For some reason, her thoughts went back to the Long Branch fire from a few years back. She couldn’t remember exactly what year that was but knew she was in her mid-twenties when it happened.
She remembered the screaming and what looked like a huge fireball exploding onstage and the smell of cooking meat. It had been so sudden that she remembered thinking that they were under attack, being bombed or something. She was one of the lucky one hundred and thirty-eight people who had escaped.
Jeanine didn’t question how she could remember the exact number of survivors, nor did she question her decision when a town car pulled up on the curb and a man dressed in a crisp white shirt, black pants, and black tie emerged and opened the passenger door for her.
“Who is this?” a woman, striking in appearance, asked.
Jeanine ignored her and entered the car, aware that they were on a strict time constraint. As soon as her door closed, the car was moving again.
“Tony, this is getting stranger by the second.” The woman glanced at Jeanine. “Who are you?”
“Jeanine Vargas.”
“I’m Liz Harrison as if that matters at this point. My real question is: Why are you in my car?”
“I was called.”
Liz wanted to scream, stomp her feet, and punch something hard. “Tony, this is your absolute last chance to turn this car around and take me home.”
“I can’t do that, Mrs. Harrison. I really do hope that you’ll change your mind and get out the next time I stop. This doesn’t involve you.”
“It does because you’re on my payroll, this is my car, and your job is to do as I say.” If Liz was expecting a fight or even an answer, she didn’t get one.
Jeanine was content to stare out the window and watch the scenery. She tuned out the woman with them, who she knew didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.
Within a half an hour, they pulled off of Route 36 and onto Chelsea Avenue, and she wasn’t surprised.
“I need you to stay in the car, Mrs. Harrison. It’s for your own good.” Tony opened the door for Jeanine, who got out and took in the smell of the ocean with a smile.
“I’m not staying in the car, and you know it.” Liz got out.
Tony looked angry. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”
“I’m your boss—”
“I quit, you bitch. Now get back in the car.” Tony tossed her the keys. “Better yet, drive yourself home.”
Liz started to protest when Tony pulled a small handgun from his jacket pocket. She backed away slowly, trying not to panic or cry, and got into the driver’s seat of the car. She stayed there as Tony and Jeanine crossed the street and walked onto the weed-choked lot.
Manny couldn’t remember his last good night of sleep or Gina's. It had been six months since she'd lost the baby, and she was still very distant. He supposed they both were. It was the ugly white elephant in the corner, the thought you never said aloud.
They went through the motions now. No sex, no affection. Manny didn't even know if Gina remembered today was his birthday.
Camille had remembered, putting a love note on his car at home, which freaked him out. He'd need to deal with her sooner than later, but he didn't want to. He had too many other things on his mind right now. Like his failing marriage and his part in it.
He was raised Catholic, which to him meant the guilt and the fear of God's vengeance along with His love. Manny was paying for his sins and crushing Gina to boot. It was his fault she'd lost the baby, and he knew it. Had he been a good husband and wasn't a cheater, right now, she'd be holding a baby, and they'd be a happy family.
Instead, he was continuing on this wrong path, and he couldn't seem to stop. He lied to her about working overtime or helping out a friend and spent the first hour after shift sitting in the Brighton Bar pounding shots just so he could go home and face his wife and her somber, accusing eyes. Manny knew she knew something was wrong, and it was only a matter of time before it came to a head. He'd been dodging whispers and accusations for the last year, but Gina had never directly asked him if he was cheating. Maybe she just didn't want to know.
He rubbed his eyes, took another sip of his strong coffee, and started up the patrol car. He'd need to meet up with Mark later. Since budget cuts, the patrols had been cut down to single cops in cars and on foot.
A look in the rearview mirror made Manny wince. His eyes were red and puffy, his face sallow. He’d been up half the night with insomnia, rocking in the chair while trying to find the Yankees score. All he’d managed to find on the local late-late news was about the ten-year anniversary of the Long Branch fire and the bizarre deaths over the years. A somber reminder of what he was in store for today.
He had three more day shifts ahead of him before two much-needed days off. His life consisted of work and trying to get some sleep. He’d been promising Gina that they would get away soon, but she didn't seem to hear him. Maybe this weekend. Lord, get me through this day in one piece, he thought.
Chief Tankard offered to give him the day off, but Manny refused. “I have a job to do.”
“Yeah, I know, but I have to ask. I switched you with the Palmero patrol, figuring you’d want to be in that area on that day. Are you sure you don’t need a partner?”
“I’m fine; I just need to get through July 8th.”
“Dispatch knows to keep you in the loop on other things, but your main focus is on Chelsea Avenue.”
“I don't want special treatment.”
Tankard laughed. “Then I'll switch you back with Palmero. I know how much you like hanging on the Eatontown border and waiting for the mall police to need backup on a shoplifter or a dented car door.”
“I'll take the switch.” Manny looked away when Tankard stared at him, knowing the man didn't approve of his looks today. “And I'm fine, before you ask. I just haven't been sleeping well since…everything happened. Today being what it is, I think you can take pity on me and not say I look like shit.”
