Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

“Damn, Cat, fine. The girl is right there. Barely gotten started on her. Take her and go.”

Cat shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so, Paulie ol’ buddy. I ain’t had such a great night. Or not bad enough, anyway.” She called back over her shoulder: “Hey little man, see to your friend over there.”

The boy padded by, wiping something off on a bloody rag. He hopped up and down, looking on top of the tables for his friend.

Cat pointed, showing him which one, and then stepped closer to Paulie.

Close enough that he could hit her.

••••

Molly didn’t understand what was going on. She saw one of the guys go down, tripped up by a Callite. One of the other victims? Had someone gotten loose? She shook her head, tried once more to spit the rag out, and then felt her pulse quicken, pumping out more blood.

She tried to find a balance between staying calm and getting free; her struggles would hasten the end, but her stillness would ensure it. Her moment of panicked indecision was interrupted by Walter, who appeared out of nowhere.

Molly moaned at the sight of him; she could feel tears streaking down the sides of her face. He ripped the tape free and pulled the foul rag out of her mouth, holding it with his fingertips like it was something dead. Molly turned her head to the other side and spat, scraping her tongue against her teeth. She saw the other victim, the Callite, get hit in the face and go down.

“Hurry,” she told Walter, who fumbled with the straps across her.

Walter peered over her at the fight in progress. He bit his lip in concentration and reached for one of the straps.

“Arms first,” she said, as he went straight for her thighs.

He flicked the leather strap open and her arms came free. She worked on the one across her chest, then sat up to do her legs—and nearly blacked out.

She lay back down, remembering the needle. A dark cord of crimson trailed off her left arm, spiraling down to one of the bags hanging from the table. Molly gnashed her teeth together and fumbled with the little valve on the end of the needle. The device tugged against her flesh as she twisted the small, plastic handle; she could feel the metal needle move around inside her arm as she fumbled with it.

Walter got her feet free as she finally closed the valve. She pulled the hose away from the device and felt nauseas as it started dripping her blood from the bag to the floor. She looked away and toward the fracas—saw her kidnapper on top of the blood-splattered woman. Molly wanted to help, but she wasn’t sure if she was even strong enough to stand. She swung her legs over the side and felt Walter’s hands on her arm. He had some of the tape from her mouth and a clean rag. He held them out as if to make a bandage across the needle.

“Wait,” she told him. She pulled the needle out with a grimace, then Walter pressed the cloth against the rising bubble of bright blood welling up from her arm. Molly looked over her shoulder, keeping an eye on the two fighters while Walter wrapped tape around the cloth. He, too, was keeping an eye on the one-sided action.

“That’ss wasssername,” he told Molly.

“Who?” Molly glanced back at the woman, who was being pummeled into the ground. “You mean Cat?” she asked.

Walter nodded.

Molly jumped down from the table and her brain toyed with passing out; her knees jittered, and Walter steadied her. She glanced at the bags of blood, trying to figure out how much was in them and remember how much she’d started with. There were a dozen or so hanging from the table with only two full, so she had to be okay. Just deciding so gave her enough psychological strength to remain upright. She turned and sized up her predicament as the man in the apron continued to pound her mother’s friend. Wet, slapping sounds accompanied each blow. The noise had the same effect as the taste of that foul rag—it nearly made Molly gag.

“See if you can open the back door,” she told Walter. He hurried off while Molly tried to figure out how she was going to get Cat out of there—if she was even alive. The man’s body obscured most of the Callite, but what she saw looked horrible. A small pool of the alien’s blue blood spread out from underneath her, and dotted trails of the stuff streaked away in wide arcs that matched the man’s blows. Molly checked the tables for a scalpel, or anything sharp, but there were only the extraction needles, some tubing, and a bunch of bags.

She grabbed a full bag of her own blood and one of the needles, formulating a plan as she crept up behind the large man. Her heart, so recently calmed to slow its draining, raced as she snuck closer. She cringed as another blow landed. She watched the man’s hand—clad in dripping blue—come back up, then plummet with another fleshy crack. Molly expected him to turn around and see her, to stop her. She fought the urge to run, which she knew would just make her pass out. She carefully re-opened the valve on the needle. When she got close enough, she didn’t hesitate. Forming a fist around the valve end, she swung her hand around the man’s shoulder and buried the needle in his neck.

The large man spun around, eyes wide, his bloody hands fumbling above his collar where jets of crimson stole away his pulse. Molly bit into the bag, tearing it open with her teeth. The man growled at her and reached out—

Molly crammed the spilling bag of fluids into his face, aiming for his eyes, shoving it hard before letting go. He pawed at himself, screaming, blood flying through blood, his head still level with her waist. Molly grabbed the back of his head, wrapped her fingers in his hair, and pulled down as she threw her knee up. She tried to drive her leg all the way to her palms.

There was a dull crunch. The man’s arms fell to his side and his body went still. Molly’s knee lanced out in pain. She wobbled from the exertion—fell down to her hands and knees and fought hard to not black out.

Nearby, Cat’s head rolled around, blood and gore making her look like something out of an alien horror vid. She gave Molly a nasty smile. Her teeth—the ones not missing—were covered in her own blue blood; her lips were torn in two, bifurcated like her tongue.

Cat tried to say something, and flecks of azure mist popped up into the air. Molly scurried to her side, trying to figure out which wound to tend to first and how she was going to get them out of that damned place before more people showed up. She glanced to the back of the room where Walter stood holding the door to the alley open. He waved one arm for her to hurry up.

Cat spoke again. Molly tried to tell the woman to save her energy, but the Callite’s hand came up and clutched her shirt, pulling her down with ferocious strength.

Molly turned to her; she saw a maniacal grin spread across the woman’s pulped face, saw eyes vibrant with life meet her own.

Cat whispered something. Molly leaned in closer, turned her head, concentrated on committing to memory the woman’s words, in case they were her last.

“I felt that,” the woman whispered. She let go of Molly’s shirt and smiled even broader. “I felt that good.”

26

In his snowy grave, Cole had a dream.

A final dream, perhaps.

A sequence of dreams.

He floated in space as stars rushed by, white streaks against the black. He saw his face reflected in a helmet. Molly’s helmet? He saw his own visage fishbowled in another’s visor, his lips black.

The persistent burn. His flesh on fire, a popping fire as the numbness receded, the cold draining away and exposing the agony beneath. Cole could feel his individual nerves stretched out across the cosmos, shuddering with dying sensations, electrocuting him with pain.

Dying. Lips black, reflected in a visor. Swollen or fishbowled or both.

He hung in the vacuum, surrounded by white.

Plucked. God’s fingers holding him. Lifting him.