by Jeremy Flagg
“Roxy, having a rough night? Need some orange juice?”
Early onset detox. The woman’s hands were shaking as she mustered a smile. The yellowed teeth, what was left of them, reminded Skits that her life could be worse. She reached into her bag and handed her a juice box.
The Sister followed along, handing out condoms and asking how they were doing. She didn’t judge. She didn’t infringe on their work. She would provide a simple, “Bless you, child,” as she dispersed the tinfoil wrappers. The working girls respected her. In a city of fallen angels, she spread her wings, keeping a watchful eye on all of God’s children.
“Amber, how’s the evening treating you, dear?”
“Same ol’, same ol’, sister. Night filled with cheap buyers and angry suppliers.”
“I’m no snitch, yo,” Destiny said, “but Sasha has a very angry problem right now.”
Skits eyed the queen. Their eyes met, and behind long lashes, the woman flicked her eyes toward the alley. Skits gave a slight nod and handed her supply bag to the nun. Sister Muriel didn’t discourage Skits from taking a more direct involvement. Their frequent conversations about tempting fate ended with Skits asking, “If not me, then who?” The Sister had the reputation of an angel; Skits, on the other hand, the reputation of a savior. Fifteen and fueled by a need for revenge, she preferred a more hands-on approach.
Skits disappeared into the dark corridor, taking care to pad her footsteps. She listened for the familiar sounds of abuse. A thud. A whimper. A man stood over a young girl, no older than Skits. It was the first time she laid eyes on Sasha. The girl’s clothing—the fishnet stockings, black mini-skirt and tight t-shirt sporting a punk band—reminded Skits of her own fashion sense once upon a time.
“This is going to end one of two ways,” Skits said, and her bravado spun the man about. “You let her go and live, or I kill you.”
The man laughed. He waved a gun about. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Skits.”
The man rushed her. She punched him, two knuckles out. She connected with the fleshy part of his throat, stopping his approach. The man coughed hard. He lashed out, the back of his free hand striking her across the cheek. She landed against the wall, using it to keep herself from falling. Nothing could make her get on her knees in front of this man.
His forearm on the back of her neck forced her face to cold brick. She tried to push herself back, but the man’s massive frame refused to budge. With one pinning her, his other hand moved down the sides of her body, checking her pockets for weapons. It rested on her ass, digging his fingers into her jeans.
“I think we’re going to have a good time.” His breath was hot, moist, and reeked of cheap cigars. She wanted him off.
She laughed. Despite her cheek smeared against the wall, she managed to laugh hysterically. His body stiffened at the sound. She assumed he didn’t have many females question his manliness before he raped them. She took satisfaction in being his first.
Her heels drove down onto his shins. He stumbled back. She spun about, her elbow connecting with his skull. The gun hit the ground. He attempted to grab her with his massive hands. She wedged the toe of her boot into his groin. She kicked the weapon away as he staggered and fell, clutching his junk.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” The girl in the halter top, black mini skirt and fishnet stockings clutched her purse as she cowered away from the assault. She wore the same color mascara Skits had. She imagined if she had been a moment slower, the girl spread out on the ground, a bullet in her head, victim of a yet another power hungry man would haunt her.
“He won’t hurt you,” Skits said.
“He’ll come looking for me.” The girl shivered, terrified to the point her body betrayed her. Blackish-purple mascara streamed down her face. The fear in her voice confirmed it: the man would seek her out. This girl would never be free from looking over her shoulder until one of them died.
Skits reached into her boot and revealed a knife. With a click of the button on the steel handle, a six inch blade flipped out. She dropped to her knees next to the man as he howled from the pain and rested her hand on the side of his face, leaning in close enough to catch a whiff his breath. He opened his eyes to see her hovering just above his face. She plunged the knife into his eye socket, feeling it scrape along the bone in until it sunk into his brain.
“You’re free,” she told the girl.
