Even The Dead Will Bleed

by Steven Ramirez

  “In the news van.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. I have to try and stop this.”

  “They’re not human,” I said.

  Ignoring me he called for backup and ran towards the blood-soaked cutters. I approached the news van and pounded on the door.

  “Maritza, are you in there? It’s Dave!” After a moment the door opened and she appeared, pale and shaking. “Come on, we have to go.”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “We have to.” I took her hand and led her outside. “Where’s your cameraman?”

  “He . . . he went for help.”

  “Okay, let’s go. We’re not too far away.”

  I held my weapon in one hand and Maritza’s hand in the other as we followed the deserted path towards the motorhome. Cops were everywhere, moving through the trees, looking for cutters. Or survivors. When we came to the spot where the cop and I had discovered the cutters, I noticed two mutilated bodies lying motionless in the dirt. One of them was the cop who had helped me.

  “Oh no! Rick!” Maritza said. She tried pulling away to go to him.

  “It’s too late,” I said, holding her back with both hands. “We have to keep moving.”

  As she fought me I forced her along till we reached the spot where the motorhome had been parked. Now there were only tire tracks. Checking our surroundings I guided Maritza towards the trees, pulled out my burner and called Vlad. The call kept dropping—it took three tries.

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “At the observatory.”

  “How far?”

  “Less than mile. You must stay on the main road. Did you find her?”

  “Yes.”

  “See you soon.” When I turned to Maritza, she was pale and trembling. I touched her hand—it was like ice. “They’re not far. We’ll have to walk. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

  “I can’t do this, David. I mean, look at me!”

  She was beautiful, dressed in a short black skirt, red silk blouse and a tailored black jacket. At least she’d thought ahead and was wearing flats.

  “You’re fine,” I said. “More than fine.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. Most people weren’t equipped for this kind of violence. The trick to staying alive is to keep moving. So I took her hand and we started walking.

  We kept to the road. The air was cool and the recent rain intensified the smell of lilac and sage scrub. Most of the panicked crowds had moved on. As we climbed higher through the park I could hear distant sirens. A police helicopter swooped past, stirring up clouds of leaves.

  “Why were you even here?” I said.

  “I was doing a human interest piece.”

  “Long way from reporting murders.”

  “After what I saw today, there’s no way they’re keeping this quiet.”

  “I’m sorry about your cameraman.”

  She fell silent. “Rick was awesome. When everything got crazy, he put me in the truck. He was always thinking of others.” Then her voice cracked. “Did you know he’d just gotten married?”

  There was nothing to say. I had lost so many people, I had forgotten how to cry. My mother-in-law, friends, comrades-in-arms. This was just another damned day.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said.

  She stopped me and, taking my hand, held it to her breast. “David, thank you for coming to get me.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “You could’ve driven away with your friends.”

  “The old Dave would have, trust me.”

  She looked like she wanted to be kissed. And I was totally open to it, but it felt dangerous. I was on a short line to death and didn’t want to encourage this girl any more than I already had. When I looked up I noticed a group of cutters at the crest of the road, backlit by morning light. I pressed my index finger to Maritza’s lips, took her hand gently and began walking her towards the trees.

  We continued parallel to the road. The trees became dense and huge shadow patches made it difficult to see. Twice Maritza skidded on the shiny dry oak leaves that littered the floor of the park. After a few minutes we came to a shrouded enclosure where we saw dark shapes lashed to the tree trunks with bright orange rescue rope.

  They were human bodies.

  The small ones were children. There were maybe a dozen in all. Like the others they had been skinned. When Maritza saw them she almost screamed. Instead she covered her mouth and took in short, deep breaths. Carefully we moved through the clearing past the blood-soaked, formless spectres.

  Suddenly a head twitched, sending a thrill of revulsion up my spine. As I focused I noticed a woman—or what was left of her—staring at me intently. Though her naked body was a raw, bloody puree, her head was intact. She kept mouthing words I couldn’t hear. Then I realized what she was saying. Kill me.

