by C. F. Waller
“True,” he replies weakly. “Your hands seem to be tied on the matter.”
“Are you done with farewells?”
“Yes, I believe we are,” he answers, holding the cans behind his back with one hand and holding his other hand out to her. “These are for you. Call them a parting gift from myself and Beatrix.”
“You shouldn’t have,” she remarks in jest, taking what he offers.
“Oh we absolutely did,” Dorian adds.
She holds them up to the light, placing her spear under one arm as she does. I can see from my position they are nine volt batteries.
“Arron,” Dorian shouts. “Now would be a good time to run.”
I turn and sprint for the gap in the containers. Glancing back, I see her grab Dorian by the throat, the cans falling to the ground at her feet. I reach the gap and dart in, taking the first right. The explosion lights up the sky, throwing shadows into the maze of containers. I try to take the next left, but the entire row falls over creating a domino effect. The walls shudder and steel crashes down around me. I stick right and trip, skidding to the ground. A container falls above me, but catches itself between the two on the either side, hanging ten feet above my head and swaying slightly. Shoving Dorian’s key in my front pocket, I push myself to my feet and tuck my gun behind my back in the waistband of my jeans.
“You couldn’t just pour drinks and keep your head down,” I groan to myself, wishing I could go back to my old life.
Of the three directional choices, one is blocked by fallen containers, one is the direction I just came from and the third is open. I kneel down and examine the paint along the bottom of the nearest container. It’s my lucky day as the spray can color points down the open path that should lead me to the car. In retrospect, if I am being honest, this is not my lucky day.
“Thanks for the bread crumbs Rahnee,” I say aloud, feeling her loss like a kick in the groin.
Chapter Twenty-five
The heat from the blast is oppressive. Sweat runs down my forehead and into one eye. In the distance, you can hear the sound of containers crashing down, possibly warping from the heat. Following the red paint in hopes of reaching the car, I begin to notice a salty breeze on my back. When the containers moved this last time they must have left a path to the ocean, funneling the wind though. A few steps later, I pick up a whiff of smoke. It’s an acrid smell as if it were smoldering as opposed to an open fire. It dawns on me that the knocked over containers were between me and the explosion, meaning there shouldn’t be smoke in the wind. I suppose there still could be, but it seems unlikely.
“Unless something from the fire followed me,” I say aloud, turning back.
Drawing my gun I back track one right turn and get a start. Rhea or what’s left of her is limping towards me. She appears like a grey fragmented charcoal statue. One foot is missing toes, and it drags as she moves. Looking dry enough to crack off, one arm is missing a hand, while the other has an upper arm more like a bone in thickness. Her hair is missing completely on one side of her head and the only color on her entire body is her green eyes. The slight breeze blows ashes off of her and they pass by me as if it were snowing. When she sees me, a crooked smile washes over her dry cracked face, her breath puffing out as smoke.
“Lord, will you die already,” I blurt out, clicking the safety off and firing at her.
The shot hits her right arm and it breaks off. When it hits the ground it shatters into small pieces, causing me to cover my mouth in horror. The pieces dissolve into the gold and silver glitter, but the swarm of particles float in a slow lazy way as opposed to the quick decisive action I witnessed earlier. Once near the bone that constitutes her upper arm, they twirl about replacing the arm. The swarm only manages to assemble a burnt looking reproduction, no better them before. As the swarm dissipates, she turns her head and scowls at the poor reconstruction work, huffing a stream of smoke. In her anger she speeds up, closing the gap to maybe ten feet. I back up, still much faster than she is.
“Okay, this was fun,” I mutter, turning to head for the car.
There is a creaking sound, then one of the containers overhead slips and crashes down, wobbling the ones on either side of me. I lose my balance and put a hand out on the closest wall to steady myself, but jerk it back quickly. The steel wall of the container is hot to the touch. My fingertips burn and I shake the hand and grit my teeth.
“Sodom and Gomorrah,” I grunt, recalling the pillar of salt reference from earlier in a rather random way. “Right, got it.”
