Skag Demons: Purgatory

 Skag Demons: Purgatory

Written by: Danni Lynn

Commissioned by: Zeroth17

Word Count: 15,000 words

December 19th, 2023

Skag Demons pt. 1 “Skag Demons,” pt. 1 “Skag Demons: Purgatory,” pt. 3 “Skag Demons: Limbo.”

CW: Mentions of drugs and addiction. (Later parts will be marked as mature, where appropriate.)

Synopsis: After the new street drug Blitz devastated Michael Carradine’s neighborhood, he is now trying to pick up the pieces and push his life back onto a decent path. Now living at James’ house and working at the local factory, Michael is approached by a mysterious man claiming to be a part of the secretive Black Lodge, an organization involved in the deep underbelly of our world. Can Michael keep his new membership a secret from James even though they both swore to stay clean and out of this line of shady work? Or will he be able to keep his head down, get his work done, and get out of town as soon as he has enough money to do so?

Note: One-third into this story, we decided to do a POV flip. It starts out in 3rd POV and then switches to 1st POV, just try to ignore that! 

James, ever the hero, never-hurt-a-woman-type, is someone you would expect to have two mothers. Marrissa works at a local steelyard as a receptionist, and Lane works at the market. They recently welcomed Mike into their home, which is a cramped space with the four of them living there, but it’s a lot better than the white walls of institutionalization and imprisonment at Westwood State Penitentiary. Ever since Mike and James got out of prison and rehab, they have been trying to start fresh.

Mike is relaxing on a couch in James’ moms’ living room. The cushions sink around his body as if he has become a living feature of the couch. His back is bent as he slouches toward his knees and his blank eyes are focused on the television across the room. James sits next to him smoking weed. In-between shifts at the local meat plant, this is where Mike takes up his position of a self-imposed sentry. He smirks. Oh, sentry of the television. What a life this has become.

“Gotta keep off the streets,” James mutters. He passes his blunt to Mike who takes it and draws in a puff of the skunk-cabbage-quality of junk they can barely afford. A buzz is unattainable but the action of smoking something keeps his year of sobriety in-tact. At least it stops his hands from shaking. Or throwing up. Withdrawals back when he first got clean sucked.

“Gotta keep busy,” Mike muses. “But of course, I’ve got that covered. Another shift in two hours. I’ll be gone all night.”

“At least it’s steady.”

“You mean stinky. It’s the worst smell I’ve ever experienced in my life. It’s hard to imagine that stuff is edible at some point.”

“Try working with chemicals. Some sorry loser accidentally dropped a barrel he was moving and the stuff spilled everywhere the other day. Ruined his shoes and I heard he nearly lost his toe.”

“Yuck. I guess your work is a little worse than mine.”

“A little? I’ll never touch acid again,” James concludes.

“At least we are making some cash.”

“At least.”

On the television, a news reporter in a red blazer appears on screen. A photo of New York City’s mayor is displayed behind her. The camera pans toward her desk.

“Since the passing of Mayor yesterday evening, the city has been thrown into the throes of adjustment. The Public Advocate of the City of New York was sworn into position this morning, but many are speculating about the stresses and scandals within the office after the citywide attack in Brooklyn last year…”  The reporter’s image fades and pictures take over the screen to show burning streets, police officers fighting monsters, and people receiving emergency medical care.

Both James and Mike look away from the television as these moments are shown. Blitz and all the chaos it caused disappeared during the time they were in rehab. No one knew how or why, and the event has become a taboo topic to talk about. Mike didn’t like being in rehab or prison, but he at least went through to get help and was able to become sober with the assistance of placebos and by being weaned off the drugs. James, who was at the Frontworth Correctional Facility, was forced to quit cold turkey. They don’t talk about those days.

“Do you ever miss it?” James asks. Mike hands the blunt back to him.

“Miss what?”

“Our lives before,” he gestures to the television, “all this.”

Images of Mike’s dad in the kitchen making breakfast, yelling out the day’s grocery list to him; and his mother and sister faded out on the living room floor fill his mind. He wishes something could be done to erase the blood-soaked memories when he went home and found his sister giggling over what was left of his parents. As tempting as it is to take something late at night or when he is in his lowest moments, Mike wasn’t even sure if Blitz itself could wipe such memories from his mind.

“To be back in that shithole of a high school and have fifty bucks burning a hole in my pocket on my way to the grocery store… I would give up anything to go back to those days,” Mike says.

James nods. He snubs his blunt out on a smoke tray and sets it down. He rubs his face, stretching the bags under his eyes and the weariness that adds years to his appearance.

“I’d do anything to worry about algebra again. Not that I cared back then.”

“Yeah, but you were a whiz at it. I sometimes think I want to get yelled at by my old man one more time; that asshole didn’t deserve what happened to him. Even with how they all treated me… I do miss them.”

“Next year’s election also brings big questions to the stage. What will be done to stop drugs from getting into our schools? When will the government answer to the events on X.X.XXX—”

“Are you happy?” James hazards.

“Whoa, is this an emotionally driven question from tight-lipped, tough-guy, James?” Mike teases. He rocks to the side and playfully punches James on the shoulder. James leans away, frowning.

“I take it back.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Mike retorts. He settles down and fixes his eyes on the television. Every day he gets up at odd hours for his graveyard shift at work. James’ moms are horrible cooks so he scrounges up what he can, and every alleyway he walks by in the evenings or early mornings after work reminds him of the dark horrors the world can harbor. Sometimes he thinks a demon will slink out of the shadows, or even something as innocent as a slutty Halloween costume reminds him of the succubus transformations he witnessed. Overall, nothing is the same, but he has a schedule. He is in control of what he does, what he lets into his body, and he is staying clean. He even has a regular meager paycheck to look forward to and that is better than nothing. Maybe one day it will all be enough to get him out of this ghetto and onto a new life.

Mike shrugs. “I’m not happy, but I’m not miserable either.”

***

Mike steps outside to get some fresh air before he has to get ready to head to work. Outside on the stoop, the Chwon’s home over looks a crappy city street with tangled powerlines stretching between the buildings and potholes engulfing the road. Metal garbage cans are set out for garbage today and a plethora of trash bags pile up on every curb. Across the street and down a little way is the route he used to walk to high school. Around the corner are some of the vibrant street-art portraits he spent everyday walking past for the entirety of his life before.

In more ways than one, he is eager to escape Brooklyn’s ghetto. He knows it is now an urge to flee and forget everything that happened. Before Blitz spoiled everything, his urge to leave was based on the need to run from his responsibilities, to explore the world, and find something thrilling and dangerous to do beyond his hometown. Now, it is a little more complicated than that. He is sometimes ashamed to say instead of wishing to run, his need for everything to go back the way it was—even if that meant staying in the ghetto forever—outweighed his need to leave.

Plopping down on the front step, Mike jams his hands into his jacket pockets and looks down the road. At a distance, a lone figure is walking up the sidewalk past the variety of fenced-in yards and crooked stoops. Dogs bark and snarl as he passes by, and loud music pours out the windows of a home a few houses down. Mike leans back so he is unseen between the brick pillars of the steps, but the man stops right in front of Mike.

Mike first notices his polished shoes. He wears a leather pair of loafers with an expensive-looking buckle on each one. It is the kind of thing rich-ghetto-types wear to show off they have money and some power. Lifting his head, Mike looks up at the man standing over him in a long black coat and hat. His hat is pulled low over his face, and he wears a pair of sunglasses, even though it is almost night.

“Michael Carradine?” the man asks.

Mike doesn’t move, in case the man misinterprets any movement as a threat. He stays low and only responds, “Who’s asking?”

The man reaches into his jacket and Mike freezes. He half expects the man to pull a gun on him but instead he pulls out a business card.

“I work for the Hunter’s Black Lodge. My organization has been keeping an eye on you and we would like to meet with you for a potential job,” he says.

Mike takes the card. It is black with gold lettering spelling out the organization’s name. A phone number is the only form of contact on the card.

“Well, that’s not creepy. Who are you?” Mike stands up. He backs up a couple of steps until he is standing as tall as the man before him. Maybe if he snaps or makes a ruckus, he can catch James’ attention inside so he can back him up if this encounter turns out to be trouble.

“Hunter’s Black Lodge works with the supernatural. We investigate it and experiment the strange anomalies within our world. Last year, you came into contact with one of our products, if you are familiar.”

A cold slip of dread slithers down Mike’s back. The monsters, the drugs, the shit-pissing rainbows…

“You don’t mean—”

“We are the producers of Blitz, which was unfortunately leaked out onto the streets before we fully understood its capabilities. We have since cleaned up that accident, but we are in need of people who are familiar with these… circumstances.”