  “Can’t you do something for her?” Maritza said, staring at my gun.

  “If I fire, it’ll bring the cutters.”

  “Please, David. You can’t leave her like this.”

  The sight of that poor woman struggling against the horror of what had happened to her made me lose all perspective. I knew in my gut we should have simply moved on. But I felt a deep sorrow. I stood back and, taking aim, I sent a single bullet through her forehead, making her still.

  I took Maritza’s hand and we moved on. The sound of a branch crackling made me stop and turn. Two cutters were watching us, their iridescent eyes glowing in the shadows. Slowly I put a hand on Maritza’s shoulder. She stopped moving and turned to face them.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  The cutters stood there, flicking their balisong knives in rhythm to some invisible dinner bell. I raised my weapon. Before I could fire, they had blazed towards us like lightning, their outlines a blur.

  I felt one of them grab me. When I looked down, my arm was cut and bleeding. Screaming with anger I fired in several directions. Then I looked down and saw that I’d struck one of them. Quickly I sent a blast of bullets through his head. He stopped moving.

  “David!”

  When I turned, the second cutter had sliced open Maritza’s shirt, exposing her bra. He leered at me viciously and was about to disembowel her when I fired multiple times at his back. Shuddering, he dropped the knife and fell to his knees struggling for air. I ran, grabbed Maritza by the hand and dragged her away.

  “Are you bleeding?” I said.

  “I don’t think so!”

  Slowly the wounded cutter recovered. I was right about them. They could withstand many kinds of body trauma—so long as it didn’t involve the brain. I raised my weapon and fired but only heard a click. That’s when I remembered that in my haste I’d forgotten to bring another clip.

  Diving down, I grabbed the knife and stabbed the cutter in the eye. He reeled back, shrieking like a wounded animal. I pulled the knife out and used it to slit his throat straight across, sending bright blood squirting rhythmically in two directions. The wound gaped like a second mouth as he tried to stand, and when he came up I jammed the knife as hard as I could into his temple. With a violent shudder he fell sideways, the glow in his eyes fading to a normal color.

  “There are probably more,” I said. “We need to get out of here.” Maritza’s eyes were vacant, like a catatonic’s. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

  Her legs moved like a marionette’s as I pulled her along. She was silent and cold, her mind probably rejecting everything she had seen. At the top of a hill we moved back to the road. A few hundred feet away, Griffith Observatory stood there, iconic and real. Cop cruisers lined the wide driveway. I put away my weapon and we headed across the grass towards the motorhome, which stood parked halfway down the hill.

  The cops were headed towards the observatory itself and didn’t pay any attention to us. I walked up to the motorhome and banged on the door. I could hear a chink as someone raised a corner of the shade. It was Vlad. A second later he opened the door. Taking her hand I helped Maritza up. Then I follow
ed.

  “We were attacked,” I said. “I think she’s in shock.”

  I guided Maritza over to the small sofa and gently sat her down. Ignoring the daggers Sasha was shooting at me from her eyes, I hurried over to the refrigerator, got a bottle of water and placed it in Maritza’s frozen hands.

  “Drink this,” I said, raising the water to her lips.

  Blindly she took a swallow. Then she blinked and stared at me. “They could’ve killed us,” she said.

  “You should rest.”

  “She is coming with us now?” Sasha said. Her voice sounded petulant. She was in a power stance, holding a Glock and looking defiant.

  I turned to Maritza. “We need to get out of the city. Do you want us to drop you somewhere? Your condo?”

  She was silent for a time. Then the fear in her eyes hardened into resolution. “No. I’m coming with you.”

  “What about your job.”

  “I’ll call Nate and explain.”

  “If that’s what you want. Do you have your personal cell phone?”

  “She opened the small red Coach purse, took it out and handed it to me.”

