Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

A lock turned on the other side of the door. Wyatt pushed. The tiny creature scrambled away and disappeared. I followed Wyatt into a haze of odor so thick my eyes watered. It felt heavy against my skin, like a fog of liquor fumes. I held my breath, but it did no good. The stink was everywhere, seeping into my pores, so strong I could taste it.

We stood on the upper balcony of a catwalk that overlooked a cavernous production area. To my left was a row of offices, the doors gone and glass broken out of every window. The open area below caught my immediate interest. Hundreds of gremlins scurried about on those multi level floors. Dozens of nests, made of cardboard and shredded debris, dotted nearly every available space. The din of their chatter and daily activity sounded like faint machine-gun fire—constant and sharp. Huge metal vats (likely old deep fryers) were filled with pools of amber liquid.

“They certainly took the term, ‘ piss pot’ to a literal level,” Wyatt said.

I snorted, but could not drum up laughter. The sight of so many Dregs in one place startled me. I had never seen such a gathering, nor been invited into the heart of this community. Whatever “Ballengee be blessed” meant, it worked to gain their trust.

“Why for come you?”

The tiny voice startled me. I spun around and nearly dropped the cheesecake. Barely twenty inches tall, an elderly gremlin gazed at us from the floor. Its long, apish arms and knob-kneed legs were wrinkled, with yellowish skin that seemed transparent in places. A round, distended belly hung low. Tall, rabbitlike ears stuck out from its oval-shaped head at perfect right angles, accented by tufts of green fur. More green fur covered the top of its flat head. The gremlin smiled, revealing two rows of tiny teeth in a mouth that seemed too small for the width of its head. Red eyes blinked, shifting from me to Wyatt.

“I would like to buy a favor,” Wyatt said.

The gremlin tilted its head, a very thoughtful (and human) gesture. “Payment?”

Wyatt nudged me. I opened the top of the box and squatted down. The gremlin peered into the box. A whistle of delight turned into a shriek, and it rubbed clawed hands together. I pulled the box away before the little critter could drool all over it.

“Favor?” it asked.

“A computer wipe,” Wyatt replied. “I need all traces and records for the name Chalice Frost erased. Every data source, every police file, all of it. After today, she doesn’t exist. We need paper copies of everything dropped at this address.”

“Chalice Frost,” it repeated. The tinny voice did not match its horrific appearance. It seemed better suited to a tiny human being than a creature of nightmare. It took a slip of paper from Wyatt. “Will done be. All is that?”

“That’s all, and I need it done in two hours.”

“Less.”

“Good.”

The gremlin extended its clawed hands toward me. I looked at Wyatt; he gestured toward the bakery box. I handed it over. The small creature grabbed it and hobbled off, probably to gorge its latest brood.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” Wyatt said.

“How do you know it will keep its part of the deal?”

“How did you know before that Max wouldn’t spill his guts?”

“Point taken.”

Gremlins don’t understand deception. It’s a very human trait. For many of the Dregs, especially those who are more animal than others, things simply are. Gremlins need food. In return for food they don’t have to steal themselves, they will grant a favor. It doesn’t even occur to them to not hold up their end.

I followed him across the balcony, back toward the stairwell. “Too bad human beings aren’t more like gremlins,” I said. “Then we probably wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I hear that.”

“So Chalice is almost taken care of.” My voice echoed around us, and I reminded myself to whisper. “What’s our next step, O Great Mastermind? Max was a dead end. Any other suspects on the list of people present the night I died?”

Wyatt stopped on the steps; I grabbed the rail to halt my own forward movement and avoid knocking him down to the next landing. He tugged back the sleeve of his shirt, twisting his wrist to check his watch. The glowing face lit up with the time—barely after ten. I watched the seconds click by, ticking away the last few days of my life. One, two, three seconds that I would never get back.

“I think it’s been long enough,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Long enough for what?”

He turned his head and looked up at me. Something hard and angry flickered in his eyes. “To talk to Rufus.”

Rufus St. James was Wyatt’s mirror opposite. Another well-known Handler, Rufus exuded the patience and understanding of a wizened gnome lord, and was slower to anger than any human being I’d ever met. His Triad was as elusive as mine had been infamous, preferring stealth and secrecy to a reputation as swift dealers of punishment. Probably why they were still alive, and we were all (technically) dead.

Wyatt took us to the east side of Mercy’s Lot, far beyond the last of the apartment buildings and row homes. I considered asking where the hell we were meeting Rufus, but the hard line of Wyatt’s jaw (he was going to break his teeth one of these days) kept me silent. His path took us to the weedy parking lot of an abandoned fast-food restaurant. An empty strip mall occupied the other half of the lot, every storefront covered with graffiti. The sounds of the city seemed so far away from this ghostly part of town. Oddly stronger, though, were the lingering threads of static that still tickled the edges of my senses.

He parked around back, careful to obscure his car from passing motorists. Judging by the potholes we’d hit, I doubted many people ventured into this area, especially after dark. It felt like the perfect Halfie feeding ground.

A brand-new padlock secured the rear exit of the restaurant. Wyatt produced a key and let us inside. Faint odors of stale grease and humid air made me sneeze. I followed Wyatt through a dusty, grimy kitchen, toward a huge, walk-in refrigerator.

“Why are we meeting Rufus here?” I finally ventured to ask.

Wyatt looked at me over his shoulder. “Because this is where I put him.”

I gaped at the refrigerator, noticing for the first time that the temperature controls were set to forty degrees Fahrenheit. Wyatt had kidnapped a fellow Handler and held him in an industrial fridge? More than unexpected, the realization was downright horrifying.

Hear that, Chalice? This is the guy you’re so keen to sleep with .

Wyatt tugged the handle. The door squealed open. Cold air wafted around my ankles, sending gooseflesh tickling across the backs of my legs. I didn’t want to look, but felt compelled to follow. If Wyatt had Rufus locked up in a fridge, he had a good reason for it. I refused to believe that Wyatt had completely lost his grip on reality.

Rufus sat in the center of the room, legs tucked oddly beneath him so that his ass rested on his shoes rather than the cold floor. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and held both arms tightly around his waist. His pale skin was nearly translucent, contrasting harshly with his strawberry blond hair. Freckles dotted his face and neck like pockmarks. He shivered so continuously, he appeared to vibrate. I saw no chains, no restraints holding him in place. Bright hazel eyes glared first at Wyatt, then at me.

I didn’t dare speak. Rufus didn’t seem to have the strength. For a moment, the gentle thrum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room.

“Ready to talk now?” Wyatt asked. “Or do you need a few more hours to chill?”

The pun fell flat, and I could have punched him for even uttering it. Rufus ignored him, his attention still on me, trying to puzzle me out. Unlike Wyatt, Rufus was a powerless Handler, known more for his extreme intelligence and tactical mind. He was measuring his chances, observing his situation. Considering the latest unknown variable: me.