The Awakening

Chapter Four

Curiosity kept Gaby studying the area. Toward the back of the largest building, which she assumed to be the main part of the hospital, smaller buildings sat like forsaken headstones. Picking her way past poison ivy, needle-sharp thorns and hungry insects, Gaby moved to see all the property.

Icy, murky auras shadowed the perimeter of the grounds, moving around her in unsettled displacement, possibly depicting paranormal activity. Unhappy spirits? Vengeful wraiths?

Evil?

Through practice, Gaby had learned to see all the layers of an aura, to disentangle the meanings and nuances. Proper diet, fresh air, exercise, and sunlight strengthened an aura, just as neglect, alcohol, drugs, stress, and lack of rest weakened them.

These auras looked massive, filling the surrounding sky, the very air that fed her lungs. It was as if many small auras had combined into one, because despite the size, they lacked real power or purpose.

Beneath the menace lurked great suffering, crippling pain.

And more.

Contact with others could enable an exchanging of energy, or in some cases, the draining of it. Certain people, places, even memories, could suck the very life out of a being. Whenever Gaby felt herself tiring too quickly, as she did now, she removed herself from the source. But this time, she couldn't.

She edged closer, drawn to a courtyard overlooking the abandoned hospital. The property was so bulky that it even had its own power station.

A mosquito buzzed past Gaby's ear, landed, and bit her neck, drawing a bead of blood. She swatted it away, engrossed at the sight of yet another structure.

Enormous trees and waist-high weeds cloaked a ramshackle house off to the side, perhaps the home of someone who once ran the hospital. Between it and the hospital, a swamp that had once served as a pond festered with mosquitoes and thick moss. A disturbed breeze carried an awful stench off the pond to the air around it.

Wrinkling her nose, Gaby looked back at the house. The roof of the covered porch sank low, threatening to collapse. Paint peeled from every surface. Shingles and shudders had gone missing. Toxic vibes emanated from every unbroken window.

Remnants of a past life, or warning of a current resident? Gaby didn't know. At that moment, she didn't really care.

A deserted playground, hazardous with broken equipment that had once held swings, a jungle gym, a teeter-totter, indicated there had been a children's ward, too. Now only crows flapped around, pecking at crawling insects and cawing to one another in high-pitched screeches that cut the stillness with alarming ferocity.

Gaby started to move closer to the pond, and from nowhere a cold wind went up her spine, making her flesh prickle and the hairs on her nape stand on end. She jerked around, her knife already in her hand as she prepared for battle, ready to face another nightmare.

Only the eerie, soundless lull of the woods greeted her.

Cautious and unconvinced, Gaby turned back to the isolation hospital. Multipaned windows were broken, boarded up, or black with age, cobwebs, and filth. No one looked out at her—at least, no one with eyes that she could see.

And still Gaby had the disquieting sense of being watched, of being mentally dissected. It unnerved her and, knife still drawn, started her on her way in a rush.

"Fucking paranoia," she cursed to herself, but it could have nothing to do with the eerie hospital and everything to do with the meddlesome detective hot on her trail, so she thrashed her way out of the clinging underbrush.

Burs caught in her jeans. Muck stuck to her flip-flops and oozed up between her toes. Her panic was a strange counterpoint for a person who fought and defeated the vilest evils, and yet she left the ominous woods as fast as possible.

One smaller building she passed, separated from the isolation hospital, had brick walls riddled with graffiti claiming it to be someone's "place." A sign even pointed to the Beer Room, making Gaby wonder if it had once been home to a fraternity of some sort.

Did college kids lurk inside, chuckling at the way she fled? Did she care?

No.

She'd always been a freak to society. Nothing new in that.

As she circled the grounds and finally found her way to a clearing, she tucked the knife away in her sheath at the small of her back.

Oddly enough, she found that the main complex of the Cancer Research Center was visible from the road. The broad face of the building easily hid the smaller hospitals behind it, but anyone driving by would see it.

Did they not sense the evil? Were they all so obtuse, so self-absorbed, that they paid no attention at all to such a blatant, rancorous threat?

To get her bearings, Gaby looked around and saw unkempt, suspicious businesses, dark alleyways, bums, homeless transients, and prostitutes.

The unfamiliar slums reeked of depression and poverty, but it didn't frighten her. In a way, it explained how the hospital remained so obscure. Once upon a time, the area might have been lucrative and in need of a hospital. In days gone by, the old houses, tall and built close together, might have been the homes of doctors.

Now they accommodated several families, and from what she could tell, a few of them served as crack houses.

Relieved that no one would recognize her here, Gaby set off again.

Every bone and muscle in her body ached. Exhaustion pulled at her. She felt like she could curl up in a corner and sleep—but the luxury of rest was something she couldn't afford, not until she'd reached the safety of her apartment.

