Dead Tide

by Stephen A. North

  “Stop right there, bitch. You try to break into my house and I can shoot you dead. Now do as I say, or by God I’ll blow you out of those short shorts.”

  I’m in for it now, she thinks to herself. There has to be a way out of this.

  He is stepping closer to her, and she realizes he probably is younger than her, he just looks old. Maybe he’s a junkie? “I’m asking nice now, missy. Step back inside and close the door behind you.”

  “What’s going on Dickie?” says a brassy female voice from the darkened inner doorway. “You better not got another hooker… Oh hi.”

  44

  The woman comes out looking as she pictured: a brassy big-mouthed fake blond with big floppy tits. She’s wearing a robe, but it is undone to her pubis, exposing the evidence, (so to speak.)

  “I’m no hooker,” Trish says. “I just got in a car accident around the corner and I need a phone.”

  The woman brays a coarse laugh, and apparently ignoring Trish’s explanation, says, “You haven’t checked her purse for goodies yet, Dickie?”

  “Not yet, Alice. You wanna check for me, while I hold the gun on her?”

  “Hell yeah, Dickie. Just look at the hate in her eyes! She’d kill us for sure, if she could.” Alice walks toward her. Her lipstick is smeared and her eye shadow is streaked. Her eyes look bloodshot.

  “Listen Alice,” says Trish, “You aren’t touching my purse.”

  “Well, maybe not right away, gorgeous,” says Alice. “Maybe we’ll play…” She reaches a hand out toward Trish’s chest, and even manages to lay her palm there for an instant before Trish punches her twice in the face and bolts around the door. The surprise on Alice’s face is perfect.

  As she sprints away, Trish looks down at the knuckles of her left hand. One is bleeding. “God that felt good,” she whispers and for a moment she grins. She has a good start on them. Her punches buckled Alice’s knees—She was going down for sure, and Dickie would have to come around the table, step over Alice, and then follow her outside.

  Trish makes it back to the road and sprints southeast down the dark two-lane road. She knows there is enough light to see her, but if she runs in the grass she will probably break an ankle. Thank God she spends so much time in a gym! Even though her adrenaline is really pumping right now, she doesn’t have much trouble evening out her breathing and finding her rhythm. Breathe in, then exhale, and repeat while her feet faithfully carry her away.

  “Bitch, you won’t get away from me that easily!” Dickie shouts, but sounds far away. Her purse is slowing her down, but she has it tucked like a football under her left arm, with the strap still wrapped over her shoulder. The keys with the penlight are clenched in her right hand. She can see the moon, full and shining with a yellow glow just above the rooftops of an old derelict package store that is just behind the convenience store with an old Chevy Malibu parked in front. The lights are on, and there are two pay phones right there, just left of the doorway. Just the length of a football field separates her from her goal.

  From far away: “Biiiiitch!”

  45

  EACH BLOCK NORTH TAKES THEM FARTHER AWAY FROM HIS BROTHER’S KILLER. They are barely a block from the intersection with the burning cars, when Williams pulls over to the curb. Bronte doesn’t say anything. What do you say? Her whole body is shaking and she is crying. Tracks and the boy are in the back of the car, so it is up to him.

  “This isn’t just a riot,” she says.

  “No, it’s not,” he replies. “This is the end.”

  He looks up. The cop, Talaski, has pulled over at the edge of the

  next intersection, while Keller has pulled in behind them. “I have to go home. My husband and kids are sleeping through this.

  I can’t go to the Trop. I’ve got to try to save my own people—my family!” “I understand. I’ve got people to take care of, too.”

  “So, what do we do—split up? I think we’ll all die without doing

  anybody any good, then.” Her eyes are red and watery, but he can see

  she is making an effort to keep it together. This one’s tough. “Tracks and I will stay longer. What’s happening downtown and

  around the Trop can wait.”

  “What if we are too late and…” her voice breaks.

  He reaches out and takes her face in his hand. He looks in her eyes.

  “We don’t have time for what-ifs—we gotta be cold. You understand?

  Even our little man Daric will have to be, or we are all dead.” He lets her

  go and turns to look into the backseat.

