US forces in those operational theaters have already been put on full alert. Recommend force build-up.
NOTE: communications breakdown of some kind is in effect. Email and internet communications have not been affected, but broadcast media is intermittent, cell phone and encrypted SATphones are only partially functional. Analysis ongoing, further information as it becomes available.
END FLASH
***
Serafina couldnʹt breathe. Not just because of the crushing weight of the man on her chest, but because of the smell of sweat and madness shoving itself into her mouth and nose, ramming its way down her throat.
That and the terror.
She had never been this afraid.
It was a strange thing, to be so afraid of a single man in a night when many others had chased and tried to kill her, a night when forces hunted her that were so powerful and ruthless they were willing to destroy buildings, to kill hundreds to get to her and John.
But that had all been distant. Disconnected. The closest any of them had come was in Johnʹs room when this had all started, and in the elevator immediately after. Then she had been too unsure to understand what was happening. It all passed immediately, before the reality of her situation penetrated.
And after that? It was guns. Dispassionate, impersonal. She focused on the mechanisms more than the men. The triggers rather than the fingers pulling them.
This, though. A grunting, filthy creature trying to rut his way up her frame, and his body everywhere on her. Touching her with flesh so hot it burned her skin, so wet she felt like she was drowning in rank sweat.
She screamed. Screamed again. Screamed and it only seemed to thrill him.
ʺI can do whatever I want,ʺ he said, his voice coming out in heavy gasps. The exercise presented by an assault was too much for him. She hoped for a well-timed heart attack but knew it wouldnʹt happen.
He was on her, hundreds of drooping pounds pinning her. The concrete floor, poorly concealed below a thin carpet, ground into her back and burned her with cold where his body burned her with heat. Her neck was still cranked up against the frame of the bed and now she hoped not that the pig would suffer a heart attack but that she would have her neck broken. Preferable to the alternative.
Even if she didnʹt die, at least she wouldnʹt feel anything anymore. So preferable.
She was going to be raped.
There was nothing she could do.
She was five-five. Maybe one hundred and ten pounds when she came in from monsoon season.
The man on her was probably five-ten. Well over three hundred pounds.
She batted at him, but the sheer bulk of him settled over her and pinned her arms so wide that her strikes had no leverage and no strength. They made him laugh and then made him sigh like she was caressing him. It revolted her so much she almost stopped hitting him.
Donʹt give up.
He was fumbling under himself.
She didnʹt have long.
Think. Stop acting like a panicked fool and think.
She couldnʹt hit him. Her legs were pinned–one leg straight under him, the other sticking out from under him at an angle.
She still had her clothes on. But hospital scrubs werenʹt exactly high-security. No belts, just ties and elastic.
He was wheezing, wheezing. He licked her. The tongue rasped along her cheek and left a trail of slime.
She head butted him.
It wasnʹt much stronger than her punches had been, especially with her head already bent forward by the bed, but it struck him on the chin, and caught him with his tongue sticking out.
The man roared. His hand came out from under him and went to his face as blood streamed out of his mouth. He drew back a hammy fist and punched her in the face. The pain of the impact was twofold: she felt it first in her cheek and jaw, then in her neck as it folded forward even further. Electric shocks danced up and down her spine and she decided she didnʹt want a broken neck after all.
He pulled back his fist again. ʺI wasnʹt going to hurt you,ʺ he said. ʺJust wanted, just wanted….ʺ
He blinked, his eyes glazed slightly. He looked up as though he was hearing something inaudible to Serafina. His tongue, gray and scaled and now streaming blood, stuck halfway out his mouth.
He looked at Serafina again and she was surprised to see fear in his eyes.
Why? Why is he scared?
He drew back for a moment. Far enough that she got one hand free. She hit him in the face. He didnʹt seem to notice the impact, even though she saw his lower jaw pop sideways and knew she must have dislocated it. He coughed and shook his head. The fear in his eyes doubled.
Blood came from deep within him. It dropped on her and she hit him again, fear mingling with disgust and fury.
She saw a man vomiting blood. Changing. Dying.
She felt the fat manʹs blood splattering over her skin, wondered if this was the same thing. Knew it was. Different symptoms, but the same underlying disease.
And wondered if it was contagious.
She hit him again. Again.
The attacks shook the fear from his eyes. He flopped back down on her. Tried to say something and screamed as the pain from his jaw washed over him.
ʺIʹll kill you!ʺ he screamed, though it came out ʺAhll kchill ooʺ through his mangled mouth.
More blood came out of his mouth. She was coated in the stuff. He coughed harder.
He had small spines on his neck. Scales glistened on his cheeks.
ʺKchill oo!ʺ
She had nowhere to go. Felt one hand go around her neck, another tug at the waistband of her scrub pants. She tried to writhe her hips away.
Nowhere to go.
His fingers found the drawstring of her pants. Yanked it.
She tried to scream, but the hand at her throat clamped down and now everything was going black.
