Chapter 2
Haatim Arison sat in his apartment in his underwear, listening to classic rock and working at his desk. He drummed his fingers on the table and stared at the word document open on his laptop, wondering if there was anything he needed to add or rephrase. It was the blog post he’d been working on for the last couple of days as he followed George Wertman around the city.
And it was almost finished. He had confirmed on that first day that George was definitely being followed. At first Haatim wasn’t sure why she was stalking him, but at least he’d discovered that George wasn’t paranoid.
He had enough now to go to the police and they might or might not arrest the woman. He had some incriminating photos, but nothing illegal. George wanted him to bring the photos to the police, but Haatim had decided he wanted to write a blog post to go along with it. Something he could post to say he had helped capture a stalker. George was hesitant at first, but Haatim sold him on the idea.
It was kind of exciting, actually, following this woman around the city and snapping pictures. The crime blog idea had just been something he threw out when talking to Kelly in the library. It was more just to pretend like he was being productive than anything else, but now that he was doing it he had to admit it was kind of fun.
And super easy, too. He’d always imagined being a sleuth or a gumshoe detective and tailing someone. He assumed it would he harder than they made it out in the books and movies, but things had been going really well for him. Plus, he was getting paid, which made it all the sweeter. Maybe it wasn’t enough for a career, but this could, at the very least, be a really fun hobby.
His phone started ringing. He glanced down and saw that it was George calling him. He answered it.
“Hello.”
“We need to meet,” George said. His voice sounded thick, muddled. “I need those pictures.”
“All right,” Haatim said. “I’m almost done writing my blog post—”
“Just publish your stupid blog,” George interrupted. “Finish it now.”
“I don’t have any good pictures of her,” Haatim argued. “They are from too far away, and something is usually covering her face.”
“Doesn’t matter. We need this to be over with now before she decides to kill me.”
Haatim smirked. George was completely paranoid about that possibility, but he had seen no evidence at all that the woman planned to kill the big guy. Of course, Haatim knew telling George that would just set him off, so he decided to just play along. Might as well let him keep his crazy delusions.
“I don’t have any pictures of her doing anything illegal,” Haatim replied. “Right now, it is just photos of a girl, and I look like a stalker. If I bring these to the police they’ll ask why I’ve been taking so many pictures of her.”
“I don’t care,” George replied.
Haatim hesitated. The more he’d learned about George, the less he liked him. George was arrogant and annoying and came across as a complete jerk and bully. Haatim was also fairly sure George was involved in a lot of illegal activity.
Which meant that maybe Abigail was following him for the same reason he was following her. Maybe she was gathering evidence on George for some unknown employer.
Or, worse, maybe she worked for the police and was keeping an eye on him. It was impossible to tell, but the further things went, the surer he was that trusting George completely was a bad idea.
“Do you have a lot of enemies,” he asked. “She is following you, but that’s all. Maybe she is trying to get evidence on you.”
“She’s planning to kill me.”
“No, she isn’t,” Haatim said bluntly.
“What do you know about it?” George asked, defensive now.
“I’ve been following her for two days, and she hasn’t done anything suspicious.”
“And, so what? You’re an expert now?”
“I didn’t say—”
“Publish your damn blog post and give me the photos.”
Haatim pursed his lips. “No.”
“No?”
“Not until we have more evidence,” he said. “I’m not posting negative things about her until I know more.”
George was silent for a long minute. “Give me the photos,” he said calmly.
“What?”
“Give me all of the photos. Tonight. Or I’m going to come get them myself.”
Haatim felt a chill run down his spine. The way George said it was eerie. He’d never given George his address, but he had no doubts that the man could figure out where he lived.
Luckily, his apartment was in an upscale part of town and had security. No one would be dumb enough to come out here and make threats like that. His apartment was secure.
Still…Haatim didn’t like the idea of pissing this guy off. He didn’t want to keep looking over his shoulder when he went outside, and George didn’t seem like the kind of guy to forgive easily.
