Aphrodite's War (9 page)

Out loud she said, “Where did I put my bag?”
Right. On the Formica countertop in the kitchen.

Poetry wasn’t sure which she found more disturbing, the drone of her
lonely footsteps on the linoleum or the dry crackle they caused.
Better get used to it, she thought. Going to hear a lot of it from now
on.
She unzipped her luggage and rummaged through her cache of
possessions. Kevin didn’t leave her much.

A few cups and plates made it, as well as her hodge-podge of Value
Village cutlery. Some clothes had escaped his wrath, but most were
ripped or too smoke damaged to keep. She still had a few bingo daubers.

She stopped to use the pink one in the bathroom mirror, just to cheer
herself up. Some color in her hair always brightened her mood.

Poetry had salvaged most of her fasteners and beads in an empty
margarine container. She’d spent over an hour in the old place picking
them out of the carpet.

She’d need bedding. And clean underwear. A trip to her parent’s house
couldn’t be avoided. If she didn’t she’d have to sleep without pillows or
sheets.

Just thinking about it caused Poetry’s skin to crawl with an imagined
itch.

That decided it. She grabbed her keys and opened the door.
She paused. What was that smell?

A floral scent wrinkled her nose. Roses to be exact. But so much
more... The aroma persuaded her to remember shy company, a warm
night with a whispering summer breeze. And shrimp po’ boys.

Poetry looked down to find a single plum colored rose. She bent to
pluck it from the step, ran her fingers along the soft petals as she inhaled
the fragrance.

Still fresh. Almost exactly the same as the rose from Louisiana
Purchase. Where did it come from?
A chill tingled her spine. More importantly, how did it get there? She
hadn’t heard footsteps or knocking.
Poetry almost tripped in her rush to reach the bottom landing. She
ripped the closet door open and raced through the office.
Nothing.

“Hello? Anyone here?” She listened with strained ears as the words
died. Only her thudding heartbeat sounded. Everything appeared to be
undisturbed.

“Anybody?” She heard desperation in her voice.
Frightening questions whirled through her mind. Did Kevin get out
already? Did he know about her dinner with Adrian?
Was he jealous?

“Ow!” Poetry dropped the rose she’d clenched between her fingers. A
drop of crimson appeared on the palm of her hand. She licked the
metallic spot of blood and tried to calm down. It wasn’t like her to be a
scaredy cat. There had to be a logical explanation for this.

Kevin didn’t send her the rose, she decided. He’d never given her
flowers before, why start now? So who did? How did they find her?

She thought of the golden-haired man with the flower basket. And
Adrian. Maybe it was one of them. But if so, how did they know where
she lived?

Poetry shook the creepiness off her shoulders. Whoever it was, she
felt certain they weren’t here now. The atmosphere seemed hollow
somehow. But still…

She wanted air. Open spaces. Great idea.
She darted between the tables and forced herself to walk calmly until
she found the exit. She would not succumb to paranoia, however
justified.

# # #

Rows of taillights flared in the night like demon eyes. Strife traveled
in the passenger seat of a pickup truck belonging to the same beer
drinker she’d converted yesterday.

Dave, as she’d learned his name to be, became a valuable ally. If
Strife believed in unlikely coincidences, this qualified as truly
serendipitous. Without the retired city worker’s help, she couldn’t fully
realize the next phase of her plan. Almost the entire population of Grey
drove alongside them, a juggernaut of diesel and steel bearing down on
an unsuspecting city like a swarm of ants.

She recalled the events of the day. The morning’s murder preceded a
clumsy investigation. Then she’d poisoned the minds of the locals with
Apple Jack and distorted tales. Only when she’d created a hum of anger
did she sneak back to her room to mix her potions. She’d recruited Max
and other regulars to rally the residents of Grey to her cause. Her
memory drifted to a few hours prior in Max’s tavern.

She’d balanced high above the throng, sweating in the humidity their
crowded bodies created. Even now she could still smell their adrenalinesharpened body odor.

“The enemy has stolen past us in the night like a wraith. They have
taken one of our own, attacked a defenseless woman and violated her
body. Do we allow such cowardice go unanswered? Do we stand by and
watch while mincing pretenders steal through our ranks like slithering
vermin? Who will be next?”

