The Tattoo of Never-Was (Ch27)

Pulling a gun is easy. Pulling the trigger...that's another story.

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She was either going to die in that cellar or leave with the deadliest germ the modern world has ever known.

Theda Evora nearly choked laughter at the absurdity of the situation she found herself in. She was really going to enter the cellar in the military classified General Building and, if there was a man there who might be ill with a catastrophic disease, take him out and hide him. Yes. That was an amazing assignment from some backward god.

She matched the stride of Patrick Conlin perfectly from a pace behind. If anyone were observing them from afar walking single file along the riverbank, they might have looked like children playing an army game. Theda’s ears were perked to fox level, the rushing of the river fading into background noise as she listened for an anomaly, all her senses tuned for the slightest human sound. But there was nothing other than the awakened amphibious nocturnal chorus rising from the river, greeting the world that emerged with sparkling ice from the dust storm. Other than an overhead owl gently hooting a coded greeting, they were alone.

If only I had known that I’d be headed to the belly of the beast with a time traveling gentleman…at least I wore trousers. Hysteria welled in her throat and escaped as laughter.

Conlin stopped and turned his head, his profile sharp against his overcoat. “I wish I had your sense of humor, Miss Evora.”

“You don’t. A man once told me that if you laugh at danger, you command it.”

“Did that man end up in a federal prison for life?” He half turned and faced her.

“Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Conlin, since you claim to have seen the world thirty years in the future.”

“Point taken, Miss Evora.” He turned toward his left and cocked his head to the side, listening. “You see it?” He said softly.

She peeked through the trees. The back of the General Building rose in the vast field like the last medieval fortress of a dead kingdom. The door she had gone through with Jackson just yesterday now seemed not just a common entryway but a symbol of a line she shouldn’t cross, as if the door had an invisible hex that only she could see. The hair on her arms rose and she became as watchful as a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk. She didn’t want to go in there. Not now. Not ever.

“Hold this.” Conlin handed her a heavy, long object and when she brought it closer, the word CONLIN stamped next to its serial number. It was a military flashlight. “Don’t turn it on. We’re going to run to that door. See it?” She nodded. “When we get there, you click that light on and keep it pointed straight down at my hands while I pick the lock. Soon as you hear me click, turn it right off. Light in this dark can be seen for miles. Got that?”

“Yes.” And they ran for the door.

Conlin made short work of the lock while Theda held the trembling light aimed directly at his fast hands. The double click of the lock then click of the light worked like a clock ticking, and slipped into the dark kitchen.

“Where’s the door?” Conlin whispered.

“It’s right over…”

CRASH!

A human-shaped shadow detached itself from the corner and knocked Conlin to the ground. On reflex Theda turned the flashlight on and before a disembodied hand slapped it from her, the grinning face of Cyril swam through the light.

“Run!” Conlin screamed, but she hurried toward the spinning light instead, sliding on her knees and pawing at it until she finally grabbed it.

“Thought you was gonna sneak in here, huh? And what you gonna find?” Cyril’s arm circled Conlin’s neck in a choke hold, pinning him to the ground. Conlin’s eyes bulged and his breath jagged in and out in short bursts. “Knew something was wrong with you. No friends. Nowhere to be found on the base. Now I know why.” He tightened his grip.

“Let him go!” Theda slowly rose to her feet and switched the light to her left hand, unbuttoning the top of her coat with her right. Got less than a minute before he passes out cold.

Cyril chuckled and tightened even more, grinning with those terrible teeth. “After I’m done with him, you’re next, girl.” Conlin’s eyelids fluttered and he gurgled, the fingers that had been attempting to pry Cyril’s arm from his neck began to slip down. Oh no.

Cyril gave one last squeeze for good measure, arm shaking, his eyes never shifting from Theda’s. Conlin went limp, eyes closing, neck lax. Cyril stood slowly, stepping around the motionless body. He slowly approached her.  

