by C. F. Waller
With no sign of compassion, the little girl gets her tiny hand around the spray can near the arrow head and turns to her victim, now on his knees.
“Wo denkst du, du gehst,” she frowns, before swinging her arm in a long arc, driving the arrow into the man’s lower back.
The arrows can once again clicks, as if pumping something. The man slowly slides face down into the pavement. The girl must hear us talking, as she now acknowledges us. She’s staring at me as if she was teaching a middle school class. Pointing to two large men who have emerged from behind the SUV, she again speaks in what sounds like German to me.
“Holen Sie sich das Feld du Idiot . Holen Sie sich das Feld jetzt,” she barks, turning back to us when she’s done.
“Anyone speak German?” I croak, but get no replies.
“This can’t be happening,” Dorian sputters looking at Bee. “Shelly is a nursery rhyme, a ghost story to scare kids into bed at night.”
“Are you scared?” Bee asks, seemly unfettered.
“Yeah,” he answers weakly.
“Then it works.”
The back of the big SUV they were hiding behind opens up and two men grab the handles of a huge metal object. It’s so heavy that even with the two large men they drop it with a crunch, chewing a divot in the pavement. As they drag it over to their victim, the second arrow sticking out of his back, the girl watches us. When the man begins to move his hand, she frowns and walks back to the truck, crawling in the back. The tail gate is too high for her and the childish dress pulls up revealing her white tights.
Back on the pavement, the man struggles to get ahold of the arrow shaft in his back and seems to be coming around slowly. Before he can gain his feet, the girl jumps out of the back of the truck, a third arrow in hand. When she gets to the man, she looks back at us and then at the arrow.
“This,” she instructs in a high-pitched voice as she changes seamlessly to English. “Turns their blood to concrete. It keeps them from moving, but they get over it fast enough,” she shrugs, before driving it into his back, setting off the pumping can again. “It will hold the beast till we get him in the Box.”
No one speaks, but Bee nods. Something pokes my thigh and peeking down I see a shiny steel blade coming out of the frilly cuff of Bee’s sleeve. I’d estimate it to be no more than ten inches long, shaped like the end bit of a Japanese sword. Noticing that it touched me, she turns and widens her eyes. Looking back down, I see the blade slowly glide back up and out of sight. By its motion I would guess its sitting on a rolling track of some sort. There appears to be more to Bee than meets the eye.
The large men set the Box down next to the human pin cushion. Shelly struggles with the lid, finally flinging it open with the help of one of her henchmen. The top slams down in the open position once it reaches the tipping point. We stand on the upward grade of the parking lot, allowing me to see inside. There is a maze of walls, as if the Box was for a mouse to run through. Some of the dividers are grey steel, while others are shiny. The shiny ones have razor sharp tops.
The Asian woman suddenly appears and hands one of the men a set of bolt cutters. He uses it to chop off the arrows, removing the shafts, but leaving the tips. Once free of them, they pick him up and drop him into the Box. He lands on top of the maze of walls, unable to drop all the way down inside.
“Oh Lord,” Dorian gasps as he figures out what is about to happen a split second before I do. “No, no no, no, no.”
The maze is in the shape of a body. If it were not for the sharp metal sections of the walls he would have dropped right in snuggly. The sharp spots line up on his upper arms, neck and mid thighs.
“When they shut the lid, it will dismember him?” I question Bee.
She nods without speaking, the corners of her mouth curling up into a slight smile.
When they shut the lid, it drops on the man, but cannot close. A grunt of pain comes out of the half open lid. He seems to be coming out of this frozen state. A finger on his visible hand twitches reflexively as it dangles on the edge of the box.
The Asian woman, who seems to act as a runner between the SUV and the scene of the crime, comes back with two huge machine screws. I estimate them to be as tall as the Box, maybe eighteen inches and a good two inches in diameter. She hands them to the child one at a time and the tiny redhead pushes them into the lid on the side that’s not closed. They hit an unseen lip and she turns them slowly to thread them in. Once done they all step back, the child pausing to kick his hand inside the edge of the Box. She draws what appears to be a key fob, like the ones that lock and unlock the doors of a car, from a pocket on her dress and glances back at our horrified group.
