Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  “How could you possibly know that? Any news about Dixie or The Las Vegas Disaster was censored.”

  “A few of the med techs talked about her when they thought I wasn’t listening. They all spoke openly around me, as if I didn’t even exist, like doctors do with their patients.”

  The colonel smirks while he shifts gears. “Shoddy security, if you ask me.”

  “There’s something I need to ask you.” The answer has always eluded me, and this seems like the perfect opportunity to ask. I wait for him to look my way, or grunt, or give me some kind of sign to continue. He doesn’t, so I ask anyway. “The last time I saw Dixie, that night in the penthouse, there was a gun to her head. You told me if I came with you, you’d arrange a network anchor assignment for her—like she always wanted.”

  “Wrong. I said I would let her live. The rest was entirely up to her. Besides, that’s not a question.”

  “Something’s always bothered me about that night. You know I gave up my freedom on your promise.”

  He changes lanes and speeds up. “Still not a question.”

  “Why did you keep your word? I mean, while I was in prison, the only thing they wanted was to witness my transformation into a wolfhound. They tried everything, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I would have cooperated in an instant if I thought Dixie was in danger. Why didn’t you use her to force me to cooperate?”

  The colonel smiles. “You don’t know me very well.”

  I shake my head. “That’s your answer? You’re a man of honor?”

  He shifts gears, and we race down the freeway in silence. The sun pops up through gaps in the mountaintops as we wind our way down to the open flatland ahead. The highway widens and a few other cars appear. Dayton keeps a sharp eye on the rearview mirror. He’s going just fast enough to head west at a good pace, but not so fast that we’ll stand out to the local cops, or whoever else might be looking for us.

  “So, Dixie called you and—”

  “Listen, my main concern is to get you to Vegas. Dixie can answer all your questions.”

  He’s pressing the accelerator hard—too hard. Blue lights flash behind us.

  “Damn. Make sure you’re buckled in.”

  “Oh, I did that as soon as we got into—” The words stick in my throat as he jams on the gas, and I’m sucked back into the seat. The blue lights fade into the distance. So does everything else. I’m afraid to look at the speedometer; I know I won’t like what it says.

  Even though my captors let me have a television, drawing supplies, and books to read (they laughed about it—called it “creature comforts”), they never let me have a video game. I’ve seen them in commercials, however, and can only assume zooming across the road this fast is what they must feel like. Everything flies past us as if we’re standing still, or vice-versa. Unlike a video game, however, we have no do-overs.

  Dayton’s eyes dance back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. It only takes the slightest turn of the steering wheel to swerve past slower vehicles.

  Two patrol cars speed across an overpass ahead of us. We zip under it and I turn around in my seat, watching them hug the entrance ramp and race onto the freeway behind us.

  “We’re not going to outrun their radios,” Dayton says.

  “So that’s it? We give up?”

  He sets his jaw. “As I said, you don’t know me very well.”

  He hits the brakes, spins the steering wheel, and shifts gears. We wind up on the other side of the freeway as the patrol cars zoom past us. The officers strain their necks and stare at us as they rocket by in the opposite direction. Dayton exits the freeway, spins the wheel left and we dash across the same overpass the two patrol cars had occupied no more than a few seconds ago.

  With his foot glued to the accelerator, the Camaro responds, speeding away from the freeway. We’re on a two-lane road heading north.

  “That’ll slow ’em down a bit, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “I haven’t a clue, no.” He makes a right onto a dirt road, a plume of dust filling the sky in our wake. “But it’s better than where we were.”

  We’re going about fifty miles an hour now, and my insides bounce around like I’m trapped in a speeding blender. An orange warning sign zips by, Road Closed Ahead.

  As far as signs from the universe go, this is a bad one.

  ****

  Colonel Dayton brakes hard and parks. He pulls a cell phone out of his shirt pocket.

  “Who are you calling?” Even though I know the colonel, I still don’t trust him; now he’s calling someone I don’t know, and that makes me even more nervous than before.