A deafening roar of rage nearly toppled Strife from her pulpit on the
rickety table. The power of their angst gave her a rush.

Behind her, various plastered volunteers poured apple juice and
whiskey into tumblers. Strife had whipped up a double batch of her
special cinnamon and made certain they topped each cocktail with it.

“Do we sit idly by, and let them take us?” she asked.
“No!” The resounding negative bruised her eardrums.

“Do we lay low and allow them to taint our way of life with their
filth?”
“No!”

“The justice system punishes the innocent and pacifies the guilty. I
say we show them their degradations and blasphemies will not be
tolerated.”

She focused on the passion and misguided sense of self-entitlement
and absorbed its crescendo.

“Who’s with me?” She pumped her fist in the air. To her delight, the
crowd demonstrated its solidarity, imitating her challenging gesture
along with blood-searing screams of hate.

“Citizens of Grey,” She hushed her voice until they crowded like
livestock to hear. “It is time to load your weapons and gather your
courage. Tonight, we bring the battle to them.”

The rambunctious cheer that arose swelled her bitter heart. Even now
Strife replayed the scene over and over in her mind. Agamemnon would
have been proud.

She jerked back to the present as Dave decreased their speed. He
signaled a lane change and exchanged friendly waves with the convoy as
they zoomed past.

“Is this our turn already?” Strife asked.
“Yep,” Dave nodded. “Just a few miles down.”

“Perfect.” Strife tasted the grit in her teeth as she smiled. Now the real
fun would begin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“It stinks here.” Strife pinched her nose as her eyes watered. Human
feces. Nothing else reminded her so much of filth and disease.

“That would be the sewage treatment facility a click or so away,” Dave
said. They stood before several massive tanks painted red and white,
connected together with a squat metal hut. Dave jerked his head
northward.

“What we want is the reservoir.” He shifted a full pail to the other
arm.
“Don’t drop that,” she said, anxiety spilling through her voice. “Those
are potent chemicals.”

A look of annoyance creased Dave’s brow. “I got it, I got it. They’re
also heavy.” He punctuated the comment by kneading his bicep. “The
stairs are over here.”

She held out a compliant hand. “Lead the way.”
He eyed her with irritation, which she ignored. He seized his burden
and directed his attention to a dirt path.

“This will take us to the back door.”
“For which you still have a key, right?”

“Yep.” Strife hated the way he used that word. He sounded like a
yokel. “They trusted me. I worked here thirty years.”

Strife detected pride in his speech, but apparently there wasn’t enough
of it. Convincing him to use his knowledge for sabotage had been
effortless. A little alcoholic persuasion and he quickly betrayed his
employer of three decades, not to mention the city itself.

I love my job. This kind of clandestine adventure suited Strife well.
Crickets gossiped in the summer stillness. She followed Dave’s
footsteps as he swished through long silken grasses that tickled her bare
legs, biting down on screams when the long body of an occasional locust
bounced against her knee.

How much farther?

She gazed toward the indigo sky, searching for constellations. She
longed to see the twinkling symbols of her brethren, but the honeyed
glow of the city diluted them to pale dots.

“We’re here,” Dave said. He pointed to a rickety building pocked with
rust. Rivers of brown ran down the sides. “These stairs are a little old, so
watch your step.”

Strife’s mouth was dry. In her zeal she’d forgotten food and drink.
Even now, with the clank of Dave’s footfalls echoing on steel steps, she
dismissed the need. Hatred and pain were sustenance enough, with a
feast to come.

She hurried behind him and together their climb rang out like bells in
the night.
“Almost there,” Dave said between wheezes. “Just a little further.”
If you don’t collapse first, Strife thought, but kept her remarks to
herself, even if it meant biting back her impatience.

From here she could see the highway light up like a Christmas ribbon
in gold and red. Strife stretched her lips. No one could see them up here,
but they were poised to change lives and disrupt civilization.

“Ahhhh.” Dave eased the plastic pail down to the metal grid. He
flexed his creaking knuckles, rotating and rubbing his arms.
She gave him her full attention, nearly tripping herself on the last
step. Dave hunched over, his shoulders heaving.

