Muslin midnight blue fades at seams of early dawn, still a stitch away from the sun despite the unraveling night. One dock in the loading bay behind the 9 Story Hotel sits open, a shadow in the far corner looming larger against the augery glow of daybreak. Vladimir crouches, stock still and breath bated. Three minutes since zhenschina closed the door to her van. It rocked once, twice, fifteen seconds after ingress. She's a clumsy woman, rastyapa, her panic is the probable cause. Probable, and unlikely. The four dead mercs in the lobby shifted the nature of probabilities. In vats by now, considering Malik's reputation. And Pinch's temper. The concierge would be waiting for answers. The bartender may need a nod after the Russian flew past his inquiries. Not his concern at the moment. Vigilance stays locked on the van. Two minutes, zhenschina. You're late.
Nerisse stares at the crowbar on the floor in front of her bed. Purchased at an army navy surplus after two hours of ogling in dumbstruck ignorance at myriad weapons she knew fuckall about. Crowbars sway. Nerisse sways. It made sense at the time.
The van sways as Abdiel takes a long pull of his spliff, broad calloused claw pinched over her mouth. He exhales smoke and spittle in her face, watches her eyes overflow, washing away his filth. The cherry is thumbed off, he flicks the blunt onto the counter, soiled fingers rubbing ash into her tangled hair. He reaches in his jeans and spins out a small black thumb drive, dangling it in her face. The one he chucked at her head. The one she sabotaged. Her heart would crawl out her throat if it weren't still swollen.
“Found you Miss Molly. Took a few months,” he reads her confusion and throws his head back with a bark. “You thought I knew where you were? Oh Miss Molly, you're sharp as a bowling ball.”
He meets her nose to nose, kisses the back of his hand over her lips. “You told me you were at the 9. You never asked if I knew where it was.”
His jaundice green gaze keep hers captive as his drawl lows. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find this shithole? The drone bullshit you fed me was about as handy as an ashtray on a fuckin bike,” he taps the port against her temple. “But you fucked up last week, Miss Molly. Oh yes you did. Stepped right in your own shit,” Palming the drive, he takes a lock of navy tangles, ripping through the snarls before observing her with casual displeasure.
“I like the curls better. You were almost pretty with curls.” He pockets the thumb drive, his other hand still vice tight around her face. He grabs her hair by the brow and yanks the wig back, grins in monstrous satisfaction as it rips off tape and sun starved flesh. His hand clamps down tighter as he silents her screams. Gaslit agony. He leans back a few inches, mouth agog as he marvels at her raw bloodbathed scalp.
“Now that.. oh Molly… that is beautiful,” The wig hits the floor as his spare hand traces adhesive residue clinging to her hairline. He licks a streak of red from his middle finger, shaking a blood stained nail an inch from her face. “That there is commitment. That's some goddamn gumption, sugarpuss.”
His claws dig into the scratches on her cheeks as he propels her onto the bed by her face. “I've got some truth to lay down, so have a seat.” She trips over the crowbar, lands nose down on her threadbare sheets, heavy heartbeat metronomic against tremors wracking her body.
“I'm. late. I'm not. late,” She stammers into the linen, hands locked in the folds. “I have. I'm. I'm not late.”
Abdiel grabs her thighs, flipping her on her back and dragging her hips to the edge of the bed. He snatches the brass ankh, leashing her to the mattress with his fists boxing her head.
“You're definitely late, sugarpuss. You're too late.” He thrusts his crotch between legs ribboned with severed skin, teeth sinking into her neck, body heaved against trembling desperation.
“Please. Not. I have. Not late. He gave. He. He gave me,” she swallows a shriek between stutters. Hush or be silenced. Silence is violence.
Abdiel pushes himself upright, hands still at attention beside her neck. His eyes are slits waiting for coin on a losing bet. “The fuck are you on about? Taking candy from strangers? Who's giving you shit?”
“He gave. Late. He-”
Above Abdiel’s head, a small yellow spider threads it's way down to his shoulder, alighting on his sweat soiled collar. Itsy bitsy spider. Every scratch on her body is singing. Itsy bitsy biting spiders climbed up and everywhere and everywhere and everywhere. Pupils dilate as spectors from the Hotel take possession. Everywhere and everywhere. The contusions lighting up her cheekbones throb against her face, half her face was gone and she's dead and she's smiling and where is her FACE AND THEY'RE EVERYWHERE-
The last of her strength heads to high heaven as neural hell descends. Caged shrieks crash against each other as the remnants of her sanity fail.
