DEAD: Confrontation (39 page)

I tried to cry again…but nothing happened. And even more interesting, my claws didn’t come out. I couldn’t muster the tin
iest bit of anger over the lack of reaction that my possible disappearance had created…or not created?

Finally, darkness fell and I ventured out of my little closet.  I went into SEEK mode just to get an idea of what everybody around me was up to. It turned out to be a whole lot of nothing. 

It was weird. In my neighborhood, women didn’t just go out for a casual stroll. In fact, any female out wandering the streets around these parts is either apparently looking to score drugs or turn tricks. Now, in my defense, I was not really aware of those facts when I left my apartment.

I heard a few “Hey, baby!” and “How much?” comments along with a laundry list of non-prescriptions available for “re
asonable prices” or an exchange of services.  Half I’ve never heard of and a quarter that I don’t believe are actually possible.  (The services, not the drugs.) The drugs I’d mostly heard of from the high school kids that live in the complex.

So…you ever go to the mall and wander around for no re
ason? What am I saying…of course you have. Anyways, you walk past the food court and you aren’t even thinking about food. Then…you see all those neon lights and perfectly placed display pictures that show burgers with a thick slice of tomato that has a curious beading of moisture even though it is jutting out from a bun that has oddly symmetrical sesame seeds seductively toasted to a perfect shade of tan. You totally weren’t hungry. Yet, before you know it, you’ve got a hubcap-sized cinnamon roll, a triple latte, and a bag of jelly beans in every flavor known to man, woman, or beast.

Apparently, people who are dying—whether it is from the slow poison of drugs and alcohol or the silent killers Hep C, AIDS, or an undiscovered, soon-to-blow aneurism—are like g
iant crock pots giving off the scents of simmering goodness.  Normal people who bustle past those undesirable folks who wander the streets of the city have no idea how much death or near-death they brush past every single day. 

It might surprise you that, of the newspapers that still actua
lly print obituaries, only a small percent of the people who die each day are given a mention. First off, somebody has to care enough to tell the voice message of whatever poor sap is assigned the thankless job of writing them.

Let me take a moment to make a point. How many of you actually know the names of your neighbors? On both sides?  Now…a step further. What about the person two doors away?  See what I mean? I’m just as guilty. I mean, I knew faces, and sometimes I would realize that I hadn’t seen a particular face for a while. Not that I ever followed up on where he or she or they disappeared to. They were usually replaced by a new person that I wouldn’t ever know.

The fact that I’d not been seen or heard from in three days and nobody noticed was an introduction to just how easy it is for people to go missing without it mattering. And that’s when I realized that I’d never go hungry. Sorry…I just went full-blown activist for a moment there; back to my walk.

I was amazed at the sights and smells. And even stranger, I couldn’t smell body odor or people’s woodstoves and fireplaces.  I could smell the dead and dying. At the moment it was just the dying. That’s when I passed by a couple of regular old garbage cans. As a former self-professed chocaholic, I could almost tell you just how dark or milky a chocolate was by smell.

Coming from those garbage cans was the most sugary sweet smell I’d ever experienced. I mean I wasn’t even a little bit hungry…I guess from the previous night’s wino. Still, there I was digging through the coffee grounds, empty cans, eggshells, and razor blade cartridges.

A baby.

No! I didn’t eat it. I’m a ghoul, not some sort of mindless eating machine. Well…unless my hunger reaches a certain point apparently, but that is a story for another time. The tiny thing was blue from cold, but my senses told me it was still alive.

I scooped up the poor thing and loped (I know! It’s crazy.  Ghouls don’t really run…we lope) to a nearby gas station. I think the young man behind the register made dirty in his unde
rpants. Yep.  I forgot all about my eyes…the whole ‘all black’ thing. That along with my primer-gray skin tone and the fact that the yummy smell had made my teeth go all Bruce-the-Great-White-Shark.

“I found this in a garbage can.”

