Scarla (16 page)

She grabbed a pair of shiny forceps. It was a start. Her midsection hurt like hell and she wondered if her stomach lining was punctured. She reached down between her legs, clasped the shaft with the forceps, squeezed it hard. It flushed red, bulging like a balloon about to burst. She looked for something sharp.
Some girls paid a lot of money for this.
She almost laughed, grabbing a heavy duty bone saw with her free hand.
Thanks for the memories, sexy.
She lowered the blade, sliced, and was blasted by excruciating pain, the likes of which she’d never felt in her life. She dropped the instruments, threw her head back, screamed at the top of her lungs. A geyser of blood gushed from the stump where Smith’s dick used to be.
It bit her.
The fucking thing took a bite of her and was still latched on, somewhere inside. Not only did it not die as planned, it was severed clean and
lost.
She scrambled off the table in a panic and fell, taking the instruments with her. The indescribable pain rocked her again, and she curled into a fetal position on the floor, shaking uncontrollably. She vomited thick bile, heaving violently, unable to stop. For a moment, she thought she might hack the damn thing up. Instead it bit again, trying to devour her from the inside out. She screamed and writhed, went into a seizure. She felt it thrashing in her abdomen, selecting only the choicest cuts. She remained conscious and tried to stay calm, though her muscle control was going south fast. Her eyes combed the scattered surgical instruments for anything helpful, while the Ray Smith fountain on the table steadily rained bright red. Needles, knives, probes, saws, shears, scissors, and there it was …
the curette.
Long and spoon-shaped with a sharp edge, it was used in cleaning procedures, including abortions.
Perfect.
She crawled for it, flopping like a dying fish, her twitching hand sloshing through the blood, trying to grip the slippery steel handle. The thing inside bit again and she felt her stomach flush hot. Internal bleeding. She grabbed a bloody towel, wrung it out, stretched it tight. She pushed it into her mouth and knotted it behind her head, to keep from swallowing her tongue. It was do or die time.

She laid back on the floor and spread her legs wide, propping her feet up on the Chief, digging her boot heels into his back for traction. She white-knuckled the curette with both hands, arms lurching uncontrollably, felt the thing shift in her belly—
to the left—
and plunged the instrument deep between her legs. The stainless steel was like ice, but her pussy had gotten used to cold in the last six months and the lab was so arctic she couldn’t feel her face, so it didn’t bother her much. She felt the thing race around, swirling, kicking, pummeling her organs in a vain attempt to escape the
scrape.
She pushed the curette deeper, pivoted around, biting the towel hard, banging her head on the concrete as she convulsed. It felt like she was goring out her insides, chasing it in circles, until her hands spasmed involuntarily and she jerked the scraper up, hooking the little monster. It writhed violently and she knew she had it, carefully extracting the curette until its bloody bulbous head appeared. Her seizing eased and she struggled to sit up, staring at it. It hung limp, impaled just under its fleshy helmet. She wondered if it was dead when it suddenly hissed, bucking wildly on the end of its stake. She yanked it out, threw it at the wall, it stuck with a
splat.
She looked around, saw everything drenched in red, sat on the floor, nude, hurt, bleeding …
hungry.

* * * *

Sometime later, the elevator doors opened. Facil stepped out and froze, staring grimly. It took a moment to identify her. Rattan was on his back, stripped naked, torso sliced down the middle, ribcage pulled open, insides gone. Scarla hunched over him, eyes white, movements feral, jackal-like. She didn’t bother looking up to see her visitor, mouth full, gore hanging from her chin. From where she knelt between the rib bones, she looked like she could be playing in a baby’s crib. He watched her, waited.

They emerged from a coded-entry staircase, Scarla hanging limp in his arms, nude save her bandages, still bloody from head-to-toe, leaving a trail of splatter noticeable enough to put the building on red alert the second someone saw it. She was semi-conscious, eyes fluttering, mouth slack, arm draped around his neck. He knew the cameras would spot them as soon as he opened the door, so he hustled post-haste through the sprawling parking garage of the first sub-level. The Grand National was at the far end, directly under a sickly yellow light that popped it like a shining beacon. There was no one else in sight and it was a straight shot. They just had to get there, floor it, and be out before the boys upstairs could shore-up and go into lockdown. That was the plan, anyway. He didn’t notice the
other
blood streak, rolling under the row of cars on the left.