Wherever that might be.

As she walked along, she looked down each alleyway, always guarding against threats. After a time, she spotted three men in an alley between an ambiguous novelty store and a vacant building. They clustered around a can fire, cooking something and, given their postures, stoned out of their gills.

Surrounded by cardboard boxes and shopping carts laden with other people's discards, it appeared that they lived in the narrow lane.

Perfect.

Most sane people would have avoided darkened seclusion that harbored sinister, desperate men; Gaby thanked God for it.

When she'd gotten within six feet, one man pulled out a knife. That amused her. He shook so badly and his eyes were so unfocused, he wouldn't be able to hit the wall, much less a person with her skills. "What're you cooking?" she asked, hoping to ease the tension.

"There ain't enough fer ya. Go away."

It looked like squirrel to her, probably roadkill. Her still-jumpy stomach pitched in revolt. Such pitiable people. Desolation clung to them, but not malice.

It'd be best for her to get to the point. "I need a shirt."

"Ya got a shirt. Now git."

"I need a different shirt." She dug in her pocket. "Here's five bucks. I'm not picky."

Two of the three men conferred. The third was too high to even acknowledge or notice her. He stared off at nothing in particular, swaying gently from his cross-legged position near the wall. Gaby briefly studied him. Eyes sunken, complexion sallow and damp, body gaunt, he wouldn't last out the week. His addiction was so ripe that disease riddled his body. Poor schmuck.

The man with the knife lumbered awkwardly to his feet. Holding the blade out straight, as a novice might, he staggered, steadied himself, and said, "I'll take the money, then you'll git."

"Not without a shirt." Gaby held his gaze. She felt the power blossom in her and knew he wouldn't cut her—even if he really wanted to, which she doubted.

As she stared at him, he blanched and backed up a step.

Gaby followed. "I don't want to hurt you, but I can." She kept her tone even, calm, and filled with dead sobriety. "If you don't play fair, I'll show you the kind of pain you've never experienced."

Beneath grim and bristly whiskers, the man's face went white and his jaw slackened. She could see the wild pulse thrumming in his throat, the sweat gathering at his temples. The hand holding the knife drooped at his side.

"We ain't got much," he whispered.

"That's why I'm willing to pay, rather than just take what I need—which I could do." She strode past him to the grocery cart, rummaged through the discarded items until she found a man's navy blue T-shirt with a tear on the shoulder, paint stains on the hem. "This'll do."

Facing the man, who'd made no move to hurt her when her back was turned, she nodded her gratitude and tucked the five in his front shirt pocket.

"Sorry to do this, but…" She shrugged, stripped off her rained shirt, and tossed it in their fire. Black smoke billowed out, and then the shirt caught and flames consumed it, singeing the poor critter they intended to consume for dinner.

She wore no bra, saw no reason to with her mostly flat chest, and so the two coherent men got an eyeful. They stared, not with lust but with utter surprise. They were so far gone that they'd never remember seeing her, much less be able to detail the exchange.

Being sure to keep her mouth tightly closed as the material passed her face, Gaby pulled the shirt on over her head.

Though it felt clean, God only knew where the shirt had been and what filth might cling to it.

She started to take her leave then, but instead she hesitated. Cursing herself for showing any softness, she reached out and removed the man's knife from his limp hand. It was so dull as to be useless.

"You hold it like this," she explained, turning the knife so that the blade faced his body, the handle his opponent. "That way, your forearm conceals it. And when you lift your arm to stab, you have your entire body weight behind the blade. And you know, it makes it easier to slash across the face or throat."

She exhibited that by guiding his arm through the motions.

As if the touch of a woman, even a woman of her dubious attributes, threw him off-kilter, he held himself stiff as a board. Gaby released him and took a step back, but she took his knife with her. Examining it, she said, "You should really sharpen this if you expect it to be a threat or protection."

He shook his head. "I jus' wanna he left Tone."

Gaby flipped the knife in her hand and presented it back to him with the handle first. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you, though."

She'd taken two steps when he said, "Uh… thanks."

She looked over her shoulder, a brow raised.

"Fer the money."

But not the lesson on defense? He had his priorities screwed up, but it wasn't her problem.

With a nod, Gaby took herself off. She had a long walk ahead and no time to chitchat. It was back to business.

After crossing the street, she entered a gas station that smelled of oil and had seen better days. Off to one side set an old, broken air pump and toward the other, a sign that read RESTROOM.

Using her foot to open the filthy door, Gaby went inside. Given the unrecognizable splatters on the walls and floors, she had to wonder if hookers used this particular John to fulfill assignations. Flies crowded the room, along with a few spiders.

Careful not to touch anything, Gaby inched her way to the scum-encrusted sink, barely connected to the wall by exposed pipes. So many chips and cracks marred the porcelain that using it would be hazardous.

