Scratch Lines Read online

  Scratch Lines

  A Muttopia Novel

  By

  Elizabeth Blake

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not designed as a replacement for fact.

  All rights reserved, ©2014.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Elizabeth Blake.

  Thanks to Solomon and Louis.

  The Exalted Series

  God Strain

  Storm-Tossed Devils

  Fate’s Gamble

  Muttopia Series

  Scratch Lines

  The Dog House

  Bait and Bleed

  Dead Mutt Walking

  Silver Maiden

  Judas Wolf

  “Fear is Incomplete Knowledge.”

  Agatha Christie

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Connect

  Chapter 1

  Rainer

  Lord, how I dreamed of killing her.

  Her death remained one of my most satisfying fantasies, as if wrapping my hands around her throat and squeezing the life from her would set the world straight. As if tearing her ribcage open and tossing her heart in the gutter would make everything more tolerable. The sad truth remained that murdering her would not change anything, and I wasn't crazy enough to try.

  Still, a man can dream.

  The woman struggled to blend into a crowd, but she was six feet tall and moved like a prowling animal. Quick. Impatient. She drove like a maniac. Littered. Ducked around most surveillance, but my cameras found all the right angles and details: the occasional glimpse of scars hidden under dull brown hair and loose clothing, the shape of concealed weapons near her appendix and strapped to her thighs, and the veins on the back of calloused, fast hands.

  I didn't hate her as much as what she represented. Namely, the end of all humanity.

  God, why couldn't she simply die?

  I sat in the dark and pulled streaming video from the cloud. Computers hummed around me. Two dozen screens glared at me. A cup of tea cooled by my keyboard as I hacked into federal servers. Deep in my cold, safe place, I obsessively watched her tear monsters from the world and stuff them into bloody boxes.

  Systematically making order of insanity. Exercising brutal eugenics. Murdering plague victims to reduce the threat of further contamination.

  As if humans had any hope of managing the chaos.

  How normal and unassuming she appeared. Double-knotted her boot-strings like a child. Mainlined caffeine. Picked fights with the clergy. Gave bottled water to vagrants by the freeway.

  No one would guess that the number of kills in her portfolio could fill a prison.

  She was a predator with a sickness. I hated what she stood for and who she was. I hated her breath and her life, her shape and her name and everything.

  Until I saw the black spine of a well-worn book tucked in her back pocket.

  Then it was a new game. A fresh dance full of beautiful opportunities. I would watch her carefully, constantly, and find the best way to bring her down.

  She wasn't as untouchable as we thought.

  She wasn't as safe as she believed.

  Was she a snake that would turn and bite us? Well, that remained to be seen.

  Chapter 2

  Kaidlyn

  I was dreaming of autumn leaves dropping onto a crystal lake when the nightmare pounced.

  Mother’s face was mauled down to the cheekbones. She held scraps of her throat like a frayed curtain, slid against the cupboards, and knocked a bowl of peas onto the blood-slick floor. She gurgled sweet nothings through her torn throat, and then she crawled into bed with me. Her cold limbs were frigid like wax paper, the bulk of her meat sloshed with decay, and the strands of her hair snagged my cheek like barbed wire.

  When she leaned over to kiss my forehead, her teeth pressed too hard. Her maw opened wide, full of blades.

  I woke panting, heart pounding, blood burning for a drink strong enough to punt me out of memory's grasp. I shoved the covers aside, grabbed an oversized hoodie, and jerked it over my naked body.

  Mother's phantom hair cinched around my neck, haunting me beyond the dream.

  I reached for the bedside gun and clutched the grip in my clammy hand. The nightmare completely dissipated, leaving me harassed and annoyed. My sweaty skin itched. I shoved the gun in the sweatshirt pocket and staggered to the bathroom to wash my face in the dark. Cold water splashed away tears as sharp as razors. My mouth stank like dead trees. Drinking water from my cupped hands didn’t abate my thirst.

  Knowing fully well I shouldn't touch liquor, I stormed into the kitchen for a drink. Alcohol is bad for people, especially raving alcoholics. I tried a deep breath and counted to ten, but neither helped. To hell with the peace stuff. I needed to get flat drunk.

  Blinking into the scathing light of the fridge, I saw no booze. Not even a lick of beer. I slammed and kicked the door, which naturally hurt my foot more than anything.

  I returned to the bathroom, stripped, and paced in the shower, hoping the water would dampen my nauseating desire. Instead, all the needy particles of my body woke and screamed for relief. I rubbed my face with a harsh towel, reached for the phone, and called my sponsor.

  He didn't answer.

  I shouted appropriate profanities at the phone and slammed it down next to the soap dish. Instead of wallowing in the dark, cursing memories and dreaming nightmares, I could buy a bottle of bourbon.

  Or go to a meeting.

  Anyone who hasn't felt temptation could not understand. Beyond desire or wanting, the need means constantly hurting for something which I know is wrong. Temptation coaxes, flatters, and ridicules. It's the demon and the angel at once, both conspiring to deliver hell on earth. It’s everywhere, cutting into me, devouring my brain, and destroying everything.

