Bottled Abyss (37 page)

     
Not by up and down.

The River is not deep, is not shallow,

     
An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.”

The coin bursts into gray steam and my palm burns with invisible fire—shake my hand and press it protectively to my body—my energy returns suddenly, my blood fires up, my muscles fill out, my heart beats with a new, wonderful rhythm—

The Fury is sobbing—it steps up to me—it reaches into its mouth, pries back the shark mouth—an affluence of red blood flows from the terrible perforation—and there is a human head, covering in aquatic gore, it’s smiling, it looks thankful—the entire creature flickers like a dying image from a dissolving film reel—the smell of the sea and the smell of bronze fills the air—

“I am Fury—” it says— “what was one is now…
none
—”

The monster’s body collapses into nothing—

Not waiting around any longer—this whole place is cursed—don’t know if I’m being punished for how I lived my life but I’m not going to hang around to find out—hell, no—

Check my pants pocket for the flash drive—good, still there—my legs feel great building up speed—just was dying, not but five minutes ago—dying, really, like I got instant AIDS, what a bitch—shit, always will remember that song, teach it to my kids if I ever find the time for some—that tub of lard Horrace turned out to be good for something after all—crying, I’m actually crying, so fucking happy to be alive—deep, deep breaths—where’s Carlos’s fucking truck—?

Janet knew her life had really changed when seeing a monster was more believable than what happened in the street.

Vincent Baker had escaped somehow. The Fury had come for him and Vincent had become a shadow of himself, quickly losing a battle with whatever ailment he’d acquired from the coin, and then, only moments after, he recovered. The Fury, on the other hand, did something akin to self decapitation and then just winked out of existence.

This would have left most people agape, but it wasn’t until Vincent Baker went running out to the street, perhaps to find his car, that something truly shocking occurred.

A dark green truck crashed into Vincent, sending him twirling in the air like a human pinwheel. His body banged down on the concrete with brisk impact. Out of adrenaline maybe, Vincent lifted his upper body and looked around in confusion, just as the truck continued forward. The front tire forced his head to the ground, his jaw separated and moved sideways, and then a colossal grenade-burst of white and red skull shrapnel fanned over the street. The back tire rolled over Vincent Baker’s body casually like a speed bump, but a broken spine didn’t matter at this point: the deed had already been accomplished.

What the Fury hadn’t accomplished, a rubber tire had.

The man who killed Melody was dead.

 
Janet ran to the curbside. Her right set of ribs still stung from where Vincent had kicked her and it burned while she breathed. As she approached the grisly scene, a pang of disappointment took her. She’d never get to ask Vincent about Melody, about that day. Any chance to tell him what he’d done to her life was long gone…

Blood pooled around his crushed body, soaking into his blue t-shirt and khaki pants, flooding a pair of loafers that hugged his ankles tightly.

Janet looked into the cab of the truck. The old man from the apartment sat in the front seat, his head against the steering wheel and his body hitching with sobs. He turned his shot eyes to her and she nodded at him. He nodded back.

Thank you,
she thought, though she imagined he hadn’t done it for her.

After a few moments, the man put the truck in drive and took off. Janet wondered where he’d go now, much like she wondered where she would.

The Fury was dead. What did that mean for the bottle? Would the coins still work the same way? If there was no enforcement now, maybe the bottle could just help people. She could save the coins or throw them into the damn ocean for all it mattered. The bottle could give people new chances at life. She could make frequent visits to children’s hospitals, in fact. And without the Fury enforcing death, there would be no more painful passings. This could be the start of something really good for a change.

That was, of course, if the bottle cooperated.

Janet looked up to the light crossing over the balcony above. She wasn’t leaving without the bottle. Abandoning it wasn’t a thought she could or would stomach.

She took the stairs with purposeful speed. She didn’t hear anybody out in the street yet, but vehicular manslaughter had just been committed, so it wouldn’t be long before the cops and ambulances and all the surrounding snoops were out and about.

The flooded apartment made not one ripple, the water’s surface inky and its smell like decomposing vegetation. A small area on the carpet near the door remained bare and this led to a wider opening in the kitchen where a tall woman stood, waiting.