“If flesh could crawl, my skin would fall
Off my bones and run away from here,
As far from God as Heaven is wide,
As far from God as Angels can fly.”
-Garbage, ‘As Heaven Is Wide’

PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS

By Meriades Rai

October 31st – The Last Day

Look, let’s get something straight before we even start, okay?

There’s no reason for you to believe a word of anything I have to say. Hell, I don’t believe it, and I’ve lived it. I’m only twenty-seven years old, but up until that day in the mountains I thought I’d seen everything there was to see. I was wrong. And so are you. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, et cetera… even for a special agent of the FBI.

Six years ago I graduated from Quantico in the top three per cent. Since then I’ve worked my ass off in the field, turning heads. I was on a fast track. My name was on lists, the kind of lists that mattered. Was. Twelve days is all it’s taken to turn everything to crap. Christ. Twelve days? It’s a wonder I’ve lasted that long.

So, listen up. Chances are, this will all be over soon. And take it from me, sweetheart – if they have their way, then I’m talking about all over for you every bit as much as for me. So pay attention. If you’re going to die, at least don’t let it be in ignorance…

October 20th – The First Day

You ever hiked the Appalachian Trail? Hell, don’t twist your melon about it. Your average Joe couldn’t even point it out on a map, despite the fact it consists of over two thousand miles of forest and mountain paths that skirt the eastern seaboard from Georgia to Maine. Me, I plan to take a trip at the beginning of every fall, when the colours are just beginning to turn and before it gets too cold. Never happens. Just like white water rafting in the Grand Canyon, blowouts in Vegas, dirty weekends in Paris… ask most agents and they’ll tell you, life’s just never that convenient.

But, hail Mary. Suddenly it’s the middle of October, and I’m back out here in Virginia for the first time since leaving Quantico, busting my tail up a one-in-three incline and panting like a three-legged mule in air so sharp it’s like breathing glass.

It’s not that I’m not fit – in my profession it’s a prerequisite, even if it’s just so the goddamn suits look good – but this is beyond the pale. I’ve only been hauling ass for an hour but already it feels like a month of Mondays. The donut and coffee I had for breakfast haunt me like first love. I’ve got sweat in cracks and creases I didn’t know existed. I just hope that the guy who’s hiding out in the cabin at the top of this hill is still alive, so I can kill him for putting me through this.

The ground underfoot is hard and polished, and I have to be certain with every tread of newly purchased, two hundred dollar boots that are proving to be as practical as ice skates. I’m surrounded by swathes of pine trees, tall and thin and packed together like matchsticks, with a low mist hitched up about their narrow waists like a cheap hooker’s skirt. The haze reminds me of the cigarettes I’d be smoking if only I had time to stop and light one, and thought my overworked lungs would survive the experience. And, in case I forgot to mention it, it’s really, really cold.

Isn’t this great? Hell, yeah. You can’t help but see how much I’m enjoying myself, being at one with nature. Somewhere a bird croons a lonely song, and a chickaree skitters. Whatever. When the furry little bastard skips across the trail a few feet ahead of me and trills at me like I’m Snow White I pause to give him the finger, then trudge on. He’s obviously upset, but he’ll get over it. Man. Bitch, bitch, bitch. It’s no wonder no-one likes working with me.

When I crest a rise and finally set eyes on the cabin I’ve been looking for, nestled in amongst a cluster of black trees off the edge of the trail, I’m too exhausted to feel relieved. I’m so cold that my tongue is numb; I quit murmuring profanities under my breath a half-mile back. Overhead the sky is last-nickel grey and full of snow. A lot of people hike this trail through the winter, but then a lot of people wear checks with stripes or give away obscene amounts of money to men with names like Reverend Billy Bob Studmuffin. Moral – a lot of people are stupid.

The general absence of noise all around me is distinctly unsettling. The nearest road is all the way back down the trail, where I parked up and began my hike, and even that was rarely-used, little more than a dirt track. An hour’s walk, and I haven’t seen another living soul. Chickaree aside, of course, and I don’t think he and I parted on the best of terms. There’s no silence quite like that of a forest, because woodland absorbs sound, especially when it’s dense. It’s why serial killers prefer to dispose of their dismembered corpses in areas just like this. I’ve got no reason to suspect that the man I’ve come to find is dangerous, but I’m suddenly gripped with unease all the same. I guess that’s what morbidly dwelling on serial killers does for you. Hey, it’s my mind-set.

Despite the cold, I don’t press on straight away. Instead I fish my smokes out of my pocket and light up. I force my lungs to expel fresh air and accept delicious pollution in its place, causing me to hack like a flat battery. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. The cigarette is welcome, but it doesn’t curb my anxiety, so I reach beneath my jacket and withdraw my gun. It’s not standard issue and is highly disapproved of, but the weight of a .357 Desert Eagle Magnum in one’s hand is a comfort that cannot be overstated. Try that too, then come back to me.