His body fell against her even harder. Her attacker must have been supporting himself to some extent. Now he was entirely resting on her, his weight crushing. Deadly.
The weight got heavier, heavier.
And then it plateaued.
And then it lightened.
The rapist rolled off her.
She looked up.
John.
He was holding the out-cold form of the rapist by the shirt, then tossed the man to the side like a rotten slab of beef.
John looked better. Wet, but his color was normal again, and he even looked less…wasted than he had only a few minutes before.
Serafina wanted to know what had just happened. What happened to John in the car, how he had gotten better so suddenly.
Then he reached down to her. Took her hand and helped her up. She was suddenly in his arms, strong arms so different from the flabby, sweaty things that had been grappling with her only moments before.
She held John and wept. The terror pounded through her and she let it. Johnʹs hands clasped behind her back and he held her so tightly she almost couldnʹt breathe. Again, the feeling so different than the suffocating assault she had just endured. This was not a prison, not an attack. It was the protection of an impervious cocoon. The world was gone for a moment. Only two people existed.
The sobs pounded at her, ran up and down her from feet to crown, exhausted her and ran through what little strength she had left. She let them come. Didnʹt fight them. Why do that?
She was safe.
She had almost died.
He had saved her.
She had almost been raped.
He hadnʹt let it happen.
She had been alone.
But he had come for her.
The sobs petered out. She smelled something that made her gag. Something she suspected she wouldnʹt be able to smell again for the rest of her life.
ʺWhat?ʺ he whispered.
ʺYou smell like chocolate.ʺ She wanted to laugh. Strange first words after an attempted rape.
ʺI woke up in a bath with five empty chocolate bar wrappers.ʺ His concern f
or her was replaced for a split-second: he looked amused and confused at the same time. ʺDonʹt ask me why or how.ʺ
She pushed him away. ʺWell use the bath to wash your hands and face, and gargle.ʺ
ʺI didnʹt see any mouthwa–ʺ
ʺUse the soap.ʺ
He looked to see if she was kidding. Saw she wasnʹt. Nodded and left the room. She heard running water. The sound of someone eating something nasty.
She looked at the motel manager. He was on his side where John had thrown him, blood on his face and a wet patch on the back of his scalp where she guessed John had cold cocked him.
She thought about kicking him repeatedly in the face. That might kill him. She thought that might be a good thing.
He had said the world was ending. If that was true, did that mean justice was now something everyone had to be responsible for on their own? Did she have a right to kill a man who had tried to rape her, and probably would have killed her as well?
She took a step toward him.
She was justified. There was no doubt.
That was enough.
She didnʹt want to kick him. She might twist or even break an ankle, and she couldnʹt afford that.
But there was a lamp on the table by the bed. And it would do the trick.
She picked it up.
ʺOnde está a minha filha?ʺ
Where is my daughter?
The same voice she so often heard. A mother searching for a lost child.
Where is my daughter?
But this time she heard it differently. Not a question of location or even a demand that a wayward child be returned. Instead it meant ʺWhere is the girl you have tried so hard to become? Where is the mercy I taught you?ʺ
Serafina was justified. Justice alone would allow whatever retribution she saw fit to visit on the unconscious man before her.
But her mother had taught her that justice walked hand in hand with mercy.
She left the lamp where it was.
She kicked the rapist in the crotch. Three times, as hard as she could. He moaned and curled in on himself like a dying roach but didnʹt open his eyes.
Her mother might not approve of murder, but castrating a rapist was something she probably would have okayed.
John came out during the third kick. ʺFeel better?ʺ
ʺSlightly.ʺ
ʺWhat happened?ʺ
She moved to the bathroom and used the sink to clean the managerʹs blood off her face and hands and arms as best she could. ʺYou just collapsed. Started running a severe fever. I had to get you in a bath.ʺ She looked at the unconscious mass of flesh on the floor in the other room. ʺThis guy said he was going to help with that, but he had additional plans.ʺ
ʺI gathered. Sorry I wasnʹt around to help earlier.ʺ
ʺYou were there when it mattered.ʺ She was still staring at the pig, her gaze fixating on the chocolate goatee. She snorted. ʺThatʹs it.ʺ
ʺWhatʹs it?ʺ
ʺI think I know what happened to you.ʺ Off Johnʹs questioning look, she said, ʺYou got better from those gunshot wounds, from scratches and scrapes in the fights. Assuming for a second any of thatʹs possible–even though we both know it really isnʹt–it must take a ridiculous amount of energy. Your body must metabolize like crazy to heal itself. In the hospital you were getting IVs, but nothing on the run so your body ran out of fuel in the car.ʺ
He thought, then nodded. ʺThink I woke up enough to get to the choc–ʺ
ʺDonʹt say that word!ʺ
ʺThe, er, the candy bars?ʺ
ʺYeah,ʺ she said. ʺMaybe the bath cooled your fever enough for you to come to a bit. You saw the food and knew instinctively that you needed it. So you chomped it down and then came out here to….ʺ
He didnʹt make her finish the sentence. ʺMakes sense. In a weird way.ʺ
ʺWhat about any of this isnʹt weird?ʺ
ʺSo I guess I should eat whatʹs left on the floor.ʺ
ʺYeah, if you want to gargle some more soap.ʺ
ʺMaybe Iʹll just put some in my pocket for later.ʺ
ʺThat might be best.ʺ
He moved toward the bathroom door. Froze. ʺDid you pay cash? For the room?ʺ
ʺI didnʹt have time or money for that.ʺ
He ran to the window at the front of the room. Heavy blackout blinds covered the panes, and he pulled one back. Just a crack, and Serafina wondered what he thought he was going to see through the fog.
