by Glen Frost
"It won't? How long do I have?"
"The deal is: Long enough to wipe those two ball-sacks off the face of the Earth. Then we have to take you downstairs." Lydia paused, tilting her head like a dog listening to something on a higher frequency than humans were capable of hearing. Her demeanor suddenly brightened. "Oh, I just heard from the boss. See, I told you he's not all bad! He says that if you want, he'll throw in the fat piece of shit pastor as well. Free. No charge. Gratis. Can't say fair than that!"
"No, it is...fair deal."
Anya suddenly felt deathly cold. The snow had begun to settle on top of her head, shoulders, and breasts. Yet she didn't shiver; in fact, she was surprised to discover that she couldn't shiver at all. That felt weird. The ice water which seemed to have replaced the blood in her veins burned her from the inside out, a constant, gnawing ache that seemed to be growing stronger and stronger with every passing second.
Looking down towards her feet, she saw that Piotr had bundled up her clothing and buried it along with her. Anya didn't bother with the underwear, but stepped into the skirt and pulled it up to her waist. The zipper was a challenge with no fingertips, but she finally managed to get it up to the top on her fourth try. Nor did she think that she could button the white shirt, which was now stained with dirt, so she simply put her arms through the sleeves, shrugged the shirt about her shoulders, and let it hang open along the front. It was better than being completely naked at least, which would draw a lot of attention.
Almost as though she was reading her mind, Lydia said, "We can't have you walking the streets like that, can we sweetheart? You're not going to get far with your face looking like that."
The Russian girl brought a hand up to touch her own cheek. For a moment, she had allowed herself to forget that she had no face, no teeth, just exposed, glistening tendons. It didn't actually hurt; sure, her face burned with the cold, but no more or less than every other part of her body. But now she came to think of it, she'd cause traffic accidents and screaming when people saw it in the daylight.
"Maybe a scarf," Anya wondered out loud, "or a mask. Dark glasses. I don't know..."
"Nah," Lydia shook her head. "No need for any of that. There's a cool trick. Here, let me show you."
Suddenly, Lydia's appearance changed. Her neck lolled at an obscene angle to the right, obviously broken. Both eyes were bruised a dark purple color, and her nose was squashed flat across the front of her face. Numerous cuts and abrasions scarred her features, interspersed with ugly-looking bruises and hematomas.
Anya's eyes widened in shock. "What happened?" she gasped, noticing that Lydia's right arm also appeared to be broken in multiple places. She held it awkwardly, and it reminded Anya of C3PO, the robot from the Star Wars movies that she had seen.
"Oh, sweetheart, you ain't seen nothing yet!" Chuckling, Lydia used her good left hand to expose her chest. Above the lacy bra (black, of course) Anya could see her breast bone pulsing up and down beneath the skin, in time with her heartbeat. "Check out the ribs down here on the right."
Anya looked downward and saw that the entire right side of the Goth girl's chest appeared to be sunken in, along with what she could see of the collarbone. She was no kind of medical expert by any means, but it looked as if she had been struck with great force on that side. She thought that the injuries looked pretty serious.
"You could say that," Lydia laughed. "Serious enough to kill me. Yes, I'm reading your mind. It's something a lot of dead folk can do, so don't let it freak you out. Some day, when all of this shit is over, you'll be able to do it too."
Anya liked the sound of that. "What happened to you?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
"My own stupid fault. I was texting and driving. Blew through a four-way stop without evening knowing it was there. Got T-boned by a truck. Fucked me up good and proper. Crushed my ribs, blew out my sternum — that's the breastbone, learned that in anatomy and physiology class — and caused the sac around my heart to rupture."
"That sounds...painful."
"Bet your sweet ass it was, sister, but not for long. I couldn't breathe. Every time I tried to, it was like somebody was sticking knives into the right side of my chest. By the time the paramedics got here, the sac around my heart had filled with so much blood, it made my heart stopped beating. They didn't even take me to the hospital. Just called me dead right there and waited for the coroner."
"But you look..."