I dispose of the cigarette after a few minutes, and then, sighing, I approach the cabin – quietly and carefully, as my foreboding doggedly refuses to fade. I feel like I’m being watched. I wonder if the chickaree has friends. Virginia chickarees have a reputation. The curtains in the cabin windows are drawn. There’s no smoke rising from the metal cap in the roof to indicate a fire, although there’s a full stack of logs and kindling crammed beneath an overhang on the south side of the building. There’s still no sound, save for the relentless whisper of trees in the wind. I tighten my grip on the Magnum.

The front of the cabin is ringed with a narrow wooden porch, accessed by a brief slight of steps. As I ascend, I glance around, shivering and hunched against the chill. The forest is mighty dark, full of secrets. It breathes. It reminds me why I hated Virginia and moved to the city as soon as possible after graduation. Not that New York doesn’t have its dark side, of course. A couple of years back some cracksmoke with a piece missing from his right ear and a grudge against authority jumped me in a tenement during an investigation and tried to inject me with what turned out to be his own blood, infected with HIV. I remember how my heart beat at the time, hard and fast, all the way up in my throat. That’s what I feel now. My skin is crawling, and I feel sweat on my brow. There’s no reason I should suddenly be experiencing the shakes like this, but I’m sure as hell not stupid enough to ignore it. A lot of the older agents talk about instinct, and how important it is to trust it unconditionally. It’s how they got to be old.

There’s a door ahead of me. As I step towards it, I notice something from the corner of my eye – a momentary glint, off to the side of the cabin. It’s a motorcycle, half hidden in the shadows of a copse of pines. A Harley Davidson by the looks of it, certainly customised, with flanks of sleek, midnight blue steel and moonbeam chrome. Dramatic. Expensive. I was into bikes when I was a kid, rode one for a good few years, but I can’t remember ever seeing anything quite as exquisite as this, in real life or magazines. I feel better disposed towards this guy I’m after, knowing he has a certain measure of taste. I hope things don’t turn bad and end up with me putting a slug or two in him.

My gaze lingers on the bike for a moment or two, almost hypnotised, but then I return my attention to the door. I reach out and try the handle. The door’s unlocked. I raise my gun up to my chest. Then, I prepare to rap my knuckles on the wood and announce myself. In that instant, the door swings open…

…and in the darkness beyond there is a man, blond and unshaven, his expression grim and haunted. He’s dressed in dark leathers that glisten and stink of blood. He’s carrying a shotgun, the barrels directed at my chest. I freeze. Jesus. I’m twenty-seven years old and I think I’m better than I am but I’m not, and I freeze. The guy’s wearing shades, and in that moment I see myself reflected in the mirrored lenses – long, auburn-ash hair tied back in a pony tail, although I normally wear it loose; big, pretty eyes the colour of ice in whisky; a smart mouth that has a tendency to get me into trouble.

Hi there, Becky. If you’re going to live past the next five seconds, honey, that mouth has to work smarter than it ever has before.

“I’m Special Agent Rebecca Lockwood of the FBI,” I say, my mouth dry, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m with the Missing Persons division. If you’re Johnny Blaze, then I’ve been looking for you for the best part of three weeks.”

“Yeah?” Johnny says, with a muscle in his jaw and a voice like rust. “Well, congratulations. Now, Agent Lockwood, if you’d be so kind… you wanna get the hell out of my way?”

I hesitate for a moment, uncomprehending. Then, two things happen: I hear a strange, sudden sound behind me, a whistling and a hissing – and I see Johnny’s gloved finger tighten on the trigger. As I said – instinct. It’s important to trust it unconditionally. That’s how you get to be old. I throw myself to the side, and even before I hit the ground I’m engulfed by the thunderous roar of the shotgun barrels exploding barely two feet away from my head. I feel the scorch on my skin and in my hair, and the world flashes white and red. My ears ring like church bells at Christmas, reverberating in my skull. But, beyond the endless echo, I hear one thing more – the shrill screech of some kind of animal, howling in pain. Wounded.

Man, if that was the chickaree then it really isn’t the poor little bastard’s day.

I taste blood. I wonder if I’m dead yet. Then Johnny’s hands are under my arms, dragging me roughly to my feet. My whole body’s trembling, making it difficult for him to get a grip. I think he yells something at me to that effect, but I can’t make out the words through the incessant clamour in my brain.

Johnny pulls me backwards across the porch, the heels of my boots dragging across the bare wood, my hair coming loose and falling down about my face. I glimpse something in that instant – something I don’t quite understand, a glimmer of light and colour and shape travelling at haste across my line of vision, suspended in thin air – but then I’m swallowed by the interior gloom of the cabin, a darkness that becomes almost absolute when Johnny slams the door behind us. He lets go of me then, and I slump back to the floor, my body still not responding to any of my mental commands. A second later Johnny is down on his knees next to me, his breathing haggard and his shoulders hunched. I can barely make him out at first, but as my eyes rapidly become accustomed to the shadows I see that he’s cradling the shotgun in the crook of his arm, and clutching at his thigh with his other hand.