“All right,” he said. “Where do you want them?”
“Tomorrow morning. Meet me at the library—eight sharp.”
“OK,” Haatim said.
George hung up, and Haatim dropped the phone on his desk. He was annoyed and frustrated by the entire situation, but he thought he’d made the right decision. George could deal with his problems on his own, and now it was time for Haatim to extricate himself.
Plus, he’d gotten what he wanted out of the situation. It had been difficult and rewarding tailing Abigail around the city, and it helped clear his mind and bring him back into reality. He’d been sad for so long, but now he could feel that spark again where he wanted to achieve something.
And he did want to post the article on his blog. He just wanted to get it right and not run the risk of calling out an innocent woman he didn’t even know.
What he needed was more information or, at least, pictures of her doing something illegal. He also needed cleaner pictures in general and one good headshot of her. That would be the main image on his blog.
He would turn the images over tomorrow, sure, but that meant he still had the night to put his story together and get the images he needed.
His computer started buzzing and popped up a Skype call. He glanced at the name, let out a sigh, and then clicked accept.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Haatim? Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Why are you in your underwear?”
“It’s my apartment,” he said. “And I’m not expecting visitors.”
She put her hand on her forehead and mumbled a few unmentionable phrases.
“Oh, Haatim,” she said finally.
“Did you need something?”
“I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m fine,” he replied.
“Are you sure? You haven’t called in weeks, and I haven’t seen you since you left for Arizona.”
“I’ve only been back for three months.”
“I’m worried that you aren’t facing your grief properly, Haatim. You should be surrounding yourself with family and friends, not running away.”
Haatim was silent for a long moment, struggling with the emotions roiling inside of him. He knew objectively that she was correct, and he did miss his family, but he also couldn’t ignore the part of himself that wanted to be alone.
“Was that all you needed?” he asked finally.
“No. Your father also wanted me to ask you if you need—”
“If he wants to ask me something, he can call himself,” Haatim interrupted. He kept his voice nonchalant, determined not to sound angry or frustrated. It didn’t work. “He doesn’t need to use you as a go-between.”
“He misses you,” she said.
“Does he?” Haatim asked. “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“You know he has a hard time expressing his emotions.”
“You use that excuse for him far too often,” Haatim said. “It would be different if he showed me or Nida any affection. Instead, he was always away. He was always off on business trips until Nida died, and then suddenly he wants everyone to think he was the best father in the world.”
“He was busy—”
“He never has trouble talking about his emotions when he’s preaching,” Haatim continued, ranting but unable to stop himself. “He was great at telling other people how much he loved us. In fact, I think he might be too good at it.”
There was a touch of bitterness in Haatim’s voice as he spoke and he forced himself to stop. He felt a strong ache in his chest and tears welling in his eyes.
“A lot of people loved your sister,” his mother said softly. “Your father was trying to help assuage their grief.”
“That doesn’t make her any less dead.”
The words hung in the air, and seconds ticked past. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he roughly brushed it away.
“He just wanted the people to know—”
“What did he want to ask me?” Haatim interrupted, determined to change the subject.
“He…he’s afraid that because of Nida’s death you’re losing your faith.”
“He’s not worried about losing his son? Or upset because his God took his daughter away from him? No, I guess not. He’s concerned that I’m losing faith in my religion?”
“You know it’s important to him.”
“Yeah. Of course. Priorities, right?”
“He just…”
“What kind of God would allow a sixteen-year-old girl to die from cancer? No, I’m sorry mom. Dad can keep his faith. He can shove the entire religion up his—”
“Haatim, you shouldn’t speak like this.”
“No, Mom, I’m not losing my faith. It’s gone. I’m done, and I’m out. You can tell him that if you want. I really don’t care.”
“Haatim…you know your place is here, with your family.”
“I’m not so sure,” he replied.
“Your sister wouldn’t want you to—”
“Don’t bring her into this,” Haatim interrupted. “You have no right to bring her into this.”
“We lost her, too, Haatim,” his mother said, and he could tell she was on the verge of crying.
