L.L. Foster - The Kindred

“Crazy Crypts.”

“You guys aren’t real big on creative names, are you? I think you should be called Whiney Wimps.”

He coughed out a moaning complaint, and managed to say, “Bitch.”

“A bitch who kicked your sorry ass, huh?” After opening his jacket, Gaby retrieved an assortment of drugs and paraphernalia. Some of it she recognized; some she’d never seen before. “I’m not real up on this shit. What is it?”

Through a haze of pain, Bogg blinked at her. “It’s the popular stuff, woman. Crack, weed, meth.”

Gaby held up a pill between finger and thumb. “What about these?” A mixture of pills and tablets in pretty colors and shapes filled several plastic sandwich bags.

Not that long ago she’d been deliberately drugged by a psychopath, and Luther had been put at risk. Looking at the pills now, at any drugs really, set Gaby’s teeth on edge.

“Just ecstasy, speed, Viagra. I don’t know. I carry a lot of shit.” And almost bragging, he added, “Anything you need.”

“Like you actually think I’d ever need anything from you?” She snorted, but studied the pills again. “What’s Viagra do?”

He choked on an anguished laugh. “You don’t know Viagra? Shit, lady, where you been living?”

“In hiding, mostly.” Not that it was any of his business. “So what is it?”

He closed his eyes in an effort to control the physical torment of his injury. “You loopy cunt, the cops are coming. We’re all gonna be in trouble if we don’t get the fuck out of here.”

“Wrong.” Gaby checked the rest of his pockets and relieved him of a large roll of bills, a switchblade, and a lighter. “You’re a drug dealer, Bogg. I don’t like it that you exist, but I especially dislike it that you drew animals into your fucked-up dealings, and that you were here by the kids. What were you doing with that boy anyway?”

“Recruiting. Now get off me.”

When he started to rise, Gaby leaned on the knife again. Blood gurgled out around his wound, soaking his shirt and causing him to saw his perfect teeth together around a guttural, animal groan of pain. The fist on his good arm thumped the ground.

To her, his agony mattered not a whit. The animals had mattered. The kids mattered. That little girl’s aunt and uncle mattered.

This jerk did not.

“You’re not going anywhere, Bogg, so forget it. You get to greet the cops, but without me.”

“What the fuck do you care about any of this?”

“I don’t like you, Bogg. In fact, I loathe you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do.” Gaby rested her wrists on her knees, at her leisure. “You’re a miserable bully, a drug dealer, a murderer, and on top of that, you abuse animals. But it’s your lucky day.” She caught his chin and turned his head so he had to look at her. “Much as I’d like to, I won’t kill you.”

No, if she cut his throat like she wanted, Luther really would have a fit. And somehow, she just knew he’d find out. Luther might not possess her extraordinary abilities, but he had something almost as effective: a cop’s intuition and a golden aura of purity.

Bogg eyed her. “Glad to hear you don’t have killing on your mind.” He jerked his chin free of her hold and his look turned calculating. “Here’s the thing, baby girl—”

“I like that even less than bitch , so save it.”

“But I have a little over ten grand on me. How about we—”

Gaby interrupted the bribe. “Even though I’m going to let you live, I can’t take a chance that you’ll get away from the cops, that you’ll taint another animal or threaten another kid or”—she looked at him—“burn anyone else.”

He was quick to scoff at her accusation. “You can’t hang that rap on me.”

“Course not.” Gaby looked over his wounds, his lanky, strong body, and made a decision. “On second thought . . . I guess it’s not really your lucky day after all.”

She slid the knife free of his body, impervious to his raw, shuddering moan.

The dismal sky cast no shadows. Rustling wind agitated the abhorrent scents of fear, and stirred dead leaves that clung tenaciously to brittle, barren trees. An expectant hush poised in the rank air.

Being sure that she positioned herself in a way that shielded his body from the view of the young onlookers, Gaby pushed Bogg to his side and, without remorse, slashed the blade across the back of his right knee.

The knife sliced through skin, sinew, and tendons like warm butter, leaving behind a gaping, exposed wound. Bogg’s hysterical screams cleaved the silence, sending blackbirds into frantic flight and causing the crowd to back up a step.

Gaby eyed her handiwork and nodded to herself. Bogg wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Dropping his cash, Gaby let the bills flutter around his writhing body. She tossed the packets of pills between his legs, into a puddle of pooling blood. She glanced to the gun to make sure it was visible enough that the cops wouldn’t miss it.

One down, two to go.

No way would she let any of them walk, hobble, or even crawl away. They didn’t get the end she wanted to mete out, but they would get Luther’s form of justice. And if somehow the cops failed, well then, she’d be back.

But until then . . .

Bloody knife in her hand, Gaby stepped toward Tylek. In tangible horror, he tried to scramble away, but he didn’t get far. Flipping the knife around in her hand, Gaby again shielded her actions from the onlookers. With a nimble wrist, she slicked the blade across the back of both of his thighs, all but severing the muscles, definitely rendering the leg useless.

He went down like a rag doll in a soggy swamp of his own gushing blood.

J.J., that poor schmuck, still hadn’t stirred. Maybe she’d given him a concussion. Maybe he’d never revive.

Didn’t matter to Gaby.

Lifting his right foot, she cut his Achilles tendon, and even that didn’t bring him around.

Glancing up, she saw that the young Hispanic girl had remained nearby, watching in horror. All around her, festering carnage proved just how effective Gaby could be.

Trust her? Ha. The girl would hate her now. But at least she’d be a little safer, a little less threatened by the monsters that scoured the earth.

The scream of the sirens reverberated around the area; the cops were on the same street now, closing in.

Time to go.

And as Gaby turned, the girl stepped forward and raised a hand.

A simple wave—but for Gaby it felt like a harbinger of acceptance, maybe even . . . understanding.

Her arm burned and a thin trickle of blood exuded from the sleeve of her sweatshirt, down her wrist, and over the back of her hand. Her blood commingled with the blood of her victims still staining her knife.

She’d have a lot to deal with—later.

For now, she had to distance herself from the bloodbath. And fast.

Gaby weighed her options, and decided on heading up the street. Sprinting, she made the intersection in no time at all. But even as she fled, she again looked at that tattoo parlor. SIN ADDICTIONS.

She knew she’d be back.

In fact, a tattoo might be just what she needed to obscure the gunshot wound on her arm.

Mulling that over, she cut across the street, down an alley and through an old abandoned building, and emerged into another alley. Rats scrambled at her disruption. A crow took angry flight.

By the time the police parked at the playground, Gaby was far enough away that she could hear nothing beyond the low drone of distant sirens.

Being resourceful, she had no problem swiping a different sweatshirt, this one advertising some sports team. Using her old sweatshirt, she bandaged her arm the best she could with limited means.