Wanted: Undead or Alive

A Choice

I was stuck with a solid wall of traffic on every side of me. I reached for my phone before remembering it had been squished. Laying on my horn got me two middle fingers. Finally, the light turned, and I flipped a bitch, earning myself loud honks from half a dozen other drivers. By the time I got on the cross street and headed the right direction, Chantelle was out of sight. Doing sixty in a thirty-five, I wove through traffic and blew two lights before I got stuck at a train crossing.

The behemoth iron snake dragged at least four billion freight cars behind it.

I slammed my fist against the steering wheel and screamed so loudly my throat hurt.

Finally, the last car rumbled past. I jammed the gas pedal to the floor and zipped around the still-lowered barriers, adding two more honks and another middle finger to my score.

Chantelle's neighborhood was a picture of suburban peace. Every yard was tidy. None of the cars sported a spot of rust. A navy-blue pick-up sat at the curb in front of her house.

I threw the Honda into park, and leaped out, sprinting to the door faster than I'd ever run. I pounded hard and tried the handle, but it was locked.

Frank appeared with the baby on his hip.

"Wivvie!" The little boy's eyes lit up like Christmas.

"Where's Chantelle?"

Instant wariness clouded Frank's features. "She was with you."

"No, she came home." I pointed, and he looked at the car in the driveway and then the truck. "That's my perp's truck." Without waiting for his answer, I shoved past him and raced to the back of the house.

Through the sliding glass doors in the dining room, I saw James Smith on top of Chantelle. He had her pinned to the ground with his body, his hands on her wrists, his face close to hers, his mouth open wider than any human mouth could ever be. A ghostly white substance hovered in the miniscule space between them.

Over the months, I'd learned there are times when instinct acts far faster than reasoned thought. I yanked my gun from the holster at the small of my back and fired twice in quick succession. Both shots hit the crocotta on the side of the head. I'd been practicing.

He spun his face to me and took two more in the face before leaping to his feet.

I dropped the gun, snatched my knife, and leaped off the porch. It all got a little blurry after that. There was a moment of exquisite pain when the crocotta's foot connected with my injured ribs. Somehow, I got a gruesome amount of his skin under my nails. Then I was driving the knife up into his skull. A waterfall of blood sprayed all over my face. The crocotta sagged to the ground in a heap of skin and bones.

I turned away and threw up on my friend's perfect lawn.

Once I'd expelled all I had to give and then some, I sat back on my heels with my arms wrapped tight around my midsection. Maybe if I held on tightly enough, my guts and bones wouldn't fall apart. It felt like a real possibility.

Frank knelt on the edge of my peripheral vision with the squirming, crying toddler clutched in one arm and a squirming, crying Chantelle in the other.

Her furious gaze locked on me. "What the hell happened? How did this happen? He was your skip! Why the fuck was your skip in my yard? Why the fuck couldn't you just keep a normal job like a normal fucking human being? No, not Olivia! Olivia needs a great, grand, wonderful fucking adventure of a life!"

Using every ounce of willpower, I managed to get to my feet and stagger back to the house, up the porch steps, and into the kitchen, where I knew Frank and Chantelle kept a landline for emergencies. My hands shook hard, and I could barely see through the thick layer of tears in my eyes, but on the second try, I managed to dial Mx. Landry.