The Blood In the Beginning

by Kim Falconer

  I wiped sweat from my forehead as, incredibly, he stood back up and came at me like a wrecking ball. What’s this guy made of? I dropped to a crouch and swept my right leg around to trip him up. He leapt over it and landed, fists swinging, pounding me into the ground. As my head found the pavement, I rolled onto my back and caught him with a kick to the crotch. He fell forward. I followed with a punch to the throat. It choked him back for a second, long enough for me to squirm away, find my feet and run. Through a cloud of pain, I saw my saviour — a kid taking out the trash.

  His headphones explained why he’d risked doing it in the middle of a street fight. Was he whistling? I sped toward him, adrenaline zinging off my heels. His mouth fell open when he spotted me on a collision course. He raised both hands to ward me off. The garbage bag fell, crap spilling everywhere.

  ‘Sorry, buddy.’ I tore past him and into his building, finding myself in the kitchen of a restaurant. It was muggy and smelled of deep fried fish, noodles and pad Thai. Chilli burned the back of my throat. It didn’t make me want to pause and grab a takeout menu. Instead, I raced by two cleaners as they plastered themselves against the wall. I burst out into a dining room, but the yells from behind meant the stalker might be following. What? He’s not worried about witnesses? I pulled chairs off tables as I ran for the front door, leaving hurdles in my wake, but my exit was blocked, chairs stacked head high in front of me. I was trapped, save for the huge window that sported the backside of a neon sign, Asian Jim’s.

  Without losing stride, I threw my hands over my head and lunged straight into it. The sound was deafening. Glass shattered as I tucked for a shoulder roll and hit the sidewalk. A thousand shards pierced my skin and pain screamed through my body. I nearly gagged, struggling to stand. Oh, hell … my shoulder had popped. Keep moving! I crossed the street, weaving in and out of traffic, horns honking, brakes screeching. A bus half a block down the street pulled up to the stop. Maybe there’s a god or two after all.

  I reached the brightly lit bus stop, doubled over, breathless and leaking blood like a sieve. Not surprisingly, the small crowd moved as far from me as possible. I felt like one of those candy apples studded with crunchy sugar shards, only mine were made of glass. Couldn’t have been a good look, but it gave me an idea. As I pulled myself up the bus steps, the engine purring beneath my feet, diesel fumes wafting up my nose, I said, ‘Costume party.’ My voice rasped as air tore in and out of my lungs. ‘Can’t be late.’

  The bus driver didn’t appear convinced.

  ‘East 101–299 Street?’ The last thing I wanted was for him to scan my bus pass. With my good arm, I pulled out the wad of cash from Poseidon and passed him a c-note. ‘You didn’t see me.’

  He nodded me on.

  I took the first seat behind the wheel, my eyes shifting down the street to Asian Jim’s. A few workers stood around on the sidewalk, staring at the broken window. As the bus took off, a man emerged from the shadows, the next alleyway down from Jim’s. He mimed a gun with his hand, took aim and fired at me. Must have been my guy, but I couldn’t see his features. I swallowed hard and leaned back, the Ruger digging into my spine. The bus driver eyed me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Party.’ I mouthed the words and slipped the piece into my calf holster, snapping it shut. If he called this in and Rourke wasn’t around to intervene, I might be DNA scanned before I could tell my side of the story. Then I’d have a shitload of explaining to do. No way was I letting that happen, if I could help it.

  The driver’s gaze went to the traffic, the blinker flipped on and we lumbered down another street. I was surprised at the distance I’d covered from Poseidon. It would only be a short ride home. Surely I wouldn’t bleed to death in that time. ‘Ketchup,’ I said to the gay couple staring at me from across the aisle. The streetlights ran together like wet paint. The bus hummed along, and my super-hit of adrenaline started to wear off. I tried to move my shoulder to a better position, cradling it with the other arm, but as I did, I saw something digging into my wrist, tight like a tourniquet. I grabbed a barf bag out of the seat’s side pouch and spewed. The gay couple changed seats and the driver eyed me again.

  ‘East 101!’ His voice boomed over the mic.