“Es beginnt,” she grins and pushes the button.
The whir of a small motor echoes from the Box and then the screws begin to turn slowly. As they do they draw the lid down, pushing on the man. A scream bursts from his lips as the lid closes, dismembering him as it does. Arms and legs cut off by the blades. But worse, his decapitation makes a popping sound, followed by the grinding of bones. When the lid seals shut there is a spray of blood that coats the pavement for a good two feet. They must have done this before as all three of them are well back from it, the Asian woman having already retreated to the SUV.
Dorian turns away from our group and vomits, dropping to all fours as he wretches. Bee gazes on him with a disgusted expression, shaking her head in disapproval of his weakness. By the time I look back, the men are dragging the Box to the SUV, grinding another groove in the pavement as they go. The sound of crunching concrete is loud in the enclosed space.
Satisfied expression on her face, the child watches for a moment and then wanders over to us, stopping a few feet away. She is the perfect image of a little girl, white smooth skin with the slightest hint of freckles. Pocketing the key fob, she places her hands on her hips.
“Squeamish much,” she squeaks looking at Dorian, who wipes his mouth on his wrist and stands up on shaky legs.
“You would be Shelly?” Bee queries.
“Sindri,” she replies with a head shake.
“Sindri?” Bee presses her.
“Sindri was a dwarf who made magical items for the Norse Gods. It’s my given name. Sort of fitting don’t you think?”
“Nothing magical about that,” Dorian groans as he watches the men with the box.
“Really,” she replies in an annoyed tone. “Can you think of a better way to contain a thing that won’t die? Something that hunts and kills our kind simply because we are exposed by some overzealous short-timers.”
“What do you do with it now?” Bee asks inquisitively.
“Take it out in the ocean and drop it seven miles deep,” she says proudly. “Probably the only place on Earth the Witch can’t get them back.”
“There is air inside,” I blurt out, thinking I know something she doesn’t. “It will implode at that depth. He might get out.”
“No worries short-timer,” she chuckles slapping a hand on a tiny knee. “I’ll drill a couple of holes in it to let the air out. That way if he gets thirsty he won’t dehydrate.”
I ponder the fate of a decapitated immortal trapped in a box full of seawater. It gives me an icy chill that causes me to jerk unconsciously. What an unimaginable fate for anyone.
“Didn’t I read about a guy who used tiny robots to search the bottom of the ocean at that depth?” I offer, verbally sparing with her. “They might be retrievable.”
“I saw the special on the Discovery channel. He also claimed he found an alien moon rover,” she snickers. “Consider the source on that one. Besides I’ve been at this awhile and never saw any a second time. No return business so to speak.”
“Let it go Arron,” Bee whispers.
“Gib mir eine Rauch, she suddenly barks over her shoulder in the direction of the SUV.
“You mentioned a Witch?” Bee asks, seemingly un-phased by the arrival of a nursery rhyme.
“Rhea,” she asserts as the Asian woman shuffles ov
er, lights a cigarette in her own mouth, before passing it to Sindri. “She’s running the show since I put Cronus in a Box,” she winks and then hits the cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke off to one side.
I wince as she smokes. This is like an episode of South Park. She’s more of an animated character than a real flesh and blood person.
“Kinda young for that aren’t you,” Dorian pokes at her, still wobbly.
“Buzz off wussy,” she snarls. “You try being nine years old for a few centuries and then give me your opinion.”
“It’s un-natural,” he accuses. “You’re an abomination.”
“Well excuse me,” she barks. “Not a lot of vices for me now is there? Alcohol makes me sick and I’m never going to be old enough for sex. At least let me smoke in peace.”