  Instead of answering my question, he concentrates on the small screen of the smart phone; swiping his fingers across it, tapping on it, and turning the device sideways. After studying the information for a few seconds, he swipes it again and types out a message, his thumbs working furiously. He’s focused on the screen as I peek over his shoulder at the screen.

  In one sudden movement, he whips around and glares at me. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Just wondering what you’re texting.” I’m more interested in who he’s texting.

  He finishes typing and stares at me again. “It’s plan B,” he says as he tucks the phone back into his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, and wipes down the steering wheel, shifter, and anything else he might have touched.

  “You have a plan B?”

  Without missing a beat, he says, “There’s always a plan B.”

  As soon as he says this, I detect the sound of helicopter blades. Dayton scurries out of the vehicle and pops open the trunk. He grabs a large flashlight (more like a car headlight with handles) and sets it on the ground. He shines a brilliant white light into the air, turning it on and off, as the chopper closes in.

  “Who’s that?”

  “You are a curious canine, aren’t you?”

  “Do you have a plan C if this doesn’t work?”

  Without hesitation, he says, “Absolutely.” He has to shout the word as the helicopter touches down next to the Camaro. Grabbing my elbow and the flashlight, he guides me to the chopper. I can’t hear anything but the whooshing of blades cutting the air. Dayton shouts something like, “Climb in,” or, “Pile in,” or, “Dive in.” There’s no time to interpret the phrase as he shoves me onto the chopper, then jumps in himself.

  The pilot turns around and gives the colonel a thumbs-up signal. Locks of bright red hair show at the sides and back of the man’s helmet. The mirrored face shield conceals his face.

  My stomach stays on the ground when the machine rises at a crushing speed. In a few moments, we’re miles away from the Camaro, zipping through the sky. Colonel Dayton doesn’t seem a bit concerned that we’re in a metal, dragonfly-like contraption hovering high above the ground. I wish confidence were contagious.

  “You all right?” the pilot shouts to Dayton over his shoulder. “Everything go okay?”

  Dayton pats the man on the top of the helmet. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “I wondered if you were gonna try and make it all the way to Vegas in the Camaro. Man, she’s a sweet ride. Too bad you had to leave her behind. Sweet ride.”

  The pilot’s red hair and tone of voice are familiar. I sniff the air to confirm the identification. He’s the man who held a gun to Dixie’s head as Colonel Dayton took me captive two years ago. Now there are two men I don’t trust helping me escape.

  The familiar cold ache gnaws at the back of my neck, and I have to do something—say anything—to keep it at bay. “Why use a car for the get-away if you had this helicopter?”

  Dayton smirks at my question and shakes his head, as if I should know what he’s thinking. “They would have heard it coming a mile away at the prison. Just lean back and enjoy the view. We’ll be in Las Vegas in no time.”

  Even though Colonel Dayton broke me out of jail, I still feel like a prisoner. I glance at t
he colonel’s watch. It’s six a.m., the time I’m normally awakened by the guards on Saturday for my medical exams. I wonder if the technicians will miss me. Two years of rigid routine are hard to shake.

  Dayton folds his arms, leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes.

  “You’re taking a nap?” I’m still in fight or flight mode (not to mention struggling with trust issues), but he’s taking everything in stride, like it’s just another day at the office.

  “Relax,” he says, popping one eye open, “I’m tired. I’ve been up all night planning your escape. I suggest you grab a few winks as well. I have no idea what may be waiting for us in Las Vegas. This is the perfect time to take a break—trust me.”

  Did he just say that?

  Glancing out the window at the world sliding by, I see a thin black ribbon. It’s a highway and tiny flashing blue lights race across it in both directions. They’re still hunting for our get-away car. They’ll probably find the abandoned vehicle soon, but have no idea where we’ve gone. I close my eyes and allow my mind to wander over the last two hours—that doesn’t happen. As usual, my thoughts display blatant disobedience and carry me back two years.

