Death Takes a Holiday

by Jennifer Harlow

I feel sick to my stomach. Two years. I was with this man for two years. I let him into my life, into my body, and I never had even the slightest inkling he was capable of something like this. I choke back vomit. “Who are you?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” he says, visibly hurt. “You served me up to that vampire like a rib-eye.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Troll blood,” he says with a shrug. “You let that vampire attempt to mind fuck me without batting an eye. Not to mention the fact we were together two fucking years and never told me you could move shit with your mind. How could you do that to me?”

  “I didn’t trust you.” I hold up the chain. “Gee, wonder why?”

  He stands up, folding his arms across his chest. “I loved you. I wanted to marry you. Fuck, I wanted you to be the mother of my children! And you lied to me.”

  “At least I didn’t kidnap you and feed you to a troll!”

  His hands ball up into fists. “Shut up.”

  “You’re pathetic. Any way you dress this up, it’s murder. You’re a monster.”

  “Well, you’re the lifelong expert on monsters, right? Takes one to know one.”

  “You won’t get away with this. Eventually, someone will figure out what you’ve done to me.”

  “I’m a better actor than you give me credit for. I’ve been playing the concerned friend to perfection. Not even your FBI pals have a clue. I am that good.” He reaches in his back pocket, taking out a syringe. “If it makes you feel better, your death won’t be in vain. I promise to use this gift for good. It’s the least I can do for you.” He moves too fast for me to stop him. The needle goes into my arm, and the void returns. Good. Rather have it than spend another millisecond with that man.

  When I wake for the millionth time in the bomb shelter or whatever the heck it is, I find that someone has changed my urine-soaked pants, sheets, and underwear. Fear grips me again, but from what I can tell he didn’t go any further. I still feel unclean.

  I manage to stay awake through sheer force of will. Not easy. I do jumping jacks. I eat. I sing show tunes as I examine every inch of the room. There’s no door handle, no windows, and my power is on

  the fritz from the drugs. Next I try to pull the chain out of the floor, but it’s futile. Same with the shackle. It’s just the standard opened with a handcuff key. Really wish Will had gotten around to teaching me to pick a lock. I could always break my ankle to wiggle out of it, but I’d still have the door to contend with and God knows how far away I am from civilization.

  So I pace. And I plan.

  An hour or twelve later, I can’t tell in here, I hear footsteps descending the steps. Then the familiar unlocking of the door. Who steps in, I don’t know. I lay on the bed with my eyes closed playing the part of drugged-out troll meat. Not hard as there are still drugs making me woozy. But I can do this. He or she sets a plastic bag by the bed before sitting down. A second later, the person opens one of my eyelids. Artie. I groan and “slowly” come back to consciousness.

  “Let me go,” I slur. With unsteady arms I weakly push him away, but he grabs my wrists. “Don’t touch me.”

  “You know,” he says, pinning my arms on either side of my head, “Steven said you were a shitty lay. But you look like a wildcat to me.”

  “Stop,” I whimper.

  “Make me.” He bashes his lips against mine, but I move my head side to side and whimper.

  “Please don’t hurt me. Please,” I cry.

  He moves my wrists up above my head, holding them down with one hand while the other clumsily works his belt. His attention diverts down, his head swiveling so he can see the problem. The opening I need.

  As hard and as deep as I can, I sink my teeth into his neck right at the jugular. The tangy taste of blood and flesh fill my mouth. I chomp down as Artie releases me and howls. Blood gushes down my chin as I rip his flesh out. I spit the quarter size hunk of meat on the floor. Yuck.

  The shocked and screaming Artie presses his hand against the wound, more blood spilling between his fingers. He looks at me with revolt, and that’s when I deliver the second blow. I toss my head back then forward, my forehead connecting with his nose. There’s a sickening crack followed by more shrieks of pain. They make it look easy in the movies but in reality, head-butting hurts like a mother. I’m momentarily dazed but recover quicker than him. Artie falls to the ground, more blood billowing from his nose. I jump off the bed and deliver a nice kick to the crotch. Then another. “Bastard!” He sobs as I get in one more. For my final act, I lift the chemical toilet above my head and smash it into his. He stops sniveling. Is it wrong that that was sort of enjoyable?

