Even The Dead Will Bleed

by Steven Ramirez

  “Where is this place?” I said, standing directly in front of her.

  “Just outside of Rosamond. It used to be an abandoned aerospace complex. The buildings are unmarked. The largest one—the one in the center—that’s where they’re holding her.”

  “She might be lying,” Vlad said.

  I turned to find Maritza standing in the doorway. She seemed in control now and pulled out her burner. “I’ll make a call.” Then she left the room.

  We could hear her speaking to someone—probably Karen. Becky sat straight up, sipping her water, not looking at either Vlad or me. Just in case, I continued gripping the knife visibly. In a few moments Maritza returned.

  “She’s telling the truth about the site. Baseborn Identity Research purchased the property from Northrop Grumman in 2012.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said and disconnected. Then to Becky, “You were smart to tell us.”

  “You’ll never get in there, Dave. The place is locked down—not like our building here.”

  “I’ll figure something out.” I returned the knife to the kitchen counter.

  Maritza smiled, obviously relieved. “We should go.”

  “I have another question,” I said. Then to Becky, “How did those cutters escape?”

  “Cutters?”

  “Those shirtless wonders skinning people alive throughout the city.” She looked like she was about to lie to me again. “Don’t bother making up a story. I saw those things in Tres Marias.”

  “We . . . we didn’t expect them to organize. There wasn’t enough security.”

  “So they broke out?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have no idea how to stop them.”

  “We’ve tried. The police have been instructed to shoot them on sight.”

  “So they know.”

  “Yes, of course. The Skeleton Murders story was just a cover.”

  “Why are they hunting out in the open?”

  “It’s the virus. They can’t experience fear.”

  Becky had confirmed everything I already believed, and I was grateful. But she was a liability now. I turned to Vlad. “The moment we leave here, she’ll contact Trower and warn him.” As I looked Becky in the eye, she pasted on a neutral expression. “There’s only one way to keep her from talking.”

  “David, no,” Maritza said.

  I might have rolled my eyes. “What I mean is, we’ll have to take her with us.”

  “No!” Becky said. “Just go.”

  Disgusted, I turned to Vlad. “We’re on the thirteenth floor, right? Get the cat.”

  I pulled out my weapon as Vlad released Becky and picked up the purring grey cat. He cradled it in his arms, stroking its head as it kneaded his arm with its paws and made maowing noises.

  Becky glared at me. “I hate you so much.”

  “I seem to have that effect on women. Let’s go.”

  “I need my purse.”

  As we reached the foyer she picked up her bag, which was sitting on a side table. I grabbed it, dug through it, found the cell phone and left it on the table. Taking her arm Vlad led her out of the apartment. I started to follow when Maritza stopped me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

  “Would you have gone through with it?” she said.

  “What, cut off her fingers? Vlad would have.”

  “I hope I never see that side of you again.”

  I looked into her eyes, the memories of my dead wife throbbing like fresh scar tissue on my heart. “You might see worse before this is over.”

  “I’m praying that I don’t.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  You Better Not Cry

  The plan was to get to our vehicle and head out to the desert with Becky in tow. We’d decide what to do with her once we got there. When we reached The Grove we found a huge crowd—families with small children—gathering near the fountain, waiting for Santa’s arrival, as Vlad had predicted. The Russian gripped Becky’s arm as we maneuvered through throngs of parents, grandparents and little ones.

  Security was tight. Private security guards as well as LAPD officers kept watch everywhere. A stage had been erected with a massive throne for Santa to sit in. A maintenance crew made final preparations as Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” blasted from multiple speakers. The parking structure was close by. We’d be there in another few minutes. Santa appeared and the crowd erupted into wild applause and cheering.

  Something was wrong.