  Daric is sitting up in his seat with his backpack on his lap. Tracks is

  slowly feeding shells into his shotgun. Bronte looks into Tracks’ sleepy

  eyes. He raises an eyebrow and nods toward the boy. Tracks ratchets a

  round into the chamber.

  “He be ready,” Tracks says.

  46

  HIS BUILDING ISN’T NEAR THE WATER, but it has a view of the pool, some woods and part of 4th Street N. He has to walk around the pool to get there from his parking space. He can hear the hum of the pool pump as he walks past the stairs that leads to the second floor, and turns into the half-enclosed corridor that leads to ten apartments. Each has a window and a door with a number. Number Eight is vacant. Number Nine is home to his favorite fun-loving titty dancers: Nina and Jackie. And of course, Number Ten is his.

  Should I kick their door in or knock?

  He hears music before he reaches the door to Number Nine. He also notices a bar of light falling from a gap in the curtains. He stops, and puts his face up to the window, even with the gap. Now he hears the murmur of voices, laughter. He’s looking into a living room. There is a big screen TV directly across from the window, against a wall about fifteen feet away, and a couch just below the window. For a moment he is riveted by the TV. He feels his heart rate pick up.

  Something is buzzing.

  The slut is watching a porno! Oh man, this is perfect… He finds himself getting lost in the moment. A beautiful blond woman is kneeling unzipping a man’s pants with one hand while she squeezes something large hanging down one pants leg… But what is that annoying buzzing sound, he wonders… It sounds so close. He looks down and sees the blond-haired head of his neighbor and a lot of golden, toned skin. She is sprawled on the couch below him, just on the other side of the glass, wearing only a brief pair of white panties. She’s holding something—a long white object. Dodd can feel his face flush, and well, it’s not the only area of his body experiencing an increased flow of blood. This woman is killing me!

  He makes himself stand up. He walks over to their door, takes his flashlight out and knocks on the door with it. Each knock is hard enough to dimple or chip the paint.

  47

  A moment later the door opens… and there she is! His beautiful, kinky blonde neighbor, Nina. The bitch didn’t even turn off, or pause the movie! He feels the confidence that led him to knock on the door begin to ebb… He watches her face, watching while recognition fades almost immediately to distaste. It is always there, like she smells something bad or like she is prudish and he did something vulgar. The really brutal part is watching her stand there with a blanket held in front of her, but almost as an afterthought. He can see almost her whole left breast, and a lot of silky smooth skin. Is she daring me to do something?

  “What do you want James? I’m watching a movie.”

  “Er… I can see that. Can I come in a moment?”

  “It’s not a good time, James.”

  On the TV screen behind her, a man has joined the kneeling woman

  and they are pushing the man to the floor. “What kind of filth are you watching Nina?” he hears himself say and pushes the door open over her protests. He can hear something in his voice, but can’t put his finger on it. “Maybe we do need to talk, Nina. Have a seat!”

  He savors the shocked look on her face. Almost anything is better than the disgust. “And let’s see you without t
he blanket…”

  HE TIRES OF WAITING AND GETS OUT OF HIS CRUISER. For the moment the street

  is quiet. His eyes feel scratchy, which is normal. He’s once again gone beyond the point when he should be sleeping. Williams rolls her window down. He can tell she’s been crying. “You okay, Brenda?” he asks.

  “We’re going to check on my husband and kids, Ski. I can’t wait any longer.”

  He thinks fast. “Do you want to meet somewhere after?” he asks. “We all may need each other later.”

  “We’ll meet you at BayWalk, that’s pretty much in between. How’s that sound?” says Bronte.

  48

  Talaski leans down and looks into the car. “That’ll be fine. Take care of Brenda, okay?”

  “Take care of yourself, Officer Ski. Tracks and I are professionals.”

  Talaski laughs. “I’ll remember that. See you later.”

  Williams rolls the window back up and does a U-turn. They take a right turn down an alley and disappear. Probably avoiding the trouble at the last intersection.

  Keller walks up. “They aren’t coming with us?”