  “Here we go,” Vlad said. Then to Maritza, “I hope you don’t care about that. No phone is safe around this guy.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I can’t let anyone know where we’re going.”

  I took the cell phone from her, disassembled it, threw the SIM out the door and handed the reassembled phone back to Maritza.

  “We must get on the road,” Vlad said.

  In a moment we were heading down the hill towards the Los Feliz District. Soon we would be on our way to Santa Barbara and, with luck, some pretense of safety.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Karen

  The Russian’s driving turned out to be a comfort. He maintained a steady speed, didn’t make any unsafe turns or do anything to arouse suspicion—the perfect limo driver. Which was good because there were cops everywhere.

  As we traveled north on the 101 a CHP cruiser pulled up behind us and followed. I expected him to give us the short siren—the one that makes your stomach shoot out the top of your head like a bottle rocket—but he stayed there, keeping his distance. Then his lights came on. Luckily he accelerated and swerved around us.

  As I sat dozing in the passenger seat I thought once again of everything that had happened so far. I was no longer alone—I had friends again. And I realized that I had only survived in Tres Marias because of others—Holly, Warnick, Springer and the rest. I was an idiot for trying to do this by myself. It was a wonder I wasn’t already dead. Still, it was hard for me to let anyone in. But it was the only way. I needed to trust someone.

  “What did you do before all this shit?” Vlad said, startling me.

  “I was married. My wife and I worked at Staples.” He laughed. “What’s funny?”

  “I thought you were in army. You had me fooled, Josey Wales.” After a pause he became serious. “What changed you?”

  “Seeing death on a daily basis. And almost dying myself. Many times.”

  “This is not something you get used to.”

  “You were in the army, right?”

  “One year only. 2008. They deployed us to Tskhinvali. Ever hear of this place?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t tell Sasha. I almost get killed over there. Enemy fire mortars at the building we were hiding. My best friend, he . . .” Vlad cleared his throat. “After this, I try to kill every Georgian soldier I find to avenge my friend’s death. I saw too much blood. Too many dead bodies.”

  I thought about the undead I had been battling for months in Tres Marias, as well as living enemies like the mayor. It was natural to want to take revenge. But it was also natural to become numb to the killing. Other than those closest to me, humans—living or undead—were meat bags that needed to be dealt with.

  “Would you have killed me back at the warehouse?” I said.

  The Russian hesitated. “I am sorry. It’s not personal.”

  “No, I get it. You had a job to do—find your sister.”

  “Da. And if I think you hurt her it will be the end for you.”

  “Did you ever get revenge for your friend’s death?”

  “I kill so many, but it wasn’t enough.”

  “It never is.”

  We had just entered Camarillo. I got up to check on the girls. Maritza was sitting on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the huge stands of eucalyptus trees on either side of the narrow freeway. Farther back Sasha lay on the bed on her stomach, paging through the Russian version of Cosmo. I walked back there, sat next to her and smiled.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” she said without looking up.

  “You look better.”

  “I look like shit. Thanks for lying, though.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  Rolling her eyes she flipped a page, tearing it in the process. “Why are you talking to me? Your girlfriend is over there.”

  “You’re right,” I said, getting to my feet. “Let me know when you turn twenty-one. We’ll have an adult conversation.”

  I felt the magazine hit me in the back but didn’t give Sasha the satisfaction of turning around. Instead I continued towards Maritza and sat next to her.

  “She thinks I’m your bae,” she said, smiling sadly.

  “What she needs is to grow the hell up.”

  “Did you guys ever . . .”

  “No! I bought her some clothes, that’s it.”

  “Well, in some cultures . . .”

  “Don’t.”

  She smiled and took my hand. “I keep thinking about that creepy guy who was with Nate.”

  “Trower? I loved the way you shut him down.”

  “Honestly? He scares the shit out of me.” She was dead serious. “This isn’t going to end, is it?”

