Graveslinger
Page 2
Wandering through the halls in a baggy, well-worn, comfortable, and soft knitted burgundy sweater with a hood, she didn’t appear as anyone of importance. Her dark, greasy hair was pulled back into a rat’s nest of a bun. Her time spent in Alaska was limited and with such a short time frame, she couldn’t get any sleep before catching the flight home; it was assumed she’d sleep on the plane. She didn’t.
Her tired brown eyes—that sometimes glittered with gold if the light hit just right—scanned the flock of people as they moved in a herd toward baggage claim.
She avoided steering in that direction, for now, craving a stop at the Dilettante Mocha Café in the crotch of the central terminal that functioned as a food court. The little mocha shop had become a staple every time she returned home. It had a variety of deliciously flavored beverages, specializing in chocolates and coffee. She was pleasantly surprised there were no customers to wait behind. All of them flocking to the Starbucks, no doubt.
The shop’s own specialty brew of chocolate milk called to her: thick, chilled, creamy, and hit the spot after a seven-hour flight from Anchorage, during which she didn’t manage to get a wink of sleep. The milk would help settle an annoying burn in her stomach; something dairy always helped calm down.
When she turned around to find a seat, she overheard a news broadcast coming from the bar area of Anthony’s Seafood restaurant nearby. She didn’t enter but strolled by, peering through the glassless window to watch one of the TV monitors as she drank her chocolate milk.
A man with far too much hair gel spoke about park rangers in Kenai Fjords National Park in Alaska. He reported an illegal campfire discovered in a small cave where several missing local girls were found drained of their blood.
“Authorities are contacting their relatives as we speak, and they believed the killer is still on the loose,” the cheeseball reporter on the monitor said.
Fiya knew it was really several killers, and they no longer were on the loose. They, in fact, were the campfire, thanks to daylight combusting their corpses into flames. Of course, the news network wouldn’t know that, as her work was off limits to the media.
A pretty guy with sandy-colored hair and high cheekbones looked her way from inside the restaurant. Assuming the small curl of a smile on her face was meant for him and not at the TV monitor, he winked at her. With a quick glance, she caught him watching her and turned away as the Seattle newscaster began discussing something about a big explosion somewhere east of the nearby mountains.
She sat among the many tables and chairs in the food court, near a massive wall of windows that faced west. To no surprise, the northwest Washington sky was blanketed with grey clouds. Some claimed it was a dreary sight; Fiya found it comforting. She didn’t think rain was on the menu for the day, but that could change. She shook her glass in a counter-clockwise motion to stir the last third of her chocolate milk.
Leaning back in her chair, she reached for her phone in the belly pouch of her sweater and turned it on. It took a few moments for the phone to reset itself, even correcting the time zone, and she waited while sipping the last of the chocolate milk.
A squawking kid nearby threw a fit about the toy from his Wendy’s kid meal: something about the purple toy not matching the purple on the advertisement poster. This provided the foundation for the mother to berate the Wendy’s employee for false advertisement and baiting and switching the toy quality. Fiya pitied the employee, as if that person had control over how the color looked on the promotion.
As she shook her head, she felt a burn on the left side of her face: the burn of knowing she was being watched; subtle, but just enough to annoy her. Her eyes crept to investigate while she pretended to watch her phone screen light up with unread messages. The sandy-haired pretty boy approached with a leer growing on his face. She sighed as he sat down at the empty table near her. In her peripheral vision, he seemed to have a drink in his hand and pretended not to be looking her way, even though she felt every glance on her skin.
Two phone messages were waiting for her, and once she flicked aside all the useless unanswered spam calls and texts, she narrowed it down to two unread messages from work. The first she opened had been time-stamped at 2:10 a.m. and said:
“IV: GOOD WORK. BONUS PAY FOR TRAVEL WILL BE INCLUDED AS NORMAL.”
She smiled. Even though the plane tickets didn’t come out of her pocket in the first place, she wasn’t going to turn down a bonus for travel.
“That’s a cute smile. There should be more of it,” the sandy-haired pretty boy said.
Fiya glanced his way and tightened her smirk, hopefully to both acknowledge him and drop a hint that she was not interested in talking.
Not taking the hint, he adjusted his chair to face her. “Got a name?”
Really, dude? With a click of the edge button to turn off her phone, Fiya got up and shot the sandy-haired pretty boy another emotionless glance.
“Sorry, I have to go,”she said.
She made a bee-line between the tables, tossing the paper cup of her chocolate milk in a nearby trashcan. The guy watched her pensively, rubbing the carefully groomed stubble on his sharp chin.
The crowd in baggage claim hadn’t thinned out as much as she hoped by the time she got there, but it would have to do. She stood by the conveyor belt that spat out luggage and realized she didn’t see hers yet. She double-checked the flight on the sign above, and it matched hers, so she knew she was in the right place. She also recognized several passengers standing around, checking their phones while talking to their friends or family. Several were greeted by people picking them up, embracing each other with warm, cheery hugs that made Fiya’s stomach churn again. No one waited for her.