Mike swallows hard. He puts the card in his pocket where he balls up his fist, decimating the paper between his fingers. They caused the distribution of Blitz? He tries to remain cool and not show any reaction.

“Why me?”

“It’s a paid opportunity. We want to offer you a million if you join us. From seeing your current situation, I think this is an offer you can’t turn down.”

“And what if I do?” Mike asks. He doesn’t trust this man but the thought of never having to step a foot into the meat-processing plant again gets his heart beating fast. He tries to flatten the wrinkled business card and keeps his eyes locked on the man.

“I don’t think this is an offer you can refuse.”

Mike narrows his eyes and looks away, trying not to look too eager. The money is a gimme. Of course, he needs the money. Of course, he wants a million dollars. With this, he can finally leave the ghetto for good! What is he waiting for? On the flipside, what are these people dabbling in that they created a drug capable of robbing peoples’ self-control and turns them into homicidal monsters?

“Upon accepting this offer, I will take you to our nightclub where you will meet and sign with the head of our lodge’s American branch. You have the right exposure to our line of work, so we need your help on some projects around town.” He shrugs and looks around. “We like to keep this info in the family. Since you already know what Blitz does firsthand, you won’t be prone to whistleblowing or asking too many questions, I hope.”

 One million dollars is a lot of money.

“I want to meet this head. Let me talk to him and then I’ll give you an answer.”

“Deal.”

***

“How did something as powerful as Blitz get leaked into dealers’ hands?” Mike asks. He is sitting in the back of a black limo with the man who had offered him the job sitting across from him. Sitting sideways in the car tips and twists Mike’s perception as he tries to not get carsick. The driver cuts quickly around a corner and drives onto a highway. Beyond that, Mike doesn’t recognize where they are because he quickly lost track of the turns they made since leaving his neighborhood in Brooklyn.

“A drug lord who was funding the experiments decided to take some for himself. He wanted to get a jump on the new market and corner it all as the first dealer. Don’t worry, he was quickly handled. Luckily, not too much of the product got out but as you know, it was enough,” the man answers.

“Ah-hah,” Mike mutters. He doesn’t want to think about what must have happened to that man after that. He’s been in a gang before, but this is starting to feel like the big leagues.

“We take care of our own. If you take care of us, we will take care of you. There is nothing to worry about if you are loyal to the organization.”

“How big is this organization?”

The man spreads his hands in the air like a fisherman bragging about his catch. Mike notices his black leather gloves, complimenting his very covered persona. This is not a man he’ll ever recognize on the street or pick out of a line up if he ever needed to.

“It’s big,” he boasts.

The limo gets off the highway and pulls into an empty parking lot in a dark warehouse district. Driving over broken asphalt and shattered bottles, it comes to a stop before two unmarked double doors at the back of the building. The driver beeps the horn once and a pair of men come out and approach the car.

“These two will help you inside. It was nice meeting you Mike, I hope to see you again real soon,” the man says.

Mike peeks out the tinted windows and fights the urge to melt back into his seat. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Both men look like off brand, tatted up, versions of the Italian mobsters you see in movies. Both are buff with a fair share of chest hair poking up over their shirt collars and wear black leather jackets. Heavy belts and holsters wrap around their waists, and they walk more like an armored robot with heavy footfalls and fearful size, instead of two living-and-breathing men.

One man opens the door and pulls Mike out.

***

Mike is led into the bowels of the nightclub by the two brutes. Distant music and a pounding bass vibrate through the corridors. They approach a set of doors at the end of the hall. One man throws open the doors and the entire force of the club’s music, flashing lights, and sweaty-stink, hits Mike like a wave.

The club is not unlike the raves he and his friends used to go to. The sweaty bodies, dancing, drinking, and loud music all match his familiar tastes, but instead of just dancers, the walls of the club are lined with private booths where men in expensive suits by bottles and wave down skimpily dressed servers. The two men push Mike through the crowd and lead him up a set of stairs to a private section that overlooks the entire dancefloor below. A very large man sits at one of the booths with his arms around two girls. When Mike enters, his ruddy face lights up and he waves at him.

“Boy! There you are—” he turns to the men. “Is this Michael?” they nod. Mike is pushed down into a seat and handed a glass of water.

“Welcome to the Lodge—I hope my associates didn’t give you too much trouble,” the man says. He is dressed in a tailored suit that covers his ballooning body with expensive pinstripes and chains for a pocket watch or wallet decorates his coat pocket. His tie is undone, and several expensive bottles of cognac litter the table before him. On each arm, a girl is snuggled up to his side with their breasts resting on his chest as they paw at him and giggle. Each girl wears a black one-piece outfit resembling a bathing suit. Their spandex outfits are tight and show off more of their bodies than Mike wants to see, especially during this strange meeting. Their one-pieces plunge into a belly-deep neckline, and the backs are only thongs as their tanned asses are shown off under the red and blue club lights. They both wear high heels, and their hair is done up into high ponytails.

“Go get a drink for my guest,” he says. He slaps one girl on the butt, and she playfully squeals before getting up to get Mike a glass. He turns his attention to Mike. “Ah, you look confused—my name is Brandom Malker. I am the head of the Hunter’s Black Lodge American Branch. I wanted to offer you a position at our lodge as an employee of mine and I can assure you I will make it worth your time.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Malker,” Mike says. “I am a little confused as to how someone like me can help you. I am familiar with your… wares, but before that, I was just a kid in high school. I don’t have any skills or any kind of background to help in your work.”

“Is my offer not enough?”

Mike raises his hands. “No, of course not—it’s very enticing! I just want to know what you need me to do. How can I be of any service?”

Malker nods, his chin squishing down onto his chest as he thinks. “A good man. Luckily for you, we just need an extra arm for some missions of ours. I’m looking for someone who can keep a secret and follow orders—”

Malker continues to talk but a girl reenters the room and takes away Mike’s water and replaces it with a glass of expensive cognac. The spiced and fruity smell leaks into the air but as Mike looks up to thank her, the chaos of the noisy room around him comes to a standstill and he is lacerated by a bolt of shock.

It’s Sarah.

The girl looking down at him, from the height of her stilettos, has short black hair, her classic heavy eyeliner and eye shadow, and her all too recognizable pout. Also wearing a black one-piece, the outfit shows off her every curve and adds to the wealth of her breasts and hips. Mike remembers all too well the time they spent together, slipping away to the boys’ bathroom in between classes, nights out at raves, and sneaking around together after hours… He knew every inch of her very being, but something felt wrong. Isn’t she supposed to be dead? He knows she was recovered from the attacks and was locked in a facility somewhere, but he never dared to assume she could survive all she endured. How can it be possible if this was really her?

Sarah winks at him before sashaying over to Malker. She sits on his lap and kicks up her legs to show off her pumps. Malker pinches her bottom and pulls her close, caressing her as he does so. Mike doesn’t try to hide his reaction—he can’t. He blanches and as the room swirls back into real time, he feels like he is going to puke.

“I can’t even begin to list the perks of the organization, but what we are willing to give you to start out will only multiply as you climb the ranks,” Malker says. He reaches out his glass and clanks it against Mike’s before tossing his back and swallowing it whole. Mike sits frozen with his eyes locked on Sarah. She cozies up to Malker and her lips split into an evil grin. Her teeth sharpen and her eyes seem to elongate. Her ears lengthen and horns appear in her hair for just a moment. As soon as the illusion begins, it stops. Mike startles and leans back in his seat, dropping his glass to the floor with a crash. He cups his head in his hands.

“Huh, oh!” Malker exclaims. “I want you to meet one of my favorite girls—Sarah came to us after the last Blitz situation and was rehabilitated until she learned how to control her powers. I’ve heard you have witnessed a succubus’ transformation before, but it can be frightening until you get used to it.” He looks at Sarah and strokes her. “Unless you are into that kind of thing.”

Mike feels like he is going to vomit. For real, this time. He clutches his stomach and bobs forward, attempting to nod and sit up straight. Sarah, back in her human form, watches him as she puts a hand on Malker’s shoulder.

“It looks like he is shy,” she says. Her voice croons, the very sound draws him in. “I’ll leave you two alone to talk.” She gets up and makes her way over to the two men who led Mike in. One wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. Sarah lets them do what they want and acts as if she is in her element. With her new form and life, maybe she is.

“Some of those affected by the Blitz turned into Succubi, like Sarah. We helped her gain the ability to control her appearance and power at will. She is no longer a blood-thirsty, Blitz crazed monster. It seems those who survive the aftereffects continue to live a more empowered life after the fact.”

