Scarla (14 page)

The staircase was dark, narrow, creaky. A bare bulb shined at the top, flies circling its glow, illuminating a blood-splattered plexiglass window, presumably the check-in area.
Maybe that was the desk clerk splattered on the sidewalk outside.
Stale smoke hung in the air, just enough to make things hazy, like seeing the world through cheesecloth. A door on the left was propped open with a rolled magazine. He moved carefully, scaling two steps at a time, shotgun aimed and ready. Horns honking outside faded. Muffled cries ahead grew louder. He reached the top, looked through the window, saw an empty chair, phone off the hook, blood everywhere. He ducked next to the doorjamb, peeked into the hallway just beyond. Flickering ceiling fluorescents created a haunted house vibe. He saw bloody bare footprints running up and down the hall … and up the wall. A chill shot up his spine, raised the hair on the back of his neck. “No, please! No!
No!”
a guy’s voice frantically begged. Facil steeled himself, aimed from behind the jamb.
“Police!”

A lanky middle-aged businessman cowered at the far end of the hall, swinging at two nude hookers who were biting his arms. His white button-down flushed red, then redder, as they broke his skin with their sharp teeth. He shrieked, getting bitten by one every time he tried to hit the other, his checkered boxer shorts flooding with urine. “Help!
God help me!”
he shouted, collapsing in the corner, arms still flailing. The girls hunched over him with peculiar posture, their arms and legs twig-thin, hands and feet hooked into claws, small prickly spines poking from their forearms and calves.
Cockroach-like.
Facil moved in, finger on the trigger. He slipped in a puddle of blood and caught himself, not seeing the drops falling around him, not hearing them kerplunk on the floor as he shouted out.
“On the floor! Get the fuck down!”
One of the girls turned and hissed, a flood of yellowish-green bile pouring from her mouth. He saw her bloody teeth and all bets were off.
Fuck it.
He opened fire, pumping, aiming, shooting, until both girls were splat marks on either side of the quaking office jockey. He lowered the shotgun and the guy just stared, arms in the air, eyes wide, teeth chattering.
Shock.
A strange sound got his attention. Something clicking … snapping …
chewing?
He caught movement in his periphery … from above. He looked up. It took a moment to process the sight.

The guy was in two pieces, stuck to the ceiling in a gory mucous paste, bloody tendons stretching seven feet from his torso to his pelvis, large chunks of meat torn from his naked shank, dripping what blood he had left onto the hallway floor. He was barely alive, twitching in death throes. Two nude girls skittered across the ceiling like scattering bugs, bloody mouths full of flesh, triple-jointed arms and legs covered with fine hairs, clawed fingers clicking on cracked plaster. Facil grimaced, pumped the shotgun, blasted the closest one down. She landed with a splat and tried to flee, but had been shredded by the shell. She dragged her useless legs down the hall, her stomach gushing a grisly oil slick. He aimed again and blew her head off, crumbling the body. He turned to see the other girl hanging upside down by the window, hissing at him. He fumbled with the shell carrier on the gun’s stock, but she scrambled out the window and
up
the building’s wall before he could reload. He eyed the businessman, still frozen in the corner. “How many more?” No answer.
“Hey!”
The guy looked at him. “How many more are there?” Nothing. But he knew the window girl was still lurking. Somewhere.

He reloaded, pumped, saw an open door across the hall. A beaded curtain shielded the room. He parted the beads with the shotgun barrel, looked in. Empty. Rumpled sheets, headboard coin slot, lava lamp, box of condoms and a digital clock on the bedside table. Alligator shoes on the floor, slacks neatly folded over a chair, presumably belonging to the vegetable in the piss-stained shorts. He eyed the bathroom, lights on, shower curtain drawn. His heart was pounding in his chest, so hard he could hear it. He crept closer, gun raised, sloshing through flooded toilet water, listening for movement. All he could hear was his own blood pumping in his ears. He reached for the curtain, hand shaking, pulled it back fast. Something sprang at his face with a screech that sounded more insect than human.
Like a locust.
Her body had transformed since he saw her in the window, but he only caught flashes, never getting more than a fleeting glimpse. She was impossibly agile, and he wondered if she’d actually
flown
out of the shower. He fired a shot into the ceiling as he fell, landing on his back with a splash and rolling onto his stomach to fire again. Her foot cleared the doorway just before the jamb exploded. He winced in pain, dragged himself up, chased after her.
Or it.

