping away the tea tray and bowl with her flopping limbs.

  He slapped her again, then lifted her head by her hair, so she could see the pistol he held in her face. He put it in her mouth and slid it in and out. She tasted nothing as it passed over her tongue, but she gagged, and retched, and tried to squirm and scream and scratch his eyes but instead just lay there.

  "You like that, do you? You slut. You fucking whore. They said to get rid of you, but use you first. I think you've got some oomph left in you."

  He dropped her head to the table and jammed the gun in her mouth hard, one hand wandering to his waist to unzip his pants. He squirmed out of them, exposing stained white underwear stretched to capacity by his erection, a wet spot already formed in his excitement.

  "See her looking?" someone said behind her. "She really wants it."

  "Yeah, you want this, you fucking slut?" He looked over her shoulder and laughed. "Yeah, boys, keep your pants on until it's your turn. Nobody needs to see that."

  He let go of the pistol, leaving it in her mouth, and moved behind her.

  She moaned around the gun as her belt came off. She willed her hands to move, to grab the gun and shoot his pathetic little balls off. Nothing happened.

  His arms came around her waist, and she heard rather than felt her zipper come down. As he tugged her jeans off, she closed her eyes and tried to pray.

  Men cheered and joked as a dull pressure pierced her. Her body rocked, seeding a nauseous pit deep in her stomach. She felt nothing else, but as he grunted and gasped, her thoughts fell to the pit, to darkness and death and murder and a lake of unending fire.

  Lost somewhere in madness, Monica screamed, but her mouth stayed silent around the pistol.

  * * *

  The psychic shriek sent white tendrils of thought worming through Matt's mind, heard without being heard, overwhelming the whispers in a deafening silence. A demon of twisted thorns and cruel, slivered nails raked and clawed at his wife, cackling in glee at each line of blood, each strip of flesh. She writhed as it took her, filling her with darkness and loss and unending pain.

  Matt bolted for the house, screaming, carried forward on wings of silvery ice, all thoughts of stealth incinerated in white-hot wrath.

  He lurched as something impacted his shoulder. The AA-12 fell from his grip. He spun to the right as the whispers warned him of a second shot. He drew his pistol left-handed and fired four shots at the upstairs window to force his assailant to take cover.

  He dropped his visor and cleared the porch in one step.

  The bay window exploded as he leapt through. He raised the pistol and fired as his feet hit the floor. Two shots took the man in the corner, another two at the men in line behind his wife, pants around their ankles, dicks hard in their hands. Others scattered.

  The rapist stopped, kneeling in mid-pump, his white ass between Monica's slack legs. Matt wrapped his left arm around the man's neck, pulled him up and backward, and grabbed his face with his right hand.

  He saw and refused to see Monica, face down, shirt ripped upward to expose her bra, eyes glazed, drool-covered pistol in her mouth.

  As Matt's fingers entered her rapist's mouth the man bit down. Matt jammed them deeper into the slimy, writhing heat, and punched his thumb up through the underside of the man's jaw. Hot blood streamed down Matt's wrist, mingling with that from his shoulder.

  He pulled, a steady pressure that would not relent. Muscles tore. Skin fissured, split apart with a soggy wet rip, like splitting a rotten log. The jaw shifted outward, gnashing teeth scraping the skin from his fingers. The man shrieked. His jaw came free in a spray of hot crimson mess and an inarticulate, gurgling choke. Matt jammed the separated lower jaw into the man's naked abdomen, and the smell of hot shit filled the room.

  He twisted and brought the man down, punching the bone and his fist through the rapist's guts and the pine board floor beneath. He stood, fist dripping gore, and glared at the young bottle-blonde staring slack-jawed in the doorway. Her pistol clattered to the floor, and urine leaked down her leg under her shorts.

  Janet's voice broke through his fugue. "I've cut your helmet camera, Matt. Do what you've got to do."

  The whispers laughed and tittered and urged him to tear the girl limb from limb. Young, no more than twenty. Pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way, with teeth not quite perfect. The white tendrils of thought snaked through his soul, the voices of his loved ones pleading mercy, but he drowned them in seething rage. They surfaced and clambered for purchase, rising against the gale of hatred.