“I would never point out the obvious. But you look like shit.”
Manny snorted and wanted to get into his squad car and find the nearest cup of coffee. This brown crap in the paper cup wasn't cutting it to break through his haze.
His first call came in before he was out of the police lot, a domestic on Joline Avenue. “Great start to the day,” he muttered. He finished his coffee and tossed the empty cup on the passenger floor, the beginning to a pile of empties, he imagined.
Three hours later, he was at Jerry’s Deli with a fresh pork roll sandwich and a steaming cup of coffee on the counter before him.
“Did the Yanks win last night?” Manny asked.
“They didn't lose.” Jerry winked. “They were off last night.”
“No wonder I couldn't find a highlight on the news,” Manny said.
Jerry smiled. “This will be a good year, you watch. I predict another Yankees pennant flying in the stadium.”
“Maybe I'll take Gina to see a game. She's never been to Yankee Stadium. You believe that?”
Jerry shook his head. “Does she actually follow it?”
“Nah. She watches because I do, and she likes Jeter and Tino Martinez. Especially that damn Jeter.”
“Most women do. You can't blame her for that.”
“I still do,” Manny said and laughed. He yawned and checked his watch. “I need this day to be over.”
“I can imagine. Happy birthday, by the way,” Jerry said apologetically. “You should have taken the day off, you know.”
“I'm a Santiago. They don't come any more stubborn.” Manny stood up and stretched. “Have a great day. I'll see you tomorrow.”
Jerry put up a finger. “I’m going to pour you another to-go coffee; you look like you could use it.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Been around the corner yet?” Jerry asked quietly.
“Heading there after I get some food in me,” Manny said between mouthfuls of pork roll. “Hesitating as
much as I can. I had a domestic first thing and then I backed up Sorrentino on a traffic stop.”
“It’s been quiet this morning. Most people stay away from this side of town on this date. Can’t say I blame them.”
“Why do you stay open then?” Manny looked around at the empty deli.
Jerry laughed. “Officer Santiago always needs a fresh cup of coffee or three on this day.”
“Thanks, Jerry. I’m sure I’ll be back.” He lifted both coffees, took a sip from each cup, and headed out the door. Despite the overcast sky, it was a beautiful day. It was quiet with hardly a car passing by on Route 36. He put the cups on top of the squad car and looked both ways down the highway. Empty. He wondered if it was just the particular time of day or if Jerry was right and people stayed away from this corner of Long Branch on this date.
He decided to put one cup of coffee in the car for later and take the other cup in hand. It was too nice of a day to be cooped up in the patrol car. He decided to walk around the corner to Chelsea Avenue.
The sun teased him with a stray beam from above, casting his shadow before him on the sidewalk. As quick as it appeared, it was gone. He gulped down the coffee and ignored his shaking hand. Now, he wished he’d brought the other cup. It would be cold by the time he got back to the car. He stopped, unable to lift his leg to take the next step.
Chickenshit, he thought sourly. He knew he had to get through these twenty-four hours by tackling it head-on. No use in pretending that the last six years had gone by without incident. He needed to figure out what the pattern was on Chelsea Avenue, and he knew there was one. If he found the pattern…
A gunshot rang out in the silence, startling a seagull, which squawked and took flight overhead. Within seconds, Manny had his revolver out and was rushing around the corner. There was a black car parked on the side of the road on Chelsea directly across from the lot.
One glance told him that it was occupied by a woman, fear in her eyes and tears running down her face. She was staring at the lot, drawing Manny’s attention. He couldn’t see movement, but there was a wall of weeds and sea grass blocking the view. Without hesitation, he pushed through as quietly as he could, listening for movement or another shot. He knew that time was of the essence, but that didn’t mean he would rush headlong into a gun barrel. Instead, he moved to his right and tried to circle around the perimeter of the lot, coming around to where the strip club used to be.
Manny stepped over a two-foot-high section of the building’s corner and moved through the area that the stage used to be in, imagining the stripper pole and glossy floor to be about here. Of course, it was long gone with only wet grass and puddles covering the area now.
His hand was no longer shaking as he kept the revolver before him. Manny Santiago was all business. With each step, he kept moving to his right and slowly toward the center of the lot, stepping into increasingly deeper bodies of water but trying not to splash or give out telltale signs of his position all the while listening for any noise.
Voices to his left now, faint but not far. He circled around a burnt fifty-five gallon drum, its sides caved in and filled with charred debris. The grass here grew over his head, and when he tried to move through the area, he splashed into a two-foot-deep channel of water and almost lost his balance.
He stopped himself from cursing out loud just as he heard frantic splashing up ahead. He rushed through the weeds and stepped into a clearing, leading with his pistol. “Freeze!”
A man, dressed in black dress pants and a white dress shirt, was using his right dress shoed foot to hold a female’s head under water. A large, ancient bathtub had been left on the lot. Filled with water and debris, it was overflowing, and the water was splashing as the female tried to break free.
