Anika Rising (Gretel Book 4)

by Christopher Coleman

  “I know, Petr, but I don’t have good feelings about any of it. My feelings are quite the opposite, actually.”

  What could Petr say to that? He didn’t have good feelings about Gretel leaving either, and any attempt at consolation would have been forced and transparent. He should have simply asked a few perfunctory questions and started down the path to “Goodbye.” Instead, as if some external force had taken over his body, he asked, “Are you sure she died, Mrs. Klahr?”

  “What?” Mrs. Klahr’s response was immediate, like she’d been splashed with a glass of cold water.

  “Anika. Mrs. Morgan. Gretel’s mother. Are you sure she died? Are you sure she’s at the bottom of that lake?” Petr wasn’t angry, but his excessive description of what he was asking left no doubt about the seriousness of his question.

  “Why would you ask me that, Petr?”

  The tone of Mrs. Klahr’s voice was one that typically crippled Petr and robbed him of any vigor, but he maintained his authority this time. “Just answer me, Mrs. Klahr. Are you sure?”

  “She’s dead, Petr. I’m sure. And don’t you ever ask that question again. To anyone. Do you understand me?”

  Petr hesitated, but agreed with a soft “yes,” knowing it wasn’t a pact he could necessarily adhere to.

  “I’ll be home this weekend,” Petr said, awkwardly transitioning to a new subject. “And I’ll probably stay for a while. Once this damn project is finished.”

  “Don’t curse, Petr.”

  “I’m sorry. Anyway, I’m going to let my professors know that I’ll need to miss a few classes.” And then, preempting Mrs. Klahr’s question, Petr added, “It’s fine, I can afford to. I want to spend as much time as I can with Gretel before she leaves for good.”

  “What do you mean, Petr? She’s leaving. You said you knew.”

  Petr was confused. “Yes, I know. That’s what I just said.”

  Mrs. Klahr sighed, now understanding the breakdown in communication. “No, Petr. When I said she was leaving, I meant now. Today. She’s at the docks. Her ship is scheduled to leave in twenty minutes.”

  Petr felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach, and the only word he could manage was, “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Petr. I’m so sorry.”

  There was nothing to be done now. Petr couldn’t have made it to the docks in two hours, let alone twenty minutes. Gretel was leaving. She was leaving without seeing him again. He was right: Gretel hadn’t kept her promise. She hadn’t even tried.

  Chapter 12

  “WHAT BRINGS YOU TO the Urbanlands?”

  Anika raised her eyebrows and scoffed, and then smiled without looking at the driver. With that reaction, she hoped to convey to him that her story was quite a yarn and would take some effort to tell.

  “You don’t see many hitchhikers in this part of the country. Not anymore. And certainly none as pretty as you.”

  Anika could smell the sweat building in the man’s crotch and back, his musk indicating he was entering the early stages of sexual arousal. She couldn’t decide whether to gag or laugh at the odor. He was sixty at least, and his teeth looked as if they hadn’t touched a toothbrush in a decade.

  She, of course, had seen better days as well, and despite her ad hoc clean-up job back at the cabin, was still quite the mess, at least as far as her face and hair were concerned. But Anika suspected this driver would take it wherever he could get it, and with a body that was still fairly thin and shapely, Anika would have proven to be a treat.

  Or maybe it was the eyepatch, she joked to herself, and then giggled aloud.

  The driver smiled, obviously thinking Anika’s laugh was due to his compliment. “So,” he pressed, “whatcha doing out here? Not real safe for ladies out here this time of night.”

  Anika gave a weary sigh.

  Randall was her third driver of the journey, and, based on where he said he was headed, her last. With any luck she’d be on the campus of the university within the hour.

  The first car to stop for Anika was driven by a young couple, probably early twenties, and Anika could smell the hemp immediately after the driver rolled down his window to ask where she was headed. But they were harmless and relatively pleasant, and, best of all, they talked about themselves the entire time—the girl mostly—never asking Anika about her injuries or even why she was out on the road to begin with. If it had been up to Anika, she would have ridden with them the entire way, but they were headed east to start a new life at the beaches. From what Anika could gather, they had only vague plans about where they would live or how they would survive once they arrived, but such were the movements of youth. They would be fine. In any case, it left Anika stranded at a diner about halfway from her destination.

  At the restaurant, Anika sat at the counter and drank coffee until she met the person who would come to be her second ride: a long distance hauler who was headed directly through the Urbanlands en route to the Northern Tips. And, best of all, the driver was a woman. It seemed the perfect scenario with only fifty miles to go.

  But it began to go south less than ten minutes into the ride when the woman turned the conversation to the story of the murdered System officer.

  “Gruesome,” she had said. “They’re looking for the killer along the Interways. Better keep clear of them until they find him.”

  Anika could tell the woman was smart, inquisitive, and in the hour or so it would take for them to reach the Urbanlands, Anika was afraid the woman’s questions would lead to the obvious conclusion that it was she who was killer. The driver had asked detailed questions about the injury to her eye and face, and why her clothes were so dirty and tattered. But the questions hadn’t come tactlessly; she had asked them the way a forensic scientist would inquire about the details of a crime scene. Anika had to get out of there.

