by G S Fortis
He points his gun at me, and my hands go up. “You, come here!” he says.
I follow his orders and step around the car. “Whatever you say, Yury,” I say in the best soothing voice I can muster. “You’re in control.”
He looks around the parking structure to make sure we’re alone. The gun swings from pointing at me to pointing at Paige to pointing at the air. There’s no one here.
“Yury?” I ask, bringing him to the present. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
He points the gun back at me, which is not what I wanted. “They’re dead.”
“Dead?” I ask. “Who’s dead?”
“Everyone. All of them. Even Borz.”
“Borz?”
He shakes his gun at me. “You know Borz. You met Borz. Borz!”
“Right!” I say, realizing Muscle’s name was probably Borz. “Borz. Great guy, Borz. Right, Paige?”
Paige nods as best she can under Yury’s grip. “Yeah. Borz.”
“Dead!” he repeats.
“What happened?” I ask.
A car drives by in the distance, its radio blaring. The booming bass must freak Yury out, because he swings his gun wildly.
“Yury! It was just a car.” I move into his line of vision. “Come back to me,” I say, trying to get him to focus on me and only me. “Tell me what happened.”
Even though he’s looking right at me, it takes him a minute to focus. “It was d'yavol,” he says. “A devil.”
Okay. I move a step back, and he keeps the gun aimed at me. Paige’s eyes widen in fear.
“I saw it,” he says. “I saw it kill them all.” I keep moving, but the gun stays pointed at me. “We shot it, but it did nothing. It tore my men to pieces like a wild animal. I escaped.”
Dread fills my entire body.
“I ran away, like child,” he continues. “Last night was worst night of my life.”
“Last night?” I ask.
He nods. “Da. Last night.”
I relax just a bit. It wasn’t me.
As I let a breath out, Yury cocks his gun. “You don’t believe!”
“No!” I shout, recoiling. “I believe! I believe!”
Paige panics. “She believes! She believes!”
Convinced he’s not going to shoot me at that moment, I ask, “What did it look like?”
“It was horrible. It had robes like… like death. A skull for a face. Claws for hands. It… it ripped their hearts right out.”
I nod. “It was a woman, wasn’t it? A demon dressed in the robes of a woman?”
An expression of relief washes over Yury’s face. Someone believes him. He’s not going crazy. “You see her? You know too?” He lowers his gun.
He releases Paige. She runs over to me, and we maneuver ourselves behind my Mini. Suddenly, I wish I had a car larger than a lunch box—something we could hide behind.
Yury points the pistol in the direction of the cemetery. “Your friend? Her heart was torn out?”
I nod. “Yes. It was terrible.”
“Did you see it? The creature?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the creature.”
Tears well up in his eyes. He rubs the gun against his face, wiping the tears away. “I knew you would know. I knew. This is Sebastian’s fault, right? You know Sebastian. He was in cult.”
He charges toward us. Paige and I jockey for position, each one trying to shield the other for what comes next. As he nears, we cringe in anticipation of a bullet. Instead, he pulls a wad of cash from his jacket pocket.
“Here. Here is money. Find me Sebastian.” He shoves the money into my hands. “Sebastian was in cult, and this is his fault. Find him and bring him to me.”
I look at the cash in my hand. It’s no small sum. The amount that would make life just a little bit easier.
I press the money back into his hands. “Sebastian’s dead.”
Yury looks at me then at the money. He shoves the cash into his coat pocket then turns and walks away. Paige and I stay behind the car, ready to run and hide.
Yury stops and turns back to us. “It’s over, then. You cannot stop the evil once it decides it wants you.” He walks down the ramp and disappears around a corner.
Chapter 21
____◊____
PAIGE AND I STAND quietly as the elevator from the underground parking structure slowly rises to our fifth-floor loft. My pumps were killing me, so I took them off, and now Paige towers above me. She already has a couple of inches on me, but since she still has her heels on I feel especially diminutive. We’ve barely said a word since our interaction with Yury Yury.