  Matt took a deep breath. And a step forward.

  Another breath. Another step.

  And another. He stood inches from her, staring through the visor at the tears streaming down her face.

  She blubbered, then, blubbered and pleaded and the white tendrils thickened and grew bold, defying the maelstrom of whispers. "Please don't hurt me, mister. Please."

  He hesitated. The whispers howled their rage.

  "Please don't. We didn't mean anything by it."

  The whispers shrieked their triumph as his helmet crushed the girl's skull against the doorframe. Her face crumbled and he pulled back enough to let her body fall.

  He turned at a noise from the stairs. Halfway up a man pointed a Glock at Matt's chest. He took the steps three at a time, grunting as his armor solidified around the center of mass shots. Arms spread, he wrapped his assailant in a bear hug, shattering bone as he crushed the shooter to his chest. Vomited blood washed his visor in thick red streaks. He threw the body to the side and vaulted up to the landing.

  He kicked in the bedroom door. A man scrambled halfway out the window, legs kicking as he tried to fit his gut out of too small an opening, a rifle leaning against the bookcase. Matt grabbed the sill and slammed it hard enough to shatter the glass and his victim's spine. He ignored the screams, picked up the discarded rifle, and fired at both men fleeing across the lawn. They fell, squirming and screaming, bloody guts sprayed out on the snow.

  The man lodged in the window tried to turn, tried to reposition. Matt leaned out the window and placed the muzzle against the back of his head.

  "Please! I have a daughter."

  He pulled the trigger, blowing teeth and blood down into the snow.

  Matt cleared the empty master bath and bedroom, then stalked down the steps and past his wife, her eyes not even following as he pulled the pistol from her mouth, emptied it and tossed it to the floor. The kitchen and guest bedroom lay empty, nobody in closets or under the bed.

  The cellar door lock shattered with one kick, and someone cried out in the cool darkness below. The wooden stairs creaked under his weight. He didn't bother with the light.

  In the pitch black his enhanced vision separated the hot water heater and furnace from the man cowering behind them, ultraviolet picking out details that infrared couldn't, even while his helmet identified no targets.

  Matt found his voice. "Come here."

  The man cowered and babbled in sobbing Spanish. He held his pants up one-handed, too panicked by Matt's rampage to even button them.

  "I said, 'come here.'"

  His pistol fell to the concrete, and he kicked it across the floor to Matt.

  "Good enough."

  The man screamed as Matt advanced, screamed again as Matt grabbed his nose and tore it from his face. Blood sprayed Matt's chest. He ripped away one ear, then the other, then turned his attention lower.

  Outside, Matt left crimson constellations through the white powder, none of it his own. Tracks led behind the barn, to a circular area blasted almost free of snow. Propeller wash. He closed his eyes, blocked ou
t the world, and listened. No vehicles, no motors, no helicopters.

  He cleared the barn—nothing but an old, rusted-out combine and stalls filled with long-rotten hay.

  The hose on the side of the building gushed frigid water when he turned it on. He sprayed himself, shivering under the cleansing blast. Hot blood sluiced off the hydrophobic fabric covering his armor, clear streaks appeared in the red on his visor. He washed it clean, flexing his shoulder several times as he did so. Satisfied with the returning range of motion, he walked back inside to the living room, careful not to make too much noise.

  Monica hadn't moved, but now her eyes tracked him, wide and brimming with tears. Her tongue worked in her mouth, an injured snake squirming in defiance of death.

  He took off his helmet and knelt, wincing at the pain in his chest and abdomen, and lifted her, turning her gently to lay her face-up on the couch. He put her panties around her feet, pulled them up, and then tugged on her pants.

  Next, he checked her vitals for any signs that whatever they'd given her might kill her. Satisfied, he cradled her and kissed her hair, whispered that they’d never hurt her again.

  Some time later, Monica shifted and whispered in his ear.

  "I love you, baby."