Haatim was silent for a long moment, fighting down the wave of despair that always hit him when he thought about his little sister. It had been four months since she’d died of stomach cancer, but it hurt just as much as the first moment she was gone.
“Did you lose her?” he asked. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”
“Haatim!” his mother said sharply.
He blew out a deep breath of air. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
He saw her sniffle. “It’s OK.”
“Look, mom, I need to go. I’m busy, and I have some stuff to take care of.”
“We need to talk about this, Haatim,” his mother said. “I miss you, and your father misses you.”
“I know. You’re right. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?”
“Haatim…”
“I promise, Mom, I’ll call.”
A pause, and then she said: “Very well. Have a good night, Haatim.”
“And you have a good day. Bye, mom.”
Then she clicked the connection closed. Haatim tapped the mouse on his desk, chewing on his lip and fighting back tears. He let out a coughing sob and knew his eyes were red. His emotions were roiling the same as they always were when he talked to either of his parents. He loved them completely and utterly, but another part blamed them for what happened to his sister.
That wasn’t completely true. He didn’t blame his mother for anything except her inability to stand up to his father. His father was the one who had refused to seek medical treatment for his sister when her condition worsened. He didn’t want to put her through rough clinical trials that would make her last few months miserable, and instead, he put his faith in God’s hands.
For all the good that did her.
Haatim pushed the thoughts and the bitterness away. After he graduated from college in Arizona he’d moved back to India to be with his family and get married, but after his sister died he’d fled back to his old stomping grounds in the States. He’d come here to get away from all of that grief and anger.
He glanced back at his computer and the missing place in his article for a photo. Like his life, he felt it wasn’t complete and had a vast, empty hole in it.
Haatim got dressed, grabbed his camera, and headed out into the night. It was past time he got those photographs.
Abigail Dressler waited in the little diner called Ashley’s Burger Joint for her tail to arrive. She sat in a corner booth, keeping her back to the wall so she had a clear view of the street and other patrons eating their meals. She sipped on lukewarm coffee and considered ordering a sandwich. Haatim was a little later than normal, and she was getting bored waiting for him.
She had to take care of some business and wrap things up with George Wertman, but she wanted to make sure Haatim followed her when she did. Normally she would just give him the slip and disappear, but this time, things were different.
Haatim had managed to get closer to her than she’d anticipated. He had snapped some incriminating photos of her, and she’d only found out about them this morning. She had to take care of the images to make sure they wouldn’t be floating over her head when she left Arizona.
She hadn’t considered Haatim a serious threat and was surprised that he’d managed to track her so efficiently. She was impressed with his skills considering how novice he was to the entire situation. She’d looked into him and confirmed that he wasn’t a detective and had no law enforcement affiliation. He was just a kid in over his head.
But that didn’t soften her annoyance that he was running late. She had to get to the docks before George managed to flee the city and escape, and she couldn’t do that until Haatim had shown up so he could follow her.
Her plan was to lead Haatim somewhere quiet after she dealt with George Wertman, confront him, and explain that he wasn’t cut out for this life and then delete all of the images he had of her. Finally, she would send him on his merry way.
No sense killing him if she didn’t have to.
She was handling a job on behalf of the Council; mostly, it was just tracking and information gathering against the Ninth Circle, but now her mission had changed to elimination. George was a low-level threat to the Council and they had decided to eliminate him. It wouldn’t be difficult.
Which was why they put Abigail on the job: they still didn’t trust her with anything important. Not after what happened in the Church. It had been a long time since the incident and she lost Arthur, but they still refused to cut her any slack. At first, she’d been so sore and miserable she didn’t care, but now it had been several months and it was getting downright patronizing.
Her phone started buzzing. She slipped it out of her pocket and read the name on the screen: Frieda. Abigail blew out an annoyed breath and accepted the call.
“Yeah?”
“Abi? Where are you?”
“I hate when you call me that. My name is Abigail.”
“And I hate when you dodge my calls. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for two days.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?” Frieda asked.
