Death of an Immortal Page 2

  While I’m not trying to impress anyone, I scan the area all the same. No one’s there. I hear the rush of vehicles on the main road a few blocks off, but nothing closer save for some chatty squirrels. Yet while I don’t see anyone…

  No, that’s just the paranoia from last night kicking in. It’s only natural after what happened to Brendon, but that’s all it is. Fixable panic.

  Eyes press into my back. I turn around one more time, more like a startled cat’s jump. No one’s there. Of course not. I wipe my sweaty hands on my running shorts then head back home, and still I can’t help but look over my shoulder every twenty seconds. My sister Moira quirks up a brow from upon the couch as I walk through the door.

  “Still running?” she asks.

  “Still coming over to leech off Mom and Dad’s cable?”

  She shrugs, the glare from the TV illuminating her blocky glasses. “I can’t stream local news from my apartment.”

  “Since when do you watch loc—”

  The macabre image that flashes onto the screen shuts me up. Even through the blurred pixels, there’s still enough horrible context clues to show me more than I ever wanted to know. Splatters fleck the brick wall near where Brendon’s body was found, and I’m not sure it’s all blood. My stomach curls in on itself in a bout of nausea.

  “Why’re you watching that?” I turn away and head into the kitchen. The photograph dampened my appetite, but if I wait for my muscles to go through post-workout break down, I’ll get even skinnier than I already am. I rummage through the cabinets for an easy source of protein. Scooping unprocessed peanut butter from the jar, I then pop it in my mouth.

  “I’m sorry, do you not want me to be informed?” Moira shoots back.

  The reporter’s voice, strangely warm despite the subject, details the time and place of the incident. “Authorities still have no suspects or theories regarding the death of young Brendon Watts, and are holding his body for further examination before he is interred on Saturday morning. The Watts family has asked that donations be made to local charities in lieu of flowers.”

  The anchor continues on, but I try to tune out her voice. “Can you shut that off?”

  “This is why I came over here,” Moira says with a shrug, still looking ahead.

  I huff out a sigh and move to head for my room, but hear the TV click off before I make it to the end of the hall.

  “Eugene?” she calls. When I don’t respond, she repeats herself with that demanding, big-sister tone. “Eugene.”

  “Yeah.” I come back out to the living room and lean up against the wall, head tilted at an awkward angle between the plaster and my shoulder to avoid eye contact.

  “Something’s wrong,” she says, eyes dragging over me like she’s trying to sniff out clues. “Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” My standard response to everything. When my parents ask why I’m wound so tight, when my classmates want to know if they could get some control over our projects… The list goes on.

  “I will sit on you, stupid.”

  That she will. I sigh, and she smacks the leather couch cushion beside her. Resigned, I plop down onto it. We sit in silence for one moment, then two.

  “It’s just all the Brendon stuff,” I say.

  “Eugene.” She rolls her eyes and rubs at them. I know how this conversation will go. “We’ve talked about this. Every time something happens, even something minor, you spiral—”

  “He was killed.”

  “Yes, he was and it’s horrible and I hope they catch the monsters who did it. But. You can’t rev yourself up about it so badly that you can’t sleep or eat or function. We’ve been there too many times before.”

  “How can you distance yourself like that?” My voice raises by a fraction, but not at her. “How is everyone not locked up in their houses and—”

  “Listen,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder, “it was a tragedy, but stuff like this happens. It’s unlikely anything will happen again for quite some time, especially in a neighborhood like this. Okay?”

  “But you can’t be sure.”

  She takes her hands off me to run them through her hair, pin-straight like mine, but maintains her composure. I don’t know how she finds it in herself to tolerate me, but I appreciate the effort. Even if I never voice it. “No one can ever be one-hundred percent sure of anything, alright? Now I want you to make plans, put this out of your mind, and go have fun. No working, no worrying, just fun. It’s summertime, for god’s sake.”

  “It’s not—,” I sigh. “It’s not just the news. That’s bothering me, I mean.”