“How have you stayed hidden all this time?” Bee breaks in, trying to shut Dorian up.
“Can’t tell you that. It’s a trade secret,” she winks, seeming to find us amusing. “Hey, it’s been nice chatting, but I have to run. You three try and keep from getting dead.”
“How did you know that thing would be here?” Bee keeps at her and then pauses. “You were following us?”
“Gold star for the lady,” she chirps pointing a finger at Bee before turning and heading to the SUV. “Saw your lackey park the car down here last night.”
The use of the word lackey offends me, but I remain silent.
“You used us as bait,” Bee shouts at her back.
“Another gold star,” she offers as she climbs up into the passenger side and pulls the door shut. “Keep running, just keep running.”
Bee starts to say something, but visibly holds it in, scowling. The SUV backs up and drives right by us. As it does, Sindri waves. We share blank expressions and glance back at the blood spray staining the pavement, the man’s gun the only thing left on the ground. The realization that what I took for a fairy tale is actually true tip toes across my thoughts. This makes me dizzy and I shake my head to clear it.
“Let’s go,” Bee orders, pointing at the silver Volvo down the aisle.
“Go where?” Dorian moans.
“Away from here,” she orders, already herding us to the car. “If the cops show up, we will have some explaining to do.”
“Jail might be the safest place,” I sigh.
On the way to the car Bee instructs me to gather up the gun. I ponder if it’s a special immortal gun, but decide that there’s no reason for such extreme measures. Bee indicated that she and Dorian were not any harder to kill than myself. Besides, if it was special, Sindri would never have left it laying there for the police to find.
“Doomed,” I groan, adopting Bee’s terminology. “Definitely doomed.”
Chapter Eleven
Dominick Dunn
With Rahnee and Decker gone to check out a lead, I sip on a cup of coffee and wait for Flynn’s guy to show up. The waitress, a tired looking strawberry blonde, wanders past and tops off my cup. I watch as her yellow uniform hugs her hips before she disappears around a bend in the dining area.
Through glass misted from a combination of humidity and air conditioning, I see a taxi draw up to the curb outside. A rough looking fellow in a red track jacket and jeans slips out. He leans back to pay the driver and then tosses a backpack over one shoulder, heading inside. His hair is shaved on the sides and short, but spiked on top. He scans around the restaurant until he lands on me. After a brief pause to determine if I am who he’s looking for, he starts my way. I am the only one in here wearing a suit, the rest of the dinners looking either homeless or close to it.
“You Dunn?” he grunts, holding out his hand.
“Yup, and you are?” I inquire, waiting for him to fill in the blank.
“Blake.”
“Got a first name?”
“Yeah, Blake.” he gripes as he wipes the table down with a napkin, stopping to pick a hair off the corner.
Unsure if Blake is his first name or last, I conclude he’s not likely to share any more on the subject. We exchange a stare and then the waitress comes over to see what my new best friend wants.
An obnoxious exchange occurs between the waitress, whose name turns out to be Aimee, oddly spelled on her nametag. Blake is overly aggressive, almost to the point of a Neanderthal. I endure it in silence until she leaves, waiting for him to stop staring at her.
“You know where they are?” he blurts out, pouring sugar in his coffee.
“We know where they were,” I explain. “My people are checking it out now.”
“Your people?” he sighs. “You mean the Israeli hellcat and her on again, off again, bed warmer?”
“They seem to be all we have to work with,” I grumble, disliking this guy instantly. “Tell me what you have. I was lead to believe you were bringing something useful.”
“Right,” he nods, his voice giving off the hint of a British accent at times. “We need Faust. The girl may or may not matter, but we think this Dorian character is the meal ticket. So, you track her to him and then grab them up.”
“Yeah, that I already knew,” I groan. “Why are we skipping the girl? I been at this for years and we never skip any of the links in the chain.”
“There isn’t any more time mate,” he informs me, tipping up his cup for a long sip. “You saw what’s coming. You never really believed any of this, but you do now.”
