by C. N. Owens
“Nathan wolf’s bane. I’m impressed,” I say, while laying Cassie on the floor again.
“Well, double-ought buck works on them—take notes,” Nate says, gasping for air.
“I’m sure there’s a spot for you in my division.”
“I’ll pass,” he says, standing over Bento, who’s now a bloody heap on the floor, seeming to slowly decompose.
“I’ll break my phone out if you want a pic with your kill, before we behead him.”
Nate hisses. “Let’s just get this done.” Just as he turns, Bento limps again to his feet and takes off for the door, faster than we can chase him. Nate looks back at me as though he had just lost a trophy bass seconds after getting it out of the water. “What do we do now?”
I flip the lid open on the one casket in the room, and sure enough… it’s Raoul. Even in his death-like sleep, he looks regal… dignified. I think I’ll strip him naked and hang him from the side of this building. Either way, it won’t be the warrior’s end that I’m sure he’s always dreamed about.
“Let’s get this shit done before Bento heals enough to come back for round two.”
“What about Leila?” Nate asks, and chambers a fresh shell.
“I imagine Bento has her tucked away somewhere safe. She’s long gone.” I say between grunts, while kicking Raoul’s casket off the table, spilling him out on the floor. “I need your help.”
“I don’t know how you do this as a profession. They look too human.”
“But they aren’t. This one hasn’t been for thousands of years, and he pimps out kids.”
Nate props his shotgun against the wall and cracks his knuckles. “Can we torture him first?”
***
I took Raoul’s fangs to show Cassie when she recovers. He didn’t have much for jewelry on him, but I took everything I found, just to let her know that her maker is now no longer a threat.
We pile her into the car and haul ass for a hardware store, and then on to Nate’s house. I have to catch a flight, and I can’t fly with a corpse—I’ll have to ship her to my house.
The sun set a few hours ago, so we took the time to clean up my wounds. They bled into the shirt but, surprisingly, didn’t do that bad. They opened up again the moment I released the tape, though. I was expecting it. Just a few more hours, I keep telling myself. That’s all I’ll need before I can get to an ER and have them stitched up, and hopefully get some more pain pills.
Nate pulls his shirt off and continues in his white undershirt. “Please tell me I’m not building a casket in my living room.”
I pull out my phone and find it blinking. I really need to turn my ringer on. “I’d be lying to you,” I say and unlock my phone. It’s a message from an unknown number: Hey, I hope this is Trent. It’s Andrea. I’m safe, but IDK where Cassie is. Pls help!
Thank God, I think, and hit dial.
“Holy shit, Trent,” Andrea says. “Cassie is—”
“I have her, she’s injured, but she'll survive. You okay?”
“I’m a little beat up, but I’m fine.”
“Perfect. Where are you?”
“Gordon’s.”
“Like Cassie taught us, well done. I'll be there in a half hour.” I hang up and put my phone away. “Change of plans, you aren’t building a casket anymore.”
Nate drops his hammer on the floor and wipes the sweat from his brow. “That's a relief.”
“I just need a lift, and we will be out of your hair for now.”
“You got it. Just tell me, were we killing zombies at that club?”
I give him a one-armed shrug. “Probably the closest thing you will ever come to seeing one. We call them ghouls. They're given enough vampire’s blood to kill them, but the corpse remains animated. Whatever they are, they can spread it through a bite or scratch, and that’s only if their teeth don’t come out when they try to bite you. Some vampires use them for booby traps, like we just saw. They are a lot of maintenance, though. They only stay fresh for so long, and then they stink and rot. Raoul refrigerated them, I think.”
“I've heard enough. Let's get this done.”
Chapter 17
Leila
Almost three hundred miles later, the car runs out of gas. I had hoped that would be enough to get me somewhere warm and sunny, but this is my first road trip by myself in a foreign country. It barely got me out of Virginia. Out of options, I have no idea how I’ll close the five-hundred-mile gap.