As she swayed on her feet, rocking back and forth from heel to toe, she felt that burning sensation again on the back of her neck. She shifted a little and saw that the sandy-haired guy followed her all the way down to luggage claim. Fucking really, dude? She expected him to start talking again and prepared to dry-heave at whatever awful pick-up line he surely had in his back pocket. Pretending to be unaware that he stood near her became difficult for Fiya.
He defied her expectations by not speaking at all while his eyes scanned her from head to toe, slowing down around her backside and chest. Onlookers probably assumed he was with her, and that made her even more uncomfortable.
Fiya took a few steps closer to the conveyor belt. The guy gave a crooked smile, snorted to himself, and cocked his head to admire her view from behind.
Sure, she supposed he was attractive in that teen-magazine-cover sort of way. She occasionally liked that flavor, but he wouldn’t stop leering at her like she was a stack of barbecued ribs. After stalking her from one area of the airport to another; any possibility that she could be attracted to him flew out the window.
She wasn’t in the mood for any of this song and dance. Was it the frumpy sweater? The baggy linen pants that she didn’t think flattered her bottom half? Fiya wasn’t sure if she had visible armpit sweat stains through the sweater, but at that point, she doubted he could be grossed out. She even had felt bad for the guy next to her on the plane, but he never complained. Since she could smell her own ripe armpits after being crammed elbow to elbow for more than seven hours, she was sure he could smell them, too.
A large black rectangular guitar case, well-worn with scratches and dings on the outside, spat out on the conveyor belt. Silver duct tape dangled on a corner. Fiya moved forward to grab it as soon as possible. Not far behind it, her duffle bag came spilling out.
Her Fiya-senses tingled, alerting her that the guy was slowly approaching, but she kept facing forward, trying not to give him the attention.
She reached for the guitar case, and as she went for the duffle bag, he spoke from behind. His tone hit her like a buzzsaw. “That’s an interesting name, Fiya Diaz?”
She cringed, knowing his eyesight was good enough to read the tags on her luggage from where he stood, and now he knew her name.
“I bet there’s a real good story behind that name, or is it a stage name?”
Fiya turned with an exaggeratedly bored expression with tired, drooping eyes and a slouching mouth, hoping he could take another hint, this time aiming for unamused.
Unfortunately, the smug look on his face seemed to brighten. “Wanna talk about it over a cup of coffee? I have a room over at the Holiday Inn not far from here, and I’m in town for another night …”
“Get lost,” she replied. She kept her tone blunt and clear. Subtlety was no longer an option, as he proved too dumb to take more than one hint.
The guy furrowed his brow, confused. It was evident to her that no one had ever had the nerve to talk back to him like that. “E-Excuse me?” he muttered.
Fiya slung the duffle bag over her shoulder as if to prove she didn’t need a big, strong man to help her with her bags, and carried the guitar case with the other hand. For her, they were remarkably easy to carry.
She walked away, refusing to feed further into his crumbling ego, not changing her tired expression. Other travelers watched her, and she realized now how loudly she’d spoken to the creep, unaware she’d caused a scene.
She may have gotten everyone’s attention, but Mr. Sandy-haired Pretty Boy decided to fan the flames by bellowing loudly enough for everyone in the immediate area to hear: “I’m sooooooo sorry. Had I known you were such a cunt dyke, I wouldn’t have bothered to be a gentleman to you. All I asked was to get together for coffee, but fuck me, right?”
A few yards away from the exit, she stopped in her tracks. Setting down her duffle bag and case, she turned around slowly with narrowed eyes of fury. Other bystanders backed away, confused, bewildered, and it felt like they were fixing for a showdown between two lovers. His smug face smirked at her, and all she wanted to do was walk up and jab him so hard in the throat that he coughed up blood for weeks. Her teeth ground hard, fighting the temptation. That smirk of his didn’t help either.
A security guard, who appeared to have a decent muscular build under his jacket, came into view, concerned about the loud scene the guy just made.
Rather than feeding into her rage, Fiya raised her middle finger and said, “Have fun with the gonorrhea your dad gave you, Fuckrag.”
The bystanders looked back at the sandy-haired chump who simply waved her off. One stepped away from him as if he were contagious. Another younger woman cackled. Even the security guard snickered.
Satisfied, Fiya stormed out of the airport and into the parking garage with her luggage. She wanted to hurt him, and part of her even hoped he continued to follow her, daring him so she could hurt him in ways that would make him never want to approach a woman like that again. But she knew she needed to keep a low profile because she was on airport territory. Had it been at a bar, very few would frown on her knocking the piss out of some jackass for unsolicited flirting. I could always use him to chum the waters on another hunt. She laughed to herself at the thought.
While funny, to her at least, her common sense told her that she shouldn’t. She was trained better than that, raised better than that, and would go against her moral compass. Though it still was fun to think about.