  Luckily, there were several exits that began to appear as they neared the Urbanlands, and Anika had told her she was stopping first at her sister’s house before heading to the school. Hadn’t she told her that? Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, my sister will take me the rest of the way.

  Anika had insisted the driver—whose name she never got—leave her at the ramp of the exit. It was only a mile or so off, and rigs her size weren’t suitable for the roads.

  When the rig was well up to speed and on its way down the Interways, Anika began walking behind it, headed in the same direction with her arm extended and her thumb pointed to the horizon.

  In less than twenty minutes, a faded blue pickup truck sidled beside Anika asking her where she was headed, and she felt she had no choice but to take Randall’s offer.

  “It’s my son,” she answered. “He’s a student at the university.”

  Anika had planned the my-son-is-a-student story before beginning her trek, and, to this point, had needed to say only that much. The young beachgoers hadn’t asked at all, and the rig driver had only asked to be polite.

  “We have only the one car and I told him that, as a kind of going-away present, he could have it with him at school. Just for the first semester though.”

  The man glanced from the road every few seconds, staring at Anika with a cold smile that contained not a trace of interest or humor. And each time he looked at her, just before he turned his attention back to the road ahead, he let his eyes drift down to Anika’s chest and waist.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “his birthday is tomorrow, and I wanted to surprise him. His education is very expensive, which doesn’t leave much money for a proper present. Or a train ticket, obviously.”

  The man was nodding, but Anika could see he wasn’t really listening. His mind was working on other things

  “So I thought I would just pop in and say, ‘Happy Birthday.’ You know, show up and be a kind of doorstep surprise party?”

  “I like parties,” the driver responded, implying some vague double entendre. His grin, which had never been quite friendly to this point, was now gruesome, menacing, and he was now applying little effort to hide his intentio
ns. He wore the look of a man who would ask first, but if the answer was ‘No’—which it almost certainly always was—would press the issue anyway.

  And his scent was getting stronger.

  But Anika was calm, peaceful even, and this tranquility left her with a powerful feeling of control, even in this situation, which seemed destined to devolve into an attempted assault.

  She had come this far without murdering anyone else, and since, one way or the other, this ride was the last one of the trek, she didn’t plan on starting with Randall.

  A thin green sign read Univ. 19. Nineteen miles. Close enough. She could walk the rest of the way.

  “I did just remember something, Randall.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I can’t show up to my son’s house empty-handed. He’s got a roommate. It slipped my mind before. That would be rude, yes? The next store or gas station or whatever you see, could you drop me there?”

  “Thought you didn’t have money?”

  Anika narrowed her eyes now, and her patience with Randall suddenly went from manageable to paper-thin.

  Was this how it was before? Was this how powerlessly she lived her life? When she was just a Back Country wife and mother of small children, was every encounter with a strange man some passive survival game? Was it one where she told little lies to avoid confrontation, or gave a wider, more inconvenient berth as she passed them on the street or in the store, hoping just to get in and out of every scenario without the threat of harassment or groping or worse?

  “I’ve got some,” she answered flatly.

  “Yeah? How much?”

  Anika stayed quiet now, allowing her silence to build the tension naturally. Randall kept his smile wide as he looked back and forth at his passenger, each of his movements becoming more frantic and intimidating than the last, the odor of testosterone growing inside the cabin of the truck.

  “What happened to your eye?” he asked, laughing now as he spoke.

  “Fishing accident. What about that store?”

  “There’s no store for eight miles,” he answered dismissively. “Fishing accident? I think that’s a bullshit story.” He laughed loudly this time, seeming to delight in the current banter, the way a cat delights in the resistance of a mouse it has trapped in the corner of a dark basement.

  “That will be fine. Maybe we could just not speak anymore for the rest of those eight miles.”

  “That’s no fun. Don’t you like fun? I think we can find something more fun to do than not speaking to each other. I don’t usually need but twenty or thirty seconds!” Randall laughed hysterically again at this quip.

  Anika looked calmly at Randall, her face a frowning mixture of disappointment and disgust. Her breathing was slow and regular, her heartbeat not the slightest bit elevated.

  Randall met Anika’s gaze, a wild mischief in his eyes now, a look that was meant to be both playful and threatening.

  But Anika held his eyes firm, just the wrinkle of a curl now showing at the corner of her lips. And for the first time since they’d begun driving together, which was about forty minutes now, Anika detected a grain of fear in Randall.

  “You’re going to drive,” she said, “and I’m going to ride. And that’s all we’re going to do. Otherwise, let me out now and I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Randall opened his eyes wide now, fighting off whatever fear may have nestled into his mind. “That’s not much fun,” he growled, and the manic smile suddenly disappeared from his face.

  “You know what, Randall? Maybe you’re right then. Maybe I don’t like fun.”

  “You’ll like my kind of fun.”

  Randall checked his rear and side mirrors, licking his lips once as he did, and then steered the car to the right, gradually slowing until the car came to a stop on the shoulder, just at the edge of an endless row of wheat stalks.

