The Darkest Gate

by S. M. Reine

  “What if they see us?” Anthony asked.

  She just looked at him. Shadows carved her face with deep crags and harsh lines. It was the face of someone who had gone against such odds before and come out alive. He felt immediately stupid for asking.

  “We kill them,” she said.

  Anthony nodded and swallowed hard.

  Elise took a moment to roll her shoulders and touch her toes, going through the motions of stretching while Anthony refilled the gas tank for a quick getaway. He dumped the plastic-wrapped body down a ditch, which felt like it had been almost entirely dissolved by venom, then fit his shotgun into his back scabbard and gave her a thumbs up.

  She ran, and he hurried to follow.

  The desert rushed past him. Elise dodged around the sagebrush and rocks and he followed. It’s just like our camping trip, he told himself again, and he tried not think about their odds of coming back.

  There was no subtlety in their run, no grace. The semi couldn’t get to the bay before they did.

  When they drew within a hundred meters of the ring of light, Elise stopped. Anthony was breathing hard. He didn’t do nearly enough cardio to keep up. “You good?” she asked, and he nodded as he wheezed. “We’ll sneak around back.” Another nod.

  The men talked loudly by the loading bay—something about bitches and liquor—and didn’t notice their approach. Elise and Anthony ran to the tall end of the loading bay.

  She crouched behind it, pulled him down beside her, and peeked over the top of the wooden platform.

  The pickups were parked in two neat rows. Most of the drivers talked and smoked in a cluster by the light, leaving the vehicles unattended. Why worry? They were hours from the city. “Fifteen guards,” she whispered. “They’re human. And armed.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she put a finger over his lips. Then she slid around the side of the loading bay, and he followed.

  One man, a big guy with a tattoo of a kitten on his wrist, stood aloof from the others. Metal glinted under his untucked shirt. A gun. Great.

  Elise pointed to the nearest truck. He crawled forward, keeping an eye on Kitten, and reached up to try the passenger door. It was unlocked. He reached in and opened the fuse box on the glove compartment. Removing the fuse for the fuel pump, he shut the door as quietly as possible and slipped back.

  He showed her the number on the fuse. She moved for the next truck. Together, they worked their way up the lines. Each pickup drew them closer to Kitten and all the other men.

  “My fucking wife just doesn’t get it,” one of the guards muttered. He offered a joint to the man next to him. “She’s gotten fat, sure, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I don’t want anyone else.”

  “Even Candi?” chuckled a third man with a Disturbed concert t-shirt.

  “Candi. Mm hmm. I’d like to stick it in that bitch,” said the second, passing the joint back.

  Anthony eased another door open and pulled the fuse. He took a quick count of how many he had in his pocket—five. Elise wasn’t far behind in the other row.

  “Fuck Candi, man. No way some slut makes steak as good as my woman. I’d never trade that in.”

  Only two vans between Anthony and Kitten. He searched for Elise amongst the other vehicles, but he couldn’t see her. He did, however, see a pair of approaching headlights on the horizon.

  The semi.

  “What are you?”

  He jerked up just in time to see Kitten looming over the van, an arm braced on the open door. His muscles bulged with veins.

  “Uh,” Anthony said in a stroke of brilliance.

  Kitten clapped a hand on his shoulder and flung him into the crowd of drivers.

  Shoulder met playa, and the breath rushed out of his body. Anthony groaned and rolled onto his knees. “What’s this? We got a visitor!” crowed Disturbed.

  Someone kicked him in the ribs. It was like getting slammed by a sledgehammer, and it shot spikes of pain all the way into his groin.

  He fell on his side again. Someone laughed a hyena laugh—a skinny man with a tattoo on his neck that said “Bad” in gothic letters—and he was echoed by others.

  Kitten leaned over him. “What are you doing all the way out here? What is that you’re wearing, a backpack?” He shoved Anthony’s head to the side. “Kid’s got a shotgun.”

  The tone immediately went from jovial to serious. Kitten eased a semi-automatic handgun out of his shoulder rig, and Anthony heard the telltale click of a safety turning off.

