by Simon Holt
Reggie hid her bike behind a bush by the side of the path, and crawled along the river’s edge until she was underneath the trestle. Sun filtered through the track slats, crisscrossing the ground in light and shadow. These tracks were no longer in use, having been decommissioned some seventy years earlier when the depot was relocated to downtown Cutter’s Wedge, and the entire structure had fallen into disrepair. Pieces of rotted wood lay strewn about the ground, and gaps in the track above Reggie’s head suggested that crossing it would be dangerous.
Still, Reggie had to admit, it was an excellent place to camp out in secret. No one except the occasional cyclist or runner passed by, and the bridge’s foundation formed a makeshift shelter, hidden from sight from both the bike path and the train tracks. And it was clear someone had been here: empty food cans littered the dirt, and a ripped tarp lay off to the side. Rock chunks were arranged in a circle around scorched earth that Reggie guessed was a fire pit. She chewed at her lip: this was a pitiful existence.
Reggie checked her watch. 3:45. Keech’s session with his probation officer was from 4–4:30. If she could get this over with quickly, she still might be able to get back in time to help Aaron.
Quinn, however, was nowhere in sight, so Reggie sat down under the trestle to wait. Butterflies flitted around her stomach, just as they used to do when she saw Quinn Waters by his locker or anticipated his arrival in study hall. She didn’t like the feeling.
Her brain was split down the middle: half insisted she was an idiot for pursuing this alliance, but the other half conceded that she didn’t have a whole lot of other places to turn. She refused to consider that she might actually be worried about Quinn since she hadn’t heard from him in a few days.
Her reverie was interrupted by a noise across the water. She squinted, peering over the wide river. The sound was the revving of a motorbike driving on the far bank. Ahead of it a figure half-ran, half-limped desperately forward. A backpack was slung over his shoulder, and he turned back every so often to see the bike gaining. Black marks stood out against his pale skin—it was Quinn, and someone was chasing him.
Neither of them had apparently seen Reggie, and she waited in the shadows, watching. Quinn reached the river and jumped in. His body shuddered violently in the cool water, which came to his chest, and he tried to hold up his mutilated hand, still wrapped in rags. Though the current was not terribly strong, he struggled to wade forward to the middle of the river, and only then did he turn around to face his pursuer.
The biker had pulled up at the river’s edge and stared after Quinn. Then he reared his bike back and plowed onto the train tracks, racing up onto the bridge. Clumps of dirt and rot plunked into the river as the bike rushed forward. The biker braked again in the center of the bridge and looked at Quinn below, still hesitating in the water.
Was it Keech? Reggie wondered. Had he come to finish the job he’d been ordered to do?
The cold river was taking a toll on Quinn’s already weak body; the skin surrounding his many cuts and gashes was turning black. His indecision was killing him. Even from her hiding place Reggie could see his teeth chattering.
Quinn continued on toward her side of the bank. He moved slowly, and at one point the river dipped so the water came up to his neck. He wobbled and his hand fell into the water. Quinn shrieked with pain and stumbled forward. He’d be far too weak to fight off the biker once he reached the bank.
The biker seemed to be thinking the same thing, and he didn’t move until Quinn was within fifteen feet of the shore. Then he gunned his motorbike and charged the rest of the way across the bridge.
Reggie didn’t have time to think. She picked up a rock from the fire pit and hurled it at the rotting slats above her. It broke through a plank and wood splinters showered down around her, leaving a hole in the track above just as the bike was passing. The front tire hit the hole and sank through, jarring the bike to a stop. The biker flew off the front and over the side of the train tracks, falling headfirst onto the rocks below and landing just a few feet from Reggie, motionless.
She turned back to see Quinn emerging from the river, shivering but grinning. The overturned motorbike’s engine idled on the bridge overhead and then stalled out.
“I—I didn’t mean to,” Reggie stammered.
“I’m glad you did.” Quinn knelt down beside the still biker. Reggie hovered behind him, biting at her nails.