“What you sent me here to do.”
“Where are you?”
“In Arizona.”
“You aren’t finished yet?” Frieda asked.
“I only got the order this morning.”
“What order?”
“To eliminate Wertman.”
Frieda was silenced. “Who signed it?”
“Doesn’t say,” Abigail replied. “But it’s legitimate.”
“I didn’t authorize anything.”
“Then someone else must have. Do you want me to hold off?”
“No,” Frieda said. “Go ahead and take care of it. I’m sure I just missed the memo. Do you need backup?”
“Nope,” Abigail said. “Not for George.”
“Yeah, it shouldn’t be too difficult. George isn’t much of a threat.”
“That’s what pisses me off,” Abigail said. “It’s been five months, and you’re still holding my hand. I’m not a child, and I need some free rein to do my own things.”
“It’s not me. It’s the Council.”
“You are on the Council,” Abigail noted.
“Barely. I don’t have much sway. I’m on your side. I’ve been telling them we should trust you for weeks, they just don’t listen.”
“I need to look into Arthur and find out what happened.”
“They don’t want you to,” Frieda said. “Arthur is entirely off-limits.”
“For me?”
“For everyone,” Frieda said.
“I don’t care.”
“You should. I’m working on getting you cleared, but it’s hard to stick up for you when you go off the radar like this. You need to answer my calls.”
“I do,” Abigail said. “When I’m not busy. I’m going to take care of Wertman tonight.”
“Good, because we have something else for you to look into.”
“I told you I’m not doing anything else for the Council until I track down the demon who took Arthur.”
“That isn’t how this works,” Frieda replied. “You were ordered to stop looking into it.”
“I thought you were on my side.”
“In most things. This isn’t one of them. Just drop it, Abi.”
“You know I won’t.”
“Then you’re treading on thin ice,” Frieda replied coolly. “And no one is going to rescue you when you fall through.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Forget about him.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Abigail said. “He’s been saving me for my entire life.”
“Then let him save you now, too.”
“No,” Abigail said. “This time, I’m saving him.”
“The Council is pursuing various avenues—”
“Various avenues?” Abigail interrupted, incredulous. “What avenues, Frieda? The avenue of pretending everything is OK? They barely even admit anything happened at that Church, and you won’t even tell me what state it happened in. You know the Council isn’t going to look into it.”
Frieda hesitated. “Maybe not,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you should, Abi. The Council is watching you.”
Abigail felt a chill run across her spine. “Watching me?”
Abigail glanced at the street, wondering if she had another tail besides Haatim, her innocent bystander. Maybe someone else was following her, and this tail was good at staying out of sight.
Or, maybe Haatim was playing her, letting her think he was just a clueless bystander…
“After everything that happened, I can’t blame them,” Frieda said. “You had a demon inside you.”
“I know,” Abigail said, blowing out a sigh.
“You don’t remember anything from before the demon took you?”
“No,” Abigail said, annoyed. “We’ve been over this, Frieda. I don’t remember anything from while the demon was in control or a few weeks before.”
“OK.”
“So they don’t trust me?”
“No, they don’t,” Frieda replied. “And in their defense, you don’t have the greatest track record. You can’t keep going MIA.”
“All right, all right, I get it.”
“You’ll stop dodging my calls?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll stop looking into Arthur? I promised him I would keep you safe.”
“And I promised him I would find him,” Abigail said. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
“Abi, the Council might not care what happened to Arthur, but I do. I’m looking into it, and I promise that as soon as I find something you will be the first person I call.”
“We should be talking to—”
“No,” Frieda said. “That’s one line we cannot cross. You saw what it did to Arthur.”
Abigail fell silent. She did know, first hand, what it had done to her dearest friend and mentor. It had brought the greatest of all Hunters down, casting a shadow over his entire legacy.
But, that was a small factor in the greater picture. No matter what he had done or what he had become, she was going to rescue him from the clutches of whatever hellspawn was holding him.