  “On your knees,” Kitten ordered.

  He complied, moving slowly even as every nerve in his body begged him to run. He tried not to search for Elise, but he couldn’t help but steal a few looks out of the corner of his eye as he got up. Anthony linked his hands behind his head and stared down Kitten’s gun.

  One of the men took the shotgun out of his scabbard, tossing it aside.

  “I’m… I was just…” His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t seem to think of the words he wanted to say.

  “What are you doing out here?” Kitten asked again.

  His mouth moved soundlessly. After a few monosyllabic attempts at speaking, Anthony finally said, “Camping. And… and hunting. Coyotes.”

  Kitten guffawed. “We look like coyotes to you?”

  Following his cue, the other guards laughed as well. Anthony caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. Elise ran from one truck to the next. She wasn’t being as subtle now that he had everyone’s attention.

  “N-no,” Anthony stammered. “I thought… uh…”

  “Woo-ee! Little boy’s going to shit his pants.”

  “What are we going to do?” another asked, glancing uneasily toward the approaching headlights at the end of the playa. “The boss will be pissed if he finds out someone saw us.”

  “Take him out a half a mile and shoot him,” Kitten said. He pointed at Disturbed. “You. Now. Make it fast.”

  The bright lights swirled around Anthony. Shoot him? He didn’t feel like he was going to “shit his pants,” but passing out wasn’t off the menu, either.

  Elise wouldn’t let him get shot. She would save him. Wouldn’t she?

  Disturbed yanked Anthony to his feet by the back of his shirt and aimed a submachine gun at his midsection. “Walk,” he ordered, aiming Anthony toward the nearest edge of the playa.

  He briefly contemplated a struggle, but the logistics of an unarmed man against a dozen others wasn’t pretty. But the pain was still radiating from his gut to his balls, his heart was about to splatter in his chest, and he thought he was going to lose his taco dinner in the dirt.

  “I was just camping,” he said.

  The gun nudged him in the back.

  So Anthony walked.

  With every footstep, his head felt lighter. They left the ring of bright lights and Disturbed prodded him again. “Faster,” he said, and he didn’t sound too confident. Maybe he wasn’t much of a killer. Maybe he didn’t want to actually hurt Anthony. Maybe he would just let him go…

  “Look, man,” Anthony said, trying to talk around the cotton balls that seemed to have materialized in his mouth. “I was having fun. I didn’t mean any harm, or… Jesus Christ, I won’t tell anyone I saw you out here. I swear.”

  It was probably the most convincing lie he had ever told.

  “Nothing should be coming out of your mouth but prayers right now, kid.”

  Anthony wasn’t sure who he should pray to. God? Or his girlfriend, who was—he hoped—a hell of a lot more likely to save him?

  The lights behind them faded. The edge of the playa surrendered to sage-filled desert.

  Disturbed kicked him behind the knees. Dust ground into his palms as he hit. When he looked up, he stared straight down the barrel of the submachine gun.

  “Oh shit,” Anthony said.

  There was something undignified about pleading. His uncle had a dozen war stories about facing death with stoic silence, and Tío Jacob would have chewed him out for b
eing a pussy if he saw the way he was shaking. But at least he wasn’t the only one.

  “You can do this, dude,” Disturbed muttered to himself. “It’s not that hard. Just some guy. Come on, let’s do this.” He shook his shoulders out. The leather strap of the gun creaked. “Okay. You can do this.”

  Anthony clenched his hands together behind his head. Come on, Elise…

  A nearby bush rustled.

  He only had time to catch a flash of Elise’s thick braid and her pale skin before she struck Disturbed in the side.

  The submachine gun fired. They both hit the ground. Anthony flung himself behind the nearest rock.

  There was the meaty sound of fist meeting flesh, and Disturbed grunted. Something big scraped against the ground.

  The submachine gun slid to a stop inches from Anthony’s rock.

  All his fear fled in a wash of clarity. He grabbed the gun, got to his knees, and spun to face the fight.