“Is he… did I… kill him?”
“Not a him.” Quinn wrenched the helmet off the biker’s head. Detective Gale’s blond hair spilled over the rocks. A gasp escaped Reggie’s lips.
Blood trickled down Gale’s cheek, but her eyes fluttered open and stared up at Quinn. She opened her mouth to speak.
“Shhh,” Quinn said, caressing the sides of her head. Then he jerked his hands sideways and snapped her neck.
Reggie heard the crack and stumbled backward. She felt the bile in her throat and vomited on the rocky ground.
“Ew. No goodnight kiss for you,” Quinn said.
“Why’d you do that?” she demanded, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “She was…”
“A Vour. She was supposed to kill us, and she was going to die anyway. I made it fast and painless. Better than she deserved.” He pointed at Gale. “Check it out.”
Black smoke oozed from the woman’s mouth, nostrils, and open, unseeing eyes, chilling the air. It gathered into a boiling cloud of inky darkness, undulating a few feet over her wrecked body. Reggie stood frozen with horror as one of its plumes formed into a malevolent humanoid face. Waves of hatred and evil pulsed from its gaze, reverberating though Reggie like a passing freight train. The thing made a hissing, droning sound, and then it sailed off over the river and was gone.
“That’s how they check out if you get them by surprise,” Quinn said. “All kinds of weird shit happens. Usually we can vacate a body before it fails. Not always, though.”
Reggie felt her head spin. She sat down hard on the ground, clutching her temples.
“I can’t believe I came here.”
“Relax,” Quinn said, squatting down by the fire pit. “It just looks like a motorcycle accident. No one will suspect a thing.”
Reggie’s head shot up.
“That’s not the point,” she said hotly. “You… killed her. She was weak—I could have gone into her fearscape. We could have gotten her to a hospital… we could have saved her.”
Quinn shook his head and chuckled ruefully.
“As much as I appreciate your using the ‘we’ pronoun, you just don’t get it. Gale was a powerful Vour. Stronger than me. She would have decimated you. Fight the battles you can win, Halloway.”
“I helped kill her.”
“If she had made it over here she would have killed us both.”
Quinn pulled off his wet shirt and sat down on a large rock hot from the sun. Reggie couldn’t help but stare, and she felt ashamed for it. He was lean from months of living in exile, bruised and lacerated from the recent attempts on his life, but his broad shoulders and chest were still cut like a boxer’s and his arms curved with muscle. In the warm light, the black marks surrounding his wounds were beginning to fade under his ghostly pale skin. He gingerly unwrapped the soaked rags from his hand, wincing when they came off fully. He looked like he was wearing a black glove that was missing two fingers.
“Kind of cool, in a Darth Vader way,” he said. He grinned at Reggie, but she could see he was in tremendous pain.
“Will it heal?” she asked.
“I guess we’ll see. Hey, I think there are some dry clothes up there.” He pointed back to the trestle foundation. “Would you mind—?”
Reggie rummaged around the makeshift camp until she found a couple of T-shirts, then returned to Quinn. He started tearing one in strips using his teeth, then rewrapped his hand.
“Why was she after you?” Reggie asked as he worked.
“I found something,” he said. “I was scouting out information at an old compound we us
ed to use as a headquarters. It was mostly cleaned out, but not completely. They’d turned the place into storage for old paperwork. I just had to bide my time getting in and out of there.”
Quinn held out his hand to Reggie, and she tied the ends of two strips together, securing the bandage. As she pulled the knot tight, he grabbed her wrist with his good hand. Reggie cried out.
“Hey! Let go of me!”
But Quinn had taken Reggie’s hands in his own and was examining her forearm. Small black scars crisscrossed the underside of her arm near her wrist.
“It’s like our injuries,” he said, gesturing to the discolorations on his own cheek. He gently touched the marks on her skin. “How did you get these?”
Reggie’s body went stiff, but she didn’t pull away.
“I was cut. In Henry’s fearscape. A few of the scars came back with me.”