"Normal?" Lydia cut her off. This time, her laugh sounded a little less genuine and a lot more bitter. "That's the trick. See..."
Instantly she was the old Lydia again, her head and neck sitting normally on top of her shoulders once more. The bruises disappeared from around her eyes, and her nose had magically righted itself. The cuts, abrasions, and other signs of trauma were replaced with smooth, pale skin in the blink of an eye.
"How do you do that?" Anya asked, thoroughly intrigued.
"Simple, sweetheart. It just takes a bit of willpower. You will yourself to look like you used to, and it just happens. Go ahead. Try it."
"But how?"
Lydia sighed. "Just make a picture of yourself, inside your head. See yourself as you used to be, which in your case I've gotta admit was pretty fucking hot. Tell yourself that that's how you look right now, and before you know it, you will."
"Will it help if I close my eyes?"
"Why the fuck would it?" Lydia snapped. "Look, if you think it will help, go ahead and give it a try. Personally, I don't need to. I just think of it, and it happens. Besides, you don't actually have eyes any more."
Anya had to admit that she had a point; her eyes had been squashed to pulp during Piotr's attempt to disfigure her body, so it was a mystery to her how she could possibly see anything at all. Shrugging, she began to focus her attention, conjuring up an image of herself in her mind's eye. In it, she was unmarked and beautiful once more, with the sharp cheekbone structure that had always made other girls jealous. Not a single bruise or blemish marred her complexion.
"Not too shabby for a first try," admitted Lydia grudgingly, planting her hands on her hips. "You look like your old hot self. Wish I had a mirror to show you."
Anya spread her fingers in front of her face. Her fingertips looked normal once more, the nails having seemingly grown back. Yet when she touched the ends of her two pointer fingers together, the fingernails seemed to merge into one another. All she felt was the cold bone ends grating together. When she paid careful attention, she saw that the snowflakes were settling on top of her hands, but falling through the tips of each finger.
"It is an illusion, Anya. Underneath, your physical body is the same as it was when it went into the ground. Well, in terms of appearance, anyway. In some ways, it is better."
Intrigued, Anya asked, "What ways?"
"Speed and strength, mainly." Lydia grinned wolfishly. "You're stronger and faster than you were before you died. Think of it as a gift from downstairs, to help you even things up with those assholes."
The Russian woman walked over to the closest tree and gave it a quick once-over, selecting a branch at head height that was about three times as thick as her arm. Grasping it tightly, she yanked as hard as she could. At best she had expected it to bend or maybe crack; instead, it came away from the trunk in an explosion of wood fragments and ripping bark.
"So easy!" Anya beamed, as excited as a child on Christmas morning.
"It is blood magic," explained Lydia, gesturing at the severed branch. "You'll have the strength of five, but after you use it, you've gotta replenish it with blood. Otherwise it'll leave you feeling as weak as a new-born baby."
Anya nodded, only half listening to her. It suddenly dawned on her that standing directly underneath the tree branch hadn't been the smartest choice, because the damned thing looked to be about ten feet long and must have weighed at least a hundred pounds; but to her surprise, it turned out to feel as light as a feather in her hands. Anya hel
d the big limb cautiously above her head, testing the weight and heft of it.
Lydia slow-clapped her. "One hand, girl. One hand!"
Anya obliged, letting her left hand drop. The branch still felt as light as a feather. Then she had an idea. Turning slowly and carefully to avoid snagging it on one of the low-hanging branches, she planted her feet as firmly as the snow would allow. Bracing herself, she brought her right arm all the way back, and then hurled the branch across the clearing like a javelin. It slammed into the trunk of the cottonwood tree about halfway up, nearly pulverizing itself in a shower of splinters. A huge chunk had been gouged out of the bark.
"Motherfucker!" Anya beamed.
"Pretty damn badass," agreed Lydia. "How hard were you trying?"
"Hard. I imagined that the tree was Piotr," she admitted. They both laughed.
"It's gonna be, soon enough."
