by S. A. Hunt
Track 23
Now
Boxes were piled against the wall: Budweiser, Coors, Frito-Lay, Yuengling, Dos Equis, Miller Light, Coca-Cola, Dr. Pepper. A wide metal door in the far wall led into what was probably a walk-in freezer—for meat, maybe? Probably alcohol, too. No casement windows allowed sunlight into the room, but a pair of humming fluorescent lights hung from chains.
“How did you do what you did to me?”
Roused by the sound of an angry voice, Kenway looked around in a daze. His wrists were tied together and the rope was over a metal pipe in the ceiling. Three men wearing Los Cambiantes colors stood nearby, but they weren’t paying attention to him.
Magician Rook had been tied to a chair, a bandanna around her eyes. Her shirt was gone, though she still wore her sooty bra and black jeans.
“I want to know,” one of them said. “And you’re going to tell me.”
“Can’t tell you. Just something you have to learn,” Rook said exasperatedly, rote dialogue she’d probably been repeating all night. “It takes—”
A tall drink of water with salt-and-pepper Fabio hair slapped her across the face. To her credit, she didn’t make a sound, even though she had apparently already been through plenty. Her nose was bleeding, she had a fat lip, and her face was livid with bruises. “Then teach me,” said Santiago. His right arm was in a sling, his chest shrouded in bandages. His skin was a livid pink, and burn scars made grotesque whorls across his face and arms. “I want to know how you did what you did. How you move things with your mind.”
“Looks like Big Boy is awake,” grunted a short, barrel-chested guy in a pinstripe dress shirt. The patch on his biker vest said his name was MEZA. The pencil mustache made him look like a Latin Danny DeVito.
Santiago glared at Kenway, but his scowl broke into a grin. “Good morning, sunshine. Did you sleep okay?”
“Slept in worse places,” said the veteran. His mouth tasted like feet and cheese. “Where am I? What did you do with my leg?” Then he saw it dangling from Meza’s hand by the ankle, pointed at the floor like a baseball bat. “Man, it would really mean a lot to me if you could put that back on.”
Meza wound up and clubbed Kenway across the belly with his own prosthetic leg.
“Swing, batta-batta!” laughed Santiago.
“Urrgh.” Kenway bent double, though the impact wasn’t nearly as forceful or painful as he let on. He broke character and laughed, tossing his hair out of his eyes; he couldn’t help it, the display was pathetic. “I’m sorry, man, you hit like a little girl. How did Little League tryouts go? Make the team yet?” If he could piss them off and divert their attention, maybe they would leave Rook alone.
Meza stared, astounded. “This motherfucker!”
A grenade went off in Kenway’s sinuses as Santiago’s fist pumped into his face. He rocked back, the pipe in the ceiling the only thing keeping him upright. “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Woo!” said Kenway, swaying giddily. Blood coursed from his nostrils and down the back of his throat. He spat it on the floor at their feet.
“Gimme that,” Santiago snarled, ripping the prosthetic leg out of Meza’s hand. He whacked Kenway in the knee with it like he was clearing brush with a bush axe.
The pipe in the ceiling creaked ominously under the big vet’s weight as he dropped onto his wrists with a shout of pain. “Talk shit now, pendejo!” Santiago stepped over to a workbench and hammered the fake leg savagely against the edge of the countertop until it came apart in a spray of titanium and plastic.
Damn, man, Kenway thought, despair washing over him. I’m useless on one foot. He scanned the cellar from where he stood, searching for something he could use as a crutch. A dry mop stood in an empty bucket next to a deep sink. Maybe he could use that.
Throwing the leg across the room, Santiago scowled. “I know what you’re doin’. Ain’t going to work.” As he turned away, he seemed to have second thoughts and came back. “Hey, you’re that wife-killing bitch’s boy toy, ain’t you? What’s it like, fuckin’ a butch lesbo like that? How you even get your dick in a pussy that dry?” He laughed. “Bet you kids go through a lot of Astro-Glide. How’d you even talk her into it? Bet you lost that leg in the sandbox. What’re you, Army? Marine? I bet you’re a Marine. Semper fi, buddy—you must be a hell of a man to turn a dyke.”