On the side of I-95, somewhere in South Carolina, the car coasts to a stop. The big, powerful engine gives up, dying with a pathetic sputter. I make a few attempts to restart it, hating the thought of abandoning such a beautiful car, with its blue paint and soft black leather seats; it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever driven. I look around for a pen, finding one in the glovebox. With my left hand, I write 4133 Old Eagle Lake Rd onto my right palm… his address.
I stand next to the car with the hood up, arm outstretched, and a crooked thumb in the air. I can’t stop looking at the gap where my finger used to be… I had forgotten about it for a while. Most of the time, it still feels like it’s there until I try to pick something up and fumble. All that remains is a stump with a sensitive purple scar on the tip.
I spend hours shivering on the side of the gusty interstate, and no one stops. Already, I can feel the tightness in my skin from a sunburn, and I feel weak, dizzy, and nauseous. I’m through the worst of the drug withdrawals but the craving remains, so I must be getting sick. Out of desperation to find somewhere warm, I start walking along the interstate, trudging barefoot across a minefield of pebbles, glass, and other debris from the road on the way toward the next exit ramp.
I’ve never been good at begging; I’ve never liked it, even though it might have saved me from a beating a few times. Imagining how I look now, I already know it’ll be hopeless to try for a handout. Half of me doesn’t know what I need or want, for that matter. Drugs? Money? A ride? A home? Where to begin? I walk up and down the narrow highway just off the interstate and then decide to haunt a little strip mall. I ask for money or food, and as expected, most ignore me, or apologize and offer an excuse while dragging their kids away. One person gave me a dollar.
I sneak into a McDonald’s to clean up, turning the sink gray from the mud in my hair and on my face, then hiding in a stall for a while until dry enough to leave. Evening is getting close, it’s already getting colder, and the cravings are getting worse, along with what feels like the flu: body aches, dizziness. An old man gave me a cheeseburger in the parking lot. I devoured it like a wild animal, but I couldn’t hold it down and threw up on the side of the road.
I make it to a small gas station, and after a few failed attempts at begging for gas money, I walk into the small convenience store, happy to feel the warmth on my bare feet. Behind the counter, a grizzled old man shoots me a disapproving glare.
I avert my eyes and cross my arms to hide the bruises and sores, ashamed that I have them, but next to tears because I want more so bad.
“Miss, you need to buy something or go somewhere else.”
“I’m freezing. Can I just warm up for a second?”
“No, get lost.” The old man, his expression cold, like the weather, points at the door. I think about begging him for a little more time, but I don’t have the courage nor the desire, so I move on.
Wracked with feverish chills, I walk around the side of the building and sit, pulling my knees tight to my chest, feeling a little relief from the wind.
***
“Sweetie, are you okay?” A female voice startles me from a light sleep; it might have been minutes since I closed my eyes. I don’t move for a moment after waking, wanting to cry when I realize that I’m still here in this cold, unforgiving town. This is reality, not a dream. I look up, covering an eye so I can focus on her, and the voice gasps. Before me stands a middle-aged woman with short hair in shades of red and blonde. A toddler with cherub cheeks and strawberry-
blonde hair fidgets beside her, holding her mother’s hand.
“I’m freezing,” I say with chattering teeth, feeling the gritty dirt from my hand as I rub my eye.
“Well, come on, honey, I’ll get you someplace safe.”
I stand and follow her toward a yellow car, climb in, and wait while the woman straps her daughter into the seat behind me.
She hands me a soft pink blanket and starts the car. “I’m Sandy.”
“Leila,” I say while holding my hands against the vent, thankful for the warmth.
“Where can I take you?”
“Can you take me south?”
Sandy laughs in the middle of an exasperated sigh. “South where?”
“As far south as you will take me,” I say, feeling silly. I push my head into the headrest and close my eyes, trying to stop the waves of dizziness.
