WARNING! This page contains adult material. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by adult themes, please leave now.


The Acolyte
Copyright 2007 by Mary Harris [aka redplanetes]

Chapter 14

Helen lay back against her stiff pillows, listening long after Mena's footfalls had receded. Though she felt a thousand times better now, the sterile air and oppressive surroundings still aggravated her. The view out the window, through which the monster had departed a few minutes earlier, was nothing but sodden blue-grey clouds, a view infinitely more agreeable to her eyes. Rolling thunder growled a lullabye, soothing her eyes to heaviness.

A brisk but silent approach startled her awake from the unexpected sleep. The stocky nurse who had shared a wry secret smile the day before. Her skin was the color of polished walnut, a contrast to her dark grey hair. She began going through the usual checks and adjustments; Helen noted with gratitude the care not to clank her stethoscope against machinery and metal carts. The name on the tage read 'Susan Grosberg, RN'.

As Helen read the nametag, the nurse looked up, saw that her patient was awake after all. The same restrained smile flashed across her face like a wink.

"Your niece came?"

She didn't mince words, no chipper 'had a nice visit?'. Helen nodded once, a sly softening around her eyes recalling another visitor. The nurse continued her brisk duties, moved around to the window side of the bed. The huge puddle of red-tinted water drew her attention immediately. She stopped short, looked at it for a moment, then shook her head, stepped around it. "I won't even ask."

Wise choice, thought Helen.

Without turning her head from the statistics she recorded on her clipboard, the nurse began speaking in a low, earnest voice, keeping an eye to the ward door.

"Watch your back. Doctor Allen... she's used to getting her way." A group of people passed by the open door, and she was silent for a minute, then went on in a quieter tone. "People who stand up to her usually end up on their asses." A dark gleam in her eyes as she glanced at Helen told of bitter personal experience.

Helen mulled this over for moment. "So you think I should just give in, do what she wants?" Dry scorn in her voice; there was no way in hell she'd consider doing so.

Susan humphed, a smirk twisting half her face up. "I think you should go for the nose next time. It's nice to see someone who isn't afraid of her, but..." Her expression grew serious again. "Just be careful. She can get nasty."

She concluded her checks, faced Helen for a moment, and they regarded each other with mute frankness. Helen nodded her thanks, and the nurse nodded back, turned and marched on to her next duty.

An ally indeed, thought Helen. So... this doctor wants to play rough, does she?

* * * * *

Doctor Allen watched from far down the hall as Grosberg emerged from the doorway, turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she searched for a reason to be suspicious. She's not on her regular pattern of rounds. 'Irregularities' would look very bad on a monthly review. Nearing the door, she nodded once.

That room. She added a black mark beside the nurse's name in her mental ledger.

Associating with that damn Murdoch woman was enough in her book, but she'd have to come up with some more official reasons to satisfy the board. They were lax, and Doctor Allen was occasionally forced to prod them; in the end they saw the sense of doing things her way.

If only all her patients would fall into line as sensibly. Most did; they gazed up at her from their stark beds as though she were an angel, and grasped onto her words with the desperation that comes to the unexpectedly damaged. Her guidance would save them; without her they would shrivel and rot away. And so, her instruction, her medical advice, was taken for what it was - a treasure bestowed on those barely worthy.

A few resisted, and she had to quickly take the reins, show them who was the authority here. After all, they came here for help, and to snub it was an insult. If anyone doubted the treatment she prescribed, she made it painfully clear that they had no cause, no right, to question her expertise. They usually backed down, stung, chastised.

This obstinate woman, though... she showed no signs of weakening. A tiny part of Doctor Allen's mind gave a reluctant salute to that unbendable will, but she crushed the thought under her heel. No one here is allowed to make a fool of me. Especially not a backwards hillbilly; she probably wallows in some degenerate and unhealthy lifestyle. Certainly flaunts it - those crude stitched-up clothes, tattoos, God knows what kind of sexual perversions... and at her age! Disgusting.