“I said freeze! Get away from her.” Manny moved forward, aware that the man held a gun in his hand. It was pointed at the ground, but his finger was on the trigger.
“I can’t. She needs to die right here and right now.” The man spread his arms wide. “Feel free to shoot me after she expires.”
Manny thought about shooting the man in the leg. “Last chance!”
“Sorry.” The man looked down as the woman stopped thrashing. “You got here too late.”
Manny rushed the man, who didn’t even bother to look up as Manny tackled him and drove him into the mud. Without thought, he began punching at the man’s midsection at the same time trying to get the gun from him.
Manny heard the blast muffled under his body. The man jerked violently and threw Manny off of him. “It’s too late,” the man said wearily.
“Why?” Manny whispered, unable to catch his breath. He was lying in a puddle of water, stagnant and infested with bugs. His mind commanded his body to rise, but it wasn’t listening.
“I shot the gun to get your attention. He said you were coming,” the man said. His white shirt was covered in blood.
“Who?”
The man smiled and pointed the gun at Manny. Suddenly too tired to dodge or duck, he merely stared at the man. He was exhausted from tackling him.
Police sirens in the distance brought Manny back to the situation at hand. If he didn’t talk to this guy and find out what happened, another July 8th would go by with an added body count and another mystery. “Tell me who told you I was coming.”
The man looked down at his bloody shirt. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.” He looked up. “My name is Tony. Tony Roth. I was here the night of the fire, the same as you were.” He pointed with his free hand at the body slumped in the bathtub. “Same as Jeanine there, the same as everyone else who has come here to this lot and been killed or killed themselves. I don’t know who you are exactly or why you’re here. All I know is that you need to die, the same as the rest of us.”
Manny slumped into the water. “I’m thinking my turn to die isn’t today.” He pointed at Tony. “You, on the other hand…”
Tony laughed. “This?” He wiped at his wet shirt. “It’s not mine. It’s yours; you took the shot when I pulled the trigger. I guess shock has already set in.”
“Not funny.” Manny’s head swam. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to sleep. He didn’t remember putting his head down, but he was half submerged in the puddle, swirls of red liquid spinning around his torso. He realized that he had, indeed, been shot. Dirty water lapped into his mouth, and he choked. He didn’t know if drowning or losing too much blood was the better way to go. He closed his heavy eyelids and thought he’d die from the gunshot since a burning sensation filled his gut and rose up through his throat.
He felt the blood seeping into the water above him and reached out with his scant power to touch it, to taste it, to revel in its potency. If only he could gather more of the dead to him at a quicker pace, he could rise again and Ascend.
Without a corporeal body, he was only able to control certain living survivors from that night nine years ago. He needed to call them all here, but he didn’t possess the strength although with each kill on the lot above and with each drowning in the waves, he thrived and grew that much stronger.
But that night, there had been one hundred thirty-eight survivors chased by the flames before he could kill them and gain their power. He cursed his brother, Og of the Flame, for interfering and trapping him under the ground, unable to complete what he started as long as they lived.
By his estimation, he’d successfully brought twenty-two of them back here and disposed of them, including a son of one of the survivors that had died in a car accident. Og of the Flame hadn’t counted on that twist, and now, he was sure that his brother was trying to figure a way around it. So far, he’d only managed to keep him trapped here, powerless, for months at a time. As the anniversary drew closer, the slight power flowed, and more people could be controlled to do his bidding.
As he did each time, he was able to feel the power. He remembered the searing pain of the flames. He imagined Murphy’s Law, the selected destination of his Ascent, collapsing as the unnatural
heat imploded the walls and scorched the brickwork. He could still hear the sweet scream of those that died in the fire, those he had already marked and those that joined him as they died.
He also remembered the ones that escaped, running in all directions with fear. He was unable to hunt down and kill more than three. By that time, the area had swarmed with police and fire trucks, and the survivors were shuffled on to safety.
The boardwalk down the road had also been destroyed, and he still had no idea why. He didn’t really care; all that mattered was finishing what had been started that night.
Satisfied that the three above him were dead or nearly dead, he reached out with his mind for Stan Zielinski, one of the members of the band he had marked that night. Eagerly, he called to him, planting instructions into his brain so that next year at this time, another round of killing could begin. He knew that his power was going to weaken very soon, before the day was over, and he thought of trying to call another victim or two before it was ended.
He was so obsessed with his thoughts and molding Stan for another special day of death that a small flame erupting above him, around a drowning and mortally wounded Manny Santiago, was missed.
Chapter 12
July 8th 1998
PART TWO
* * *
Tammy Kelly wished that the waiter would stop talking to her ample cleavage. My eyes are green, you piece of shit. Not that you’d know that. She lifted her menu and covered her chest with it.
The waiter, a young kid at least ten years her junior, looked confused and focused, for the first time, on her face. “Are you ready to order, ma’am?” he stuttered.
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