“What happened?” I croak, struggling to raise myself on my elbows. “Are you hurt?”

“And then some,” Johnny grunts in response, the pain all too evident in his voice. “Happened a couple of days back. I held them off for a while but there were too many of them. One of them finally tagged me when I got tired, and the infection spread too quickly for me to do anything about it. Now it’s all I can do to move my legs. Bitch of a world. Looks like saving your ass is going to be my parting gift – for all the good it does. There’s still a hell of a lot of them out there.”

“Them?” I ask. “Who – ”

But before I can say any more I hear an unholy shriek from somewhere behind me, towards the back of the cabin. Inside. With us. Suddenly my tongue’s loosened enough to start uttering expletives again, and Johnny glances at me disapprovingly. I’m not surprised. Apparently I’ve got this whole achingly cute thing going on, usually up until the point I open my mouth. I can tell he’s disappointed.

I squint into the shadows, and see something moving – something oily and formless in the dark, black on black. Beside me, Johnny raises the shotgun and lets off another round. Again the roar is deafening, and the world burns white for a split second, like lightning at midnight. I glimpse a flailing of long, thin limbs, and large, black eyes set into a twisted approximation of a face, scarlet and livid like a wound. The thing shrieks and skitters. I think of rats, and spiders. Big ones. Not a delight, as you can imagine. Then the darkness is back, along with the pounding in my skull.

“That was the last of my ammo,” Johnny breathes, drawing close to me. Away in the gloom, the godless screaming fades to a low moan. I hear something wet, threshing, like a drunken squid on a hook.

“What’s going on?” I say, my tone demanding as my survival instinct – and a natural sense of belligerence that has always served me well – finally begins to kick in. “What the hell are you shooting at?”

“Seekers.”

“Yeah? What are they seeking?”

“In general? Salvation. But, at the moment – us.”

I open my mouth to speak again, but then I feel gloved fingertips press against my lips. I taste leather and gun, which I don’t find altogether unpleasant, but let’s not go there just now.

“Enough,” Johnny hisses. “Listen. It’ll all take too long to explain, and time’s a luxury neither of us have. Do you have a firearm?”

I remember the Desert Eagle, and blink. It’s still clenched tight in my hand, and has been throughout the chaos of the last few minutes. I could have used it at any time, not least when being threatened by a shotgun at point blank range, but I’d panicked and blanked. So much for the top three per cent of my class. Nice, Becky. Maybe all those sons of bitches who couldn’t see past the hair and skirt and lipstick back at Quantico were right all along.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, quietly, blushing furiously in the dark. “I’ve got a gun.”

Johnny breathes deeply. “You need to trust me,” he says. “Stay here and you’ll end up like me – as good as dead, just waiting for the curtain to fall. And that’s no good for anyone. However, try and get away on foot and they’ll hunt you down before you get a hundred feet along the trail in either direction. You’ve only got one chance. I’ve got a bike outside…”

“I saw it. Nice ride.”

Johnny barks at that, as if I’ve made a joke. Then he coughs, thickly, like there’s blood pooling in the back of his throat.

“Life’s cruel, agent Lockwood,” he whispers, when his spasms have calmed slightly. “In one way, I’m helping you here, but in another…”

He trails off, then weakly fishes in the pocket of his jacket. He retrieves something, which he then presses into my hand. I can barely make it out in the gloom, but it seems to be a key – although it appears to be carved from bone rather than metal, and its touch is icy cold against my skin.

“Take the bike. It’ll see you safe for now.”

“You… want me to leave you here?”

“I’ve had my time,” Johnny says, quietly. “Believe me.”

From outside the cabin, the shrieking begins again – a chorus now, quailing and quavering. Whatever those things are, there’s a good number of them, as Johnny intimated. A shiver works up my spine like an eel. I close my hand slowly about the key, and I feel the cold biting into me like broken glass.

“I guess I should thank you,” I say.

I can’t see him smile, but I can feel it. It’s not a comforting smile. It chills me to the blood, just as surely as the key in my fist.

“No,” he mutters. “I said that the bike will see you safe for now. But, ultimately… well, I reckon gratitude towards me will be the last thing on your mind. When that time comes, just remember I’m doing this because it’s necessary, and because there’s no alternative. Now go.”

And I do. It may not sound particularly heroic, but nothing in my training has ever prepared me for a situation like this. The screaming outside is like Hell has spilled up and out of the ground all about us, and every last nerve in my body is shot because of it. All I can think of is the key in my hand, and the bike, and that this is my one and only chance of survival, just like Johnny said.

I throw open the door, and hurl myself out into the horror that I imagine awaits me. The thing is, what happens next is beyond anything I can imagine. And it won’t be long before I realise that Johnny was also right when he suggested that I would soon be cursing his name rather than thanking him…