Crime Rave (26 page)

Tashi Lhamo, aka Dentata

Y
ou feel a load off your chest from telling the detectives your story. It hasn’t been that long, but you could feel how the longer you went without reporting it the heavier it would get. The more problems it would cause, even with all your meditation and active healing.

Maybe you should reconsider pressing charges. He’s probably done it before and he’ll do it again. You’ve read that some rapists are so pathological even after castration, chemical or otherwise, they continue to rape with whatever may be at hand. That’s possibly even worse. You shiver and turn your attention back to the TV.

Nurse Jonelle brought you a channel list. There aren’t that many non-English stations, but just enough to see that they all sound English to you. Chinese, Spanish, French, Italian, Hebrew, and German. You don’t remember having this talent before. Have you just forgotten? As you forgot about what went down at the rave? Or because this language comprehension is so seamless you just never noticed it before? You wonder if it goes both ways. If someone speaks to you in their language, will you be able to respond in kind?

You decide you will press charges. Not for you, but for the women you might save. Now the real load rolls off your shoulders at long last. You take a deep breath and Sofia Loren’s throaty voice in her native language lulls you into a deep and dreamless sleep. It’s been a long time since you’ve had that pleasure.

4:45 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital

“Y
ou okay?” Red Feather asks Günn, who has a major case of tremors after Tashi Lhamo’s testimony. He sees she has tears in her eyes and she’s holding her belly. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Red Feather guides Günn to a seat. “That was really upsetting, I know.” Günn can’t hold it in any longer. She bursts into tears, loud ones that make the nurses and cops on duty turn to look. Red Feather didn’t think there was any surprise left in him as he waves their inquiring eyes away.

As fast as the tears come, Günn’s wall goes back up. She wipes her face with her sleeve, not caring that she might get snot on it. She’s done with today. Talk about a straw breaking the camel’s back.

“You can talk to me.” Red Feather keeps his hand on her knee as she tries to get up. “What’s going on?”

“I’m just really tired, is all. I feel better now.” Günn takes his hand from her leg and stands, now only shaking inside but putting up a good front. “Come on, let’s get this over with. I want out of this hospital, like, yesterday.”

Red Feather nods and rises, following his partner to the second to last survivor’s room, his forehead creased with worry so deep it looks like a tattoo.

Kaleanathi, The Smog Goddess

N
ot long now before your commination, the revenge you’ve craved for so many years of slights. Payback’s a bitch.

You cackle an electricity storm over Spruce-Musa, causing the lights to flicker and the nurse to check on Teresa Chalmers, the sleeping screamer, to make sure she’s still sedated.

Yes, you think. Sedate her some more. Slow her heart until it stops so I can eat her soul. Do it soon. It’s about time for another snack.

As the survivors remember and kill again you draw up the power from their memories, adding it to your thinning bank. How could the souls be depleting so soon? More than thirty thousand and you barely feel them, hardly can tell they’re even present.

Souls can’t give up. Can they?

And Mother, The Ancient One has found a way to block your access to The Source.

You’re losing your grip.

You’ll get it back.

When in doubt: feed.

A pile-up on the five, car-exhaust suicide in the Valley, gang violence unabated around the city. Aperitifs in anticipation of the last meal you’ll ever need.

Part Four:
Something Wicked This Way Comes

Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?

—
Friedrich Nietzsche

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

—
William Shakespeare,
Macbeth

Sunday November 1, 2000

4:45 PM

The Roswell Institute

T
he Roswell Institute thrums with activity as black ops prep the extraction team for the search and recover mission at Spruce-Musa Hospital.

Jason Mars is spitting mad. He’s sure the other operatives are talking about him. He’s the laughingstock of this place: the great castrated wonder. He sees it in their eyes, hints of derision and sideways sneers behind his back.
Gods damn these Institute fucknuts. How could they not have fixed me by now?

The shark girl Tiburona watches veins throb in her teammates’ necks. Fresh blood, coming soon.

