Groaning, I lean into the demolished police car and take the keys from the ignition. In the glow of weak headlights, I fumble through keys until I find one that fits the gun mount. Unlocking it, I wrench the weapon out.
The combat shotgun is surprisingly light. The textured grip feels like pebbles under my palms. My dad taught me to shoot when I was young, but the gun I learned on was smooth wood, a hunting weapon. This shotgun is already loaded, bristling with a few extra red shells on a plastic bandolier mounted to the stock.
Emerging from the cruiser, I see the men circling each other.
“I never understood her fascination with you,” says the silver-haired man. He is holding an ornate, curved dagger like he knows how to use it. In a detached way, I recognize the antique as an Ottoman hancer blade, its horn handle decorated in silver.
“I was always the better choice,” he adds.
The tall one has his fists up. He pivots on his back foot, head sliding back and forth, rotating his body warily to face the smaller man.
I level the shotgun at my hip and wait.
The silver-haired man lunges with the knife and the tall one bats his wrist away, grabbing at the man with his other hand. But the lunge was a feint. Turning his back on his adversary, the smaller man flicks his knife straight up over his shoulder.
The blade slices open the big man’s face from chin to forehead.
Falling to a knee, he presses his palm flat against the wound. The man doesn’t yell in pain or even blink—just turns to watch me as I take a step closer. In torn motorcycle armor, the silver-haired man stands over his opponent, knife out.
“She dies now,” he says, gesturing at me with the blade.
I shoulder the shotgun, squinting down the sight.
“No she doesn’t,” I say, pulling the trigger.
The shotgun roars and kicks against my shoulder, launching a cloud of buckshot. The metal pellets spread out and rip into both men. Shreds of leather and fabric spray into the air like feathers from a burst pillow. The knife bounces away as both men are turned around by the impact. The larger one takes the opportunity to stand. The silver-haired one shields his face and glares at me over his elbow.
He seems annoyed.
Pulling the trigger again, I advance. Buckshot dances off the pavement and both men dive away, still fighting each other, ignoring me and the hail of lead pellets ripping through the air.
Hardly seeing beyond the exploding muzzle in front of me, I keep pulling the trigger until the gun clicks. My shoulder throbbing, I blink into the dazzling headlights, in disbelief that the two figures are still grappling. As my eyes adjust, I begin to back away, my fingers wrapped tightly around the empty shotgun.
Something is wrong, really wrong.
In the sudden quiet, the tall one catches the other by his silver hair and yanks.
Part of the man’s scalp peels away, sickeningly easy, taking his forehead and upper cheek with it. I can’t comprehend the sight. Beneath the skin, I see a skull shape made of translucent blue plastic. When he blinks, only the remaining eyelid closes. The other eye is wide and round and staring without the skin of an eyelid around it.
I drop the shotgun clattering to the pavement.
Blood pounds in my temples at the horrific sight. Putting a hand over my mouth, I take panicked breaths. My nostrils are filled with the nauseating smell of gunpowder and sweat and burned rubber.
In a blur, the silver-haired man launches himself at the larger man. Swinging his fists like cinder blocks, he buries staccato punches into the other man’s torso. I can feel the concussion of each strike from where I stand. Grabbing the larger man by the shoulders, the silver-haired man draws back for a kick and lands a boot heel on his kneecap.
The leg bends backward, cracking loudly, and the tall man collapses.
Now I’m scrambling to pick up the shotgun again, watching the silver-haired man as he turns to me. He’s picked up his dagger from the road. Seeing the panic on my face, he grins, then reaches up and slowly peels the rest of the flap of skin away from his skull, leaving half a face.
Holding the strip of skin and hair in one gloved hand, he drops it to the road.
“Not one human in a billion has seen what you’ve just seen,” he says, a lidless eye trained on me as I stand up with the shotgun in my numb hands. I stumble backward, feet dragging on asphalt, still trying to comprehend.
It’s not a man, some part of me is thinking. Not a man at all.
The mannequin-thing keeps smiling with half a mouth, takes another step. Half silhouetted in the headlights, he draws his arm back to throw the knife.
“Not that it matters,” he adds.
Then he stops in place, body rigid. His exposed skull flashes an electric blue and he coughs once, loudly. Falling stiffly to his knees, fingers twisting, he pitches forward onto his face. He lies in the road, shivering, eye rolling in its socket. I think he is trying to crawl, shaking arms pulling in tight against his chest.
Behind him, the tall man sits on the pavement, broken leg splayed out. He’s got a stun gun in one hand, the other pressed flat against the wound to his face. Breathing shallow, he locks eyes on me and drops the gun. He puts up his free hand, palm out in surrender.
“June,” he says. “Please. I am not here to harm you.”
“Then what do you want?” I call, aiming the empty shotgun at him.
“I am at your mercy,” he says. “I am here to plead for your help.”
14
GREAT EUROPEAN PLAINS, 1725
Grip a handful of grass. Pull. Release. Reach again.
The gods who haunt the hidden angles of the constellations offer their assurance to me through clear patches of sky above. The bright eye of Mars watches as I am soaked in dew and rain, and smiles to see the blood washing out of my cloak. Part of my face is caught on a serpentine root, the leather of my cheek torn, leaving an obscene hole.
And so it continues.
Under the gaze of a starry night, my body, made lighter by loss, squirms its way over waves of grass. The great smiling moon is fading on a pink horizon when I finally see the silhouettes of four horses tied to a scrubby tree.
The bandits are sleeping. My Elena is a dark pile of robes next to a smoldering campfire. Her hands and feet are tied. I slide closer through dirt, my one good arm out, head cocked to the side and eyes open wide to the predawn light. My broken torso drags entrails of metal, leather, and wax.
A shape stirs. I pause, arm outstretched.
Someone tosses a reindeer hide to the side. A bandit stands, head turning warily, still clumsy with sleep. The man steps closer to where I am hidden in the grass, my body sprawling and deformed. He stops, tugs at his trousers, and sprays an arc of steaming piss into the dewy grass.