Eight † Knock 'Em Dead

"We follow the trail, then we wait for the darkness to return," Calix recited into Kat's ear as she tried to navigate her way in the pitch-black. "The mortal soul will be the only thing visible at that moment. If he does not resist, we will simply open the gateway—the room where I took you—and read him his sins. After that we will—"

"—open another portal, this one leading to Hell, where he will be welcomed by the Demons and accompanied to your master's court to be judged," Kat finished exasperatedly. "You've told me nine times already, and I've only started counting an hour ago." 

"I am only being thorough," he reasoned.

Well, the guy was nothing if not thorough, Kat thought sarcastically as she fumbled along the wall in search for the light switch, tripping over a paintbrush. For the past few hours he'd bombarded her with the same instruction and description about their task. It was all he could talk about. She could hardly get him to do anything else. She basically had to use up all her coaxing power just to bring him here at the apartment's garage to get her Dad's car.

But still, the most difficult task was getting him to shower and change for the journey.

For an hour straight, Kat had had to convince him that he could not run amok following invisible orbs of light wearing a cloak and a bubonic plague mask. He'd most likely traumatize everyone. 

But dear God, how he'd insisted against this. And insisted. And insisted. In the end she'd had to push him into the shower, which was a bad idea because he'd never seen a shower before. So of course she had to teach him how to make it work (Single. Most. Awkward. Moment. Of. Her. Life.) and give him something to change into.

Fast forward and now he was here, following closely behind, freshly showered and dressed in her Dad's eighties clothes—a red varsity jacket, a pair of straight-cut denim jeans, a white shirt, and white sneakers.

However, Calix wasn't the only one donning clothes from another decade. Because she purposefully hadn't packed a bag before flying to Vegas, Kat had had to make do with her clothes from high school—a loose pink High School Musical shirt, denim Bermuda shorts, and crusty high-top Converse sneakers. The only thing missing was some black eyeliner badly applied and she'd be Kat circa 2009.

In other words, they were having a throwback Thursday on a Wednesday afternoon, but at least they didn't look like a hangover mess or a Halloween trick-or-treater anymore.

Still, Kat couldn't wait to get this over with.

She trudged on, keeping one hand on the wall. It had been a decade since she'd gone to this garage, which also doubled as her dad's studio for his paintings. The smell of turpentine still hung in the air. The tubes of paint were still scattered in the random stools and small tables around the garage. Paintbrushes were still littered on the floor, posing a hazard in the darkness and sparking an image of her dad's dynamic, scatterbrained, and warm presence. 

But Gregor Donovan no longer had a presence. Just a trace. And a wreck for a daughter as his legacy.

All the guilt and sadness she'd suppressed for past years resurfaced in one go. For a moment she couldn't breathe. It was completely dark, yet she could see him in his paint-spattered overalls, sitting in front of an unfinished street scene with the biggest smile on his face. . . .

Kat's hand bumped against the side of the switch, but she found herself unable to touch it directly. With her body going cold, she stopped in her tracks, which made Calix bump into her.

He caught her by the shoulders before she could stumble forward. "I am sorry."

"It's alright," she managed to croak, forcing herself to flick on the switch. The harsh white light of the fluorescent bulbs flooded the space, illuminating the wooden walls, the frames and the easels, and of course, the white pickup truck parked at the corner.

Her eyes got teary, but it wasn't because of the sudden outburst of light.

That was where she'd learned to drive. Her dad had been the most patient teacher ever. He'd never yelled or got frustrated or gave her a hard time. Ever. He'd loved her, even more so when her mom had died. Yet, after all that love, she'd still decided to leave him—

"This is our mode of transport, am I correct?" Calix pointed at the truck. "You plan to follow the lights through this . . . car."

He said the last word proudly, like he'd only just remembered the term and was now ready to flex more similar vocabulary. There was even a tiny, close-lipped smile on his face.

"Congrats," Kat said dryly as she opened the passenger door for him and climbed into the driver's seat. Wishing to keep herself busy, she decided to check the meters instead.

The tank was full. A little lurch forward confirmed that the brakes still worked. Even the radio and the air conditioner were still in perfect order. The thing had to be at least fifteen years old, but it was still in shape to function. It was ready to roll.

Good. Because she couldn't wait to get out of this damn garage.

She turned to Calix, who was looking at the interior of the truck with a mixture of wariness and amazement. "Hop in."