Mike frowns and pulls himself back together. He picks his spilled cup up from off the floor and sets it on the table. “I don’t think I want to help produce and sell Blitz, no matter how much you pay me. I’ve seen firsthand what it can do to people.”

“I understand, and we don’t want to be involved in that either. What the Lodge does is focus on the supernatural. We want to learn about these things and better prepare ourselves in case anything like this ever happens again. We operate in the dark underbelly of the city, but in order to continue our work, I need an enforcer and confidant I can trust to help me carry out my various projects. There are many people out there who would love to get their hands on my work and use it for profit.”

“You aren’t planning on selling more Blitz?” Mike asks.

“That was never my intention. It was a horrible accident.”

“And you are sure it can never happen again?”

“As long as my people are loyal. People like you help me keep an eye out for any moles in the organization,” Malker answers.

Mike takes this all in. He needs the money and if what Malker is saying is true, maybe he can make a difference in this place. He can’t go back in time to live out his life in a pre-Blitz world, but maybe he can do something about it and how it may impact the future.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” Mike says. He reaches out his hand to Malker. “I accept your offer.”

“A good man,” Malker responds. He takes Mike’s hand into his wet palm and firmly shakes. “Welcome to the club.”

***

Hours pass at the nightclub. Girls come in and out of the booth and press different drinks into Mike’s hands. He drinks a few sips slowly at first but the cocktail of drinks hit him hard, soaking into his sober body with a fierce vengeance. Mike starts to sweat as the alcohol warms him, flushing his cheeks and face. Malker busies himself playing with the various whores, and now and then, Sarah appears in Mike’s vision, sometimes as herself and sometimes as a demon.

The music of the club fills Mike’s ears and deafens everything around him. When someone tries to talk to him or pass him another drink, they are voiceless as their pink mouths open and their teeth flash under the techno lights.

The two men who brought Mike into the club grasp his elbows and pull him up out of his chair without warning. They guide him through a throng of people and back into the cement hallways encircling the main club room. Mike stumbles down a set of steps two at a time, half dragged, and half running as his drunken mind and body struggle to keep up.

“Wh-where are we going?” Mike manages. His toe hits a stair, and his hands grasp at thin air.

“You’ll see,” one of the men answer. Laughter rings in the stairwell.

***

Mike is sitting in a dark room. The first thing he sees is his shoes in the faint illumination of candlelight. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there.

There is a shuffling sound, and some chanting begins in low tones. Something is pulled over his head and the world blacks out save the throaty voices and a dank, murky smell. The sharp smell of something akin to vinegar cuts through the stench. Mike trembles, his pupils dilating at the teasing presence of skag. What the hell has he gotten himself into?

“Hunters of the Black Lodge. We gather here today to—”

Mike loses his balance and slumps in his seat. The material over his head crinkles, distracting him from what the voices are saying. He wrings his hands and tests to see if maybe he was kidnapped. Are his hands bound? Mike shakes his arms, but they move freely. Are his feet tied up? He kicks and his foot connects with someone’s shin.

“Hey, watch it!” someone snaps.

“—our new member swears to our pact of fealty and brotherhood for the Hunter’s Black Lodge operates under the shadow of darkness—”

A sharp stabbing pain begins on Mike’s forearm. He yelps and pulls back but the bag on his head is tightened further and someone pins both his arms still. The pain spreads like licking flames, burning into his skin.

“Let’s see if you can handle a little pain, newbie,” someone hisses.

“Make sure he doesn’t crack.”

“What—what are you doing?!” Mike snaps. He tries to pull away, but hands tighten on his arm and someone grasp his shoulders from behind.

“Upon accepting this symbol of our brotherhood, you swear to protect the lodge and all its secrets at the cost of your life…”

The burning pain continues. Mike wriggles and tries to move, but he is stuck in place. He flings out his fingers trying to grasp someone, to pull them close and ask what is happening, what they are doing to them, in the middle of the chaos.

“You promise to follow orders and fulfill our wishes.”

“And no talking to clean cops!” someone hoots. Glasses clank and guffaws echo about the chamber. Bodies, sensed by the heat of their girth, the sound of their closing in breath, and the shuffling of feet, begin to come in closer, surrounding Mike from all sides. He slinks down in his seat as his arm turns into lava. Mike yells and tries to kick but the voices of many rise up and begin to chant, ringing through his entire body with their deep echoing timber.

“You swear loyalty to the lodge—you swear loyalty to the cause—you swear loyalty to the—”

Mike’s head falls back, and he blacks out again.

***

A car trundles down the street outside James’ home, splashing grimy water from the early morning rain, sending it sprawling across the sidewalks and splattering onto the bottom step of the buildings’ stoop. Mike is sprawled out on the steps with his head tucked in his arms and his knees pulled up to his chest. His eyes open, blinking slowly only to close as he grinds his knuckles into them in reaction to the pervasive morning light. Slowly, Mike wakes up and looks around.

The streetlights are on, and a silver moon is visible on the horizon, just over the sheet of brown smog hovering above the city.

Mike tries to sit up, but his head feels like a fissure is about to open and break his skull in half. His mouth is dry, and his stomach roils as if it is full of acid. He clutches his head and curls up into a fetal position on the cold stonework.

Did he break his sobriety last night? He isn’t surprised, but he didn’t expect to fall back down this hard. Mike grits his teeth against the pain and sits up anyways. If he is in pain because he made some stupid decisions, then he deserves it. He rubs his arms to warm up but when his hand passes over his left forearm, a sharp sting shoots up his arm.

“Ack! What the hell?” Mike pulls up his shirt sleeve to reveal red flesh around a black tattoo on his inner forearm. The tattoo is covered in a light sheen of pus. The design is a circle around what looks to be a one-eyed and horned skull with a tusked upper jaw.

“Aw, shit.”

Mike pokes it and it stings in response. As he wakes up, the dull ache starts to make itself noticed. He doesn’t know how he is going to keep this from James. What is he going to tell his boss?

But even worse. Who were those people he met last night. Did it really happen, or were parts of it a dream?

 ***

During the next weekend, I find myself back at the club. I was once again picked up, blindfolded, and then pushed into the sweating bodies on the dance floor to make my way across to the VIP rooms. Sweating under the pulsing lights, I find Bandon and his whores pouring and passing around drinks.

A pale and sickly-looking man is sitting across from Brandon. He has a cup in hand and sits slouched, as if he is leaning in to hear something someone has to say. He has dark oiled hair with a slight mustache and beard. His blazer is wrinkled and a colorful silk button-up peaks out from his chest. I swallow and approach the group, keeping my eye on the new man. Something about him looks familiar. Maybe it’s the warping the weird lighting can do to someone, but his grungy, slick look reminds me of a cop pretending to fit into a “in” crowd. I’ve seen his type.

“Michael! Come on over!” Brandon shouts. He raises his glass and the girls around him coo and snicker. Sarah is nearby, wearing a black two piece with white ribbons in her hair, where her succubi horns should be. She eyes me, much like a cat watching its prey. I sit down as far away from her as I can manage and try not to look her way as Brandon centers his drunken focus on me.

“I have a friend I want you to meet. Michael, meet Detective Sergeant Victor Graves of the NYPD, he’s one of my best men,” Brandon slurs. I stiffen and blink hard. A cop? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I turn to Victor and stick out my hand. He grasps it and shakes it jerkily. “Hey, boy,” Victor says with a Scottish accent.

“I didn’t expect to see one of your kind down here,” I say. I pick up a glass and look at him over the rim with a smirk.

“Sounds like you have a lot to learn about our lifestyle,” Victor retorts.

“Ah, I know about crooked cops, if that’s what you mean.”

Brandon leans forward, making the whole couch buckle. “Now, now—Victor is one of my best. How do you expect me to run such an underground empire without a little help from above? He serves as one of New York’s finest and will be your new partner as you learn the ropes around here.”

I swig the alcohol in my glass and let it trickle back out between my teeth. These people are disgusting. Sitting up a little straighter, I cock my head and smile at Victor.

“Yeah? Well, I look forward to seeing what you are made of,” I say.

“Don’t get too excited, boy,” Victor growls. His pale skin darkens into long shadows under his eyes. He has the sickly-sallow look of someone not giving an old habit the kick. I wonder what he is hooked on. There is always an addiction, whether power, money, or drugs, when it comes to a bad cop.

"I'll keep myself in check.”

Victor looks at me deadpanned. Brandon continues, “I have a little job for the both of you and I think it’s the perfect test to prove your loyalty. I can’t be letting you in on all our little secrets for nothing, you know.”

“What do you need?” I ask. I speak up as Victor opens his mouth, cutting him off. He rolls his eyes.

