Metier: Part XI

They are driving through the town. The car is dark, and outside the car, only the stoplight illuminates the barren night. They are silent. What do you say? What could you say? After something like that. Nothing. You say nothing, so they did.

The one hits the radio preset rather unconsciously. A jaunty 80's tune plays and it seems unnervingly out of place after the events of that night. Her hands are cramping, holding onto the steering wheel so tight. This pain is nothing, though. Not now, not ever.

They cross a bridge now. It reminds him of a painting, the way the golden light offsets the darkness of the sky. They are round bulbs on ridged black poles and as they cross he can’t understand why he fixates so heartily on them—maybe their normalcy is the only thing keeping him tethered here.

They finally cross the bridge, dark trees on one side, the water on the other. The city stretched far in front of them, so close. They speed over the potholes; the night is silent.  They drive through the four-way intersection when a black SUV barrels through and crushes the passenger side door, pushing the car far out of the street and near the edge of the trees.

He’s still in the car. She crawls out the driver’s door, bruised, a gash in her forehead, coddling her wrist, but otherwise all right. She lays on the cool asphalt and for a moment forgets.

The SUV door opens, and out dangles a red latex boot with a heel, that to the trained eye, is caked in blood.

And she sees it, she senses it, and she screams a horrendous, cacophonic scream that splits apart the night into two, maybe four pieces. They had never escaped.

She’s entirely out of the SUV now. She’s wearing the same, skin colored bodysuit as before, but it’s barely intelligible, as she is drenched in blood, now dry and coagulated into something wine colored. Her eyes are a sharp white amidst the dried red smears running up and down her maw. Her hair is slicked back, blood dripping from the ends of her hair down her back, down her spine, in one continuous line. In her left hand is a gun.

She walks slowly towards her, a torturous stroll. She has all the time in the world. Outside the driver’s side door, the other woman screams and screams, paralyzed by the strutting figure approaching her.

She cocks the gun delicately, the barrel starring down at the woman’s temple. She pulls back the hammer, but is overtaken by the man at that instant. He knocks her to the pavement and the gun skitters away. The man is full of blood, his leg slanted at an unnatural angle. The woman, eyes like saucers, watches the entire episode play out in slow motion, frozen to the spot, stuck to the inside of the car door.

The man attempts to get up, but falls back down, nursing his leg. From somewhere in the car, a dinging starts to occur.

The woman pushes herself up on one knee. She stands carefully, precisely. She stands and strolls over to the gun. The man attempts to crawl away towards the SUV. The woman reaches down for the gun, picks it up, and carefully turns towards the man. She aims at his back and shoots. She hits his shoulder, and he cries out, flopping onto his back, his hand attempting to hold the spot where the bullet went.

The woman, watching the whole event play out before her eyes, now is moved to action and struggles to retrieve something from her pocket. She pulls out an oblong whistle, a silver that glints momentarily in the moonlight.

The woman is an inch away from the man and stands over him with the gun pointed directly between his eyes. She fires.

The woman takes this opportunity to blow the whistle. Her lips are shaking, and there is a small sharp whistle, but otherwise no sound emits from the whistle.

The woman looks over, turning towards the other woman. She sees the furious whistle blowing and laughs a loud, ugly cackle.

The woman keeps blowing; tears leak out of her eyes, her body shakes.

The woman is in front of her now. She maliciously raises the gun, slowly, tentatively, enjoying the silent agony. She cracks a smile that splits her face in two. The smile is unnatural, it changes her face—she is a creature now, unholy, less elegant and demure. She is cold. The gun is pointed towards the other woman’s temple now. She pulls back the hammer. The woman closes her eyes.

A twig snaps, and the woman thinks she’s dead. She’s not. More rustling, more movement. So much so that the woman with the gun looks over towards the trees.  

A few heartbeats—a few seconds pass. Then something shimmers at the tree line, two somethings, four somethings. A pack of somethings. Out from the trees growl a pack of wolves, horrifically matted and feral, covered in gaping wounds and mange. Their teeth are barred and their eyes shine yellow.

The woman lowers the gun for an instant. She turns away and points it at the animals. She fires a shot into the trees, the closest wolf lunges at her, tackling her to the ground and ripping at her arm. The woman cries out as more wolves descend upon her, ripping pieces from her bleached white bones. Her fists pound the animals’ fur to no avail. She is devoured.

The other woman is paralyzed with fear, watching, watching the whole act take place. She sees the whole thing—minutes, maybe even hours go by, until the other woman is a mess upon the ground.