And her niece, too. Just the same. Snide, disrespectful, dressed like a train wreck, and already marred with a large tattoo that just peeked from under her shirt. A shirt that had been ripped badly and hand-sewn back together. What was wrong with those people? Why couldn't they just throw away their ruined clothing and act like humans, instead of ...goddamn savages?

She calmed her thoughts, letting the anger that had begun darkening her face cool into a calculating stillness. Well, Ms. Murdoch, you had your chance. Now you'll see what happens to ungrateful pissants who can't recognize a good thing when it's offered. Doctor Allen already had the paperwork together. 'Mentally incompetent'... it would be easy enough to convince the board. After all, the woman had refused treatment in the past, was refusing her best option now, and had even become physically violent with her doctor. I'll present my recommendations at the next meeting.

Having made her decision, she could turn to other matters. Such as the disturbing reports that two people had disappeared from the parking lot last night. The first report was not taken too seriously at first, since there was no reason to think it was suspicious. A night-shift nurse who left the building but never made it home - it happened often enough. They rode home with a friend, or went off on a bender. But then another missing person, a respectable gentleman who had been parking after he drove his wife and her sister to the ER - he just vanished. His car was still there, the keys in the ignition. No, that was not so easily explained away.

Nor was it acceptable to allow any kind of scandal to besmirch her career. A crime at the hospital was as much a personal threat as unruly patients, and as such, must be dealt with swiftly. Flies must be swatted, stains must be bleached out.

* * * * *

A tense restlessness ate at Mena all that afternoon. Her cramps were back with a vengence, but that was nothing to the buzzing anxiety, the need to move. She paced along the dark catacombs for a while, then ran through them, finally let out a short scream of frustration.

It was too quiet, too still.

She returned to the control room, passed through the empty space and on up to the outside. Mena felt like a swimmer returning to the surface as a fresh evening breeze lifted her hair. Underground spaces didn't make her feel claustrophobic, exactly, but they made her anxious; too much suggestion of confinement.

The creature's tank of a truck was still gone. She had no idea when it would be back, or if it would bring back something for her to play with. The thought of having a hunt without her aunt... well, it lost all its luster. Boredom and crankiness swirled like a curdling poison in her stomach. Waiting, waiting for what?

Fuck it. I'm going out.

The decision made itself before she could consider the rationality of it. 'Out' sounded good; she was sure she could walk and hitch her way to a bar or something. And if not... well, at least she wouldn't be pacing through too-quiet tunnels listening to her own heartbeat. Out... music, beer, movement, excitement, ...people.

Mena went back inside and changed, shook the dust out of a suede jacket from the office stash. It had long fringes trailing from the sleeves, and a crusty brown stain inside the collar. A few small armaments tucked neatly away, and she was almost ready.

Just one more thing she'd need if she hoped to quench her thirst in a bar.

* * * * *

"...sonofabitch..." She swore as a stone turned under her heel. At least it was dark and cooling off now, not a bad night for a stroll. Her last ride had dropped her off about a mile back, when she'd spotted a fading sign that promised 'Rocky's Roadhouse - Always Open', pointing down a dusty side road. The road was not well maintained, but showed some signs of travel, tire-tracks and oil stains.

As she emerged from under a canopy of low-hanging branches, the road dipped down an incline, following the landscape of a dry riverbottom. There at the base of the decline, the road ended at a low stone building. It had once resembled a frontier fort, but now looked more like a last refuge for the lost. The windows had long ago been boarded over, and even the paint was peeled away. Dented trucks and a few motorcycles fringed the roadhouse, like piglets trying to suckle from a rotten sow's corpse. Mena sighed. Finally.

Rocky's Roadhouse

She pulled the door open, stood for a moment to take in the interior, so different from the outside. A jukebox turned up slightly too loud; a chorus of garbled conversation that fell quiet as they turned and saw her; yellow bulbs lighting a dark-stained wood room. Cigarette smoke, stale beer breath, sweat-soaked leathers.

