Ashes Remain

by Alethea Stauron

  Drake gazes from the ridge. One man remains upright within the dusty channel. Not moving. But standing. He peers through the scope for a second shot.

  Just then, Eddie’s gun slips from his hand and his body cascades over his laps, staking his face into weeds.

  Drake hikes down through the gulch area, and across a drier portion of creek. He takes aim at two motionless forms hidden by thick greenery. He unloads his cartridge walking closer to them. Click. Click. Clicking from an empty chamber whistles with no more bullets. “Thank you for making him think I’m dead. Much obliged.”

  Drake smears the pistol with his dusty shirt, wiping away fingerprint evidence tying him to any cartel murders. He flings it, clapping a hot barrel over the back of Eddie’s head. “I guess you found his toy. I took it from Mr. Estevez after screwing his wife. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  Drake pulls a pair of leather gloves hanging from Eddie’s back pocket. A pair Eddie had intended to use as part of his local rancher disguise to dig a shallow grave. He dons one glove, sticking the other in his pocket before rifling through their belongings. He finds his bottle of prescriptions in Mike’s coat. “Told you I couldn’t go without my pills,” he said. An orange medicine bottle is gripped firmly in his hand. He raises his cast and thrusts the tip of his boot into Mike’s head with a cyclone of curses and continually denting a shattered skull. He pulls the plastic bag from the branch, ridding his own evidence from any crime scene. As Drake steps away, his cartwheeling middle finger does acrobats around the bodies. “See you in hell, idiots,” and strolls off.

  He searches their vehicle, sifting through known hiding spots for any paraphernalia and unregistered weaponry. Under the driver’s seat is Mike’s favorite tool for threatening girls who plan on leaving.

  A large Colombian machete.

  Made of the highest quality. Detailed craftsmanship and with Mayan inscriptions. Complete with a leather holster and user strap for bushwhacking trails. Drake says. “I love this new toy. Even better than the last.” He profits his souvenir against him before looking for anything else. Stashes of paraphernalia-filled plastic bags hug his palms. Five rolls of cash. His pockets are bloated with his new horde and time to leave before any good Samaritans show. Drake backs their vehicle up a trail from the road about an eighth of a mile away, and hikes back through the ditch. Back to his car along the road.

  He unmasks his vehicle and pulls out from his buried spot. His car is now glinting from daylight on the road, “Up to the coyotes now,” and drives away toward Medina Lake.

  Drake is nearly dancing in his seat. “Finally, got rid of it all with no evidence.” The sun is well risen as Drake races through several shadowy areas heading home. He parades down her country road

  but…

  confusion. Absolute confusion.

  The patina he had described earlier…

  the truck he had planned on never seeing again. Parked as though it was backed in around her sedan. Parked as if driven from the other side of her barn. “What the hell,” he gawks. “What’s that doing here?” He takes his car out of gear, bumping the shifter with his cast a few times and letting his car roll into the grass beside her dilapidated shed. Off to the side. Away from the view of windows. He wheels silently through the dirt, concealing his being there. And drives over pieces of welcome sign still on the ground where David’s truck had smashed it a week earlier.

  He yanks his keys out, dropping them on the floorboard and clenching a machete knife tighter, “No you don’t,” expecting either Mr. Estevez found his hideout or Josephine went snooping. Drake thinks of what Mike had implied. He had the girl. They had the girl, they said.

  Confusion.

  Absolute confusion…

  and it was barking at Drake. “What’s her truck doing here?” Drake unsnaps the fastener of his machete holster, “I’m not keeping liabilities,” he sneered. “No witnesses of where I’m hiding. I’ll kill them all.” Drake slides out from his vehicle, prowling a silent step.

  ◆◆◆

  Lucius stands on one side of the bar, listening to Josephine speaking of things he had already witnessed. He doesn’t tell her, but he enjoys her voice and her description. He enjoys her voice simply speaking to him about anything, and could listening for as long as she’d allow. He sips a cup of her gourmet coffee. His second cup since arriving. “I’ve missed this. You don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of our time.” His jaw shakes, swallowing texture. “Hearing your…”

  Unexpectedly,

  he halts.