"Good." Anya's face darkened. "I'm going to rip that piece of shit apart, one body part at a time..."
"Attagirl." Lydia clapped her on the shoulder. "And on that note, sweetheart, my time is up. I'm out of here."
"Wait! I have more questions—"
"You'll figure it out as you go. The boss is calling me back. Go get the fuckers who did this to you, honey." Lydia raised an arm and pointed toward the road, partially obscured by the falling snow. "Denver's that way. Best start walking..."
Without taking a step, the Goth girl faded slowly away into thin air. Anya was left all by herself in the clearing. She stood silently for a few minutes, her mind running back to the events of the last few hours. The sun was starting to come up, lightening the clouds to the east. When she had gotten out of bed late yesterday morning, she had been relatively happy, or at the very least content; she had felt generally optimistic, thinking that the night would bring more money, every dollar of which would in turn bring her beloved Darya closer to a new life here in America.
Now, the hope and optimism were gone. All that remained was hatred...pure, unadulterated hatred. Men's faces swam in and out of her mind's eye: Piotr. Marko. That piece of shit priest. Hell, every last john that handed over money for sex and kept the rotten system of pimps and hookers going...she hated every last one of them.
And now they were going to pay.
Lashing out with a closed fist, Anya smashed a chunk from the body of the closest tree trunk. She felt no pain, other than the constant icy burning that chilled her entire body now.
I'm coming to get you, you fucks.
With that thought burning brightly, she began to put one foot in front of the other, heading toward Denver...and retribution.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had taken Anya the best part of two days to walk most of the way back to Denver.
Not a single driver stopped to pick her up, ignoring the outstretched thumb she held up every time she heard an engine on the road behind her. She found that more than a little puzzling: Surely at least one man (or woman, she wasn't particularly fussy) would pick up a hitchhiker who was smoking hot and dressed to take full advantage. But they didn't.There was a time when that would have pissed her off, but that was the old Anya. The new Anya didn't give a shit for such trivial concerns. She was focused on just one thing.
Revenge.
The miles passed by slowly, and the snow continued to fall. With the coming of daybreak, it became a wetter kind of slush, one that somehow seeped into her boots and made her feet squish. She walked all day and on through the night. Her body never seemed to tire. Ordinarily, her feet would have been screaming at her after walking for that long in knee-high boots. Now, they simply didn't seem to care. Nor did she feel hungry, thirsty, or any other physical need.
The only thing she needed was Piotr's neck in her hands. Everyone and everything else could go and eat a dick.
Her luck changed some fifteen miles outside the city limits, when a big eighteen-wheeler truck pulled alongside her. Its wheels slid the last few inches, hydro-planing on the slush. The driver, a bearded man who looked to be somewhere around fifty years old and a connoisseur of truck stop convenience food, popped the passenger door and grinned at her through teeth stained dark brown with dip.
"Hop on in, darlin'. Plenty o' room for two."
Anya bounded up into the cab with a single leap, taking him by surprise. He would have expected a woman, particularly one in stiletto heels, to climb awkwardly up into the seat; his new passenger had sprang up there as gracefully as a gazelle.
She settled herself into the passenger seat, slamming the chrome-plated door firmly shut.
"Name's Ray," the driver said, chewing manically on the tobacco dip. He returned his attention to the road, but not before he'd given her body a long, hungry once-over. "Where are y'all headed...Denver?"
"I am Anya. And yes, Denver. Thank you for giving me a ride."
"Y'all are welcome." Ray's grin widened into a leer. "Happy to give y'all a ride."
I see, Anya thought archly. So it is going to be like that. Men...all the same. Pigs.
The truck's brakes screeched as Ray released them and nudged its big front end back out into the stream of traffic. They road in silence for a while. Anya was all too aware of Ray's lecherous sideways glances, but she pretended ignorance, choosing to watch the falling snow and the seemingly endless trail of red tail lights that stretched out into the distance ahead of them.
"Cold in here," he said at last. "Want me to turn up the heater?"