Just a crack.
And more than enough for the lights to flash through. The one-side-to-another that marked a car passing by. On its way to the motelʹs front desk, no doubt.
She wondered what the odds were that this car–one of two vehicles in evidence since Los Angeles–was just a random traveler.
John snapped the curtain back in place. The motion was controlled. No panic. But the way he moved, the way he held his body, told her what she needed to know.
They had been found again.
FACES IN GLASS
From: POTUS
To: G Etheridge
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:55 AM
Subject: Mrs. Peters
Iʹve emailed several times and received no response.
Did you manage to get Mrs. Peters out of Washington?
From: G Etheridge
To: POTUS
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:56 AM
Subject: RE: Mrs. Peters
Sorry. Weird things happening. Got her out but
***
Past. Present. Present. Past.
ʺJesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so….ʺ
A black man who smiles, though his eyes are sad.
A woman with no face, skin peeled back from blood and bone. Also sad. For different reasons, for reasons that have to do with life lived and then lost before life itself was understood.
Men in white, women in white, some pushing tubes into her body, others taking them out.
People speaking to her about things that once mattered, though she does not remember what those things are or why they were ever important.
She sees them all, pushing past her quickly, a succession of faces that surround her.
A teacher she had.
A person she once knew, she thinks he gave her food, though whether he was a grocer or a relative or a stranger she cannot say.
So many things are blank, so many holes in her mind.
When she walks too close to the holes, she falls in. Sometimes she does not come out for long times–long pasts, long presents, long futures. The dark scares her. She has learned to stay away from those darknesses and the nothingtime they represent.
The nowplace she is in bounces. One of the men she is with curses as she falls into him.
The three men left–the ones that remain after they shot the fourth and pushed him out the door–are coughing. Two of them have blood coming from their mouths. The other has tried to hide his neck, as though he is ashamed of whatever flesh he has there.
She does not understand any of this. It frightens her. Not the lack of understanding, which is her always-friend, but the fact that she almost does understand. And the understanding brings a terror she has never experienced. Not just a dread for body, not even a fear for mind. This is worse, this is like the nothingtime, the darkness, has found a way outside her damaged thoughts and has somehow begun controlling the world of the Now.
That is too horrible to contemplate. For the nothingtime to exist throughout the world would not be pain, or even madness. It would be damnation.
Another bounce and once more she slides into the man beside her. He is damp. Perhaps sweat, perhaps blood. She has lain in blood before. She does not like it.
The man curses and pushes her away. She spins and hits the side window. Now she is staring outside. That is better than staring inside. She does not like these men, and does not like this pl
ace or this time.
The world outside is gray. Gray is fine, it is not the black nothingtime and it is not the bright red streaming down the face of the woman who sings or the brighter reds and blues of the lights that followed before she fell into the first black nothingtime.
Gray is fine.
The gray curls and twists outside the glass. Sometimes she sees faces in the misty place beyond her travels. She thinks it might be her own faces sometimes–the face she had before the first darkness, the larger and stranger face she wears now, and even the shining face she wears in her dreams of the tomorrow.
But soon she sees that none of the faces are hers. They are dark faces, ghost faces. Wraiths riding the edges of the mist, surfing the fog like ocean waves–
(I went to the ocean once)
(Mommy sold white powder to a man)
(Daddy shot him and took it back)
–and occasionally coming so close to the glass she feels they might reach through and touch her. She does not know if that would feel good or bad. She does not want to know. Something about the faces frightens her.
She cannot always tell now from then, past from present, present from future, here from there. But the faces seem to be a bit of all those things. All those things and more.
She wonders if she is finally dying.
ʺJesus loves me, this I know ….ʺ
The men next to her start moving, everyone starts yelling.
ʺHoly–ʺ
ʺThey said she wouldnʹt–ʺ
ʺSheʹs supposed to be gagged, howʹd her gag come–?ʺ
ʺShould we call Mr. Dominic or–?ʺ
ʺAre you insane, what are we–?ʺ
ʺYou call–ʺ
ʺAnd say what? What am I supposed–?ʺ
The voices swirl around themselves like fog over glass. She does not understand why they are so upset. Unless they, too, can see the faces. But she does not think they can. At least, not yet. Though something inside her whispers that soon they will. Soon the faces will draw close, soon the mists will part.
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