by C. F. Waller
She nods retuning her forehead to the cool glass.
“It seems we may possibly meet with some resistance,” I suggest. “Did you have any sort of plan regarding this?”
“A gun won’t stop them.”
“Might I ask why you had one then?”
“You lived across the street from me,” she scoffs. “It was a crappy neighborhood.”
“Pray tell what might stop them, should they be waiting for us?”
“I’m not as defenseless as I appear,” she contends. “I might surprise you.”
“Right, I’m well aware of your skills. I have been stalking you so to speak.”
“What are you, a perv?” the driver asks. “Miss, is he forcing you to go with him?”
“No,” Jenn assures him. “Please just drive.”
He nods and returns his attention to the road. Jen crosses her arms over her chest and widens her eyes indicating that I may continue.
“You participated in fencing at two universities, but not the last,” I report, but am cut off.
“The fencing world is a small community. Ten years ago, I was at a competition and one of the other university’s coaches had been a teammate of mine decades earlier. Given he was close to fifty, I had to disappear before he saw me.”
“Right, well, of late you have been spending every Tuesday and Thursday night at Pilates,” I toss out. “But it’s not really a women’s stretching course now is it?”
“More of a self-defense class,” she admits.
“I looked into the instructor. He was a mixed martial arts fighter in his youth. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in training for something.”
“Fine, but it wasn’t this I swear. I have anger issues—.”
“You,” I interrupt in my most surprised tone. “I have always found you a woman of even temperament.”
She gives me the middle finger and sticks out her tongue. I have to remember she looks like she’s twenty, but is actually closer to seventy. I am not dealing with a child. She is a full blown adult with much life experience. I shake my head at this thought thinking she acts like a teenager.
“Tell me what might be waiting?”
“There’s a dozen of them. Ten of them are just as I have described. Physically human, but immune to any damage inflicted. You can shoot them in the forehead and take them down temporarily, but they always get up.”
“And the other two?”
“Dad only met one of them,” she frowns. “Not so much human. He described her as an entity more than a physical being.”
“Could you flesh that out a bit?” I shrug, hands upturned. “Entity?”
“He saw a guy put a gun to her head and pull the trigger. The contents of her skull exploded out like glitter confetti.”
“But she didn’t go down?”
“Not even a little. The confetti became a swarm of flies. It just flew back into the hole and she kept right on moving.”
“Oh dear,” I sigh finding that hard to imagine.
“The bonfire I keep referring to,” she eyes me and pauses. “It was a thermite grenade. It vaporized everything inside of a hundred feet.”
“And she?”
“She walked away from it, but paid a price.”
“How expensive was it?”
“When she came after my father she was like a pillar of living salt.”
“Lot’s wife,” I mumble.
“That’s exactly what Dorian said,” she smirks. “She wasn’t healing anything after that, but she kept moving.”
“And she’s dead now?”
“Unlikely, my father is convinced she sent him the invitation.”
“And there’s one other like her?”
“My dad didn’t see him, but he spent several days in the company of the woman. She claimed there was another who is on the same level.”
“So if either of them is waiting, our goose is cooked?”
“Rhea won’t be there. She’s a queen, not a delivery person.”
“Rhea?”
She nods and puts her forehead back on the glass. What she has shared is stunning, but it’s just a story. It’s not like she was actually there. I regret not introducing myself to her father decades ago and hearing this straight from the source. I’m fairly adept at reading people when they tell a story. With her telling it, I can’t know if it’s a made up story. She believes it’s true, therefore her face reveals nothing.
…
The road ends in a round asphalt cul-de-sac. Identical aluminum houses line both sides of the street. The three story boxes are only differentiated by color. Recently painted bright pastels cover the boxy architecture; Arron’s is a heinous lime green. Even though I was on this street nearly fifty years ago, I am only able to identify his house by the Mustang in the driveway. My memory is almost certainly failing me. Our driver doesn’t stop at Jenn’s request so we can scope out the grounds. It doesn’t appear that anyone is waiting. We turn a slow circle before he stops in front, as we pass going the other way. Random pleasantries are exchanged and he appears to be waiting for a tip. I hop out and make a gesture as if I am tipping an imaginary hat. I receive a bitter frown in return before he disappears down the street.
“The car’s here,” I suggest. “Your father might be as well.”
“Maybe, but it’s possible they picked him up or that he took the motorcycle.”
“Oh Lord, the dreaded death cycle,” I recall. “I guarantee he is the only one of us to ever ride one of those.”
“He doesn’t let his condition define him,” she argues. “Most of you don’t live life, you just survive it.”
“Semantics,” I complain, tagging along behind her. “Presumably you have to actually be alive to live anything.”
“Chicken or the egg,” she parries, knocking on the door.
When no one comes, she turns to the doorbell, eventually holding it down with her thumb. Unfortunately, the ringing fails to rouse anyone. Placing a gloved hand on the doorknob, she turns it slowly. There are those gloves again? The door opens half way then runs into something. Leaning over her shoulder for a better view, I can make out dark fur. Elbowing me back lightly, she puts a shoulder to the door and slips through sideways. I do the same, stepping over the furry corpse. This turns out to be a very large dog, possibly a St. Bernard.