  Can't think of anything else.

  Yes, I'm an alcoholic. The world is full of ugly things, and so am I.

  A tiny needle on my RFID tag pricked me and took a DNA reading. Even after all these years, the nasty jolt alarmed me. The device was Big Fed's replacement for an omnipotent god designed to scare me into obedience. It monitored my breathing, temperature, and other bodily functions, and contained a GPS unit and panic button. It would smite me if I did anything wrong.

  The first time the device ever touched my skin, I was physically sick for days. I avoided talking, eating, and sleeping. Undressing or using the bathroom became the most humiliating experiences of my life, as I assumed everyone in the government would listen to me tinkle and laugh at my moles.

  The tag served as a good reminder that I was never alone, but in a ba
d way.

  To the meeting it was, then.

  I dressed in the dark. Hoodie, jeans, and boots. Guns last. I carried two Israeli Jericho 941s despite the civilian fear of guns and anything foreign. For the sake of concealment, I holstered one on my spine and one in an appendix holster. An unregistered Glock went into my ankle holster. Three guns made me feel better. I put faith in these weapons the way other people do God. When the monsters came slobbering at the door, bullets proved more effective than prayer. I’d know; I once tried both.

  I navigated through the dark house into the garage and locked myself in the jeep. The headlights nearly blinded me and I allowed my eyes time to adjust before backing onto the suburban street. All my neighbors were tucked in their beds, presumably without nightmares. I pounded the security code into the iron fence surrounding the suburb.

  Security cameras blinked judgmentally at me.

  Due to the curfew, there was no traffic. Only terrorists, monsters, druggies, and drunks went out after dark. As of yet, there was no proof that the early-to-bed routine spared anyone, but people were desperate for illusions of safety.

  And no wonder.

  The apocalypse began ten years ago, only there were no angels, no demons, and no God. Actually, it wasn't so much an end-of-the-world gig as the outbreak of a supernatural disease and society’s drastic response to rivers of blood.

  When the plague appeared, the death toll was insane. Mass mayhem. In the first year, ten percent of the rural population simply didn't exist anymore. In denser cities, the death count was worse. New York barely survived. Boston was practically a ghost town.

  Americans had never seen such death. On home soil. In their houses. In the faces of their children.

  The country tore itself to pieces, erected walls, and quarantined entire cities. San Francisco was cut off and left for dead. A country of fences within fences within fences…

  When the blight hit Phoenix, half a million people died. Infrastructure and utilities struggled. The water stopped flowing and people panicked. Mass exodus to the countryside. Thousands fled to residential centers that promised safety but operated like death camps.

  Between rioting, human nature, and the disease, massacres became commonplace. Nowadays, the death scene needed a body count in the double digits to be considered newsworthy. Big Fed plowed over blood-splashed murder sites, leaving craters and mass graves across the city.

  Civilians retreated from such eerie scars on urban terrain and ghettoized. Improvised fences appeared everywhere, made from steel, wood, and scavenged materials like old doors, tin siding, car hoods, and billboards. Gangs adopted city blocks, claimed terrain, and offered so-called protection. Phoenix became a city full of little states. Local police exhausted themselves trying to keep the peace among sectors and suppress the worst gang activity.

  Protecting the city from the root of the epidemic was my job.

  I parked facing the barren site of the Croatian massacre. Once a daycare, the building had long ago been plowed into rubble. Plastic memorial flowers poked up from whitened sand. Here and there, moonlight touched a pale bone.

  I glanced across the lot at my destination.

  The community health building shone like an obnoxious beacon, a savior in the night. Ugh. I didn't want to be saved, I only didn't want to be a drunk. I walked by a sedan with a man inside drinking from a flask. I didn't meet his eyes.

  My gut ached with want.

  A swarm of preachy bulletin boards offered help. Help, help, help. Fuck help and the condescending bastard it rode in on. I wanted a drink.

  The baggy sweatshirt hood covered scars at my throat and deterred people from readily identifying me. Nothing was worse than not being anonymous at Alcoholics Anonymous. The group droned through a prayer. I scooped up three donuts and a cup of coffee before sitting in the back of the room.

  Juan stood and introduced himself. His black hair was oiled into a blunt ponytail. His right eyebrow ended abruptly where a burn scar the size of a credit card cut into his hairline. While he talked, I admired his numerous tattoos. Works of art. A god-like precision to the lines, ethereal symmetry, and deliberate beauty. Some were religious, some gang-related, and some for the sake of ink.

  His confession was rife with if-I-knew-then-what-I-know-now themes. He talked until he fidgeted himself out of words and sat down. Everyone clapped and thanked him.

  Cheery motherfuckers.

  I didn't want to hear stories, learn names, or watch anyone cry. I wanted a place to go so I wouldn't stumble into a bar.

  That wasn't entirely true.

  I wanted to know that other people had problems, that life wasn't the pretty picture television sold us, complete with apple pie.

  Wasn't apple pie Dutch, anyway?

