Graveslinger

by Darren Compton

  Her parents never officially married, much to the outrage of Ana Sophia’s papa, who didn’t even like it in the first place that his baby girl settled down with an Irish-descended white boy. Ana and Gabriel had been together for more than 12 years and were perfectly happy as they were. Gabriel, or Gabe as everyone called him, co-owned an independent mechanic’s garage ─ a modestly successful one to boot ─ surprising his not-quite father-in-law, that he did, in fact, work hard to support his family. Ana stayed at home and sold Mary Kay cosmetics for extra income. Fights between Fiya’s parents were rare and typically consisted of what movie they were going to see that weekend, followed by cheerfully mocking the other when their choice turned out to be a steaming turd turkey.

  Little Fiya crept down the stairs, knowing exactly which step to hop over so she didn’t trigger a hideous creak that could wake up Mama and Papa. As soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she tiptoed into the kitchen. She put in even more effort to be more quiet than normal because her grandparents were asleep on the pull-out bed in the living room. Grandpa Diaz’s nasal decongestant worked wonders that night because Little Fiya didn’t hear the usual buzz-saw snoring rumbling through the house. They laid perfectly still in the dark as she crept by.

  The only light came from the clock on the VCR unit and the microwave digital clock in the kitchen. There was no Moon that night, but a streetlamp several houses away gave some effort to shine into the windows. Everything else was bathed in shadow and deep blues, that is, until Little Fiya cracked open the refrigerator.

  Golden light spilled over her, and she smiled as she reached for the glass of chocolate milk, almost two-thirds full. Sipping the creamy deliciousness, she took a deep breath, licking away the chocolate-milk mustache, and chugged the rest of the glass.

  It was empty in six eager glugs. She let out another breath, savoring that flavor, and once again licked clean the tasty mustache. When she was satisfied, Little Fiya turned around to put the empty glass in the sink.

  After finding evidence that they had a night owl in their home, Mama made sure to tell her always to rinse out the glass and leave it in the sink when she finished. Little Fiya now made it a habit, especially after Papa showed her how leftover milk residue stinks if left out overnight. It was a rancid smell she never forgot.

  She used a step stool to get to the sink and turn on the faucet. She gave it two good rinses and then set the glass in the sink. The fridge door was left open the whole time, so before she went sneaking back to bed, she attempted to gently push it closed, only she pushed too hard. The door slammed shut, with the rattle of a few condiment bottles, and a magnet of the Cuban flag dropped to the floor. She slapped the itty-bitty Cuban flag, where her grandparents were from, back on the fridge, and stealthily made her way back to the stairs.

  Before she made it to the first step, she heard chewing sounds in another part of the house: little children, of course, will always hear an adult snacking on something, no matter how hard they try to hide it. The slobbery sounds of eating seemed to come from Papa’s study under the stairs.

  Little Fiya slid her bare little feet on the wood panel floor to not make any audible footsteps and peeked into the room. The lights were not on, but a streetlight near the only window in the study beamed into the room, revealing her mother crouched over her father, with her back turned to the door.

  The study entrance was built under the stairs, leading into a room next to the garage. A simple black-laminate desk with a Dell computer were the main items in the room, with a Coca-Cola mini-fridge, several movie posters, and a gun rack. Little Fiya always had an interest in his guns, but Papa never seemed to feel she was ready yet, although he kept promising, “Soon, dahling, soon!” That she was not yet in Kindergarten made Mama nervous for her to handle a firearm, so her parents made a deal: pass Kindergarten, or Kindy as Little Fiya would call it, and she could take her first shooting lesson. The idea made her more excited to start Kindy.

  At first, she thought the sound might be something she was not allowed to see, like the morning when she walked into their bedroom: They claimed they were playing the “blow-up-the-balloon game,” which didn’t sound like fun to her, but Papa seemed to enjoy it. This time, however, the game seemed different. This time, they hadn’t removed clothing, and Papa didn’t seem to be enjoying it. Little Fiya heard the chewing and grew even more curious. She reached up and flipped on the light switch as she whispered in her tiny fawn voice, “Mama?”

