The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  Owen takes his turn next. He looks around, bored, but at least he makes an effort. “I spy, with my little eye, something dark and… uh…” He’s quiet while he stares out over the landscape. “Moving.” He sits straight. “And it has a gun!” he yells into the tight confines of the Jeep.

  “What? Where?” Bret yells back.

  Owen points off to the east and we all spot him. Like a tiny ant. He’s far enough away that it’s a miracle he saw him at all. The guy scurries, low to the ground, behind a hill, and then he is gone.

  “Where there’s one, there’s more.” Jag leans forward.

  I sit my chair up straighter. I don’t want to be in his way. It makes me gasp and hold my breath, waiting for my stitches to stop screaming. I try to keep my focus on the hills and not on my burning wound, but the thread pulls and stings. I lift my shirt up to inspect it. The edges are red and swelling, and it hurts worse now than it did earlier. There’s nothing we can do about it, so I keep the news to myself.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Brecken

  I watch the bandit hurry behind the hill. I’ve noticed others too, long before Owen said anything, but I didn’t want to worry the others. There’s not much we can do anyway, and I’m not about to stop the car.

  The sightings are growing more frequent though. Soon, there will be a group big enough for an ambush if they all work together. We’re almost out of Iran, and for that, I’m grateful, but the land is becoming more rocky and mountainous, filled with thugs with bandanas over their faces. There are also fewer roadside shops with food, water, and fuel.

  I press my foot to the pedal, hurrying. We have to get to Mashhad, the next big city, and then go north to Turkmenistan. The topography of this area has changed since the Rift—according to our map—which was a waste of money and is useless. Where there were mountains, there are now valleys. Where there was once a valley, there is now a lake.

  It’s going to get dark soon, and no way are we going to camp again. Not after last night. Heidi is totally incapacitated. She’s been popping aspirin—which hasn’t done much good—like it’s candy. She needs serious painkillers—but from the dew on her brow and the flush to her cheeks, she needs antibiotics and a visit to the hospital.

  “Do you have any water?” she rasps, her head lolling toward me.

  She looks terrible and my heart skips a beat. “Yeah. Owen, are there any water bottles back there?”

  “Yep.” He hands one up and she guzzles it down, then wipes her mouth, breathing hard.

  “You don’t look good,” I tell her, noticing another thug dressed in black, darting behind a tree about fifty feet off the road.

  “I don’t feel so good.” She closes her eyes, her pale skin seeming even paler in the waning sunlight. Dark circles stain the skin under her eyes and a sigh parts her lips.

  “She needs a doctor,” Jag says from the backseat, his tone accusing. I can’t see his expression, but I can feel the tension rise. He’s angry and blaming me. We wouldn’t be in this predicament if it weren’t for me. I know that and feel the ache of guilt without Jag’s condemnation.

  “I know, but I’m not sure what you want me to do about it. I’m not a doctor.” I flash him a glare in the rearview mirror, which he returns.

  “Pull over,” he demands.

  “No. There are too many demons out there or haven’t you noticed?” I shake my head, tempted to tell him how stupid he is for even suggesting it.

  “We need to check her wound,” he says, his voice rising. “Look at her! She has a fever. It’s probably infected.”

  “We’ll stop when it’s safe,” I bark back. “She’ll be okay for a minute.” I don’t know what he thinks we can do in the middle of nowhere in the dark. “There. See that?” I point off to the east, toward a glow over the hills. “That’s Mashhad. We’ll stop there for the night.”

  “Fine,” Jag mumbles, and I notice Doug and Owen glance at one another in the rearview mirror. They don’t say anything, which is probably smart.

  We only drive for a few more minutes when an explosion erupts, fire blossoming outside Heidi’s window. The Jeep rocks to the side. She screams and falls against me in the driver’s seat. The guys shout from the backseat. It’s too dark to see much, so I don’t know if another attack is on the way. What was that, anyway? A rocket launcher? A roadside bomb we drove over that didn’t function right, blowing us to bits?

