Even The Dead Will Bleed

by Steven Ramirez

  I looked at Cuco, then Sasha. It wasn’t for me to say. “Maybe you two need some time alone,” I said, getting up and indicating to Cuco that he should do the same.

  “No, stay,” Sasha said. Taking her brother’s hand, she spoke slowly and deliberately. “Vladimir, they make me pregnant.”

  For a long time, Vlad didn’t react. Slowly anger welled up in him. I got to my feet in case he decided to take it out on his sister. But he stood and crossed to the sink. From his body language, it was obvious that he wanted to break something. Instead he stood there in silence, repeatedly gripping and releasing the edge of the counter. Then he turned around and spoke in a soft voice.

  “Why did they do this?”

  “Vlad, she wasn’t the only one,” I said. “There were other girls. I wish I knew what they were up to.”

  I told them about Tres Marias and about the horrid experiment the evildoers at Robbin-Sear had conducted. I emphasized that many had died and that these people had moved their operation to LA—to Hellborn.

  “And that . . . thing with weird eyes?” Vlad said to me.

  “He’s a cutter. What I don’t understand is why they’re being allowed to hunt. Unless . . .”

  “They escape, too.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me. Maybe in addition to Walt searching for Sasha, he was trying to recapture the cutters. Good luck—they were cunning.

  “Those things will never make good soldiers,” I said.

  Vlad returned to the kitchen table. “So they make my sister pregnant. That thing—”

  “I’m sure they used artificial insemination.”

  Confused, Vlad turned to his sister.

  “I am sorry,” she said to us. “I don’t know words.” Then she explained to her brother in Russian.

  He nodded sadly. “So he was not . . . inside you?”

  “No.”

  “There’s something else,” I said. “We know they impregnated dozens of other girls like Sasha. Runaways, mostly.”

  “What happened to them?”

  I looked at Sasha. “We think they died.”

  “So my sister will die too?”

  Vlad knocked his chair aside. Sasha went to him and held both his hands.

  “I have been to doctor,” she said. “I am fine, Vlad.”

  She had left out the part about the rabies and I wasn’t about to get him wound up again. I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly eleven. I went into the bathroom, found my antibiotics in the medicine cabinet and took two. Then I went into the living room and turned on the news. The lead story was about the bodies that were discovered in the industrial building. The announcer said that, thanks to an anonymous tip, Eyewitness7 News had gotten the exclusive. They cut to a live feed from the site.

  “And here’s Mari Lopez with the story,” the announcer said.

  As Maritza narrated, the news camera panned the inside of the building where Vlad and I had been only hours earlier. The bodies were gone, but the hooks that they’d been hanging from were still in place. Now, more shots of dried blood and cops gathering forensic evidence and taking photos.

  “What’s it like over there, Mari?”

  “Chaotic,” she said. “I spoke to Police Chief Lawrence Hughes earlier tonight. He told me the police believe this is the work of not one but multiple serial killers working together. They are now calling these the Skeleton Murders.”

  “We’ve been seeing these kinds of murders for weeks, Mari. Is the Police Chief saying that they are connected?”

  “Not specifically. But it looks like the police are beginning to see these crimes as related.”

  The reporter continued for a while, then they returned to the studio. Amazingly, there was no mention of the gun battle. When they segued to sports, I turned off the TV.

  “They’re suppressing the other story,” I said. “That means the grey-suits got to the police and the media.”

  Vlad looked puzzled. “Why didn’t they cover up the bodies?”

  “Because I called Maritza directly and she got there before they could stop it.”

  Cuco turned to me. “So what now?”

  In the middle of the night, Sasha cried out. Vlad and I were asleep on the living room floor. He was the first up. We hurried to her room, but she wasn’t there. Then Cuco called us over to the bathroom. The door was unlocked.

  When he turned on the light we found the Russian girl on the floor next to the toilet, holding her abdomen. The mewling noises she made were inhuman and frightening. Vlad approached and began speaking soothingly in Russian. She didn’t appear to hear him. He knelt and, taking her hand, gently turned her towards him.

  Her shirt was drenched in dark blood, which she had vomited up.

  “Vlad, be careful,” I said, coming closer. “She’s infected.”

  Ignoring me, he clasped the back of his sister’s head and pressed her close to him, whispering to her in Russian and stroking her hair. I saw how much he really loved her, but his love wouldn’t be enough.

  In Tres Marias, I had seen the infected vomit blood while in the early stages. It was only a matter of time for Sasha. This was most likely what had happened to the other girls. The virus had been passed on through the semen of those unholy cutters, eventually killing them before they could produce a child. And soon it would happen to her.

  All emotion left me and I saw things clearly. The room became brighter and, as I watched Vlad holding Sasha, every sound dissipated, except for the rapid pounding of my heart. It was no use going on like this. The best thing—for everyone—would be to kill Sasha. I had seen again and again what the virus did to people. And I was sure that Sasha would eventually try to infect others. I hoped Vlad would understand that killing his sister was necessary. There was no other way.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and felt the familiar contours of my gun. I undid the safety and slowly pulled it out. Sasha was facing me, her blue-grey eyes imploring me. She knew! Then I raised my weapon and fired once, the bullet leaving the chamber soundlessly. It tore through her forehead and exited out the back, leaving a blossom of blood and brain on the bathroom wall.