  Dixie Mulholland told her Aunt Rose she loved me. I overheard the conversation and confessed I felt the same. Dixie knew what I was then: a Giant Irish Wolfhound with the ability to transform into a human. That same night, we both found out Dixie was a Daemon. But none of those little details seemed to matter at the time; we were in love, and love is what it is. Like a red rose, its red because it has no choice.

  “Hey, wake up.”

  My eyes shoot open. The sound of the helicopter blades, their beating rhythm that lulled me to sleep, are silent. I look up and see Colonel Dayton staring down at me.

  “Let’s go, we’re here.”

  “Las Vegas?”

  Again, he shakes his head and smirks. Again, I’m supposed to know his thoughts. “C’mon, follow me.”

  I jump out of the helicopter and feel the instant crush of desert heat squeeze my body. Miles of white sand meet my eyes. A black sedan, its engine revving, is the only sign of life in this desolate landscape. Colonel Dayton grabs me by the elbow once again and rushes me toward the vehicle at a fast trot.

  “Get in the back. Say hello to Paul Cuthbert, our helicopter pilot and driver. Settle back and relax, we’re still a couple of hours away from Vegas.”

  “Hey man,” the driver says, “glad to meet you. Call me Cutty.” He tosses a duffle bag into the backseat next to me. “Here’s some clothes—shoes, too. Picked ’em out myself. I hope everything fits.”

  Dayton jumps into the passenger seat. Cutty accelerates down a sandy road for about a mile. He guides the sedan onto blacktop then turns onto a highway, and we join a line of other vehicles. A sign rushes by—Las Vegas 185 mi.

  “Then what?” I ask.

  “Then what, what?” Dayton says.

  “Where’s Dixie?”

  “Not so fast. There’s something we have to do first.”

  “But—”

  “Then we’ll go see Dixie.”

  “But what if she—”

  “Listen, Adam. There isn’t a script for any of this, it’s all improvised. Just settle back and relax.”

  I push against the seat. For the first time ever, Colonel Dayton called me “Adam.” It’s a minor victory, a small indication he acknowledges my humanity, and that carries a lot of weight with me. “Thank you.”

  Dayton wrinkles his brow. “For what?”

  Silly question, this time he should know what I’m thinking. I change into my new set of clothes, making sure to hang onto my drawings of Dixie, and close my eyes, hoping for another dream of her.

  Instead, I get a nightmare: hundreds of Giant Irish Wolfhounds running wild on the streets of Las Vegas, slaughtering humans. I feel claws dig into my back and teeth rip through my flesh. The smell of death, the screams, and the blood make me shake—like scenes from a horror film on television looping over and over. I can’t turn it off.

  Chapter Three

  Dixie Mulholland parked her faded maroon Hyundai on Seventh Street; no more colorful, recognizable vehicles for her anymore—all low profile now. She walked a half block and turned right onto a small, tree-lined avenue. The long row of houses with neatly trimmed front yards and “water-smart” landscaping put a smile on her face. Thoughts of her old neighborhood always brought a rush of happy memories: childhood friends, freezing nights filled with Christmas lights, and the endless dog days of blistering summers.

  A truck rushed by, pulling her back to the current realities of life: parking a few blocks away from home, keeping her eyes open for strangers, and trying to hold that ever present, anxious feeling under control.

  Her world had changed, transformed radically, since meeting Adam Steel: the man with the ability to shift into a Giant Irish Wolfhound; the man she loved.

  Only 9 a.m. and already ninety-five degrees. Another long, hot day lay in wait. Her steps were sure and steady as she glanced straight ahead, then across the street, then behind. This careful scrutiny of her surroundings was yet another reminder of who she’d become, but more importantly, who might be watching. Sweat coated her brow and her breathing labored under the early morning sun as she continued her trek through the old neighborhood.

  A small garage sale attracted her attention a few houses ahead. She’d never seen anyone outside the red brick house before, so she decided to stop and linger over the offerings. A 4 x 8 sheet of particleboard propped up on two sawhorses held the bulk of the items: a varied mish-mosh of knick-knacks, paperbacks, and clothing probably one step away from the garbage.

  “How much for this?” Dixie held up a faded Las Vegas 51’s baseball cap.