  “They’ll try to meet us at BayWalk later. She’s going back for her husband and kids.”

  “So we’ll continue on…”

  Talaski’s cell phone is ringing. He raises a hand to Keller to hold on, and answers the phone.

  “You say we shouldn’t go to the Trop, Debbie? Why?”

  Talaski’s face is gray. He listens for a moment or two, then says: “Get out of there and go home… Maybe I should come and get you?”

  He listens. “Okay, I’ll call you later. Thanks for the heads-up.” He closes the flip style phone.

  “What was that about?” asks Keller.

  “A friend of mine… A dispatcher just told me she’s leaving. She told me to stay away from the Trop. Everything’s going to hell but the mayor and the chief think this will just blow over.”

  “So, are we still going?”

  “I think we should. I want to know the situation first-hand. Where is Tanner by the way?”

  Keller shrugs. “He wasn’t feeling well at all. I left him sleeping in the front seat.”

  “Well, let’s see what he thinks and then we’ll decide.” Both men start walking back to the cars. Talaski opens Tanner’s door and the sergeant doesn’t stir. He reaches down and grabs the man’s shoulder and gives it a shake. Nothing. “Sarge, wake up. We got a question for you.”

  Talaski looks closer. “Oh shit,” he says. He puts a couple fingers on the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse.

  “What?” asks Keller.

  “He’s dead.”

  “What from? People don’t die from a bite unless they bleed to death!”

  “They do if they’re poisoned. Maybe these people are infected with something and their bite is poisonous.”

  Keller looks dumbstruck. “Maybe his heart gave out. I bet that’s what happened.”

  49

  Talaski bows his head. “Maybe it did. Help me get his gun belt off. At least you’ll have a back-up weapon now.”

  Keller helps Talaski pull the body from the car. They lay him on the sidewalk. Keller lifts the torso upright and Talaski starts to unfasten the stays attached to the belt.

  “We aren’t going to leave him here, are we Nick?”

  “No, we’ll put him in the trunk for now. Guess we’ll bury him later.”

  SHE REACHES THE INTERSECTION. The light is blinking red facing her and the 62nd Avenue light is blinking yellow. She stumbles out onto the street, looking both ways. There is no traffic in either direction. There are several cars and motorcycles still in front of the Halfway Tavern and only one in front of the convenience store. Which way to go?

  Her breath is whipsawing and she can feel sweat at the nape of her neck and sliding down her forehead. It feels like her legs are cramping. She forces herself into a shambling run toward the convenience store. Most of the windows are covered with beer and lotto ads. The car out front is a battered once white Chevy Citation with a Jesus is Lord bumper sticker. She could use Jesus about now. Another choice plagues her: Do I use the pay phone? No way, half the time they don’t work and…

  She plunges past the phones mounted on the wall and pushes on one door. Locked! Tries the other and it opens in. Half of the store is blocked off with wet floor cones. She can see and smell the wax and bleach. A narrow strip of dry floor has been left free to the register area and to the other side of the store. Music is blaring from a boombox perched on the register counter.

  Sudden inspiration makes her spin around once inside to lock the doors. Light spilling from the building only allows her to see to the edge of the parking lot. She fumbles at the doors. “Help! A man is trying to kill me! Can anybody hear me?!” she shouts.

  No one answers.

  50

  The damn locks need a key. Maybe Dickie isn’t following anyway. She drops her purse beside the radio and sprints around the counter, stopping abruptly at the sight of red—red spattered everywhere. The coppery scent of blood reaches her nose over the cleaning smells. Where’s the body?

  “Fuck, oh fuck,” she is chanting to herself. “Where’s the goddamned phone?”

  There, just under the counter, beside a slotted opening, is an old fashioned corded phone. She seizes it, and Oh God someone’s blood is all over it, squats down keeping her eyes on the front door. There is a dial tone. She punches 911 on the keypad.