  The wet chewing stopped, and something fell on the floor. Little Fiya couldn’t see what it was, but the slow turn of her mother’s head and the dull yellow eyes, bleeding from the tear ducts, shocked her into silence. She knew her mama’s eyes were brown ─ that was where she got her eyes after all ─ and though she hadn’t started Kindy yet, she already knew her basic colors: Her mama’s eyes should be brown.

  Ana Sophia Diaz hissed, revealing a mouth smothered in red chunks. Her lips had split and cracked.

  As Little Fiya trembled, she noticed Papa wasn’t moving. A dark red pool spread beneath him, all over the carpet. Her gut told her to run, but she couldn’t unfreeze herself.

  Then her mama bared her teeth again, coated in slimy crimson, and said what Little Fiya could only hear as, “Grrrruuuhl.” It was a nasty, phlegmy voice, so unlike her mama, and this snapped Little Fiya out of her petrified state. She turned around and bolted toward the stairs, but she moved too fast to control; she tripped and landed belly first on the floor. Her head followed with a sharp thud.

  Through the nasty, gurgling hiss from her mama, a ringing in her head, and her own panicking sobs, she almost didn’t react to the pounding on the front door.

  As she lifted her head, she saw a large silhouette looking in through the side window near the front door, and she turned around to see the shape of her mother lurching out of the study. Her mother’s dull, painfully yellow eyes locked onto her, and she gurgled another hiss.

  Then she remembered Grandpa and Nana in the pullout bed. She called out for them, but they didn’t respond; they didn’t even stir. As she got back to her feet, wobbling like a drunk, Little Fiya ignored the pounding on the front door and gasped as she saw her grandparents’ bodies covered in blood-stained sheets. She sobbed, covering her mouth and wincing as her lurching mama came closer.

  Behind her, the front door splintered inward; wood fragments flicked the back of Little Fiya’s head. Pieces caught in her hair. Little Fiya looked away from her mother just in time to see a huge, burly man coming through the front door like the firemen on TV. He had a rusty blonde beard and held a big axe in two hands, which he continued to use to get through the door. The large man glanced down at Little Fiya, assessing her, and then up at her mama. He sighed, said, “Sorry about this, kid,” and charged past her.

  Since the large man appeared to have far more food on his bones than her little girl, Ana Sophia advanced toward him, her hungry yellow eyes brighter than ever.

  Little Fiya rolled out of the way and did what her instinct told her to do: help Papa!

  As the large man plunged his axe into Ana Sophia’s skull, Little Fiya charged back into the study and knelt beside Papa’s hand.

  Ana Sophia’s jaws snapped a few times, and the large man used his axe to keep her at a distance. Soon her jaws slacked, and he let her fall to the floor. Pulling the axe out of her head, he glanced toward the end of the hall and saw Little Fiya’s feet barely sticking out of the doorway under the stairs.

  To his right in the living room, he heard more wet hissing and the movement of rusty springs. The little girl’s grandparents on the pullout bed had risen, and the large man cursed at himself.

  As a pair of squishy sounds echoed from the living room, Little Fiya wept as she saw her papa’s throat gnawed out. Some of Gabe’s lower jaw had been partially eaten, and his eyes were closed.

  “Papa …?” She whimpered.

  Her eyes and cheeks were soaked, flowing rivers of tears, but she hardly made a sound.
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  A Taurus Model 85 Ultra-Lite revolver lay next to Gabe, near his hand. It looked as though it was knocked aside before he could use it on Ana Sophia. She looked back at her father, and his eyes opened. Naturally a bluish-green color, they were now a murky pale yellow, like a bowl of milk after sitting with Corn Pops in it for too long.

  She couldn’t resist her sudden excitement. “Papa!” The second syllable dropped to despair.

  “Kid, that’s not your papa anymore,” the large man bellowed from the hall.

  As Gabe hissed at her, his body twisted and jerked back to life. His arms flopped into position to push himself off the floor as the booms of the large man’s footsteps came near.

  The large man stopped behind Little Fiya, who blocked his path from entering the room. His axe dripped with dark ghoul blood. “Step aside, kiddo.”