  But it was already over. Elise crouched over Disturbed’s body, one knee on his throat and the other pinning his arm to the ground. He flailed weakly. She shifted, and he went slack.

  Disturbed didn’t move when she stood.

  Anthony joined her, holding the submachine gun awkwardly at his side. “Did you kill him?’

  Elise wiped sweat off her upper lip with the back of her wrist. “No. And he’s not going to be out for long. Give me your belt.” Anthony hurried to strip it off, and she used the strap to bind the guard’s wrists and ankles.

  The semi’s headlights stopped beside the loading bay, and the men began to move.

  “Oh man…”

  “They can’t leave,” Elise said. “We have time. Relax.”

  “They’re going to look for this guy when he doesn’t come back.”

  She knotted the belt and stood. “And we’ll be gone before they do.”

  “What’s the plan from here, anyway? We have the fuses, but they have the shipment.”

  “Could you drive a semi?” Elise asked.

  “Yeah, my uncle’s a truck driver, he—”

  She didn’t let him finish. “Great. Let’s go.” And then she was running again.

  “God damn it,” Anthony muttered before following her. Every thud of his feet against the dirt jolted through the bruise on his ribs.

  They slipped behind the semi. He could hear shouting over the idling engine.

  “Why the fuck aren’t the vans starting?”

  “You think I know? They worked on our way out here! Maybe the batteries died…”

  “On all twelve of them?”

  Anthony peeked around the back end of the truck. The door had been opened to reveal several huge crates stacked in the back, but nothing had been moved yet. Elise climbed onto the side of the cab.

  “Fuck this shit,” swore a guard on the other side of the semi. “The boss is going to shoot us!”

  She eased the door open and gestured to Anthony. He slid across the bench seat to get behind the large wheel. The cab of the semi smelled like leather and fake pine. The radio was on a Christian station, and a young woman sang cheerily about her wonderful relationship with Jesus to a twanging Country background.

  He gingerly set the submachine gun he had stolen from Disturbed atop a rosary.

  Anthony had been telling the truth when he said he could drive a semi. But he hadn’t done it in years, and not on a truck so new. He smoothed his hands over the wheel and checked the gearshift.

  “Just like any other car,” he muttered as Elise got in and shut the door softly. “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “Forward. Preferably very quickly.”

  Quickly. No problem. He wasn’t trying to pass any tests—just escape a whole lot of armed guards.

  Footsteps approached the side of the truck.

  “Maybe we can jump the pickups or something…”

  “Go,” she urged. “Now.”

  Anthony put the semi into gear and hit the gas.

  If anyone shouted at them to stop, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it. They roared into motion, and seconds later, a spray of bullets ripped into the side of the trailer with a sound like hail.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Go, go, keep going—”

  They tore across the desert, and the gunshots cut off fast. The truck shuddered on the rough playa.

  “The doors are still open! Are we losing the cargo?” Anthony asked.

  Elise rolled down the window and leaned outside. “No boxes behind us. And nobody’s chasing. They wouldn’t fire again anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “They must not want to hit the cargo.” She dropped back into her seat. “Keep going. We need to dump this by the hill for pickup, and we need to do it before they call for reinforcements. Maybe a cliff. See any cliffs?”

  Anthony laughed. The idea of going over the side of a mountain was hilariously terrifying.

  The windshield suddenly exploded inward with a crash. Elise threw herself to the floor an instant before more pellets erupted through the driver’s side window. Anthony dropped low to the seat. Safety glass showered around him, catching in his hair and collar.

  He gripped the wheel tightly, struggling to keep the semi straight. There was nothing in front of him for miles—nothing but the occasional tree—and he could only pray they wouldn’t find one on accident.

  The sound of a van roared up beside them and pulled in front of the semi.

  He peeked over the dash. The back doors popped open. Two men clung to the back, each holding submachine guns. The man in the passenger seat aimed with a shotgun. Anthony’s shotgun.