With or without Frieda’s help.
“Fine,” she lied. “I won’t look into it.”
“Good.”
“What does the Council want me to do?”
“We’ve had reports about unusual activity in the Smokey Mountains. Way out in Tennessee in the middle of nowhere. A small town called Raven’s Peak.”
“Raven’s Peak?”
“You’ve heard of it?” Frieda asked, surprised.
“No,” Abigail said, frowning. She didn’t know why, but she thought she might have heard the name before. Maybe someone had mentioned it a long time ago.
“It’s tiny, population less than three thousand. Not many have heard of it beyond the people who live there.”
“What kind of activity are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t clear in our reports, but locals were spreading stories of seeing and hearing strange things.”
“That happens all the time,” Abigail said. “It’s usually nothing.”
“Still, we need you to look into it,” Frieda replied.
“Why me? This sounds like grunt work.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“There are better things I could be doing, like taking care of high priority targets or tracking down demons that might know something about Arthur.”
“How’s your wrist?” Frieda asked.
A pointed statement: they both knew her wrist hurt like hell. Abigail had stopped taking pain medicine for it weeks ago, but it was still throbbing and difficult to use for extended periods. It had taken months to heal enough to remove the cast and months more before she could put any pressure on it. Most of her other scars from that fateful day had healed or faded, but her hand was still recovering.
A gift from the demon who had inhabited her body.
“The Council is just trying to keep me busy,” Abigail argued.
“No doubt,” Frieda said. “In any case, I expect you to be there by tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” Abigail said. “But I’m going to hold you to your word. If you find anything out about where Arthur is, you’ll tell me.”
“Deal,” Frieda said.
Abigail glanced out the window of the small diner. Haatim, her stalker, was leaning against the brick wall across the street, trying his best to act casual.
“I have to go,” Abigail said. “My shadow is here.”
“Someone is tailing you?”
“A nobody. He was hired to follow me a few days ago.”
“By who?”
“You mean it isn’t the Council?”
“They haven’t sent anyone,” Frieda replied. “Yet.”
Abigail wasn’t sure she believed her, but a direct confrontation over it wouldn’t do any good.
“Not sure,” Abigail said. “But my theory is he was hired by George to snap some photos of my killing him.”
Frieda was silent for a moment. “Do you want me to send a team?’
“No, he isn’t a threat,” Abigail replied. “Just a guy in way over his head. I’ll deal with him after I finish Wertman, then head to Raven’s Peak.”
“All right,” Frieda said. “Call me as soon as you get there and—”
“Oh,” Abigail interrupted, curious. “That’s interesting.”
Abigail had just spotted something else, farther up the road from Haatim.
“What?” Frieda asked. “What is it?”
Abigail watched the two men for a few seconds, confirming her suspicions.
“My tail has a tail,” she said.
The air weighed heavy in the night, heavy and cold. It was a blanket of icy frost wrapping around one’s soul, suffocating and overwhelming it, threatening to drag it to the pit of despair and cast it in. The night was full of the sort of emptiness that sapped strength and broke a man’s will, filling even the hardiest of hearts with dread.
That was, at least, how Haatim saw it.
Maybe he would admit to being a little melodramatic, but that was how he felt right now, walking alone in an empty alley near Fourteenth Avenue. He had a nagging suspicion that something bad was about to happen.
Of course, that probably had something to do with the fact that he was on abandoned streets in the desolate side of town in the middle of the night. The only defensive item he was carrying was an expensive camera that might make a decent bludgeon, so maybe the fact that his suspicions were only nagging at him wasn’t so bad after all.
The clacking of his hard-soled footsteps was the only sound to be heard this deep in the alley. Normal people steered clear of this sort of place, Haatim knew. Sane people stayed away; not consciously, yet entirely and without hesitation. He liked to think he was sane.
But he was starting to wonder if he’d gotten in over his head. He’d never been to a place like this, let alone this early in the morning (or was it considered late at night?). It made the hairs stand up on his arms and neck, his breath come in short panicked gasps, and his knees weak and wobbly. It was so quiet, so damned quiet. He was certain that at any moment something would burst out of the darkness and drag him down to hell.