  Her eyebrows arch up, an invitation for me to go on. I try to swallow down what I want to say, and find myself second guessing my thoughts from last night and this morning. Maybe I am being ridiculous, but could it hurt to mention it?

  “I think someone’s following me.”

  Moira blinks. Before she can laugh or object, the words rush out of me.

  “Well, more like someone’s watching me. I don’t know exactly, but I’ve just had this really weird feeling—”

  “Don’t do this, Eugene.” She now grips both hands around my shoulders and turns me to face her firm expression, older and more certain than my own. “I know it’s hard. But you have to let this anxiety stuff go, or else it’ll always be something that’s got you looking over your shoulder. That’s no way to live.”

  I purse my lips together, biting down my retort. That’s exactly the point, I want to say. When anxiety becomes your natural state, you don’t know what actually warrants being afraid anymore. What if this is one of them?

  “Call me if you ever need anything or just want to talk, alright? But as for this,” she gives me a light shake, “relax. Promise?”

  Despite that I’m not sure it’s a promise I can keep, I nod all the same.

  I wipe a sheen of sweat from under my ball cap, then pull it off to fan myself. The air hangs heavy with the scent of grease scrapings and a salty tang, and while I know my skin isn’t actually coated in a film of oil, I can’t help but imagine one. I sling a dishcloth over my shoulder and look out over the few straggling Chicken Bucket patrons as they file out, stained plastic trays and crumpled receipts in their wake. It’s been an uneventful night. The evening chaos aside, no one got any snippier than usual, and no threats walked through our doors. My shoulders are no longer so tight, so tense up around my ears.

  After a few minutes I gather the trash, grateful no one has stayed too long past closing. I bend over a booth’s linoleum tabletop to sweep off grains of salt. They stick to my hand. I shake them off and my reflection catches in the window, the glass panes showing me the drab brown interior, the tiled floor, the particle board tables.

  Something shifts again in the window—this time from the other side, in the pitch dark night.

  My heart stops. It’s too bright in here for me to see whoever—or whatever—is outside. But anyone can see inside, as easy as staring into a goldfish bowl. I lunge towards the glass, cup my hand around it, and peer out. Nothing stares back at me, at least not that I can see. These night shifts always used to be my ideal; quick-paced and with a free meal.

  Since yesterday, my opinion has shifted ever so slightly.

  I step back and stare, eyes tight. It could have been a grackle for all I know, but I’m not going to stick around to find out. After the half hour it takes me to clean the soda machine, restock the napkins and straws for the morning, and make the next day’s coleslaw, I’m back in my car, doors promptly locked and shift complete.

  As I take off my hat to rub where its cheap material has chafed my ears, I realize I’m out of bananas at the house. I curse under my breath. While not a calamity, it is an inconvenience. I have another early morning run scheduled for tomorrow, and my tried-and-true pre-exercise snack has been a banana for the past eight months. Making a whole separate trip for it would be a waste of gas and breaking from the repetition of today’s routine isn’t an idea that thrills m
e, but better to throw off today—a day that’s almost over—than flubbing tomorrow before it even gets off the ground. I turn the keys in the ignition. There’s only one grocery store still open at this time of night, but it isn’t far. Throwing my arm over the passenger seat’s cracked shoulder to back out, I make for the main road.

  It takes me less than a second to see the sedan hurtling my way, screaming through the lot. A rush of heat seizes me. My mind scrambles. Slam the breaks and hope it overshoots me, swerve and hope we miss each other, or punch the gas and get the hell out of the way. Before I can consciously decide, my foot slams on the gas as I peel out of the parking lot and onto the road. No one else is driving in the far right lane, leaving me with a safe out.

  Relief bleeds through my chest, the throbbing fire in my veins lessening as I pull over and take in a deep gulp of air. I glance in my rearview mirror to see what the other driver did, if he’s drunk or texting at the wheel. I cock my head to the side. Another driver cut him off. Parking lots have gotten more hectic since the area has grown, but rarely do they descend into total chaos. Until now, I guess. I shrug off what tension remains then drive on, trying to keep my eyes ahead.

