Blood Stitches
by Erin Fanning
Genre: Paranormal Romance, Urban Fantasy
Barnes and Noble
Every year on Halloween, the god of the Mayan underworld holds a demonic ball and auction. Many attend; not everyone survives…
~~~
It's called El Toque de la Luna--The Touch of the Moon. At least that's how nineteen-year-old Gabby's older sister, Esperanza, refers to the magical powers she inherited from their Mayan ancestors. Esperanza says women with El Toque weave magic into their knitting, creating tapestries capable of saving--or devastating--the world. Gabby thinks Esperanza is more like touched in the head--until a man resembling a candy corn arrives at their Seattle home on Halloween. But "Mr. C" is far from sweet...
Soon, Gabby and her almost-more-than-friend, Frank, find themselves spirited away to a demon ball, complete with shape shifters--and on a mission to destroy Esperanza's tapestries before they cause an apocalyptic disaster... And before it's too late to confess their true feelings for each other.
Erin Fanning spends her summers on a northern Michigan lake, where her imagination explores the water and dense forest for undiscovered creatures. In the winter, she migrates to central Idaho, exchanging mountain bikes and kayaks for skis and snowshoes. She’s also the author of Mountain Biking Michigan, as well as numerous articles, essays, and short stories.
Author Media Links
A.F.T. Inc.
By Erin Fanning
First published: November 2009, Apehlion
This story, like in my
novella Blood Stitches, explores the
repercussions of making a devilish bargain.
“Please
leave a message,” the computerized voice said in a monotone.
“I’m
in,” Jake whispered into the payphone’s receiver. He cleared his throat and
added, a little louder, “Um, just let me know what’s next.”
Hanging
up, Jake glanced right then left. Shoppers milled around him, but no one seemed
to be watching, except maybe the babe in the tight sweater. He winked at her.
She giggled and looked away. Once he hit the big time the chicks would be all
over him. He smiled as his head filled with images of bouncing cheerleaders,
ocean-side mansions, and private jets.
His cell phone vibrated and he yanked it open,
listening to the messages. Only losers use pay phones, he thought. But the man
had told him—more like ordered him— to call from public phones in random
locations.
As
he sauntered out of the mall, Jake wondered if the guy had been for real. He
caught his reflection in a window. I’m looking like a winner, he thought. No
surprise the man had singled him out.
Jake wore the
collar of his leather jacket flipped up and his sandy hair slicked back. Flared
jeans rode low over biker boots, even though he hadn’t ridden his motorcycle
for years. His football coach, saying bikes were too dangerous for his players,
wouldn’t allow it.
Coach, what a
schizo, Jake thought. One day Jake was the best running back in the world, then
the next day Coach would say stuff like, “Hey loser, you’ve got to run faster
or you’ll never make it to the pros.” Jake planned to prove Coach wrong, make
him choke on his words.
Opening the door
to the parking garage, he climbed the stairs to level 5. The fluorescent lights
blinked off, throwing the area into darkness. Behind him came a scurrying
sound, then laughter. Someone, breathing hard, ran up the stairs. The lights
came back on and the runner stopped.
Jake glanced
behind him, yet no one was there. Was someone following him? That man with his
use-only-the-pay-phone-orders was making him paranoid.
He entered the
fifth floor, and as he hurried to his car, a clown stepped out of the shadows.
He wore the whole get-up—baggy pants, red nose, white makeup. The only thing
out of place was the Louisville
slugger the clown swung in his right hand.
Jake started to
laugh, but the clown wasn’t smiling.
“Got any balls?” the
clown asked, nodding toward Jake’s shopping bag.
This isn’t good,
Jake thought. This isn’t good at all. The garage was empty, except for his
souped-up Chevy Nova. If he could get to it fast enough, he’d be out of there
before the clown could react.
“Back off, freak,”
Jake said, pushing his chest out.
The clown chuckled
while tossing the bat to his left hand. “I’m ambidextrous,” he said, stepping
closer to Jake. “Know what that means, college boy? I can hit hard with either
hand, which is important in my line of work.”
Laughter came from
behind Jake. He backed up, looking over his shoulder while trying to keep an
eye on the clown. Lone Ranger and Tonto emerged from the stairwell, their
rubber masks scarier than anything Jake had ever encountered on Halloween. What
the hell did they want?
“Look, you can
have my stuff.” Jake dropped his bag on the ground and reached into his back pocket,
pulling out a wallet. “Money, whatever. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Did you hear what
the man said?” The clown nodded at Lone Ranger and Tonto. “We’re just going to
have some fun here. No trouble at all.”