“Is this it?” she asked.
“Yep,” Dave huffed oxygen and produced a chunky set of metal
fingers from his jacket, choosing an ordinary silver one indistinguishable
from the others.

“This is the place.” He jabbed the key in the knob. “The city’s water
treatment happens here.” The steel door resisted one moment before
jerking open.

“Perfect.” Strife let the old-timer catch his breath while she found the
light switch. A loud clunk introduced a fluorescent glare that did nothing
to flatter the surroundings.

Water stains striped the walls in the anemic glow. Rust and mold
dusted the corners. The odor wasn’t any better than outside. Instead of
shit it reeked of rotting vegetation and mildew. Strife could almost taste
the decay in the air.

“Reservoir’s over here,” Dave said.
“How did you stand the stench for three whole decades?”
Dave chuckled. “I guess you get use to it.”

“Smells like the Parisian catacombs,” she said. “I never got used to
those.”
“The what now?”

“In Paris they have underground tunnels where they kept their dead
when they had no more room for them.” Strife couldn’t help but smile
when a shudder rippled across Dave’s back even though it brought back
bad memories for her.

As an alchemist and a plague survivor Strife did a booming business
selling the cure. But when her expensive potions and tinctures did
nothing to help them, the villagers rallied against her. Who knew they
would survive to prosecute her? They’d accused her of heresy and
witchcraft and she’d been reduced to hiding amongst the dead.

Those times would forever haunt her.
Sometimes she dreamed of the endless rows of corpses, still heard the
squeaking of the rats and the subtle grind of their tiny teeth against bone.
It angered her. She dealt death. She did not sleep with it.

Irony and bitterness dogged her as she examined the technology that
had made that disease a nightmare of the past. It certainly took humans
long enough to learn how cleanliness destroys the pathogens that live in
sewage and dirty water.

Tonight she would receive a measure of revenge against mankind for
those years spent living like a rodent. She would use subtlety and skill to
topple first a city, then a nation.

“Here it is.”
She barely heard them over the roar of running water but those words
snapped Strife back to the present.

“What?” She joined Dave at a railing. “Where?”
“Straight below us.”

Strife gripped the slick steel of the banister. Her instrument of
vengeance pooled below.
“Could we get closer?”

“Sure, right this way.” Dave led her to a bridge. Mist pelted them
from the clean churning water and Strife licked it from her dry lips with
pleasure.

“Is this close enough?”

“This will do,” she said. She popped the lid off the plastic canola oil
drum. The bluish-green powder reminded Strife of sea foam…and
Aphrodite.

This one’s for you, bitch.
She heaved it, and watched as the crystals flowed into the clear pool,
causing a ripple of turquoise to fan out like abstract watercolors. The
seductive scent of Monkshood drifted.

“It’s kind of pretty,” Dave said. “What will it do?”

“Not much. It should create a sort of angry paranoia for anyone who
drinks it. Destructive behaviors. There’ll be other side effects as well,
like fever and increased heart rate.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I
wasn’t exact. Didn’t have time.”

She studied the deepening furrow in Dave’s brow. Strife sensed
second thoughts. Not her concern. “How do we get down from here?”
“Uh, over here,” Dave led her down a different set of stairs. These
paralleled the treated water.
Upon reaching the ground floor, he fell in step beside Strife. “Can I
ask you something?” His face creased in worry. “What’s in that stuff?”

“Some household chemicals, a little belladonna, a little draco leaf, a
lot of coca…” She grinned at Dave. “It’s the basis of cocaine, believed
by ancient Peruvians to inspire humans to go to war.”

They prowled along the quieting pools, toward the exit. And Strife
gloried in the tension and doubt now emitting from Dave.
“Oh yes,” Strife said ticking off an imaginary point in the air with her
finger. “And some old-fashioned magick. Can you swim?”

“What? I…”
With a single shove, Strife dumped Dave into the deep water.

He came up sputtering. “What the hell are you doing?” The senior
floundered at first, but once he regained his composure he paddled to
grip the concrete edge of safety. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Oops, sorry.” Strife bent over to reach for him. “That was an
accident. I meant to do this.”

She grasped the top of Dave’s balding head with both hands and
plunged him downward. She sighed, counting the seconds as he tore at
her arms. He still had some fight left.