Quinn looked up at her.
“That’s unbelievable. Does it hurt you?”
“Looks worse than it feels.” Reggie finally tugged her arm out of Quinn’s grasp. But he continued to gaze at her.
“I doubt that’s true.”
They stayed silent a moment, then Quinn shivered as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.
“What did you find?” she asked.
But Quinn’s head jerked to the horizon, and his eyes flashed.
“Shhh! Listen.”
The sound of more motorcycles.
“Gale’s goons. We’ve got to go.” Quinn yanked on the other dry T-shirt and snatched up his backpack. He looked ruefully at his pants. “Damn it, wet jeans are the worst.”
Reggie glanced back and forth. She wasn’t keen on going anywhere more remote with Quinn, but she didn’t want to run into a pack of Hell’s Vours, either. She pulled her bike out from behind the bush and sat astride it.
“Come on. Get on.”
Quinn squeezed onto the seat behind her, grasping her about the waist. His arms were strong, Reggie noticed, and he held her tightly. She pedaled the two of them down the path.
“Please tell me you have a place to hide,” she said.
“There’s a storm drain not too far up.”
Reggie felt fat raindrops hit her head and arms. Quinn pointed, and she saw the tunnel at the side of the river ahead. The roar of engines grew louder. Quinn hopped off the bike as they neared the storm drain. A locked grate covered its entrance.
“What now?” said Reggie.
“Have some faith.” Quinn fished a key out of his pocket and stuck it in the lock. The lock clicked and the grate swung open.
“I broke into Sewer Management one night and stole copies of their keys. I’ve hidden in every sewer in town at some point.” Quinn held the grate open and made an after-you gesture.
“You and the rats. Appropriate,” Reggie said, rolling her bike inside. Quinn relocked the grate just as the heavens opened.
Minutes later they could hear the motorcycles. They stopped on the road by the storm drain, and one biker dismounted and approached the grate, his leather jacket glistening with raindrops. Reggie and Quinn sank back into the shadowy tunnel, out of sight.
The biker tried the grate, and it clanged as he shook it back and forth, but the lock held. He looked at his companions and shrugged, then went back to his bike. Moments later, the engines gunned and faded into the distance.
Reggie heaved a sigh of relief.
“Okay, I’ve got to get out of here. Unlock the grate.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” said Quinn. “They’ll circle back around a couple times trying to find us. Stay put.”
“Convenient for you,” said Reggie. “I had other plans this afternoon, you know.”
“Consider them canceled. This is more important.”
Reggie glanced at her watch. It was ten after four. There was no way she’d make it to the parole office in time, especially not in this weather.
The storm drain offered them shelter from the rain, but it wasn’t comfortable. Reggie stood in ankle-deep drainage water ferrying leaves, sticks, and other debris to the river.
“So tell me what you have in that bag,” she said.
Quinn pulled a packet of papers out of his backpack and held one of them up to the meager light from the storm drain’s entrance. Reggie saw that it was an X-ray of sorts.
“What is it?” she asked.
“An MRI scan of a brain.” He handed a series of the pages to Reggie. Some were on the X-ray film, others were colored diagrams, but all depicted images of the human brain. She shuffled through them, puzzled. This was more Aaron’s field of expertise than hers.
“I don’t understand what I’m looking at,” she said finally.
“I don’t know if I know exactly, either,” said Quinn. “But I have a guess. And it’s a long story.”
Gusts of wind howled around the entrance as the storm raged overhead.
“Does it look like I’m going anywhere?” Reggie replied.
Aaron had to stop at home first to gather some supplies, and it was just after four when he pulled his ten-speed into the alley between the vacant convenience store and the recently relocated juvenile center. He could see rain clouds in the distance, but the sky overhead was still clear; hopefully any storm would hold off until he’d accomplished his mission. Around the corner, in the center’s glass-littered parking lot, Mitch was leaning against the door of his black Crown Vic and dragging on a smoke.