I am shaken from my daze as her hand hits my shoulder. I am shocked she could move that fast and spin around a little too quickly. My feet get tangled and I fall on my back as I reach the junction in the passageway. Her green eyes glow brighter, then fade off a bit like a fire ember. Bits of the silver and gold glitter mix with ash blowing off her hair. The queen of the Immortals is practically on top of me, when shots ring out. She is hit in the leg, which shatters, knocking her over. Scrambling away on all fours, I hear a familiar voice.
“This is really starting to piss me off,” Rahnee shouts as she leans on the wall down the passage twenty feet from me.
Regaining my feet I go to her, shocked she could move, let alone have made the trek out to her car and a hundred yards down the wall to this opening. Her left arm is held tight to her body, the wrist swollen and bent, one finger almost sideways. A deep gash on her forehead has spilled blood down her nose, dividing her face into two sides. In her right hand she holds her remaining hand cannon.
“Try not to hit me with that,” I say, putting out a hand, lowering it. “I have zero tolerance for cyanide.”
“Only the first clip had those,” she nods, exhaling deeply. “How’s your girlfriend?”
“A little bit of a stalker at this point,” I admit.
She nods at Rhea who is already up as the leg reforms inside the swarm. Her head turns in our direction, smoke escaping from her mouth. When she starts towards us, the breeze blows a flurry of ash off her hair.
“Can you move?” I ask.
“I got here to save your butt didn’t I?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I answer, watching her turn a shoulder and use the wall to keep the weight off her left leg.
“Twist your ankle?” I beg, carefully watching Rhea gain on us.
“Fairly sure it’s broken,” she replies. “On the upside, I barely notice the arm when I put weight on it.
“Beautiful,” I groan.
We begin a race similar to the tortoise and the hare, only it’s two tortoises and no bunnies. We make it around the next corner and another twenty feet before Rahnee slides down the corrugated wall, winding up on her knees. Our charcoal colored hunter rounds the corner in a lazy swarm of gold and silver.
“Go,” Rahnee tells me. “You can’t carry me and I’m not going to out run her. I’ll lite her up while you bug out.”
“Yes Arron, leave her here,” a gravelly voice comes from Rhea. “She’s not into you anyway.”
Her statement ends in a raspy cough that dislodges a grey chuck from her waist. It drops in front of her, rolling to one side. I notice it remains there, rather than dissolving. I’m pondering something Rhea told me back on the jet, when Rahnee fires a burst from her gun. It hits Rhea in the forehead, carving a channel through her forehead. Grey ash and bits of charcoal explode in all directions, but stop short of the ground, dissolving into gold and silver glitter. As Rhea pauses mid step, the swarm flitters about her head and the gouge fills in. None of this is gory since she’s a solid block of ash.
“That always works in the movies,” Rahnee grunts.
“You’re not in an episode of the Walking Dead,” I lecture, grabbing her by the jacket collar, dragging her down the passage.
Rhea comes faster now, seeming to gain strength. Rahnee shoots an arm off and watches as Rhea doesn’t slow down. The swarm follows her and the arm reappears mid chase. What did she say about this? I lose my grip on the collar, swea
t running down my arm onto my hands. With all my weight pulling backwards, I tumble down several yards away from Rahnee.
“The head dissolves and goes to the torso, not the other way around,” I whisper as her words flash in my brain.
Rhea is ten feet from Rahnee now and her green eyes are flaming. Rahnee is pushing herself backwards, left arm clutched over her chest, the gun resting on her lap. From my knees I fire into Rhea’s stomach, blowing a chuck off her side when my shot goes wide. No swarm of glitter appears on the missing piece.
“Body,” I shout. “Shoot her body.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” Rahnee groans, the grey figure almost upon her.
“No, her body,” I yell and fire again. “Chest to waist.”
