by Platt, Sean
Part of him believed she’d be better off in the custody of the cops, anyway. They’d be able to help, find her a proper home, keep Abigail away from the walking death he so obviously was.
John wasn’t sure what Abigail was expecting of him, but he couldn’t imagine taking care of her long term. Especially considering his condition. Even if his life were completely normal, how could he take in a child he didn’t even know? Certainly there had to be rules when it came to adoption. And what agency would hand a child to a murderous fugitive without a name?
John started to circle the same question he’d been asking himself since their flight from the house: Why hadn’t he just left the girl to be found by police? At the time, he’d not thought it through. Abigail was in need, and so was he. John couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t pass out again, and she might’ve been able to get them to a motel, or at least out of sunlight in an emergency.
At the time, John thought he was helping her. But now he wondered if it hadn’t been selfish to drag Abigail into unknown horrors awaiting him.
He was a man without a past. The police were hunting him, and at least one person had seemingly buried him alive. And he might be a vampire — or worse — a monster of some other sort.
The possibilities were endless, and the implausibility of it all kept John sprawled on the bed instead of pacing the floor.
Maybe she’s better off without me.
Still, there was something else.
A connection, drawing them together during their first brief touch, then again this morning when she’d sent one of his memories sailing straight back at and inside him. There was something bigger than the two of them at work, holding John in place while silently instructing Abigail to deliver the memory.
Something was guiding them, and he knew it. It didn’t have to make sense; there was understanding in the deepest recesses of his reptilian brain, pieces of a puzzle scattered across a table. Some faceup, some facedown, and all his to assemble.
To understand how the pieces fit, he needed to see them all in one place. To assemble the puzzle of his life, he needed Abigail.
John just hoped he wasn’t endangering the girl in his quest.
Ten
Abigail
Abigail craned her neck and narrowed her eyes toward the side mirror. No matter how much she wanted to deny it, the cop was pulling her over.
She pressed her foot gingerly on the brake, but it wasn’t gentle enough. The car bucked forward and shuddered to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk.
Abigail kept her eyes fastened on the mirror but couldn’t see into the cop’s front window.
She tasted the familiar acid of adrenaline as her mind raced through possible escape scenarios — none remotely realistic, especially considering she lacked basic driving skills, let alone the ability to evade a police car in a high speed pursuit.
Keys dangled from the ignition, swinging in time to the engine’s purr, both against the backbeat of her foot tapping nervously against the floorboard.
The cop was still in his car.
Is it supposed to take this long? What is he doing?
As if responding to her thought, the cop’s voice boomed over the speakers on top of his light bar.
“Put your hands where I can see them, and step out of the vehicle!”
Abigail was frozen, swallowed by the ambiguity of adult procedure.
The cop issued his command a second time, his voice deep, cold, emotionless. Authoritative.
Abigail released a tiny shriek. Her hands fumbled with the door handle, unable to open it. Panic rose like a tide in her throat — the realization that she might be shot for not obeying the cop as suddenly real as the bruised violet sky hazing through the smeared windshield.
“Please don’t shoot!” Abigail cried out, though the officer couldn’t possibly hear her. She turned and lowered her hood to show she was only a child.
“Hands in the air, step out of the car,” the voice echoed.
Her hands found the lock. Seconds later she stepped out slowly, afraid that the cop would mistake the slightest speed in her movement and shoot her.
“Hands up, face away from me.”
Abigail obeyed, the world slowing to a few frames per second around her. She could feel strangers eyeing her from their cars, passing by in the middle and far lanes. She and the cop had caused the right lane traffic to stop cold.
“Walk backward to the sound of my voice; keep your hands in the air.”
Gravel and debris bit into her bare feet as she took a tentative step back. All those eyes on them, each driver and passenger craning to get a momentary glimpse of the drama unfolding.
“Stop. Down on your knees.”
Abigail slowly got to her knees, quivering like the last leaf clinging to an autumn tree. She could feel the cop’s glare as he stepped from his car and started his approach. Tears streaked down her face, the salt stinging her lips.
“Hands out, palms up!”
Abigail was confused.
Why is he shouting at me?
Can’t he see I’m a child?
She desperately wanted to turn around to show that she was not whatever villain he thought her to be. But she knew that would invite him to shoot her dead.
Traffic was crawling, and Abigail could hear the angry horns from frustrated drivers, stuck a block back without a view of the action. She wondered if John could see the gathering traffic. If he noticed, maybe he could come save her — again.
“Cross your legs at the ankles.”
The officer’s instructions confused Abigail as the traffic, the drivers’ stares, and the cop’s gun all gathered velocity to meet the world in real time.
Instead of obeying, Abigail tossed the dice, turned slowly, and asked the cop to repeat himself.
There he stood, a tall, lanky cop swimming in his dark green uniform, most of his face hidden behind large shades and an even larger mustache. He looked young, and something about him screamed inexperience, yet his hand — and the gun inside it — didn’t waver in the slightest.
