Sacrifice (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult)

by Gilmore, RM

  Pale, naked, headless dead girls stumbled along behind me. Mike and Cyrus were nowhere in sight.

  Son of a butt monkey.

  Heart fluttering from my chest, I stumbled backward into a large standing headstone. The cemetery gate was in sight, and barring any unexpected supernatural speed from the Not Too Live Crew, I could outrun them and make it to civilization. The grunting continued, from where I had no clue. Rotting stumps should be silent as far as I was concerned.

  Their white legs moved in a jerking, 8mm film sort of way. Very student film. Each pair of hands bound by long strands of hair. Each girl moved like the other. Each tied and beheaded like the other. Each sharing a strikingly similar tattoo. A symbol tied even in death to their tormentor. Each dead girl that followed me in the dark bore the mark of Azelie d’Entremonte. I’d imagined them all victims – caught in a game of good versus evil – but I was wrong. These girls didn’t need my help, these girls willingly participated, and this was the consequence. No matter how heinous their fate, they made their bed – I guess they got fucked in it. Now, I was left to sleep in the sticky mess.

  Planning to hightail it out of there, I righted myself around the grave marking, and planted my feet, ready for a sprint to the gate. I turned and ran as fast as I could. I didn’t think about it. I just ran. The gate grew closer, freedom, no matter how temporary, seemed imminent.

  I remembered the beast at my back the night I ran for my life toward my apartment. How I ran faster than I ever had in my life that night. Who knew twenty-four hours later I’d break my own record.

  I reached the gate faster than I should have. If only my high school P.E. coach could have seen it. Maybe he just needed to sic a few zombies after me. I hit that gate at full speed, slamming into it with my full body. The dead things followed behind, but their shambling bodies couldn’t keep up. Blood pumped at full speed through my veins. I felt my heart beat in my ears as I fumbled with the latch on the gate. I shook it and screamed when it only clanked and jiggled in my grip.

  “Fuck off!” I yelled at the walking corpses. It’d worked once before, might as well stick with it.

  Having no other choice, I ran. I stuck to the edges, no other better place for another gate to be than along the perimeter. I came to a corner; my legs were moving on their own too fast to catch it, I slammed into the wall with my shoulder. Again, my grip failed me and Malcolm’s phone went flying. I didn’t allow it to stop me. My legs pumped and pulled my body through the night and toward safety. A small shack with a blue roof was just ahead and beyond that, looked to be an exit. I ached, muscles burned. I wanted to stop, to give up and let these limbs take a break. The gate, a smaller version of the first, was locked tight. I stopped to jiggle and kick the thing, but in the end, all I accomplished was a sore toe and noises that threatened to alert unwanted assistance.

  I swallowed hard and inspected the peaks atop each rung of the fence. Their tips made my butt pucker in anticipation.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I kicked at the dirt underfoot.

  Shuffling and phantom moaning had caught up with me while I struggled to devise a plan. The girls stumbled around the shack with the blue roof. There was no time to stress about anal penetration. The gate was locked, but along either side a shorter wrought iron portion sat atop a brick wall a few feet tall. My slim sneakers fit perfectly between the brick and the fence allowing a boost over the top of the butt-pokers.

  The girls shambled toward the gate and threatened to make contact if I didn’t move my ass. I flung one leg over the top of the fence and hefted my heavy body over. Something wet and cold soaked through the denim of my jeans. A gag hit the back of my throat. Adrenaline took over and I was no longer in control of my actions. I was over the fence of death and running down the street before my brain could catch up with what my body had just done. I made it to the corner before I realized nothing was following me.

  My legs noodled and I fell to the asphalt in the middle of the road. I stayed on all fours just long enough to catch my breath. I spit and coughed, and decided it was time to quit smoking before I forced my tired body up from the ground.

  I’d left Mike and Cyrus in the cemetery. I hadn’t thought twice about it. I just ran. I stood in the middle of the street and stared back at it. Hands on my hips, I breathed hard and heavy, trying to regain my composure.