Sandy goes silent and then shakes her head. Somehow, I already know what she’s going to say. “You’re not safe out here on your own. You need to be home with your family.”
I can’t resist rolling my eyes. She thinks I’m a runaway. “I know. And if you can take me south, I can get to them,” I say, trying to cultivate a lie convincing enough to get what I need.
“Well, can’t you call them to come get you?”
“I don’t know their number,” I say, unable to cover up the chasm-like holes in my story.
“How do you not know your family’s number?”
“Ma’am, I appreciate your help, but I’m not going to share my entire life’s story with you. If you aren’t willing to help me, please let me out,” I say, my anger building with every question.
The car grows silent, and I begin to feel crappy for my outburst. The cramps and the pins and needles in my feet are wearing my patience thin.
“Sandy, I’m sorry. My mom and dad are dead. I have no one else other than a—a relative in Florida.”
Sandy sighs, shaking her head. She turns into a church parking lot a few miles down the road. A simple white sign with black hand-painted letters hangs over the door. It says St. Mary’s Catholic Church.
“This is the best I can do for you. I go to this church, and they have a shelter that does great things for women who are trying to get on their feet.”
I sigh. “Okay. Thank you for the ride.”
“I’m sorry for whatever happened to you, sweetheart. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I nod and leave the blanket behind in the car, along with any hope of being able to get to the one person I partially know, the only person who has shown me kindness without expecting anything in return.
***
Sister Mary and Sister Theresa could be in their late seventies, both hunched over and gray with shriveled faces. Their smiles are pleasant yet scolding, emanating that bitter, celibate woman sternness. After letting me take a shower, they give me a small meal and warm clothes, and take me to a room full of single beds where other women are also sheltering. I’m assigned to a bed near the center of the room.
Feeling warm and no longer hungry is nice, but the craving remains, filling my stomach full of knives. My head throbs, and my stomach threatens to give back the food I was dying to eat—a thin stew with a bit of beef and vegetables.
I rock myself anxiously, mind racing, questioning what I’m going to do next, terrified of being alone. My insides continue to cramp; I’ve gone to the bathroom numerous times, expecting to find that I’m bleeding, but I still haven’t gotten my period. I think back, remembering what Bento did to me in the hospital, and can’t hold back the tears, terrified by the thought of being pregnant with that monster’s baby.
Evening sets in, and Sister Theresa comes by to visit, rambling on about faith and how God will bring me victoriously out of my troubles if I let Him into my life. The nun pats my hand, and I smile and nod, humoring her. The sister’s smile is pleasant and considerate, but I can’t pay attention. I’m obsessed with the thought of my savior: a needle penetrating the skin of my arm, the sting as the drug enters my vein followed by the sweet relief seconds later.
After the nun wishes me a good night, I walk around among the other women, trying to gauge by their appearance if they might also use. Some have small children with them, others are bruised and battered, but one younger girl named Cindy looks promising.
Her greasy blonde hair is tied back into a tight bun, and she chomps on a piece of gum like a horse, revealing a glimpse of yellowed, crooked teeth. She sits on her bed, leaning against the cinder-block wall, reading an old Cosmopolitan with a look of boredom on her face. As I approach, the girl’s brown eyes dart to me from the top of the magazine’s wrinkled pages. Her first reaction seems hostile, but after some catty posturing, she offers a location in town: a house on the corner of Sunset and North Pine. The corner where she works, she tells me. That’s where I could score some.
I make for the door, leaving the warmth and safety of the shelter. The sister glowers at me, looking at me over her bifocals as she holds the door open. I assure her that I know once the doors are locked I can’t come back until morning.
It’s a chilly evening. I clutch the stale-smelling blue sweatshirt to stay warm, but like the girl said, the walk isn’t that bad. I make it to Sunset and Pine in thirty minutes.
***
“Cindy sent me here to score a fix,” I say to an older woman with stringy, graying brown hair and a leathery face.
“Cindy?” the woman asks, while rubbing her toothless gums together.