“You are going to be one of my hitmen. I need to know I’m covered if I need some laws laid down. You will join Victor on his regular work over these next couple of weeks, getting used to the system. Once you’re ready, I have a bigger assignment for your test.”

I sit up straighter and try to hold out my chest as I listen. Casual, I lean an elbow on the couch’s arm.

“And what’s he do?” I ask Brandon.

“I handle various criminals, degenerates, and anyone who stands in our way,” Victor cuts in.

“And what’s the big test?” I ask.

Brandon looks over his shoulder and snaps at the girls. “Give us a moment,” he orders. Sarah and the others move to a different side of the lounge. As they walk away, in a sea of long-legs and slender figures, Sarah’s dark eyes peek back over her shoulder like two haunting orbs. Unblinking.

Brandon beckons me and Victor closer so he can whisper clearly under the pounding music.

“A local district attorney is trying to crack down on the Lodge. I want you two to send him a message he will never forget. There is a senator, Senator John Harris, who this attorney is close with. I want you to give the family a nice visit and… leave some scars that will never heal.”

The bass of an R&B trap-track drops and the club goes wild. Dancers hoot-and-holler as drunken bodies mingle under the lights. The floor vibrates and my heart quickens, outside the pace of the movement around me. I swallow and try to maintain a straight face.

“W-what do you mean… exactly?” I ask. Brandon smiles and lifts his glass to his lips.

“Be creative. I’ll give you some leeway in that. But it must be a clear message.”

“Be creative…” I repeat. The weight and dark hints of his words weigh on me. I get the urge to run and never look back at this place. I don’t know what I am getting myself into or how far I am going to have to go to prove myself to this man. Is the money really worth this?

I lean back, letting out a breath. Across the lounge, Sarah continues to watch over the other girls’ shoulders and from behind their backs. Look what they have turned her into. Was this the life we ever imagined for ourselves?

“Sounds like a done deal, boss. You can count on me,” Victor answers. “This should be fun.”

“Good. That’s what I thought,” Brandon responds. “Mike?”

I turn back and try to focus. My glass sweats between my palms.

“Y-yeah. Of course. I’m in.”

***

Over the next week, I woke up early at the same time I used to go to the factory. It felt kind of nice to not be getting up to go to that stink every week, covered in blood, and working my ass off. I told myself every time I looked in the mirror and shaved that this was a new start—new possibilities, no matter how terrifying the looming doom of my upcoming test was.

Every morning, I get ready, drink black coffee, and wait to hear James brushing his teeth with the bathroom door closed before I walk outside and head to work. Leaving in the same direction as my old job, I walk a block away from James’ home to meet up with Victor who picks me up every chilly gray morning in his cop car.

The first few days were spent tracking down local kids selling on the corners to get a cut of the profits and to put anyone in line if they didn’t pay up. The dealers seem to recognize Victor as he drives around. His confidence or ignorance is obvious as he stops and makes these deals in the middle of the street. The blatant actions speak to how deep his influence and potentially the neighborhood’s police ran. The kids keep their heads and eyes down when he talks to him, and they are always quick to push money into his hand.

Near an empty parking lot, Victor and I stand over a kid no older than sixteen with a drawstring backpack hanging off his shoulders.

“See anything I’d like to know about?” Victor asks. He counts the bills in his hands and smacks the dollars to enunciate his words. The boy shakes his head, his black cornrows slick in the morning light.

“No, sir. Nothing unusual.”

“Good. Well, run along. We’re going to take our break here. I want to see better numbers from you next week or else,” Victor says. The boy nods and hurries away, his shoes scrambling over the cracked sidewalk.

“Little shit,” Victor mumbles. “Those hoodlum kids aren’t good for anything else. They’ve got some fine women, but not much else going for them.” Victor fishes a flask out of his jacket and takes a swig. He offers it to me.

“No thanks,” I say. I keep my mouth shut. If there is one thing I have learned this past week, it’s to let Victor do his bitchin’. He had something gross and negative to say about every woman that walked within ten-feet of him and every non-white person in the tri-state area. I would tell him he picked the wrong place to live, deep in this shithole of Brooklyn, but I think he liked the power it gave him. He really leaned into the, ‘I-am-greater-than-thou’ bullshit even though he looks fit to pass out from the alcohol he downed or the opioids in his system. I know because I saw the needles in his glove box. Reminder to self—don’t go poking around his car or opening anything I didn’t know.

“Tell me, how do you get around the drug tests at work? Do you even report into work?” I ask. I'd never seen him walk into the police station when I’m with him.

“I have my ways. I work my area and send in reports when needed. The department isn’t the smartest lot and most of us are crooked anyways. That’s the way of the game.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon collecting protection money from a few businesses over on 23rd. Once we are done, he drops me off at the club to report back to Brandon and takes off down the street with his tires squealing.

Inside, I go to one of the staff breakrooms. Lockers line one side of the wall where I keep snacks, water, and some belongings. I pop open the locker and rifle through the extra clothes, weed, and drinks I have in there. Pulling out a sweater to change into, a small object is knocked loose and falls out onto the floor.

Frowning, I bend to pick up a piece of folded paper. Unfolding it, I find scrawled handwriting inside with a flowery perfume.

We should talk. Maybe listen to some music? Remember the old times?

My room is down the hall. Look for the gold star.

—Sarah.

The pen ink swirls under my fingers, crisscrossing and blurring between the lines.

“What the hell?” I whisper. What would she want to talk about? What was done was done.

Right?

***

Victor pulls up to our usual meeting point late on a Wednesday night. It’s been two weeks since I’ve joined the Lodge and I’m on edge as I stand on the curb with my toes poised over an oil-filled puddle on the road. Victor rolls down his window and leans out.

“Are ya coming or what?”

“Coming. Don’t get too flustered,” I say. I hop into the passenger seat and slam the door shut behind me. Tonight, we are going to the senator’s house to, “make scars that will never heal.” With my butt in the car seat, I just keep taking one breath after the other. I am not looking forward to seeing what Victor has in mind for this kind of situation. All I know is if I refuse to follow his orders, I might find myself in the crosshairs.

Senator John Harris’ home is in the one-and-only DUMBO, Brooklyn neighborhood with views of Manhattan. The potholes of my streets disappear into clean, neatly lined roads. Brownstone townhomes stand in long rows under bright streetlights and manicured bushes line the steps up to each front door. At the top of a street where the townhomes increase in size and become individual properties, one home stands above the rest like a crowning jewel.

Victor points to the home. “There’s the bugger,” he whispers. He pulls the car over to the side of the road, puts it in park, and turns off the engine.

The property is a two-story home with large windows, gardens, and a tall entrance. It’ll obviously be covered with security cameras and lights, as far as I can imagine.

“Are we just gonna walk up? You don’t have another plan?” I ask. Victor laughs.

“We are gonna stop in and have a chat with the Harrises. Just watch me do my thing, aye boy?” Victor gets out and sniffs.

Victor goes up to the driveway. Floodlights click on at our approach and a light comes on over the front door. Victor walks, leaning forward, like he owns the place. He approaches the front door with his hands in his pockets. I follow behind him, more shuffling, as I talk down my urges to run and get the hell out of here.

“Stick to me, boy,” Victor says. He raises his fist and knocks on the door. My throat goes dry as the echo of the knock hangs in the silence between us. There is a shuffle inside and an older woman answers the door.

“Yes? How may I help you?” she asks. She is wearing a blazer and skirt combo, and her hair is combed back into a dark updo. If I had to guess, she must be the missus. Victor smiles and his whole demeanor brightens as if this guy has a lick of charisma. He rocks on the balls of his feet and waves at her as if greeting an old friend.

“Hi, Ms. Harris? My name is Tom McDade. I’m one of the door-to-door knockers for Mr. Harris’ upcoming reelection campaign. We were told to stop in for a visit to introduce one of our newest volunteers,” Victor explains. His voice is high as if he is giving a sales pitch but is colored warmly enough as if he is truly enjoys the topic he is pitching. Victor raises his eyebrows and turns to gesture toward me. Ms. Harris looks at me, perplexed, and I realize I’m supposed to say something.

“Ah, it’s nice to meet you,” I manage. “Um, I’m… James. Yes, I’m a new volunteer and I look forward to meeting your husband and doing my part for the polls…” I bite my tongue. If Victor gave me a heads up about what our cover was, I would have been able to come up with something better. There is no way she will believe my stumbling bullshit.

“Well, it’s rather late, but we were just about to sit down with some drinks, if you would like to join us,” Mrs. Harris says. “John always likes getting to meet the volunteers. You all do such hard work.” 

“Thank ya, lass. I really appreciate that,” Victor says.