  I was alone in a town where everyone was my enemy. My only two cohorts lay inside the gates I’d just worked so hard to bust free from. The question was, did I go back or keep moving forward?

  I’d come all this way to rescue Tatum only to lose two people who actually gave a shit about me. Didn’t seem logical to me either. I grabbed the metal at my neck and tossed a prayer up to the big guy. Hey, couldn’t be too covered.

  No weapon. No phone. No help. Just me. And my little piece of magic. Can we say fucked?

  My sneakers shuffled along the street back toward the cemetery. I swallowed hard. “They’d go back for you,” I told myself.

  Back at the gate I’d scrambled over, I scanned the area for dead things. Like the many times before, they were gone. Only around to scare the living shit out of me, their tricks were becoming more obvious each time they appeared. This made them no less terrifying.

  I climbed the wall, and over the fence I went. I hadn’t hopped a fence since high school and it showed. Halfway over, my pocket caught a spike. Attempts to free my butt cheek from its clutches were futile, and I promptly fell from my perch. I hit the ground with a thud, back pocket dangling from the point it’d been stuck to.

  “Of course that would happen.” I sat on my butt and shook my head at my ridiculous life. Living, breathing Murphy’s Law. If it could and would happen, then it sure as shit would happen to me.

  Knocking the dirt from my sore ass, I pulled my bag from my shoulder and wrapped the strap around my hand. I didn’t have much in it, but it was all I had and I planned on using it. My eyes darted about, looking for danger or something more effective than my half-empty bag to pummel someone with. I came up busted on both accounts. I guessed that would be coming up even then.

  My heart pounded harder than it had when I was running. The last thing I wanted to do was go back in that cemetery. I’d fought so hard to survive this far. But, it was my fault. I liked to blame Cyrus and Tatum, and shit, even Mike, but it was all my fault.

  From day one. I wanted so badly to make something of myself that I dove right into a world head first without checking the depth first. Everything I did after that brought me to this place, brought him to this place. For the prick he could be, Michael did not deserve to be here. I did not deserve the love he had for me. For that reason alone, I forced my hesitant legs to move forward.

  I strained to listen, forcing my ears to pick up signs of life. Ironic wasn’t it, searching for life in a place for the dead. There wasn’t anything but the wind.

  “Mike?” I whispered loudly. “Cyrus? Guys, where are you?” I’d seen them starting to get up. I knew they had to be wandering around somewhere. Mike had stood right there and looked right through my dead girl in my mom’s living room; there’s no way they ran into those things. Those things were only for me.

  Unless our skinny friend got to them first. Between the two of them, I thought, they could take that guy out. If I rang his bell, they could too.

  “Shit!” Mike bellowed from somewhere beyond the rows of crypts in front of me.

  “Mike?” I shrieked and ran in the direction I thought his voice was coming from.

  He didn’t answer and there was no more yelling. It only took a few minutes before I was lost in the forest of cement and brick.

  “Fuck,” I whispered to myself, looking around for a familiar landmark. It was useless. There was no way I’d recognize anything from the whopping twenty minutes I’d been in the graveyard.

  “You guys? Where are you?” I called out, trying unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous.

  “Dylan…” The wind called my name, or so it seemed. A faint vo
ice, unrecognizable, and hardly audible, wafted through the air.

  I spun in all directions searching for its origin. “Dylan…” it came again.

  I expected to see something scary at any moment. I resisted the urge to ask if someone was there. Those were always a character’s final words and I wasn’t going there. If something was going to get me, it’d have to find me first.

  “If I make it out of this bullshit, someone had better make a movie about it, damn it,” I talked to myself as I tromped ahead through the rows.

  Just keep moving, I told myself. Eventually, you’ll find them. Maybe they’d already found Malcolm and were out searching for me.

  I stopped in my tracks to let a sudden thought sink in. “You idiot!” I scolded myself under my breath.

  Why it hadn’t dawned on me until that moment I could only attribute to lack of sleep and the whole fighting for my life thing.

  Whether Malcolm was in on it or not, I didn’t know, but Marienne had led us right into a trap. Blood sucking bitch!