The elevator doors open. Paige and I emerge into our empty hallway. The concrete is cold against my bare feet, but it’s only a few yards until we get to our unit.
“So Santa Muerte is out there, killing other people?” Paige asks.
“She took out Yury’s gang. Who knows if there’s been anyone else.”
“He didn’t mention the old woman.”
“No.”
As we approach our unit, I notice light streaming out of our living room into the hall. The front door is open. Did we forget to close it this morning? A moment later, a lean figure emerges wearing a gray trench coat and a fedora.
My initial suspicion is that this is some assailant ready to kill us. When the figure spins and pulls a pistol, my first reaction isn’t to run. My first reaction is to say to myself, I was right?
Paige pulls me into an adjacent hall as two shots ring out. One bullet clips the corner near my head. Paige shoots me a look of alarm and frustration. “Run!” she shouts.
I drop my shoes, and we sprint down the hall. The hard sound of Paige’s heels as she runs is echoed by a similar clacking made by our attacker. My back is turned, so I pray we can make it around the corner before the next gunshot.
We whip around the corner as two more shots ring out. My focus shifts to Paige, and in that moment, my only concern is that she is okay. Judging by the speed and determination of her running, she seems fine. Thank God, I think, despite the discomfort that causes. I don’t care—I need to make sure she makes it out of here okay. I stay on her six as we sprint down the hall, keeping myself positioned between her and our assailant.
Through my panting breaths, I yell the only plan I can think of. “Fire escape!”
We turn another corner and come to the frosted-glass window, which, of course, is closed. Paige slows down, and I overtake her. In a full-bore sprint, I jump, tuck my knees under my chin, and cannonball my way through the glass.
The shards claw at my wool overcoat and my skin as a hundred tiny fragments explode around me. I ribcage it against the iron railing, which stops me from falling the remaining five floors to the ground. My bare feet plant on the grating of the fire escape, painfully digging into the sharp metal.
I struggle to stand as Paige jumps through the now-open window. When she lands, her high heels immediately get caught in the metal grid. She kicks off her shoes and grabs me by the arm to drag me toward the ladder as another gunshot pierces the unbroken glass in the window. He’s getting closer.
We’re in the alley behind our building, with no cars or people in sight. Paige leads as I follow her down the series of zigzagging steps, and we make our way down as fast as we can. We slide, run, and climb—barefoot—as fast as we can down the fire escape. I ignore the pain as the metal tread from every step cuts into the soles of my feet. I wonder how Paige can move with such speed and grace with no shoes and a calf-length dress. Then I realize she’s hiked up her skirt enough to stretch her stride, and I also remember how calloused her runner’s feet are. When you run the equivalent of a marathon every three days, your feet can take a beating.
We make it two flights before our attacker appears above and takes aim. I risk looking up to see if I can get a glimpse of his face through the iron grate that separates us. I don’t see the face, but—
A muzzle flash dis
tracts me. I duck on instinct as if that that would do any good. The bullet bounces off the iron grating. A loud, sharp ding reverberates as the bullet ricochets in another direction.
My attention shifts to Paige. Is she okay?
She doesn’t slow down. I see no impact wound. The momentary relief dissipates as I realize we’re nowhere near safety.
We keep going down as fast as we can without stopping. The farther down we go, the more iron separates us from the shooter.
Two more shots. Bullets zing in every other direction but ours. Paige is still okay.
He stops shooting. I glance up and see our assailant climbing down after us. One more flight to go.
Instead of taking the ladder the remainder of the way, Paige launches herself over the rail and free-falls the last ten feet. Her feet plant on the ground, and she rolls onto her shoulder to absorb the impact.
Then she stands there, waiting for me to catch up. She’s a clear target, so I do what she did to catch up, but I totally biff the landing, pain shooting through my bare feet and my shins. I stumble forward into the street.
“Come on!” Paige shouts, still standing on the sidewalk.