"Need index ID, missy." A deep voice at her shoulder demanded. A huge man with a grey-streaked beard had risen from a table near the front, and stood with one hand resting on a small black box. He looked like he could be 'Rocky', certainly had the air of more than just a bouncer.

Visual ID's were not used much anymore; most bars required a fingerprint scan to prove the age of the customer. Mena had rummaged through the monster's pile until she'd spotted a body of the appropriate age and gender. A smile crept over her face as she now extended her 'fake ID' from the long jacket sleeve, put it on the scanner. The fingerprint was read, accepted. The man just grunted and nodded, then sat back down with his companions.

Mena strolled up to the bar, planted herself on a barstool. Low voices floated back and forth across the room, threading through the music. "...Pussy...", "...she looks...suck...". She didn't care. All part of the ambience.

A middle-aged woman approached behind the bar. Her hair was either yellow-stained white, or incredibly bleached. Either way, there was a lot of it, piled in stiff curls on top of her head. She gave Mena a top-to-bottom glance, half-sour, half-sympathetic, blew a jet of cigarette smoke out the side of her mouth, and tonelessly asked, "What can I getchya, honey?"

"Shot of Hornitos, double bourbon, and a beer."

The woman stared at Mena for a few seconds, as though trying to decide if she'd heard correctly. Mena gazed back steadily - yes, I'm serious, lady - and the bartender finally relented, began setting up the order. Pushing her money across the bartop, Mena carefully, almost reverently, raised the tequila in a silent toast.

This one's for you, Aunt Hel.

She downed it, her eyes closed. A low whistle, a couple of sniggers, snatches of muttering oozed from around the room. "...hot damn..." Mena stifled a grimace that had nothing to do with the strong liquor, everything to do with disrespect for her personal ritual. Relax, she told herself. I'm here to kick back.

The tequila wasn't watered down too much, and worked well enough to numb her taste buds against the cheap bourbon and beer. She took up her drinks and wandered over to the now-silent jukebox, flipped through the selections with a growing expression of exasperation. It was mostly shit - overproduced country, overhashed classic rock. Diligent exploration turned up a few pearls among the trash, though, and she fed money and numbers into the machine with a tiny smile of satisfaction. Patsy Cline began crooning from the speaker moments later. "I go out walkin', after midnight, out in the moonlight..."

Returning to her barstool, she couldn't help but notice all the eyes that clung to her movements. A glare of reflected light caught on a pair of glasses, and she looked up to see a figure retreating into a room behind the bar, but still watching her. A dull-faced boy, maybe nineteen at most, in a filthy apron and coke-bottle glasses. The white-haired woman turned and saw him, scolded him back to his sinks. "You get back in there. And I don't want to see your face out here until all that shit is clean, do you hear me?"

Just as she sat down, a man rose from a table full of men, their greasy mutters trailing behind him. Out of the corner of her eyes, Mena watched with dismay as he swaggered directly over to her side. He leaned his bulky torso on the bar, weight on one elbow, body turned mostly towards her. There was no way she could mistake or ignore his intent. Or his odor. Mena sighed loudly, but guys like this never took subtle hints.

"Damn, girlie... I ain't never seen such a pretty little thing put it back like that before."

Mena burned at the condescending tone, but actively ignored the man. In the mirror behind the bar, she could see him staring at her with a smirk on his tobacco-stained mouth.

"Ronette, pour another one a them ta' kill ya's." He said to the bartender, though he pointed his words at Mena, hoping to impress her with his 'cutesy' name for the booze. Mena groaned, started looking surreptitiously for a better place to sit. The woman poured him a shot of the Hornitos, took his money.

The man pushed the shot glass towards Mena with his fingertips, until it was right in front of her.

"My buddies don't think you can do it again. I say you can."

She couldn't ignore him any longer. Turning her head to glare at him cooly, she took another sip of her beer, swallowed it slowly. "I don't accept drinks from strangers," she said clearly, then turned back to face the bar.

The man huffed out his nose. "Well hell, babe, I ain't a stranger. Everybody here knows me." A gobble of laughter rose from the man's table. "Name's Red. But you can call me Red." He grinned stupidly at his clever introduction. "Now we ain't strangers anymore. An' what with you bein' all lonesome over here, you look like you could use some company."