“Yes, that was a rather sobering moment,” I admit. “But why skip to the end? What exactly are you looking for?”
“Genetic markers. As we work our way down the Calling Tree we get closer to DNA we can use. The Tree isn’t ordered by age, but rather some genetic order. Faust should have the greatest compatibility to us regular old humans. In an ideal world we would go through them one by one, but now we have to jump to the end.”
“Rumor is you put them in a blender and drink them?” I verbally jab at him, searching for a reaction.
“That’s a fairly unscientific description, but close to that,” he agrees, giving me a jolt instead of him. “Do you know why they don’t age?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not a science guy.”
“It’s not as complicated as you might think. At least not in principle.”
“Try me,” I challenge, thinking this ruffian doesn’t look like a scientist.
Blake nods, holds up a finger, and then slides out of the booth. He wanders to the doors, pushing out onto the sidewalk. I can see him through the glass, so I sit and sip my coffee. When he strikes up a conversation with a bag lady sitting on a bench, I fear he is going to chop her up and put her in a food processer as a visual aide. No such grizzly event occurs however. Instead he exchanges an unknown sum of money for a red leather shoe. After pulling the shoe from one of her bags, they again converse. In the end, he removes the shoelace and returns the shoe to the woman, who in turn, refunds some of his money. Finished with their transaction he comes back in and she goes on with whatever important Bag lady business she has on her schedule for the day.
He stops the waitress in the aisle on his way back. Another odd exchange transpires, ending with him whispering something to her. She pulls back, before slipping away, indicating to me that she wasn’t interested. He slides back in the booth frowning.
“Okay, shoe lace,” he says, holding it by the plastic ends and stretching it out over the table.
I nod in return, then he’s off and running.
“A shoelace and a strand of DNA are in appearance, basically the same,” he instructs, twisting the ends so the shoelace makes the spiral shape of a DNA strand. “You follow?”
I nod.
“Good, an actual DNA strand has the same endcaps as a shoelace,” he lectures, holding up the ends with the plastic caps. “They serve the same purpose as these. They keep the DNA strand from becoming frayed on the ends.”
He pauses and I nod. I understand the basics of DNA and it makes sense that they have an end cap.
“Ok, do you know why we age?”
I shrug.
“Guess,” he orders.
“Our bodies get old and wear down?” I toss out, having no real idea.
“Yes, but why?”
I shake my head and turn palms up to indicate that I don’t know.
“Have you ever heard the theory that the human body replaces itself every seven years?” he asks and pauses, but I just shake my head. “The idea is that we become essentially new people, because in that time, every cell in our bodies has been replaced by a new cell.”
“But that’s not true? Is it?”
“Not completely, but in practice it’s close. Cells in your body have different life spans. Red blood cells live for about four months, while white blood cells live on average more than a year. Skin cells live about two or three weeks. Colon cells have it rough and die off after about four days, although I would understand if that was a suicide,” he jokes, then pauses for me to laugh, which I don’t.
“Lighten up mate,” he admonishes me and goes on. “Sperm cells have a life span of only three days, while brain cells typically last an entire lifetime. Neurons in the cerebral cortex, for example, are not replaced when they die.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“So, for a cell to divide and replicate it has to duplicate its DNA,” he explains, holding up the shoelace once again. “Imagine I make a Xerox copy of this shoelace. Then I throw out the lace and take the copy I just made, put it on the glass and make a copy of the copy. Follow?”
I nod.
“I keep doing this over and over, replacing one sheet of paper with the one that just came out,” he explains becoming more animated. “What happens to the copy after a while?”
“It gets blurry?” I toss out.
“Exactly,” he nods, pointing a finger at me. “In the case of DNA, when it makes a copy, it’s a little bit shorter every time.”
He lays the string out on the table and points at the ends.
“Every time this shoelace replicates a teeny tiny bit is snipped off the end,” he instructs, looking over to make sure I am still with him.