She wiped the blade on the man’s shirt, folded the weapon, and slid it into her boot. Skits approached the girl on the ground, and held out her hand. The fear in the girl’s eyes started to fade and her tears began to dry. She reached up, clasping Skits’s hand, and pulled herself to her feet.
Victimized again, Sasha drew small breaths lying on the stained mattress in a disused factory. This time, however, Skits found herself caught in the crossfire. The man she killed that day had been the low end of a much bigger operation. When she patrolled the streets, she made it a habit to avoid the drug world, the network vastly larger than a single abusive pimp.
She growled. It wasn’t often a man walked away once she was done with them. Tied up and battered, she’d make sure nobody lived this time. With a punctured eye, her victim had reported to somebody, somebody who didn’t like being disrespected.
Two men’s shadows blocked the light shining through the doorway. She didn’t know their names. The tattoos covering their bodies resembled those on guys in prison movies. They were only missing bandanas and the obnoxious male swagger. No, goon one and goon two were like any other douchebag. She wondered if they were there to smack her around some more or if they were going to drag Sasha’s unconscious body out of the room.
Somewhere in the back of her head, she knew fear was the appropriate response. Perhaps she should scream, maybe beg for her life? She didn’t handle emotional situations very well. A therapist once said she was distant and detached from reality during times of heightened stress. In the past couple of years, she assumed any remaining emotion had been beaten out of her.
It wasn’t them she needed to deal with. Miguel, their leader, she wanted face time with him. If things went according to plan, he’d be dead before the night ended. He didn’t know it, but her face would be the last one he’d see before she sank the blade into his neck.
“If you let me go,” she said quietly, “I’ll let you live.”
One of them laughed. He’d die tonight too. The other one knelt in front of her, brushing her bangs off to the side. He held her chin and inspected Skits. She recognized the craving in his eyes. There was a hunger, that of a predator examining his prey.
“Fine,” she said, “both of you are going to die.”
The man slid his hand down to her throat and squeezed. The other man untied her arms from the pipe, leaving her wrists bound together. The man with the iron grip rose, bringing her to a standing position. He was fifty pounds too small to be capable of lifting her like that. She eyed his muscles. The scars gave away his muscle implants; the man reeked of insecurity. Instead of hitting the gym with his friends, he spent his money on synthetic enhancements.
“So,” he mocked her, “when does the killing begin?”
Something burned. The scent of smoke hit her nostrils. Both men sniffed the air, hunting for its source. The tension from the rope loosened—her arms were free. She didn’t have time to ask questions. She thanked God for her freedom. She’d have to tell Sister Muriel that maybe she would find faith yet.
He squeezed her throat tighter. Her eyes turned to the ceiling as she suffocated. The man holding her followed her gaze. He didn’t have time to react as she grabbed the sides of his head and thrust her thumbs into his eye sockets. He threw her, her back slamming into the wall.
“It starts now,” Skits coughed.
His companion, obviously a man new to the business by the lack of mouthiness, reached behind his back for a gun. Skits braced her feet against his stomach and shoved off, forcing him to step backward. She slammed he
r knee into his groin, the ultimate move of vindication. She could feel his delicate manbits as she drove them inside his body. Her right hand clasped his wrist as he attempted to bring about the gun.
The man screamed, his attention turning to her fingers gripping his forearm. She used the distraction to fish for the knife in her boot. The steel greeted her like an old friend. With a push of the button, the blade flipped open and she sank it into his chest, twisting as it passed between ribs. The man paused his howling to grasp at the blade, his eyes filled with disbelief at his impending death. He tried to speak, but a gurgling cough took hold.
She stepped back from the man as he reached for the blade buried in his chest. Hands brushed against the back of her legs. The other man, sightless, clawed at her, attempting to pull her down to the ground. She brought her foot back and in a full swing, drove the toe of her boot under his jaw. Blood flew from his mouth as he bit down on his tongue, slumping to the floor.
“I hope it hurts,” she hissed at him.