He paused a moment, as if he were just then realizing she wasn’t a dangerous bad guy, but a child. He turned his mouth and said something inaudible into his shoulder radio. Then he spoke to Abigail. Gun still drawn.
“Who else is in the vehicle?”
“It’s just me!”
The cop said something else into his radio then moved toward the driver’s door, gun aimed at the car, and quickly scanned the interior.
“Are you okay? You can put your hands down.”
“Yes,” Abigail whispered, turning to the officer for confirmation before standing. He nodded.
“What’s your name?” The cop holstered his gun and pulled out a pad and pen.
“I don’t know,” she lied.
Meanwhile, a line of cars had built up behind the cruiser, waiting to merge into the center lane, now filled with rubberneckers, slowing to a crawl as each car begged for a ticket to the show.
So many eyes made Abigail feel naked.
Just get it over with, do what you need to do, and put me in the car.
“A lot of people are looking for you,” the cop said, finally recognizing her. “Where is he?”
“Where’s who?” Abigail’s eyes broke from the officer’s, falling on a lightning bolt crack in the asphalt by his feet.
“The man who kidnapped you.”
“I wasn’t kidnapped,” she said, looking up as a dusty gray van idled behind the cop car, unable to find a break in the traffic to merge.
The cop couldn’t care less about the traffic jam; his attention was fixed on Abigail and going nowhere.
“Do you know where the man is now? Do you know his name?”
Abigail wasn’t sure what to say but forced herself to raise her chin, stare into the man’s mirrored lenses, and continue to feign ignorance.
The van grew impatient and swerved violently into the next lane, cutting off a pickup the color of old chalk. The man drivin
g the truck laid on his horn, causing the cop to turn as the van pulled up alongside them. Abigail thought she heard the hum of the passenger window as it was rolled down and …
The van screeched to a stop.
The cop barely had time to grab his gun before his head exploded in a crimson river of gore.
Abigail screamed as the officer’s body fell to the ground.
Her mind registered a face in the passenger side of the van a second behind her eyes. It was wearing a black mask of some kind. The side panel door rolled open in a thunderous roar. Inside she saw at least three others, dressed all in black and wearing matching masks.
One of them leaped out, grabbed Abigail’s hair, yanked her forward, and tossed her into the van in one violently rapid movement. Something closed tight around her mouth. A strong odor choked her nostrils and sent her slipping into an icy blackness.
Eleven
John
Something was wrong. Ice water that had settled in John’s veins now coursed toward his spine and spoke of Abigail’s trouble.
He bolted upright in bed and glanced at the cable box clock — 6:51 p.m. — and then at the curtains. His boots dug into the carpet as he made three long strides toward the shrouded wall. He wanted to part the curtains and peek outside, but feared what might happen. The sun was low but present, and John could feel its deadly light holding him prisoner in the motel room.
Another ten minutes at least.
A current rippled through his body, causing his arm hairs to stand on end as he paced the floor, repeating his whisper to no one.
“The girl is safe. This is all in your mind.”
A seam inside him split and spilled a shimmer of images: a glimpse of a rearview mirror, a cop car with spinning red and blue lights, the edged shadow of a looming nightmare.
Fuck.
The image evaporated almost as quickly as it came. John tried to comfort himself with the thought that it was merely fear holding court in his head, mocking him like the sun’s final rays. If he could only ignore it a little longer, he’d be rewarded with Abigail walking through the door. Any minute now, he almost allowed himself to believe.
As if to punish hope for daring show its face, John was slapped with another flash, just as quick and twice as painful — Abigail’s hand opening the old sedan door before she stepped onto the road.
The image turned to gauze and faded to black.
John frantically circled the room as though his body was an antenna seeking connection with the girl. Logic told him he was imagining things. Abigail was fine. She’d be back any second. But logic had spiraled down the drain along with his sanity the moment he woke in a coffin.
What he was seeing was real.
He closed his eyes, trying to coax another image into view, but nothing would color his hollow mind. If there was a way to control this, whatever this was, he was operating without a manual.
“Dammit,” he snarled in a voice several octaves deeper than it had been. The new timbre surprised him, as though a stranger’s voice had been driven from the depths of his throat.
Another flash, and he found himself again looking through Abigail’s eyes and up at the cop.
The image disappeared.
Shit.
John double checked the bags sitting in front of the door. Everything was packed. He glanced at the curtains again, tried to summon the courage to pull them aside, and shuddered with the thought that it would probably be easier to part the sea.
Open the curtains, and you’ll burn like Randy and Stacy.
Another flash. Abigail was looking around at the traffic, frantic. So many people staring. John was swimming inside the girl’s emotions, feeling her longing to disappear. He caught another brief glimpse of the cop before the image was replaced by the sight of his hand curling tightly into the thick motel curtains.
Fuck it.
He tugged the curtains aside, no more than a couple of inches, and his world exploded in a helix of fire and agony.