She continued striding to her car, taking the stairs to the fourth level, and paused for a moment to remember which aisle she parked. Soon she found the wine-red Dodge Challenger waiting for her, right where she left it. Newly purchased a few months ago, Fiya was happy with the present to herself. She put her bags away in the trunk and looked for her phone, remembering the second message. Her brief moment of comfort disappeared as she read its screen: 7:32 a.m.:
“IVO: ALL LIVING PACIFIC NORTHWEST OPERATIVES, PLEASE INVESTIGATE YOUR HOME PLATE. AN EMERGENCY INCINERATION OCCURRED LAST NIGHT. POSSIBLE GHOUL FEVER CONTAMINATION.”
Fiya took a long, deep breath. What the hell? Just like that? Up in flames? She leaned against her Challenger, feeling weightless. She snapped out of it as she scrolled to find a reply almost two hours ago at 9:46 a.m.:
“DE MATTO: ON IT.”
What concerned her was that no one else had responded. No other hunters? Sure, they might’ve just headed straight there, but it would be unusual for them not to at least confirm that they’re alive. She took her time typing a response:
“JUST GOT OFF PLANE, ON WAY NOW. COULD BE A FEW HOURS.”
After pressing the Send button, she stuffed the phone back into her pocket and sighed. The whole situation shook her as she climbed into her Challenger and started it up with a warm purr. Fiya had been in the program for a long time ─ almost two decades ─ and she’s never seen or heard of this scenario. It seemed so extreme that everyone could be expendable, just like that. Perhaps I should’ve better-read the fine print on those forms when I was on board.
Although desperate for a shower, she decided to skip heading home and go straight to the Pacific Northwest Order of the Immortuos Venandi site soon. Bad enough she was already a few hours behind on the news, she didn’t want to waste any more time.
Despite the daylight, the abandoned elementary school was shrouded in shadow, a cryptic blend of overcast, looming mountains, and overgrown forest. The schoolyard grass had grown as tall as a child’s waist. Near the gymnasium, fresh tire tracks parted the thick grass, trailing to the east end of the lot to a gate in the chain-link fence. It was wide enough to fit two garbage trucks side by side.
The classrooms were empty, filled with graffiti, fallen tree needles, and leaves that came through broken windows. In the gym were the cages, crudely put together, filled with people: all weak, tired, scared, bruised, and hungry. They were alive, although some wished they weren’t.
The cages were walled with what looked like chicken wire, but a little thicker so the people couldn’t tear through it with their bare hands.
The captives remained silent as they watched several guards stand in the center between the cages, talking to their boss.
The guards all wore a similar set of dark coveralls, cloths that covered their heads, and a pair of goggles. They also smelled like spoiled meat. The captives were familiar with them, but the boss, she seemed new.
One of the guards held out a gloved hand with broken parts of a pen in his palm. The clip of the pen had been twisted into a key.
The boss, a statuesque woman, examined the pieces in the guard’s hand and scowled. The sides of her head were shaven, revealing a tattoo wrap that started from the back of her head: a pair of symmetrical horns, with patterns that looked like to Celtic knots, that came to their points at the edges of her forehead. The hair on the top of her head flopped to one side and could have been a mohawk if she used enough gel to get it to stand up. The hair was naturally blonde. The combination of a mesh top with a black sports bra and her black leather pants gave the impression that she was just back from some underground rave.
The captives heard the guards state her name: “Violess.”
“Was that all?” she sneered at the guard holding the pen pieces. Fiery orange-amber in her eyes flickered when she asked, and the guard didn’t flinch. The nearest captives did.
“We didn’t find anything else,” he said. His voice was old and croaky.
“Just how did he get a pen on him?” Violess’s eyes scanned the captives in the cages, implying that the question was for them, too.
The guards looked at each other, afraid to speak because none of them knew the answer.
Violess steered her gaze to the captives on the other side of the gym. “And I suppose none of you saw anything?” They gave no reply but cowered as they held themselves against the backs of the cages. The children rocked themselves and cried. She knew they all saw something but didn’t expect any of them to answer. “Convenient,” she sneered, returning her intimidating gaze to the guards. “Search everyone again. Every crevice, every hole. Food is canceled for today. You are all evidently too strong.”
Balling his fist around the broken pen parts, the guard asked, “How many of us do you want out there looking for them?”
Leaving the guards scratching their heads, she left the gym and walked to the stairs that took her to a room she chose to use as her office. It was a corner classroom on the second floor, as she liked the view from two different angles, and the higher, the better. Posters of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln still clung to the walls, their corners curling over. Pink cabinets used for children’s lockers to stash their coats, backpacks, and lunches lined the back wall. Some still had names on strips of masking tape stuck to the tops of the little doors. A few desks, none which Violess would ever fit in, were stacked up in a corner, while she occupied a larger teacher’s desk.
A pair of rats crawled from one pink cabinet to another.
Looking out from one of the corner windows, she could see the direction she believed the captives fled. Nothing but wilderness and the base of mountains for miles for them to get lost in. Further away rose a simmering smoke trail from a distant government facility. She wasn’t concerned about the facility; she had that taken care of last night.
The Order of the Immortuos Venandi did an excellent job keeping a lid on spreading supernatural viruses like Ghoul Fever. With them out of the way, she could cause a big enough surge to distract any other possible hunters, at least for long enough so she could concentrate on her real agenda. The Trojan rat did its job well and on time.