Which wasn’t far from the truth. Or, at least, not nearly far enough.
But Haatim didn’t know that.
His footsteps stopped, and a furrow appeared on his dark complexioned brow.
“He—Hello?” Haatim whispered, shredding the stillness of the air with his dulcet tones. “Hello?” and then under his breath: “Where the hell did she go?”
He scratched at his arm as he looked around. He had an open sore just below the elbow, discolored and ugly. It was something he’d gotten a few days ago, though he didn’t remember exactly what had happened. It just refused to heal. It was also itchy and painful.
Haatim heard a scurrying sound and almost jumped out of his shoes, letting out a choked cry. He looked over and saw a rat, completely oblivious to him, running along the wall. It disappeared behind a trash can.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and laughed at himself. Terrified of a rat, huh?
There was no one else in the alley. The woman he had been following had disappeared. Vanished. He’d been following her for several hours now, ever since she left Ashley’s Burger Joint. He had his camera and was hoping to snap a close-up shot of her, but he’d never gotten a clear glimpse of her face.
That was because he’d been keeping his distance, and now he was kicking himself for his caution. He could have gotten a half-decent shot earlier in the night but decided against it. He’d been hoping to find out where she was heading, so held off.
And now he’d lost her.
He cursed his bad luck and realized he would need to go home empty handed. He’d parked a few blocks back and one or two streets over. He wasn’t great with directions and knew he’d spend a while searching before he finally found his car.
He heard the sound of someone shouting from up ahead. It sounded like it was spilling out of a window several stories up in one of the buildings. He walked forward, curious. It sounded like it might be George who was yelling.
Suddenly he heard the sound of shattering glass and saw something heavy come flying out the third story window of one of the abandoned buildings. It thudded to the ground about four meters in front of him with a sickening wet sound and laid there.
Haatim stared at it, fiddling with his camera. It looked like a body, and he racked his brain trying to think of something else it could be. It definitely wasn’t a person, and even if it was then that person definitely wasn’t dead.
But it sure looked like George, and he wasn’t moving. His face looked like bits of skin had flaked off, and his eyes were open, staring up at the sky. He looked even fatter than Haatim remembered.
Couldn’t be him. That would be insane because Haatim had just spoken to him on the phone. And, if it was him, then that meant Haatim had just followed his murderer out here into the middle of an abandoned alleyway—
He felt his hands shaking and realized he’d stopped breathing. He sucked in a ragged breath and tried to clear his mind. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. He shouldn’t be here, and he had to leave before the woman who just killed George realized he was here.
He turned to go find his car.
A man stood in the mouth of the alley, a silhouette in the streetlights.
At first, Haatim thought it was an illusion or maybe a trick of the light, a trick the way walking into a dimly lit room can turn a coat rack into a bear or a shadow into a monster. His heart started racing, and he told it to calm down. He was overreacting and panicking, neither of which was necessary.
Then Haatim had a startling realization: panic might actually be necessary. He was trekking alone behind a broken down Starbucks off Fifteenth Avenue at two in the morning. He hadn’t heard or seen a car travel past in over twenty minutes, and the only significant light source was coming from the cross-street.
And on that street was a man whose face he couldn’t see who was casually blocking his exit.
Maybe the man couldn’t see him. Maybe it was just a homeless guy looking for a dry place to spend the night, or someone wandering by who happened to pause in the streetlight to check his watch.
Not likely.
Haatim decided he would turn around and walk (casually) the other direction. He would have to walk past George, but the alley was wide, and he could step around him. He would exit the alley onto a side street, then cross back over to Fourteenth and double back to find his car.
Haatim started moving again, executing this new plan. He ignored his sweaty palms and loosened his grip on the camera. It was expensive (worth stealing, he remembered) and he didn’t want it to break.
