Catharsis (Book 1) Page 2

  Taking a moment, I marvel at the steady progression of my rationalizing. A short while ago I had been nearly paralyzed with fear at the sight of this guy, and here I am only minutes later willing to check him for newly-developed lethal holes. Oh, how my night is progressing.

  "You can do this," I whisper to myself. "He can't hurt you now." I pause and look at the still, black form again. "Right?" The body looks harmless and still, but something had to cause that volcanic explosion of blood magma pooled under him.

  Looking around the alley again, I notice it has gotten brighter. It almost feels like daylight, and I know it shouldn't because I can sense that it’s late at night. It’s after eleven o’clock at least, and maybe even closer to midnight. The two of us and the dumpster are at least forty yards from the street; the only visible lights coming from a street lamp. A street lamp that’s become so bright it’s hard for me to even look at it. My eyes hurt when I try to focus on it. Blinking, I look back down at the ground and the pain subsides.

  Wow, I think and shrug. My eyes must have really adjusted to this darkness.

  Standing, I stretch my hunched frame. My five foot two-inch body straightens (Did I mention that I'm a bit...let’s call it petite? I inherited my lack of body mass from my dad. I love him, but he’s not a physically imposing fellow.), and I reach up toward the stars. My back cracks several times, and it’s nice. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I experience a little tingle as my circulation accelerates and pushes nutrients to neglected parts of my body. I must have been sitting more uncomfortably than I’d thought. The scene looks just as macabre from a standing position as it had from a lower one, but after a few more minutes of stalling I lower myself back down to a crouch (I might have mentally decided that touching a dead body was the logical next step, but my body didn’t fully agree on the vote.).

  Using the tip of one finger to gently push the guy over on to his back, I reveal the part of him that had been hidden up until this point. And it isn't a pretty sight. The blood was his. The blood was definitely his.

  Unless the chunk of steel pipe sticking out of his crushed chest cavity is completely unrelated to the massive amount of red gore decorating the both of us.

  But somehow I doubt that conclusion.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Double poopy," I say to the chilling night air and the creepy alley (Oh good, my upbringing has kicked back in. Just what's needed here: politeness.).

  Examining the pipe and his chest a bit closer, I surmise that the pipe was likely the cause of death here (Have I mentioned that I'm kinda smart? At least I am with words and stuff. I tend to read a lot, and I've picked up "big words" over the years. It used to get me bullied until I stopped caring how the cretins of the world thought and just tuned their idiocy out. I bring it up now as I tend to get verbose when I'm nervous.). I can see about three inches of brownish-red metal pipe as thick as a baby's arm sticking out of his chest where a breast plate should have been. The pipe that isn’t covered in rust is covered in thick blood, and it doesn’t appear to be a “flesh wound” (As Monty Python’s Black Knight was apt to say – I should also mention that I’m fond of old movies. Well, old in relation to me, anyway.). It looks rather severe. And lethal.

  Grabbing the edge of the hollow, protruding pipe between my thumb and forefinger, I give it a wiggle (I do my best to not make enough contact to leave any finger prints.). It’s solid, heavy, thick, and it barely moves in the guy at all. Although it’s very well planted, it does make a slight and disgusting, glurpy sound as I ease it back and forth.

  That answers any doubts. It’s a real pipe in a real dead guy. That ups my current emotional state to “fully freaked out”.

  With that thought, I decide it’s time to get out and find a policeman. Or woman. Or policeanybody. This is now officially over my head, and I’m ready to turn the whole thing over to somebody else with a whole lot more experience with this than me. Or any experience at all, really. Right now I’ll settle for just somebody that isn't me.

  Standing up, I step back from the guy with the creepy eyes (He’s still spooky.). It’s quite the impressive scene of gore and horror in front of me now. Black-pooled, pupil-filled eyes. Blood-filled mouth. Long, gray-black, greasy hair. Expensive dark suit with an added rusty pipe tie pin jutting from his chest. This moment is not going on my "happy, fun-time remembrances" list, that's for sure.

