“Guthrie is like a brother.” Then for the first time the Korean smiled.
“Okay.” I said. “What about the registration?”
“You tell me the name and address and I make it. Also, I left an extra set of license plates in the spare tire well.”
I had memorized all the fake names, Social Security Numbers and addresses for the IDs I owned. I gave him the next one on the list. He went to work on the computer. After several minutes the printer came on. Jeong handed me documents—including a valid low cost auto insurance policy—and the garage remote control I had forgotten in the other truck.
“Here you go, Mr. Wales,” he said.
“What about Mr. Callahan?”
“Didn’t you hear? He’s dead.”
We shook hands outside, then Sasha and I got into the Tahoe and drove off. The late afternoon sun had broken through the dark, heavy clouds, revealing a thin, paper strip of blue sky. I thought it might be a good sign.
CHAPTER FIVE
Roy Batty
We sat in silence in the underground parking structure, looking past the other vehicles to the street outside. I’d turned off the engine and it was cold inside the Tahoe. I hadn’t wanted to bring Sasha back to my apartment but I couldn’t just dump her somewhere. Whatever connection she had with Hellborn, she was keeping it to herself.
“You can stay with me for now,” I said. “But we are having that talk.”
“Okay, ‘Mr. Wales.’”
We got out, Sasha carrying her Old Navy bags. Seeing the strange SUV, Cuco walked over, holding a wide brush and a gallon of outdoor paint. After our last conversation, he was understandably surprised to see me.
“So, you’re not dead?” he said.
“I got sidetracked. Cuco, this is Sasha. Sasha, my bodyguard.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, taking the time to pronounce each word correctly.
He squinted at her—starting with the combat boots and working his way up to the skinny jeans and a sweater that betrayed the coldness of the garage. Then he looked at me with a Mexican leer.
I shook my head. “Don’t even think it. She’s like my sister.”
“Sure.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Then we’re good.”
We headed towards the elevator. “The grey-suits are getting closer,” he said.
“I know.” I didn’t bother looking back.
“I overheard them asking mucho questions at the liquor store on the corner.” He got into the elevator with us and rode up.
“Thanks for the warning,” I said. “Listen, I might need to leave this place.”
“Mm . . . You can come out to Highland Park with me.”
“Do you have a family?”
“In Mexico.” He pronounced it MEH-hee-ko.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” I tried to slip him some cash, but he refused.
My apartment was located on the fourth floor. As Sasha and I left the elevator and walked down the hallway, I could smell all kinds of cooking and could hear TV shows blaring over babies squalling and parents fighting.
It felt good to be here among the living. I had spent so much time in a dying town cut off from the rest of the world, fighting the undead. It was nice to be normal for a while. But I worried that my staying here might present a danger to these innocent people. I needed to find another place.
When we arrived at my apartment, I dug out my key. But first I tried the door to see if it had been compromised. So far, so good.
“You are worse than my brother,” Sasha said.
I gave her the stink-eye and unlocked the door. As we entered, I flicked on the lights and found everything in order. Out of habit, I crossed over to the living room window and peeked out. A mild drizzle was coming down, the fog bathing the streetlights in a receding line of gentle, yellow halos. Satisfied that there weren’t any black Escalades, I closed the curtains.
“I’ll get us some food,” I said. “There’s a place around the corner that sells chicken. Make yourself comfortable. Take a shower, if you want—I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
“You know what’s good with chicken?” she said, removing her hat and flinging it. “Vodka.” But she didn’t actually say “vodka”—it came out as wodka.
“You’re too young and I don’t drink.”
“What kind of man doesn’t drink?”
“The kind who doesn’t know how to stop.”
“In Russia, there are no stop signs.”
Though she was joking, it was obvious that there was some truth to what she said. I took her hand and could feel her tense up. Then I walked her over to the worn Ikea sofa with the shot springs.
“Take a seat,” I said and sat beside her. “I want you to tell me what happened to you.”
I’d surprised her with the question, but it was part of the plan. She was a strange girl with a big secret and I needed to know what I was dealing with.
She looked away, pretending to be interested in the cheesy yard sale décor. Then she ran her hand along the arm of the sofa, smoothing the rough fabric, and in a small voice she said, “They take me off street.”
“‘They’?”
“You call them grey-suits.”
“When?”
“Three months?”
Three months ago, I was up to my neck in draggers in Tres Marias with Holly and my friends at my side. We hadn’t yet seen evidence that the virus had mutated. There were no cutters. What had these grey-suited devils been prepping her for?
Reluctantly, she described her life on the streets. She told me she’d been living with her older brother, Vladimir, in a crowded apartment on the west side with another Russian family. They were from Moscow originally and had lost both their parents in an automobile accident when Sasha was five. Though she didn’t say specifically, I got the sense that her father had been drunk behind the wheel. When she spoke of him, it was with anger.
Vladimir, or Vlad, was ex-military and knew people in the government. He had been able to get them both visas to the US. Upon arriving in LA, they were taken in by Russian friends. They helped Vlad get a job as a limo driver, working for another Russian who also sold illegal weapons on the side. It wasn’t long before Vlad had saved enough money to start his own limo business.