Mrs. Harris leads us inside and lets the wolf into her den.

The front foyer shimmers under the light of a crystal chandelier. Off to the right is a sitting room with darkly-stained oak furniture and bookshelves. She continues to the back of the home and out to a sunroom, where her husband sits in the dark with a cigar and glass of whiskey in hand.

“John? There are two men here to meet you. They say they are volunteers with the door-to-door program,” Mrs. Harris says. She looks back at us. “Come, sit. I’ll pour you drinks.”

Senator John Harris is a small middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses and a worn blazer. He looks up from his drink and starts to get up.

“Well, this is a surprise,” John starts. Victor steps in and firmly grasps his hand and pushes him back into his seat.

“Don’t get up, don’t bother yourself,” Victor coos. “We’ll join you and we’ll all have ourselves a nice wee chat.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new to the program? I wasn’t expecting any guests tonight, so I apologize for being so informal,” John says. He speaks warmly, but his eyes are locked on Victor, as if sizing him up.

“I wanted to make sure my assistant could meet you before he starts his first day on the job. He’ll be covering the southern neighborhoods of Brooklyn. A tough beat, but I’m sure he’ll be up to it.”

Mrs. Harris presses a crystal glass into my hand and takes a seat next to her husband. As I feign a sip, feeling much like a child in an adults’ conversation, I glance around the room. The sunroom is full of plants and patio furniture crowded around tall windows and shades. A table with the drinks and various mixes sits in the middle of the room and off in a corner, my eyes stumble onto something unexpected.

The daughter of Senator Harris sits in a chair with her legs curled up underneath her and her back ramrod straight against the frame of her chair. She has curly brown hair that is bunched on top of her head save for a few pieces framing her face. An open book sits on her lap and her eyes are wide, studying Victor and me. Her eyes meet mine, a sweep of intellect and burning attention. I look down and shuffle my feet. I hope with every depth of my being that Victor plans on having only a conversation with this family.

“I want to thank you for the drink but I, unfortunately, have to get down to business with you, John.” Victor promptly redirects the niceties and small talk. He fingers his glass and sneaks his dominant hand into his jacket. “You see, you actually don’t know me. My friend and I are here to teach a friend of yours a wee lesson. A certain district attorney has been giving my boss a hard time. We wanted to give him a little pushback, to put him back in his place, if ya know what I mean, aye?”

Victor stands up and pulls out a pistol and points it at the senator. “No one make a sound,” he hisses. The wife clutches her glass and tries to get up, but Victor shoves her back. The daughter sinks back into her chair, grasping a letter opener on the table beside her.

“My assistant here is going to make this something you’ll never forget. Boy?” Victor turns back to me and his eyes—a pitch black evil—bore into mine. “Take care of the senator and the missus. We don’t want anyone dead, but I’ll leave their fate to you.” He turns and fixes his eyes on the woman in the corner. “While you take care of business, I’m going to go have some fun with this bonnie lass.”

Bile rises in my throat. The daughter shakes and sits up, preparing to run as Victor starts to laugh. My body feels like stone but the click of Victor’s sidearm forces me into action.

***

The wet odor of a toilet bowl surges up my nose as I lurch over and wrap my hands around the porcelain bowl. Acid rises from my stomach—challenging the worst hangover of my life—and tears up my throat to splash out into the water.

“Hurk!” I cling to the bowl like an anchor as Victor slaps my arching back. My chin hits the rim and I launch another jet of vomit into the toilet. Everything rushes out. I can’t even think about what it all is as the entire day and the evening is a blur.

The coppery smell of blood, the piercing echoes of screams, the click of my weapon… the carnage blends and warps in my mind. The senator’s daughter, the wife, the man of the home himself… I shudder as it becomes one with the dreams locked deep in my subconscious—devils that come out to haunt my sober mind at night. The explosions and attacks of the Blitz event blur glowing succubi eyes and long feverish claws with my own trembling hands—now one and the same with those monsters. I can see my peeling cuticles and stubby fingers as I pinned down our targets and made them pay for only the point of scaring someone else. This wasn’t righteous nor necessary. They were someone who didn’t deserve or have anything to do with what I did to them.

I spit and run my tongue over my now-sour teeth. I slap at the toilet and flush it; a burst of air ruffles my sweat-soaked bangs and push my lanky hair out of my face. Behind me, Victor cusses and grumbles to himself.

“Get it out kid. Go on, get it all out.”

I wipe my mouth and sink back onto my feet and butt, tucking my chin onto my bent knees.

“Shit,” I manage to whisper. The word slips like knives over my dried and cracked lips. “What the hell have I done…”

“No point asking that. You’ll get used to it in time, I reckon,” Victor says. He leans against the bathroom wall, a mix of flowers awash in pastels, and fishes a cigg out of his jacket pocket. “All the jobs you take with us will start to blend together. It’s all the same in the end.”

I knead my knuckles into my cheeks and wipe spit from my chin. I just want to take a shower and go to bed, if I can even coax my brain to shut up long enough for the stupor of sleep. How did I handle the violence of the attacks? How did I handle anything I’ve seen up to this damned point?

A knock rattles the door.

“Mike? Are ya in there?” James calls through the door. The handle shakes as he tries to open the door. “Bro, you alright?”

I push my hands through my hair and look up at Victor’s drawn face.

“Don’t tell him anything, you got it?” Victor threatens. He draws a thick thumb across his throat. “Not a whisper.”

I get up and balance myself against the sink as the tiled-flooring swirls beneath my feet. “Why the fuck would I do that? Squeal?” I spit. Disgusting. Even worse, I would put James in a hard place.

Victor opens the door to a shirtless James in the doorway.

“What is going on?” James asks. He looks like he had just rolled out of bed. The puking and coughing must have woken him up.

“Nothing, man. Victor brought me home from work. I think I inhaled too many fumes, or something like that,” I lie. James’ eyebrows go up for a moment but then they tighten back over his brow.

“Right… Really though. Why are you out this late? Did you guys go out after work? You’re not drinking again, are you?”

Victor steps forward and clasps James on the shoulder with his ring-studded fingers.

“The boy just got sick. As he just told you. Are you listening?” Victor challenges. His other hand disappears into his pocket.

“Okay—okay! Thanks for the ride, I’ll see you out,” I yelp. I push between the two and shove James back into the hallway and toward the living room. I shoot him a warning look. James backs off and plops on the couch and pulls a pillow onto his lap.

On his way out, Victor fixes us with a steady stare before heading to the door.

“I’ll see you at work,” Victor says.

“Yeah,” I respond. “See ya.”

As the door opens to the streetlight outside, Victor steps out, and closes it behind him. The leathery scent of his sleazy cologne follows him and just like that, he is gone. James and I hold our breath until we hear his car start up and pull away.

James steeples his hands against his forehead and leans over in thought.

“Mike. Next time you are suddenly working a new job, tell me. Will you?” He enunciates his words carefully.

With every bone in my body begging to slump to the floor, these words spark a deep response. I whip around and flex my hands as frustration electrifies my limbs.

“Tell you?! Do I need to report my every move to you? What the hell James—what was with all the questions in front of the man, huh?! Couldn’t you read the room?!”

James sighs and glances toward the door to his parents’ room. He lowers his voice. “Mike, you were puking with an Italian mobster standing right behind you. What was I supposed to think? I don’t think your factory sends workers over to each other’s homes in the middle of the night. Do they?”

“You could have gotten me in trouble,” I snap. I pat down my jacket pockets to find my keys and phone. My shoes, from rushing inside when I got back, are still on.

“You brought a questionable stranger into our house! How the hell am I supposed to know what you are up to? After all you’ve been through, I think I have the right to be worried!”

I snarl at James sitting still on the couch in the picture of calm, despite a vein sticking out on his forehead. Is he fucking high again? Is this one of his bullshit-zen moments? Being the all righteous all-knowing loser he is?

“If you are so sick of my shit; ask me to leave, then!”

James shakes his head. “Mike, I’m just trying to help. You need to go cool your head but come back when you are feeling better.”

“Don’t tell me what to do—”

James gets up and points at me. “I know I’m all you have and I’m not going to let you fuck even that up. Go. Cool. Off.”

Huffing, I back down. I’m not going to give him what he wants but honestly, fuck it all. Getting out of here will do me some good. Moving, action—I need something.

“Fine.” I turn and hurry outside. I slam my feet down the stoop and stride off into the midnight-street. Flickering lights above spill around my feet like puddles. Neon graffiti stains the brickwork and the smog-stained purple-yellow sky all follow my retreat.

