Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  I go back to stealing from the dead. “How’s this working now? One of you pops up, fucks with me, and then you all have a laugh?” I rifle through wallets and take the extra cash. Now I can add grave robber to my list of horrible, awful things. “May as well perk up. It’s a good time to needle it all in, you know.” There isn’t much left to take and being out in the open like this is a suicide note in action. I hesitate, though. I don’t want to go back and face what’s happened to Hannah—not yet.

  I turn. Liam’s seated at the far end of a booth. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chin and his head down—like the kid—why is he doing that? I march over and lean in to him. His face is a featureless, red mess. Bits of metal from the flash bang are embedded in his cheek muscles. The smell of magnesium powder fills the air. This isn’t supposed to work like this. I feel like I’m back there again. The heat, the smell, that feeling of real, physical fear. Iraq all over again.

  I lose my breath and watch him. The single voice in my head, the one I trust—mine—screams at me to run. I don’t. “Why do you get to do this to me? After all I did for you.”

  The air hangs still between us. I reach out to place a hand on his face and I make contact. He’s icy cold—hard as stone—unmoving. “Tell me how to fix this, Liam,” I say. “Tell me how to make it go away.” If there was ever a time for Liam to speak freely, it would be now. I have no idea what I’d want him to say. Not like I’d expect him to forgive me—or like it would count. “Please, how do I make this right?”

  Liam’s hand shoots up and grabs mine vice tight and I feel his chill spread through me. His face is his own again. I’m lost in his stare and feel absolutely nothing for the first time in a long time. Wonder if this will be what it feels like when I finally go. I choke for breath; try to pull my hand away—no dice. His lips part and open like a crypt. I smell gunpowder, copper, and excrement around me. Gnats buzz and vibrate inside of my head.

  “…make good…”

  Then he’s gone.

  I can’t remember if he told me that the last time, but that’s the trend. A shame I can’t get the context. Make good on what? What good is left of me to begin with?

  Bullets shatter glass to my right. Brings me back into the real world. I was right about more assholes outside. Head back to the kitchen. “We need to move,” I announce walking in. I’m still cold all over. Do my best to ignore it before we get ourselves murdered. Stop short when reality snaps into view—when I see what I’ve walked into.

  Danny’s hugging Ayah tight.

  She’s bawling.

  Ian’s on his feet.

  I’m uncomfortable.

  Hannah?

  Hannah’s dead.

  She’s also standing next to me. Singed lips nearly against my ear. Smells like there was a firework show in the kitchen. I see small flecks of ash fall from her eyes as she blinks. She brings a hand up to my chest. Her skin is ashen, the muscle underneath shimmers. I can see the tendons flex as her fingers twitch.

  “This isn’t on me,” I tell her. “I didn’t kill you. This is Sean’s fault, go hang this on him.”

  She stares into me. Points at her sister, as if I should know what that means.

  I turn away from Hannah’s ghost. “No, I can’t be responsible for what they did. I didn’t ask for you to pick me up from the hospital.” I feel bad. I don’t remember what she sounds like. She was in my life for what, an hour? Liam is enough of a burden. To have this woman too. “I’m a broken son of a bitch.”

  “What’s that?” Danny looks to me.

  I shake my head. “It’s nothing.” I look around the room. Hannah’s gone. “How are we getting out of this?”

  Danny pulls away from Ayah. Takes her by the elbow and looks into her eyes with a frown. “Get him back to the place I got in Astoria. Make sure he stays with you. The fella has a habit of making, eh, to put it lightly, terrible choices.”

  Ayah side-eyes me then looks back to Danny. “Hannah?”

  “Ian and I will handle it. I’ll call as soon as we get clear.” He grasps both of her shoulders. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. We’ll make it right, though. We’ll get him.”

  Ayah nods. She walks over to me. “Are you ready?”

  I don’t have an answer for her. To be honest, the one thing I can do for her right now is keep quiet.

  “Out the back.” She moves ahead of me. Readies the gun she pilfered from the guy she stabbed in the neck.