I sprint for her, pushing her toward safety. I position myself behind her as we run as fast as we can across the street. Another gunshot explodes. My eyes are on Paige to make sure she’s okay.
Bam! A searing pain punctures my shoulder. It knocks me off balance and onto all fours. Blood splatters onto the pavement before me—my blood.
For a moment, I’m frozen in shock. A fiery agony burns in my shoulder followed by a dull ache. Holy shit. I’ve just been shot.
Paige drags me to my feet and pulls me to a doorway across the alley. “Run!”
Another gunshot. This one misses us both. We fling ourselves through the open back door of a local business. I land on hard linoleum, and Paige smacks her head against a wall trying to catch me. We find ourselves on the floor in the kitchen of a local bar. A busboy yells at us, but Paige pulls me up and pushes me past him.
The pain intensifies. Adrenaline pumps through my blood. The electrocardiogram on my watch goes off—heart rate is rising. My brain is activating every chemical in my system to nullify the pain and keep me moving.
Everything whirls around me. I’m starting to lose my perception of what is happening and, with that, my control. On top of the panic of being chased and shot and keeping Paige from getting hurt, I’m now worrying about Dudley.
We barge through the kitchen and emerge in the lounge. It’s dark and noisy—probably happy hour. There are way too many innocent bystanders for my comfort. Paige doesn’t miss a beat and drags me to the bathroom as I keep my head down. I can hear her utter some expletives at what I assume is a line of women waiting to get in.
We burst through the door, and I stumble across the cold floor. The next thing I know, I’m sitting on a toilet in a stall with Paige standing in front of me. She checks my watch to read my heart rate.
“Oh… fuck!”
That’s not good.
She tosses my wrist aside then digs through the pockets of my overcoat. She pulls out the Xanax and shoves a handful of pills in my mouth, which feels cottony. I chomp down. The tablets dissolve under my tongue.
“Breathe. Swallow. Breathe,” she says in soothing tones. It’s good advice, but I’m distracted by the pills. They taste funny. Different. And it takes me a moment to realize that Paige’s hands are covered in blood.
“Are you okay?” I grab her hands, inspecting them.
“I’m fine! You’re the one who’s shot.”
Thank God.
It hurts all over. I lower my head again and finally notice my feet. Bloody footprints lead from outside the bathroom right up to me. As I sit, a small pool of blood is forming under me. From my feet. From my shoulder.
My head is spinning. My heart is racing. This could be very, very bad.
I try holding my head as if that could stop the dizzying effect. My right arm dangles limply at my side, and when I try to lift it, nothing happens. Why won’t my arm move?
“Do you want me to call 911?” a woman’s voice asks.
“No!” Paige calls then calmly adds, “We’re fine.” She turns back to me, reconsidering. “Do you want me to call 911?”
I shake my head, still trying to breathe and calm myself down. If Dudley emerges at a hospital, it could be worse. I don’t want to do anything but focus on calming myself down.
I pull out my phone and say two words. “Father Ramon.”
Paige searches through my phone. “Okay, I’ll call him. Stay calm.” She opens my coat with her free hand. “Jesus, Darcy. You’re bleeding a lot.”
“Yeah. And my arm doesn’t work anymore.”
Paige looks down at my limp arm. “Shit!”
She backs away and disappears from my view while I stay in the stall. “Father Ramon? It’s Paige.” My eyes start to close, and I listen to the conversation. “She’s been shot, and I need—yes. Where? You sure? We can be there in fifteen minutes.”
Bam! A loud bang rings out in the bathroom. My eyes open wide. I’m worried it’s a gunshot. I hear it two more times—a sound like someone is hitting a metal object. With one more bang, a metal plate clatters on the floor and slides to where I can see it, along with a dozen other small white objects.
Paige crawls into view and picks up a fistful of pads. She pulls open my coat, opens my blouse, and applies pressure to my shoulder. I howl in pain. My good arm swings, and I slap the stall divider. The metal crumples under my palm, collapsing into a misshapen dent. A woman screams from the other side, and a toilet flushes.