"Why not?" Anya frankly didn't give a shit. Ray leaned out over his own enormous belly, held partly in check by a pair of bright red over-the-shoulder suspenders, and cranked the heater up to full. The method behind his madness soon became clear when he let his hand drop casually downward to rest on top of Anya's knee.
"You're as cold as ice, girl," Ray cooed, secretly delighted that she didn't move her leg away or tell him to remove his hand. "Y'all could do with some...warmin' up."
Pushing his luck a little further, he slid his fingertips along the top of Anya's left thigh, loving the smoothness of her taut young skin. It felt ice cold to the touch, but he put that down to the fact that she had been outside in the freezing cold night air for who knew how long. When the girl still offered no complaint, Ray decided to double down; keeping his eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel, he let his right hand slide inside his passenger's inner thigh, all the way up to the top. When he felt the first traces of soft, downy hair up there, he let out a low whistle.
"Hot damn, girl. Somebody likes to go commando..."
Anya stifled a sigh. "Yes," she said, injecting just enough fake interest into her voice to keep him reassured. She purred like a cat. "You are right. I could really do with some warming up...perhaps you could pull over, at the side of the road?"
"Say no more, sweet cheeks. Say no more..."
They drove for another half mile, leaving the City of Golden behind. Ray's nicotine-stained fingertips were stroking her pussy clumsily, working in a roughly circular motion that he probably imagined was giving her some kind of pleasure. Anya encouraged him by closing her eyes and letting out the occasional moan, parting her knees just enough to give him a little more access.
Her mind, however, was focusing on something very different indeed. It was formulating a plan.
The traffic was picking up speed now, with bigger spaces between each set of tail lights. This particular stretch of the highway was badly lit and very isolated. Ray pulled the truck off the road, bringing it to a halt in the courtyard of an old, long-abandoned truck stop. Anya cracked open one eye, taking in the scene carefully. They were well out of sight of the road.
Perfect.
She let out another moan of faux-pleasure. Dialing up her accent a couple of notches, she said, "It is more comfortable in back, no?"
"Yes ma'am, it sure is. Y'all come on back there. Plenty of room to give you a ride back there." Ray cackled at his own joke. She found the puppy-dog eagerness that was so evident in his voice to be almost sicke
ning.
Popping his seat belt, Ray turned around and began to climb into the back seat. Anya looked and watched with disgust as the driver tried to squeeze his blubbery ass between the two leather seats, grunting and sweating like a stuck pig. He wore what she presumed was a wedding band on the ring finger of his left hand.
I am about to do your poor wife a favor she will never be able to repay...
Turning backward in her seat, Anya lashed out and thrust the fingers of her right hand straight through the seat of his jeans. The sweat-soaked denim ripped and tore easily, no match for her supernatural strength. She felt her fingers and palm slide along the blubbery underside of Ray's buttocks and taint, until finally they found what she was looking for: Two soft plums nestled inside their hairy sack.
She closed her grip around them and squeezed.
Ray squealed. The squeal intensified, becoming a screech as her grip tightened. The fat trucker's arms flailed, trying desperately to reach her, but Anya was too far away. When that failed, he reached down, still singing soprano, and tried to pry her fingers free. It was no use; his warm, pudgy fingers couldn't even begin to compete with the Russian girl's freezing cold digits.
Then she twisted sharply, sending Ray's cry to a frequency so high that only dogs would be able to hear it.
"Disgusting pig. Whatever would your poor wife think?" she asked hypothetically. This was starting to feel good, Anya realized. She fancied herself to be karma personified. This filthy piece of shit would never abuse a hitch-hiking girl ever again...
Clenching her closed fist as hard as she possibly could, Anya jerked her arm back, giving it one final, vicious twist for good measure. Blood exploded from the jagged rent in the seat of Ray's jeans, pissing from the gaping wound that now sat where his balls had once lived. His eyes rolled up into his head and he began to cry. Fearing that he would pass out from the pain, Anya used her free hand to deliver a stinging slap across his face. Ray's head jerked back, slamming against the roof of the cab.