  No time for reflection. I rifle around his pants, finding the handcuff key that frees me. I also snatch his car keys before racing out of the unlocked door, up the wooden staircase, and into the cabin. Car keys in hand, I rush out into the extremely bright world. I’m temporarily blinded and miss the stairs. I lose my footing and tumble down them, landing on my left elbow and stomach. Intense, vomit-inducing pain radiates up my arm. I scream so loud birds fly away. I roll over onto my back, cradling my bad arm. Crap. Crap. Thirty seconds, that’s all I give myself to sob and scream it out. To acknowledge the pain, the fact my ex kidnapped me, and that I just savagely beat another human being. And that’s all. When I hit thirty, I take a few deep breaths, wipe my eyes, and find my feet.

  Artie’s restored Gran Torino is parked right out front. It’s difficult but I manage to get it unlocked and climb in. It springs to life without issue, but I can’t get it to move. My luck has never been good and now is no exception. Out of all my captor’s cars, I make a break for it with the one who drives a stick. I keep pressing what I think is the clutch and move the gears, but the car keeps groaning and stalling. “Come on, you piece of crap!” I shriek as I switch gears. It stalls again.

  On my fourth try my luck gets worse. A blood-soaked, pissed-off Artie stumbles out the front door, gun he must have gotten from the house pointed right at me. “Get the fuck out of my car!”

  I have no choice. As fast as I can, I throw open the door and dash through the woods. Artie fires and misses, hitting the tree next to me as I pass it. He follows behind, how far I don’t know as I don’t dare look back. I just run. My legs hurt, I have a stitch in my side, and I can barely breathe, but I run. And how. I’d win the damn gold.

  Artie shoots four or five times, missing me by inches. The chase lasts an eternity with the trees getting denser and my body growing more tired with each step. I just run, pushing branches and bramble out of my way with my one good arm. The terrain is uneven, but I’m in decent shape and not as injured as he is. My only hope is to lose him. He fires again, but this time hits me. The bullet goes through the edge of my bad arm, just a graze really, but I scream. I don’t stop running.

  Then the woods end. Just end. They just stop at a hill with dead dry-brush and the odd wildflower patch scattered around. There’s no cover. Of course there isn’t. I keep going but do see the boarded-up entrance to a mine next to a small creek. For a split second my heart soars. Protection. Then I remember what’s in there. I stare at it for a few seconds to catch my breath but hear footsteps and sprint again. The hill makes it harder, as does my arm, but I don’t stop. I leap over the creek and make it about two hundred yards before my body can take no more. It’s as if someone impales a javelin into my right side. My feet trip each other, and down I go in the dirt. I can barely bring air into my lungs, let alone move. The deep breaths hurt my everything as does my arm.

  Artie appears over the hill a few seconds later, panting as hard as I am. I should care but pain trumps all. He jumps over the creek and spots me. I know because he slows to smile. I’m still rubbing the stitch out as he saunters over with the gun raised. I manage to get to my feet, not that it matters. He has a straight shot, and we both know it.

  “You are such a bitch, you know that, right?” he asks through his gasps.

  “You need me alive,�
�� I say through my own.

  “That’s more of a guideline.”

  This is it. My death. With both a bang and a whimper. I think of all the people I love. They’ll never find my body. This time tomorrow I’ll be troll poo. I die alone in this field. So unfair. As he squeezes the trigger, I shut my eyes. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

  There’s a click. Not a bang, but a click. A beautiful, wondrous click. My eyes fly open. Artie yanks the trigger with the same result. I don’t wait for the third time. I take off running. Artie’s footsteps start a second later. But the chase, Part Two, is short lived. I run about another hundred feet when the ground literally collapses under me. One moment I’m on terra firma, the next I’m falling down a dark hole with clumps of dirt along for the ride. The ground swallows me up, my body weightless. I’ve never wanted to go skydiving, but this must be what it feels like. Scary as hell, yet freeing. I scream as long as I fall. As the ground gets closer I realize I should do something. My unconscious listens. When I’m about three feet from the bottom, I suddenly stop falling. I just stop. My stomach hits my spine, but I don’t go splat. I hover, afraid to move. Some days I love psychokinesis.