  Elise grabbed their gun and propped it on the dashboard without looking. Aiming wasn’t too important where fully automatics were concerned.

  She squeezed the trigger, and it exploded with gunfire. Someone screamed. The van swerved.

  “Pull alongside them!” she yelled. “And give me room!”

  He squeezed toward the side of the cab without letting go of the wheel. She climbed over him to brace herself against the door. Anthony flanked the van, and the orange needle on the semi’s speedometer bounced at the seventy mark.

  Elise suddenly ducked.

  Shotgun pellets buzzed through the air over Anthony’s head like a swarm of angry bees and buried into the roof of the cab.

  She got up again, hanging halfway out the window, and Anthony swerved to the left. They hit the side of the van. The semi bucked around him, and Elise’s whole body jerked. He grabbed her leg before she was wrenched out of the window.

  “Give me that!” she shouted.

  Another gunshot.

  Elise dove back into the cab with Anthony’s shotgun in her hands. Her elbow smacked into the side of his head, and he lost his grip on the wheel. The semi swerved. He scrambled to get a grip on the wheel again as his vision blurred.

  She pumped the shotgun.

  “I need a clear shot at the driver!”

  No time for pain. He sat up enough to see the ground and swung around hard.

  The change in direction made the trailer tip. For a breathless instant, it balanced on two wheels. Anthony braced himself for the trailer to unbalance and throw the cab on its side.

  But a moment later, all four wheels connected with the ground.

  Elise rose, aimed at the van, and pulled the trigger.

  It clicked. Out of ammo.

  The driver of the van aimed a handgun at them.

  Anthony hit the air brakes. The truck screamed. Elise gripped the dash to keep from getting tossed out the windshield. “He’s coming around!”

  He fumbled a couple of shells out of his pocket. Elise flipped the shotgun over to load it, but she dropped the first two. Her fingers weren’t as confident on the gun as they were with a blade.

  “Here he comes,” Anthony warned.

  She managed to slip one in the chamber.

  The van drew level with them. Elise propped herself up on the window and aimed down. The shotgun discharged with a bang.
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  The van wasn’t next to them anymore.

  “Did you shoot him?” Anthony asked, and he sounded shrill, even to his own ears. “Did you shoot the driver?”

  “Don’t stop. Get across the playa.”

  He made a loop around the sagebrush-filled shore. The bushes scraped and banged against the front of the truck and its bumpers.

  “Did we make it?” he asked.

  “That won’t be the end of it,” Elise said. “Too easy.”

  His pulse beat out a heavy cadence in his chest and throat. “Easy? We almost got shot a dozen times!”

  She laughed. Elise laughed. She sounded as perturbed by the fight as she would have been on a shopping trip with Betty—maybe even less so. “Mr. Black could send an angel as soon as he finds out what happened. If it gets to us before we dump this, you might wish we were facing a whole firing squad.”

  He stopped in front of the hill with the Jeep on it and cut the engine. They jumped out to check the cargo.

  The crates were strapped in, so they had stayed in place despite his stunt driving. He climbed into the truck bed to investigate the boxes. The moonlight was too dim for him to make out any detail.

  “Hang on.” Elise ran back to the Jeep for a flashlight.

  “Let’s just go,” Anthony said. “We’ll let your friends get rid of all this.”

  “I want to see what’s inside first. Hold the light.”

  He turned on the flashlight and shone it over her head as she pried the lid off of one of the crates. “I don’t know much about stuff with demons and angels,” he said, “but I don’t think those are weapons.”

  The box was filled by a column of stone. It was the color of ivory, and the end had a slight indent, like it was supposed to fit into another piece. Anthony reached out to caress it. The stone was smooth, almost warm to the touch. It sang against his fingertips.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  Her sharp tone made him freeze. “What? Why?”

  She replaced the lid. Elise moved to another crate and ripped it open without responding. It also had a piece of stone, and Anthony went to open a third. All the same.

  Something tickled at the back of his skull, like snakes writhing on his brain stem. He slapped the back of his neck and turned to see what had touched him.