Pockets of Darkness

by Jean Rabe

  “A little bit of a fight though,” one of the others joined him. “It’ll be more fun if she fights a bit.”

  “I dunno Joey,” this came from the third youth, who’d not budged from the opposite end of the car. “This doesn’t feel right. Why don’t we—”

  “Why don’t we hurry up and do her, then,” the tall one said. “Train’s gonna make a stop real soon. If you ain’t gonna participate Zin-Zin, stay at the door so no one gets on at the next stop.”

  “Or comes along from another car,” Joey added, as he unbuckled his belt.

  “Me first, Joey. You got to go first the last time.” The tall youth lunged for her, leading with the knife, and trying to grab her arm with his free hand. Bridget jumped to her feet, and he took advantage of that, sweeping forward with a leg and catching her, setting her off balance.

  She fell back, hitting the cold, hard floor of the subway car, and he was on top of her, blade pressed to her throat. He ground his pelvis against her.

  “I’ll be quick, Joey,” he said. “Zin-Zin, watch how it’s done.”

  Bridget got her hands against his shoulders and pushed up. She wasn’t afraid of the knife; she’d been stabbed to no effect from the Yankees Fan early this morning. Her assailant didn’t budge, and he pressed down harder.

  The train stopped and the door hissed open. Bridget screamed to hopefully catch the attention of someone outside.

  “Move along,” she heard Zin-Zin say. “Move!”

  She screamed again and the tall youth head-butted her. The door hissed closed and the train lurched on its way again. The demon rocked with the motion and continued to watch.

  “Get off me, you fecker!”

  “A fighter, eh? This’ll be fun.” Fast as lightning, he dropped the knife and grabbed both of her wrists and pinned her harder, brought his face close to hers and licked her cheek. “Gotta love a fire sale. Yum, you taste like burnt steak.”

  The demon hopped off its seat and loomed over them. Bridget had figured it would strike her assailant. Instead, it just continued to watch curiously and babble words she didn’t understand.

  “Get off me!” she hollered again, as she redoubled her efforts, twisting and trying to raise her legs to kick him, but found her ankles held by one of the other youths. Bridget was strong and should have bested both of them, but she was also spent from the museum outing and everything else that had transpired today, and they were young and angry. “Get off—”

  The demon leaned in closer still, its ugly face brushing Bridget’s forehead. It babbled something. She made out “Aldî-nîfaeti,” as she pushed one more time and dislodged the tall youth and kicked hard enough to loosen the grip of the other; she was pretty sure she’d landed a heel to his face. A second kick and she was free. She scrambled out from underneath them.

  “Hey!” The tall one was on his knees and made a grab for his knife. Bridget was fast and fuming and kicked it farther away and then drove the tip of her shoe into his neck. He made a gacking sound and crawled back a few feet.

  She caught her breath while he picked himself up. The youth behind him, shorter and thicker, had a knife too.

  “Get her,” the shorter one said.

  “We’re comin’ to another stop.” This from Zin-Zin back by the door. “Maybe we ought to—”

  “Kill her is what we ought to do,” the tall one said. “Kill the bitch.” He reached behind him, and his fellow passed him the other knife.

  “Aldî-nîfaeti,” the demon said, babbling a mix of other words and craning its stunted misshapen neck back and forth so it could see Bridget and her assailants.

  “Pissmires,” Bridget said. “Pay attention to Zin-Zin back there. Walk away while you gutter punks can still breathe.”

  The tall one rushed her again, ducking low to avoid her wild punch. Bridget hadn’t been trying to actually hit him, just keep him back. Too many people had already died tonight … all their blood on her hands. Bridget stepped back and adopted a boxer’s stance; at that moment the train stopped again and she wasn’t ready for it. Set off balance, he rushed her once more, grabbing at her clothes and pulling hard to knock her down. Her punch only grazed his shoulder. The demon hopped excitedly, apparently enjoying the action.

  Undaunted, she brought her elbow down on the top of his head, but the blow didn’t deck him. Undeterred, he pressed the attack, ripping her jacket and spilling out her cell phone, the damnable buckle, and the shard of pottery she’d intended to delve.