Kenway gripped the rope and pulled himself up, stomping Santiago right in the crotch.
Tearing out of its brackets, the pipe broke loose and dropped him on his ass. The pipe hit the floor, ringing like a church bell, and the president of the Los Cambiantes went to his knees, hunkering over as if he were praying to Mecca, cupping his balls. Kenway took advantage of the distraction and dove for the busted pipe.
Throwing himself forward like a frog, Santiago did a sort of stretching fencer’s lunge, stomped Kenway’s hand, mashing his fingers with a heavy, chunky-soled riding boot.
The bones in his hand ground together in excruciating pain. “Aah! Goddammit!” shouted the vet, grimacing. He let go.
Santiago stood, pulling his right hand out of the sling and massaging his crotch. Flying into a rage, he whacked Kenway across the back with the pipe. When the big vet rolled over with a bark of pain, the changeling biker beat on him. Iron pipe bounced off his forearms and knuckles. He turned his wrists so he caught most of the blows in the muscle. Still, it was everything he could do to keep from getting his arms broken.
Reaching for the pipe on the downswing, he tried to grab it out of Santi’s hand but missed. It skittered up his knuckles and he turned his face at the last second, earning a blow across the side of the head. Luckily, he’d slowed it enough that it didn’t break his jawbone, but the brain-jarring knock to the skull threw Kenway into a blind rage and he punched his assailant in the shinbone.
“Ay! Fuck you, boy!” Santiago tried another swing.
This time Kenway caught it, ripping it out of his hand. The vet sat up and swatted Santiago across the thigh with the pipe. Awkward angle and a short swing, but the biker still yelped. No doubt he was feeling the jabs Robin had given him the night before. Kenway pointed the pipe at the other men and they hesitated, but only for a second. Long enough for their new pack leader to interrupt.
“Let him stew,” said Santiago. “He ain’t got but one leg. He ain’t goin’ nowhere. Look at him. He’s a crip. What’s he gonna do? He’s a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” He laughed and opened the door, ushering Meza and the other guy out. “Come on, I have to take Carly home, and then we’ll come back and deal with these shitheads.” He turned to Kenway, his eyes flashing gold. “You best be glad I’m runnin’ on fumes, boy, or your ass would be grass.”
Before he slipped out, Santiago paused and smiled. “Your girl didn’t make it out, by the way.”
“What?” Kenway went cold all over.
“Your little Xena Warrior Cunt Princess. Didn’t make it out of the house before it went down.” Santiago grinned. “Last time I saw her, she was on fire. Eyes runnin’ out of her face like candle wax. She’s one crispy bitch.” He spat on the floor. “That’s what she gets for messin’ with me and mine. Mess with my family, you get dead.”
Tears pooled in Kenway’s eyes and ran into his beard. Sudden deep despair took his voice away. The sound his gritting teeth made in his head reminded him of the creaking of the timbers settling as the house burned above him, and that only drove the knife deeper.
“Maybe I’ll go back up there and piss on her ashes,” said Santiago.
Kenway threw himself forward and swung the pipe in rage, but came up short. The tip banged against the cement floor, ringing loudly.
“Tsk tsk.” Santiago wagged a finger.
“I’m going to kill you,” Kenway said coldly, breathlessly, and meant it. His heart was gone, and in the middle of his chest was a deep dark hole.
“I believe it.”
“I’m going to rip you apart.”
“Keep ahold of that anger. It’s all you got left. Now if
you’ll excuse me, I got things to do. Peace out, white boy.” Santi flashed a V sign in farewell. “Ring the front desk if you get hungry.”
The door clicked shut, and keys rattled on the other side as someone locked it. Heavy door, probably solid oak. Considering the deadbolt was shot into a brick wall and it opened into the cellar, he’d never be able to kick it open even if he had two legs.
The only other door was the walk-in cooler across the room. He had no delusions they’d be able to escape that way.
Kenway dragged himself over to Rook. “You okay?”