  “What’s wrong,” she asked.

  Lucius glances over through the dining niche. He senses atmospheric vibrations, convulsing with unexpected company. She staring right at him, so he doesn’t activate any vision. To keep from transforming his eyes in front of her. But he can smell it. Gunpowder under fingernails. The sweat from nervousness. Wilderness stuck on the breast of someone’s shirt. The smell of blood splattered over leather boots. “Drake,” his lips tensed.

  “But I thought —

  Lucius pulls on Josephine’s arm, directing her to the stairs.

  — I thought he wasn’t coming back. Call the police,” she said. “We can just lock the doors. I have guns.”

  “Baby, you don’t understand,” he said. He hears footsteps creeping over gravel, investigating around the truck. Lucius tells her, “You have to go upstairs. This guy doesn’t care if you have a lock on your door or not. You don’t have the strength to use a gun on someone.”

  “But you can. You’re a soldier.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can.” He rushes her, “Hide in your bedroom and lock your door for me.”

  “Why? What are you gonna do?”

  “Please? Don’t ask me. I don’t know yet but… he’s never touching you again.” His voice tremors, trying to maintain grace in his instructions, “Just go in there and shut the door. Don’t open it for anyone no matter what.”

  She stops, “No, Lucius. Let’s hide together. We can call the cops and wait for them.”

  “Baby, it’s too late for that. He’s here.” Lucius kisses her cheek behind the master door, “Lock this door.” He shuts it tight, “Don’t leave this room until I say. I need you to stay hidden. Stay safe.” And he turns to face creeping outside of the house — Drake.

  Lucius activates his camouflage and scans his eyes over a thousand different items in her house. His mind scatters in thinking of anything he’s authorized to use. You can’t lay a hand on him, the orders screamed across his brain. He rushes across the loft, resting in front of the balcony doors. His back faces the doors and pulls a sword from behind him, looking down the stairwell. The blade glints a long sliver beam back into turquoise eyes. The lettering. Ancient words meaning glory. Carefully etched over the blade. Thoughtfully placed for a reason.

  Glory.

  There is no glory in breaking rules. The ancient language was forged in his Gamerin metal to remind him. Haunting him in doing the right thing. His oaths. His promises.

  A heavy heart groans through his words, “I’ve been ordered…” gazing down at glimmering metal, “not to lay a hand…” He stares down the stairwell. A shadowy figure brushes through curtain sheers of the foyer, “not a hand on him.”

  He slides the blade back into hiding, and presses off his heels, hiding in the alcove between the second story bathroom and upper deck. He’s left gripping his top hair and dry of ideas. Lucius glances over at her bedroom door, “What am I gonna do?”

  ◆◆◆

  Footsteps of worn boot soles scoot across cedar beams of the front porch. The front door unlatches, making Lucius paralyzed in waiting. Drake cracks the door. His eyes scan as he walks over the threshold. He gathers his machete, held flush against his back. “Jojo?”

  Lucius’s eyes enlarge with a glance back at her door.

  Drake enters the kitchen when hearing nothing beyond the foyer. There are two coffee mugs on the kitchen counter. His finger brushes across one of them, “Still warm,”
he said. Her wallet sits calmly beside her mug. Her hoodie she had on this morning is hanging on the back of a chair. “This one is hers,” pointing at the other mug, “Someone else’s.”

  Not a broken dish, shuffle of moved furniture, or any sign of struggle throughout the house. Clearly Mr. Estevez and his goons haven’t battered the area. Then the thought of a recent visitor dawns on him. “So he did come back.” Drake clutches a leather handle tighter, “Lucius,” and makes his way toward the stairwell.

  “This just got real,” whispered under Lucius’s breath. He squashes his lids together, hearing his name spoken aloud. The name Drake never should’ve known. Evidence spoken into existence. More evidence piling over an already explosive pile, tying a trembling lover to even the slightest miscalculation. Lucius isn’t worried about being reassigned. He’s not worried because being reassigned isn’t the issue; he’ll go to prison making the wrong move at this point. “Not even a hair on his head.”