Aaron thought of all the times the Kassners had tormented him—destroyed his hats, knocked books from his hands, tripped him in the halls. He always got the feeling they’d kill him for a few seconds of amusement if they thought they could get away with it. In the years Aaron had known the Kassners, he had never willingly approached either of them. Until now.
“Damn it, Reggie,” he muttered under his breath, but he felt he had little choice but to do this on his own: the Kassners only met with their parole officer once a week, and waiting another seven days was out of the question.
Aaron strode across the lot with weak knees and a dry mouth. He put his right hand inside his front pocket and felt the small metal cylinder inside.
If Mitch noticed him coming, he didn’t show it.
“Hey,” Aaron said, barely audible.
Mitch’s large head turned and he squinted, the cigarette hanging from his bottom lip.
“I—I have a question for you,” Aaron squeaked.
Mitch glared coolly at Aaron, then flicked his cigarette ash at him. Aaron’s legs wanted to listen and bolt, but he held firm.
“Didn’t you hear?” he asked. “Smoking is bad for you.”
Aaron’s hand darted out, grabbed the cigarette from Mitch’s lips, and threw it to the ground. Mitch was so surprised it took him a second to respond, but Aaron had already taken off toward the alley. He ran as fast as he could, as if his very life depended on it, which it probably did. Behind him he could hear the hard thumping of Mitch’s steel-toed boots, gaining on him with every step. Aaron ran faster and hurtled into the alley.
He had half a second to pull the pepper spray from his pocket and turn as Mitch rounded the corner after him, red with fury. Aaron aimed and looked away, spraying Mitch full in the face as the larger boy crashed into him. They both went tumbling to the ground, Mitch crying out as he tore at his eyes. He tried to stand, and Aaron used the last of his leg strength to kick him in the groin. Mitch curled in a heap on the asphalt. Aaron collapsed against a Dumpster a few feet away, exhausted and trembling.
He glanced about nervously, but the alley was, as he had hoped, deserted. No one had seen what had happened.
His hands trembled as he took duct tape from his backpack and taped Mitch’s hands behind him, then placed another strip over the boy’s mouth. As soon as Mitch realized what was happening, his red and watering eyes flared with malice, but Aaron lifted the spray up in front of Mitch’s face as a warning. Instead of fear, Aaron felt strangely powerful.
“I don’t want to hurt you any more than this. But I swear
to God I will torture the living hell out of you right here, right now if you struggle. I’ve got instruments packed in this bag that will make even a tough guy like you piss your pants if I use them. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand.”
Mitch’s eyes narrowed into wicked slits. For a moment he stayed so still that Aaron thought he’d turned to stone like some freakish gargoyle. Then slowly, deliberately, he nodded.
“Good. Now I am going to talk and you’re going to listen. And when I am done talking, I’m going to take this tape off and let you answer. And then I will let you go.”
Aaron jerked on one of his shoulder straps to let Mitch hear the sounds of cold metal clanging together inside the pack.
“But if I think for a second that you’re coming after me, I will cut you open and toss you in the Dumpster for the rats. Nod if you understand.”
Again, a long pause. And another nod.
“Good. Now what I am going to say would sound crazy to most people. But I’m betting it won’t sound crazy to you. I think you’ve lived through it. I think you know all about it. I think you know all about what’s happened to your brother.”
Mitch’s bleary eyes opened a little wider. Aaron saw a flicker of alarm, but he continued.
“Keech isn’t human, is he? His body was possessed by some kind of demon. That thing inside talking to your probation officer looks like Keech and acts like Keech, but it isn’t him. And you know it, don’t you?”
Mitch’s whole body tensed, and he looked away. He made no noise, but Aaron sensed an internal struggle inside that meathead.
“Mitch. I want to help,” he said.
Mitch finally gazed up at him, and Aaron saw the last thing he expected. In those haunted eyes was sadness. Guilt.
And terror.
Aaron slowly reached for the tape covering Mitch’s mouth.