  Everyone stood frozen in a tableau of terror as the elf clutched his throat, bright blood spurting through his fingers. Someone cut off the music. Utter silence blanketed the crowd. Then he fell to his knees and collapsed face-first on the ground. His costume had been stripped off his back and the flesh and muscle cut away, exposing his slate grey lungs slowly inflating and deflating. Now the sounds of screaming cut through the air, followed by cops shouting orders.

  Drunk with panic, the crowd pushed in every direction as we tried forcing our way towards the parking structure. Mothers and fathers lifted wailing children, trying to escape the fountain. The water was blood red. As we moved past I could make out the skinned bodies of security guards floating lifelessly.

  In front of me two small children were nearly trampled as people pushed and fought like animals to get away. I scooped up the bawling toddlers and held them as high as I could.

  “Mommeeee!” they said.

  A woman pushed her way to me, calling out their names. When they saw her, they reached for her and I gently handed them over.

  “Thank you!”

  “Go that way,” I said, pointing to my right.

  Drawing their weapons, the cops moved in even as frightened people fought to get past them. The few remaining security guards tried to calm the crowd, but it was no use—there was too much blood.

  Maritza walked next to me, clinging to my arm, while Vlad and Becky continued on behind me. Another scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a hand with a balisong knife, coming down forcefully on someone. In the confusion Becky pulled away from Vlad, and as he tried to stop her she melted into the crowd. Grabbing my weapon I tried going after her when Vlad stopped me.

  “Put it away,” he said. “They’ll shoot you.”

  I did as he suggested. Most of the crowd had fled, leaving only the cops, security guards and us. And the shirtless cutters. They circled like predators, their knives glinting in the morning light. Then the blond one—Roy Batty—moved towards the stage, dragging a blood-soaked woman by her collar. The skin of her arms and chest had been sheared off. Blood ran from her head where they had made a rushed attempt to scalp her. The other cutters lapped up the blood luxuriously. The woman groaned and my stomach lurched.

  It was Becky.

  Their weapons pointed, the cops moved in formation towards the killers. Security guards tried pushing us back, but I refused to move.

  “Let her go,” one of the cops said.

  Roy smiled, his face shiny with blood. He looked from side to side, admiring the spectacle he and his fellow killers had created. Lifting the knife to Becky’s throat he stared at me intently and grinned. Then in one blurred motion he slit her neck. A stream of crimson blood pulsed from her arteries and Becky slid to the ground, the life quickly going out of her, as the cops opened fire.

  The cutters never moved. Instead they stood proudly—like soldiers at a war memorial—as the hail of bullets tore into their arms, legs and torsos. Then, one by one, as kill shots from assault rifles ripped through their heads, they collapsed onto the forest green carpet-covered cement.

  Roy was the last to die. He swooned as if in slow motion, still clutching the knife.

  After it was over, the cops moved in and examined the bodies, the ones in charge shouting for ambulances. I turned to look at Maritza and saw that she had recorded this final bloody scene on her cell phone. Though a part of me was disgusted, someone had to document this. We needed evidence of the evil that Walt Freeman and the rest had perpetr
ated on the people of Los Angeles.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Taking Maritza’s shaking hand, I walked briskly towards the parking structure as Vlad limped after us. SWAT officers had arrived, heavily armed and wearing helmets and body armor. They ran past, almost knocking Maritza down. I heard the sound of beating blades above. When I looked up, I saw police helicopters hovering close. Then an ABC7 Eyewitness News helicopter swooped in. A voice blared from one of the LAPD helicopters, ordering the news crew to leave the area.

  As we entered the parking structure, we saw the maimed bodies of maintenance workers lying scattered on the cold cement. Maritza looked at me, her eyes strange. Then she tore herself away and, falling to her knees, vomited. Gently, I kept her hair away from her face. When she was finished I rubbed her back and helped her to stand. We continued down a series of concrete stairs to the lowest floor. The Tahoe was still the only vehicle down there, and we ran towards it and climbed in.