At least that’s what I tried to say.  Ghouls can’t talk when their teeth drop and the jaw widens. Who knew! I imagine it sounded more like
grggh-mmph-shrush-grnglz
. The kid did something fairly predictable. He fainted.

Fortunately, I spent eight months in a job just like this. So, I ripped the vest off of Mister Sleepy and wrapped up the babe.  I tucked it in the kid’s armpit and moved the little plug-in heater close enough to keep the infant warm. Next, I went to the backroom, snapped off the doorknob and took the digital video recorder. (Wow.  It was a VHS back in my day.) Then I flipped the phone off the hook with my claw. Oh…didn’t I mention that I was very angry? Why? Are you asking me why? Seriously?  The whole finding the baby in the garbage can thing…hello? So I dialed 911 and then I split. It was the best I could do. (Good news…the next day…on the television…Mister Sleepy was ge
tting the hero treatment and the baby was reported as “recovering nicely” in a local hospital.)

Once that little chore was handled, I went back to the scene of the crime. I wasn’t an expert, but the fact that the little baby wasn’t dead meant whoever (Is it ‘whoever’ or ‘whomever’? I never know which one to use) had done such a terrible thing should be close. Well…unless it’d been some sort of drive-by ordeal. But at the time, I was fairly certain in my belief that the responsible party was near.  Standing in the shadows, I went into SEEK mode.

“…can’t stop the crying, I’ll give you a reason…”

Bingo

Something told me that I’d found what I was looking for.  Now I got my first chance to practice a couple of those skills that I’d unwittingly discovered I possessed. I kept my focus on that voice and locked on to the blood trail.

“…don’t think I’m supposed to bleed like this.”

“Have a lot of experience squirtin’ out babies, do ya?”

“Well…no…but—”

“Just put on an extra pad and quit’cher damn blubberin’.”

I
so
didn’t like this guy.

“I still don’t know why we couldn’t have taken the baby to a church or hospital,” the female voice managed through sobs.

“And answer a bunch of questions? Probably end up talkin’ to the cops? How you think that ends up?” Hating him more every second.  “Or maybe you
want
the cops to take me in.”

“No, Greg,” the girl whimpered.

I’d found them. It was one of those pay-as-you-stay hotels.  Or is it motel? I never really knew the difference. Anyways, they were on the ground floor and towards the back. A few of the units had the soft glow from a lamp shining in the window.  Not a single one had their curtains open even a crack. I fought to maintain my focus, but I was getting bleed over from nearby rooms. Great…it was like scanning a porn channel.

Thankfully, once I was right outside the door, I could keep out everything but the couple…or as I was coming to think of them…dinner.

“…at least put him on somebody’s porch and rang the bell or something?”

“It’s done, Lisa!” Greg-the-bastard snapped.

I heard more crying start up. A few seconds later, the television clicked on. The inane chatter and yelling in those stomach churning voices told me that they were watching that ridiculous
Jersey Shore
show. That was the last straw… somebody had to die.

I tried the doorknob. No surprise, it was locked.  Plan B.  I knocked. I heard the blessed muting of the television and a bit of scuffled movement.

“Keep your ass in the bathroom,” Greg-the-bastard whispered. Too bad for him that I have this freakish hearing.  I actually felt him lean his body against the other side of the door. Remembering my eyes…and teeth, I dropped my chin and let my hair fall down into my face a bit.  “Who is it?”

Crap. I just realized I can’t talk when I’m rocking the shark mouth! I made a garbled, slurring noise and hoped that maybe I sounded like a junkie or a drunk. If I guessed correctly…

The sound of a lock being turned was quickly followed by a door being yanked open.  How I love it when I’m right.

“What the fu—”

My head popped up and his voice just simply stopped. I reached out and grabbed him by the throat before he could finish peeing his pants.
What is it with people and their bodily functions around me?
My claws sank into the flesh of his throat and I had no problem stepping into the room and shutting the door with my foot.