Lost in his thoughts, he stepped into a pothole filled with dirty rainwater. It filled his shoe and soaked his pants leg to the calf. He let out a groan, his shoe sloshing as he took a step. The water felt greasy and disgusting.
But he wasn’t about to stop, though; not for some puddle water. There was no sense panicking. No sense at all in panicking or overreacting or overthinking things. And there was definitely, definitely, definitely no sense in looking back to see if he was being followed.
Haatim looked back.
The man was well into the alleyway pursuing him, only about forty meters behind and closing the gap. He walked with long, even strides. Methodical.
Some might even say murderous.
Haatim gulped and pressed on, quickening his pace. He turned forward just in time to see another man step into the alley in front of him, blocking that way, too.
He heard a whimpering sound, realized it was coming from him, and then the weight of what was happening sank in. This wasn’t coincidental. These two weren’t here on a pleasant early morning stroll. They were here for him.
A foot scuffed on the pavement behind Haatim. Muscles tensed in his body he didn’t even know he had.
He hadn’t imagined this. Never thought that something like this could happen. Not to him. He’d just come out here hoping to snap a photograph of an intriguing woman…who was apparently also a murderer.
He decided at that moment that if he survived, he would sign up for the first class he saw where they taught people how best to kick a guy in the testicles and put him down, or how to get in close and poke eyes.
If he survived.
Run.
The thought was sudden and powerful. Maybe he could surprise his pursuer and escape to the road. Heaven willing, a police car might drive past.
Haatim ran. The steps behind him grew louder as his pursuer picked up the pace as well. The man in front spread out his arms in an awkward linebacker stance, like an overweight uncle looking for a hug. Haatim ran to about four steps away from the man and then sidestepped. Years of cricket made him fairly agile.
The man lurched after him, missing his arm but catching the shoulder strap on his camera. Haatim stumbled, caught in the strap with his hand still clutching the precious device.
He didn’t let go, not at first (it was a $1,000 camera!) but after a split second rationality set in. He slipped the strap off his shoulder and released his grip. He could get a new camera, and if that was the only thing he lost in this misadventure he would count himself lucky.
He turned, free of the strap, and took another step. Something caught his leg, and he staggered to the ground. He wriggled forward, glancing back.
The man who’d originally been chasing him was about twenty meters behind at a full sprint. The closer man had fallen to a knee, one hand on Haatim’s pants leg. The camera banged painfully against the ground, and Haatim couldn’t help but wince. He looked at the man’s face.
And then time stopped.
The man was dead.
He was dead.
Or, at least, he should have been. One of his eyes was missing. Not missing like “argh matey,” but missing, missing. Dried blood caked the left side of his face, and Haatim could see . . . tendrils or something hanging limp in the socket. Whatever it was that attached the eyeball to the brain. Those looked to have been severed.
But the gash in his throat was the worst of it. It was deep, caked in blood, and wide. The throat was torn open, and he could see bone protruding from the wound. The smell coming off him was fetid and rotten.
And the man was grinning. A wide, toothy grin with yellow-stained crooked teeth.
Haatim vomited. There was no warning, just suddenly he was vomiting. It got on his shirt and his pants, and he could care less.
With panicked, nimble fingers he undid the clasp on his jeans and wriggled free. His left shoe caught on the pants and he kicked that off, too. Free of his constraint he slid a step farther back and rolled to his feet. Off balance, he stumbled out of the alley and fled.
He kept going. He sprinted back to his car, running faster than he ever had before. Someone was screaming. It took him a second to realize that it was him. He forced himself to stop and promptly began panting. Blood pumped in his ears, and he felt light-headed and dizzy. He threw himself into the car and looked back over his shoulder.
No one was there. The street behind was empty and silent. He felt woozy, and it seemed like he was staring down a long tunnel. His mind couldn’t focus, and he realized he wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
He looked around frantically for his keys, breathing in short frantic bursts, and remembered they were in his pants. The feeling of dizziness intensified.
My pants are back in the alley…
…with the dead guy.
And the world went blank.