  She counts the rings. Anything to keep her mind focused. There are six before a recorded voice tells her, “Please stay calm and a dispatcher will be right with you. This is a recording… Don’t hang up. Please stay…” Her mouth is so dry and her legs are trembling. Heaven help me. The cord isn’t long enough to move far. I can’t squat on my heels like this forever. I’m going to have to stand up, or hang up. There is nothing under the counter that appears useful. There are cartons of cigarettes, somebody’s soda cup still dripping condensation; a rack of porno mags, the lotto machine and rolls of scratch-off tickets… A voice answers the line: “Police department, can you please hold?”

  “No, I can’t fucking hold, please!” she hears herself scream.

  “Stay calm ma’am, we have our own problems here,” says the voice, a young woman’s. To her growing horror, she can tell the woman sounds as panicked as she does.

  “Please, I’m trapped, and—”

  “And I’m just office help down here. Half the dispatchers went home. Tell me where you are and I’ll try to get some help to you.”

  “I’m at the…” What is the name of this place? She stands up and something whines over her head followed by the sound of imploding glass and a gun shot. Trish finds herself on her knees, ducking behind the counter. Someone is making a whimpering noise. Oh God, that’s me…

  Glass crunches. Someone is breathing heavy. “I’m here, bitch. I told you to stop.”

  More glass crunches and pieces skitter across the floor. “I even asked you real nice just to sit down. Alice wanted to be friends with you, even…”

  Can he see me? she wonders. Very carefully she slides forward closer to the counter. The blood isn’t sticky. Isn’t it only that way when it’s fresh?

  51

  “Why do you whores always lie?” His voice sounds like he’s standing just on the other side of the counter. “My-my, that’s a lot of blood back there behind the register. You coming out from there, or am I going to hurt you?”

  She looks up, and he is there leaning over the counter, gun pointed right at her, grinning. “Oh yeah, we’re going to have some fun. First hang up the phone.”

  She hesitates. In her ear, she hears: “Now listen, just pretend to hang up and set the phone on the floor. I’ve got a Tech working with me now. We’re trying to trace your call…”

  Trish looks into the lunatic’s eyes and sets the handset in the cradle. “Smart move, missy. Now stand up slow.”

  She ignores the command, and sits back on her butt, heedless now about the
blood. “No, come and take me here. If you really want me, you’ll come take what you want.” The little voice from her past has taken over, the survivor voice. She has no plan, but maybe this separate part of her does.

  “You are one kinky bitch. I’ll say that for you.”

  One thing she has learned to do is to disconnect. The percentage of attractive men that she sees, when working, is pretty low. Most are bearable, but every now and then she gets a real creep. I am an illusionist, a magician…

  She allows her mouth to form a pout, even as he grabs her by the right arm and yanks her to her feet. With his right hand, he holds the pistol under her chin. His face comes close to hers. Onions. Why can’t they ever have good breath? He lowers his head and she feels his lips on her neck. His free hand has slipped underneath her crop top. He pinches her nipple. What use fighting him? She leans back against the counter. This guy is actually trying to be tender. That he wants her even though she’s covered in blood disgusts her, but the evidence is there: she can feel a medium-sized erection against her thigh.

  She hears a thud, but can’t see where it came from. She’s on her back now with her top up over her breasts, but still under her arms. He’s undone her belt and is fumbling with the button and zipper on her shorts. She hears a feminine groan.

  Dickie turns his head just far enough to speak over his shoulder. “Is that you, Alice? Just wait, you’ll get your turn.”

  She hears another moan or groan, and then a small, dainty hand grabs Dickie’s shoulder. The nails are fire red and perfectly manicured.

  “Let go Alice. I done told you to wait your turn…”

  52

  The hand gives a savage yank and suddenly Dickie is spinning sideways with the woman’s hand still gripping his shoulder. Dickie says, “What?” He drops the gun as he begins to struggle with the woman, who isn’t Alice. She must be the missing clerk—she’s wearing a smock with a name tag that says ‘Leesa.’ There is a bloody stain centered on her chest, but otherwise she appears okay, if a little pale.

  “I wasn’t gonna hurt her, I swear,” says Dickie.

  The woman snarls and goes for his throat—with her teeth! “Noooo!” wails Dickie. “Help me!”