  Vlad turned and screamed something at me in Russian. I realized now that he wouldn’t have understood. So I killed him too. It was all for the best.

  Someone grabbed my hand. It was Cuco. He was staring into my eyes with concern and I realized that my hand was still in my pocket, gripping the Glock. The lighting was normal now. Vlad was helping Sasha to her feet. She seemed to be better. Cuco signaled for me to follow him out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “No se. I think you went a little loco.”

  I hadn’t done anything—but I might have. What was happening to me? I needed to think. Sasha really was infected. Was killing her and her baby the answer? There had to be another way.

  “Thanks for stepping in.”

  “No hay problema.”

  “I have to see Maritza,” I said. “I need to end this.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Prayer for a Creep

  I met her at a Starbucks in Silver Lake. Though it was off the main drag, it afforded a nice view of the surrounding area. I didn’t plan on being surprised—as an extra precaution I had driven Cuco’s car.

  When I looked up from my newspaper, Maritza walked in wearing skinny jeans, black booties and a fuzzy pink cowlneck sweater. Her oversized sunglasses and hair hid most of her face. When she saw me sitting towards the back, she smiled and came over.

  “Hey,” she said, taking a seat and looking around. Pressing her fingers to the paper, she slid it around to read the headline—Police Baffled by Skeleton Murders. “I don’t get why the cops aren’t giving us anything.”

  “Because they were told not to,” I said. I had already ordered her a macchiato and handed it to her. “Good job of blending in, by the way.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “I’m always sarcastic—I’m Polish.”r />
  We kept our voices low. Whenever someone would get too close, we would pause the conversation and wait it out. Thankfully, no one recognized her—that or they chose to give her some space.

  “Here’s what I know so far,” she said. “The cops have definitely bought into the multiple serial killer hypothesis.”

  “The Skeleton Murders.”

  “Exactly.”

  I pointed to the newspaper. “That article says the feds are involved.”

  She smiled knowingly. “I asked Police Chief Hughes about that rumor. He denied it.” She lowered her sunglasses and looked into my eyes, her mouth crinkling into a smile. “You think they are.”

  “I know they are, but not in the way you think.”

  “Okay, time to spill.”

  “Am I off the record?”

  “I promise I won’t reveal you as my source. I don’t even know your last name.”

  “Wales.”

  “Like Josey Wales?”

  “Stop.”

  “I think I knew a David Wales at UCLA. Tall, skinny . . . Played the autoharp. Not gay, though.”

  “Do you want to hear this, or not?”

  “Cálmate,” she said, reaching into her purse for her digital voice recorder. “All set. Go ahead.”

  “No recording.”

  “It’s just for me—no one else is going to hear this.”

  I put my hand firmly on hers. “No recording.”

  “Fine,” she said. “My handwriting sucks but, hey, whatever.”

  Frowning, she brought out a small composition book and pen and began taking notes as I started from the beginning. It took us two hours. When I was finished, she knew everything I did about Robbin-Sear, Hellborn, Walt Freeman and the cutters. And she also knew about Sasha and the other girls who had been taken prisoner.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean seriously, this is a real conspiracy. Why didn’t you go to the newspapers?”

  “I felt I had a better shot with you.”

  “I can’t break the story this way—I need proof. And I have to talk to Karen.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s my mentor. I feel like I’m in way over my head. If what you’re saying is true—”

  “It is.”

  “Then the cops are probably in on it. I can’t reveal everything all at once. It’ll sound preposterous.”

  I took a manila folder and an envelope containing a small vial of blood from my lap and handed them to her. “You said you wanted proof. These are Sasha’s lab tests—and a blood sample. When they test the sample they’ll find that it carries a virus they won’t be able to identify. You can start with that.”

  “Thanks,” she said, accepting the evidence. “But I’m worried about Walt Freeman. If he’s the kind of man you say he is, he’ll do whatever it takes to suppress this.”

  “He’s already tried. Remember when I gave you that tip about those bodies at the industrial park? I was in a shootout with the grey-suits earlier. Several Russians were killed.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “That story never made the news.”

  “And the only reason he couldn’t suppress the other story . . .”

  “Was because I gave it directly to you. He never got the chance to kill it.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Let me ask you something, Maritza. Have you noticed anything weird going on at the station? Your superiors taking private meetings with strangers?”

  “No, but my news director Nate has been on a lot of conference calls late into the evening. He won’t tell me what they’re about. It’s weird because he never keeps anything from me. I mean, we’re pretty good friends.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to protect you.” I looked up and noticed some guy sitting by the window, aiming his phone at us. He was taking our picture. “We need to get out of here,” I said.

  “My house isn’t far from here.”

  Checking our surroundings I walked Maritza to her car, a black BMW 5 Series. “Nice wheels.”

  “You can follow me.”

  “Give me the address, I’ll find it. There’s something I need to do first.”