  Footsteps and shifting earth above break the spell. I descend the rest of the way onto my stomach, my bad elbow sending more white hot pain every which way. “Fuck,” Artie mutters above me. His voice echoes through the chamber. “Bea? You alive down there?”

  I don’t dare move and even hold my breath as best I can. A second later a rock hits my upper back with the force of a bullet. It hurts, but I bite my lower lip to stop from crying out.

  “Fuck,” Artie says again. A few seconds later he starts talking again. “Hey, Steve, it’s Artie. Something happened.” He listens. “No actually, I think she’s dead. She got out.” He’s quiet. “Calm the fuck down! I chased her toward the mine, and she fell into the caverns.” He’s quiet, then, “I mean I’m not going down there to check or nothing but she fell a good three stories onto fucking rock, and she’s not moving. Besides, even if she did, all her arms and legs and shit would be broken. There’s only one way out. She’s troll chow anyway you look at it.” He listens again. “Bro, this is what you fucking wanted. The bitch is dead. No going back now.” A beat. “Look, I’ll keep watch at the entrance just in case.” Silence. “No, it’s close enough to night. We shouldn’t need another sacrifice.” A beat. “Ask Kristen then! Jesus Christ! I’ll see you tonight.” He slaps the phone shut. “Fucking pussy.”

  With that, I hear footsteps departing. I wait a minute or two before I open my eyes and roll onto my back, close to hyperventilating. I just lay there looking up at the hole above. It’s smaller than I thought, maybe four feet wide and across. It provides the only light. The cavern is pretty big, nothing but rock and a few ancient gas lamps hanging on the walls. This must be part of the tunnel system. And per Artie, there’s a way out.

  A large part of me just wants to lie here for an hour or seven to let my body recover. And boy do I want to listen, but I don’t. Haven’t reached the finish line yet. Get your butt up, Bea. Okay. I stand on unsteady legs already sore from my marathon. My body is nothing but painful knots coupled with exhaustion. I can either go right or left. Both are just black tubes of nothing. I choose right. Within seconds I can’t see a thing. I may as well be blind. I run my hand along the uneven wall, listening and letting the freezing wind lead me through. Minutes pass with nothing but the sound of the wind to tell me I’m alive and still on earth. Or in it, I guess. Then I smell something. Dead meat. Been smelling it far too often the past few months. My foot smashes into something smooshy. And fetid. For once I welcome the pitch black. I change course back the way I came as fast as possible. Left. Left is better.

  When I see the first hint of light from the hole, I stop to catch my breath. It’s freezing down here, maybe in the forties, and I use my good arm to rub myself. That’s when I hear and feel it. Boom. Boom. Coming from the way I want to go. Of course.

  Trolls. There are two varieties, the two-foot kind who live under bridges and holes, and the ten-foot ones that live in caves. Guess which is coming right for me? Like all predators, the trolls are attracted to blood, which I am covered in. He steps into the light. He’s ugly. And huge, easily weighing a thousand pounds. All his limbs could double as tree trunks. And his teeth! Razor sharp. He has no shame, his genitals hanging loose. My eyes skitter away from that area as quickly as possible, but there’s really no good place to look. It sniffs the air, then stares directly at me with milky white eyes rimmed with green mucous. Time to run again.

  I spin around and high tail it down the black tube with Ugly right behind me. I have no idea what I’m doing, but as long as I can I’ll run. Got me this far, though that’s not saying much. I end up back in the death chamber, the smell rocking my already wobbly stomach. I brush up against what I assume are bones and flesh. Really glad I can’t see. Then I hear something a little farther down. Running water. I make it through his pantry without tripping or gagging. Winning. Ugly gets closer, the footfalls actually making the tunnel vibrate, but I press on. All I care about is that water.

  I don’t have to wait long. There’s a speck of light in the distance. When I reach it, the water is as loud as the troll. I turn left and there it is. A river. An underground river rushing as fast as traffic on a freeway. Without a moment’s hesitation about where it goes, if it dead ends, or what’s inside it, I run down the incline to the water. The shock of the frigid water fazes me and I cry out, but only for a moment. I think the troll pokes his head out and roars, but it’s too late. I’m too far away for him to reach.

