with potential problems in the space.
The plaster of the ceiling was still coming down as marked on the last progress report, but it didn’t look like much had been done to it since then. In the interest of being thorough, however, I wanted to inspect it more closely.
A stack of Sheetrock sat piled in one section of the room under one of the problem areas, which seemed to be my best chance of getting close enough for a better look. I shoved the file folder into my shoulder bag and crawled my way to the top of the Sheetrock pile. Standing, I found I still had trouble assessing the true state of the ceiling, not that I really knew what I was looking for. Frustrated at my lack of knowledge and inspecting abilities, I looked down and found the contractors I had been looking for—piled behind the Sheetrock, unmoving and with pools of blood slowly radiating out from under their forms.
My stomach sank and I swayed with vertigo on top of the Sheetrock, falling to my knees as my legs gave out. As I crawled my way off it, the light in the room changed. The door behind me was closing, and when I turned, it was shut, the only light now coming dimly into the room through the windows along the far wall.
A man stepped out of the shadows, partially hidden by the hood he wore under his jacket, but what I could see of the face was unkind, menacing. I backed away from him, startled but surprisingly not as scared as I had been the night before, despite having just seen several more dead bodies. My fear then had made me feel small, weak, diminished me, and I refused to let that rule over me now. Even my father’s speech about our luck and our being blessed had given me some of that back. As I pulled the white-handled knife from my shoulder bag, it strengthened my resolve even further.
The man’s eyes went to it, and he laughed, the sound echoing through the large open space. He raised his own hand, holding a similar knife in it. The tattoo on the back of his hand was also familiar—again, the stylized demon.
“You had better know how to use that,” the man said, his voice thick with the accent of our people from the old country. “Although the very fact you are in possession of one of our sacred blades means that you must have some prowess to have claimed it.”
“I didn’t do anything!” I shouted in growing anger and frustration. “Leave me and my family alone. We didn’t do anything to you.”
“You have wronged those whom I serve,” he said. “That is enough. And once I bleed the location of your entire family out of you, they will reward me with the Life Eternal.”
“Wow,” I said, a bit of fear creeping back into me as I caught the madness on his face. “You know what, mister? I didn’t kill your friend, but if you’re threatening my whole family, I wish I had.” I lifted my knife, ignoring how it shook in my hand. Whether I could use it was another story, but I’d be damned if I was going to play the victim again. Something dark was rising up in me.
The man moved in fast, coming at me from my left. Slashing to my side, my blade flew completely past the man, leaving him unharmed. I may have pulled up short, my body still unwilling to stab at someone, and I shrunk back from him as my false bravado dropped away. His blade caught the strap on my shoulder bag, slicing it and slipping the bag to the floor, its contents spreading out everywhere. I went to run, but I slipped on one of the damn folders and the attacker had me by the wrist, prying the knife from my hand.
Disarmed and caught in the man’s viselike grip, I allowed myself to give in to my growing fear, heading straight into full-blown panic.
Eleven
Stanis
I stood as a silent rooftop sentinel in one of the older city sections called the Bowery, waiting for the woman within the building while her blue-haired friend lingered on the street below. After last night’s attack in that alley, I found my mind focused solely on her. I could not remember the
The plaster of the ceiling was still coming down as marked on the last progress report, but it didn’t look like much had been done to it since then. In the interest of being thorough, however, I wanted to inspect it more closely.
A stack of Sheetrock sat piled in one section of the room under one of the problem areas, which seemed to be my best chance of getting close enough for a better look. I shoved the file folder into my shoulder bag and crawled my way to the top of the Sheetrock pile. Standing, I found I still had trouble assessing the true state of the ceiling, not that I really knew what I was looking for. Frustrated at my lack of knowledge and inspecting abilities, I looked down and found the contractors I had been looking for—piled behind the Sheetrock, unmoving and with pools of blood slowly radiating out from under their forms.
My stomach sank and I swayed with vertigo on top of the Sheetrock, falling to my knees as my legs gave out. As I crawled my way off it, the light in the room changed. The door behind me was closing, and when I turned, it was shut, the only light now coming dimly into the room through the windows along the far wall.
A man stepped out of the shadows, partially hidden by the hood he wore under his jacket, but what I could see of the face was unkind, menacing. I backed away from him, startled but surprisingly not as scared as I had been the night before, despite having just seen several more dead bodies. My fear then had made me feel small, weak, diminished me, and I refused to let that rule over me now. Even my father’s speech about our luck and our being blessed had given me some of that back. As I pulled the white-handled knife from my shoulder bag, it strengthened my resolve even further.
The man’s eyes went to it, and he laughed, the sound echoing through the large open space. He raised his own hand, holding a similar knife in it. The tattoo on the back of his hand was also familiar—again, the stylized demon.
“You had better know how to use that,” the man said, his voice thick with the accent of our people from the old country. “Although the very fact you are in possession of one of our sacred blades means that you must have some prowess to have claimed it.”
“I didn’t do anything!” I shouted in growing anger and frustration. “Leave me and my family alone. We didn’t do anything to you.”
“You have wronged those whom I serve,” he said. “That is enough. And once I bleed the location of your entire family out of you, they will reward me with the Life Eternal.”
“Wow,” I said, a bit of fear creeping back into me as I caught the madness on his face. “You know what, mister? I didn’t kill your friend, but if you’re threatening my whole family, I wish I had.” I lifted my knife, ignoring how it shook in my hand. Whether I could use it was another story, but I’d be damned if I was going to play the victim again. Something dark was rising up in me.
The man moved in fast, coming at me from my left. Slashing to my side, my blade flew completely past the man, leaving him unharmed. I may have pulled up short, my body still unwilling to stab at someone, and I shrunk back from him as my false bravado dropped away. His blade caught the strap on my shoulder bag, slicing it and slipping the bag to the floor, its contents spreading out everywhere. I went to run, but I slipped on one of the damn folders and the attacker had me by the wrist, prying the knife from my hand.
Disarmed and caught in the man’s viselike grip, I allowed myself to give in to my growing fear, heading straight into full-blown panic.
Eleven
Stanis
I stood as a silent rooftop sentinel in one of the older city sections called the Bowery, waiting for the woman within the building while her blue-haired friend lingered on the street below. After last night’s attack in that alley, I found my mind focused solely on her. I could not remember the
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