  Instead of hearing him, Little Fiya’s attention turned to the Taurus on the floor.

  The large man hesitated to pull the girl aside. He considered swinging the axe around her but knew it would be too awkward. When he saw the Taurus on the floor, he yelled, “Use it! The gun on the floor! Shoot him in the head!” As Fiya continued to sit staring at the revolver, he yelled again, “Can you understand me?”

  Gabe now had rolled entirely onto his front and reached out toward his little girl, hissing just like her mama.

  As the man reached back with the axe, taking a chance on swinging over the child, Little Fiya lunged for the revolver. Her papa’s fingers arched like eagle’s talons as they reached for her eyes.

  Little Fiya slipped back out of range, against the large man’s knees, and pressed the gun against her papa’s head. She would never forget how much everything shook after she squeezed the trigger, petrified.

  All she could hear was a high-pitch ring. The gun almost kicked back into her face. Her hands trembled.

  Little Fiya felt the large man grab her under her arms and lift her, but her eyes stayed fixed on the smoking hole in the head of the ghoul who used to be her papa, his brains sprayed all over the den. She didn’t even notice she peed herself. The hands of the large man were gentle as he set her next to the door frame. While he checked the ghoul’s body, Fiya looked up at the man who saved her, only able to stare at him in a hypnotic daze.

  The large man wished over and over he had gotten there sooner. It had been a simple assignment for him: a few cats that were suspected carriers of Ghoul Fever. He found a colony of stray cats near a Jack in the Box and knew the situation had worsened when one seemed to have blood on its pelt. He asked to view the security-camera footage at the location to see if he could spot anyone who may have come near the cats: Just as he realized, a woman matching the description of she whom he just split with his axe moments ago, gave food to the cats, and one of them bit her. He had gotten the license plate of her vehicle and traced her to this address. But not fast enough.

  Rather than leave the child with local authorities, the large man took Little Fiya with him, fearing she would get lost in the foster shuffle as he’d experienced. He hated the thought of her bouncing around from home to home, compounded by the memory of the horror she just witnessed and never having someone who truly understood to talk to about it. He really didn’t know how she would handle it as a survivor so young and didn’t want strangers treating her poorly for it. A touch of guilt also came over him regarding the loss of her entire family.

  At that moment, Rutger Bronson decided to raise Fiya as his own and train her to fight the horror and defy the trauma. Rather than lie down, he was going to teach her to get up.

  Fiya opened her eyes. The scent of whatever awful chemical they called “spring daisy fresh” permeated the motel room and offended her nose. They must’ve sprayed just before Fiya knocked on the office door just before midnight.

  Her right elbow ached, a byproduct of frequently swinging a sword and severing limbs of things that go bump in the night. She thought it could be the onset of lateral epicondylitis, otherwise known as tennis elbow; she would have to deal with it later. Nothing a little lotion wouldn’t get rid of for now. She would consider seeing a doctor about it later once she got the chance.

  The first thing her eyes focused on was the drab off-white wall separating her from the bathroom. A painting of yellow roses in a squat vase hung on, or possibly was glued to the wall, and although it added a bit of color, it somehow still made the room feel dull. She looked over her shoulder at the front of the room, where she saw the hunched-over silhouette of Thomas at the table, working on precisely what he promised: making silver bullets. In the bed between them lay Liama, curled up in the blankets. She was in such a peaceful slumber that Fiya felt a bit jealous.

  Fiya had let them follow her after she attempted to drive them into Skyhill to set them up for a place to rest. Skyhill felt like a ghost town at that time of night, without a single car on the road. Since they couldn’t get a motel clerk to come to the desk, Thomas told her they should try the next town: He didn’t like the smell of the small city; it reminded him of the foul smell of the guards back at the school.

  Before they left Skyhill, though, they went shopping for the supplies Thomas needed. Fiya thought he was full of shit, but he was determined to make bullets for her. They quietly broke into Drake’s Pawnshop and took enough sterling silverware and jewelry to melt down, but Drake’s didn’t have everything he needed. It did have a Hornady Lock-N-Load ammo press, which covered most of what he required, but he really needed gunpowder and dies. Before leaving the pawnshop, Fiya left a cash stack on the counter, so she didn’t quite feel like it was stealing.