  Drake climbs each step listening toward her room, “Must’ve had a good time in there. It’s quiet. They’re already asleep.”

  Lucius looks left. A long machete blade stretches at a slow pace off the stairwell and over the top step. Drake passes the banister and pivots left around the corner. He’s facing her room… and not turning back from decisions already made. Lucius exhales a deep breath, and suppresses his boiling anger. He makes a command with his genetic code throughout his body, and his dimensional properties obey him. Lucius deactivates his camouflage, openly exposing himself to be balanced with his surroundings.

  Drake tiptoes another step…

  and a deep voice clears his throat from behind. Drake halts, pausing his foot into a slow letdown. “Hey…” Lucius snapped. “Where do you think you’re going,” gathering a stance beside the top step. “This isn’t your house.”

  Drake swivels back to look up and see cobalt eyes piercing at him. “Squatter’s rights,” Drake winced, “Who in the hell are you?”

  “Wrong question.” Lucius snarls, glancing at the blade. “You don’t belong here. You never did. Leave before it’s too late.”

  “Dude,” Drake grips his machete, angling metal in defense, “This is my house.”

  Lucius stretches his jaw, “You’re two for two with wrong statements.” He gestures toward the front door, “Your last warning. Never come back. Take your weapon with you.”

  “Who’s gonna make me?”

  Lucius’s brow floats, “You really don’t wanna know that answer.”

  “You’re not all that big and bad without a weapon. I’m not putting it down for you,” Drake studies him. “She don’t even like you. Everyone knows we’re together now. Her and I —

  “Whew,” Lucius forcefully exhaled, “You keep talking like that, and you’re gonna wish you never stepped foot in this house. I know all I need to know about you. And, where you were going with that statement…” spoken slow enough for any idiot to absorb, “ain’t… ever… gonna… happen.”

  Drake waves his blade like fanning fingers along a fire. “You think you know me? You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  “More than you know.”

  “Have we met before,” Drake asked.

  Lucius says nothing. He scans over with his peripheral, knowing Josephine is standing behind her bedroom door. Drake interrupts the silence, “I take it… that’s a yes. We’ve met before.”

  “Leave,” Lucius snarls, glaring back at Drake. “If you have any brain cells left — leave. She doesn’t deserve this kind of trouble. Believe me when I say I’m being generous.”

  Drake thumbs his machete back over his shoulder, pointing toward her door, “She hasn’t said anything, so I’m staying.” He holds his sword firm and hunches for a fight. “I ain’t scared of you.”

  Josephine places her hand on her doorknob and Lucius realizes his time is running out. He glances between the door and back at Drake. He gestures a firm point forward, “Put it away, Drake! Last chance.”

  “I’m just defending myself from an intruder I ain’t never seen before. Like I said…” Drake says, “you’re not all that scary without a weapon.”

  Lucius perks a side lip with his brow soaring, “You clearly don’t know me.” He raises two hands with a flip of his palm and showing both sides. “I don’t have a weapon in my hands, Drake. What are you planning?”

  “Getting rid of my liabilities.” He sidesteps with adrenaline pumping, “I’m not putting this knife down. Makes it even because of my arm.”

  Lucius smiles, “I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. You foolish… man.”

  They both lower gazes with eyes cursing at each other.

  And

  Drake lunges forward. Lucius arches his stomach inward, and evades a second swing with his back hugging the banister. “Put it away, Drake. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “You scared now?” And swings forward. Lucius tucks and squats back. Drake widens his swing, forcing Lucius to balance on the top step over a daunting stairwell.

  “You swing like a wild drunk man,” Lucius says, “This is all on you.”

  “I’ve already killed two men today,” Drake sneers, “Let’s make it a third.”

  “Great plan…” Lucius mocked, “remember… it was your idea.”

  Drake’s face swells with anger and thrusts his weapon. He lunges his full weight forward, aiming squarely toward Lucius’s gut. Lucius enters a quick speed over the step and leaps over stairs. He spirals back with his weight, and adds levitation with a jolt of his heels, jetting upward. Lucius turns midair, grabbing upon loft banister and spindles. He grabs the banister and swings up to the loftway, away from Drakes blade. Lucius coils up over cedar railing, kicking the floating dust in the air with his feet. He joins his footing on top of the loft.