  The homeowner, a lady in her sixties wearing a colorful muumuu, smiled, revealing a row of missing front teeth. “Quarter.”

  “I’ll take it.” She fingered other items on the makeshift table and grinned at a few of the unclaimed treasures: a bag of runes, a deck of tarot cards, and a miniature crystal ball. Apparently, the homeowner had seen nothing in the crystal but the error of her ways at trying to look into the future. Dixie smiled. Humans placed so much weight in divinations.

  “What do you want for this bag of runes?”

  “Two dollars, only ’cause they’re ivory. But if you take ’em off my hands, I’ll throw in the cards and glass ball for nothing.”

  Dixie gave the woman two dollars and took the items.

  “Hope they work for you,” the woman said, “didn’t do a damn thing for me. You want a bag for all that?” Not waiting for an answer, she produced a plastic bag and carefully placed the items inside. “Have a nice day.”

  Dixie thanked the woman and returned to the sidewalk. The bill of the 51’s cap shaded her face from the sun, a few strands of blonde hair sneaking out from under the brim.

  In a few minutes, she stood in front of Aunt Rose’s 1950s green and tan bungalow. Memories of the night everybody now called The Las Vegas Disaster flooded her mind; the night she discovered she was a Daemon; the night she confessed her love for Adam Steel.

  “C’mon, a little farther,” a voice prodded. The words were so clear, so real, Dixie turned back to the red brick house, wondering if the homeowner, too, heard the voice. The old woman busily boxed up her items.

  I know, Dixie thought, don’t you think I remember where I used to live? I just don’t know who might be watching. Furtive conversations with Major Jean Ransom were now in Dixie’s nature, a part of her life. Those discussions with the other side, however, were not always congenial. I’m just being cautious, that’s all.

  “You’re being slow is what you’re being. Hurry along then.”

  “Dixie? What are you doing standing out there? Come inside.” The screen door creaked open and an elderly woman—white hair, glasses, and a beaming smile—stepped out onto the porch. She wore a blue print dress and dark shoes.

  Dixie marched up the walkway. “Hi, Aunt Rose. Sorry I’m
so early. I’m just a little anxious.”

  “Don’t be silly, today’s the big day.” They hugged on the porch. “Shopping so early in the morning? What have you got in the bag?”

  “No, not shopping. There was a yard sale down the street, and I picked up a couple of silly things. Got this hat, too.”

  “Good for you. How environmentally enlightened of you, my dear. Well, come on in, I’ve got the air on.”

  What Aunt Rose called “the air” was nothing more than two portable circulating fans in the living room. The house had been built without central air conditioning, and even the noisy swamp cooler, attached to the kitchen window by rusty bolts, had long since given up the ghost.

  Standing in the living room, intoxicated by the familiar aroma of baked goods wafting in from the kitchen, brought back so many mixed memories. She glanced at the fireplace and remembered Christmas stockings hung with care. At the same time, she recalled the green flame in the hearth the night of The Convergence—the night evil Daemons ravaged Las Vegas.

  The lies the government spread about that night sickened Dixie. Over thirteen hundred people died in the attack. The official report cited solar flare-ups, underground earthquakes, and a dozen other natural phenomenon, including rumors of roaming packs of wild wolves. The public never learned the real truth about that awful night; the truth about Giant Irish Wolfhounds created and trained by evil Daemons to kill humans. Dixie tried to reveal the facts on national television and got fired for her efforts. Fired? Humiliated and blacklisted was more like it.

  “Can I get you some tea, my dear?”

  “Oh, no, don’t go to any bother.”

  “No bother at all. Have a seat,” Aunt Rose said, a twinkle glowing in her bright eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

  Dixie lifted the crystal ball from the plastic bag and positioned it on the mantel. She stepped back and smiled. The item seemed to add a bit of magic to the room—quite appropriate. She set the bag on the floor and eased onto the comfortable old brown couch. Removing the baseball cap, she closed her eyes and let the warm breeze from the fans rush across her face.