He heard the roar too late, just over his shoulder. It sounded like a cougar. He spun in time to see the woman leap from between two parked cars. It was Lisa, the clerk from the elevator earlier, though Scarla was in no shape to recognize her. She’d become cat-like, with a short blunt snout baring long fangs, blood splattering her face and shirt, shoes and skirt gone, creme-colored panties still pulled aside, showing-off the weekend’s wax job. A mauled officer in uniform hung upside down from a car’s open backdoor, face unrecognizable, throat destroyed, pants around his knees, blood soaking everything within splashing distance and still pumping from his shredded torso.

Lisa hit Facil full-force. He dropped Scarla and fell back, wedging his arm under her chin at the last second, before she went for his throat. Her strength was superhuman for her size, and it was all he could do to keep her at bay. He caught a glimpse of the officer’s holstered weapon, just out of reach. His arm muscles strained under the assault, her gaping maw sinking closer. Suddenly, she was bowled over by a freight train and went tumbling across the concrete. She sprang up, snarling at Scarla, who was poised over Facil. He laid flat, shaking in his boots. She looked down at him, cocked her head. He held his breath, certain he was about to be slaughtered by the two of them. Lisa must’ve thought so too, charging in for her share of the kill. Scarla slashed her across the face with a lightning swipe of the hand and Lisa dropped like she’d been shot, looking up with wide white eyes, four new deep gashes in her cheek, one extending her mouth to the earlobe. Scarla stood and flexed bloody black claws, baring sharp teeth that still had shreds of the Chief stuck in them. Lisa rose to the challenge, baring her own and unleashing a primal scream that echoed through the garage. Between them wasn’t the place to be. Facil scrambled away on his hands and knees, disappearing behind an SUV.

Upstairs, a desk cop named Reynolds eyed the security grid on his computer, frowned, brought the parking garage to full screen. He leaned closer, calling to his partner who stood behind him, texting. “Hey, check this out.”

The other cop leaned in, eyes widening. “Isn’t that the broad from seventeen who left a little while ago?”

Reynolds nodded. “Lisa whatshername, yeah.”

His partner scoffed.
“Rowr!
Who’s the naked bitch?”

Reynolds shook his head, grabbed the phone. “I got a 240 in the east sub-garage, we need someone down there right away.”

The other cop pointed. “Look, there’s LeTour.”

Scarla and Lisa lunged at each other, but it wouldn’t be close. Scarla suddenly dropped on her back, slashing the inside of both Lisa’s thighs. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries. She jumped up, grabbing the clerk between the legs with one hand, around the throat with the other, hoisting her off her feet and slamming her hard on the concrete. Lisa was dazed for a moment, then her eyes gleamed and she lunged up, fanged mouth open wide. Scarla tore her throat out with one white-knuckled grab. Blood sprayed and Lisa dropped. Scarla heard a click, turned. Facil stood over the dead officer, gun aimed at Scarla. They both stared, unblinking. She nodded to the car. He lowered the gun. They ran for it.

Night in the suburbs. Trimmed trees, manicured lawns, well-kept houses. Safety in numbers, security row. In the distance, the city fires still burned, a hellish halo glowing bright over downtown, black smoke smothering the stars. Facil cut the headlights, rolled to the curb. He got out, padded through the front yard, rang the doorbell. Turkovich answered, looking younger in a tee and boxers. Facil held up a wad of bills. Turkovich eyed it. “I could’ve waited ’til tomorrow, y’know?”

Facil shook his head. “I couldn’t. Thanks again for your help, Dom.”

Turkovich took the cash, didn’t bother counting it, saw a woman in the Grand National, her face obscured by dark hair. “Scarla?” he asked.

Facil turned, half afraid he’d see a wolf on the lawn. “Yeah.”

Turkovich nodded. “I’d say hello, but I’m not decent.”

Facil smiled wanly. “Neither is she.”

Turkovich smirked. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He reached in his pocket, held up a key. “Don’t burn the place down.”