“HE GAVE” she claws at Abdiel's face, barely making contact in her furious incoherence. He cackles, pinning her hands back on the bed.
“HE SAID” she screams and twists her back in erratic arches against his grip. Their melee gives no room for notice as the handle to the van door clicks down, out, in, click.
“I'M. NOT. LATE.” She kicks Abdiel away, hurling him off balance, exercising demons from their last rendezvous. The Russian meets him at the kitchenette, grabs his gaunt arm under his elbow, pins him teeth to plywood against the pantry. Vladimir lifts him off the flat of his feet, raising Abdiel to his toes, and lays the tip of a meticulously sharpened Mark II against his axillary. Abdiel contorts his free arm to push himself away from the cupboard, but the effort only serves to drive the point through his skin. Could just as easily move the van.
“We will have a talk now, I think,” The Russian's voice is dead calm drawback, tidal rage kept at bay, his adamantine stance sentry still. Abdiel twists opposite the knife but meets the lack of leverage from his feet and pushes the point in deeper. Face snarled in opposition of acquiescence, he repositions until the blade releases back against the surface of his skin. The slabak seems to understand how this works. Vladimir nods. “If you're not going anywhere.”
Nerisse sits at the edge of the bed gripping her rust stained neck, teeth marks overlapping bloody dried rivulets from her savaged scalp. She squeaks and squeals and sobs, rocking against her knees. Not late, late. Not. late.
Abdiel snickers through clenched jaws, winces as his tendons twitch against honed steel. “If I don't go anywhere, they'll come here.” He wheezes as his chortling nudges the knife again, seethes through clenched teeth. “They'll come for her.”
Vladimir's response is impenetrability. When cornered combatants talk, you let them. Bol'she slushay, men'she govori.
The predator snickers, licks his lips, brays over Nerisse's wails. “I made more goddamn money off this lunatic in four months than the past four years. Bitch was born yesterday. You have no idea what you're threatening.”
Nerisse groans, slapping her hands over her ears. Not late. Not. The Russian addresses her without shifting his hold on the grotesque pin up doll.
“Zhenschina,” her face is nonresponsive, the rote continues uninterrupted. Vladimir sharpens his voice, but not his tone. “Zhenschina. Your head. Is he responsible.” It's a call to action, not a question. Her eyes glaze over as she stills herself, tepid hand missing several reaches for the torn skin at her temple. The chanting ceases, she says nothing more. Vladimir returns his attention to Abdiel. An answer wasn't required, but her silence was. In the corner of his eye he watches zhenschina's head drop between her knees, arms holding herself together.
The predator snickers, hesitant muscles meeting metal. “You think she's scared of me?” He shakes his head, mistaking the Russian's silence for an answer he had any ability to comprehend.
“Well sure she is. But she's just scared,” his lips split wider, self satisfaction of the overly confident and woefully ignorant. “I'm not the reason she's running. I'm the reason she got found. And she's the reason I'm walking out of here alive. You bet your bottom dollar and that bowie Doc won't stop til she's back on the wing.”
Abdiel's monologue halts as caution catches up with his tongue, scowls and sputters with a mock slav accent. “‘We shall have a talk now, I think,’” He clears his throat, hawks and spits on Vladimir's boot. “Ain't you got shit to say sputnik?”
Vlad regards the snot on his shoe, the corners of his mouth upturned. “No stukach, you have said enough for the both of us.”
The Russian hauls Abdiel away from the pantry towards the van door, using the knife at his vein as motivation. Nerisse startles and starts after them, grabbing Vladimir's elbow with Mach II at the ready. The Russian looks down at her, meets the thousand yard stare from Pinch's interrogation, belying desperation despite the break in devastation. She sinks against the kitchen counter, fumbles in her bomber and holds up the drive from their exchange in the viscera.
“Late. He's not. He's not late.”
Vladimir nods. He'll leave alive with the plant or he may as well not leave at all. “Put it in his pocket zhenschina.”
He pulls Abdiel back on his toes, encouragement for good behavior as Nerisse tucks the drive in his jeans. The Russian notes the ouroboros half inked on her head, still evident despite the damage. She trips backwards over her laces until her ass meets the edge of the bed, misses, and slides to the floor.
Vladimir stares despite himself. The faded bruises under her eyes, scratches scattering her skin, head bald but for blood and botched ink. The Mark II relaxes at his side as he shifts his grip to Abdiel's upper arm. The coward grins, strains his neck to side eye the Russian as he shakes his arm free.
“Told you I'd walk out of here alive.”