Mena sighed deeply again, chewed the inside of her lip. All it takes is one fuck-ass to start shit... She turned to look at the man again, pushing the shot glass back as she did so.

"I'll buy my own drinks. And I'm not looking for company."

"Awww, I've heard that before..." He drawled as though she'd said something cute and flirtatious.

"I'll bet you have." Mena bit out. She was getting too annoyed to be nice any longer.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you are so repellent, I'd rather spend quality time with week-old roadkill than listen to another fucking word out of your mouth." She tilted her head to one side, stared at him. "Get it? Leave me alone."

The man began to sneer as his eyes turned round and mean. He reached out, grabbed her jaw around the chin, squeezing her cheeks. "Now look here, you little cu-".

Mena reacted reflexively. Her boot swung around the barstool and connected solidly with the man's crotch. She pushed hard with her leg, throwing him off balance, sending him stumbling back before he fell on his ass and skidded a foot. His face was contorted and dark red, and his friends helped him up, back to their table, glaring at her over their shoulders.

She rubbed her jaw and turned back to the bar, noticed the bartender glancing darkly between her and someone approaching. The man at the door, who had risen and walked over, now tapped Mena hard on the shoulder.

"Out. Now."

Mena turned to gape at him in unfeigned disbelief, speechless. He shook his head. "We don't allow any roughousing here. Take your business somewhere else, missy."

"He grabbed me! You saw..." she turned an indignant glare at the woman behind the bar. "What the hell was I supposed to do, let him feel me up and then fuck me over the barstool?" The woman just scowled, half-decided that this little tramp had deserved the unwanted attention just for showing off.

"Out." the man repeated, and he pointed at the door.

Mena was infuriated. After all that money I put in the jukebox, and minding my own fucking business... She stalked to the door and pushed through it, hearing the voice raised from the table as she left. "What the hell did you let trash like that in here for, Rock? D'dyou see what she-".

The door slammed shut on its springs behind her, and the quiet darkness once again closed all around. Great. Just great. It took me for-fuckin'-ever to get here, and now I have to walk all the way back to the highway.

Or maybe not. Anger was metamorphosing within her, an alchemical reaction into a virulent, seething giddiness.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight, she made out the solid shadows of the vehicles parked nearby. A crazy alternative unfolded in her mind, settled in place. Mena prowled the line of beaters and tired old cars, searching for just the right one. It's like going used-car shopping, she thought with a snort.

One of the shadows was boxier, more squared off. It was an old jeep, the ones used for mail delivery, like a personal-sized panel truck. This one had been repainted a few times, now appeared to be mostly primer grey. Mena circled it, growing to admire the jeep's nondescript functionality. Cargo area, might come in handy... Her eyes blazed with moonlight as she patted the truck, choosing it as her new ride.

She returned to the front door in decisive strides, pulled it open, and leaned in. Rocky looked up and scowled, began to open his mouth, but she was already shouting to the patrons, a worried look on her face.

"Whose old mail truck is that?"

A defensive voice rose from the bar; one of the loners. "Mine. Why?"

"It's just... it looks like someone's messin' with it. Back is open, and I heard a noise..."

The man swore, hurried towards the door, ignoring Mena as he pushed past her. She followed at a distance as he stomped to his jeep, muttering threats and curses. He circled to the back, staring at the closed doors, then made two suspicious circuits of the vehicle, searching for signs of vandalism. Returning to the back, he turned the handles, swung the doors apart, stared into the darkness for a few moments.

Mena approached quietly, but not too quietly. He turned to her, looking her up and down as he spat out, "I thought you said there was someone messin' with it."

She laughed softly. "ohhh, I'm sorry! ...What I meant to say was, 'there's gonna be someone messing with it'. Her hand flicked out, as though she were shooing a mosquito away from the man's neck.