  I turn to Danny. “We’ll talk later, right?”

  “Absolutely.” He waves me off. “Now go before we all get matching holes.”

  Ian moves to the stove. Kicks it as hard as he can until it shifts away from the wall. “Plan Z?” He smiles to Danny.

  “Plan Z.” Danny sighs. “It’s always Plan Z with us.”

  Ian grabs the oven and pushes it out into the open. Grabs the gas line. “It’s the best one.”

  I got no need to find out firsthand what they’ll be up, to so I follow Ayah.

  Downstairs, I spot her near the hole where the cellar door used to be. Nearly break my neck walking over there. Forgot about all the spilled liquids. Look down and realize there must have been a few drums of vegetable or olive oil down here too. I have to hold on to the wall to keep my footing. From the opening in front of us, I hear the screech of tires—footfall. We took too much time.

  “Think it’s the cops?” I ready my gun. My left leg nearly kicks out, but I regain my balance. Not thrilled at the prospect of hurting law enforcement.

  Ayah shakes her head. “No. Not yet.” She brings her hand up. “Wait here.” She bounds up the cellar stairs and into daylight. Gunshots—damn it; she’s on a suicide run. I follow behind. Not about to take orders from the psychotic baby assassin. I get outside and stop short.

  Three SUVs, seven black-suited idiots, seven guns.

  One Ayah.

  There’s already a victim—he would have been number eight—at her feet, clutching his open throat, wide-eyed. A cartoonish amount of blood pours out of the wound and runs a little river toward me. Ayah has her arm wrapped around number nine’s throat and has him firmly in front of her—a human shield.

  Ayah doesn’t turn to me. “I told you to wait.” She opens her stance a little more. Scans her surroundings. The way Ayah moves, it’s eerie how natural it seems to come to her. I wonder if violence is all she’s ever known.

  I laugh. Bring my gun up. “You’re not a super hero.”

  Ayah snorts and jerks her shield’s head to the side. I hear his neck snap and he drops to the ground face first into the pool of his partner’s blood. She stays in place. Calmly aims at someone a little too far out from cover and manages a head shot—red mist escaping from the exit wound. By the time they’re all pulling triggers, another two are shot down. Ayah’s movement is robotic—scary.

  The other remaining gunmen get wise to her and start shooting blind. I duck left; she runs right. I pop a few shots over the hood of the nearest car. The most I get are windows. Ayah moves to the closest SUV in a few strides. Bounds onto the hood and leaps off. She shoots down and I hear a cut-off scream from another shooter. Ayah dives back through the open driver’s window of the SUV. The engine’s still running. She throws the car into reverse and slams into the SUV behind it. Shifts back into drive and pulls out a few feet.

  Her actions leave two geniuses in the open. I take the opportunity and dash toward the car she’s commandeered. I fire off a few rounds before they have any bright ideas. My aim’s not as true as Ayah’s. I only manage to clip a leg and catch the other guy in the gut. It doesn’t bother me much to not get kill shots. My appetite for this carnage is fading damn fast. Should have faded years ago.

  Ayah parks the SUV on the curb. Runs back out and over to the two I’ve injured. Kicks one in the chest then drives her hand blade into his gut while aerating the other’s face with her pistol. Her jaw’s set, teeth grit tight. I spot our last target. Manage to pump the remaind
er of my clip into his chest before he catches Ayah. Red blossoms litter his tailored, white shirt. I close my eyes and hate myself for that one. Turn and see he’s already in the procession of my victims.

  “Good shooting.” Ayah jogs to the third, undamaged SUV and slides into the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”

  I stall a moment. Probably not a good idea, so I climb into the passenger’s side. We’re off. Sirens are closer now. Can’t help but wonder if they held off while all this settled itself out. Can Paulie have that kind of reach through Sean? Or is this all Sean himself? I hate questions. I miss when things were simple. Then again, wanting simplicity is what brought me here.

  A block out of the rear parking lot, I see the Kozy go up in a ball of flame through the rearview. The smoke seems to curl in the wind. I swear it follows us.