I nod.
“You got money?”
“No.”
“What else you got?”
“What does every girl have?”
The haggard old woman fidgets with her stained T-shirt and nods. “He’ll like you,” she says with a lisp. She walks away and flags a gold Cadillac parked on the other side of the road. The headlights come on, and the car pulls onto the street, stopping at the curb.
“Hey, girl, you looking for something?” a hulking bald man asks, peering at me through the open passenger window.
“I just need a little,” I respond, shivering to the point of convulsions. He waves me into his late-model CTS and rolls the dark tinted window up and pulls off.
“I’ve never seen you around here before,” he says with a low, rumbling voice. He has sleeves of tattoos on both arms, leading to his chin. Most are black, indiscernible shapes, but the words In Mourning are legible on the side of his neck. His driving is slow and meticulous. He’s doing everything he can to ensure that I’m comfortable. We could be on a first date. His paw of a right hand clutches the wheel, the rippling muscles in his forearm twitch and flex as he drives the car to a quiet spot behind a boarded-up brick building.
“I’m not from around here. I came from Virginia.”
“Well, I’m Andre. I got what you need.” He takes my hand.
“I’m Leila.”
“Got me on my knees, Layla,” he sings.
Like I’ve never heard that before. I force an awkward smile at his weak attempt at Eric Clapton, his giant hand still swallowing mine.
“How are you going to pay for this?”
“I don’t know.”
He nods and lets his automatic seat glides all the way back. “I know how you can pay for it; I can keep you supplied, too. I have customers that just love tiny little girls like you.” He reaches over and rubs his massive tattooed mitt from my neck to my lap. My muscles grow tense as this stranger fondles the length of my trunk from my breasts to my thighs, no doubt to get an idea of my shape. “Oh yes, they would love the hell out of you,” he continues, his voice unchanged, like a businessman judging the quality of a new product he is interested in buying.
He reaches behind my seat, and pulls out a small hard case for eyeglasses, producing everything I need to find relief. I roll up my sleeve, breaths quickening, anticipating what’s to come. He hands me the rubber tourniquet, which I wrap around my upper arm and pull tight. I wan
t to smile; the taste of the rubber between my teeth and that familiar pinch is exciting… My mind already knows that orgasmic rush is coming. With the dose prepared, he moves to hand me the needle but takes it back at the last second.
“I’ll give you this, but you’re going to let me have a taste of what you got,” he says, his voice teasing yet pleasant, just like any flirty pimp who wants another bitch for his roundup.
I nod, anything to end this pain… anything. He hands me the needle, and I jam it in my arm. I’ve never been good at injecting myself, and after missing the vein, Andre takes over and does it for me.
Like a welcome friend, the familiar sting accompanies a rush of warmth. I slide back into the seat, not bothering to pull the needle from my arm.
I could be hovering off the ground when he starts the car again and takes off for somewhere else. Where? It doesn’t matter; I can’t hold my eyes open in my stupor. My brow furrows when I think about what’s coming next, but my cares, my fears, the guilt are all a distant nagging, unimportant. It was part of the deal, I reason. I’ll just get it over with and leave, and I’ll never get high again.
We come to a stop in front of an old yellow house. Using all my strength, I climb out of the car, leaning on the hood and stumbling toward the steps. Andre comes up from behind, and once again, I’m floating as he takes hold of my arm and helps me walk.
Two men sitting on the couch grunt and mumble words of approval on the way in. They stand up and follow us into the bedroom, where Andre pushes me back onto a bed.
“What did you give me?” I whisper to the audience looking on.
“What you wanted, girl. I know you are liking it!”
The men laugh. They talk together like they’re at a bar socializing, but I’m too tired to listen. I roll onto my side, an act that felt like it took an hour to complete, only to have someone grab me by my shoes and drag me to the edge of the bed.
“She’s a weird-looking little thing,” I hear one say as my pants slide off.