The other hybrids, Gustave II, the croc boy; Spiederman, the multi-limbed human-spider hybrid; Growl, the werewolf synthesized from Chamelia’s DNA; Jekyll, only survivor of The Hulk Project; and the coyote god Trixter, pace back and forth, seeing who can draw their weapons fastest. Spiederman wins every time, and with each of his six different hands.

The Dolph Lundgren-looking clones Tranq, Meat, Smash, Junk, Glock, and Buffalo Bill run in place and occasionally drop to the floor for sit-ups and push-ups just as Colonel Randall “Ripper” Ransom taught them.

The rest of the unit is human, everyone handpicked by Colonel Ransom, who oversees the controlled chaos of the extraction team preparing for its mission. Former soldiers all, dishonorably discharged for excessive cruelty and a host of other crimes. The men are heavily muscled and tattooed, though only one individual venturing into face and head territory, thick black lines accentuating his steroidal musculature.

Shark girl Tiburona sees much on which to feed.
Not now. Well, not yet.

Lieutenant Alden, a wiry man with features sharp enough to cut glass, okays the black suitcases accompanying each of the soldiers. The weapons are one-of-a-kind, specifically created to bring each of the three fugitives—Chamelia, NRG, and Colonel Ransom’s daughter Secrete
—
back into Roswell Institute custody without affecting the specimens. Other cases contain Institute standard tranquilizer guns also locked and loaded for whatever other freaks they might dredge up. Finally, gamma ray machine guns are fully charged for maximum potency, weapons that will vaporize human flesh.

Colonel Ransom brings the blueprints that Julie Keaton hacked from the Spruce-Musa system, along with photos of the LAPD’s security detail on the fourth floor—the target destination—as well as the roof and basement.

“Alright, soldiers, they’ve called all entrances and exits covered with police detail. We’re gonna have to shoot to kill to get in.”

“You point, I’ll shoot, boss,” Smash chortles. Junk high fives him.

The hybrids roll their eyes, not needing to overcompensate.

“This is the first time we’re trying out the poisoned armor piercing rounds. I want a full report on effectiveness upon return.” Ironic: One of the targets this motley group is on its way to collect
—
Secrete
—
provided the substance that now fills the bullets. Ransom’s trigger finger itches, not from rage, but rather from desire to go into battle with these men. The calm that’s settled over him is familiar. It’s what got him through Iraq, Afghanistan, and Colombia, though he wasn’t officially on the books. Battle face on.

“Lock and load, people!” Ripper Ransom shouts.

The team unpacks weapons arsenals, snapping barrels, serums and tasers in place. Tiburona smiles and Ransom catches her ravenous look. He has the good sense to feel disturbed.

The Ethereals

Y
our first mistake was underestimating the Smog Goddess, Kaleanathi. Your next mistake was siphoning power from neighboring Dimoni Overlords. Your biggest mistake was ignoring the signs that Mother, The Ancient One has awoken.

In the stone temple of the Elders, you—Maga, goddess of magic; Amaria, she of love; Ganza, goddess of vengeance; Veritas, she of truth; and Lastyme, deity of sadness—call the circle to life again, protection from the approaching Overlords. But to no avail. Your powers have been exhausted, and there is no way to avoid the consequences of all you’ve wrought now.

The divine stone structure glows in green phosphorescence as you pull yourselves together, bracing for the wallop that Mother will bring when she arrives, metaphysical rod in hand. All on account of a non-entity born from smog, one who should never have been given warrant to exist. Kaleanathi is ruining your lives and how could you not have stopped her? How could you have failed so miserably?

A rumble disrupts your group-think. You all look around, wary, waiting to see who will arrive first—Mother or The Overlords—bracing yourself for the tidal wave of fury on its way.

5:00 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital

O
ut in the fourth floor hallway after their interview with violet-eyed rape survivor Tashi Lhamo, raised voices meet Red Feather and Günn coming from the nurse’s station. The Countess Barona, ensconced in a fur stole, diamond-studded gold bangles rattling up and down her arms as she maniacally waves them about, hurls insult upon insult at Nurses Pratchett and Jonelle.