  A gun shop up the street was a little trickier to break into: She disabled the alarms, which were surprisingly easy, but had trouble with the doors. Fiya had to put her elbow into one of the steel security doors, and on the third try, got it to burst open.

  This impressive action caused Liama to talk even more about how strong she is.

  Once inside, Thomas gathered what he needed, and they were quickly gone. No silent alarm, no security guard. Fiya kept watch, in case they were being followed and wasn’t sure if not seeing anyone was a good thing or not.

  When Thomas asked her what gauge she would need, she told him .45 cartridges. She didn’t want to tell him she didn’t yet have a gun for it, but she knew where to get her hands on one, rather than steeling one at the gun shop. The thought to just take a pistol anyway occurred to her in the gun store, but the one her mind was set on would be better suited. Much better suited. She felt if she told him she didn’t already have a gun on her, he’d feel useless since he seemed to really want to show he could be of value to her.

  They drove 30 miles north until they found another motel outside of Skyhill, settling on the Suncrest Motel, complete with occupied rooms and someone at the desk. To Thomas and Fiya’s relief, Liama was too tired to bring up monsters and no humans in Skyhill.

  Showers were the first priority for Thomas and Liama once they were in the motel. Fiya chose to wait until morning to ensure hotter water.

  When they had driven into Skyhill, he recognized the hill and school where they were held captive, feeling stupid that they ran the wrong direction when a town was so near.

  He explained to Fiya that they weren’t from around there, moving from San Francisco for a new job as an assistant manager position at Petworld in Olympia, Washington. He had hesitated about the job, worried about how Liama would take the change and how much it would cost to move. When Petworld offered to cover costs, he accepted. Liama was excited about moving since she had never been out of California.

  They had stopped at a gas station just outside of Olympia because Liama needed to use the restroom. It was an older station, so they needed to request a key connected to a hubcap, so it was harder to lose, and the toilets were located outside. While Thomas waited outside for Liama, he was hit over the head, and a rag put over his mouth before blacking out. When he awoke, he was in the back of a moving truck, bound with his hands behind his back with Liama
and two strangers, also with their hands tied behind their backs. After a lengthy drive, bags were put over their heads, and they were drugged again.

  This was a lot for Fiya to take in.

  Usually, when it came to missions, someone pointed the finger at some undead or supernatural activity harming people, and she’d exterminate. Rarely did she ever have to deal with victims and survivors. If there hadn’t been a pack of werewolves on their tails, she’d just take them to the police. It sounded like an attempt at human trafficking, except for the werewolves and the guards that smelled like death. In her gut, Fiya knew she needed to get involved.

  Fiya slid out of bed, and Thomas looked over at her, nodding as not to wake up Liama, and she nodded back. She felt four satisfying cracking pops as she stretched her back.

  Twenty-four loaded silver cartridges were on the table, standing at attention. The guy sure knows what he is doing, not just bullshitting me to get a ride. Earlier, she asked how he knew how to make bullets, and he replied, “My dad was really into hunting, meaning we had to do a lot of hunting. He also demanded we learn how to make our own ammunition rather than paying good money for brand names. I don’t keep up the practice, but I never forgot how.” Very handy since she wouldn’t have been able to just waltz into the gun store and buy silver bullets. She did own a silver knife, but that was back in her apartment in Seattle.

  She pointed at the bathroom, carrying a change of clothes with her, and stared at Thomas until he looked back. She gave him a questioning glance if he needed to use the bathroom any time soon, and he indicated he understood with a shake of his head.

  Scalding hot water poured from the shower head, and to her surprise, the motel-supplied shampoo didn’t sting Fiya’s eyes as she lathered up. She raised an arm, letting the shower head pressure massage her right elbow. It eased the spurts of minor tendon pain. She turned and let the water hammer down on the back of her neck, streaming with sudsy shampoo down her battle scars. Claws, blades, and teeth were the usual damage dealers, and she learned quickly to not wear her favorite band t-shirts when out on a hunt. One scar on her upper back almost ruined a tattoo of the KNIV rune.