  Ayah drives. Not a glimmer of emotion on her face.

  Things are officially out of hand.

  22

  I wake up in what I think is Queens. The car’s clock has advanced three hours since I nodded out during the drive. I’m not sure if we were on the road that long or if Ayah decided to let me rest. She parked us in a tight alleyway near the side entrance of what looks to be a mother/daughter house. I notice my jacket feels lighter and I sit up straight. Thrust my hands into my pockets. I’ve got no gun. Goddamn it. There’s a door open for me a few feet away. To run, I’d need to get past it and something tells me that I won’t have much luck in that endeavor.

  I slide out of the car and walk over to the open door and Ayah’s standing inside. Was she waiting there the whole time?

  “Come on in.” She walks in and brings an open pill bottle to her lips. She tosses her head back and I hear a crunch. Spy the label—Percocet. Her name isn’t on the bottle.

  I step into the apartment slow. It’s a one bedroom with modest furnishings. The walls are covered with comic book art. I recognize Spider-Man, Batman, and some X-Men. The rest is foreign to me. I examine the room. I have a hard time believing we’re all alone. Sure, this girl’s a certified bad ass, but I can’t imagine Danny would leave me alone with her. There must be more to this.

  “Is this your place?” I examine the piles of books and random art. Feels so homey. Like real people live here, not a pair of lady mercenaries.

  “Now it is.” Ayah goes into the kitchen. I hear water running and the click of a gas stove igniting. “Are you hungry?”

  I blink. “A little, yeah. I mean, if you got something. I have cash, we can order out. Hate to trouble you anymore than I have.” I immediately regret vomiting all those words out. Trouble her. I’m at the peak of the amount of trouble I can cause a single person right now. I shut up and examine a bookshelf across from me. True to form, not a single volume is lacking pictures. “Big comic book fan, huh?”

  “Yes,” she says without emerging. “Good way to learn English.”

  I thumb through a random book. “Wow. That’s impressive. I barely hear an accent in your voice.”

  “Thanks.”

  I look at Ayah. “Am I some sort of prisoner?”

  “If you mean that I can’t let you leave here, yes.” She smiles. Waves to the door. “You’re welcome to try.”

  I nod. “Sure. You’ll be the first to know when I decide to give it a try.”

  Liam’s seated on a couch by himself. He’s already at home.

  I rub my eyes. I need a refresher. Even with the nap, I feel like there’s concrete filling my skull. I walk toward the kitchen. “Hey, Ayah. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Behind the door that isn’t a bedroom.” She’s dumping a box of macaroni into a pot of water. Looks at me like she’s a hundred years older than I am. She must be exhausted too. “Don’t be too long.”

  “Okay…thanks.” Behind me, two doors across from each other in the living room. The one that doesn’t lead to the bedroom has a toilet.

  How did I not notice that? I’m a dummy sometimes.

  I head into the bathroom. Close the door behind me and get the sink running. The door swings open abruptly and I nearly shit myself.

  Ayah throws me a large towel. “You may as well take a shower. Blacky has extra clothes in the bedroom closet.”

  Blacky? Who the hell is Blacky? She closes the door before I can ask.

  I look around the bathroom. “Thanks again,” I call out weakly. I try to spot something—anything—that I could secret away as a weapon. There’s nothing. Not like I’d have the time to make a toothbrush into a shiv or anything.

  The bathroom is sparse, smells like disinfectant. The tiles are a light green and the ceiling is in desperate need of a paint job. Ayah had a good idea; a shower would do me a world better than only washing my face. I strip out of my clothes. Stand in front of the mirror and inspect myself. I’m covered in more bruises than I expected. There’s a thick scab on my ear from the bullet that clipped it. I touch it and withdraw at the pain that shoots through my face. Blood and pus bubble out of it at different spots. It’s potentially infected—great. My legs are peppered with scabs. I take a seat on the toilet and pick out splinters of wood and glass. Luckily, nothing bigger than a match head got into me. Once it looks like I’m clean, I head to the bath and draw the shower curtain back. The layout mystifies me. The showerhead is in the center of the bath and there’s only one lever.