  Whatever happened, no one was hurt. Uncrushed limbs and an undeployed airbag are the only two items on my checklist for this evening. And bananas.

  I reach the store. Tonight the parking lot has an unsettling clarity, a crispness to it compared to the filmy smog hanging over the highways, spewed out by construction vehicles en route to the newest high rise or strip mall. The street lamps buzz like whirring cicadas overhead and stray grocery carts litter the parking spaces. Being in the service industry myself, I feel for the poor soul who’ll have to collect these.

  I step through the painfully bright front doors and grab a cart out of habit. Might as well pick up a few other things while I’m here, so long as I keep my costs down. It’d be inefficient otherwise. I take a mental tally of what the house is out of and head to the produce section, first to the left. The wheels of my cart squeal with each rotation, met only by the occasional cash register chirp or slap of a mop against the concrete floor. The store is almost deserted at this time of night, 10:27, save for a few college students and service workers. I rub the goosebumps puckering along my forearms as I draw closer to the chilled section. Jewel-toned cabbages sit clustered together, outer leaves withered, herbs a row above them. I throw a bag of romaine lettuce in my cart, then pluck three bananas from their cardboard box, and as I look sideways at the appetizing display of tubers, shallots, and peppers, I push my cart all of two feet before a woman seizes the front of it. I nearly jump backwards.

  It’s her. The woman from the coffee shop. Her eyes, inexplicably golden, stab through me sharper than any blade. My sights dart down to see her fingers clenched through the wire front of my cart, white knuckled.

  “We need to leave,” she says before I can utter a word.

  I blink twice. “Uh, what?”

  “Leave your cart and come with me. You’re—”

  “Listen, ma’am.” I try to move my cart and she holds it in place. What exactly do you say when someone does—well, whatever this is? “I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong person.”

  “I don’t.”

  I push forward, but she doesn’t budge. In her all-black ensemble—boots with what looks like a hell of a lot of traction rubber at the soles, form fitting pants—she manages to look intimidating despite her petite height, in no small part due to her bared, corded arms. Even though it's clipped to the back of her head, dark hair spills over her shoulder, stretching to reach her ribcage.

  “This isn’t some damned gallery.” She jerks the cart towards her and leans in. “If you don’t come with me right now, you will die. Tonight.”

  My insides go cold.

  I search her eyes. Unreadable. Unfathomable. Who would lie about something like this? Is this some sick threat? But no, she wouldn’t kill me.

  Would she?

  I think back to the only other time I’ve seen her before, in the coffee house all of twenty-three hours ago. She’d only looked at me—then left once she saw I wasn’t alone. It was her who’d sent in the homeless man to figure out who I was. Oh god, how long has she been planning this? Just tonight I thought there was someone outside the restaurant window, someone I couldn’t see. A car had sped after me. I saw an extra car in the employee parking lot the night before. A roiling wave of nausea hits, making me feel light-headed and like cement all at once. It’s no mistake that she’s here.

  “Have you been…following me?” I know the answer before the words even leave my mouth.

  She glances towards the entrance behind me ever so quickly, too fast for me to make a run for it, and while I’m a runner, I have a sinking feeling that I’d be outmatched here. With a whip of her head, she bares her teeth and looks back to me.

  “Come with me and you won’t end up like Brendon Watts.”

  His name rings in my ears. All of the other sounds, the beep of the scanners, the faint squeal of wheels, all of it fades away. Cold sweat pops up on the back of my neck, my stomach churning. Through it all, I know one thing for absolute certain: I’m screwed.

  I don’t meander around the store to lollygag or burn time in hopes she’ll lose interest, which in retrospect is probably what I should have done. Instead I aim to get the hell out of dodge as fast as possible. I don’t even check out, bananas be damned. I make straight for the parking lot, keys in hand, bringing me to a dark and empty parking lot. It isn’t until I’m faced with it that I consciously realize the peopled supermarket would’ve been a better place to work out whatever the hell this is. I kick myself.