A few blocks away, my anger begins to fade and the desperate fear I felt earlier starts to crawl back into my mind. If I could tear off my own fingers and never think about the actions I took this night ever again. I would. To forget the acts I committed.

Hopping up onto the curb, I pull my phone out of my pocket. The old thing is only at 20% with the red battery warning hanging in the top corner. I scroll through my contacts and stumble across a familiar name. Something deep within me stirs like an old memory. I click the contact and it dials.

***

I follow my feet back to the club. I wander through the throngs of people and inhale clouds of smoke. Under the beating lights and thrumming music, I reach the back hallway and step inside. I dive into the stained-cement hallways and explore the twists and turns until I reach a door with a little gold star on the outside. I raise my hand and curl my fingers into my palm, reaching out to knock. The door handle twists open and the door opens to reveal a dark room behind it.

Sarah answers the door. She is a little taller than I remember. She wears a black choker and bright makeup, accentuating her now sharp cheekbones and skinny nose—as if handcrafted by whatever demon transformed her body into the succubus she was on that fateful, destructive night.

Sarah takes my hand and leads me into her room. I close the door.

We fall onto what must be a couch in the dark. Cushions make themselves present as we press our bodies together and she wraps her long arms around me. A soft pink light, almost like a salt-lamp and lava-lamp-in-one lights one side of her room. In the dark shadows, the sliver of light plays on her eyes and luscious lips. She draws me in with the poisonous beauty of a dark viper. I am putty in her hands as her soft touches and eager lips replace all the horrors in my mind.

The screams ringing in my memory fade away into soft moans. The metallic smells of blood and gunpowder are smothered by her perfume and lotion-scented skin. I cling to her, wanting more, but something deep inside, the same ache that yearns for her shivers to a halt. It pulls me to my senses, makes me aware of the cold damp of sweat across my back. Sarah starts to pull my shirt off and unbuckle my pants, but I freeze. That something within me snaps and all the feelings I am trying to avoid come swirling back in. The crack widens into a gulf and instead of filling my need with a physical desire, I sink against Sarah’s chest as a gasping sob racks me.

Sarah sits up and pulls me to her as I cling and wrap my fingers into her clothes and hair. I try to hold onto something that is real, if anything can be at this point. She isn’t even the girl I fell in love with all that time ago. After what I did tonight, I’m not even the same guy. I feel half hollow, half monster, in front of her vulnerable beauty.

Before I became sober, I used to bury and extinguish any feeling that was stronger than a momentary cackle or passing. But now, there is nowhere to run as I lurch back to reality. I can’t erase what I just felt, nor can I use or punish the few closest to me.

Unsticking my tear-soaked cheek from Sarah’s chest, I look up and try to find something recognizable in her eyes.

I can’t blame her for any of this either. While I like to think I stayed the same in all this, I’m the killer who chose to kill. She was innocent. I was the one who bought the drugs and exposed her to that shit.

Sarah watches me as her chest rises and falls. Her lips are parted in question, but she swallows hard, just watching my movements instead. I lift my hands and gingerly cup her face. I bring her lips to mine and enjoy a moment of bliss against their soft warmth. Then I let go and sag against her. Broken.

 ***

Lights flicker as the familiar pounding of the bass echoes through my frame. I am standing, overlooking the Black Lodge’s club from a private room’s balcony. My arms are crossed over the railing and a silk button up shirt tightens across my shoulders as I lean forward to see the dancers below.

Sarah is next to me, her shoulder leaning on mine, her hair tickling my cheek. She passes a cup and I bring a bittersweet liquor to my lips.

Together. This is what I used to imagine we’d always have. Sarah and I have been hooking up between my missions with the lodge, partying with the other workers, and spending our days at the club. I tilt my head toward her to get a glimpse of her sparkling eyes.

“How would you explain it?” I ask. She had been telling me about her transformations. As if on cue, her hair lengthens, and her horns appears as her hips wave to the music. One horn twists and presses against my scalp. Her eyes darken but she remains herself, her eyes locked on mine.

“Powerful. Possible…” she whispers.

“Power is like a drug,” I murmur. “It’s one you can’t quit.”

“I suppose,” she says. Her horns disappear as dancers from below throw up their hands and look in our direction, the lights reflecting off their faces. 

I received my first paycheck from the lodge last month. A paycheck isn’t exactly what it is—more like a thick stack of cash—but it ignited an excitement within me. The first thing I did was take Sarah out on an expensive date, to the restaurants we never imagined being able to afford. I bought some new clothes, a watch, and hid a portion of the stash in James’ room, hoping he or his moms would use it. With these new benefits, Sarah on my arm, and real money in my pocket; everything felt possible. Lighter. I no longer have to count the hours or days, dreading my own existence. Enjoyment and luxury are now at my fingertips.

“What does it feel like?” I ask.

“Do you remember what taking Blitz felt like?”

“I try not to.”

“It’s like that. Nowadays, the transformations are as normal as blinking, but when I do a full body transformation, it feels like a rush of energy. It’s a wonderous experience.” She snuggles close to me and nibbles at my chin. “I would say it’s even sensual.”

I snicker and lean back, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Okay, okay,” I say. I don’t believe it for a second, but I’m not going to ask her to give me a demonstration.

***

Crushed stones crunch underfoot as I march through the loose gravel of an abandoned parking lot. Well past midnight, I slink underneath the dark belly of an underpass. Chain link fences line the area, half bent over or cut through as locals and gangs frequent the unsupervised area. Piles of dirt and rocks cover the legs of the bridges and dark shadows steep everything in a dark moody color.

Stuffing a pistol into my belt, I wipe my hands with a grimace. A sliver of moonlight reflects of the face of my new watch. A splotch of dark color covers three o’clock.

“Shit,” I grumble. Somewhere behind me, three men are in a ditch. Dead as a doornail. Beyond the bridge, Victor sits on the hood of his car, smoking a joint as I approach. He is wearing his long trench coat, and his hair is slicked back. At first glance, he looks like he is just waiting, but the tip of the joint flashes red as if it has a stutter. Flickering and smoking as he takes uneven, quick draws. Victor’s free hand is patting against his leg, his fingers curled in agitation. As I come into sight, he bounds off the car and tosses his blunt.

“Let’s go, lad!” he snaps. Victor jumps into the front seat and turns on the car. I hurry in as he starts to drive away, barely getting the door closed in time.

“Man, can’t you give me a moment?” I say. I shuffle in my seat and pull on a seat belt as he pulls a sharp U-turn and hurries up to the highway.

“Not a moment to waist, lad. We gotta get back to the homebase,” Victor answers. His grip on the steering wheel is tight.

“What’s going on?” My mind struggles to catch up as it floats back on the men I left behind. While I like to think I can shake the shit I put myself through from this job and all the harm I cause… it still takes a moment to sort out these bad deeds and store them back into the depths of my brain to be forgotten. As I try to do this, I wonder if I’ve forgotten something. Did I take too long? Were we supposed to meet Mr. Malker tonight?

“Don’t tell me Malker told us to take out the wrong guys,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter who we take out,” Victor says. His phone beeps and a series of numbers flash across the screen.

“God damn it all,” Viktor cusses. He whips off the highway two exits too early and turns down a dark neighborhood road. A hotel glows in the distance.

“Where are we going? What’s going on?” Something has to be wrong. “What did that message mean?”

Viktor pushes the car faster and tears into the hotel of a Mariott. He fixes me with a cold glare and hurries out of the car. He doesn’t say a word until we enter the hotel, get a room, and are safely locked in our room for the night.

By this point, my heart is racing, fit to burst out of my chest. Viktor usually spent so much time bitching about everything, he was usually more open if something went wrong. He never stayed silent like this.

Viktor paces across our room’s burnt-orange carpet. He wrings his hands. I stand near the door, peaking out the curtains to the dark parking lot outside. Nothing seems out of place.

“We are staying here for the night,” Viktor says. He stops and looks wide-eyed and shaking at the curtains as the fall back into place.

“Yeah, that’s obvious. What the hell is going on?”

Viktor’s pale lips split into a tilted smile. His teeth are yellow, matching the sunken skin around his eyes. His pupils are dilated and he looks like he is about to trip. He cackles.

“Oh, hell, lad. I knew this day would come. We gotta stay here until he storm blows over. Or, at least until I know no one is coming after us—”

“Who?!” I snap. This is ridiculous. If he isn’t going to tell me, I’ll certainly bum a ride back to the lounge myself if I have to.

Viktor seems to calm down and sits on the bed. He takes a breath.

“I got a message. It’s a warning that the lounge has been compromised. A crackdown.”

“We have to go back,” I say. My blood chills. “We have to help the others—”

“This is an inside job. Who else would give us away?”