He lurched out of the room, pumped the shotgun with one hand, saw something semi-human sail down the hall, out the window, up up and away. He took his shot, blowing out the top pane, but didn’t hit the target. She was gone.
Whatever she was.
He turned to see the businessman sitting where he’d left him, decapitated, neck stump still spurting blood.
Talk about a shitty day.
He was heading for the stairs when the guy on the ceiling finally came down, his upper half dropping first, crashing to the floor, kicking up a wave of blood. Facil caught the spray full-on, then got slammed over the head when the guy’s legs came down, pulled by the tendons holding the body together. He paused to wipe his eyes, soaked head-to-toe in toilet water and blood.

He descended the stairs in disgust, shotgun over his shoulder. The crowd gathered on the sidewalk parted when he emerged, some running away. He was clearly a gun-wielding psycho, after all. He strolled back to the Grand National, still parked where he left it, and climbed behind the wheel. Traffic had moved another ten feet. The SUV driver was screaming into his cellphone, gesturing wildly. He saw Facil and ducked again. The phone cam kid stood on the curb, still snapping, vomit stains streaking his shirt. Facil started the engine, sending people scattering as he drove down the sidewalk. He hit the brakes next to the kid, grabbed the cellphone, roared away.
“Hey!
That’s my—” He let it go, went back to his friend’s car.

Scarla and Rattan stood silently in the elevator, a petite clerk from upstairs beside them, blonde hair in a bun, file folders cradled to her chest, engagement ring gleaming on her finger. They both eyed her for different reasons.

The Chief broke the silence. “You look very nice today, Lisa.”

She smiled, blushing. “Thank you, Chief.” He nodded, watching the numbers descend. Scarla studied the ring, remembering hers.
Different lifetime.
As she stared, the flashy stone transformed into a little white pill.
You’re slipping.
They reached the lobby and she snapped out of it. The doors opened and Rattan stepped aside, smiling as Lisa exited.

“Be careful out there tonight,” he warned, reaching for the call numbers.

“Thanks, I will,” she replied, bomping for the exit. The desk cops smiled. “Night, guys,” she called, waving with her ring hand. They ogled her as she passed. Scarla watched Rattan close, making sure he didn’t signal them. One officer made eye contact, nodded. The Chief didn’t respond. That could’ve been a signal in itself. The elevator doors closed. She watched his hand enter 561632. The car continued down, -1 … -2.

The doors opened on the lab. It was freezing. They saw Calvin Harris sitting at his desk, back turned, looking into the microscope. Marlene Schneider’s head stared at them from her tray.

Rattan watched Scarla.
“Well?
There he is, go get your pills.”

She eyed him suspiciously, didn’t move.
“After you.”
The Chief scoffed, stepped off the elevator. She followed, noticing the pill press full of new meds. Her heart raced, she got butterflies, felt the sudden need for a bathroom.
You’re fucking hooked.
Maybe so, but she didn’t give a shit as she approached Harris, ready to finally meet face-to-face.

Rattan stopped first, spotting the pool of blood under Harris’ chair. Preoccupied with the pills, Scarla kept walking and slipped, legs flying out from under her, landing hard on her shoulders. The Chief seized the opportunity and charged, punt-kicking her in the head. She crashed into the examining table, seeing stars. He swarmed in, kicking and stomping her until she stopped moving, then paused to catch his breath. He grimaced at Marlene Schneider’s hanging corpse, then laughed at Scarla. “How ’bout
that,
champ? Stupid
whore.”
He kicked her again for good measure, eyed Harris. The doctor was leaning forward, face resting on the microscope eyepieces. Rattan tugged at his shoulder. Harris flopped back in his chair, throat slashed ear-to-ear, his own hand holding the scalpel that did the deed.

The Chief carefully stepped in the blood, leaning over Harris to peer into the microscope. It was empty, no slide. He eyed the journal on the desk. Scrawled in pen on an otherwise blank page were the words,
I HAVE NO CLUE
.
The period after
clue
was pushed in deep. He noticed the previous page had been torn out, its ragged edge visible along the binding. It was a clear-cut case of suicide, but an even clearer-cut
homicide,
if he wanted to go that route. What else would he do with Fragran? He watched her, unconscious on the floor, covered in the victim’s blood.
Convenient.
There’d been a struggle. The respected doctor fought valiantly, only to be overcome in the end. She was a skilled fighter, after all. A
delusional
skilled fighter. A menace to herself and others. They had the psych report to prove it. She’d even tried to kill herself, and when that failed, snapped. The heroic Chief happened upon the scene, subdued the psychotic woman, had her taken into custody. How would they spin her involvement with the department?
Easily.
Delmones could tackle any PR nightmare and come out smelling like a rose. The deck was stacked, it was a no-brainer … as soon as the murder weapon switched hands. He pulled out a handkerchief, carefully took the scalpel from Harris’ hand, wiped it clean. He knelt over Scarla, dipped it in blood, lifted her hand to steal her prints, and got slammed upside the head. He fell flat, stunned, unaware she’d just kicked him from her supine position. She nipped-up onto her feet in one smooth motion, circling him like a lion.
And to think, it could’ve gone the easy way.