  “Fuck!” I groaned as quietly as my rage would allow and tromped along. “How could I be so stupid? How could Cyrus be so stupid? Shouldn’t he have some kind of mind powers or something?” I muttered to myself.

  A man stepped out from behind a tall mausoleum. I stopped, what else was I supposed to do? He stood a few yards away, mostly shrouded in shadows. The top of his head nearly meeting the height of the crypt he stood beside. His wide frame apparent from the distance but the lighting hid his features.

  At that moment, everyone was a suspect, “Who are you?” I asked and flinched at my own naivety. “I have a gun.” I followed up with a nice lie. Vulnerability echoed from my lips.

  He said something low and cadenced like he was reciting a poem. I tried to assess my escape routes while he rambled on. There were not many options other than to barrel right through him. He wasn’t Twiggy alien guy; he had meat. Similar to Mike. I’d never make it past him.

  “Dylan Hart.” His baritone voice rolled over my skin.

  “Yes,” I answered without thinking. For all I knew, he was a process server looking to hand me a stack of legal papers. Unlikely, but it could happen.

  “Come here,” he called.

  Oh sure! I thought. My legs moved unwittingly and my feet followed. Before I knew it, I was standing within arm’s reach.

  “Where are my friends?” I asked calmly, somehow knowing he would know where to find them.

  His soft blue eyes stayed fixed on mine. Skin, the color of a caramel latte, was hardly visible through the masses of tattoos he bore. A very pretty man he was indeed. “Here, with me.” His voice was so soothing to my rattled soul.

  “That’s good.” I nodded and smiled at him as though he were a pint of pecan praline.

  Long dreadlocks trailed over his bulky shoulders and framed his masculine face. He reached a large hand out and rubbed it softly along my cheek. “Mine,” he said slowly.

  “Ok.” I agreed obediently.

  It was that easy. All the running and fighting and cursing I’d done, and one good-looking fella was my downfall.

  I looked longingly as his face. So lovely. So familiar.

  “Ms. Hart.” His soft words called to me. His hands came out to take mine, but he didn’t. He waited for me to comply. He was taking me somewhere. Maybe to see Mike and Cyrus, I promised myself.

  I looked down at his thick strong forearm reaching out for me. I smiled absently and reached out to take his offering. My eyes caught a single tattoo at his wrist. His dark coloring and the poor lighting left a lot to the imagination, but that I had in abundance. And if my memory and imagination was honest with me, he bore the mark of Azelie d’Entremonte.

  My hand, literally centimeters from his, jerked back. I pulled my thoughts back into my head and forced my subconscious to follow suit. The look on his face proved to me that I was correct. He meant me harm and it was coming. Fast.

  “Fickle fuck.” Were the only words that escaped my lips before I swung my bag at him.

  I hit him hard and square in the face. He didn’t react. I didn’t care. I used the second of distraction to move around him and book it toward the end of the row. I could lose him in the rows; I lied to myself.

  I hit the end and turned left. I didn’t know what was left. I just turned. It was better than what was behind me.

  “Mike!” I screamed. “Help!” I ran. My legs quivered and I wanted to stop. I was so tired. There was only so much a body could take, and I was nearing my limit. I was vulnerable. Open to attack. Mystical and otherwise.

  It was so easy for that man to fancy me into submission. No defenses against cute boys. Damn Devil’s trap – not intended to ward off hunks - worthless piece of shit!

  “Cyrus!” I called out desperately.

  I ran passed row after row of headstones, searching for a way out. I hit the last row, and a brick wall mostly overtaken by vines of leafy green plant life. I turned left again, out of options. I turned to check over my shoulder, nothing followed me.

  My body hit solid and hard into an object in front of me. The object had arms that held me tightly. I wriggled, fought, kicked and screamed, but the arms stayed firm.

  One hand gripped my hair and pulled me away. The man with the dreadlocks stared at me with crystal blue eyes. Azelie’s eyes. If it weren’t for the opposing skin tones, I’d say they were related. His face was still and reserved. My arms swung haphazardly around his face, not making contact once. He grabbed both my wrists with one huge hand and held them in place.