“But, Sa—”

“We are crashing right here until the heat dies down. No arguing with me, boy!” As if he had the last word with me, Viktor flops onto his back and focuses on the ceiling. I sit down on the floor and wrap my arms around myself. Suddenly, the fancy clothes, my nice watch, the wild ride all slows down and I realize we are well and truly fucked. If the government is busting the club, does that mean we are next? Will they look for me at James’ house? He’s going to be pissed when he doesn’t hear from me during this…

***

A few days crawl by within the confines of our hotel room. Viktor chain smokes, drinks, and keeps himself busy as I feel myself wasting away. I worry about Sarah. I cringe when I think of James and what he’ll say to me when he finds out what a mess I’ve gotten myself into again.

Viktor tries to reach out to different contacts, half in code, and finally gets someone on the phone. After a long conversation, he snaps his phone shut and looks at me. A sting of his oily hair hangs over his forehead.

“One of Malker’s hits went sour. The daughter of a politician was murdered.”

“Shit.” That’s all I can muster to say. Exhausted, tired of vending machine snacks, and so sick of this room, I don’t think I could say anything else. Honestly, even with the bad cops on his side, how could Malker expect to get away with everything as he did?

“Everyone’s in hiding. The Lodge has been taken down.”

“Did everyone make it out alright?” I think about Sarah. All the workers and recruits I’ve gotten to know over these last few weeks. They were caught up in all this. They didn’t deserve punishment.

“Some, like us, were warned, and were able to get out in time. Many were arrested or killed on the spot.”

Incapable of coherence, I mutter once more, “Shit.”

It all fell down.

***

According to Malker, the Lodge is nothing more than a smoking heap. The place was raided, canvased, and turned into a massive crime scene.

After spending a week in the hotel, Viktor received a sign, signaling to meet Malker at a secret location.

Viktor pulls up to one of the many overpasses crisscrossing over Brooklyn and pulls down a maintenance road along a set of train tracks. We park and walk over a gravel-filled yard to a figure standing in the shadows.

“This isn’t so secretive,” I whisper.

“Hush.”

“Everyone knows these passes are the best place to commit a crime.”

“They we are in the right place,” Viktor hisses.

Malker steps out wearing street clothes and smoking a cig. Outside of the club, in the dark, and without the girls on his arms, he looks like any other sad sucker. His face is ordinary, blotched red as he catches his breath. The man looks worried, but more so, an exhausted anger sheens his face with swear.

“Boys, it’s good to see you,” Malker says.

Viktor shakes his hand and pats his back. “Of course, boss. What can we do for ya?”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright. I’m trying to gather the troops—get a number on how many of us are still here.”

“And you needed to do that in person?” Viktor asks. He glances to the shadows with a smile, so casual, I almost miss it.

“You know I don’t trust simply calling you. We don’t know what is bugged.”

“Of course, of course.” Viktor sneers. “So, what’s our orders, boss?”

“Just resume as you were. Go back to work, pretend everything is normal. Mike,” Malker fixes me with a shaky stare, “lay low. Stay out of sight. When we are ready to regroup, Viktor will find you. Alright?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“A great idea!” Viktor exclaims. He pats Malker on the back once more and turns him around, as if suggesting he heads out in the direction he must have come. “We’ll get everything back to ship-shape in no time, boss. You can count on it!”

Malker tips his hat, flicks his cigarette away, and starts to walk away. Viktor comes back to me and puts his hands in his jacket.

“Stupid, prick,” he mutters. I nod. I can’t say Malker was my favorite person, but I would think twice before voicing my dislike of the pig openly. You can’t bite the hand that feeds you.

“Asks us to come out into the open to see him. What if it was a trap?”

I look up at Viktor. His wild eyes are locked on Malker’s retreating form.

“What?”

Viktor pulls out his gun. Before I can react or say anything, he squeezes the trigger and a single shot echoes into the night.

Malker falls.

Traffic above us continues to rush by with the occasional honk and screech of tires. But underneath, in the underbelly of the city, a titan falls. Viktor’s laugh breaks out, echoing over the cement, stone, and gravel all around us.

“What did you just do?!” I scream. I lunge forward to rush toward Malker but Viktor grabs me roughly by the collar and starts to drag me back to the car. “Viktor! You killed him!”

“As I intended to!” Viktor yells. He swings the gun in the air and mimes firing off another shot. “That fucker was going to sell us out. I wasn’t going to give him the chance!”

I struggle and pull away. Viktor lets go. I straighten my shirt and jacket. “Well, if he is dead, we better make sure,” I say. I cringe, but my voices squeaks a little, giving way to my nerves. Viktor fixes me with a glare before putting his sidearm away.

“Fine. But then we have to go and you are going back into hiding.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

We go to the body. Malker lies flat on the ground as if he had tripped and busted his nose on the ground. But, instead of a minor injury, a spreading stain of blood is seeping from his back. I balk. Stuffing my trembling hands into my pockets, trying not to be overly conscious of the trench-coat draped murderer beside me, I spit on the body.

“Good boy. Let’s go.”

***

I find myself back on the stoop of James’ place. When I knock, the door opens slowly and a grim James lets me in. We spend the rest of the night into the morning talking in his room.

“I’m just glad you are back. We were worried about you,” James says.

“I wish I expected how quickly this would all go to shit,” I say.

James shrugs. “But now you do. I’ll help you get back on the clean and narrow. The money you were giving us was a big help with the bills, but I do know more than you think I do.”

“What do you mean?”

James reaches under the bed and pulls out a satchel, the same one I had hidden in his apartment, hoping he might find the stash because it would save me from having to explain everything to him.

“The money is great, but…” he pulls out a jacket I had tucked away in the bag back when I first joined. The black emblem of the lodge is emblazoned on the chest pocket. “This is some deep shit, man.”

“The deepest,” I agree with a sigh.

***

James continues going to work as I enjoy my new shut-in lifestyle at his moms’ house. I am flicking absentmindedly on the television when (insert mom’s name) comes into the room with the house phone in her hand.

“Sarah’s on the line,” she says. I bolt upright. “I haven’t heard from her since you were all in school. Are you still seeing her?”

I jump onto my feet and snatch the phone before hurrying down the hall and out of earshot.

***

Sarah gives me directions to a nearby Mariott hotel. I rush over without having much of a conversation on the phone. All I needed to know is where she is so I can make sure she is okay. Did she get arrested or caught in the chaos of the bust? Has she been safely hiding out since it happened? Or has something happened to her?

These thoughts punctuated my thoughts as I rushed over to her hotel, not bothering to pinch a ride or borrow a car. The hotel was just a few blocks away and she met me downstairs in the lobby, hidden in a hoodie in glasses. Her black hair and all too familiar lips made her recognizable in a second.

“Sarah,” I breathe. I pull her too me. She wriggles against my chest and shoots a nervous glance at the front windows.

“Not here,” she whispers. We go up to her room. Once the door closes, she sinks against my chest with a sigh. “I’m glad you are okay. I thought something happened to you when I didn’t hear form you.”

“I didn’t know where you were,” I answer. “I was told to go into hiding. Did you get arrested?”

“No, the girls and I were all let go since we are just tied to the club itself. You know, innocent workers.”

I hug her tight. Her perfume fills my nose.

***

An hour later, Sarah and I are cuddled on the bed sharing a pizza as we watch TV. She picks a piece of pepperoni off a slice and pops it in her mouth.

“Did you ever think we would meet again?” I ask. Sitting here with her makes life feel a little normal, but I can’t forget what we’ve been through.

Sarah shakes her head. “I don’t know. I hoped if I stayed in the same neighborhood, we would cross paths again… but I couldn’t remember if you survived that event or not…” She slips down to rest her head on my shoulder.

“I thought you were trapped in a lab.”

“All because of one good trip,” she whispers.

I sit up. “I don’t know if I could even say that. But we did have lots of good times together.”

She gets up and pulls a little box out from under her bed. Inside is a little bag of white powder and my blood chills.

“Why can’t we pick up where we left off? There’s plenty of time for some good fun,” Sarah croons. She turns to me with the little baggie in her hand, shaking it teasingly.

“Where did you get that?”

“When haven’t I had it?” Sarah says. “How do you think I do my job?” The white powder trembles. My mouth dries, my blood quickening at the sight. It’s obvious everyone I work with uses. Whether they came in as druggies and were looking for a quick buck in this line of work or fell into it to forget the memories that haunt us.

Everything I’ve overcome over these last few months have taught me how to say no, turn down an offering, and how to look the other way. But the haunting memories I originally tried to run from have culminated into a landslide of executions, attacks, and horrific happenings that I never want to think about again. What if this helps me? What if I did go back, and fully restored life before it all went insane?