  Had I passed out? The bus was idling, but the glare of the inside lights made it impossible to see outside. He could be dumping me anywhere. Work legs, work! How the hell my feet were going to carry me, I didn’t know. There was almost no feeling in my legs. I grabbed the armrest with my good hand and pushed up, nearly spewing again, but the move was so painful, it gave me a new rush of adrenaline. It might be enough to get me home. Please be enough. I staggered off the bus a block from my apartment building. One foot in front of the other …

  When had it turned so cold? My body shivered uncontrollably as I walked, eyes on my steel-toed boots, shuffling along. Halfway home, a couple of kids in gang colours harassed me. I bent over, screamed with pain, and pulled my empty gun on them. They ran a mile. Poor kids, but I didn’t have the energy to set them straight any other way. I dropped my Ruger down the storm drain, in case the cops got real interested in who shot up the back alley and decided it was my fault. Not to mention the exodus through Asian Jim’s front window. The sewer was caustic as hell, treated to stem the cholera outbreaks. There would be no prints or retrievable DNA after a few minutes in that acid bath. I’d report it missing in the morning, feeling optimistic that there would be one.

  The steps up to my apartment building looked like Mt Everest. I climbed, leaning half my weight on the railing. My wallet fumbled out of my hands when I tried to find my key card. Where it sat on the ground looked to be a thousand miles away. I dropped to my knees, groaning as I grabbed it. Standing up was another matter, and once through the door, it was a drunken stagger to my apartment. I swiped the card again and pushed the latch. The next thing I was face down on my apartment floor. Not sure for how long.

  I woke to Cate’s voice ringing in my ears as she flipped on the light. We both screamed when she rolled me onto my back.

  ‘Ava! What happened?’ I think she was crying. ‘Your face … your hand!’

  I swallowed a surge of bile, unable to answer. That’s not good.

  ‘We need an ambulance.’ She was talking into her phone, giving out my address. ‘I think she was hit by a car.’

  I tried to correct her on that assumption, but blacked out instead.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The world came in and out of view, a montage of sounds and images. I caught a strobe of blue and green, gloved hands and nauseating shifts of perspective. People were all talking at once. The scent of plastic, antiseptic and chlorine bleach shot up my nose. And blood. A lot of blood. A pale green ceiling rushed over me, punctuated by flashes of fluorescent lights. A man’s face came into focus. Too close. Can you hear me, Ava? I caught a hint of the ocean, clean and fresh. I could swear his lips weren’t moving when he spoke. Next thing, he vanished and I was restrained. A searing pain ripped through my upper body. I screamed. A table went flying; instruments scattered like buckshot. I hit someone; either that or the wall, maybe both. Everything blurred into cotton wool as warmth tingled through my veins … damn, that felt fine. I stopped fighting, content to float about a foot above the bed in too-good-to-be-true bliss. Unfortunately, it didn’t last.

  I became aware of an incessant beeping. It bore into my head. My lids were stuck together, the left in particular, but when they finally opened, a black monitor with squiggly green lines came into focus. Electrocardiogram? Fear washed over me and for a moment I was back in CHI Tech, curled up tight, a helpless kid in the midst of a scientific horror house. The panic threatened to overwhelm until I looked at my wrist. It blurred out. When did I lose my contacts? I couldn’t read the details, but I knew the difference between a plastic ID and a metal restraining band — the latter being standard CHI Tech issue. I held my arm at just the right distance and made out the words. LA South General. So … hospital. I took a few calming breaths. Written beneath
could easily be Ava Sykes.

  As a kid in the Aftermath, I’d been a ward of the State, tossed from foster home to foster home, and finally handed over to CHI Tech, the Centre for Health Investigations and Technology. I promise, investigations is a misnomer. They were experimenting on us; me and about a hundred other homeless kids were subject to things I wish I could forget. When my cellmate died, I took her ID and broke out. Been flying under the radar ever since. I couldn’t have been the only one who celebrated when the LA branch of CHI Tech was gutted by fire. Was it my fault it happened the same night I escaped? Once free, I’d sworn never to be a victim again, but here I was, plugged into monitors, no idea what day it was or why I was here. What the hell happened to me? I forced myself to evaluate the situation, rather than panicking, starting with my stats.