Blood leaked from her nose, dripping into her bra. “Yes … yes, I suppose I am. They’re going to kill me, though. When that man realizes he’s not going to get what he wants, he’s going to kill me.” Her mouth drew into a deep, hopeless frown, and she hunkered down, her shoulders bunching up. Quiet tears ran out from under the bandanna, cutting tracks in the blood. “I don’t want to die, Mr. Griffin. I’m not ready to go yet.”
“They’re not going to kill you,” said Kenway. He peeled off the Origo’s blindfold to reveal haunted eyes. “We’re going to get out of here.”
“We’re not. We’re not getting out of here. This was a mistake, wasn’t it, coming down to Texas?” The longer Rook spoke, the more frantic she became. “Andy warned me about this, about getting mixed up with Martine. I should have listened.”
“We are.” His fingers worked at the knots behind Rook’s back, trying to untie her hands. “We are getting out of here.”
“What is that stink?” she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “The pipe you tore down, was that a natural gas line?” Just faintly, at the end of the broken pipe where it jutted out of a hole in the joists, he could make out the ripple of distortion where gas spewed silently out into the air. “Hurry up,” said Rook. “We need to get out of here before it reaches the pilot light in the furnace. Or we suffocate, whichever one happens first.”
“I’m trying. Knot’s too tight and I don’t have anything to cut it with.”
“In my pocket—the lighter. My lighter. Take it out, please. Get it.”
“Busy trying to untie you.”
“Get the lighter, then go back to what you were doing,” said Rook. “I want you to have it in case we don’t get out of here before they get back. In case you escape and I don’t. I need someone to carry the relic out of here so this evil bastard doesn’t get his hands on it.”
Slipping his fingertips into her pocket, he dug around in the soft lining until he discovered the steel rectangle of her Zippo nestled against the curve of her thigh. “How do you use it?” he asked. “Maybe we can unlock the door with it.”
“That would be a good idea, if the room wasn’t filling up with flammable gas. I have to ignite it to use it. Power conduit, you have to use it to make it work. Use it in here, we both go up in a fireball.”
“Shit.” He coughed. The room was beginning to spin.
“Now put that in your pocket and get back to untying me. Hurry!”
Over in the corner, the furnace was a massive metal obelisk with a Rheem badge on the front. From where he sat, he couldn’t see a pilot light, and he didn’t hear any sound coming from it. “That thing even running?” He frantically picked at the knotted rope behind the magician’s back. “I mean, it’s summer; I wouldn’t imagine they’d need heat anyway.”
“No idea. Don’t want to find out the hard way. Hurry up!”
Track 24
A shabby pile of rags sat up with a start, awakened by some furtive noise. Gendreau’s pearlescent blond hair flew around his head in the early-morning breeze, now gray and cottony with soot.
Under the bridge, it was still dark. The magician sat in a pebbly scree next to one of the struts, opposite the crashed Winnebago. Wind blew smoke in his face. Squeezed in his slender hands was the Osdathregar, the witch-killer dagger. She’d handed it to him before he ran after the girl.
The girl …
At the bottom of the ravine he could see the dried blood where Marina Valenzuela had fallen. A vulture perched on a rock next to it, inspecting the tacky red splatter, looking for carrion to salvage. Tuco’s grotesque lizard torso was still down there, a pile of green and black, and the vulture picked at the tangle of gore hanging out of his severed waist.
The biker gang must have taken Marina’s body.
Yellow lizard eyes stared lifelessly up at him as the carrion-eater pulled at Tuco’s guts. Gendreau hefted a baseball-sized rock and threw it. The bird took off, heavy wings beating the air.
“Ah, God. Aaahhhh.…” He sat back and pressed fists against his eyes.
Such a fucking coward.
Memories loaded into his head in chunks and starts like computer programs: the previous night’s battle, running after Carly, fleeing into the darkness.
“Wait! Come back!”
Running, the girl running, cutting through the motel pool area.
“Stop!”
Werewolves chasing them. Two. Three of the slavering, laughing, capering beasts, chasing them through the motel.
Had to hide. Carly broke for the bridge. The magician didn’t know what she had in mind—fleeting thoughts of seeking safety in the Winnebago, or perhaps some deluded need to go down into the ravine and find her mother—but he had the idea to hide under the bridge. Some part of his mind told him that it was a futile endeavor—no doubt they would find him under there—but it was the only cover he could see. He overtook her, sprinting, his Italian leather shoes clapping, outpacing her, and ran for the bridge guardrail.