Lone Ranger and
Tonto’s costumes ended with the masks. They wore black jumpsuits, which
strained against their broad shoulders, steel-tipped work boots, and plastic
gloves.
Tonto released a
cold chuckle, devoid of any humor.
“My associates
enjoy their work,” the clown said, bouncing from foot to foot while he
practiced his swing. “As do I. We put some planning into our disguises to keeps
things interesting.”
Adrenaline rushed
through Jake’s body. Run, his mind chanted, run damn-it, yet his legs wouldn’t
cooperate. They felt wobbly, as if the bones might dissolve and splash onto the
pavement in a river of blood and muscle.
Lone Ranger
flicked open a knife, and Jake’s legs finally obeyed, running faster than he’d
ever sprinted on the football field. He concentrated on the rust covering the
driver’s door of the Nova, willing it to come closer, imagining himself behind
the wheel.
Pounding feet and
Tonto’s laughter followed him. Lone Ranger tackled him, pinning him to the
ground, and Tonto pressed his boot into Jake’s head.
Lone Ranger
dragged him to his feet and, along with Tonto, held his arms.
The clown
sauntered over, swinging his bat and humming, “Take me out to the ball game.”
“Come on, man,” Jake said, not caring that his
voice had slipped into a whine. “You can have whatever you want. Just don’t
hurt me.” He felt warm liquid spread between his legs; the smell of urine
mingled with sweat.
“Lookie here,
boys,” the clown said. “The big football player has wet his pants.”
Tonto and Lone
Ranger gripped Jake’s arms tighter.
The clown’s
comment took Jake’s mind off his predicament for a second. “Hey, how did you
know I play foot—?”
The first blow hit
Jake square on his knee cap. He screamed as a white-hot pain seared through his
body. Falling to the ground, his head bounced off the pavement. Darkness rolled
over him and everything disappeared. He welcomed the abyss, wanting to vanish
within it.
The second blow,
however, jerked him back to reality and he howled.
A fourth man
stepped out of the shadows. A fedora was pulled low over his face; the collar
of his black duster flipped up.
“That’s enough,”
he said as the clown got ready to swing the bat again.
The clown ignored
him and Fedora-man grabbed his arm. “I said that was enough. If you don’t chill
out, I’m going to dock your pay. I might have to anyway. Looks like the kid hit
his head and that wasn’t part of the contract.”
Fedora-man wagged
a finger at the clown, who said, “Screw you.”
“This just might
be your last assignment,” Fedora-man said, his voice icy. “Now come on. Let’s
finish the job.”
There was
something familiar to Jake about Fedora-man, but as the men continued talking,
a pulsating pain consumed Jake’s world. It drilled everything down, making
anything else immaterial. Make it stop, his mind screamed.
He heard an engine
revving then darkness—so welcome—consumed him again. Something pricked his arm,
but he was beyond caring. He floated away from the parking garage as the men
began to drag him.
***
“Hello
there,” a woman said as Jake opened his eyes. She wore green scrubs and her corn-rowed
braids were pulled into a pony tail, the beads clinking softly together as she
moved. She pressed a cool hand against his forehead, lingering only for a
second before vanishing.
“Come back,” he
whispered. The coolness had been welcome, somehow reassuring.
He
lay in a hospital bed. Curtains were pulled back from the window, revealing an
ebony sky. A branch, pushed by the wind, scratched at the glass, like hands
reaching for Jake. He thought of the attack, the men with the masks. He
shuddered and tried to sit up, but his arms were restrained to the bed with
cloth straps.
“What
the hell?” Jake asked, trying to pull his arms loose.
“Now just relax.
No getting up for a while.” The woman patted his arm.
“What’s going on? Why am I tied down?” Hysteria
rang through Jake’s voice and again he tried to yank his arm out of the straps.
The woman ran her
hand over his forehead. “You were a little anxious when they brought you in and
tried to pull out your IV. The doctor took the restraints off during the operation
then put them back on, in case you woke up a little agitated. It happens
sometimes. Don’t worry, the doctor will probably remove them when he comes in
to check on you.”
“Operation?” Jake
gasped, memories rushing through his mind. “Oh my God. My knee. Is it okay?
Will I be able to play football?”
“The doctor will
explain everything,” she said. “I’m Maddie, your nurse. You’re at Mercy General Hospital
From somewhere
nearby came the creak of a door opening followed by murmuring. His Mom—hair
wild, eyes wide—crowded into his vision. Between sobs, she asked, “Jake, honey?
How do you feel?”