Gaby wrinkled her nose in revulsion and knew she couldn't let it matter. Using a sliver of hair- and dirt-encrusted soap, she washed away all signs of the mutilated man's blood.

Though it was disgusting, she even splashed her face and rinsed out her mouth. The water tasted as metallic as the blood, but her head knew the difference and she felt better.

Next, standing on one foot at a time, she removed her flip-flops and cleaned all traces of mud from between her toes, then cleaned off the shoes, too.

She pulled out her knife and washed it, taking her time, being methodical.

When she finally left the restroom, thick gray clouds had rolled in to hide the sun.

Not a storm, she silently prayed.

Anything but that.

Luckily, she made it to her building without a single raindrop falling. She was so exhausted that she wanted only to lock herself in her room and pass out on the bed. She did not want to visit with Morty—but with him sitting on the front steps, more or less waiting for her, she couldn't avoid him.

He jumped to his feet at her approach, and Gaby noticed his red-rimmed eyes, his blotchy cheeks.

She drew up short. "No fucking way have you been crying."

Indignant, he shook his head and swiped a forearm past his nose. "No. Course not."

But she knew he lied. She always knew those sorts of things, even when she'd rather not. Gritting her teeth, she took the most expedient way out of the confrontation.

"Look, I'm sorry okay? I've been tired lately. Not up to snuff. I don't mean to be a bitch. I just… am."

His expression softened. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It's okay."

Nonplussed, Gaby glared at him. He knew? So he didn't intend to deny her bitchiness?

"Great," she said, all but grinding out the word. "Then if that's settled…"

He shifted, effectively blocking her entrance into the building. Gaby lifted a brow.

He dared?

Clearing his throat, Mort said, "That's, tun, not why I was waiting for you."

"No?"

He hemmed and hawed around, shuffling his feet.

"Jesus, Mort, spit it out, will ya? In case you can't tell, I'm beat. I need to get some rest and—"

"A cop stopped by here, looking for you. A really big cop. Detective Luther Cross, I think was his name. He said he'd come back tonight. I just… I thought you should know."

Eyes narrowed, mistrust prickling. Gaby moved forward with slow, precise purpose. "What did you tell him, Mort?"

When Morty flushed, she caught him by his shirtfront and dragged him close.

"Mort?"

"Nothing. That is… not much." He groaned as if in pain. "I told him you were a good person, Gaby. I told him you'd never have a run-in with the police. He wouldn't tell me why he wanted to see you, but he asked all kinds of questions, like what you do for a living, where your family lives. Stuff like that."

How dare he ? "Nosy bastard."

"Yeah, well… He wanted to know where you were, and Gaby, I'm sorry, but I had no idea what to say."

Which was exactly why she never told him shit—so he couldn't give anything way. "So you said nothing, right?"

He shook his head. "He kept staring at me and I'm not a good liar. I had to say something, so I figured it'd be better to just admit that you keep to yourself, and that I don't know that much about you."

She nodded.

"He asked me how long you'd been my tenant, and when I told him, I don't think he believed me." Nervousness flushed Mort's cheeks. "He kept asking me if we ever talk, if we have any casual conversations… all kinds of stuff like that."

"Screw him." Gaby released Mort, even smoothed down his wrinkled shirt. "Who cares what he believes?"

"Uh… I thought you might."

Weary to the bone, she shook her head. "I need to shower. And sleep. If the cop shows back up, tell him to go away."

That instruction left Mort wide-eyed with incredulity. "But what he's a cop! What if he insists…"

"He can't insist without a warrant, so unless he has one, don't bother me."

Hands twisted together, Mort asked, "And if he does?"

Gaby sighed. "You know where to find me."

"He, uh, he seemed like a nice guy."

"Yeah, right." Big and good-looking, and so full of himself. And he had that gentle, superior aura floating around him. Gaby snorted. "He's a regular superhero."

"You say that like you don't believe in heroes."

Mort sounded so wounded that Gaby blinked at him. "What? And you do?"

"Well… yeah."

"You've been reading too many graphic novels." He'd been reading too much of her work. "Granted, there's a few fools left out there who hope to save the world. But they're wasting their time."

Morty went soft. "Gaby, don't say that."

"It's a lost cause, Mort. Trust me." She had the emotional scars to prove it. "The world is not a comic book, and Superman isn't going to fly in and save a damned thing."

"Gaby?" Confusion filled his tone and marred his expression.

She felt like she'd kicked a puppy. What did it matter if Mort had his illusions? For most people, that's what got them through the day.

"Forget I said anything." Pushing past Mort and into the building, she trudged up the steps. Once inside her room, she secured the doors, removed the leather sheath strapped around her waist, and, still wearing the nasty shirt and soiled jeans, stepped into the shower.