My next shot hits her in the stomach, but the bullet sails through leaving a very small hole. I fire three more times, doing similarly little damage. With Rhea only a footstep away Rahnee raises her gun and opens fire, the steady thump, thump, repeating over and over. Rhea’s torso comes apart in the hail of rapid fire. She breaks apart into dust and marble sized burnt chunks. These rain down on Rahnee, the arms falling to either side. The bullets run out, the slide locking open as she drops the gun.
“Take my hand,” I shout, getting to my feet and reaching for her good arm.
Rahnee gags on the grey ash that covers her, a clenched fist over her mouth.
“My hand,” I repeat.
She spits into the gravel then takes my hand. After getting a good grip, I drag her away from the cloud of dust and soot. After ten yards I stop, spent from the exertion.
“She coming back?” Rahnee coughs ash, covering her hair.
“I don’t think so,” I remark, walking a few steps back to get a better look.
The legs lie in a jumble, but still recognizable. One arm is still solid, while the other is in three equal pieces. Her head sits on its side, eyes following me, but glassy and dim. The rest of her is either dust or ashen gravel that forms a circle over five feet across.
She tries to speak, but no sound comes out, only a trail of smoke from her lips. Turning my head I notice a similar wisp from what used to be her neck. Several small swarms of glitter flitter around the three arm pieces making only minor improvement. A few other gnat like swarms, bearing no color, hover over her limbs accomplishing nothing that I can see.
“We should go before she gets up,” Rahnee orders loudly, pushing herself up to a standing position using the wall.
“I don’t think she’s getting up this time,” I reply cautiously.
“Still, might be better to run while we can,” she advises as the sound of sirens in the distance echoes off the container walls. “It’s going to get crowded here real soon.”
I watch transfixed, as her swarm of helpers try in vain to put her back together. Her eyes are dim, but remain fixed on me, her mouth blowing silent smoke.
“Arron,” Rahnee barks. “Let’s go.”
Stepping closer, I crouch down, putting a hand on the ground so I can look her in the eye.
“I guess you were right,” I whisper to Rhea. “You are history.”
Smoke pours from her mouth as she tries to speak. Backing up a step, it looks like a snake is coming from her mouth. I point the gun at her head and fire, sending a cloud of ash into the air. With one hand waving across my face to clear my vision, I fire three more times decimating her remaining limbs. In the end nothing recognizable remains. A small cloud of gold and silver glitter floats aimlessly over the mess.
“All the Kings horses and All the Kings men,” Rahnee recites.
“Let’s hope so,” I agree, heading back to help her.
Putting her left arm over my shoulder is agonizing for her, as her broken wrist dangles from my neck. She grits her teeth and somehow manages to limp along.
When we reach the parking lot the sporty Dodge is leaning on the beat up police cruiser Dunn was driving. The driver door is open, the car still running. On further inspection the two seem to have been in a collision. The Dodge is still in gear, pressing into the other car at idle speed. Rahnee must have hit Dunn’s car to stop hers, before crawling out to help me. There is minor damage to the Black Dodge’s passenger headlight, but nothing to worry about.
“You drove down here,” I utter in shock, leaning her on the back fender while I open the passenger door.
“I sure wasn’t walking it.”
“I hope Decker took the insurance,” I joke.
“Very funny.”
I slip her in and slam the door. Over the containers is a red and yellow glow as the fire still rages. The sky almost dark now, an orange and purple haze glows over the top of the Queen Mary. The sirens grow louder and I hop in, peeling out of the parking area. As we fly down Harbor Scenic Drive we pass police cars going the other way. We pick up US-15 and head west.
Chapter Twenty-six
Jack and Jill go up a hill
We let the road disappear into the rearview mirror in silence. On top of the loss of friends, the added shock that I may be semi-immortal lingers in my mind. We pull over to get gas at Norco. My turning onto the off-ramp becomes one long argument over her arm and ankle. I think we should get her to a hospital, but she wants to get as far from the scene of the crime as she can before seeking any help. I have no idea how’s she coping with the pain. I’ve had a broken my wrist and understand how agonizing it feels. Not to mention mine was not broken anywhere near as badly as hers is.