John launched back, hitting the far wall, causing a tacky motel room framed piece to fall onto him. The left side of his face matched the inferno erupting across his now-blistering left arm. His mouth opened impossibly wide to unleash a banshee’s earsplitting shriek. He writhed beneath the frame, wracked in torment for what seemed an eternity. He focused on the only thing he could see — a cracked electrical outlet — fixing his eyes on it to serve as an anchor, keeping him rooted in this world to prevent him from blacking out again.
Abigail needed him.
He held tight, riding the waves of pain as their intensity slowly decreased. However, he still felt as if he’d been hit by a truck on fire and could only lie on the floor. He thought of Abigail again, her wide eyes, and felt a horrible pang in his heart. That she should suffer so much in her short life enraged him. He shrugged the framed art aside and sat up.
The curtains had fallen closed, returning the room to a solace of darkness.
The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh permeated his nostrils and stirred a surprising growl in his stomach despite knowing the scent was his own body roasting. His left arm was the color of charred brick, raw with blood and torn skin, but still functioning.
He dreaded seeing his face.
John pulled himself up against the wall and slowly made his way to the bathroom mirror. The left side of his face was the snapshot of a monster. Not as bad as his arm, but horribly mottled. His left eye was crusted shut, throbbing beneath the thin mangled membrane of remaining flesh.
The mirror disappeared in another flash, replaced with Abigail’s vision. She was still with the cop, the two of them now talking. An approaching van had nabbed her attention.
Oh Christ — in the window!
A masked man with a gun appeared in slow motion.
The image disappeared alongside all lucidity.
A preternatural quiet suffocated the room, suppressing all but the mingling sounds of John’s shallow breaths and pounding heart. He searched the mirror for a way to save the girl, afraid if he didn’t act quickly, the next image would be from inside her closed eyelids.
Dusk’s silence was shattered by a gunshot, half in his mind and half an echo in the distance.
“Nooooo!”
John screamed, instinct and rage seizing his limbs and driving him into spontaneous motion.
Every move seemed to rip his wounded flesh even more, but still he swallowed the pain and scanned the room. He grabbed the blanket on Abigail’s bed, wrapped it around his body in a fluid sweep, lurched forward, grabbed two pillow cases then ran toward the door, stuffed one case inside the other, and pulled them over his head.
“I’m coming, Abigail,” he said, hoping that whatever connection there was between them delivered his message.
John deeply inhaled before opening the door, swapping the motel’s safe harbor for the savagery of sunlight.
He stumbled into the parking lot, hunched over, draped in a blanket, shallow breath echoing against a wall of pillowcases, burning air blowing back against the shredded flesh of his face.
“What the hell?” said a man’s voice, somewhere to his left.
John turned but couldn’t see anything beyond the pillowcases. There was light around him, natural and otherwise, but not enough to discern the shadows racing across his one-eyed gaze.
A woman, also to the left, shrieked several times in rapid succession, or maybe there was more than the one woman wailing. John couldn’t tell.
Sunlight singed his feet as he stumbled forward, but the pain wasn’t nearly as severe as what he’d felt back in the motel. He hunched over, draping the blanket lower and thickening the protective barrier standing between sunlight and skin. The fire in his flesh slowly cooled as he tried to figure out where he was in relation to where he wanted to be.
To his far right, John heard the shrieking chaos and screeching metal simmering in the shooting’s aftermath. He hobbled forward like a blind hunchback, navigating the lot with only memory and muffled sou
nd as his guides.
He stumbled several times, barely managing to keep himself upright before slamming into the side of a car. The blanket slipped through his fingers against the grain of his surprise, his skin meeting one of the final shafts from a fading sun. He was immediately punished.
John screamed and fell to the ground, grabbing and yanking the blanket back over himself. He swallowed hard and tuned his ears to the reception of unfolding disaster. He pulled the blanket tighter, rose to his feet, and ambled blindly forward. His mind desperately reached into the world, hungry for the slightest sign of Abigail — any signal to thin the distance between them — but the air felt empty, their connection dissolving like wafting smoke from a flame claimed by the wind.
Still, John could practically smell Abigail’s peril and knew he had to find her. He pushed himself harder, moving faster against the antagonistic wind of blind momentum. He’d made it out of the motel lot, about ten yards down the street when he felt his blanket brush against something. His feet tripped into the tangled fabric, and he crashed into what felt like at least two hundred pounds of anger.
“What the fuck is your problem?” a man shouted from the other side of the blanket.
Someone screamed: “He’s got a gun!”
Gun?
Who has a gun? Do they think I have a gun? Or do they see the men Abigail saw?
Confusion, panic, and the sounds of running footsteps echoed in every direction. Some moving away from John and others barreling toward him.
“Hey, motherfucker!” a man yelled, livid but leading.
A harsh blow struck his back and sent him to the ground. A city seemed to land on top of him, punching, kicking, scraping him against the concrete, his world a whirlwind of suffering and bedlam.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder as hands clawed at his pillowcase, tearing at his hair and where the pillowcase had stuck to his bloody face.
John’s fingers strained to hold both pillowcase and blanket as he curled into a frail ball, taut with despair.