“Your fathers?”
“Yes, her name is Marigold,” Jennifer frowns sullenly, bending down and petting her thick coat.
She winces when her white glove comes back bloody. Sorting through the fur on the canine’s side, she comes across what can only be a bullet entry wound. There is no corresponding exit wound so Marigold has a bullet in there somewhere. The beast must weigh 150 pounds so it could be anywhere. I’m perplexed why anyone would shoot this dog unless it was trained to defend the home.
“Is she a watch dog,” I inquire. “Possibly she confronted an intruder?”
“When she was young maybe. The poor thing was blind and mostly deaf,” Jenn explains. “My father told me he was going to put her down.”
“That would seem unnecessary now.”
Jenn glares at me in an offended way. I hold up a hand to indicate my words were poorly chosen.
“My apologies, but possibly you should take a look around for your father.”
“Yeah, why don’t you take a peek in the garage. See if the bikes in there.”
I agree and she heads up a set of switchback stairs. They appear to be oak and rest on metal supports allowing you to see between them from bellow. The structure is three stories with only two rooms per floor. When I push the garage door open it reveals two rusted metal lockers. The entire place smells of rotted fish. Flicking on a bank of florescent lights, I can see some coral and other sea life attached to the hinges. The door seems to have been cut open with a torch. Peeking inside I note what looks like a maze. It reminds me of the type through which scientists run mice. The interior walls are shaped in the outline of a man however, with a raz
or sharp blade between the head and the body. A quick check reveals similar guillotine blades at the thighs and shoulders.
“What did she say about magicians cutting women in two while in a box?” I reflect, running a hand over one of the sharp blades.
“My father said you haven’t seen the trick preformed at the highest level until you have seen Shelly do it,” Jennifer calls out from the doorway.
“What are these?” I beg, putting my index finger in my mouth after slicing it when she surprised me.
“You insert angry immortal, slam lid to dismember, then drop in the ocean,” she recites, curling a finger for me to follow her. “I’ll explain it later.”
Perplexed at the odd containers, I nod and leave them behind. Inside, we stand at the kitchen table looking out a floor to ceiling window ten feet across. We are on the second level with an amazing view of the backyard. There in a pile are more rusted metal boxes. Jenn points down, then crosses her arms over her chest in thought.
“Your father not here?”
“No, it appears we missed him.”
“Assuming the people who sent the invitation picked him up, why shoot the dog?” I ask. “Your father indicated he was going to go along quietly.”
“Maybe they didn’t announce themselves. They probably broke in and were surprised by Marigold. If you didn’t know her handicap, you might shoot first and pet later.”
“Shall we make some sort of burial arrangements for the poor beast?”
“No time.”
“You have a more pressing engagement?”
“We need to go to my father’s church. It’s only a twenty-minute drive. Let’s find the keys to the Mustang and get moving.”
“Hold on,” I stutter. “What is the broader scope of your plan? Are we getting far, far away from this mess or not?”
To this she frowns, arms crossed.
“I think any offensive action would be a poor choice given what you have shared.”
“If you don’t wish to accompany me you’ll need to call a cab.”
“Please wait,” I groan, holding up both hands. “Just hear me out.”
“Fine, but make it quick. They are probably watching the house.”
“They dispatched Marigold and took your father. From your description, it seems unlikely we could overwhelm them in battle, so unless you are intent on being killed, or captured, running would seem prudent. At the very least it would allow us time to consider all the options.”
“Don’t be so sure about battle,” she snaps. “I’m not defenseless you know.”
“You indicated these beings were impossible to kill,” I suggest. “Your fencing skills aside—.”
“Are you familiar with the saying that the best offense is a good defense?”
“Quite, it’s a poorly articulated sports reference?”
Jennifer grumbles and then scans around the kitchen before her eyes land on a small water bowl sitting near the refrigerator. I ponder how such a large canine could have its thirst quenched by the miniscule volume contained within. After a moment spent peering at the bowl, she pulls open the refrigerator door and comes out with a tiny can. She peels off a plastic lid before setting it in the middle of the tiled floor. When I start to speak, she puts up a finger to silence me. Within a minute, an enormous orange cat curls around the door frame leading into the kitchen. The massive feline yawns and licks it lips having seemingly woken from a nap. Strolling lazily, it arrives at the can and then peeks up at Jenn. I assume the overfed tabby is accustomed to eating out of a bowl and not the can. She reaches down and picks him up, although honestly I cannot possibly know the gender.
“A friend of yours?”
“I haven’t been home in twenty years.”
“You deduced from the bowl.”
“Dad complains about the cat pans on the phone,” she shrugs, lugging the cat into the entry way. “Bring the food.”
I follow along curious what defensive capabilities the cat possesses. Are the Primitus afraid of cats? This thought amuses me, as through history, felines have been either worshiped of reviled. The Egyptians often worshiped the cat God Bastet. Originally a lioness, it was generally depicted as black house cat. She was always associated with warfare, an analogy that seems fitting in this case. Jenn kneels next to Marigold, plopping the cat down.