He stared at her for several moments, uncomprehending. Dark patches appeared on her jacket, on her goofy-grinning face. His neck stung - that bug got him after all... Then he felt a terrible weakness pulling the legs out from under him, and slumped to the dirt soundlessly.

"See?" said Mena as she wiped her razor knife clean, heaved the man's limp body into the cargo area.

It was obvious that everyone inside had expected to see the man, not her, when she opened the door and sauntered to the barstool she had vacated. They certainly hadn't expected to see her, splattered in bright red, smiling like a kid in a candy store. The bar went deathly quiet, save for the jukebox still belting out Mena's selections. A few of the people on barstools edged away.

She patted the bar, motioned for Ronette to come over. The woman's face had gone the same yellow-white as her hair, even under the cracking layers of make-up.

"Set me up again, would'ya darlin'?" The woman had a hard time tearing her eyes from the bloodstained jacket, and her hands shook as she poured the shots. Mena tossed them back even before the beer was placed in front of her. She smiled wolfishly. "Thirsty work."

The door opened and a couple of men scrambled out, abandoning their attempt at a stealthy escape. Mena just shrugged and began to turn away, when the sound from outside reached them; a yell, then a man screaming, cut off short. Then silence. A few drawn-out seconds later, a pair of heavy thuds against the lower part of the door. She was the only one who comprehended the meaning of those sounds, and the blood that began seeping from underneath the door.

The monster had followed her here. Goody...

A cacophony of rising panic rose from around the room. "What th' fuck was that, what in th' hell is out there, Rock?" "Idon'wannadie Idon'wannadie Ido'wannadie..." "Holy fuckin' shit man...wuzzat Marty? Was it?"

The people in the roadhouse were effectively trapped, partly by the two bodies blocking the front door, but also by the unknown horror that awaited outside. Worse, they were trapped with Mena. And Mena was in a mood.

She knocked back her beer, feeling the sweet glow of a buzz coursing through her, and tapped the shot glass for Ronette to refill it. Mena pointed at the cigarette now dangling from the woman's shaky lip, stuck fast but forgotten.

"Can I have one of those?" Ronette flinched slightly when Mena stuck her blood-smeared finger out, and looked bewildered for a second, before nodding too energetically. She pulled a pack out of her apron, held it at arm's length while Mena fished for her own lighter.

"Oh yeaaaah." Mena blew out a stream of smoke, sighing with the pleasure of the first drag. She looked around at her audience of unhappy faces. "Now this is what I call kickin' back!"

Red rose from his seat suddenly, the chair tottered back and thumped to the floor. The look on his face was boiling rage and disbelief - how dare this uppity little bitch come in here and start shit! He pounded over, shoving some people roughly out of his way; others jumped back, sensing trouble.

He stopped short when he was two feet away from Mena, still ignoring him. Her total lack of concern unnerved him. Red glowered at her, breathing deeply. "Hey!" he barked.

She turned to face him, raised an eyebrow, blinked slowly. "You don't learn, do you?" she said smoothly, and swigged her bourbon. The nonchalant gesture belied her wariness. Just as she expected, he geared up to lunge at her, but the man was not capable of moving with any great speed. As he began heaving forward, she raised the lighter in her hand, flicked it while spraying the whole mouthful of whiskey at Red's livid face.

The fireball engulfed his head, ignited his greasy hair and beard instantly. He shook his head back and forth, screeching, then began stumbling around the room, maddened with pain and terror. A chorus of deep-chested, horrified shouts and screams rose from lungs unaccustomed to being on the butt end of trouble.

Mena stood, smashed her shot glass on the floor, and caterwauled a rebel yell into the air. "YEEEE-HAWWWW!" She reached into her waistband and whipped the pistol out, fired twice into the ceiling. An angry snarl answered from somewhere nearby on the roof.

"...oops. Sorry!" she called up.

The roadhouse was in total chaos. People stampeded around the room, trying to get away from the flaming man, or alternately trying to put him out. Some huddled against the far wall, thinking it the safest option. Rocky yelled, "Call 9-1-1! Call 9-1-1!" at Ronette, the top of her curly hair just visible.