Awkwardly, he got into the passenger seat, his back ramrod straight and his face tight with nerves. He seemed keen to keep quiet this time, even as she began to fasten the seatbelt around him. But he didn't seem too keen to act normal altogether. He stared at her all throughout. When she was done strapping him in, he was still looking at her.

Flustered and a bit weirded out, she asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason." He looked away. "I am still quite uncertain if we should continue. This is a dangerous task."

"We should, and we will." Kat smirked. "You'll see, this will be a piece of cake."

•‡•‡•‡•

It was not a piece of cake. And the thing to blame was the trail of lights.

First off, it didn't follow road patterns or basic human geography. Kat had to maneuver through different routes just to keep track of it. Secondly, it changes color. Calix had to jump into a frantic, detailed discussion on how it worked, basically screaming into her ear and rapturing her ability to hear.

"The trail goes from cold to warm, which means that when it turns red, the mortal is dead!" He tried to gain control over the steering wheel, but the seatbelt held him fast. "Cursed restraints! Let me find the way!"

"Dude, I'm the one who can see the lights!" Kat swatted his eager hands away. "Besides, why would I let you drive? I bet you've never been in a car before today. With you behind the wheel, we'll be dead before we get there."

That effectively made him retreat, but it didn't stop him from shooting her baleful looks as she swerved into Sahara Avenue.

Well, it wasn't like she wasn't trying. The lights (which were yellow and not red, meaning they still have an hour or so to find this dying person) were pretty hard to distinguish in the sunlight. Being stuck in an old musty car during traffic also didn't help her ability to see clearly. In fact, it made a lot of things worse, including their tempers.

How many times had they snapped at each other? Scowled, glared murderously, and just longed to hurt each other? Kat had stopped counting, but she was sure she'd nearly kicked Calix out of the car at least six times. And she was pretty sure that all this time he was still itching to elbow her in the face. He was too nervous, too paranoid, too tense, which in turn made her nervous, paranoid, and tense too. Probably even more than he was.

As they drove around town to follow these stupid orbs, she couldn't help questioning her choices. Was it really smart for her to volunteer to do his job? She knew nothing about this whole death business. Fuck, she'd almost died just yesterday. Why on earth did she think of doing this?

Because it was this or going straight to Hell, she reminded herself. She should stop regretting shit and just follow the damn trail.

Speaking of the trail, it had gone perfectly straight the moment they got into Sahara Avenue, which was a long stretch of road cutting through a bajillion car dealerships. The lights followed the path perfectly. And was she tripping, or did the orbs just turn orange?

Nope. Not tripping. The specks of lights had turned orange, and they were getting more and more sparse the further they drove along the street. There were fewer of them now, spread more thinly as they hovered above the asphalt like glowing dandelion fluff.

"Hey, Calix." Gulping, Kat tapped his shoulder. "When the little orbs get fewer, does that mean we're close?"

"Yes." He straightened up abruptly as though he'd received an electric shock, his eyes suddenly bright and alert. "The color?"

"Orange," she replied, and just then, the trail of specks sputtered to a stop.

Kat instinctively swerved to the side of the road and stepped on the brake, causing Calix to lurch forward because he was sitting at the edge of his seat. He shot her a scowl, but she wasn't paying attention. Her eyes were glued at the sign of the establishment where the path ended.

AC Auto and Repair Services. A wide, open space with cars suspended in the ceiling, equipment and accessories arranged in tall metal shelves, with a rectangular booth made of glass panels and concrete walls. Some Queen song was playing in the background, which matched the vintage rock vibe in the typeface of the sign as well as the black and brown theme going on.

The shop looked pretty cool, but all Kat could think about was the person destined to die there this afternoon.

Shit. Now she really was freaking out.

In another display of weirdness, Calix seemed to be cured of his paranoia. He was now surveying the shop through the window, his face alight with bring-it-on-bitch energy. Not taking his eyes off their destination, he released the clasp of the seatbelt.

However, his luck with the seatbelt didn't apply to the door. He still had to struggle with it after Kat clambered out. After about ten seconds, he hopped out and walked with her towards the shop. This time he was on the lead with her lagging behind, dragging her suddenly heavy feet. Since she was basically shaking, she was determined to meekly follow whatever he was doing.

And right now he was swerving to the side of the establishment, slipping straight behind a concrete pillar.