She reached down to draw her knife out of the dying man. She hesitated as she saw the blistering burn on his arm. She held up her hand, measuring out the scabbing red skin. Her handprint had burned into his flesh. She inspected the rope on her wrists—the ends were blackened. With a tug, the charred remains fell apart. She turned over her hands and stared her palms, trying to figure out what was happening.
Sasha.
She hurried to the girl, checking her throat, relieved to find her pulse. Sasha stirred, but made no attempt to open her eyes. Despite her bruises and disheveled hair, in her t-shirt and jeans, she seemed almost like a typical girl. It was hard to imagine two weeks ago, she had been working the corner, turning tricks for survival.
After being liberated from her pimp, she became like a shadow, refusing to leave Skits’s side for any length of time. A few days later, Skits took her to a small cafe down the street from the abandoned loft they called home. She introduced her to Needles, a man known for making flawless fake IDs. With a new identify, Sasha would have options in front of her, the potential for a life.
“Why do you need a fake ID?” he asked Skits.
“It’s not for me.”
Needles eyed the thin plastic card, raising his eyebrow at the girl. “She certainly looks like you.”
“Very funny.”
He handed her the drivers license. It wasn’t the first time she had come to him asking to supply illegal goods. The last time they met he gave her methadone to help wean a working girl off drugs. He leaned over the table, keeping his voice low.
“You have a reputation, Skits,” he said. “You know, I think you could be an asset to a group I belong to.”
“I work solo.”
“I’ve heard that too. You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I hear what they say about you, Needles. You’re into some seriously dangerous shit. I don’t even know why you help me. It must be a risk coming out in the public.”
He opened the edge of his jacket. A small box attached to the interior blinked steadily. “They can’t find you if they can’t see you.”
She understood he meant the cameras. Needles had found a way to make himself invisible. Whatever he was involved with, it was more dangerous than her rescuing strays from the streets.
“Think about it, Skits. Always need people like you.”
At the counter, Sasha ordered a latte, heavy on the foam, light on the espresso. As the manager of the coffee shop made eyes with her, the young girl flirted back. Skits tried not to roll her eyes. Needles gave a slight smile and exited, off to create a new life for another poor son of a bitch. He left a flier on the table about a rave happening in an abandoned building. She wanted to go, to drink away the world and dance until her body hurt. There was only one problem. She eyed Sasha, a girl reverting to her previous yuppy self.
“He offered me a job,” Sasha said as she sat down.
“We’re going to a party tonight,” Skits blurted out.
“Oh?”
“I’m not sure you’re going to like this...”
She didn’t.
The bouncer at the door stood at well over three hundred pounds, all of it muscle. It was a first time for her at this location. Skits was too young for mainstream clubs, and far too jaded to have a good time with the normal folks of New York. Even in a fishnet shirt and neon blue bra, she’d be one of the most conservative people at the rave. Sasha dressed as if she was preparing to go back onto the streets. The naive girl hadn’t offered much resistance once it Skits made it apparent the topic wasn’t up for debate.
The bouncer’s sluggish head tilt once he examined Sasha was to be expected. Skits didn’t say anything but nodded her head. The bouncer shrugged. He pulled the door handle. As it swung open, music broke the silence in the alley. She imagined they did something to the building to absorb sound for fear of the synthetic army making an appearance.
“Did you know him?”
Skits shrugged. She knew everybody. They journeyed down stairs, lots of them. They had to be nearly two stories underground at this point. The music got louder with each step. They walked past the boiler room, rust and corroded pipes giving away how neglected the building had been. They opened one last metal door. The bass grew loud enough to echo in their chests. The room wasn’t large, but it had two levels. To their left, a makeshift bar complete with sketchy bartender. To the right, an overly ambitious DJ trying too hard. Dim lights, exposed flesh, and maximum capacity exceeded, it held the perfect recipe for a rave.