  As commanded, he keeps from touching Drake. The element of time leaves the laws of physics, allowing the blade to merely brush the rushing wind left behind. Not even a tracer of Lucius is touched. Nor his shadow. Drake’s eyes broaden. His propulsion. His footing can’t be redirected during his current momentum. What he had intended… what he had lunged toward — had simply vanished. His victim virtually disappears through a streak of plaid and blue jeans before his blade had a chance. Lucius is standing with not a hair of Drake’s head touched by him, as time speeds up to his movement.

  Lucius gapes over the banister, “I told you… you’re not gonna like what happens next.” Lucius joins the stairwell, taking his time toward the bottom steps.

  Cough…

  gasp…

  choke

  “I tried to warn you.” Lucius says, “I didn’t touch you. This was all you’re doing. I’m blameless.”

  Drake is twisted on the floor, lying in a mounting puddle of his own thick blood growing from underneath him. He gasps, “Uh,” but barely audible through his gurgling. His neck is twisted, kissing the back of his shoulder. His cast is partially pulled from his arm, caught in the banister spindle a couple steps up.

  Lucius is midway down, realizing demise is inevitable. He was ordered to never touch him and he won’t. But…

  he’ll watch.

  “This is actually quite sad. I tried to help you.” He takes his final moments and speaks gently, “You chose this.”

  Drake is paralyzed — his diaphragm is sliced in half and spinal nerves severed — lying with a machete sword spired at an angle through his body. The Mayan detailed inscriptions are smudged over with crimson smears and fragments of intestinal debris. He gurgles in drowning blood. Flooding his lungs and pouring from his lips with small bubbles of his last breath.

  “I couldn’t save you even if I wanted to.” Lucius climbs down to the step between Drake’s sprawled out legs. Lucius says, “Those who live by the sword…” taking his last step down, “die by the sword. Or to use your words from earlier, kill their third victim — yourself.” Lucius squints. He accesses his vision through her front walls and flexes his neck toward Drake. He kneels down further o
ver Drake. His lips hover inches from Drake’s raised ear. “I just wanna let you know…” speaking lightly, “it’s gonna… hurt… like… HELL.”

  Drake’s brow twitches. His eyes glaze as his vision becomes unfocused. His nerves are twitching in his final moments.

  Lucius elevates himself up,

  and to his horror…

  Josephine stands in her doorway. She’s staring down. Her brows are knitted together and her hands clasped to her mouth. “What did you do?”

  Lucius instantly reads her thoughts with a wobbling jawline, “No. This wasn’t me.” He glances back over through a closed front door. His eyes are pulled open and he’s deeply inhaling. Ferocious terror. “Baby…” he rushes upstairs, “hide in your room! It’s not safe to come out.” He dashes across the loftway and covers her eyes, pushing her beyond the door, “You can’t see this —

  “Is he —

  Lucius presses against her, forcing her into her room. His voice shivers under a whisper, “Don’t look at them. They can’t know that you know.”

  “What are you talking about? Who?”

  “Baby, I can’t save you from this one. Get back.” He cracks her bedroom door, “Don’t come out,” and is panting. She barely hears him, his breath is louder than his words, “Don’t speak. Don’t open the door.” He’s holding back tears, “I can’t protect you, if they see you with me… they’re coming. They’re coming.” He glances downstairs at a shadow stretching across her floor. Lucius shuts her door and places his back against framing, straightening himself. His hand clutches the knob metal so tightly, her doorknob slightly bends around his fingers. Lucius drops all expression. A terrified hitch robs his breath… but… he manages to keep from shivering. Controlling his trembling muscles.

  I’d rather die, he thinks, then let one of them take her.

  The entire house, except her doorknob… is silent. Josephine is left wondering, Why’s he afraid? She focuses on the crevice between her door framing. The wood is pulled tight. No air escapes her bedroom through it. She hears the wood of the frame groaning from forceful closure. Held securely without ripping the knob from its hole.