“Now listen to me, girly. You’re going to give me that flashlight, and we’re getting out of here. You created a big panic by taking off at the station this morning. What kind of girl worries her mama like that, huh?” He raised his hand then turned it palm up.

Theda pulled the pistol from her jacket and pointed it at his chest. “Don’t come near me.”

Cyril stopped, then barked a laugh, pointing one finger at her gun. “You know that’s a little girly gun, right? That’s a gun guys give to women so when wives find out about their husband’s little side gals, she can shoot him but it’s like getting a few wasp stings.” He began moving slowly toward her again.

“It’s fully loaded. How many wasp stings do you want?” She tried to steady her hand which was trembling with a combination of cold and fear. Whether she was able to shoot him or not was irrelevant. The knowledge that she had no choice made her hand shake more.

Cyril stopped, a gross smile pulling upward, and said mockingly, “Who gave you that? Some high-class gent? Your sister has more sense than you. She went quietly with Rankin and didn’t start no trouble. They said you’d be the problem.”

Theda cocked the gun and he stopped. She aimed at the place right under his chin, where the skin, peeking out from his open tunic collar, had odd black patterns poking from his shirt. A tattoo. “Where are they? My mother and sister?”

“You come with me,” he said quietly, the mocking humor fading from his face, replaced by a bitter downturn of his mouth and a hardening of his eyes. “And I’ll show you. Now put that gun down like a nice girl. If I gotta take it from you, you’re not going to like it.” He slowly leaned forward. Theda’s finger tightened on the trigger but before she could pull it, he lunged and grabbed the hand with the flashlight, pulling her off balance, and slamming his other hand into her elbow, forcing her gun hand to point up.

The gun went off. Chunks of white plaster and powder rained down on them. Cyril twisted the hand with the flashlight painfully forcing her wrist backward until she thought it would snap. She dropped it and the shaking light fell from his grinning face and into a nightmare darkness where his head was only outlined by the faint moonlight from the window.

“Now,” he dropped her left wrist fast and before she could pull away, he clutched her arm just above her elbow, pulling her close to him while still holding her arm up with the pistol. “I’m gonna lower your arm, then you’re going to give me that gun. I won’t hurt you. I promise. Just do what I say.” He slowly began to lower her arm, keeping one hand firmly on her left upper arm.

“I’ll drop it,” she squeaked, forcing tears into her voice and slightly relaxing her arm. He scoffed, and the flashlight at their feet cast his smirking face in a horrific under light.

“I’ll drop it now.” The slight relaxation of his grip gave her enough room to twist her wrist over his head, dropping the gun onto the bridge of his nose.

 He yelled and released her arms, raising his hands as blood gushed from his nostrils and onto his shirt. She grabbed two handfuls of bloody shirt and pulled toward her. It was a trick learned from Maxim. If anyone ever attacks you, remember your balance. It’s impossible to think when you’re in danger. That’s why you practice now! Nature says pull away from danger, and that’s why we are warriors with a brain. We pull the danger to us, and we eliminate it.

She jerked aside and released his shirt while simultaneously stomping his foot with the black combat boot. He sailed past her and crashed into a table, sending him sprawling to the floor along with three drinking glasses that shattered.

Theda moved toward the flashlight, her foot connecting with the gun and accidentally kicking it. She dropped to one knee and snatched the flashlight. Mental calculations zipped through her mind with lightning speed in the near darkness where sound was her only ally.

The gun spiraling through the broken glass field in a series of grinding tinkles and hitting the wall.

Cyril grunting and cursing. A heavy object crashed, exploding more glass items.

There was one shot in the dark to knock him out and she couldn’t miss it. Feeling the weight of the flashlight, she used her arm as a pendulum and swung to her left and into the chaotic noise of broken glass, but she was too slow. A hand jammed under her hat and grabbed her hair. She screamed and tried to ram her elbow into his side, but her arm went weak as he yanked her to her feet.

“You broke my goddamn nose,” he growled in her ear, tightening his grip and Theda gasped with the pain.