  "I love you, too."

  He kissed tears from her eyes and held her.

  "Matt, they have our boy. You need to find him."

  "He's not here. But you're damned right I'll find him."

  A voice from outside interrupted them. "Matt? You in there?" The megaphone didn't quite render Deputy Broadbent's voice unrecognizable.

  "Yes," he yelled. "All threats have been neutralized. The building is clear. So is the barn."

  The hesitation made Matt smile but not in a way his wife would understand. Or maybe she would.

  "All right, hold fire. We're sending someone in."

  Sakura stepped in the front door, helmet tucked in her elbow, jeans cut from thigh to ankle, leg a mess of bandages and bloodstains. Behind her Jason Rees held a cloth to his mouth, face drained of all color, gray eyes bugged out of his head.

  "Is . . . is she . . . ?"

  "She'll be all right." Matt stroked Monica's hair without taking his eyes from his former friend.

  Sakura looked at the jawless man, naked from the waist down, then at Monica, and then at Matt. Her eyes drifted over the other bodies, pantsless and otherwise, then back to him. She gave a tiny bow of respect and walked out, yelling orders to the deputies and troopers.

  Jason rushed forward, knelt in the bloody muck slicking the floor, and put his hand on Monica's head. He murmured prayers in Latin, eyes closed, and Matt let the words wash over them both.

  When he'd finished Jason used his thumb to draw a cross on her forehead, then turned his attention to Matt. "I started driving as soon as I heard about the fires. Got into town a couple hours ago. I'm sorry I wasn't here."

  Matt looked around at the carnage, absorbed the stench into and through him, and then met Jason's eyes. "This wasn't your kind of job. If you'd been with her, you'd be dead. But I need to go, and she'll be okay. Thank you for coming."

  "Sir," a man said from the door, "you can't be in a crime scene."

  Jason stood, absently wiping his hands on his long, black coat, ignoring or ignorant of the filth clinging to the edges. "I'm authorized—"

  "—to get Mr. Rowley to stand down, which he has. Now this is a crime scene, so you need to go."

  Jason looked at Monica, then Matt. "I'll be outside when you need me."

  Matt watched him go, and as Jason disappeared out the door the whispers finally ceased their murderous clamor. He slid his arms under his wife and lifted her, cradling her head, then carried her out into the snow. She just managed to rest a hand on his forearm, and her eyes rolled back into her head.

  The M-ATV towered next to four SUV's and a county pickup truck. Cory leaned against the huge vehicle, arms crossed, eyes downcast. Matt approached, Monica still in his arms, and bowed his head.

  "Cory. I'm so sorry."

  Cory looked from Monica to Matt with bloodshot eyes. "Yeah. I'm glad she's okay, man." He opened the suicide doors so Matt could set Monica down in the comparative warmth. Cory wadded up someone's coat for a pillow, and Matt placed her on the cold steel floor as gently as possible.

  Ted hopped down from the driver's seat, waddled over, and plopped down against Monica's side, looking at Matt with his sad eyes.

  Matt scratched the top of his head then pulled back, closed the doors and grabbed Cory's shoulder. "When the ambulance gets here, make sure they give her a full check. I don't know what those assholes gave her, but I killed some of them mid . . . mid-rape."

  "Will do."

  They stood in silence a while, watching the police ring the house and yard in crime scene tape, scurrying around the buildings without going inside, waiting for a detective or the crime lab or someone, anyone else, to do what needed to be done.

  "Kevin's going to make it," Cory said.

  "Good." Matt knew, but no matter how small, he didn't want to take anything away from Cory at this point. "He's a good man."

  "Did you . . . did you get the guys who . . . did this?"

  "Most. Somebody got away and took my boy."

  Cory looked up to the sky. "Jesus, man, can this get any worse? What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to save him. And I'm going to kill them."

  Chapter 10

  Dressed in a gray suit and yellow tie, Matt knocked on the door to the shabby Manhattan brownstone and waited. The door cracked open to the length of the security chain, and the warm tang of onions and garlic wafted out of the apartment.