Turning toward the open door, left foot finds the first step in time for Vladimir's boot to make contact with the small of his back. Abdiel spins and flails for the door, giving him enough wings to land his weight against his scapula. Bone and joint crack and croon, wrath and agony sputter into rancid cackles as he finds his knees on the pavement, cradling his right arm.
Nerisse covers her ears against his scream, crouched behind the Russian as he descends the stairs. Collapsing on the first step, she mumbles in bare coherence. Vladimir files away the rote.
“Four and four. Four. Four and four..”
Abdiel rises, still in fits, feet moving back of their own. The Russian posts himself in front of the entrance to the van, trigger finger waiting for an invitation from the desperate grin of a man aching to regain his power.
“Hey Miss Molly, can you still taste m-”
RSVP received.
Attendance confirmed.
Vladimir's HS 95 is out before her name inherits the wind, courtesy of Croatia. The pistol empties an arced warning around Abdiel's feet, bits of asphalt shrapnel erupting in smoke puffs until the magazine is empty. He stumbles across the pavement away from the ground spitting salt and lead, a sneer evident in his growl.
The bullets were an insult he couldn't ignore. Losing men always need the last word.
“They're coming for her sputnik. Take that to the fuckin bank. Doc always gets what he wants.”
The Russian waits for Abdiel's green streak to fall out of sight and turns his attention to Nerisse. Eyes glassed for mirrors, voice entranced, thumbs tucked in her palms as her other digits tap against her tight bent knees.
“Four. Four.
Four and four.
Four.
Four and four… “
The motion sensor emergency lights blink on and off as the woman runs down vacant sterilized corridors, the stench of hospital disinfectant assaulting her windpipe. Brown curls are stained sweat black, cheeks breath burnt red, face whitewashed. A spatter of blood sprayed across the chest of her powder blue scrubs. Her feet only touch the floor out of necessity as she flies past the abandoned reception desk welcoming her to the Department of Neurology and Neurosurgery, out the door imploring her to have a good day, escaping to the hospital's nomansland. Molly slams the door closed behind her, breath hitched in subdued sobs, counting at a whisper as her bright white sneakers beat worn linoleum.
One one thousand.
Two one thousand.
She was lunging out of the nurse's station in the defunct PACU ward when they found her, one heavy in a suit took a scalpel to the knee as she scrambled past his counterparts. Stupid goddamn place to hide but she didn't have the luxury of strategizing. Security was in the room without warning, she would have been spotted if cover wasn't instant. She checked the last bed on the right and prayed Gabriel was asleep. Her knees hit the floor as a voice hit back and knocked her senseless, stolen scalpel grinding against her ankle. Molly slapped her hands over her mouth, chest shackled in panic, terror dripping down her cheeks.
Not that voice.
Please not him.
All the calculated charm and insidious cunning of a snake in Eden.
The Doctor was with them.
“Check vitals for significant delineation.”
Three one thousand.
Four one thousand.
She weaves her way with staggering grace around abandoned machinery lining the narrow corridor, bridging between ventilators and arching around cardiac carts, rushing past dust strewn exam rooms and a gutted office. They wouldn't be far behind. One wounded meant two on the way. She couldn't outrun them here. Elevator doors mark the end of the hall. Just a little further.
Five one thousand.
Six one thousand.
Nursing heels clicked against the decrepit flooring. There were eight patients in the abandoned recovery ward, four and four against either wall. The privacy curtains were never pulled when Molly came to see Gabriel. No blankets, no gowns, no dignity. They wore nothing but restraints. Vacant eyes devoid of humanity, bodies shorn smooth and decked with discs and wires. Mankind as mannequin marionettes, vital monitors mocking their tell tale hearts.
Molly heard the familiar whine of accelerated air as a blood pressure cuff decompressed, the tone of an O2 meter confirming data. A single set of deliberate footsteps approached the nurse, EEG paper rustling as she responded in deadpanned obeisance.
“Within normal limits, no significant delineation.”
The Doctor surrendered a hiss and a sigh.
“Send it home.”
Heavy boots and shuffled tarp. The dull pluck of an unplugged cord. Ventilator shuttered down. A heart monitor abandoned the chorus. Death rattles sang a swan song to the men with a body bag.
Molly anchored her hands over her face.
Lungs threatened seizure.
Seven one thousand
Eight one thousand
The door to Neurology crashes open, men with guns shout over each other as they clamber around the maze of unwieldy machinery. Eight seconds ahead. Molly knocks over an IV stand as she nears the end of the hall, slams the down arrow next to the elevator.
Eight one thousand.
She pushes a crash cart into the hall, blockading her against the doors.
Security grapples to close the gap.
Seven one thousand.