Paige jumps back, a look of panic on her face. I know what she thinks this means. She thinks Dudley’s coming.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to take deep breaths. This doesn’t feel like a normal episode. Something is different.
She looks at me, not quite satisfied.
“Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
“I’m getting us a car,” she says. “Just try to stay calm. Go to your happy place.” She taps on her phone, opening a rideshare app.
I start thinking about what Ramon said. It’s not Dudley—it’s me. I try to find something to focus on to stay calm. To stay in control. Kittens. Blue skies. Long walks on the beach. Ben & Jerry’s. Four milligrams of Xanax with an old-fashioned chaser. David.
David?
I have no idea why his name pops in my head, but I go with it. David sitting on my couch. David with his buttoned shirt tucked into his stupid jeans and his half-tied tie. David and I walking on the beach. Under blue skies. With Ben & Jerry’s. And kittens.
“Darcy…?” Paige’s voice is a muffled whisper in the distance.
I sit on the toilet while a gaggle of aspiring trophy wives stare at me, and I bleed from a gunshot wound into a wad of tampons, chewing on a fistful of benzodiazepines, dreaming about David, hoping a demon doesn’t emerge to kill everyone in sight.
I realize there’s now a hole in the collar of my coat. And it’s got blood all over it. I poke my finger in it and wonder which brand of stain fighter might help and whether I should sew or patch up the hole. On top of being shot, I’m now mad about the one outfit I own that Paige actually likes. If only my high school guidance counselor could see me now.
“Darcy?”
“Hello?” My head wobbles. I feel drunk.
“Darcy!” shouts Paige. I focus for only a second before my head droops. “Jesus you’ve lost a lot of blood. Darcy!” I snap out of it and look at her. “Car’s here.”
She hoists me up and wraps my good arm around her. We stumble out of the stall. I’m woozy, but I can make out the faint shapes that stare at us as we make our way to the dining room. This is so embarrassing.
When we get outside, I’m surprised at how dark it is. I’ve lost all sense of time. How long were we in there?
She opens the rear door and dump
s me into a silver Prius.
Why does everyone have a Prius?
I can’t keep my eyes open, but I hear the driver ask, “Holy shit, is she all right?”
“Just drive!” Paige tells him.
My cheek rests against the cool glass as the driver zips through the streets of Downtown Los Angeles. I look up and stare at the concrete towers with their tiny rectangles of illuminated windows converging into points in the sky. I close my eyes.
I’ll just rest for a minute.
Chapter 22
____◊____
I HAVE NO IDEA where I am. The pungent odor of menthol burns my sinuses. When my vision comes into focus, I find myself in a small beige room. A few small windows near the ceiling indicate that it’s night outside.
My head rolls to the side. I’m lying on an uncomfortable narrow bed with metal rails boxing me in on both sides. My left arm is connected to an IV line, which is connected to a clear saline bag hanging from a stand.
In a chair beside my bed sits an elderly woman crocheting black fabric. She must be in her eighties. Her gray hair is tied back in a ponytail. She’s wearing sweatpants and an exercise hoodie.
“Paige?”
The old woman looks up and smiles. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”
“I’m so confused.”
She holds up her project—a black mesh vest. “What do you think? It’s for my grandson.” She leans in to whisper. “He lives in West Hollywood, if you get my meaning.”
“Okay… where am I?”
With great effort, the woman rises from her chair and collects her materials. “I’ll get the doctor for you.” She shuffles to the door and covers the ten feet in just a few short minutes. Her arthritic hands open the door, and she steps in a hallway. “She’s awake!” she screams then shuffles away.
Paige rushes into the room, sliding to a halt just inches from my bed. She’s dressed in light-blue nurse scrubs with white rubber clogs.
“You’re a nurse?” I ask, still a bit loopy and trying to get a handle on things.