  “All I know is, we tried stopping it in Tres Marias, but this thing has tentacles everywhere.”

  Looking down she fingered the crucifix around her neck. “When I was little, my mother would tell us that God is always with us. And I believed her. But sometimes when I pray now I don’t feel His presence. It’s as if I’m all alone.”

  I thought of the angel. And though I was the last person on the planet to preach about Faith, I felt compelled to tell Maritza something that would give her comfort. “He’s there,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if He weren’t, I’d be dead.” I only said this to make her feel better. In reality I believed that I was destined to die, though not right away. God was giving me just enough rope to get the job done—saving Sasha.

  Maritza squeezed my hand. Hers was warm and soft. As we slowed to a crawl I got up and returned to my seat. Judging by the heavy traffic we must have reached Santa Barbara.

  “Almost there,” Vlad said. He checked the GPS. “Less than ten miles.”

  We exited at State Street. As we cruised through historic neighborhoods that reminded me of Tres Marias, I wondered if the grey-suits would track us here. Though I was hot to kill Walt Freeman, I felt that I needed to protect Sasha and the baby—and now Maritza. These were the dark things that were on my mind as we approached an expansive grey ranch-style house at the end of a charming cul-de-sac surrounded by trees with a fat orange cat staring at us on the porch.

  Drinks were flowing. Maritza’s old mentor, Karen Rothberg, had kicked off our arrival with a small cocktail party. Classy. She had welcomed us sight unseen into her home and greeted each of us with a warm hug and a New York-accented “How are ya, doll?”

  The house was remarkable, filled with antique furniture, Oriental rugs, expensive plants and television news memorabilia. Large autographed photos of Peter Jennings, Diane Sawyer and Sam Donaldson, along with other ABC Network luminaries, adorned the walls. And there were maybe a thousand books on the shelves that spanned the walls of the living room.

  Karen looked to be in her early sixties, attractive with dark
brown hair, piercing blue eyes and bright red lips. She dressed like a wealthy attorney’s wife—sophisticated with a minimal amount of jewelry. And she wore a single white glove that covered her withered hand. She fawned over Maritza and it was easy to see the love they shared between them. Often, Karen referred to her as “my little girl.” I sensed that she’d never had children of her own.

  “Dinner is almost ready,” Karen said. “Why don’t we go into the dining room?”

  The table was formally set. I wished I had dressed better. As we took our places a Latina domestic wearing a simple black dress brought out the salad in a large bowl. Worried, I shot Maritza a questioning look, which Karen didn’t miss.

  “David, is there a problem?” our hostess said.

  I waited for the Latina to return to the kitchen. “It’s just that—”

  “You’re worried she’ll blab.” She laughed coarsely. Reddening, I looked at my white china plate. “Olga has been with me for years. She’s family. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Maritza chimed in. “Karen understands the situation. We’re very safe here.”

  I smiled weakly. “I apologize.”

  “Don’t,” Karen said. “Maritza told me everything. I can’t blame you. Your instincts have kept you alive.” Then to Sasha, “But now I want to hear about you, young lady.”

  Caught off-guard Sasha lowered her eyes and moved the lettuce around on her plate. “Nothing to tell. I’m pregnant.”

  “An understatement! You, my dear, are carrying something extraordinary! Considering what’s happened it’s a wonder you’re alive.” The room went silent except for the sounds of forks on china. “You’ll find, my dears, that I’m very blunt. But I know what I’m talking about and I really do have your best interests at heart. You’ll see.”

  “The other girls . . .” Sasha said. “I am only one left.”

  “You’re a lucky girl.”

  Karen turned towards the kitchen as the door opened and Olga brought out the main course. Each plate was already made up—roasted chicken with vegetables and mashed potatoes. When all of us had been served Olga returned with a huge bowl of steaming macaroni and cheese.

  “I think what you need is some comfort food,” Karen said, smiling wisely.