  The olive-skinned young man who answered kept his blue eyes on Matt's face. "Yes?"

  "Ellery Wong?"

  His eyes darted up and down the street. "Who wants to know?"

  Matt had no badge to show, so he held up a picture of Marie Thill. "Can I ask you a few questions about this girl?"

  He dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't know who that is."

  Matt put his foot in the door. "That's an odd thing to say about your fiancée."

  "Ex-fiancée," he snapped. Then he sighed. "Yeah, all right, but I got breakfast on the stove, so make it snappy. What do you want to know?"

  "This is going to be longer than snappy. May I come in?"

  "Are you a cop?"

  "No."

  "Legit?"

  "I'm not a cop, and I don't give a shit what drugs you have in there."

  He looked up and down the street—not that he'd be able to see much through the crack and around Matt—undid the chain and opened the door. Matt stepped inside the apartment and made no comment on the stacks of shit-brown, plastic-wrapped bricks on the coffee table, marijuana by the look of it.

  Ellery cut right, into the kitchen, where he had peppers, onions, and garlic in a cast iron pan on the stove. "You want some eggs or something, man? Easy enough to double the recipe."

  "It's Matt. And I already ate, so just whatever you can tell me about Marie."

  "All right, Matt, where do you want me to start? She's a crazy bitch with a hot temper, likes bad guys, big dicks, and fast cars. She fucks like she fights, and a couple years in the bullshit's piled so high you can't take it anymore." He cracked three eggs into the pan, tossed the shells eight feet into the open garbage, and whisked.

  Matt leaned against the doorframe, sliding his hand between the refrigerator and the wall, pushing the magnetic bug as far back as he could. "Current address?"

  "Shit, I don't know, man. I've gone out of my way to not know." He sprinkled a big handful of cheddar cheese over the congealing mass in the pan. "She used to have a place in Boston but sold it when her mom died last year. Could be anywhere."

  "If you were going to get a hold of her, what would you do?"

  "Why the fuck would I want to get a hold of her?" He dumped the scrambled eggs on a plate, turned off the stove, and carried his breakfast to a small table in the corner. "Sure y
ou don't want some?"

  Matt waved him off, so he tucked in with a bottle of hot sauce.

  A few bites in he looked up, as if remembering Matt's presence. "So, man, yeah, she started hanging with some uppity bitches, then dropped off the planet when her mom died. Fucking Houdini, you know?"

  "You have names?"

  "Of Houdini?"

  "Of the uppity bitches."

  He grinned. "Nah, man. Just a bunch of groupies, chasing dick at drag races and street fights." He took another fork full, smothered it in hot sauce, and shoved it in his mouth. "So she's in some deep shit, am I right?"

  "She's dead."

  Ellery dropped his fork, stared at his eggs. "Aw, fuck. And you want to find who killed her? Not that I'm saying someone killed her—"

  "I know who killed her." He relived the crunch as his helmet caved in her skull. "I want to know who she was working with. Do you have contact information for next of kin?"

  He pushed his plate away, half-eaten. "Who killed her, man?"

  "I did."

  Ellery froze.

  "She watched as a line of men raped my wife, then told me it wasn't personal."

  He exhaled, long and low. "That's fucked up."

  "Next of kin?"

  "She didn't have any, not that she ever talked about. Her mom left her a bunch of money, but she never even knew the sperm donor. No siblings, no aunts or uncles. Pretty lonely. What tied her up in that shit?"

  "She got involved with some bad people. Did she . . . was she associating with anyone who might have criminal connections? Maybe a lot of money?"

  He held up his hands. "I don't know, man, she wasn't hurting, and some of those racers pour serious bank into their cars. Got to get it from somewhere, you know?"

  "Criminal connections?"

  "Well, racing and fighting aren't legal, and all kinds of bookmaking goes on. Good place to distribute, too, if you got cover. Not that I know, right?" He looked down at his lap and then back up at Matt. "Wouldn't surprise me if the gangstas and gangsters are running protection, taking their piece."

  "Anything else?"