  Turning from the body and heading towards the open end of the alley, I begin to jog to try and increase the distance between me and the mess of past humanity near the dumpster (I mean that was human...wasn't it?). I slow after several yards, though, as every step closer to the mouth of civilization at the end of the alley causes me a twinge of pain. After what I've gone through, though, this isn't the kind of pain I’m expecting.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The street lamps at the end of the alley are much brighter than I remember them being. They are much brighter than street lamps have ever been that I can remember. Still a dozen or more yards from the end of the alley I stop walking and turn my face away from the intense buzzing yellowness that is the safety of the street.

  Wait, I think as the previous thought finally gets traction in my mind. What buzzing?

  Pausing, I turn my head back towards the comforting darkness of the alley from which I'd just come and listen to the buzzing for a moment . The sound isn’t so much a nest of hornets, as it is one giant, enraged insect. It’s horrendously loud...and annoying. Everything is so bright; it feels like daylight washing over me. More than daylight. Flashing back, memories of the weekend I went spelunking with my uncle down south flood over me. We'd come out of a cave after being underground for hours and the overcast afternoon sun had been so blinding that it was almost nauseating.

  It’s the middle of the night, though, and a simple streetlight is having that same effect on me. The persistent buzzing isn't growing any louder, but I can hear it just sitting outside the alley waiting for me to turn and look at it...whatever it is.

  Steeling myself for whatever I'll see, I slowly...very slowly...turn towards the mouth of the alley. My speed, or lack thereof, is not due to fear (Which I oddly seem to lack at the moment, considering what I'd recently seen.), but it’s to allow my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the overwhelming light an increment at a time.

  Just under a minute later (I know exactly how long it took - forty-eight seconds - without checking my watch. How is that?), I turn enough to look out into the street and see...

  ...nothing. It’s just an empty street and a few street lamps. There are several empty buildings around me – some deserted just for the night and others for what appear to be a more permanent lack of residency. I can’t quite bring myself to look all the way up at the bulbs of the lamps (still too bright), but I can turn to face them enough to determine that the monster bumblebee I've been hearing is either trapped "inside" the lamp, or it is just the lamp itself buzzing.

  I've heard lamps buzz before, both on the street and in my own home, but never to this deafening level. I’m surprised people aren't out here gawking up at them, or calling the police about the sound, or…my thoughts come to a halt as I realize there’s nobody excited about these lights because there’s nobody around to even notice them. The street’s deserted.

  "Ok," I say quietly to myself just to hear something aside from that stupid light above my head. "You're out of the alley. Step one accomplished easily enough. Now how do you tackle part two: getting your backside home before it's toast?" I say and pause as I think for a moment. "Or find the police? That’s also a solid choice."

  It might be best if I go home first and talk this over with my parents. Waking up next to a dead (possibly murdered?), scary, old white guy is a step beyond my normal range of every day dealings. I don't often want to turn to my parents for help, but if there was ever a better case of let-an-adult-handle-it, then I haven't heard of it.

  But where in the Holy Heckfire am I?

  Looking down the road to my
left, I see little aside from buildings and our city’s version of skyscrapers off in the distance. Turning to my right there are more buildings (I know it’s North, but I’m not sure how I know that..), but nothing of exceptional height. In the distance, a white light in the middle of the road catches my immediate attention. It’s a really bright white light, and it’s growing quickly.

  As I focus on the expanding light, the intensity of its whiteness becomes overpowering. Even worse than the light is the cacophony of sound pouring forth from it which is beyond any noise I've ever endured. Its existence just hurts, and all I can do is stare at it as it comes towards me. The pain and confusion I feel is overwhelming (What could possibly create this much light and noise on a normal city street?). Water wells up in my eyes as it approaches. I find myself starting to crouch lower to the ground for the comforting protection being in a ball brings me.