“Gimmie,” she demands, holding out a hand for the food.
I hand it over and step back. She sets down the can and Bastet, for lack of a better name, digs in. Jenn kneels between the two beasts, then, pulls off her gloves, before gazing up at me.
“This isn’t a parlor trick. Just be quiet and watch.”
As Bastet gobbles down kibble, she puts a hand on the scruff of his neck. He suddenly stalls mid chew, his legs wobbling. There is a sound that reminds me of static cling. The sort of noise you hear when you rub your sneakers back and forth on the carpet, and then touch someone. He slowly slumps to the floor winding up face down on his stomach showing no signs of movement. Raising her hand from the lump on the floor, she exhales loudly.
“What are you—.” I mumble, but see her lower her other hand onto Marigold.
The same prickly noise occurs, and then Marigold’s rear leg twitches. There is a guttural sucking sound as her chest expands. What am I bearing witness to? The dog whines softly and seems to struggle for every breath. I can’t be sure if this is a result of being recently dead or the punctured lung. Jenn leans to the side to stare directly into Marigolds eyes before dropping her hand back on the side of the beast’s chest. Almost immediately, her respiration ceases. Pausing to look up at me with wide eyes, she removes her hand.
“Hold out your hand,” she offers, wiggling the fingers on the one just removed from the dog.
“No thanks,” I decline, pulling my arm back.
“Try it, you might like it.”
“I have no desire to urinate in a litter box.”
“Ha, ha,” she remarks coldly and then drops her other hand on Bastet.
As if inflated by a pump he rises on shaky legs. A bone-jarring howl escapes him causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. Seeming satisfied, she pulls back her hand and gets to her feet.
“What did you do?”
“Simple energy transfer,” she explains.
“How?”
“Long story, but as you can see I am not defenseless.”
“If you didn’t put it back would Marigold—?”
“No,” she cuts me off, “at least not from what I took from the cat. I’d need something much bigger to resurrect her fully. Not to mention she’s got a sucking chest wound.”
“So you’re what?” I sigh, looking for the right word, “a conduit for energy transfer?”
“In a sense. We should go,” she mumbles, passing me on her way to the kitchen to retrieve her backpack.
I teeter in the entry way, watching Bastet shake off his recent demise. His appearance suggests no permanent harm has befallen him, but how could anyone be sure. His back arches and his stomach suddenly contracts. A black substance the size of a marble hits the floor with a splat. It’s just like the dog on the plane. After a moment to lick off any remnants from his mouth, dinner resumes. Jenn bumps me as she passes, pulling the door open as far as Marigolds corpse will allow, before slipping out.
I find myself conflicted on whether to follow her or call a cab. After a brief mental deliberation, I round up my briefcase and join her by the Mustang. A cursory search of the vehicle has revealed no keys, leaving Jenn with her hand on her hips wearing a frustrated face.
“I’ll assume you cannot simply touch the cat and then start the car with a swipe of your hand?”
“Funny,” she groans. “You’re a real comedian.”
“Then we shall need the key. Did you look under the wiper blades?”
“Huh?”
“He used to leave them under the driver side wiper blade.”
“How would you—,” she complains, but pulls her hand back holding
a ring with two keys on it.
“I surveilled your father for almost eight years. I watched him do this many times.”
“Stalker,” she remarks. “Get in.”
“I prefer the term witness to stalker.”
“Fine, get in or you’re going to witness me leaving you behind.”
Chapter Eight
How long has it been since I rode in an internal combustion automobile? The relic rattles and creaks as it plows down the Autobahn. Most of this noise is obscured by the sound of the car’s impressive audio system. The original having been replaced long ago, the upgraded unit rattles the windows with an unknown pop song. Jenn’s head bops from side to side, as she moves back and forth passing slower electric cars. Glancing back, I observe a red Mercedes plowing through the haze of blue exhaust fumes that trickle from our tailpipes. I cannot see the speedometer as it’s analog and sunk into the dash in front of the driver, but estimate a velocity exceeding 100 miles per hour. Unsure which button lowers the volume; I tap her on the shoulder, then point at my ear.
“What?” she shouts, and then turns down the volume when I fail to respond.
“Many thanks,” I nod, taking a deep breath.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Your talent, whatever we choose to call it,” I propose and then pause. “Possibly you could explain how it is a deterrent to violence or capture?”
“If they try and grab me,” she explains, and then rolls her eyes.
“Yes, but what if your apprehension is not their objective?”
“I think she wants me.”
“You’re alluding to this person Rhea?”
She nods and I ponder her inference that she could, for lack of a better word, suck the life out of her attacker. The possibility that she could also return life to an actual person instead of a dog lights a fire in my brain. If so, she would be in an almost godlike position. A possibility that may require further investigation.
“This gift works on humans?”
“Probably, but I have never tried anything like that,” she assures me. “Father forbid it on moral and ethical grounds.”
“Those reasons being?”