From the way she described it, Sasha was a handful and difficult to control. Bored and lonely she liked to go out and she was always falling in with the wrong people—Vlad’s words. The last time she saw her brother, they’d had a huge argument over her staying out with “friends” till all hours, and he had kicked her out.
She wandered the streets for days, begging for money to buy food. Then she met a woman who offered to help. She said her name was Rebekkah.
My stomach did a somersault. I thought of the trashy, ineffectual assistant I had met in Tres Marias and had seen again at Hellborn. I should have killed her when I had the chance.
Rebekkah had told Sasha that she worked for a charitable organization focused on getting young women off the street and that she could buy Sasha a meal. They went to a coffee shop.
“What did she offer you?” I said.
“She give me money and say that, if I want, I can have a place to stay.”
“She didn’t try to force you?”
“No. But she ask lots of questions. Where am I from? Do I have family? I tell her my parents are dead. Then I lie and say there is no one else.”
“Did she believe you?”
“I don’t know. She was happy that I was alone. After I finish my food, she ask if I want to come to the safe house. I didn’t know what to do. But I didn’t want to be on the street no more. So I say yes and I follow her to her car.”
“Then the grey-suits took you?”
She looked away, as if the memory were fresh in her mind. “Behind restaurant. They throw me into black car like one that chase us today.”
“What about Rebekkah?”<
br />
“She watch them take me. I tried to scream, but they cover my mouth. Then they . . . How do you say?” She curled her fingers and pressed her thumb down on an imaginary plunger.
“They injected you.”
“Da. When I wake up, I am in strange place with no windows.”
“How did you escape?” I said.
“I hid in the, ah, laundry cart. The man who does this, he take a long time. But when he finish, he go outside to truck. Then I run.”
“Udachlivy,” I said.
“Yes.”
“After everything that’s happened, you don’t think Vlad will forgive you?”
“No. He is too proud.”
“But he’s your brother.”
“He won’t, that’s all.”
Her tone told me that she’d had enough, so I didn’t ask any more questions. Instead I got up to leave.
“What about Highland Park?” she said.
“That’s my deal.”
She looked at me, her eyes searching for something in mine. Then getting to her feet. She removed her sweater. Her breasts were small and firm, her pale skin flawless.
“Let me stay and I give you whatever you want,” she said.
“Stop!”
“Anything, Dave.”
She came at me, rubbing herself against me and trying to undo my belt. I pulled her hands away, filled with an overpowering sexual urge flavored with loneliness and regret. There was no question that she was an attractive girl with a lithe body, milky skin and killer legs. If I’d been anyone else, I would have screwed her five ways from Sunday. I could’ve lost myself in the Russian girl—her hair, her skin, her hot breath. But I couldn’t. It hurt me deeply to see her offering herself to me in this way.
I kept my voice quiet but firm, even as I fought the urge to take her there on the sofa. “Put your sweater on,” I said. Then I bent down, picked it up and handed to her. She stood there staring at me with haunted eyes.
“Please don’t send me away,” she said, pressing the sweater to her breasts.
“You don’t need to do anything for me, except be truthful.”
Chastened and burning with embarrassment, she pulled the sweater down over her head and sank back onto the sofa. I tried to imagine Vlad dealing with this kid on a daily basis and, though we’d never met, I felt sorry for him. He had neither the tools nor the training. Neither did I.
I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. When I came back through the door, Sasha was standing there, looking at me contritely. “Izvinite,” she said.
She’d used that word twice. It probably meant sorry. “Forget it. Look, Sasha, I know you’ve . . . done things you aren’t proud of. I have too. But don’t ever offer yourself up like that again. To me or anyone. You’re better than that. Promise me.”
It must have been hard for her to promise anything. So many people had let her down—her father, her brother. Becky. And though I hadn’t harmed her in any way, I was a stranger with potential.
“I promise,” she said. Then she began straightening up the room—I had no idea why. “Why aren’t you like those others?”
“It’s the pain. Keeps me focused.”
“I know pain too.”
A single silent tear rolled down her cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, I embraced her and stroked her hair. She was thin like a wisp of smoke made flesh. Tilting her head up and staring into my eyes, she tried to kiss me. I held her tear-streaked face in my hands and kissed her on the forehead. Then I let her go.
“You can stay with me on one condition,” I said. “I need to speak with your brother.”
“No, he—”
“You don’t have to see him. Just tell me how to get in touch. I won’t let him know where you are—I promise.”
Wiping her eyes, she nodded. “I will tell you.”
“Who knows, he might surprise you. I’d better get the food. We can talk more later.” She followed me to the door. “Stay here and don’t go near the windows.”
Smiling naturally had always been hard for me, since the drinking. But I gave it a try—I hoped it wasn’t too American Psycho—and went out. I heard a soft snick as Sasha locked the door after me.
The rain had turned to a thick mist as I hurried towards the takeout place, watching for grey-suits. The sky was black with clouds and the streetlights strained to light the path for the heavy traffic that moved past. Midway past the park, I heard a clicking noise, followed by what sounded like a dog yelping. The cry was short and piercing. I stopped to listen. Faintly, I could hear what sounded like whimpering.