By now, Greg was flopping and jerking like a fish on a hook just pulled onto the dock. It made me briefly remember back to when I was a little girl. My dad’s idea of a father-daughter ou
ting was a trip to a river where we would spend the day not talking while holding a pole with a line in the water, waiting for a fish to bite. How come I hated that so much, but when he died of a heart attack shortly after I turned fourteen, I missed it so much? Hmm…

But back to Greg. As his blood gushed from the holes in his throat, he began to smell like fresh baked bread.  I’m pretty sure I started to drool. Then he did that jitterbug shake and went limp in my grasp.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

At some point I sat down at the foot of the bed to enjoy my meal. I was ‘gurging up socks, pants, tenny runners and unde
rpants when I heard the muffled shriek followed by the thud. It seems that Lisa had poked her head out of the bathroom and promptly fainted. She wasn’t dead…just…resting. I went back to eating.

After I finished, I went over to the prone figure sprawled on the stained and over worn carpet. I felt my mouth changing back and my claws were retracting, which got me to wondering. I guess I wasn’t hungry or mad anymore.

I took a good look at the girl I’d laid on the bed. She seemed awfully young. I began poking around the room and eventually found her purse. A driver’s license! Ah-ha!

Lisa Jenkins. The girl in the picture had that I-just-passed-my-driver’s-test grin on her face. Her sandy blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked every bit the age of seventeen. The girl sprawled on the bed was sporting a bad dye job. The unnaturally red hair was in need of washing, and the face had grime in some of the creases around the eyes and where the dimples poked in around her cheeks.  But under all of that, I could see hints of the seventeen-year-old in the picture.

Then I found the wallet belonging to the currently-digesting-in-my-belly Greg Pitts. Well, well…it seems Greggy-poo was forty-one. Now isn’t
that
special. Things were starting to get clearer.

I went into the bathroom and washed my hands and face.  The shark mouth and the claws were gone, but the icky skin tone—slate gray—and the scary black orbs where my eyes should be were still a problem. Wait! I’d seen something on the nightstand. I hurried over and scooped the dark sunglasses up and put them on. Next, I dimmed the lights and then sat down on the ratty, burnt-orange chair beside the bed and waited.

After about an hour, Lisa began to stir. She rolled onto her side facing away from me and I heard her yawn. After a little stretching, she eased onto her back again. She must’ve thought it’d all been just a bad dream.

Then she saw me.

“Please don’t scream,” I said, trying my best to sound as unthreatening and non-ghoulish as possible.

“Y-y-you…b-but—”

“I can explain.”
I can?
“But you need to calm down and not get crazy.”

“W-where’s Greg?”

“Ummm…” I wasn’t stammering like her, but all of a sudden, I was the one tongue tied.

“Take off his glasses.” Lisa was struggling to sit up. Just a hint of attitude was poking through the surface.

“You probably don’t want me to do that,” I cautioned, folding my hands in my lap.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

“I’m the one who found a baby in a trash can last night,” I snapped, cutting her off. Great, I could feel my fingertips and toes starting to tingle. 
Deep breath, Ava. Wait…do I breathe?
I pressed my lips together and glared daggers through the dark lenses of the sunglasses. I held my breath and counted. When I hit twenty without feeling anything, I distracted my anger by marveling at my lack of need when it came to respiration.  Meanwhile, Lisa was building up a new head of indignant steam.

“…saw you doing
something
to Greg. But your face and your hands…” She was trying very hard to reconcile in her mind something she knew for certain that she could not have possible seen.

“So what are you gonna do?” I blurted. “Call the cops?”

Her face changed.
Ha!
I thought. 
Gotcha there, Little-Miss-Smartypants
. She was caught and I was certain she knew it.

“Look,” I tried to sound pleasant, “I don’t know why you are worried about Greg. He sounded pretty much like a total jerk. And I’m guessing that he was the father of your baby. Last I checked…that makes him a bit of a pedophile. Actually, scratch that whole ‘bit’ part; that is sort of an all-or-nothing deal.  And, if you carried that baby anything close to full-term, you got knocked up at sixteen.
That’s
why he didn’t want you going to a hospital.”