Then his Dad,
gruff, “Come on. Let’s give the nurse some room.” His Dad’s suit was crumpled, and
he rubbed his eyes before pulling Jake’s Mom backward.
“That’s right,
Mrs. Farmer. Let’s give Jake some room,” Maddie said.
A bright light
flickered into Jake’s eyes, accompanied by the return of Maddie’s touch as she
adjusted a tube that ran from his arm.
“The doctor will be here soon. Maybe it’s best
if you wait outside, Mrs. Farmer. You too, Mr. Farmer,” Maddie said.
“But-but,” Mrs.
Farmer said as she was led away by Mr. Farmer. “We’ll be right out here, Jake,
waiti—.” Her words were cut off as the door closed behind them.
“Sorry I had to do
that,” Maddie said. “But I need to examine your leg and the doctor will want
some privacy.”
“That’s okay.”
Jake said, his throat so dry he could barely get the words out. “Water,” he
rasped, feeling relieved that his parents were gone. He had this strange
feeling of guilt, as if the attack had been his fault. The reason hovered in
the back of his mind, but for some reason he couldn’t get a grasp on it.
Maddie interrupted
his thoughts. “Are you in any pain?”
Jake shook his
head. He felt numb, except for a tingling sensation in his right leg. It
pricked at his memory, bringing back flashes of the men in masks and the
baseball bat.
“Good but let me
know if you need anything,” Maddie said. “Oh and some man came by to see you
while you were sleeping. I don’t know how he got in since you weren’t supposed
to have visitors. So I made him leave, and he left his card.”
Maddie held up a
business card for Jake to see. It read, “A.F.T. Inc.,” and listed an 800
number.
Jake shook his
head. It seemed vaguely familiar to him, yet he couldn’t place it. Besides, his
brain hurt, as if it had been overloaded with information.
The door swung
open and a man in a white doctor’s coat rushed into the room. “I’m Dr. Bingham.”
He peered at Jake for a second before concentrating on the chart at the end of
the bed.
Jake could tell he
wasn’t reading it. Was the doctor buying time? What could be so bad?
Silence fell.
Maddie fiddled with Jake’s pillows, again asking him about pain.
Jake ignored her.
“What’s going on, doctor?”
Dr. Bingham,
rocking back and forth on his heels, put his hands in his pockets. His face had
the pulled back look of a plastic-surgery junkie, and his gray temples
contrasted sharply with the unnatural shade of his auburn hair.
“Do you remember
anything from last night?” Dr. Bingham asked.
“Some,” Jake said,
wincing. “I remember being hit with a baseball bat then it’s all fuzzy.”
“You have a slight
concussion. So expect a few memory lapses for events that happened right before
the attack. But you should regain your memory.” Dr. Bingham said. “And, well,
the men didn’t just hit you with a bat.”
Maddie touched
Jake’s hand, her eyes downcast.
Dr. Bingham added,
“I don’t know how to make this any easier, so I’ll just say it. They ran over
your right leg with a car.”
“But, I don’t feel
any pain, so you fixed it, right? Right?” He tried to reach down, to feel his
leg and reassure himself that it was okay. The strange tingling was stronger
now, almost a dull pain. The restraints held him back, and he screamed.
“I’m sorry… we had
to amputate,” Dr. Bingham said.
Again Jake pulled
at his restraints as Maddie stroked his arm, murmuring soft words, “You’ll be
okay, Jake. You’ll get through this.”
Jake closed his eyes tight, trying to keep tears
from escaping.
“Nurse, a
sedative, please.” Dr. Bingham said.
Maddie bustled
away, returning with a syringe.
“Now, listen to me,
Jake. Your Dad told me that you play ball at the U and have hopes for a
professional career,” Dr. Bingham said. “They don’t have to end. You know
they’ve changed the rules—players with prosthetics are competing in the pros.
Some of them are just as good as any regular player, maybe even better. In
fact, what with artificial intelligence and materials like titanium, it might
be that your new leg will give you an advantage. The rehab will be tough, but
once you’re through it you’ll be stronger. You’ll see.”
Jake no longer
listened. Something pressed at Jake’s memory. A discussion he’d had recently about
prosthetic-enabled athletes. What was it? Someone telling him that it was the future
for sports, Jake’s ticket to the pros. He drifted to sleep, thinking that maybe
losing his leg wasn’t so bad after all.
***
That thought
disappeared, however, the next time he woke up. Pain blinded him. He wanted to
scream, rip out the IV, and tear what was left of his leg from his body. At
least, his arms had been released, and he fumbled through the sheets, looking
for the button that would alert Maddie that he needed help.
“Where is it?