  “That’s it you feckin’—” Bridget tried to knee him in the groin, but missed the mark and only landed a strike against his thigh.

  “Move along, people. This ain’t the car you’re looking for.” This from Zin-Zin. “Move. Move. Move.”

  The tall youth growled and tugged harder on her jacket and pulled her to her knees. She punched him squarely in the face, breaking his nose. But he landed a punch too, against her jaw, momentarily stunning her.

  The tall youth hit her again, and she sagged back, head hitting the floor of the car, legs bent at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. Her tongue lolled against the sharp edge of a broken tooth and tasted blood. She tried to get up, but her limbs had other plans, and she flopped like a wounded fish.

  “Aldî-nîfaeti,” the demon said. It had waddled over to her, ugly face looking down at hers. “Unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti. Otter. Mmmmm.” Then the demon disappeared.

  “Wonder if its gold?” The short thug picked up the buckle and held it high in the flickering light. “Joey, my man, look what fire sale had. Odd looking thing, huh? Bet it’s worth something.” He grabbed up the cell phone too, but left the pottery, which had broken into even smaller pieces.

  Bridget could smell the redolent swirl of subway scents. She still tasted blood and the museum fire, but the stench of the demon was gone.

  “Joey, if it’s gold think we can swap it for that used Cobray at Broad Street? We need another nine.”

  A gun, Bridget realized. They were going to try to trade the buckle for a gun. But they couldn’t trade it. The damn buckle would come back. Over and over and over.

  Bridget spit out the broken tooth and shook her head—which did nothing to clear her senses. She rose up on her elbows and straightened her legs. The subway car shifted in her vision, and the young toughs blurred. “Dropsit,” she said, hearing her words slur together like she was drunk. Probably concussed. “’S’buckle. Jus dropsit. Pleash.”

  On second thought, don’t drop it, her hazy mind said. Take the thing and get off at the next stop. Leave me here or kill me … either way Otter should be safe now since you stole the damn demon. Let the demon go after your loved ones. Let it wipe out your whole feckin’ gang and do the city a favor. She was certain her assailant had taken on the curse, just as she’d taken it on from Elijah Stone. He’d taken it and she could no longer see or smell or feel the presence of the demon.

  She was free.

  “Must be valuable,” Joey said, looking around his companion. Joey’s hood had fallen back and the gutter punks were coming better into focus, though her head hurt horribly. Bridget saw the tattoos on their necks. She stared and they came clearer, stylized initials—ICG—Insane Gangster Crips members. Joey leered at Bridget.

  The car stopped and the doors hissed open.

  Dear God, leave, Bridget willed them. Get the hell away from me. Take the demon with you.

  The youth who’d stolen her buckle didn’t see the demon yet … otherwise he’d be hollering or pointing or running from what was clearly a monster. But Bridget hadn’t seen it at first either, not when she’d initially stolen the briefcase from Elijah Stone in his fine apartment, and not when she’d rode home with it on the subway. It wasn’t until after she’d had it a few hours, when she was safe and sound and alone in her brownstone, studying the amazing Egyptian piece the briefcase held. Maybe it took time for the demon to transition from one owner to the next. Or maybe it liked to appear when its new owner was alone.

  “Pissmires.” Bridget g
rabbed onto a nearby seat and pulled herself up, just as the doors hissed closed and the train moved again. Didn’t they have video surveillance on these trains? Didn’t anyone know she’d been assaulted by a trio of gutter punks? Older car, she realized. The MTA only installed the cameras on the newer ones where they wouldn’t have to rewire everything.

  “Not the ’droids you’re looking for. Move along,” Zin-Zin had told whoever had been going to board from another car. “Go somewhere else.” A pause: “You, too, dick-wad. You don’t want this ride neither.”

  “So fire sale, you told me you didn’t have no money.” This from the tall one. He looked from the buckle in his buddy’s hand to her, and back to the buckle. “So that was a lie. Maybe you got more lies in your other pockets. Maybe you got more treasures.”

  Bridget turned her pockets inside out. The three exhibit cards she’d taken from the museum fluttered out.

