Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

“Too bad you need both hands for crawling,” I said. “We could use some sunshine in here.”

“Next time, I’ll be sure to ask the sprites for a flashlight.”

“And a bottle of water. I think I’ve swallowed enough dust to shit a brick later.”

Wyatt started laughing. The sound echoed, painfully loud, but it was contagious. I found myself giggling as I limped along on hands and knees, waiting for that elusive light at the end of the tunnel. The kind I was prepared to follow.

It appeared, as if out of nowhere, twenty minutes later. I blinked, sure I was hallucinating. But it seemed to get larger the closer I got, and I realized soon that I could see my hands in front of my eyes.

“Finally,” I muttered.

“Go quietly, Evy. We don’t know where we are.”

I swallowed a “Duh,” and plodded along. Every breath seemed too loud, every heartbeat like thunder. The tunnel never widened. The light remained steady, its yellow glare marred by a black pattern. Something was in front of the exit. A bush, maybe?

The refreshing coolness of moving air whispered across my cheeks. I inhaled deeply, savoring the sweetness. Anything was better than the damp, basement air we’d been breathing for two hours. Then I became aware of something else new. Music thrummed all around us, a steady rock beat that was all sound and no words. Dance music. Strange for that hour of the morning.

And it wasn’t a bush that covered the tunnel exit; it was a wire-mesh grate. I scooted closer and squinted out. We were in a weed-filled ditch, half lit by the cloudy morning sun. The pulsing music came from somewhere behind—probably a nightclub that never closed. I smelled cigarettes and gasoline and exhaust. Definitely near the parking lot.

I pushed at the grate, and it gave without hesitation. I moved it only a few inches at first, then stopped and listened, but heard no voices or footsteps. I pushed it a bit more. Still nothing, so I pushed until I could slide through, into the dry ditch bed. I peeked out, expecting a red-feathered dart at any moment.

The ditch did, indeed, border a nightclub parking lot. T.D.’s was a popular joint, more because guys got a kick out of saying the name than for its class or dollar-per-beer value. The other two sides of the parking lot butted up against the bare brick sides of other buildings. The only street access was from an alley between T.D.’s and its neighbor. I knew the place.

“We’re in the Lot,” I said.

I scuttled farther down the ditch so Wyatt could climb out. The sky was overcast and threatening rain. Moisture hung in the air like a damp sweater. Once Wyatt was by my side, we made a mad dash for the nearest parked car.

“I think I know where we are,” Wyatt whispered. “Rufus’s apartment is six blocks from here.”

“Won’t they be watching it?”

“They who?”

“Any they. The Triads or the Halfies?”

“The Triads won’t watch it; they won’t see the need with Rufus in the hospital. If he wants to contact us, that’s probably our best way.”

“What about the Halfies?”

“They left him for dead.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

He turned his head, winked. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Smart-ass. Let’s go, then. If nothing else, we can clean up. You have dirt all over you.”

“You were rolling in it, too, you know.”

We hit the ground running and made it into the shadows of the alley without notice. Each step raised my anxiety level a fraction. This part of the city came alive after dark, but daytime saw just as much activity. Even the back alleys and side streets received heavy foot traffic—mostly teenagers keen on skipping school and young adults who couldn’t afford college. We probably blended right in.

No one paid us any mind, not really. But every time someone’s eyes acknowledged me, I cringed and expected attack. When you don’t know who your friends are, anyone can be an enemy.

I counted the blocks. After six, Wyatt turned us toward a stinking, rotting alley that ran next to a seven-story brick apartment complex. One of the low-rent styles with one fire escape per floor, no balconies, and bars on all the windows. He found a back door with no outside knob. It was locked tight.

“It’s hard to pick a lock without a lock to pick,” I said.

“Want a lock?” He held his hand out, palm up, and closed his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The air above his hand swirled and crackled. He was summoning something. A lump of black metal materialized. He opened his eyes, face pale, and held up the object.

It was the door’s locking mechanism.

“Have I said lately you have a pretty cool power?” I asked.

He grinned and pocketed the lock, then nudged the door. It creaked open without protest. He led me into the bowels of the tenement, through a dank hallway to service stairs that reeked of sweat and urine. I was careful to not touch anything on our ascent, horrified by the vile substances that seemed to coat the railings and walls. Rufus St. James wasn’t well paid as a Handler, but certainly he could afford nicer digs than this dump.

Wyatt peeked out into the fifth floor, then waved me forward. Stark walls of ivory-painted cement blocks proved no homier than the outside of the building. The hallway was bare concrete, the doors a heavy, gray metal. A television blasted a laugh track as we passed one door. Several more apartments went by until he stopped in front of 512.

“You going to summon a key, too?” I whispered.

Turned out we didn’t need one. The apartment door swung open, and we found ourselves staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Across the length of it, past the sight and the arm holding it at shoulder level, I recognized the brown hair and deadly eyes.

“Look what I caught,” said Nadia, the last surviving member of Rufus’s Triad.

Wyatt groaned. “God—”

“—dammit,” I finished.

16:05

The standoff lasted the space of a breath, then Nadia lowered the shotgun. Her coffee-colored eyes darted to the hall behind us, searching. She stepped back and cocked her head. “He is waiting for you,” she said.

“Who is?” I asked.

“Rufus, idiot.” Her disdain was palpable. She pointed the muzzle of her weapon toward the interior of the apartment. “Go on, then.”

Not quite the welcome of Kings, but she didn’t shoot us on the spot. I walked down a short entry hall that smelled like tomato soup and bleach—two cloying and somewhat nauseating odors. The hall opened into a surprisingly spacious living room/kitchen combo. Plain roman shades covered both windows in the living space, and the sofa had been pushed up against the shared wall. Light flared down from a single overhead fixture.

Rufus lounged in a wheelchair parked next to a small wooden side table. His left shoulder was in a sling. Bloodstained bandages poked out beneath his unbuttoned shirt. He was pale, with dark circles lining both eyes, and he was sweating like a junkie long overdue for his next score.

“Jesus, Rufus,” Wyatt said. He scooted past me and approached his old friend. “Why aren’t you in the hospital?”

“Not safe,” he replied, slurring his words. Nadia had him hopped up on something. “Halfies followed me to finish the job.”

Nadia swooped past me and knelt next to Rufus, shotgun across her lap, protecting her Handler. She continued to glare at me with open suspicion, so I glared right back. She had nothing to fear from me unless she got in my way.

“He insisted we come here,” Nadia said, her faint accent sharpening her S’s and R’s. “I told him it was not safe, but he is stubborn. He said you would know to find him here, so here he must stay.”