  I ate my confections in silence and slumped in a hard metal chair. I didn’t feel any connection to these people and it worried me. Worse, I recognized the psychological simplicity of my pity-party and knew it was a silly problem.

  Isolation and trauma contributed to my drinking, but drunkenness was a community sensation. The pleasant, delirious buzz welcomed me into the arms of human experience. Even drinking alone was mildly social. I could join a congregation whose prayer was for happiness, who recognized all of mankind was fallible and desperate.

  I drank to truly feel organic.

  And I was a violent drunk. Inner demons or some shit, which loved to come out and play.

  Unfortunately, I was a weepy drunk, too. My partner once found me in a bar, sobbing atop a stool. Bawling my pathetic eyes out. Possibly the most shameful moment of my life. It even topped the time my father caught me playing doctor with the boy next door. Dad had been so enraged that the kid pissed himself and his parents filed a restraining order. Good times.

  The AA meetings were my partner's suggestion, on account of him not wanting to drag me from bars while I proclaim, “If I don't have a dram of rum I'll have the horrors.”

  Margret approached, her middle-aged saddlebags filling pink stretch pants like nobody's business. She was a sweetheart, albeit a little daft after years of hard drug use. Coincidentally, she was a fervent Devoted. Poor romantic fool.

  “Nice to see you, honey,” she said.

  “I called Philip earlier, but he didn't answer. Makes three times now that my sponsor didn't pick up the phone.”

  Her brow twisted into a puzzled knot. “I'm sure he got busy with something.”

  “Someone should check on him.” Someone not me.

  “Absolutely. I'll send Ramon, and we'll find a new sponsor for you. In fact, Juan doesn't have a partner. Juan? Yoo-hoo! Come meet our friend, Kate.”

  Yes, I used a fake name. Also, I had a bad feeling about Juan.

  “Hi,” I grunted.

  “'Sup.” He jerked with a perfunctory, masculine chin bob.

  Oh yeah, this was gonna be fun.

  Margret said, “Maybe Juan can help you with the list you've been avoiding.”

  A list of people I'd wronged? A sure way to drive me to drink. Since I couldn't process the first step, the remaining eleven were wasted on me.

  How could I admit to being powerless?

  Power was in my hand, in my weapon, in my mind, in the finger aching to pull the trigger. I was not powerless, but I was struggling. The inky emotions that craved alcohol came from within me, were of my own making, and therefore, capable of being wrangled under my control.

  Or so I hoped.

  Luckily, I never made it past step one, because step two needed me to place faith in a power greater than myself, and I was hardcore atheist. Worse, coming from a very religious family made my atheism all the more aggressive and reactionary.

  And accurate.

  I was still alive. A god hadn't helped Mother and my brother, Jacob. They were both faithful until their messy deaths, and then no priest would permit them to be buried on consecrated ground. Yeah, that really helped the case for Christian love.

  I noticed the classic cross around my new spons
or's neck. At least Juan wasn't one of the Devoted. He cleared his throat, rousing me from a stupor.

  Margret patted his wiry arm, winked, and walked away. Jesus, I think she was trying to set me up. He handed me a slip of paper with a number scrawled in a left-bound slant.

  “It rings in the hall. A neighbor will come get me.” He tested, “Tú quieres un café?”

  “I don't speak Spanish. Besides, I already had some.”

  The social pretense seemed like a lot of unnecessary work. I wrote my phone number on the foam cup, handed it to him, and excused myself.

  Winter nights in Arizona warranted a sweatshirt, yet I was perspiring. Hands in my pockets, I cast a glance over my shoulder. This wasn't working. I was more miserable now than in the throes of a nightmare.

  Coming home to my dark house was like sinking into a warm embrace. I collapsed on my lumpy couch and slept in my clothes with the gun holster swaddling my belly.

  Chapter 3

  An alarm squealed in my bedroom and I stumbled to silence it. Look at me, already showered and ready for the day. Almost. I chucked the sweatshirt, put on a bra and tank, and slid the hoodie back on.

  If I went straight to work, I could slip past the crowd at the door before the protestors became too boisterous. I emptied cold, leftover coffee from the pot, took the mug to my jeep, and I paused at the end of the driveway.

  The sun peeked up over the mountains in the east. Pink swirled into orange sky with a crisp blue center. Pretty.

  Driving too fast on the freeway, I quickly arrived at the tall gates of a sprawling building. The Federal Bureau of Human Safety sat regally behind a giant, black iron picket fence. Near the entrance, a meager crowd assembled. Crosses bobbed above them. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt so far over my head I could barely see to drive and held my breath. I was in no mood for—

  “Down with the scourge of Satan! Wickedness has tricked you, my friend, and led you to damnation. Our negligence allowed this evil to befall our beloved country.” The preacher's voice fell into an emphatic cadence. “If not for the pagans, the homosexuals, the feminists, the adulterers, and the corrupt, our world would not be on the brink of unholy destruction. Brothers and sisters, we have tolerated the sinners for too long. Today is the day! I say, today is the day when we make a stand with God. Beware those that sympathize with the beast!”