***

As the weeks pass by, the lodge starts to resume its activities at a temporary warehouse. Raves are hosted every weekend, and the place is set up as a club. Viktor returns and we resume patrolling the streets and collecting protection money or cuts of profits.

Honestly, we aren’t even driving around as much as we used to. Once the profits are collected, we are sure to blow the extra cuts we take and spend the nights chasing a high under the twisting underpasses. Smog fills our lungs and skag thickens my blood.

Being in the lodge is a great thing. The government may have tried to squash us like bugs, but we are as numerous as the cockroaches in this city. Viktor says it is unclear who the next leader will be, but a temporary guy named, Nathan Rooker, some suit from a bank that has several connections to the lodge, has stepped up. I don’t know what to think of him yet but I think I would make a better leader myself. Lots of these losers like to speculate about who killed Mr. Malker but it’s only known between me and tight-lipped Viktor. Viktor, now lying on the hood of his car with one hand down his pants, already has a lot on his plate. He has to worry about playing the “good cop” during the day while running his charade as a lodge man by night. That’s a lot of sweet talking, trickery, and shit to handle.

But, me? The Lodge is the only thing I have. It’s my job twenty-four-seven. I’ve been here for a few months and I know the place pretty well. If Mr. Malker had the good taste to let me on board, I think I have what it takes to really direct this place into a new era. I know these streets. I know the girls. And I know where all the deals are made. I twist my hands and tap my foot, casting a hungry look at the half-obscured moon above.

“I could show these fuckers a thing or two,” I mutter.

Viktor laughs, his voice cackling as he slides down toward the bumper.

***

The next night, Viktor and I are overseeing a shipment that came in from the highway. A semi-truck is parked in an unmarked garage with its back door open to reveal boxes of product. I am pocketing the order and a well-muscled man hands me a suitcase with the money. The weight of it in my hand is enough to make me swoon. Imagine how much we can scrape off the top of this and no one would be the wiser? Fingering the latch of the case, I look down and swing it onto a nearby table when red and blue lights bounce off the chrome casing.

“Put your hands up!” a voice shouts. A rush of men and women in blue appear at the front of the garage with their guns drawn.

“Get on the ground!” someone else orders.

The buff guy turns and runs. The driver yelps and throws himself out of the truck but two cops are already chasing after them. I grip the handle of the suitcase and turn, pinwheeling until my eyes lock on Viktor. He’ll know what to do. He’ll know how to talk us out of this situation.

Viktor is at my back with his gun raised. But, it isn’t pointed at the approaching cops. Instead, he points it at my chest, his hand pulling his badge out of his pocket.

“Well done, boys!” Viktor shouts. “Take ‘em in!” His lip curls into a twisted smile. His oiled-slick hair shines in the swirling lights.

“What the fuck?!” I snap.

“Just doing my job,” Viktor says. “Can’t believe you didn’t know I was a cop. Even I thought my undercover was getting a little rusty.” The cops rush in and the case is taken from my hand. I’m patted down and forced to my knees as handcuffs are locked around my wrists.

This doesn’t make sense. Is he just pretending? What does he mean I didn’t know? I knew he was a cop. But, I also knew he was one of us!

“You bastard!” I scream. I kick and spit as a cop drags me away.

***

A camera flashes.

“Michael Carradine, charged with the illegal distribution and sales of drugs, the abuse of illegal drugs, carrying an unregistered weapon, and resisting arrest.”

I stand with my hands behind my back as my mugshots are taken. A portly officer stands before me, reading off my rap sheet. He smacks his lips in distaste. He starts to read off the personal items they took off of me. I roll my eyes to the ceiling, Viktor’s face hovers in my mind. That fucking bastard…

***

I sit in a cell for two weeks until I am finally let out, thanks to the Lodge’s connections. During that time, my body revolted over the lack of drugs in my system. The shaking, haunting, nightmares of a poisoned body thrashing filled my first week. The dark days I spent in rehab were nothing compared to this. No one was here to help me or make the process any easier. The only sound was my gut emptying itself again, again, and again.

It was all one nasty blur.

Suddenly, the jail cell, uniform, and shitty food was gone, and I was back in the lodge dressed as a waiter. A sidearm was on my side and a trap was in my hand. My nose burns. I dig the knuckles of my free hand into my eyes.

What the hell is going on?

“Welcome back kid, good to see your ugly mug,” a worker says. He used to be one of the men who guarded the back entrance to the old club.

As if I’ve already done this before, my feet guide me into a meeting room where a thin pale man sits on a large wooden chair. It looks so much like a throne, I want to sneer, but my lips are stiff. I feel a little nauseous.

Nathan Rooker, the new head of the American Branch of the Black Lodge sits before me. I walk up to his side and automatically offer him a drink off my tray. My memory is a little hazy, but I’ve done this before. I’ve been back and out of jail for a few days.

“Thank you, Mike. How’s the new job treating you?” Mr. Rooker asks.

Any previous thoughts I had of taking the Lodge over and ruling it for myself—or so my drug-fired brain thought—flee at his soft voice. Mr. Rooker rules with a sharp but soft hand. He gets people to trust him.

“Thank you for taking me back, sir,” I answer. That’s right. My role has just been reduced after fucking up my last job. My fingers stiffen under the tray. I’m just a waiter. But when needed, an extra bodyguard.

A door leading into the room rattles and two men hurry in with a flock of goons behind them. I straighten up with one hand on my waist.

“Boys, welcome back,” Nathan says.

The room spins for a moment. The two men walk up to Nathan and the sight of one strikes me to the core. My brain can’t react fast enough to put the pieces together. I recognize his gait, how he carries himself and that crooked nose…

James Chown and someone who must be his partner stand before Nathan.

“Nice to see you, boss,” the other man says.

James meets my eyes and I choke.

“What’re you—”

“James is a new member. Joined us two weeks ago, didn’t you?” Nathan says.

James looks guilty. “Once you disappeared, I needed the money, Mike.”

“What about your job?”

“The Forman got busted for storing fentanyl in the warehouse. Everyone got booted.”

“Shit,” I hiss. James fixes me with a hard look. His eyes search my face, picking up on the discolored bags under my eyes, the gaunt strain of my cheeks, my bloodshot eyes… he looks down to my hands and wrists, luckily covered by my uniform and frowns. He shakes his head in disappointment. I swallow. He has no idea what I’ve been through. If I need a hit to soften the blow, I have a right to take it!

“How was your job?” Nathan asks.

“It went smoothly,” James answers. He sets a package at Nathan’s feet. “Here is the rest of the target’s debts.”

“Good. Was there any trouble?”

James’ partner starts to laugh. I notice a splattering of blood at his collar and wrist-sleeve. “One of the sex workers tried to fight back. She was a feisty one! But she didn’t have much to say once I stabbed her,” he jeers. The goons now loitering around the room erupt into laughter.

“You showed her,” one says.

“Fuckin bitch,” another cheers.

James’ face darkens. He whips around and smashes his fist into his partner’s face. The man falls to the floor, his head slapping off the tile.

“I told you not to hurt them!” James roars. He aims a kick at the man, but two goons rush forward and pull him back. “Our work had nothing to do with them!”

His partner gets up and pulls his sidearm, pointing it right at James’ head. My hand flies to my own and my tray clatters to the ground but James doesn’t flinch as he stares down the barrel of the gun.

“What’re you gonna do?!” James snaps. “I warn you, if you shoot me—it’s only going to make me mad.”

The room holds its breath until a single voice breaks the tension. 

“Now, now, that’s enough,” Nathan says. “Put that away.”

Slowly, the room balancing on a knife’s edge starts to deice and everyone recovers from the standoff. The goons clap James on the back, some of the men look impressed. Another drags the partner onto his feet and pushes him toward the back of the room.

I sigh and put my gun away and bend down to retrieve the tray. It seems like a lot has changed since I’ve been gone… what will happen next with these hotheads all working together? I’ll have to talk to James, and soon.

***

Somewhere on the other side of the city, a group of men gather in a basement room. Cigar smoke is heavy on the air and a variety of cop badges, detectives, and street cops from different districts fill the room. Some are dressed in smoothly pressed blue collar shirts, others look like they have just crawled out of a dumpster.

A low rumble echoes around the room as hands are shaken and drinks are passed around.

Something is happening.

Something is being planned.

The doors to the room slam open and the men fall silent. All heads whip to the front.

Out of the shadows of the dark hallway beyond, Viktor sweeps in; his trench coat flaring out as if lifted by an invisible wind.

“Hey, laddies,” he croons. “Let’s get down to business.”