Where is it?” he muttered.
“Looking for this,
son?” a man said from next to the bed.
In his misery,
Jake hadn’t noticed that someone else was in the room. A sliver of light escaped
from the bathroom and a full moon leaked around the curtains, filling the room
with a yellow glow. The bedside clock read 3 a.m.
“Hey, press that
button,” Jake said, not sure who the man was but not really caring either, just
wanting the pain to stop. “I’m dying here.”
“No need,” the man
said. “I know what to do. I’ll get you taken care of in a jiffy.” He fiddled
with the IV tubes. “Just relax and soon you’ll feel better.”
The man stepped
back, shoving his hands into a purple and white pin-striped suit coat. A fedora
was pulled low over his forehead.
“You,” Jake
whispered as the morphine or whatever it was started to take effect. “You were
in the parking garage. You and your buddies did this to me.”
The man smiled,
his front teeth protruding slightly, giving him a feral quality. “My friends
enjoy their work a little too much. Hitting your head wasn’t part of our
agreement. Don’t worry, they’ve been punished.”
“What the hell are
you talking about?” Jake asked. Although he felt a little better, his leg still
throbbed. “Hey, I don’t think you gave me enough of that stuff.”
“I will when I
leave,” the man said. “But for now I want you alert, your senses on edge.”
Jake, closing his
eyes tight, sank back into the pillows. He wished the man would just get out,
pumping him full of the morphine first. He wanted to escape reality.
“We’ve spoken
before.” The man’s voice came closer, until Jake could feel his hot breath
against his cheek.
Jake opened his
eyes.
“Close your eyes,
sonny,” the man said. “I want you to concentrate on my words not my face. The
less you see of me the better. In fact, we may never meet in person again, but
I’ll be in touch. No names, however, not now.”
Jake shut his eyes
and sensed the man leaning over him, bringing with him the smell of cigars and
spearmint gum.
“Think hard.
Concentrate on my voice. Do you remember the conversation we had a few weeks
ago? I approached you after one of your football skirmishes,” the man said.
“Think, boy, think.” He gripped Jake’s shoulder, shaking it slightly.
Jake probed his
memory. He found in its shadows a meeting after practice, sitting in a black
sedan and sipping on a cola while a man said that he could make Jake into a
star. It would take some initial suffering, but it would all be worth it. Was
this that man?
Jake’s
eyes popped open. “Are you the guy who promise—?”
The
man put his hands on Jake’s face, lowering his lids. “No lookie, got it? And
promise is a bit strong. I had a little business proposition, that’s all. You
agreed and here we are.”
“I
didn’t think it’d be like this.” Jake groaned as a wave of pain washed over
him.
“To
be the best you have to suffer,” the man said. “It’ll be worth it when you’re
making millions, and A.F.T. will be
there all the way with you. Taking its share of the profits, of course.”
“A.F.T.?”
“Athletes
For Tomorrow. Prosthetic-enabled athletes are the future of sports,” the man whispered
in Jake’s ear. “A.F.T. is just pushing the timetable a little.”
“I
didn’t expect to be attacked. You guys scared the hell out of me.”
“Your
injury had to look real. What’d you think it’d be? A little tap on the leg? We
had to give the doctors a reason to amputate. Insurance has to pay. We’ve got
to be above-board as much as possible.”
Jake
sighed.
“Remember,
sonny, you’re going to be the best running back the pros have ever seen. You
were good before, an above average college player, but nothing for the NFL to get
too jazzed about. Let’s put this way—you would have been lucky to get drafted.
But now, after you’ve rehabbed. Well…”
“And
what if I don’t…” Jake cleared his throat. “What if I don’t make it to the
pros?”
“You’ll
make it,” the man said. He grabbed Jake by the front of his hospital gown. “And
if you don’t, well, then you become a liability and you can guess what A.F.T.
does with liabilities. We can’t afford them.”
What
had he done? Then Jake remembered his dreams. Maybe this was the only way he
could make the big bucks, live in a mansion, and help his folks out, who had
sacrificed so much for him.
The
man stepped away. “I’m giving you the full dose now. Soon you’ll be sleeping
like a baby.”
Jake
felt himself lift off the bed, floating away. In his mind he was running, his
bum leg replaced with one of those funky prosthetics. He jumped, caught a pass,
and flew down the field. Outside, the tree scratched against the window. This
time, though, it sounded like applause.
As
Jake drifted away, the man said, “Good night, sonny. We’ll be in touch. You
belong to A.F.T. now and don’t you ever forget it.”
Thanks for hosting me! Happy Halloween!
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