“You kick like a
girl
,” she spat.

He got to his knees, wincing, holding his head. “Don’t be stupid, Fragran.”

She thrust kicked him in the chest, dropping him again. He rolled over, gasping for air, started to crawl away. She stepped on him, yanked his head back. He felt her breath in his ear.

“What’s in the pill?”

“Drop dead!”
he wheezed, trying to punch her.

She caught his wrist, broke it with ease. He growled in pain, eyes bugging, snot blowing from his nose. She slammed his hand on the floor, kept it pinned.
“I want answers.”

He pointed at Harris with his good hand. “
He
has your answers!” Then, laughing. “You’re
fucked! Fucked,
you
bitch!”

She dragged him to the pill press by his hair and hurled him into it, denting the metal. He sank to the floor, leaving a snail trail of snot down the ten ton machine. She rolled him over, straddled him. He swung again, she snapped his other wrist. He screamed. She punched him in the mouth, shutting him up. He stared, lips bloody. She reached up, opened a glass door, grabbed a fistful of pills from the receptacle. “I’ll ask you again, what’s in them?” He didn’t answer. She grabbed his face. He clamped his mouth shut. She dug her fingers into his cheeks, prying his teeth apart, parting his lips. “Here,
have some.”
She stuffed the pills in his mouth, clamped her hand over it. “And
swallow,
don’t spit. It’s tacky.” He writhed, eyes panicking. She watched him, nonchalant. “I’d start feeling chatty if I were you, they’re already dissolving.” Then, shrugging.
“Or,
if there’s nothing to worry about, we can just sit here and eat the rest.” He raised his arms in submission, choking behind her hand. She let go. He spit pills all over his shirt, gagged more on the floor, kept hacking. She stood up, looming over him. “Better talk, Chief. The deep throat lesson’s next.”

He clutched his chest, voice low.
“My heart.
My heart’s bad.”

She stared at the sea of white pills, her stomach doing backflips, palms sweating, voice far away. “Sooner you talk, sooner I leave.”

He pulled himself up, his back to the machine. “It’s a speed derivative. You were just tweeking at first, but Harris started adding to it.
Experimenting.”

She eyed him. “Experimenting
how?”

Rattan cleared his throat, swiping his tongue inside his mouth, making sure no residue lingered. “He started using the
bodies.
You’ve been dosing with transformed cartilage.”

She squatted, staring him in the eye, serious as a heart attack.
“Did you order it?”
He shook his head.
“No.
I didn’t know anything about it until you were already using them. I told him to discontinue it, I didn’t want to
create
one of those goddamn things, but he said the effects were benign. I told him to cycle you off regardless, that’s why LeTour started giving you grief about refills.”

She stiffened. “Did Face know?”

Rattan shook his head.
“No.
Only Harris.”

Relief wasn’t the word. “And
you.”

“Yeah,
I knew. After the fact. I wouldn’t take that chance, not with civilian lives at stake … not even
yours.”

She watched him. He could’ve been telling the truth, she’d never know. She imagined sinking her thumbs into his eye sockets, ripping his throat out, bashing his head on the floor until his skull split open, cutting off his dick and stuffing it in his mouth. Or stuffing his dick in
her
mouth, unzipping him and sucking him dry, licking his balls, rimming his asshole, mounting and riding him until he came, sitting on his face and forcing him to eat her until she squirted. She craved the pills. She’d waited long enough. She reached up, grabbed a handful, popped them and swallowed.
“All gone,”
she rasped, eyes blazing. “Sure you don’t want some?” He shook his head. “More for me,” she shrugged. He stared in horror and fascination, while she waited for the pills to take effect. She looked around, spotted Harris’ aluminum briefcase on the floor. She went and got it, laid it next to Marlene Schneider’s head, popped it open. Files, photos, notebooks, computer discs.
Could be important.
She threw it all out, returned to the press machine, started filling the case with pills. Hundreds of thousands of pills. She watched the white mountain grow and grow, imagined herself skiing the slope, watched the briefcase overflow, didn’t notice the Chief crawling for the scalpel on the floor.