  I could read the heart monitor, a benefit of my science education plus an ex-boyfriend — and still good friend — who was also in pre-med. I quizzed Tom on everything. Who knew it would come in handy in such a personal way? I located my P wave, the lowest of the peaks. It looked good. My heart muscle was contracting every second; R wave spiking up, also good. Short downward S wave; predictable. The QRS complex showed all were within normal range. The T wave following meant perfect relaxing of the heart. Okay. Good enough. Time to make a move.

  Curtains were drawn around the bed, my clothes nowhere in sight. I pushed down the covers, which gave me pause. I wasn’t wearing anything more than an oversized paper towel. Maybe I could find some scrubs. In the back of my mind, there was something I had to remember, like an itch I wanted to scratch, but for the life of me, I couldn’t reach it. How did I end up here? I couldn’t recall a thing.

  I went to throw back the covers the rest of the way only to find my right arm strapped to my chest. Looks like my shoulder popped out. I must have slept through the fix. A few fractured images flashed in my head. On second thought, maybe I didn’t sleep through it. I might even have to apologise to someone, or something. I had uncanny strength when in a rage. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet found the floor and I stood up. Bad choice. The room whirled at the speed of light.

  ‘Steady there, Ms Sykes.’ A nurse in blue scrubs stood before me, a lanky, Monet-blur of a dude. He tucked me back into bed.

  My throat felt so dry, I could hardly talk. ‘Can I have a drink?’

  He pointed to a saline drip above my head and an empty blood bag. ‘Sorry, Ava. NPO. It means …’

  Latin for ‘nothing by mouth’. I know. ‘What happened?’

  He nodded at the wall. It was a floating cloud without my contacts, but the plaster and the brick behind it did cave in at about elbow height. Cracks spread out from the epicentre, reaching to the ceiling. It wasn’t exactly what I had asked. ‘Was I admitted with a sledgehammer?’

  The nurse chuckled. ‘You’ll have to ask Dr Rossi.’ He made a note in the file and put it back on the rack.

  ‘When does she make her rounds?’

  ‘He checks ICU patients, morning and night. He’ll be along in a few hours.’

  ‘I’m in ICU?’

  ‘If you’d seen yourself when you came in, you wouldn’t be asking.’

  I closed my eyes and it hit me like a tidal wave. VIP, the walk home, the attack. ‘I need my phone!’

  ‘Take it easy, Ms Sykes.’ He turned an amber-coloured drip wide open with one hand while pinning me down with the other. ‘Breathe.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I have to call Rourke.’

  ‘Your boyfriend will be notified.’

  ‘Not my boyfriend. Detective …’

  Another nurse appeared. ‘It’s alright, Ms Sykes. You rest now,’ she said, glancing at my drip, sweat beading on her forehead.

  I felt a rush of euphoria run down my limbs. ‘Wait.’

  They did, until I couldn’t keep my eyes open or lift a finger. Everything went delightfully languid.

  I don’t know how long I lay in a sedative-induced haze, but when I woke again, I took it real slow before trying to sit up. The hospital room stayed still, even while bending forward to retrieve my chart. Small blessings. It did feel a bit like my brains were sloshing in a jar, but I bore it. Damn, that asshole hit me hard. The stalker’s taunts echoed in my head as the horror of the previous night rushed over me. Would he come here? I had to talk to Rourke. I also had to make doubly sure the CHI Tech logo wasn’t anywhere on the treatment schedule. I pushed the welling fear back and read my chart. It wasn’t easy, without contacts, but I adjusted the distance until blurry lines came into focus, almost.

  The police had been notified. That’s good, I guess … as long as I could talk to Rourke first. It said the cops had picked up an evidence bag, the one containing a thin ribbon they’d cut from my wrist. A little charm bracelet from my stalker? I barely remembered that, but his parting gesture after I made it onto the bus stayed crystal clear … so were the images burned into my mind from VIP. Those people chained to walls, looking like they were bleeding out. Daniel had convinced me it was just a performance, but floorshow or not, I had to persuade Cate to stay out of the basement. She was way too sensitive to be immersed in scenes of that kind, no matter what the pay. I planned to make sure she didn’t so much as cross a street alone at night. I guess there had been something good about her Joey taxi service after all.