  Based on the most recent road sign they’d passed, they were only ten miles or so from the Urbanland limits. But Anika would never have known it based on the landscape. This part of the Interways was as treeless and flat as the Western Deserts, and the fields of wheat that framed the road fanned out forever in the headlights of Randall’s truck. The lights of the city buildings shone brightly in the distance, but everywhere around them was as dark as space.

  And deserted.

  Randall turned the headlights off and gently pressed the automatic door lock button; the loud thumping sound of the locking mechanism filled the car in stereo, and Anika felt a pang of sympathy for the man beside her.

  “How did you want to pay me for the ride?” he asked. “You said you had some money. Is that right?”

  Anika’s body was as still as a sunning gator, but she could feel the rush inside of her, the molecules of her serum and plasma, of her spinal and synovial fluid, all resonating in a way she’d never felt before. It was a different feeling than with the hunters, different than with the officer. And it was different than any memory she had of her life under the potion’s spell.

  It felt now like her body was militarizing, preparing for war.

  It wasn’t hunger that drove her this time. It was anger.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  Randall gave a sardonic frown, and followed it with a slow, scolding shake of his head, feigning disappointment. “Well, see now, that’s a problem for a couple of reasons. First of all, you lied to me and told me you did have some money. And I don’t like it much when people lie to me.”

  “Does anyone like that?” Anika couldn’t help the wisecrack.

  Randall ignored the comment. “And two, if you don’t have no money, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to come up with some other form of payment. Any ideas?”

  Anika closed her eyes and focused the anger that was building further inside her, feeding it with memories of her own loss and abuse. There was a comfort in the pain, a satisfaction that mimicked the feelings she’d recently gotten from her feeding, though it wasn’t exactly comparable.

  She thought of her father and his betrayal, and the ease at which he’d come to his decision to kill her that night in the warehouse. She thought of the greed of Officer Stenson, which in many ways was the worst betrayal of all, as his was a betrayal of his power and country. She thought of Heinrich, who had also betrayed her, but at least had put forth a last effort at redemption. She thought of the potion. And Odalinde, the woman she never really knew but wished she had.

  And she thought of the loss of herself, of Anika Morgan, a loss that robbed Gretel of her mother and Hansel of his innocence.

  And she thought of Marlene.

  “I’m going to leave now, Randall. When I say, ‘Open,’ you’re going to unlock the doors, and I’m going to get out and be on my way. Thank you for the ride. If you give me an address, I’ll send you money. Just tell me what you think is a fair price for this delightful experience.”

  “I don’t want your money, matey.” Randall squinted an eye closed and mocked a stereotypical pirate’s voice. “I want your booty!” With this last line, he erupted into laughter, and, despite the harassing overtones of his words, for a moment Anika thought she saw a glimmer of harmlessness in the man. That perhaps he was more bark than bite.

  “Sorry, Randall. That will not be happening. Open the door. Now.”

  Randall looked sideways at Anika, as if considering whether to go through with the evil in his mind, knowing there was still a chance to do the right thing.

  “Now,” Anika repeated, the burn in her flaring again, reaching a level that was almost uncontrollable. “Now!”

  The louder Anika yelled at him, the more heavily Randall began to breathe, and the fear that she had detected in him earlier revealed itself two-fold. And just when she thought he was going to unlock the door, thereby saving himself from death while she fled down the Interways toward the city, he reached for his waistband and began to unbuckle his belt. “You owe me,” he muttered, spittle coming down his chin, catching in his stubble like cotton
in a spider’s web. “You owe me.”

  Anika’s rage reached an apex, and the pressure of her blood in her veins made her head throb.

  And then her rage suddenly transmuted to instinct.

  She shot her hand down toward Randall’s crotch like the tongue of a chameleon, and before he’d pulled his belt from the first loop of his pants, Anika had crushed his testicles in her palm. Through the thick layer of cotton, she could feel the blood explode in a warm gush.

  Randall’s scream was deafening, but short-lived. Before he could unleash a second squeal, Anika whipped the belt out through the remaining loops and quickly tied it around the driver’s neck, fastening the leather in a knot so that the bulge in Randall’s eyes showed almost instantly.

  Anika reached over and methodically unlocked the doors, and then exited her side of the truck and walked around to the driver’s side. She opened Randall’s door now and pulled the man out by the limp strap of his belt, dragging him off the shoulder and into the wheat field.

  “It didn’t have to be this way, Randall. You had chances. You had choices.”

  Randall grasped frantically at the belt with his fingers, finally gripping the leather strap with the full meat of his hands. But he was no match for Anika, and she brushed past the tall stalks without breaking stride, pulling her victim twenty yards deep into the field.

  In contrast to the effort and tension Randall was giving to the belt, there was no noise coming from his mouth. Anika knew he was almost dead, and when she finally stopped in a small clearing, she made one last yank upwards.

  Something inside of the man’s neck made a grisly snapping sound, and within minutes, Anika was back on the road and heading back toward the lights of the city.

  She lifted her head high as she walked, with her shoulders back and chest out, striding down the middle of the Interways for a full mile before oncoming headlights forced her to the shoulder.