  “How does the bath work?” I call out.

  “What?” I hear her voice through the door.

  “The shower, how does it work?”

  She comes back into the bathroom with a frown. Turns the water on and pushes a plunger down on the wall beneath the lever to get the shower going. She walks back out without batting an eye and closes the door behind her. “Be quick.”

  I feel the flush in my cheeks. She makes me feel like an idiot. I’m twice her age and she’s handling this insanity in stride. Sure, she could be covering it all up—putting on a strong face, but it’s a sight better than my mixed-up ass. I should ask her for a pill. Would probably do wonders for the ache in my everywhere.

  I climb into the shower and let the hot water pour over me. It feels amazing—stupendous, even. Lean my hands against the wall and lower my head. Let the heat and the water carry away the last few days. I watch the water in the drain spiral away, stained red as the scab on my ear goes gummy, breaks apart, and bleeds fresh. The door opens again. I hear Ayah move around the bathroom. The toilet seat slams down. Silence. A flush. The door closes again. I peek out of the shower. My clothes are gone, replaced with a fresh set and a choice of footwear—boots or sneakers. I go back to the water. Decide to sit under the shower. Pull my legs up. I keep my eyes closed. The water pummels the back of my neck and shoulders. Flows through my hair in a single stream that slithers down the bridge of my nose. I think of Liam. I think of every life lost over the years. Yeah, it’s dwelling, but I ain’t got a choice in this. That old saying, the chickens coming home to roost or whatever. At least I’m not crying. Don’t have it in me.

  It dawns on me that I shouldn’t be so comfortable. Sure, Ayah seems relaxed, but what the hell is stopping her from coming in here and blowing me away? I feel like an idiot for doing this. What kind of asshole strips naked with a homicidal stranger only feet away? All these mistakes are adding up. I keep chalking it up to acting like a rookie, but really, I think I’m tired of this life. I think I really don’t give a damn enough anymore to put the effort into keeping my ass unscathed.

  I open my eyes and Liam’s sitting in front of me, mimicking my position. He waves. Doesn’t mock me or tear apart in some sort of gruesome display. He watches me over the knobby peaks of his knees with wide, nearly innocent eyes.

  “This is new.” I lift my head and run a hand back through my hair to stem the water falling into my eyes. “When does the gore show start again?”

  Liam sits still. The water passes through him. It’s disorienting to watch it splatter beneath him.

  “Where’s Hannah? She seems to want to be a par
t of this too.”

  Silence.

  “You know you’re in my head, right?”

  The shadows surrounding us seem to breathe. A physical note to remind me just how little sway I have over my own head.

  I nod. “I’m fucked, huh?”

  Liam nods.

  “Makes sense,” I say.

  We stay silent for a while. I listen to the sound of the water against the porcelain. It calms me even if I shouldn’t be calm.

  “Question.” Fuck it, let’s go all in. Even if he doesn’t answer, it feels good to talk with him again in some weird way. I wipe my hands down my face. Realize I need a shave.

  Liam crooks his head to the side and watches me. I forgot about his eyes, about how green they were.

  “Do you hate me? I mean, yeah, it’s sort of deserved. I ain’t looking for forgiveness or anything. Wondering if the feelings are…complicated, I guess.”

  Liam smiles. “…make good…”

  I laugh. “‘Make good.’ Jesus, how?”

  Liam springs forward. Comes face to face with me. His face puffs up the way it did the night we last fought. His wounds weep black liquid. The water doesn’t wash it away. “…make good…”

  “How? How do I do this Liam?”

  “Face reality…”

  It comes back to me. Mr. Self-Righteous trying to make us face the reality of our lives. He may have been a complete asshole about it, but Liam was right. Those harsh truths, those were what I went after, what I tried to bury with everyone else that met a bullet because of me. I nod at him. “It seems you’re right. Still, after the Kozy, shit, after you, I don’t know.”