  I flipped to the next page, surprised this was my second bag of blood. I slept through them both? What a perk. Being transfused was not my favourite thing, for several reasons, none of which I wanted to think about. I read on. The treatments were simple: manual reduction of dislocated R-shoulder, transfusion, fluid therapy, a single intra-muscular jab of long-acting antibiotics, no analgesics, and no more sedatives ordered, once I regained consciousness. That would be now. It instilled confidence. Some ER doctors would have sent me straight to the psych ward for observation, if I’d come in swinging, and according to the nurse and the wall, I had. That was … I squinted at the date. It couldn’t be right.

  Dr Rossi’s signature at the bottom was like a relief map of the Sierra Nevada. I couldn’t begin to guess his first name, but a picture was forming in my head: short, thin, late fifties, wire-rimmed glasses, bald head and bit of a pot belly. Kind eyes, but small, and close set. A nasally voice. Smart as a whip. With that image in mind, I drifted back to sleep, the treatment chart clutched to my chest. No CHI Tech logo anywhere.

  * * *

  I woke to liquid rushing in. It was all around me, cold, pounding, like going over a waterfall. My mouth opened to scream and water poured down my throat, into my lungs. I was drowning, soundlessly. Hysterically. Crying for help without voice. It was a familiar feeling, part of the nightmare I had on unconscious speed-dial. After struggling like a maniac, I went catatonic, immobile as the sea consumed me. I sank like a rock.

  Colours flashed before my eyes as I adjusted to the aqueous depths. Light was on a new spectrum, surprisingly vivid. The dull shades of mono-green that comprised the basis of my vision burst into dozens of brilliant tones. I saw colours I had no memory of and struggled to name them: wild blues, rainbow chartreuse, yellows beyond description. Was that red? I tried to scream again, maybe this time in excitement, but there was no air. Only water. I went back to fighting for breath with everything I had.

  Images flashed in front of my eyes, like a time-lapse geological history of the sea in fast forward. Make that super-fast forward. There were global extinctions, a woolly mammoth being torn to bits by sharks, a whale the length of the Empire State Building, a human child falling into the sea, still alive, kicking, wrapped in chains. He landed on a bed of corals that came to life from his touch. They entwined him and he closed his eyes, smiling as he fell asleep. The chains rusted away to dust as a single word came into my head. Ma’atta.

  I watched as more children floated gently down toward the tombs, each embraced by the waiting corals. They looked peaceful. Asleep. Then the scene sped even faster. The entombed children matured and rose like naked spectres from the sea bed.
On it went, young drifting down, some adults too, all embraced by the coral, all soon to rise, graceful, beautiful, at home in the sea. It distracted me enough to dump some of the fear-crazed thoughts. For a second or two. Then everything blurred into a murky, muddy vision. Once again, I found myself gasping for air.

  * * *

  Ms Sykes? Are you with us?

  I took a few quick breaths, my eyes locked on the man leaning over me. It took a minute before I recognised him. Seat A15. Shit, another dream? I frowned, unable to work out how he could possibly be here otherwise. This guy in my bedroom? That’s a hook-up I wouldn’t forget.

  Who are you?

  Was it my question, or his?

  ‘I’m wondering the same thing.’ The words slipped out of my mouth.

  He didn’t respond for some time, but lingered within my range of vision. ‘Do you find that interesting reading, Ms Sykes?’ He nodded to the chart I clutched.

  Chart? Of course. Not my bedroom. Hospital. After being beaten to crap by some crazy stalker. I rubbed my wrist and tried to sit up. Was he holding me down?

  ‘Easy. You’re safe now.’ His voice was deep and warm, a California accent, with a hint of Eastern Euro base. I wasn’t in the space to be this analytical, no matter what my Virgo horoscope said, but the sound ringing in my head when this guy spoke had my attention. It was musical. Alluring. I blinked away the underwater dream and focussed on what was real. Whoa … A15 looked even better close up. That is, he did when he was the right distance away for me to see him clearly, which was about a foot and a half. I need my damn contacts! He stood tall, really tall — six four at least — with those dark almond-shaped eyes that had stared at me in the UCLA lecture hall, a strong jaw, and that wild, windblown hair, a look that didn’t go with the lab coat and stethoscope draped around his neck. I shrank back. Too many times, expressionless men, and women, in similar gear had …