"Dammit Rock," Ronette wailed. "I told you not to install that cell jammer! I told you!" She was hunched behind the bar, black streaks cutting trails through her make-up, a useless land-line telephone cradled to her chest. "It's DEAD!"

Moments later, afearsome grey arm punched through the boards over a window at the back. The clawed hand waved around briefly, then latched onto a nearby head, pulled the panicked man back through splintered planks. The remaining group scrambled away, ending up in the center of the room, surrounded by overturned chairs, broken glasses, and the stench of burnt hair.

Red was extinguished now, and Mena strolled over to inspect him where he stood, leaning heavily on a table. His face was scorched pink and all the hair was singed from his eyebrows and beard. He breathed with difficulty, taking great ragged breaths before coughing them out. Mena took his shoulders, straightened him up.

"Well I'll be, Red. You give a whole new meaning to the term 'well lit'." She reached both hands into her jacket. "Just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you..." Her punches swung at his head, left, right, in quick succession. Only afterward did the great slashes across his face begin gushing blood, and the weird, dark knives held low against her wrists draw notice. He staggered back; his mouth opened wide as he drew a wheezing breath to cry out.

Mena pulled back and swung again, appeared to punch him right in the mouth. When she stepped back though, the hilt of a long blade protruded from between his teeth.

Crimson bubbles formed around the hilt, popped. Then Red crumpled in a soggy, singed heap.

"Didn't your mama ever tell you not to mess with a woman on the rag?"

She turned to the wide-eyed mob crouched in the center of the room. At her look, they all began scrambling to get furthest from her, while still being furthest from a window. It was a hilarious sight; a dozen men and a couple of rough-looking women seething against each other, pushing others into the forefront to shield themselves. Mena crowed, her eyes glittering with feral ecstasy.

She faked a lunge at the crowd, yelled, "BOO!" They instantly tumbled apart, scattered by the winds of their own terror. A maddened herd, desperate for some kind of escape from this hell. A few ran to crouch behind the bar with Ronette, one disappeared into adoorless room at the back, the sign overhead reading 'OFFICE - NO EXIT'.

Mena saw one crawling on hands and knees to a partition that hid the restrooms. Just after he disappeared behind it, he began scrambling back, grabbed the partition with both hands as something tugged on his legs. With a scream of despair he lost his grip, was yanked out of sight.

Madness swirling around, the smell of blood and the wails of the trapped and hopeless, the stir of alcohol in her blood; all fed Mena's bloodthirsty joy. She plowed her way through the dispersing mob, striking out furiously. Hysterical laughter bubbled from her throat, and she leapt onto a man's back, knocked him crashing to the floor. He squealed and tried to dislodge her, too late; she plunged a sticky blade into the base of his skull. She sat up and howled, saw a figure rising from behind the bar as she lowered her head.

It was Rocky, pointing a huge .44 at her with both shaky hands. Even before she had time to become concerned, Rocky's eyes shifted, focused on something behind her. The gun was aimed higher, but the look on the man's face was one of total incomprehension. He shook his head from side to side, mumbling, "no...no!..." A dark shape flapped over her and the gun fired, deafening in the enclosed space. The blast hit squarely, a dusty explosion erupted from the monster's head, but he continued unchecked. Muted sounds of glass crashing as the mirror broke, screams from many throats, spurts of red up against the wall. Mena jumped up, continued her rampage, wild eyes searching out prey.

One after another they fell under knife and teeth, ripped open or pierced, blood and ruined flesh scattered in all directions. Once or twice Mena caught a glimpse of the creature as they slaughtered their way through the bar; it looked different, but she was too caught up in her blood-frenzy to wonder or care.

At last she sat back in a lake of gooey, congealing blood, laughing softly as she recovered her breath and her senses. There were bodies everywhere, scattered like torn rag dolls. For a moment she was appalled, confused - What happened here? - then it passed. A wet crunching came from behind the bar, where the monster had found something too good to save for later. "We messed this place up pretty good, didn't we?" she said, proud and surprised.

