Page 21 of Retrograde

The door creaks again, announcing Luka’s arrival for the second time.

“They’re here,” he whispers excitedly. “Grabbing a couple of pints at the bar.”

The raging hard-on I got from picturing Riley’s orgasming face serves only to ramp up the aggression sizzling in every cell of my body. Wanting to hurt someone is not that different from wanting to fuck someone. Sex and violence are really just mirror reflections of each other: you’re doing something to someone to make them react in pain or pleasure with varying intensity.

High intensity, if you’re me. Only high intensity.

I nod to Attila and our men, and they all perk up. We have been stuck in this dusty, unused salon for hours. All itching for action.

No way in hell are we doing this on the down low. I burst through the door, followed closely by the others, our guns already drawn.

A woman screams. A pimpled busboy drops a tray of glasses. All voices die down, and whatever banned folk music Luka has playing becomes discernible.

I spot them immediately, perched on the high stools by the bar like a pair of hens. They’re fucking bold to come here in their mustard yellow uniforms. I’m strangely disappointed that no one’s decided to kick their middle-aged asses out of here. Those fuckers are getting far too comfortable.

Their faces are polar opposites of each other—one is ruddy and round, the other ashen and long. But they’re wearing the same expression of paralysed indecision—shoot and almost inevitably be shot, or let themselves be meekly captured, knowing what I’ll do to them? They both decide to reach for their guns, it’s what I would’ve done, but their split-second hesitation was a split-second too long.

Attila shoots the ruddy one in the shoulder, and he topples to the ground just as I hit the zombie-like one in the hand, blowing it clean off. He goes down too, landing on top of his partner.

They’re both groaning. But other voices are rising too; women crying, men swearing, panicking. One girl faints. The stink of ammonia fuses with the smell of blood hanging in the air—someone has pissed their pants.

Fuck’s sake. Given what’s been happening, chances are that most people here will have seen someone shot before. Most must have seen people die of horrific injuries, not to mention radiation poisoning. They should be used to this by now. No need to make a fuss.

Attila and I take the patrolmen’s weapons away.

“Grab them and let’s go out the back,” I bark. “We’ll patch them up later.”

I’m met with a few nods. My men hoist the two sacks of shit up and march towards the staff exit, skilfully avoiding the round glass-strewn tables.

“We were never here,” I remind Luka before following them, horrified looks burning a hole into my back.

8

RILEY

There’s a scrape of metal on gravel, and the light comes on. I squeeze my watering eyes shut. A bang echoes down the cave’s mouth. And then comes the familiar thud of boots, drawing nearer and nearer, until it stops about a foot away from me.

I peek out, squinting my eyes. I stagger backwards until the sharp rocks of the cave’s wall dig into my flesh from behind. I bite back a scream.

Aron has his skull mask on. Today, he comes as the Necromancer.

And I think that can only mean one thing.

“Is it time?” I gasp, my heart speeding up, tremors running through my body, fear fusing with a horrifying kind of relief. “Have you come to kill me?”

“What?” With the key in the lock, he pauses, his brow knitting in confusion. “No.”

It is only then that I notice the plate in his spare hand and the blanket thrown over his arm. I return his baffled expression.

“Your outfit,” I say simply, my voice choked and unsteady.

“We were out on a raid and got delayed. I came here straight after.” He unlocks the door and steps inside. “Would be a shame for you to die of pneumonia,” he adds in a harsher tone of voice, making it clear he’s not acting out of concern—as if I could think otherwise.

My arms hang limp by my sides. I’ve long ago stopped bothering to hide my breasts or privates from him. My soul feels even more exposed to him than my body is. He hasn’t just stripped me of my clothes. But through denying me any basic comfort or dignity, he’s robbed me of all my protective layers, leaving me raw and aching in a way that makes my nakedness insignificant.

“Why don’t you kill me already?” I demand. “What the fuck are you even waiting for?”

He sets the plate down, careful not to spill tea from the steaming mug on top of it. Then he reaches me in two strides and yanks me away from the wall. I tense and whimper, expecting pain.