Her trunk contains a foam cooler full of beer that we put on the passenger side floor board. She puts her hand and wrist in the ice. This shuts me up for the time being. We travel another hour and a half to Barstow, at which point she allows me to take her to an emergency room. It’s takes until noon the next day to get her to a private room. They cast her wrist and hand, but demand she stay until an orthopedic doctor can come and look at the x-rays. The ankle is a simple break and she has her lower leg and foot in a cast like her arm. It’s bright pink, a color I picked as she was out cold when choices were offered. She used a wide array of curse words when she woke up and noticed it.
“We are out of here tomorrow,” she orders over a dinner tray suspended over the bed.
“They might want to put some screws in that wrist,” I warn her, sipping on a milkshake from the hospital dining room. “Let’s see what the ortho guy has to say.”
“They can do that anywhere,” she grumbles. “We need to keep moving.”
“Where is it you’re headed?”
“Well,” she starts to speak, but stops, her mouth open.
“I have a thought,” I interject.
“Men usually do,” she groans.
“Bozeman Montana,” I begin. “I need to look into something there. Thought once they got you settled, we could take a road trip.”
“How far is that?”
“A tad under a thousand miles, fifteen hours,” I answer. “I figure we take two days. Enjoy the view, stay somewhere nice.”
“What gives you the impression we are going anywhere,” she grumbles, her emphasis on the word we.
This draws me back to a just few nights ago when she tried to abandon me. Had I not caught up to her and gotten ahold of the taxi door before it pulled away, the end result of this series of events could have been very different. Pausing on that, I am hard pressed to decide if it would be better or worse. Either way, I’ve learned not to take no for an answer with Rahnee.
“You got someone better coming to pick you up, because you’re sure not driving anywhere?”
There is silence as she ponders my words. I decide not to speak, but rather wait for her to voice an opinion. With Rahnee, you have to let her come around to things. Bossing her around is a fool’s errand.
“You have a point,” she admits. “What’s in Bozeman?”
“Not sure, but from an off-the-grid perspective it’s perfect.”
“Fine,” she complains. “But we leave tomorrow. I can sign myself out.”
“If that’
s what it takes,” I reply, wishing she would listen to the doctors.
As it turns out the orthopedic guy lets her go, but tells her to get an x-ray after three days to see if the bones stayed in place when the cast was set. Rahnee nods and smiles, but I know that will be another argument between us. We work out a place for her in the back seat with her leg sticking between the two front seats, resting on the console. We use the cooler to keep her arm up and take off for Montana.
After some digging on the internet while Rahnee was bedridden, I figured out the key Dorian gave me was probably a lock box key. Given he was living in Bozeman, I thought I would try the banks there. There are ten banks in the area and my guess is one of them has a security box that fits this key.
We get a room at the Lewis and Clark Motel, a seedy place on the outskirts of town. The décor is straight seventies Wild West and I actually find it sort of fun. Rahnee likes it because it’s cheap. She doesn’t want to use any plastic, even though I doubt we are being followed anymore.
The next day she refuses to stay in the room, demanding that I put her in the car. Having grown weary of arguments, I do. We go from bank to bank all day. I go in while she sits in the car with the windows down. More than one remark about leaving your pets in the car is bandied about, but they all result in some sort of obscene gesture. I try banks that look big thinking they will have safe deposit boxes, but none recognize the key. Finally at Wells Fargo, the manager tells me it’s an out of date key. He speculates that a small local bank called Wagon Wheel Savings and Loan might still be using them.
The Wagon Wheel is in the bottom floor of a larger building in the historic district. Historic in this case means run down. There are only two teller windows in the small lobby. When the manager is called out, he recognizes the key immediately, offering to open the box for me. Somewhat shocked that he doesn’t want to see my ID, I follow him to a private room. He carries in a flat box maybe four inches high and a foot across. It’s at least two feet in length, but he is carrying it with ease so it must not contain anything heavy. He sets it down and smiles at me.