What better way to scrub the grungy clothes clean?

As the soap and warm water helped wash away the remnants of the woods, Gaby's thought scuttled around at Mach speed.

What had she felt at the isolation hospital—horrific memories, or current misery? A threat?

And that damn Mort, looking to her for reassurance, and for so much more. She shied away from that thought, and focused on Detective Luther Cross instead.

Feeling marginally revitalized, she pictured the cop as she'd last seen him, watching her walk away, and then talking to those bums by the saloon. So he knew where she lived? And he thought he had reason to talk to her?

That probably should have bothered her more than it did, but so much turmoil twisted through her exhausted mind, grasping one particular worry seemed impossible.

Maybe he wouldn't come back at all. And maybe, someday, she'd be a normal woman.

She wouldn't place a bet on either possibility.

For six straight hours, Gaby gave herself over to sleep. Before lying down, she'd taken every precaution she could to ensure her own safety. She'd never slept through an intrusion, no matter how exhausted she might be. But chance was a commodity she couldn't afford.

She woke disoriented and dehydrated, and immediately wanted to write.

That's how it always happened for her. Writing wasn't a hobby or a true occupation. It was a passion. A necessity to her body and organs and soul—like breathing.

Like killing demons.

Using vivid descriptions in her novels helped her exorcise them from her mind. The details of her missions for God went into the stories, there for the entire world to see if only people would wake up and acknowledge the truth.

Gaby guzzled water until her head cleared, then dressed in another clean top and jeans. Her wardrobe consisted of dark tunics or T-shirts, well-worn denim, and simple flip-flops. In winter, she alternated with oversized hooded sweatshirts and black sneakers.

The lack of variable attire was a deliberate choice on her part. If anyone ever claimed to see her in the area of a murder and tried to identify her by what she wore that night, it'd prove nothing. She always wore the same. Their memory could be of a Tuesday or Friday, the deli or the gas station.

Wind whistled outside her windows, a clue about weather to come, but for once Gaby barely heard it. She unfolded the metal stool and seated herself at her desk. From a nearby bin, she retrieved her latest manuscript, her inks, markers, straight-line tools, and fresh paper.

In no time, she'd immersed herself in the novel, sketching with a frenzy and writing out the truth as she knew it. Her peripheral vision constricted as she placed the day's details into still frames and rich dialogue that would complete her latest work.

Writing and illustrating graphic novels gave her the satisfaction of showcasing talents that didn't involve real death and destruction. She had a way with words, with the depiction of details that critics said brought readers into the moment.

Her drawings were vivid and explicit, showing the pain, the conflict, and the inner struggle of right and wrong.

No one gave her direct credit for her storytelling abilities because she remained anonymous. But she had the pleasure of seeing Morty's face light up when he got the newest loose-leaf manuscript. He'd spend the day devouring her work, and then he'd gush to her about the story, all but swooning in his excitement.

He didn't know Gaby was the creator, and he had no conception how his appreciation pleased her.

Devout fans flocked to his comic store in search of the next episode. Hordes of Goth kids checked in regularly, hoping to find a release date, putting their orders on hold.

Preppies sneaked in and left with the novel in a plain paper bag. College kids shouted out their victory when they got their copies.

All in all, her stories were well loved.

Most graphic novels included credits not only for the writer, but also for a penciler who sketched the artwork, an inker who inked the sketches, and a colorist to add the color. Gaby did it all herself, pouring her bitter heart and tortured soul onto the page and into the illustrations.

Depending on her mood and her most recent destruction, most of her stories ranged anywhere from fifty pages to more than three hundred. This one would be long. After the day's events, which she felt compelled to include, it'd probably run three-fifty.

Writers usually dealt with an editor and traditional publisher. Not Gaby. When she finished a graphic novel, she mailed the manuscript to Morty under a fictitious name. He sent whatever payment amount she named to a P.O. box outside their city.

The rest was up to him, and thanks to Mort, she had an enthusiastic underground publisher who didn't mind the X-rated, violent quality of her life.

Mort had been approached by bigger publishers, but as per her instructions, he kept to the lesser known, underground circulation. The fewer people who got curious about Gaby, the better her odds of not being exposed.

She didn't want her natural and very cathartic outlet ruined by misguided fame. She saw the world through images, through the most basic truths, and with single-minded ferocity she put that on paper, sometimes working through the night.

Like an inside joke, or maybe a whimsical prayer, she wrote her character as an avenging angel rather than an iconic freak. Even with blood under her nails and brain matter splattered into her hair, Gaby's illustrated character remained a bright vision.

Like the rest of the normal world. Gaby romanticized the ugliness; she romanticized herself, and it made it easier for her to stomach her duties.

But as always, even in this, she remained alone.