  The river twists and turns around the rock like a water park ride. Within minutes my entire body is numb, and I’m fighting not only to stay afloat but to stay awake from the exhaustion. My teeth clatter and I shake violently, but at least the pain wanes. My luck changes. I’m in the water only a few minutes when I spot beautiful, brilliant sunlight. The cavern opens onto land. Stalactites with bats hanging from them are silhouetted against the daylight. It’s almost pretty. It gives me a second wind. I swim for land with my one good arm, kissing the mud when I reach it then sobbing for joy as I gaze up at the sunshine. I did it. I made it.

  I’m alive. And they’re gonna be fucking dead.

  THIRTEEN

  MEN AND OTHER BEASTS

  A WONDERFUL TRUCKER NAMED Dave picks up my broken, bloody, and mud-caked self from the side of the road and drives me straight to the hospital. He doesn’t ask too many questions, for which I am grateful. He even lets me use his cell phone. Nana begins sobbing when she hears my voice; if I had any tears left I’d join the misery. She asks a million questions, but my teeth are chattering so much—despite Dave’s jacket and the heater—that I just tell her to meet me at

  the hospital, and to call Will and have him only tell people in the F.R.E.A.K.S. about my resurfacing. No exceptions. I need to stay presumed dead as long as possible.

  At the hospital I give the alias I was told to use for just such instances, and they take me right in. I’m X-rayed, poked with needles, stitched up, casted for my arm, and finally put to bed with electric warming blankets to treat my mild hypothermia. About three seconds after I get into bed, I receive visitors. Nana, April, and my teammate Nancy rush in. I must look like I feel judging from the expressions on their faces.

  “Oh my God,” Nana says as she hugs me so hard I wince. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I just have a bruised rib.”

  April, who I’ve seen cry half a dozen times ever, brushes her tears away before gently embracing me. “Oh Bea.”

  “Don’t cry,” I say into her shoulder. “I’m okay now.”

  She releases me. “We were so scared! We thought you were dead!”

  “I’m sorry.” I kiss my friend’s cheek and look over toward the door where an awkward Nancy stands. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she says with a smile.

  “I know you told me not to tell anyone, but
she was at the house when you called,” Nana says.

  “It’s okay. She’s a friend. I trust her.” For some reason Nancy looks shamed.

  “Are you badly hurt? Let me look at you,” Nana says, cupping my cheeks in her hands and examining me.

  “I’m okay. I just have a broken arm, a few cuts and bruises, and mild hypothermia.”

  “Just!” April says. “Just? They said you were shot!”

  “Just a graze,” I assure her. “I might have to have surgery for the elbow, but there shouldn’t be permanent damage. I was really lucky.”

  “Honey Bea, what the heck happened to you?” Nana asks. “Three days. You’ve been missing three days! We thought you were dead!”

  “When you didn’t show at my house after the pageant, I called and called,” April says. “Then I went to Nana’s, and you weren’t there.”

  “When you weren’t home by midnight, I phoned your work,” Nana adds. “I spoke to your boss, who called your friends.”

  “George called the plane,” Nancy cuts in, “to see if you were with them or if they knew where you were. Will made them turn the plane right around.”

  “Then I called Steven,” Nana says. The sound of his name makes me cringe inside. “He got the police out searching for your car right away. They found it a few hours later with your purse still inside. What happened?”

  As much as is possible, I calmly and objectively tell them. To say they’re shocked is an understatement.

  “I don’t believe it,” April says. “No way. No way in hell! He wouldn’t do that! It’s nuts!”

  “I know,” I say.

  “But he was so worried about you,” Nana says. “He coordinated with the police. He put up fliers all over town. He held me when—” Nana look disgusted with herself. “He’s a monster.”

  “So it wasn’t Connor?” Nancy asks.

  “No.”

  “Crap,” she mutters.

  “Why?”

  “Um, nothing.”

  “Nancy?” I ask sternly. “What happened?”