Age of Blood

10

The setting sun transformed the offshore marine layer into a Jackson Pollock canvas of reds, blues, and pinks. A thin band of brown showed the demarcation between sea and sky. It was a view someone could stare at for a lifetime, which was probably why Southern California beachfront property cost more per year than most people could make in a lifetime. Too bad the sight only lasted for a few moments, tucked at the end of a bustling day and before the fullness of night descended.

But YaYa was thinking of none of this as he stared at the horizon. Instead, he was listening to voices in languages he shouldn’t be able to understand. Earlier, when he’d been in the pharmacy, he’d become vaguely aware that every now and then he could catch the reflection of something that couldn’t be there—a broken and twisted figure, legs like a grasshopper’s attached to his forearm; it had a triangular-shaped face with vaguely human features and stared back at him with glowing eyes above a drooling, misshapen mouth that was always moving. If he listened closely enough, YaYa could hear what it said. If he listened even closer, he could understand it.

After the sun set, YaYa returned to the SUV and rode slowly down Manhattan Beach. Three-story homes and a sidewalk were on his left. Parking spaces, a wide strip of beach, and the Pacific Ocean were on his right. Surfers were enjoying the last few sets and would be returning to their cars. They’d probably stop for a burger at Fatburger over on Artesia, or for a pizza at California Pizza Kitchen over on Sepulveda on their way home. They might even stay and build a bonfire. The life of a Southern California surfer was a special one, and it was something he counted on.

And there it was.

YaYa pulled the SUV into a slot beside an old 1973 Chevy Impala. Far from showroom shape, this car had been beaten and crashed so many times that the sky-blue sides appeared as if they were made of Bondo and undulated like the sea. He got out of the SUV and looked toward the Impala’s front tire. Sure enough, what he’d thought he’d seen was there. A set of keys. After all, no self-respecting car thief would steal this beater. He examined the pod of surfers out in the water waiting for waves and saw that the beach was clear. All he had to do was be fast enough.

He grabbed the keys and opened the trunk. Inside was a spare tire and a case of beer. He removed the tire and beer and placed these behind the SUV. Then he opened the back of the SUV and grabbed Alice, who was just now coming to. He dropped her into the trunk and checked the tightness of her cuffs. He pulled several plastic cable ties from his pocket and cinched her ankles together, then attached the cuffs to the ties on her ankles. As he was adjusting her gag, she opened her eyes. He punched her three times, quick, then slammed the trunk.

He spied several surfers angling for a wave. Another was staring right at him and shouting something. YaYa gave the man a quick salute, got into the Impala, and started it. “Paint It Black” blasted from the speakers as he backed out of the space. He had half a tank. In a boat like this, it might get him halfway to San Diego.

Part of him wondered if Alice would be okay.

Part of him didn’t care.

He drove away, careful to stay within the law. As he passed the SUV, he engaged its lock using the fob. A block later, he tossed the fob into the bushes.

“What’d you say?” he angled his head and began to listen to the voices as they told him what they wanted him to do.