An object sailed over her head then CRACK! The hand in her hair loosened and she stepped away panting and holding her head with one hand, her scalp on fire. She raised the light, shaking.

Cyril swayed, his eyes unfocused and blinking. Conlin stepped neatly aside and delivered the last blow with the butt of the pistol, swiping it up the back of Cyril’s head. The big man’s lips pulled to the side, bad teeth yellow, and dropped to his knees, keeling over sideways and falling on his back.

“Next time you’re pointing a gun at a guy who’s gonna kill us, pull the trigger,” Conlin rasped, spitting a wad of blood off to the side. He took the flashlight from her. “You alright?”

“Yes,” she said, grateful for the cover of darkness where he couldn’t see the tears spilling, wetting her cheeks. She wiped them away angrily with her sleeve and tried re-pinning her loose hair, swallowing sobs. Conlin touched her lightly on the arm and the small gesture calmed her.

He shined the light on Cyril’s face. “He’s out. But he’s not going to be for long. Help me move him.”

“Where?”

The light danced across the room and stopped on a broom closet. Conlin opened it, knocking cleaning buckets and bottles of solution onto the floor. “Here,” he placed the light on a chair and handed her a fistful of clean rags. “Get his feet and I’ll do his hands.”

Cyril’s eyes were half lidded with only slight arcs of brown peeking out from underneath, the nose crusted with blood causing his breath to shift to his slack mouth. Theda unrolled one of the longer rags and rolled it as tightly as she could around Cyril’s ankles while Conlin tied his hands behind his back. “Hey…hurts…”Cyril muttered.

“Hurry, Mr. Conlin,” Theda stood while Conlin wrapped the last rag in Cyril’s mouth.

“Grab his feet, Miss Evora. He’s going in the closet.” Conlin hooked his hands under Cyril’s armpits and dragged him toward the open closet door. Theda picked up his boots and pushed. After much manipulation of the dead weight, Cyril stood upright in the closet like some ancient mummy among the rags and scrub brushes, his tunic wide open and askew. His chest puffed with sharp breaths through the gag, those black marks on his chest rising and falling just over his undershirt. Conlin was just about to shut the door when Theda said, “Wait.” She reached over and pulled his shirt down.

The tattoo was of a city skyline all in solid black, the top touching his collarbones and stretching almost across the entire upper part of his chest. The buildings were all rectangular with the exception of the two largest which were pointed with thin spires. Under the buildings was a date: 8/14/03.

“What is this?” Theda pointed at the two spires.

“That’s New York City,” he said, and his accent surfaced with the soft r. His face went cold and he brought the light close to Cyril’s chest. “That’s the Empire State Building,” he said softly.

“There isn’t such a building. There never was on August the fourteenth, 1903, either.”

“And the Chrysler,” he went on as if she hadn’t said anything. There was something in his voice that she couldn’t read, but didn’t like at all. “Shut that door and pull the outside lock. We’re wasting too much time.”

 Just as she pulled the lock across the door with a smart snap, there was a loud bang from under the floor.

They froze, listening. And there it was again. A scraping, dragging sound from just below their feet.

Conlin retrieved the flashlight from the table and pulled her pistol from where he had it shoved in his belt. He handed it to her. The butt was sticky with blood.

“This time, girl, you be ready to pull that trigger,” he whispered. He reached into his coat and pulled his own gun. “Now listen. You stick close. Keep a hand on my coat and don’t trip.”

She nodded, threading her finger through the trigger. Fear stole through her entire system. Whatever was down there, she didn’t want to see it. Ever. They walked to the cellar door. Hanging there were the two gask masks, the empty eyes like a dead insect.

Conlin turned the knob and pulled. A cold air escaped. What’s living in that air? Oh, Father, why aren’t you here with me? How am I to do this?

“Miss Evora?”

“Yes?”

“You keep that thing pointed down. Don’t need no trigger-happy broad putting a hole in my head.”

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