Six one thousand.
Death visited each breathing body one by one. Check vitals. No significant delineation. Send it home. Ventilators wind down, blood pressures dropped, oxygen used and useless. Molly rocked herself and choked as each mechanical heart beat was replaced with the funeral dirge of final breaths.
Six dead and dying.
They were almost at Gabriel's bed.
Five one thousand
Four one thousand
She stumbles backwards into the carriage as the doors open, a second lost with hesitant fingers hovering over Ground Floor and Basement. No time, hit both. A suit throttles the IV stand between the doors. She jumps over the crashing metal, untangling her feet from the base and heaving it back at him, sending a hook into his face as its wheels catch the cart. The doors shut before the other suit claws over the chaos, fists slamming chrome. Molly collapses against cheap wood paneling and sobs.
Three one thousand
Two one thousand
“Send it home.”
Another cord dropped to the floor, now a lone monitor operated without it's choir. Blipping aria bludgeoned dead air. The soft commanding gait approached Gabriel, a young man with empty azure eyes and honey hued skin, no more than a few decades old. Molly squeezed her eyes shut as the footsteps neared his bed.
“Check vitals for significant delineation.”
Nurse heels moved a half dozen steps, the blood pressure cuff inflated and began it's reading.
“Run.”
The command hit Molly one letter at a time, refused to join into a word she could recognize.
The Doctor's tone darkened. “Which one of you-” Security argued their innocence over him, boots trot in all directions at high alert. Molly knelt on her heels and steadied with one hand, grabbing the scalpel from her shoe.
A suit rounded the corner of the nurse's station.
Urgency echoed.
“Molly RUN”
One one thousand
She watches the floor numbers fall as she racks her brain, ground floor or basement, ER or parking garage, jesus fucking christ Gabriel. She squeezes her head between clenched fists and wails, cutting herself off with a sharp inhale.
Later.
Just get out.
Remember what he told you.
Doctor knew the van, but the van was all she had left. ER entrance would take her to the Catacombs, the agglomeration of alleys and avenues encompassing the city's downtown. Easy to get lost but hard to be found. She hesitates as the elevator doors open again then leaves at the ground floor, weaving her way through the fishcanned waiting room, grabbing a hat and hoodie from the back of a chair.
She could come back for the van later. Just get out.
Security enters the foyer as her hand releases the exit door, brown curls tucked into the baseball cap. She turns down the first alley, then the next, lefts and rights until the lights of the hospital compound are lost in the city's constellation of electric animosity.
Gabriel told her to find the 9 Story Hotel.
You'll be safe there.
Don't stop til you find it.
You're out of time, Molly.
This is zero hour.
Find the 9.
Gabriel's eyes light up, muscles bulged as his utterance unravels into ululating rage. RUN. Molly slammed the side of the suit's knee with the scalpel as he shouts and points behind the peninsula, blade driven into his ligament. His agony lost in the primal squall emanating from Gabriel, the other two suits held his body back from breaking through the restraints. Molly flung herself from around the counter and bolted for the double doors.
Blood gushed from Gabriel's lips as his voice splintered, abyssal eyes obsidian, echoing unbridled torment from four and four defiled furies demanding retribution for the heist of their humanity.
The suits were sent to ground as Gabriel tore free from the restraints, launching himself at the Doctor. The snake smiled, taking the arm of the terrified nurse at his side, and gently pulled her in front of him.
Her shriek turned guttural as Gabriel rends her lower jaw from her face, howls harmonized as he threw the flesh hewn mandible at the Doctor's feet. He went to ground with the writhing woman, open throat wrenched in his fist, ripping down the front of her neck from her trachea, stark white of her uniform lost to vermillion ferocity.
The Doctor held up a small key fob from his lab coat pocket and thumbed down a button.
Gabriel's cacophony collapsed.
He convulsed and crumpled,
complacent
convalescent
conditioned.
The sudden quiet was paralyzing. Molly stared in frantic horror as the Doctor turned and smiled with genuine compassion, an act of heresy against the nurse's jawbone sacrificed at the altar of his leather wingtipped caps, patent shined, oxidized iron and beeswax hail mary for frankincense and myrrh.
His arm stretched wide, hand waiting.
“Can't leave yet, Molly. We haven't checked your vitals.”
She barged the exit into the empty corridor as the two security guards found their footing, Gabriel's unearthly howls imprinted in the silence, flying under the emergency fluorescents as they flickered in warning;
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
In what unjust world am I in where I'm the first to comment on this??!
This was SPEC.TACULAR--oh my god!
!
Ducks, wha-what have you wrought?