  I push the gas pedal to the floor, only able to see a few feet in front of us. Men dressed in dark clothing dart into view, throwing rocks at the windows, trying to stop us. No other bombs go off, and for that, I am grateful, but it isn’t over yet.

  “Why are they attacking us?” Heidi screams.

  “They want the Jeep and whatever supplies we have,” I say, swerving to miss a guy who tries to jump onto the hood.

  “How do you know?” she cries, practically sobbing in pain and holding her stomach. “Just make it stop!”

  Jag rolls down his window, brandishing his dagger, leaning out to stab anyone who gets close. Owen does the same on his side, and we race through the winding countryside. More than once, a bandit launches himself at the car and tries to grab the rack on top. Jag never lets them get a grip. Doug yells for Owen to move over because he’s not seeing much action, stuck in the middle, but soon, the attack slows and finally stops. Everything grows quiet.

  There’s no sound in the car but our heavy breathing. Heidi’s head rests against her window, her eyes closed.

  “Heidi? You okay?” Jag asks, leaning forward and brushing her hair from her face. Her skin is fevered and flushed, her forehead hot, her breathing rapid. “Heidi!”

  I can’t go any faster, but my racing heart makes me feel like we can. After another half hour, we close in on Mashhad. Lights fill up the night as the city comes into sight. The first couple of exits are for industrial areas, so we keep going until we are passing downtown Mashhad. There’s a motel just off the exit, and we pull up to the front office. It’s old and rundown, but they all are. I doubt we’ll find anything better.

  Once we’ve paid for our room—we share one for safety’s sake—and we’ve laid Heidi on the bed, I gently lift her shirt. The cotton bandage sticks to the incision; the scab is full of pus and sticky. It’s definitely infected and screaming red. I glance at Jag, who gives me an expression of horror.

  “That’s bad,” Doug whispers.

  “She needs a hospital,” Owen adds. “Like right now.”

  “Well, let’s at least put some more ointment on it,” I say, grabbing the tube from my pack.

  “I’ll get directions to the hospital.” Jag leaves without even asking if I think it’s a good idea. It bothers me, but at the same time, it’s a good idea. I’m just jumpy and don’t want us to split up. This close to the border, it’s not safe. I feel an enormous number of demons in the area—like static before a lightning strike.

  Jag is back a few minutes later. “The guy doesn’t understand me,” he growls. “You’ll have to get the directions yourself.”

  I curse under my breath, but I leave Heidi with the Cazadors and go to the front office. I get directions, scribbled on a piece of paper, and make it back to our room in under three minutes. “Got it. Let’s go.”

  “No,” Heidi mumbles into the pillow. “Get Dad.”

  “She’s delirious,” Doug says.

  I lift one arm while Jag lifts the other. We help her back out to the car with Heidi shouting at us the whole time, crying from pain.

  The Jeep races through the streets, Jag yelling out directions. We get lost and have to backtrack twice, and it takes a half hour longer than it should have. When we finally arrive at the hospital, it’s just a small, rundown facility. A white, brick building that has seen better days.

  We rush Heidi in through the front doors and sit her down in a chair. Even this late at night, the room is full of waiting, sick people. I push my way to the front desk and tell the receptionist that we need to see a doctor immediately.<
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  She doesn’t even glance up, only gives me a paper to fill out.

  “Seriously?” I say in Farsi. “My sister has a terrible infection. She’s practically incoherent.” I stare her down until she finally looks up, a white hijab wrapped around her annoyed face.

  My glare does not impress her. With a bored expression, she says, “Everybody here is sick and practically incoherent. Take a seat.” She motions with her head to an empty chair and then goes back to whatever she was doing before I approached her.

  Gritting my teeth, my hands in fists, I stomp back over to where the boys are waiting by Heidi. “It’s gonna take more than just asking to get her in before it’s too late.” Looking around, I know we won’t see a doctor until morning at the rate things are going. Half of the room is filled with gray men inside human bodies, hoping to get help before anyone else. They don’t care about the average mortal. They’ll make sure Heidi is last in line.