  For a time I sat there silent, the unholy scene playing in my head again and again. Becky dying, then Roy grinning at me. And the cutters standing motionless like marble angels in a Catholic cemetery as a black rain of bullets stole away their lives. Why didn’t they run? They were smart and fast, and could have easily eluded the cops. And even if they had caught a bullet or two, they would have recovered.

  Why didn’t they run?

  “Is everyone okay?” I said.

  I turned back and Vlad nodded gravely. I imagined that he was thinking about his sister. What if she turned into one of those things? Then I looked at Maritza. Her head was on her chest. I reached over and wiped away a tear with my thumb. Then I started the engine and slowly maneuvered out of the parking structure and onto Fairfax Avenue, which was clogged with police cruisers, SWAT vehicles, fire trucks and ambulances.

  I decided to stop somewhere so we could regroup. I found a place on North Fairfax called Coffee Commissary. Luckily I was able to find a parking spot on the street. I was never one for hipster coffee shops, but this place would have to do. Of course, Maritza the LA native knew this place.

  We sat outside under an off-white umbrella. Vlad and I sipped our triple espressos, while Maritza nursed a Cubano. Though we needed to leave for the desert, the events of the morning had chilled us, and I realized that if we decided to go it alone as planned, we would most likely die.

  “Poor Becky,” Maritza said, staring lifelessly at the heavy traffic.

  Vlad drained his cup. “I don’t have feelings for this woman.”

  “She didn’t deserve that, Vlad! No one does.”

  He squeezed and released his cup without looking at it. “My sister . . .”

  “We’ll find her,” I said.

  “And when we do, what will she be?”

  Though his expression was hard, his eyes glistened. It was as if part of him had already let her go, knowing that eventually she would turn into a monster like Roy Batty—one that would have to be put down. I’d seen that in so many others in Tres Marias—the ones Isaac and his team had tried to treat in the quarantine facility but ended up terminating when they became too violent.

  Was Sasha’s death inevitable? It was a question that had been on my mind since I learned what had happened to her. And if that was true, then why did the angel insist that she was important? What was I supposed to do? Save her and die in the process? I remembered what a priest had told me once when he gave me a blessing at Mass. May the Holy Spirit descend upon you and help you to find what you seek.

  What was it I was seeking? When I started out after Holly’s death, it was nothing more than revenge. I wanted to kill Walt Freeman and everyone else who had been responsible for the events in Tres Marias. And now? I didn’t know anymore. I had a vague sense of responsibility. It was why I had given in to my feelings for Maritza. It was why I had allowed myself to experience emotion again—other than burning rage.

  But there was still something for me to do. And even if it meant that I had to die, I needed to do it.

  “We are going to find your sister,” I said. “Even if it means killing everyone. I promise, we’ll save her.”

  Vlad gripped my arm. “You are my brother. Thank you.”

  Maritza held my other arm with both hands and rested her head on my shoulder. “I was right,” she said. “You are a bad boy.”

  We sat there, not saying anything for a long time. Inside, people were ordering coffee to go. A few sat at indoor tables, staring at smart phones and iPads—probably watching live news coverage from the scene. Others were typing furiously into MacBook Air laptops. Wannabe screenwriters probably. I had been in situations like this, watching people living their lives, unaware that bad things were going on all around them.

  Part of me wanted to be like them—clueless. And I was once. But I was no longer that person. I never slept peacefully, instead getting through endless nights of cold sweats and nightmares through sheer will. Longing to keep a gun cradled by my side to feel safe. I had become a Death hunter, driven by a maniacal sense of righteousness and retribution. And if Holly were alive, I wasn’t sure I would be able to make my way back to her.

  Maritza stood. “Going to the restroom. Then I’m going to call Karen to see how she’s doing.”

  Others had joined us outside, sitting at the other tables. Some referencing the violence at The Grove. When I spoke to Vlad I kept my voice low. “There’s a good chance we’re going to die.”

  “I know this.”