“Down here!” he called to her, skidding down the wash. Rocks tumbled around him. But he was alone.
The girl did not follow.
Footsteps overhead. She had continued on, running across the bridge. He was about to shout, “Down here!” but the sound of panting and of toenails clicking across asphalt made him hold his tongue.
“No!” screamed Carly, as the wolves caught her. “NO!”
Rooted to the spot, heart pounding, shaking like a tuning fork, Gendreau prepared himself for her screams as the wolf-men shredded her, but there was only struggling and swearing.
“Let me go!” she screamed. They were carrying her away.
Panic laced his fingers behind his head, and Gendreau withdrew into the shadows under the bridge, crouching at the top of the ravine’s slope like a gargoyle, trembling, listening to his heart thunder in his chest until he was sure the werewolves had gone away, and then he cried in utter fear and shame.
Engine. Getting closer. Louder.
The magician opened his eyes. A vehicle squealed across the bridge, grumbled down the long, sandy highway, and screeched to a stop in front of the motel. The clap of a door slamming shut.
Scrambling out from under the bridge and over the edge of the ravine, the magician stood and beheld a pitiful sight: the house behind the motel was only a pile of embers, a tumble of black pikes pointing haphazardly at the gray sky. Smoke loomed over the scene like a tornado, rising into the sky, drifting into the east. In the front yard, someone was on his knees in front of a woman in a jean jacket. From here it looked like Navathe. The woman pointed a hunting rifle at his face. Navathe was wounded, holding his side, a vivid patch of blood soaking into his Batman T-shirt.
“Hey!” Gendreau shouted from the bridge.
Both man and woman looked at him. The woman swiveled and aimed the rifle down the hill, shouldering the stock. POCK! A bullet whirred in and clanged off the guardrail next to him. Gendreau screamed, ducking.
No second shot followed.
Still prostrate, he peered through his filthy hair at the top of the hill. Navathe was talking to the woman and she had lowered the rifle.
Tucking the Osdathregar into the back of his belt, Gendreau walked up the hill with his hands up, his expensive shoes digging troughs in the loose soil. Great swaths of the hillside were scorched, the grass seared and black, crunching under his shoe soles. Roasted wolf corpses littered the property, at least twent
y or thirty of them, smoking in the morning air. To his horror, it smelled like pulled pork.
When he got to the top, he went straight to Navathe and held out his relic healing ring, starting on the wound in the pyromancer’s side. “Thank you so much,” said Navathe, teetering forward onto his hands in the soot and dirt.
“Thank God it’s not another gunshot wound.”
“What do you mean, magicians?” the woman asked. She looked natural running around with a hunting rifle, black-haired and plain, Latina, slim and fit, wearing all denim and sensible combat boots. She looked like a survivor from a zombie movie.
“Just what I said, lady,” said Navathe. “Unnngh! Magicians, as in, people that do magic.”
“That what you’re doing?” she asked, gesturing with her elbow. “Magic?”
Hummingbirds of red light flickered between the curandero’s ring and the claw marks in Navathe’s side. As they watched, the ragged skin slowly knitted itself together. “That’s what I do, ma’am,” said Gendreau. “I do magic.”
A ringtone cut through the morning, startling all three of them with a tiny voice yelling in Spanish. Still staring at the two men in suspicion, the woman tucked the rifle into her armpit and took out a cell phone, answering it in the same language, and giving the two men a suspicious sidelong look as she did so.
“Andy,” said Navathe.
“What?”
Navathe rubbed his face exasperatedly and hesitated, as if the words were cold, hard diamonds embedded deep into the coal of his mind and he had to chip them free. “I don’t think she made it.” All of his cheeky confidence had fled, and his hands shook. “She was in the house when it came down.”
No need to ask who “she” was, the she in the house.
Gendreau’s face and hands went cold, and his guts turned to water, his heart becoming heavy stone and sinking into his bowels. He stood up without saying a word and walked on numb stilts toward the tumble of still-smoking ruins.