  His eyes stayed trained on mine. Trying to think mystically, I closed my eyes. If I couldn’t see his eyes, he couldn’t use them against me. Oh, how smart I am.

  With my eyes closed, I felt his warm lips touch mine. In a second, I was done. My legs went, no longer able to support my own weight. His hand held my hair and arms tight. I practically dangled by my hair in his hand for a solid few seconds, before he let go and I tumbled to the dirt below.

  My arms were weak and did nothing to stop myself from hitting the ground and hitting it hard. This big body falls hard and doesn’t apologize for it. I heard the thud a breath before I felt it. My hip hit first and my head followed not too far behind.

  A crack echoed through the night and warmth trickled around my face, pressed hard in the dirt. My head bled and I lay there as if I was getting a massage.

  Hands wrapped snuggly around my ankles and my heavy body began moving, slowly at first, backward. The bits of sand and debris under me caught my skin and stung. I smiled. It was stupid and completely not warranted, but I had no control of my emotions any longer. The hunk with the dreads had some kind of slaphappy mojo working over on me. As we picked up the pace the stinging became burning and the blood from my head began to cling to my face, crusting over with sand. Blood mud.

  I took one last breath before things went black.

  Oh, the places you’ll go. If Seuss only knew the places I’d go, maybe he did, I don’t really know.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My head throbbed. A barely audible grunt came from my throat and let me know I was still alive. I tried to open my eyes; eyelids flickered but refused to open. Instead, I used my weak fingers to feel along the space surrounding my body. Dirt, sandy earth, cool just under the surface. I was lying half on my stomach, legs positioned unnaturally as if I’d fallen or been tossed into my current position. One of my arms was stuck under my body, numb from the pressure, the other trailed along the ground in search of something, anything to tell me where I was. I felt nothing.

  Another groan left my lips and echoed back at me oddly. My breathing, shallow as it was, stopped completely. Someone else was in the dark with me. I listened, waited for a sign something was near. I only heard my own heart thudding in my chest.

  A wavering exhale shimmied its way through my lips as quietly as my rapidly beating heart could allow. I swallowed, nothing coating my dry mouth. It was obvious I’d been unconscious, but for how long? At some poi
nt, I was tossed in the dirt and left to wait it out, in whatever prison hell I was lying in. I let go of another quiet breath and forced my eyes to roll around in their sockets. My lids fluttered with the motion and moistened my sticky eyeballs. A part of me didn’t want to know where I was. Images of rusty tools and sharp implements filled my head. I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to know what was with me in the dark. But my last spark of self-preservation willed my eyes to open. Can’t fight what you can’t see.

  It made no difference. Eyes open or closed, it didn’t matter. The space I was in was too dark to make out anything clearly. Minute slivers of golden light flickered through cracks in the walls of my enclosure. I could only assume I was looking at light sliding through wood-plank walls. Nothing else came to mind that would produce light patterns like that. Taking into account the dirt floor I was lying on, I figured I was likely in a shed or shack of some kind. Or hell, some kind of above ground torture chamber. As seconds passed, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and revealed tiny differences in light and space. Dark lumps to either side of me shifted slightly – so miniscule my eyes hardly caught the movement.

  A small gasp pulled dirt from the ground into my already dry mouth. A sputtering cough followed. I could have kicked myself in the face at that moment. The one moment I needed to shut the fuck up, and I went and gulped in a puff of sand.

  “Dylan?” A whisper filled the darkness and ceased my coughing instantly.

  “…Mike?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Dylan, I can’t see you. Can you reach out toward me?” His voice was calm and reassuring, like he was talking a jumper off the edge.

  I could hardly move the arm that was free, and the one trapped under me was dead asleep. I lifted a dreary leg and pointed my toe out and around the area nearest my feet. I didn’t make contact with anything but air. Stagnant, musty air. A few extra whiffs confirmed my tool shed theory. Rusty copper and gasoline added to the ambience and solidified the terror bubbling in my guts. Nothing good ever happened in a tool shed.