  “I wish . . .” My burner vibrated. I pulled it out and looked at the number. It was Isaac, so I answered. “Hey, are you back?”

  “Yes, we got in a few hours ago. We’re fine. Peter’s sleeping. Listen, I explained the situation to Warnick. I told him what you were about to do. He wasn’t happy, Dave.”

  “He never is.”

  “In fact, he told me to give you a message—‘You’re an asshole.’”

  “Tell him I love him too.”

  “Tell him yourself.” There was a pause, then a familiar voice came on. “Dave? What the hell, man?”

  “Hey, Warnick. Hang on . . .” Maritza had returned and took a seat next to me. There were too many people. I got up and took the stairs down to the street. “Isaac’s already told you what’s happened. The Russian girl is the last survivor of these experiments.”

  “I know about Sasha. Since you’ve been gone, we’ve been conducting our own investigation. We also know about Walt Freeman and Baseborn Identity Research.”

  “Did you know about the IPO?”

  “Yeah, they’re going public.”

  “Warnick, we need to stop them.”

  “I know. Look, I can help you, but this is strictly off the books. I mean, I’m going into some weird territory. Understand?”

  “Yes. How many men can you spare?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “I’m going to give you the location where Sasha is being held. I want you to meet me there. And, Warnick, we need firepower. This place is being heavily guarded.”

  I gave him the location and we arranged to meet in the desert near Rosamond.

  “It’ll take us a few hours to get there,” Warnick said. “You can go now. Keep a low profile until we arrive.”

  “Warnick, I can’t thank you enough.”

  A long silence. “Dave, when you disappeared like that, you let your friends down.”

  “I know.”

  “We were worried about you. We didn’t even know if you were alive.”

  “I’m sorry, Warnick. It wasn’t fair to you. I was in a really bad place after Holly died. I felt like coming here was my only option.”

  “Sure, I understand. See you in a few hours.”

  “Safe journey.”

  When I disconnected I felt exhilarated. Though nothing was guaranteed, at least with Warnick’s help we might have a chance of saving Sasha. I waved to Maritza and Vlad, and they came down to join me on the street.

  “Good news?” Maritza said.

  “The best. W
e’re getting backup.”

  “What kind?” Vlad said.

  “Guns, Vlad. Lots of guns.”

  “Guns are good.”

  We got into the Tahoe and took off. It would take us a couple of hours to reach the desert. Once again, Warnick had saved me. And once again I owed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  No Hipsters

  We changed clothes before getting on the road. I decided to take the 5 out of LA, which would take us to the 14 and eventually the 138 to Perro Negro, near where Warnick had instructed us to wait. Depending on traffic, the trip would take between ninety minutes and two hours.

  There wasn’t much to say, and we were mostly untalkative as we headed north. Bored with the lack of conversation, I flicked on the stereo. “Something from Nothing” by Foo Fighters came on loud and intense. When the song was over, Maritza smirked at me and turned down the volume.

  “Maybe if you listened to different music once in a while, you wouldn’t be in such a dark place all the time,” she said. Her voice sounded instructional, like she was speaking to a bedwetter.

  “I tried Taylor Swift. Didn’t take.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  I didn’t want to be on this girl’s wrong side, so I made an effort. “Find something better then.”

  Smiling, she scanned the dial till she found a Spanish station.

  “What is this?” I said.

  “Lila Downs. It’s called ‘La Cumbia del Mole.’”

  “Huh, pretty cool. Vlad, what do you think?”

  “I have no musical opinion.”

  Ignoring our unwashed friend, we left the stereo tuned to the Spanish station for the rest of the trip.

  It was almost noon when we arrived in Perro Negro. The place was flat and arid—an agricultural community of around eight hundred people. The streets were deserted, and I thought we might have driven into a Clint Eastwood movie.

  “Why did your friend want us to come here?” Maritza said, pointing at fields dotted with nondescript one-story houses with dirt lawns and trucks parked out front.