  “Okay, see you in a bit,” she said, touching my hand.

  I sat in my car and waited. The celebrity stalker was still inside, staring at his phone and smiling. After a few minutes he got up and walked out. As he approached the parking lot, I got out too and, making sure that we were alone, I waited for him to walk past. He spotted me and decided to go a different way. So I went after him.

  Though he was younger than me, it was obvious that he was out of shape. I caught up to him easily and grabbed his arm.

  “Please, I don’t have any money!” he said, his voice cracking from fear.

  “Give me your phone.”

  “I’m not giving you—”

  Grabbing his jacket collar, I pulled him in close and smacked him hard across the face with my open palm, making his nose bleed. Terrified, he dug into his jeans pocket and handed the phone over, nearly dropping it.

  “Why were you photographing us?”

  “I—I took a picture of Mari Lopez. I swear, I just wanted her pic. I’m a huge fan.”

  An elderly couple had left Starbucks and was heading towards us. I released the kid and showed him my gun.

  “Act like you’re showing me pictures and we’re having a good time.”

  “What?”

  “And wipe your nose.”

  He managed a weak chuckle as I scanned through the photos and found the ones I was looking for. By now, the other couple had driven off. He had taken six shots in all. One by one, I deleted them. I checked his phone settings to make sure that he wasn’t backing up anything to the cloud. Then I went through his apps to see if he’d uploaded anything.

  “This your girlfriend?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cute. I wonder if she knows she has a stalker for a boyfriend.”

  “Look, I didn’t post anything! Please, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Shut up.”

  I wanted to beat this jerkoff senseless, but looking at him again I realized that he was just a kid—maybe nineteen or twenty.

  “You a student, Robert?” I said.

  “Y-yeah. Loyola-Marymount.” He was shaking and I could smell urine.

  “Relax.” I did a factory reset and handed back his phone. “If those photos appear anywhere online, I’ll know. And I’ll come looking for you.”

  I waited for him to drive off, then jumped into my car and headed towards the Hollywood Hills. The truth was, I would have no idea whether he shared those or not. But he didn’t know that.

  A long way from East LA, Maritza now lived in a trendy neighborhood in a condo complex that looked new. I parked on the street several blocks away and made my way to her complex. Then I scanned the addresses till I found her unit. Large, expensive-looking potted palms stood on either side of the front door, which was decorated with a Christmas wreath.

  Smiling, she greeted me and let me in. It was a one-bedroom condo. Neat and sparse—not too girly. The furniture was pure IKEA, which told me that she had put everything she had into buying the place.

  “Want a beer?” she said.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “I have bottled water.”

  “Sure.”

  She led me into the living room. The pale walls were decorated with black-and-white photos, some of which I recognized. I was impressed that she had Ansel Adams’s “Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico.”

  “Are you a photographer?” I said when she returned with the bottled water.

  “I wish. I’ve always loved black-and-white photography. Look, besides Adams I have Irving Penn, Henri Cartier Bresson and Diane Arbus.”

  “Sorry, I’m lost.” I turned to face her and saw her smiling at me in a curious way. “What?”

  “Why have you never asked me if I was in a relationship?”

  “Because we’re not in high school.” I r
eached over and took one of the bottles of water.

  “Hijo! You are one strange gringo.”

  I crossed over to the sofa and took a seat. “I suppose guys are hitting on you all the time.”

  “It’s ridiculous.” She took a seat next to me. “And it’s always the creepy ones, you know? They drive Porsches and eat lunch at the Ivy and . . .”

  “You sound like you’re not comfortable around money.”

  “My parents weren’t poor but . . . When I was little, my mother sewed our clothes. She worked in the garment district. And sometimes she would bring home these great patterns and turn out cute little dresses, vests and jackets. My sisters and I were the coolest kids at 4th Street Elementary.

  “No Catholic School?”

  “Trust me, my family is very religious. But my parents are firm believers in not paying tuition when you’re already paying taxes. Are you Catholic?”

  “Was . . . am, I guess. My wife . . .”

  She moved away from me like I’d announced that I was radioactive. “She died,” I said.

  “In the outbreak?”

  “No. They murdered her.”

  “I’m so sorry. You didn’t mention her when . . .”

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  We sat there for a time, sipping water and looking at the photographs.

  “What was her name?” she said.

  “Holly.”

  “I’m so sorry, David.”

  She took my hand and held it firmly. I didn’t know what she wanted, so I sat there, facing forward. I could feel her moving closer. She took my face and turned it towards her.

  “This is why you’re going after Walt Freeman?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “But he’ll kill you.”

  “Probably. Do you remember that day I drove you to the station? After I dropped you, I went to confront him. That was the day I ended up rescuing Sasha.”

  “You left me to go get killed?” She sounded angry.

  “Sorry.”

  She raised her fist like she was going to belt me, then forced it down into her lap. Now she sat there, fuming in silence, then snatched my hand and held it. I was out of my element—I couldn’t understand why any of this would matter to her. I was some guy she didn’t even know—a source. Yet here she was, stroking my hand and holding back tears like a little girl trying to be brave.