  That’s all it takes for Jag. He jumps up, wearing that devious, totally frightening grin he gets while fighting, and pulls out his dagger. My heart lurches and adrenaline shoots through my body as I attempt to jerk him back, but he’s too fast. He pushes through the doors to the emergency room and disappears. Fifteen seconds later, he’s back with a doctor, whose mouth is in a grim, frightened line.

  “Her,” he says, pointing with his dagger to Heidi.

  The doctor motions for some orderlies to help her into the back room. We start to follow, but they only let Jag in. He’s the one with the knife after all. I go back to our row of chairs and pace, wondering if I should just push my way through like Jag had, but he’ll make sure she’s given the best care. Either that or more people will need emergency attention.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Dean

  I throw the covers back and jump out of bed. It’s not light yet, but I can’t sleep. It takes only thirty seconds to get dressed and five more to run a comb through my hair. Pacing my room, I wait anxiously for the clock to strike eight, when breakfast is served. I drum my fingers against my leg, and then I pace near the windows, counting the seconds as the sun climbs over the hills to the east.

  From the colors in the sky, it’s getting close. First, indigo, but then it lightens just a tinge to the color of cotton candy. A few minutes later, a gorgeous shade of orchid paints wild streaks across the clouds. Lighter and lighter, the colors fade, until the pink hues diminish into blue, and then, in all its glory, the sun bursts over the hills, bright, bold, and blinding.

  That’s it. I’m out of here. I shove the door open, and in my enthusiasm, it crashes back against the wall. “Ready?” I say to the stunned guard, already heading down the hall. I know the house now, and I don’t need him to lead the way. It takes effort for him to keep up with me.

  I reach the dining room and fly through the doorway, propelling myself toward the table… and my excitement deflates like a smashed Whoopi cushion. No one is there eating breakfast.

  “Where is everyone?” I turn back to the guard.

  “How should I know?” He scowls at me, folds his massive arms over his chest, and then leans back against the wall, consciously ignoring me. And then I see it… between his rubbery lips. He’s missing a tooth. My pulse races, like a flash flood through my veins, delivering adrenaline all the way to my fingertips.

  It worked.

  I’m dying to ask him about it. Did it fall out during the night, rotten and diseased? Did it somehow get knocked out? Did it hurt or just painlessly dissolve into nothing? I’m nearly giggling with glee!

  I take my normal seat at the table, which is already laden with breakfast food. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, mixed fruit, coffee, juice—as though we’re going to feed an army. I dig in, afraid it will be taken away at the slightest whim.

  I slip a biscuit into my pocket, and then keep adding anything that won’t leak through my clothes. I’ll hide this food in my closet—in case I get hungry during the night—but I could put it in the little drawers in my bed now. My own little pantry. I won’t even have to get out of my covers to eat.

  I eat in silence, alone, in the dim light of the chamber, the curtains still drawn. Coem is usually the one to open them. The darkness is oppressive and I hurry to finish, to get back to my studio where the sun shines and I can draw another portrait.

  Just as I stand, wiping my hands with a napkin, Coem enters. He looks hammered, exhausted, and irritable. It stands to figure since he has green puss oozing from his tear ducts and nostrils. Pustules cover his lips, seeping infection, thick and milky. I recoil, not wanting to catch his germs, if he has any. But the thing that really hits home is… I did this. I did it. I gave him the malady. I’d drawn it.

  I stand there, trying not to stare in disgust.

  “Done so soon?” He smirks. “You don’t want to keep me company while I eat?” His eyes squint and I’m not sure if it’s out of hate for me, as though he knows I am the perpetrator of the crime, or if it’s because his eyelids are swollen. Maybe a bit of both.

  I want to refuse because looking at him makes me sick to my stomach, and I can’t afford to throw up again. I’m still gaining weight. But maybe I overdid it a little on the drawing, and I don’t want to anger him further. A sick demon most likely equates a mean demon.

  “Sure. Of course.” I take my seat, a bagel in my pocket smooshing against my thigh. “How is Chumlento this morning?”

  “I have no idea,” he snaps, placing his napkin over his lap. He rests his head in his hands.