  As the thing passes in front of me, I can’t take the nearness of it and jump backwards to get some distance. Not only does that single leap get some space between me and the mobile generator of the assault on my senses, but it is also enough to get me into the darkness and relative quiet of the alley.

  Ahhh, I think. That’s so much better, but what was that thing?

  My brain had registered it as a car right before I had closed my eyes and propelled myself backwards, so I pause and review the image in my mind for a moment. Black Caprice Classic. It was a large behemoth of a vehicle that’s roughly the size of some trailer homes. It had dark windows - tinted - with sparkly chrome and an abundance of gold accents covering it.

  And the sound? It was music, but horrendously loud music - loud to the point of ridiculousness.

  And what was that last sound I had heard right after it passed me? It had sounded like a high pitched bird call. Or the squeal of a scared pig. Or the screech of...

  Opening my eyes, I look down the alley. Those were tires I had heard. Tires screeching on pavement as brakes had locked them into place.

  The mouth of the alley is a half dozen yards in front of me (How did that happen? I had only jumped the one time, and I'd been sitting still since landing.), and now that I’m listening for it I can hear the circus of horrible sounds slowly getting closer to the street lamp at the mouth of the alley.

  The black Caprice Classic creeps into view moving backwards like an ominous, black brick. The noise emanating from the automobile suddenly drops in level, and I can pick up other sounds. Voices from inside the car trickle out.

  They have to be yelling at each other, I think as I watch the ominous auto slide to a rest. There’s no other way for me to hear them over the music from where I’m crouched.

  The voices aren’t raised, though. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I can tell there are three of them in the car. I can also hear something in one of the voices (Curiosity? Fear?), but I can’t quite make it out.

  The voices continue for another minute (One minute and thirty-five seconds to be exact, and again I don't use my watch to know that.), and then the back door opens and a tall, white-skinned twig of a man steps out and onto the sidewalk. I stare at him for a moment as he gazes directly at me in the alley. Leaning back towards the open door, he says, "Fine, you stay in the car. I'm going."

  He slams the car door (a painfully loud blast to my ears), turns back toward me and grins.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My first instinct is to shrink back and hide in the alley. This guy’s older than me by several years, and he has a hardened-by-a-life-of-crime look that is outside my meager socio-economic norm. There are multiple tattoos peeking out from under his white, wife-beater, tank top, and I can see that his eyes are bloodshot even from a distance. Aside from all that, still something about him feels wrong. I can’t quite place it, but I know there’s something about him I just don't like (I mean other than the hillbilly-gangster vibe he’s projecting.).

  Even if he’s several inches taller than me and probably has fifty pounds more mass on him, I realize I’ve already had a pretty crappy night and I don't feel like dealing with this. I’m pretty sure I’ve either recently killed a man or I’d been present when it occurred, and this crazy, midnight cracker isn't worth my worry or fear.

  I don’t feel afraid. My body is ready for whatever’s going to happen, and that‘s weird since I've been in very few physical scuffles in my life (It’s the benefit of being a girl…and a friendly and outgoing one at that.). Solving things as a pugilist hasn't been my normal first response (I have gone with my dad to several of his Krav Maga classes, but that hardly qualifies me as a midnight ninja.).

  But tonight I just stand where I am in the alley. I’m going to face this guy, this kid actually, and then just get home as soon as possible.

  Walking towards the opening of the alley and the rooster-haired kid, I keep my hands loose and down at my sides. My goal isn't to fight (Could I even do that if I needed to? There’s a difference between attacking a padded opponent in class and confronting a real bad guy on a city street.), but I have a feeling I can if that’s what I need to do to make this encounter end quickly.

  As I get closer to him, I hear his breathing speed up and his heart beat accelerate (That's weird. That doesn't happen normally, does it? It must be my nerves acting up.). There’s a stench wafting towards me from him: sweat-soured gym clothes and burnt electricity. It isn’t pleasant.

  I can tell he hears my approach as his eyes squint slightly and his body hunches forward in anticipation of something's arrival. That something happens to be me. Stepping into the pale donut of light cast by the buzzing hornet of a street lamp, I smile my most friendly smile at the guy.