The dark form stood from its crouch, looked around. She saw now what was wrong; its nose had been mostly blown off. A shallow, ragged crater remained beside one lonely nostril. The monster seem unperturbed by this loss, as usual, simply blinked at all the destruction, growled out, "Too much."

Mena gaped, astounded. "...what?" Not like him to reproach anyone for causing mayhem.

"Too much... to ...eat."

Mena closed her eyes, chuckling. "Ohhh - heh hehh." The monster could eat a lot, but probably couldn't get this many in its truck all at once. Maybe couldn't eat all these before they started getting overripe. "I think I know what to do with the surplus." She looked around, calculating. "Let's load 'em up."

She took one of the limp, heavy bodies under the armpits, began dragging it to the door. The creature was already there, smashing the door off its hinges over the two ragged corpses outside. They loaded every last one into the BEATNGU and the mail truck, filling them both to bursting. Mena thought she'd bust an axle with all the weight, but they finally got the doors latched, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "God damn, I think some of them actually smell better now."

She went back inside, strode to the bar, and grabbed a bottle out of the well. As she tilted it up to take a swig, Mena heard a muffled whimper from somewhere nearby. Looking around, she confirmed that there were no bodies, living or otherwise, left in the room... but there it was again. Someone crying. Someone crying behind a door.

It dawned on her, and she stepped quietly to the closed door where the kid had been washing glasses. He must have shut himself in when the shit hit the fan. Mena had an odd sensation of sympathy, maybe because he was practically a scullery boy here, or because he was near her own age. Whatever the case, she couldn't leave him.

Mena knocked quietly on the door. "Hey kid. Come on out now." A silence, broken only by a sniffle. She tried the door, but there was something blocking it shut from the inside. "Open the door. We have to get out of here." Silence again for a few seconds, then the sound of a heavy object being dragged out of the way. The door opened an inch, and a tear-streaked face appeared, glasses askew. He squinted over Mena's shoulder.

"Whu-where is everybody?" The kid sniffed again.

"They all left. We have to go now, too." Mena held out her hand. Blood-smeared as it was, the boy didn't appear to mind. He opened the door and took her hand, let himself be led out, docile as a lamb. He must be a little bit slow, she mused. Doesn't seem like he's used to making his own decisions. She installed him in the passenger seat of her new jeep, buckled him in securely. When she turned to go back inside, he cried out in a shaky voice, "Where you goin'?" almost panicking at the thought of her leaving his side.

"I'll be right back. Just sit tight."

She returned to the bar, began smashing bottles of liquor in the center of the room. When every last bottle was smashed, the volatile contents covering every surface, she lit a napkin, tossed it onto the nearest table. It went up with a great WHUMPH, flaming tentacles spread rapidly all over the room. Mena hurried out; the roadhouse was well lit.

The monster's truck was already running, and she swung into the driver's seat of the mail truck eagerly. Grinned briefly at the boy, who was now gnawing on his fingernails. She looked around. Slapped her forehead. Keys. Just as she started to climb back out, the creature stepped over, stone-faced, dangling a set of keys from its raised hand. Mena grabbed them, smirking. "Gimme a break, I'm new at this."

"Who was that?" the boy whispered. His thick glasses were so smeared he probably couldn't see anything but shapes. Mena leered despite herself. This kid's gonna get a big surprise.

"That was a friend. You'll meet him later."

"Oh." He rubbed his nose. "O-kay."

Two heavy-laden trucks rumbled away, leaving a crackling, smoking, low-slung building behind in the dust.

End of Chapter 14


A/N: Mena's roadhouse massacre was inspired by a scene from Near Dark, my favorite vampire movie.

Musics for Chapter 14: 'Walking After Midnight' by Patsy Cline, 'Little Red Riding Hood' by Sam the Sham, 'Ain't Misbehavin' ' by Louie Armstrong, 'Trouble' by Jackie DeShannon


The Acolyte and illustrations Copyright 2007 by Mary Harris [aka redplanetes]
~plagarists will be flayed alive~


redplanet@trinidadusa.net



557