  “Are you okay?” I ask stupidly.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “Not really. Have you ever been sick before?” I ask, sincerely interested. I’ve never seen a sick demon. Ever. They usually die before they get sick with anything, wearing their new bodies out by getting into fights and thrill seeking, wanting to experience everything.

  “No. Never.” With his head still cradled in his hand, his elbow balancing against the table, he glances up at me through hooded lids. “My head is pounding.”

  “That’s… weird.”

  “I would say so.” He takes a long breath and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what to make of it. First Chum, and now me. Maybe there’s a new virus that has mutated or something. Maybe we are not as immune as we used to be.”

  Ha! You’re not! I yearn to scream. I’m your worst nightmare, pal. I’m your deadliest virus come to hunt you down! These words scream through my mind, and what I’d give to sing them out loud, but I cover my delight with a frown. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”

  “I can’t. Have to pack. I’m leaving on a trip.”

  “Oh?” Where could he possibly be going? We’ve only been here a few days. Will he make me go too?

  And then he answers my question. “You’ll stay here. I just need to see to a few things. Keep painting and getting as much practice as you can. You’re going to win me this world, Dean. You are the key to securing my place at the top, my… holy offering, so to speak. So be good.” He smiles, but I see the weariness in his eyes. “Lamassu will stay with you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your guard,” he says like I’m an idiot as he motions to the unfriendly, yeti beast who’s missing a tooth and stands by the door.

  “Oh. Right. Lamassu.” Duh. I shake my head, holding my tongue. There are so many awesome things I could say. So many sarcastic remarks, but I don’t think Coem is up for it today. “Well, I hope you feel better soon.” Rising, I hurry from the room, hoping I can control the gleeful laughter that yearns to burst free.

  Finally, I am a Cazador! Tormentor of demons!

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Dean

  I’ve had a few days free with Coem gone, and I take advantage of that freedom, keeping my sketchpad with me at all times as I wander around the mansion, drawing each demon that comes to visit. After I give them their pics, they fawn over them as though I’ve given them a priceless gift. I heard they are paying Coem copious amounts of money for
these treasures. I’ve yet to see a penny.

  I have copies of twenty-three demon sketches in my hidden drawers. On each portrait, I’ve changed some little detail, growing braver with each drawing. I keep the deviations minor for the most part, and it isn’t until I hear shrieking downstairs that I think I may have gone too far.

  I run to the top of the staircase. Brak, one of the demons that takes care of the grounds, is in the foyer screaming, crying, and bumping into walls. The skin where his eyes should be is smooth and even. No eyes, no eyelashes… nothing but skin. It’s chillingly freaky. Three other demons surround him, calling out to him, trying to figure out what happened, but it’s obvious it’s something supernatural. He had eyes this morning, and now he doesn’t.

  I swivel back and lean against the wall. This is bad. I shouldn’t have done it. I run back to my room and slam my door, hurrying to my secret hiding spot. I shuffle through the drawers, trying to find the sketch of Brak.

  A part of me feels terrible and cruel for what I’ve done, even if he is a demon. Regret fills my heart, and I hate how that feels. This isn’t me, causing such fear. I thought it would be funny and kind of horror-movie cool to erase his eyes. I’d pictured Twilight Zone, but seeing what I’ve done makes me sick. I’m not sure I can go through with my plan. Grasping a plain old number-two pencil, I draw a pair of eyes on Brak’s face.

  Even though these beings are demons, the bodies they steal are not, and I can’t get past the human part of it. I’m not a bully. I don’t like hurting people. And when I look at my captors… I see people. Although there’s a voice in my head, probably my own, that tells me I’m a stupid idiot, that these beings don’t care about me in any human way, that whatever their plans for me are, they aren’t good. I’ll end up dead. There’s no way to live through this. Demons don’t care about people, other than to benefit from them.

  I walk over to the window and stare out over the backyard. Brak is out there now, sitting on a stone bench, sobbing into his hands. When he raises his head, I notice his eyes are back. But of course they are. That’s my gift. I don’t kill demons; I’m their persecutor. Half of me rejoices. The other half recoils.