Facil took it, glanced at the horizon. “Same to you. Be here when I get back.”

Turkovich scoffed. “They haven’t killed me
yet.”
He sniffed the air, smelled fire on the wind. “You’ve got about a two hour drive, get outta here before I change my mind.” Facil turned away. Turkovich called after him.
“LeTour.”
Facil stopped, looked. “You owe me
double.”
He nodded and went back to the car, his ribs killing him.

Day 1

That morning, there was no fire in the air. They watched the sunrise over the lake, side-by-side on the small dock, bare feet dangling in the water. She’d spent a long time in the shower when they arrived, emerging in nothing but a towel. He stole glances at her as they savored their surroundings, partly enamored, partly worried, noting her blood-soaked arm bandages, saying nothing. She never met his gaze, just sat at peace, squinting into the sun, relishing the warm glow on her face. They sat like that for a long time, until she lifted her feet out of the water and stood, holding her hand out for his. They walked back up the grassy hill to the house and lay down on the plush bed, falling asleep almost immediately. It was dark when she woke. He was still sleeping soundly, and she was glad for him. Her stomach was killing her, so she quietly went to the bathroom. She closed the door and vomited blood.

Day 2

Unable to hide it any longer, she confessed how much pain she was in, but flatly refused medical attention. They raided the kitchen for something she might be able to keep down, and after some debate, ended up driving to the local general store to buy oatmeal. Apple Cinnamon was her favorite. He never knew that. She ate a bowl and he ate two, sitting on the porch, star-gazing. Country stars were nothing like city stars, but they didn’t discuss it too much, preferring to exist in the moment and forget all that came before. There was a TV in the house, but they didn’t want to know and not only unplugged it, but stashed it in a closet as well. They roamed the five-acre property just before dawn, armed only with flashlights, and a streaking deer startled them both more than they cared to admit. They watched the sunrise from a hilltop overlooking the valley. She put her head on his shoulder, saying nothing.

Day 3

She stayed away. He woke from his second good sleep in as many days to find her gone. He searched the house, the grounds, drove the roads, but she was nowhere in sight. He went to the lake to think, ended up laughing. If she didn’t want to be found, he’d never see her again. He wandered aimlessly for a couple hours, occasionally checking when something rustled a tree and finally crawling back into bed, drifting to sleep the moment his head hit the pillows. He was plagued by vivid nightmares, bleak sprawling detached narratives that had him thrashing in cold sweats, always one scream away from bolting upright in bed. Despite the horrors, he slept through the night. In the morning, a familiar sensation lifted his subconscious dread and he began to excite in a different way, his pulse throbbing. He woke as he came, looking down to find her sucking him softly. She left the house afterward.

Day 4

She spent half the day locked in the bathroom with her briefcase of pills, and he gave her the space. After all, he wasn’t her father, wasn’t her
anything,
no matter how badly he wanted to be. He knew wishful thinking when he was the one doing the imagining, and he didn’t do it as much anymore. He knew she’d ask him when the time was right, realized that their whole stay, and every poignant moment they’d shared, was only leading to the inevitable conclusion neither of them could escape. She didn’t want to be there anymore, but had faked it long enough to make it comfortable, if not easy. He didn’t blame her. Didn’t say the words either, though he’d spent many a night weighing the consequences. She knew anyway, saw it in his eyes. She’d always known. It was part of their charm. She wanted to swim in the lake when she finally emerged, and they swam throughout the night, into morning.

Day 5

He woke on his side, and the first thing he saw was the gun on her pillow. He sat up, looked around, but she wasn’t there. He threw back the sheets and went to the window, saw her standing on the dock in the sun. She was unwrapping her arms, letting the stained bandages blow away, carried by the day’s light breeze. She’d always loved the lake, talked about it, dreamed about it, before she even knew it was there. It was always the thing waiting for her on the other side. He felt good about being able to deliver her to it, about standing with her at the end. She turned and looked up, saw him watching from the window, smiled.
What a set-up. She was good.
That image would stay with him forever, seared in his memory, as powerful as the first and last time he saw it. He could step to that window and get a smile from her anytime he needed it. And he needed it more than he’d ever admit.