Nurse Pratchett’s usually level voice is raised. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we cannot release any of these survivors without a court order. You can certainly visit with your great-niece after the detectives are finished with their interviews, no problem. But we can’t let you take her now.” Nurse Pratchett relays this as if speaking to a non-native English speaker.

“Why you incompetent piece of human refuse! Do you know who I am? I’ll have your head on a platter! I’ll see you never find a position anywhere in the United States! The world!” The Countess shrieks and punctuates each statement with a stiletto finger in the air.

“Excuse me,” Red Feather says. “I’m Detective Red Feather, can I help you?”

“Detective.” Barona gives him an eye over and remembers him from earlier in the morning. The fellow who was laughing at her with his insubordinate partner. Barona’s eyes are slits as she turns her glare Red Feather’s way. “My grand-niece is being held here. Like a prisoner. And I want to take her home. Here, I have documents to prove it.” Barona flings the sheets in his general direction.

Günn’s shackles go up and she smells blood. Lots of it.
Finally, something real.

“That’s all well and good Countess, but she is a material witness in a mass murder. I’m afraid you can’t just come and take her. Not to mention, everyone on this floor is under observation for 36 hours. Hospital policy,” Günn says, stern is as stern does.

Barona harrumphs and gathers her papers. “We’ll just see about that!” She whirls around and storms to the elevator, a trail of Chanel No. 5 and the sharp stench of bleach in her wake.

“That woman!” Nurse Jonelle fumes, for the first time today not smiling. “Nobody speaks to
me
that way.”

“Prepare yourself,” Red Feather responds. “She’s got friends in high places. She’ll be back sooner rather than later.”

“Let’s pray for later!” Nurse Jonelle clucks and fusses with paperwork.

“I’m with you,” Red Feather says, shaking his head.

With only two survivor interviews left, Red Feather can’t quite wrap his brain around it, all that’s happened in a matter of hours. His life is in fast-forward mode and every time he blinks he’s in new uncharted territory.

Günn, on the opposite side of the spectrum, finds herself drifting out of her body, the same way Tashi Lhamo described her rape. Günn floats in and out of herself. Returning makes her feel dizzy, like she got up too fast.

“Let’s just get this over with. I’m not feeling very well. At all.” Günn breaks out in a light sweat. “Come on.”

Red Feather feels the twinge of worry about his partner start growing teeth and beginning to gnaw.

5:10 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital

B
efore the Countess Barona leaves the hospital elevator, she gets Mayor Ellis on the horn.

“What do you mean you’re taking one of the survivors?” Ellis’s whiskey headache returns in full force.

“That girl with one eye is my grand-niece and I want to take her home,” Barona shrills.

“Why didn’t you say anything when we were over at the medical center this morning?” Ellis’s suspicions rise even amid the throb of his tired head.

“I’m just supposed to tell you every little thing? That’s not how our relationship works, Mayor.” Barona’s hands are shaking. She makes a fist, her nails cutting into her palm.

“Countess, this is a federal case now, nobody will go anywhere without a court order.” Ellis wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and pretend this day never happened.

“So get it. Or else your dirty little secrets will be front-page news tomorrow. Might I remind you I have photographs of you dressed as a princess, getting whipped by an underage Prince Charming. Among others. You have twenty minutes.” Barona hangs up. Furious. Wishing it weren’t a cellphone, but a rotary she could slam down.

Mayor Ellis sighs, thinking. Takes another pull of whiskey to help it along. He knows an appellate judge who owes him a favor, big time. Just about as big as Barona’s scoop on him. He’s gotta find a way to get out from under her poison thumb, but first to deal with this goddamn mess. Ellis sends a local blue stationed in front of City Hall to deliver the court order to Spruce-Musa, where the Countess Barona waits, tapping her foot.

“You the Countess?” The cop asks in a southern drawl.

“Of course I am. Give me that.” She snatches the paper from his hand, he pulls back.

“Sorry, ma’am, I am to present this to the hospital myself. Boss’s orders.”

“Very well. Hurry up!”
Hirsute lout!

The cop doesn’t take kindly to orders from civilians, so he takes his damn time.