  “You shouldn’t ignore me,” she insists, right on my heels. Her teeth remain out, something primal as she flicks her gaze about the gravel lot. “Listen to me!”

  I pull my phone from my butt pocket to call my sister, hoping it’ll put this chick off whatever designs she has. It’s not until she punches me in the mouth that I fully comprehend the gravity of my situation.

  My head snaps back as white explodes across my vision. My teeth scream down to the root. She tears the keys from my hand and seizes the neck of my shirt, then shoves me against a car door as the locks pop open. My gut sinks straight to my ass as I realize her intentions.

  Is the car a metallic grey? Blue? I’ll need to describe it to the police—if I ever get to them—but my head swims with pulsing white noise and dizzying darkness. Why did I not buy pepper spray? I know that my work doesn’t allow weapons and that I could have been fired for having one on my person, which horrified me at the time—but being dead seems a far worse alternative. My world tilts sideways as she hurls me into the car and pushes past me, climbing over to the driver’s seat. She locks the doors.

  “Get down,” she says.

  I want to explode at her in rage, but my voice comes out more like an indignant squirrel’s, high pitched and furious. “Are you ins—”

  “Down!”

  She shoves my head towards the mud-caked floorboards, my muscles straining against her. Something near the nape of my neck gives a sharp twang and I clap a hand over it, then look up just in time to see and hear a screaming bullet ricochet off the hood of the car.

  My heart leaps into my throat. She was telling the truth. About some of it? All of it? Or is it a ruse to make me trust her?

  She slams her foot on the gas and the tires screech under us, spewing up loose asphalt as we tear out of the parking lot in an arc. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she reaches behind her and into her waistband. The distinct boxiness of the oiled metal shines even in the dark. A lump rises in my throat. I’m a Texan, and if anybody on Earth knows what a gun looks like—regardless of whether or not they use one—, it’s a Texan. One protest too loud, one scene too noticeable for her liking and soon it’ll be my name in the obituaries.

  She throws back the hammer.

  “Oh my god!” Panic floods me, drowns me. I hold my hands up in front of m
y face and shrink into the corner, pressing against the door. Like it’ll do me any good. “Oh my god, you—”

  “Quiet!” She flashes a glare my way, looking for all the world as if she wants nothing to do with me. “Keep your head down and stay there. Give me your phone.”

  My hands quiver. I’d hoped she was an amateur at this sort of thing, but no such luck. Regardless, I’m not about to fork over my last remaining life-line. Whatever insanity she’s trying to drag me into, I’m not going to take it whimpering and compliant. I eye the gun in her hand, the other one resting firm on the steering wheel. She catches my gaze and shakes her head.

  “Good to see your gears turning, but not a smart move. Trust me.”

  As if she’s given me any reason to, but for now I shove that aside and begin wondering about her end-game. Stalk guy, abscond with said guy in grocery store, and then…what? It’s a question I’m not sure I want the answer to. She shakes her head in exasperation, long locks roiling like black asps, then shoves her hand in my pocket. My neck turns an angry red at the invasion of space—not that that appears sacred to her—as I stammer like an idiot. She pulls my phone out of my pocket, then opens her window and chucks it onto the road.

  “Hey!” I watch the plastic and glass shatter into a thousand pieces under other speeding vehicles. It quickly disappears behind us, now no more than useless scrap.

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  “Like hell I will!”

  With yet another glance into each side mirror, she jerks the car onto a frontage road and then the highway, me slamming my head into the window with each careen. A new surge of panic flushes through me as I realize I haven’t put on my seatbelt—and with my luck this evening, I could very well go flying through the windshield. I fasten the seatbelt across my torso, but don’t remind her to. If she wants to die, so be it. The speedometer needle soars, miles of streetlights and neon signs off the freeway streaking past us like comets. How have we not gotten pulled over yet? There aren’t many cars on the road, and those I do see are too far away to signal for help. A realization sinks into me, like poison seeping into a well.