  “Joey, Bo,” Zin-Zin slapped the side of the car to get their attention. “Next stop, I’m out of here. You should—”

  “Get me a piece of the fire sale before I’m heading out,” the tall one said, as he made a slashing gesture with the knife.

  “Me too,” the shorter one said. He slipped the buckle into his pocket. “I want to do her too. Just leave her breathin’, Bo. I don’t do dead ho bagels.”

  Like hell, Bridget thought. These junior Insane Crips weren’t going to “do her” no matter what. Despite the lingering wooziness and the jackhammer of a headache, she lashed out. Grapping a seatback with both hands for support, she kicked as hard as she could, aiming for Bo’s hand, but nailing his arm instead. It was good enough, the knife went flying and Bo was momentarily surprised. She followed through with a roundhouse kick, high above the seats and catching him in the chest. He fell back against the one named Joey.

  “Don’t let that scud bitch beat you up!” Joey pushed Bo toward Bridget and she kicked him again, aiming for his crotch and connecting solidly. He dropped with an “oooooooooh!” She slid past him and was on Joey, pounding him like she was trying to tenderize a tough hunk of meat.

  He fought back, but he was slow and lacked skill, and had he been even a little sharper Bridget would’ve been in trouble. She was pretty certain she’d broken a few of his ribs—the “invincible” part of the demon curse hadn’t kicked in yet. She could still hurt him. He threw his hands up to defend himself and at the same time kicked at her; steel toe shoes from the feel of a blow landing against her calf. She heard the tall punk getting to his feet behind her, moaning and cursing softly. She jammed her elbow back, hitting him and keeping him off balance.

  The train eased to a stop and the doors hissed open. Zin-Zin was good to his word and darted out. Joey looked over his shoulder and Bridget capitalized on that, delivering a solid punch to his chin, harder than she’d intended. His head snapped back and he dropped like a rock. She wheeled on Bo. He’d grabbed onto a pole, his dark eyes filled with hate and lip curled up.

  “Filthy ho bagel,” he spat. “You’re gonna die, bitch. I’m gonna—”

  As much as the confines of the car allowed, Bridget spun and kicked, her heel driving into his knee. She kicked again, and as he fell, she kept up the assault, fueled by ire. The doors slid closed and she grabbed a seatback to keep from joining the thugs on the filthy floor of the car as the train moved on.

  “You feckin’ fool!” She kicked him until he stopped moving. Then she leaned over him; he was still breathing. So was the other one. Good, she didn’t need two more deaths on her head. She sat between the two, waiting to get off at the next stop … wherever that was. For the first time in her life she had no idea where her subway ride was taking her.

  “You sad, sad fool,” she continued to rail. “Now whatever family you have, whatever friends … they’re all going to die because you can’t speak Sumerian.” She wiped at her nose, blood coming away on her fingers. “Shit.” She pinched her nostrils and tipped her head back, seeing a poster advertising a high school production of The Odd Couple taped to the ceiling. “Their hearts’ll be ripped out because you won’t know what the demon wants.” Good riddance to them, she thought. Fewer Insane Crips members in the city wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  Bridget felt the train slow and she stood, the quick movement setting the jackhammers off in her head again. She’d had nothing but one headache after the next since stealing the briefcase from Elijah Stone. Well, thank God she was free of the curse. Thank God she’d gotten on this old subway car and that some clatty dirtballs decided to assault her.

  The car stopped and the doors hissed open. She gave Joey one last kick, bent and reached into his front pocket and pulled out the buckle and palmed it.

  “A stupid fecker, I am, stealing this again,” Bridget said. She made it out and onto the platform just as the doors hissed closed behind her and the train continued on.

  ***

  Twenty Six

  Two men were on the platform, bundled in parkas and carrying duffels, sailors she could tell from their pants and hats. They paid her little attention and she shuffled by them and to a restroom. Should’ve grabbed her cell phone back from the thug while she was at it, but she’d been in a rush. She could’ve called the brownstone, checked on Otter. Bet she couldn’t find a payphone anywhere nearby, not that she had a single coin to put in it. Payphones were practically obsolete.