Kat stopped walking immediately. "What are you—"

"I cannot put on a glamour anymore, and we must not be seen," Calix explained, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her to his side. "Let us remain hidden."

Well, that made sense. She could hear two people in the booth, both men, arguing heatedly with their voices muffled by the concrete. She couldn't see them from where she stood, couldn't hear their exact words. Her curiosity was piqued. She needed to know more.

"Maybe I can put on a glamour," she said in sudden inspiration.

"Maybe." He fought to keep his tone neutral, but it still had a hint of resentment. "Concentrate and picture yourself invisible, intangible."

She closed her eyes and imagined herself wearing a mega-Invisibility Cloak. "Is it working?"

"No." Calix sounded pleased. "Open your eyes now. You look like you are about to explode."

Her eyes snapped open, her nostrils flared. "Look here, you little—"

"You're fired!"

They jumped. Kat almost shrieked, but Calix clamped a hand on her lips just in time, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. Both trembling, they risked a glimpse from behind the pillar. A pot-bellied dude with a big bald spot lumbered into view, chucking a clipboard at a thin young guy in a brown uniform.

"Please, sir," the younger man pleaded, "Just deduct it from my next paycheck. I can't afford to—"

"Well, I can't afford to have you dicking around!" the balding man, who Kat assumed was the boss, interjected mockingly. "Now get the fuck out before I bash your skull in!"

For a second the employee hesitated, no doubt to appeal his case, but he stumbled out of the shop anyway.

Satisfied but still grumbling to himself, the boss picked up the clipboard and sauntered toward the rows of shelves, where he started to count the stacked accessories and equipment by tapping them hard. After a while he got into the rhythm, humming to the music and patting more animatedly. It was as though he hadn't just sacked and physically assaulted an employee.

Kat felt a surge of loathing. "What a dick! Is he our guy?"

"He seems to be the only one here, so he must be," Calix said. After a beat, he added, "What is a dick?"

She opened her mouth to explain the slangs used for male privates, but she noticed that her back was still pressed against his stomach. His arms were still pressed against hers, pinning them to her sides. They looked like they were about to burst into the famous Titanic scene.

Clearing her throat, she broke free from his grip and decided to change the subject. "So we're just going to stay here until he dies?"

"Yes." He bit the corner of his lip thoughtfully. "I do not know how he would die, however. Someone else might even come here and be another prospect."

"So you don't know who'll die, exactly? You get the location and that's all?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"And some of the time?"

Calix gave her a long, searching look. "Sometimes we get informed ahead of time."

Kat had no clue what he was talking about, but she got a clear stabbing feeling that it somehow involved her. Even though she wanted to ask, she decided to focus on the scene before her. 

The boss stayed alone, swerving around the tall shelves while screeching out Queen lyrics, slapping the stuff he was counting, a habit so bizarre Kat had to grimace. He should've fired himself, not his employee.

A couple of minutes passed, and over in the distance, the scattered lights turned red. The death was drawing near, yet nothing out of the ordinary was happening yet. No one else came in. The boss just went along doing his job, and Kat and Calix were just . . . staring.

For all the hype that Calix had created, the reality was coming up short. This was boring as fuck. Was it supposed to be like this, or did Kat just navigate incorrectly and missed the mark?

Panic began to stab at her chest, but then, the boss smacked a random equipment too hard and the shelf toppled over like a flimsy house of cards.

An ear-splitting crash erupted in the shop. Rows upon rows of heavy metal tubes began to rain down on him. A particularly bulky piece struck directly on his head with a sickening crunch, causing him to plop on the floor like a landed fish. More objects fell, steel pipes and boxes, most of them bouncing harmlessly off the concrete, some of them crashing onto his body.

"Help," he groaned. "Help. . . ."

Forgetting that they were supposed to be unseen, Kat stepped forward to help the boss, but Calix held out an arm and pushed her back into place.

"This is his fate," he stated. "Do not interfere."

The man groaned again, but his words were no longer audible. A pool of crimson appeared from under his head, spreading at an alarmingly rapid rate. She could almost inhale the coppery, metallic smell of blood, but what made her stomach lurch was seeing him try to crawl his way out of the pile.

The metal objects held him fast. He no longer had the energy to move. Even from a distance Kat could see that his eyes were glassy. He stretched out a bruised hand, clawed at the concrete floor once, twice, before his fingers stilled. More pipes rained down, but he wasn't responding anymore.

The man's body was limp. He was . . . dead.