Turning towards the shelter of the trees and the play equipment, I tried to see what was causing the noise. I could just make out movement in the distance—a dark circle of figures, their bodies weaving lazily like candle flames.
“No!” a voice said.
I didn’t have a real weapon—only my stun gun. Better not to get involved—I could always call 911 from the safety of the street. But when I turned, a stranger stood facing me. He was a slender, muscular man wearing only jeans, with spiky white-blond hair that reminded me of Rutger Hauer’s Roy Batty character in Blade Runner. Grinning like Satan, his eyes glowing an iridescent purple, he mesmerized me. Licking fresh blood from his lips, he showed me his balisong knife.
Pivoting, I ran towards the trees and directly into a band of men—also naked except for their jeans—standing in a circle. Though I couldn’t see what they were doing, a strong feeling of revulsion swept over me. From the center of the circle, an arm shot straight up in a power salute, skinless and bloody, and I knew.
Cutters were hunting out in the open again.
If only I’d had a gun, I could try to dispatch them and save the victim. Instead I grabbed the stun gun from my jacket pocket and came at them. But a hand grabbed my wrist from behind and spun me around, sending the weapon flying. Once again, I was face-to-face with the blond cutter.
Holding my wrist in a death grip that made me cry out, he studied my face calmly, his head cocked to one side like a curious puppy. Though I was terrified, I couldn’t help but marvel at the monster who had trapped me. Despite the cold, his touch was warm and he smelled faintly of man-sweat. Though his eyes glowed purple, he appeared normal in every other way.
As he came at me with the knife, a large dog—a German shepherd—growled viciously and tore at his leg. When I looked up, the owner—a middle-aged man with glasses and a paunch—was running towards us.
“Cindy, stop!” he said.
But the dog wouldn’t quit. She reminded me so much of Greta, the dog we’d kept to protect us from the undead in Tres Marias. Hissing, the cutter stared at the dog, gripped the knife and started to bring it straight down. With one hand, I blocked his arm. Then I swung my other fist hard, knocking him down. By now, the owner had gotten hold of his dog’s collar and pulled her back.
Getting up off the wet grass, the blond cutter glared at the growling dog, turned and ran barefoot into the night.
“I’m so sorry,” the owner said, patting the whimpering animal. “She’s a retired police dog.”
“Good thing. She saved my life,” I said. “You’d better get out of here.”
“But—”
“Go! I’ll take care of this.”
As the man disappeared with his dog, I ran to where my stun gun lay and picked it up. The other cutters were weaving hypnotically, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. I used this to my advantage and zapped the one nearest me. He fell, shivering in a St. Vitus dance of retching and clawing. I did the same to the others, clearing a path to the victim. When I was able to push my way through, I saw a boy—maybe thirteen or fourteen—lying dead on the wet grass, his chest hollowed out.
I ran as fast as I could towards the street. A car almost hit me as I skidded and ran to the opposite side and into a small grocery store. Seeing me, the clerk became suspicious and reached under the counter.
“Call 911!” I said.
As if thi
s were the most normal thing in the world, he grabbed the phone and dialed. Then he handed me the receiver. I ignored the call script and told the emergency dispatch operator what I’d seen. I refused to identify myself, giving only my current location. Then I hung up.
“They’re on their way,” I said.
“Not again.”
Food was the last thing on my mind, but I had promised Sasha. I went up and down the aisles and grabbed what I could. When I got back to the register, my hands still shaking, I pulled out my wallet. Maritza’s card fell onto the counter. I paid for the food and stepped outside. Then I walked next door to an electronics store and purchased a burner—something I’d been meaning to do.
“Is it charged?” I said to the disinterested clerk.
“Should be.”
Outside on the wet street, I did the one thing I never thought I would do—not in a million years. I called Maritza. I ended up in her voicemail.
“It’s Dave,” I said. “Something’s happened.” Then I gave her the location of the murder and hung up.
I wasn’t about to hang around for the police and the news crew. As I returned to my apartment, I thought of Roy Batty and the rest of those shirtless cutters. How many more innocent people would die before I could put an end to this?
CHAPTER SIX
The Shooting Party
When I returned to the apartment, I felt burdened, like I was carrying the weight of that dead boy in the park. There was nothing I could have done to save him, yet I felt a searing guilt. Hearing me in the hallway, Sasha let me in and, taking the bags, looked at me with concern. Her hair was wet and she was wearing only a pink T-shirt and underwear.
“What happened?” she said. As I glared at her legs, she gave back the bags and disappeared into the bathroom. “Sorry! I was in shower.”
I laid out the food—milk, bread, packaged meat, cheese and fruit. As I unwrapped the bread Sasha reappeared fully dressed and, gently pushing my hands away, proceeded to make us sandwiches. I grabbed glasses from the cupboard and poured out the milk.
“No soda?” she said.
“Milk’s better for you. You’re still growing.”
Even The Dead Will Bleed Page 5