  What the hell had she done … taking back the buckle, and the demon? She’d been rid of the curse! That’s what she’d wanted, to be rid of it! What the bloody blue hell had she been thinking?

  She smelled the beast, and then heard it, saw that it had appeared at her side. “Bridget unshackle—”

  “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” She angled her head in the bowl of the sink and ran water on her face. She shivered, the water cold like ice, but she kept at it, scrubbing her cheeks and drinking and spitting until the taste of the fire was gone. Her mouth ached from where the thug had broken at least one of her teeth. She looked in the mirror. “A feckin’ double bagger,” she pronounced herself. Her jacket was torn, everything singed, her hair … Dear God, her once-beautiful red hair. One side was a riotous tangle crusted with blood and subway car crap, the other side practically non-existent, melted in the museum conflagration. It looked like she’d glued orange Brillo pads behind her left ear.

  Bridget paced, her heels clicking against the hard floor, the demon watching her and growling that she needed to “unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti.”

  “What in all the levels of hell was I thinking?” She was thinking that she wanted this nightmare to end—with her. That she didn’t want the demon to keep passing from one thief to the next to the next, the string of corpses with their hearts ripped out stretching on indefinitely. Who else could communicate with the damn thing? Who else could divine pieces of its language?

  Probably no one.

  No one living in any event.

  “Bloody hell.” Bridget had put Otter and Michael and Dustin in jeopardy again—and to her their lives were worth more than the lives of whoever was related to the subway thugs. How bad would it have been for the demon to rip out the hearts of Insane Crips members?

  She stormed out of the restroom and set her feet in time with the pounding in her head. She knew how to use the subways without money or tokens. Always there were places to get on and off. She took the next train and made two more switches before she emerged from the stairs two long blocks from her brownstone. It was snowing, a sleety mix that stung her face. Salt remained on the sidewalk from a previous application, but there was not enough of it, and so the pavement was slippery and she fell twice in her rush. By the second tumble she was so weary that she crawled to a streetpost and used it to pull herself up.

  There wasn’t another soul out on the street in her block, though a late-model Buick cruised by, slowing when it came even with her, and then moving on. She heard something going through garbage piled up in a narrow gap between condo buildings.

  A glance at her watch under the streetlig
ht. The crystal was cracked, but she could read that it was 1:45 a.m. Her adventures in the museum and the subway had swallowed more time than she’d realized.

  “Bridget unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti. Bridget unshackle, else Otter unshackled from life.”

  “Shut up.”

  It kept blathering.

  She found them on the fourth floor in the theater room—Otter, Dustin, Michael, Marsh, Rob, Alvin, and Quin. They’d been watching one of the Lethal Weapon movies, but she stopped it with a flick of a switch at the back of the room. She brought the lights up.

  “Mom! What the hell happened to you?” Otter stood and spun, spilling a bowl of popcorn he’d been balancing on his lap.

  Dustin vaulted over his seat back and was at her side in a heartbeat. Behind him, the others stood slack-jawed. “An ambulance—”

  “I don’t need a hospital. I’m not going to a hospital.”

  Dustin gingerly touched the side of her face where her hair had burned off. “What—”

  “It’s a long story, and not a good one. And we don’t have time for it.” Bridget looked around him. “Michael, Marsh, Alvin … grab a couple of duffle bags, suitcases, whatever, and go to the kitchen. Fill them with food … cans, bottles, boxes, soda—”

  Michael straightened his collar. “See here, Miss O’Shea. It’s two in the morning and you’ll not order me—”

  “—around like this?” Bridget bent and put her hands on her knees. Her sides ached, and she grabbed a deep breath. “Michael, I want you to live. I want all of you to live. Just … oh, hell, just shut up and do it.” A few more breaths and she straightened and talked fast. “Trust me. I’ll make it up to you. Just trust me and live. Dustin, Otter, Quin, grab some coats, the heaviest in the closets, and flashlights. Stay together. Meet up in the kitchen. Quin, you’ve a gun, right? Meet up in the kitchen. We have to—”

  Dustin put an arm around her shoulders. “I care for you, Brie, but not enough to put up with—”