  "What the fu-,"he begins, but I cut him off. I know where he is going with that train of thought, and it doesn’t mingle well with my good upbringing.

  "Excuse me," I say over his outburst, "but I just woke up a few minutes ago in that alley back there, and I have no idea where I am. Could you help me? Maybe give me an idea of where exactly I am aside from north of the city? I can tell that much from the buildings over there." I point to the skyscrapers that can easily be seen over the buildings to my left, and he glances briefly in that direction following my finger.

  "Or better yet, could you let me use a phone so I can call my parents? Or would you mind giving me a ride to my place? I can give directions. I'm a big girl."

  He looks me up and down quickly, and I assume he is sizing me up and comparing my mass to his own and realizing my embarrassing lack thereof.

  "What? No you’re not. You’re…” he begins and I cut off him once more.

  "Hey! No need for that. I was speaking metaphorically. We don’t need a short joke." I say and give him my biggest smile.

  Just to be clear, I don't expect them to give me a ride. Or to let me use a phone. Or to give directions or even help me in any way. But I remembered some advice our instructor gave us last year, "If you lack a strong defense, cover for it with an unrelenting offense. Keep pressing and keep them off guard. If you're lucky enough, then they'll keep retreating and never notice you had nothing to back you up." And that's what I'm doing here.

  "Who are you?" he rasps at me while his unpleasant sour odor gets even stronger in the confines of the alley (It’s not quite in the scared-villain-on-the-roof-top way that Michael Keaton's Batman gets asked, but it would've been more fun if he had.).

  "I'm Catarina, nice to meet you," I say as I step towards him with my hand held out in front of me as if I'm ready to shake hands and sell him insurance. The last thing I want to do is touch this guy as the smell coming off of him is unbearable, but it feels like the right move. Press forward and advance in order to make him be the one to retreat.

  He looks briefly at my outstretched hand, shakes his head, and turns back to the growling car on the street behind him.

  Smiling, I silently thank my old instructor for the solid advice. That worked out better than I’d hoped.

  Taking another step forward (To press my advantage and make the show as con
vincing as possible.), I ask, "So does this mean you won't help me? That's not very nice." There’s a new part of me that is getting slightly upset at his leaving. This part of me wanted him to advance. It wanted him to come at me, but I shrug that part off. It lost.

  He opens the rear door and turns to me. "Forget it girl. You're on your own." He pauses with the door open, and I feel his eyes drift down and settle on my neck. They focus there as his disturbing smile comes back (Did I mention he had a particularly disturbing smile before? Well, he does. It’s like a clown smile on a polar bear. Exactly. Try and imagine that and not have it haunt you afterwards.), and he slowly closes the car door. Except he’s on the wrong side of it. He’s still standing in the street.

  Reaching up to touch where he’s staring, I realize my mistake. My gold chain. The heirloom I inherited from my aunt when she died last August. That's what got his attention.

  "Oh poopy socks," I say softly. And that new part of me that I thought had lost earlier? I can feel it smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Hey girl (and I don’t like how he stresses the word this time), is that gold?" He asks as he steps away from the car.

  Really? After the night I've had (Or at least think I've had.), he's now going to try and rob me? This took a turn I wasn't expecting.

  Ignoring his question (Press the offense, remember?), I continue with my own line of thinking. "So you’ll help me? That’s great. If I can use your phone, then I can call someone to get a ride. It'll only take a moment."

  His smile widens (Imagine that polar bear now spotting a fish-shaped pie.). "How about you give me that necklace, and I'll let you use my phone?" His left hand produces an older-model phone from his back jeans pocket.

  This isn't sounding good, but I'm not ready to concede my advantage yet (At least I thought I had an advantage.). "Thanks for letting me use your phone, mister (disarm with politeness...if possible). That's awful nice of you. But you can't have the necklace. It was my auntie’s."