Sasha spoke, but Skits made the universal symbol for, “I can’t hear you.” The girl’s mouth stopped moving and her shoulders slumped. This wasn’t her scene. Skits spotted Needles near the bar and gave him a nod. She wasn’t here to socialize; she wanted to dance, to grind, and to forget about life.
Hours passed as one set of music rolled into the next. Skits found herself grinding between a man and his girlfriend. She moved in time with the beat, the three of them a sweaty mess as they writhed. Skits scanned the room, looking for Sasha. The girl stood against the bar, bobbing her head to the DJ’s efforts, incapable of letting loose. Skits remembered the first few weeks after retiring from the boulevard, when it was almost impossible to let down her defenses. Back then, even smiling came infrequently.
Skits stopped dancing, awkwardly bumped against by the couple she been gyrating against. She parted from the dance floor, taking up a spot next to her ward. Sasha’s body tensed when a man leaned close to her. Sasha’s face turned a lighter shade of white. Skits recognized the expression. The man’s knowing glances gave away his ties to her, her dead pimp, and somebody higher up the ladder.
Skits didn’t reach for the knife. She knew killing a man in the middle of a rave wouldn’t spook most of them, but she would never be invited back. The man remained leaning over the bar, his back to Skits as she stomped toward him. She kicked the back of his knee and at the same time, shoved his head down on the counter. He started to get up, but she smashed a bottle on the edge of the bar and pressed it to his throat.
The tips of the glass drew blood. It required restraint for her to not push harder, letting them sink into his delicate flesh. She pulled back and the man shot up. He reached for his belt. His eyes went wide as Skits held a gun in her other hand, flicking the safety off and pointing the small pistol at his face. Skits motioned with the weapon for the man to start walking.
Sasha stayed close, one hand resting firmly on Skits’s back as they moved toward the only exit, the crowd parting without a second thought for the girl with a firearm. As they reached the final door to the alley, the man stepped through and slammed it shut before she could stop him. Skits refused to let him get away. She couldn’t risk a gang coming after her later. She couldn’t let Sasha live in fear. She simply couldn’t. The words of a letter long since trashed, ramblings of a dead psychic, sounded in her head. Survive. Both of you.
She spun the handle on the door. When she leaned against the cold metal, it push
ed open. She saw him immediately. The man lay on the ground. Head nearly torn off. Skits held the gun, uncertain of what happened in the two seconds they broke visual contact. It became apparent as the large bouncer stepped back toward the door. The dead man’s head had been turned far enough he could almost see his own back.
“I’ve got your back.” The man’s burly, deep voice was audible even over the music. She owed him. It saved her the trouble of doing it herself. She might not associate with the good guys, but the neutral crowd knew when bad men were doing bad things. Skits squeezed her hands into the corpse’s jeans and pulled out his phone.
“Fuck,” she said as she saw the last text sent.
“What?” yelled Sasha.
“Who’s Miguel?” Skits asked. Even at the mention of the name, Sasha’s eyes went wide and the color fled her cheeks. Skits had a sinking feeling—something bad was about to get much worse.
Here, now, in a dirty room at the end of a hallway, she needed to figure out how to remove Sasha before Miguel came looking for his dead men. The thug would continue searching for them. If they were willing to kidnap two teenage girls, they’d be likely to hunt her down again. A murdered psychic had foreseen this. Skits reached for the knife in her boot.
“I’m going to save us,” she whispered to Sasha.
Skits pulled out a cell from a victim’s pocket. After calling 911, she tossed the phone into the corner. She stood on the threshold of the door and peered around the edge. Somewhere down the hall, there were more of them. Sirens sounded off in the distance; it’d only be a matter of time before they locked on to the cell and found them. Some business needed to be conducted before the cops showed. If Miguel made it to prison, he’d be out in no time, and this mess would start anew.
No. It ended now.
The dismal hallway led to a large open room filled with massive winding turbines. She had no idea what the machinery could be for, but each of the half circles emerging from the ground turned in a constant grinding motion. The only two organic things in the room were a man nearly three times her size and a small man in a suit.