A Short Story a Day

by David Michael

Keccia sat on the bus stop bench, watching the rush hour traffic and waiting. A bus had already stopped for her twice, but she wasn’t waiting for a bus. The bus drivers had shrugged at her, and left her on the bench.

Every city, every town, Keccia had learned, whatever its size, has its “problem intersections”, its sections of street where the confluence of confusing lane markings, poorly positioned street signs, visual obstructions and too many vehicles moving too quickly came together to create a meatgrinder. She had visited hundreds of cities now, and waited at thousands of such places. She seldom waited in vain.

Seldom in vain, but not always patiently. To any outside observers she projected calm and stillness. Inside, though, she fidgeted, paced back and forth, and resisted the urge to expend what little reserve she had to cause the accident she needed.

This was her third day of waiting here, mornings, lunch, and evenings. There had been several small accidents, little more than fender benders. A bloody nose in a child had been the extent of the gore. Too little to be of use.

She wanted out of this city. She had felt other magic at work here, both day and night. Some of it strong enough and dark enough to tempt her to leave on foot immediately, maybe even hitch a ride in one of the teeth of the meatgrinder, just to get away from here. She was hardly helpless  when it came to magic, but the magnitude of what she felt scared her. She stayed, though. The Great Work needed her contribution. She had never been scared out of a city before, and she wasn’t going to be scared out of this one.

An unexpected sensation, a ripple across her awareness, drew her attention to the intersection. The squeal of tires, cut short in a massive crunch of metal, and she saw an SUV plow into the side of a car making a left turn. Another car, behind the SUV, tried to swerve around the collision, but turned too sharp and rolled over the top of the first two vehicles, landing upright and rumpled with windows busted out on the far side. More tires squealed and horns blasted as traffic around the accident came to a stop. The busy intersection became a parking lot around a junkyard.

Keccia could feel the blood pumping as she stood up and started walking towards the accident. She saw people getting out of their cars, looking around in anger and frustration. A few looked at her as she walked. She wondered, as she always did, if her taking direct action, as if to help the accident victims, would absolve them of responsibility, leave them happy to remain uninvolved, or shame them into following her to the accident, uncertain what to do but wanting to help. The former was the preferred reaction.

“Someone call 911,” she shouted. Several of those who begun to follow her latched onto this chance to do something. They pulled out phones and went back to their cars, their duty done.

She went first to the car that had rolled over and looked in from the passenger side. The driver had been wearing his seatbelt, and was still alive, though unconscious, slumped over, almost laying on his side. The glass of his side window had opened a gash on his head, above his left ear. His nose had also been broken, and maybe his left arm. Blood poured across his face and onto his shoulders.

She breathed in the smell of fresh blood mingled with gasoline, exhaust fumes, ozone and burned plastic. As she did so, she opened herself and began absorbing the power of the living blood. First the blood on the windows and steering wheel and seat covers began to dry up, then the blood in his clothes and on his skin. The power coursing through her sharpened her hearing, and in the distance, several miles away, she heard the first of the ambulances responding to the accident.

She tugged at the passenger side door with her new strength and pulled it opened, the metal groaning and twisting in futile protest.

Leaning into the cab of the car, she said, “Are you OK?” She did care, some, but mostly it was cover. In case the man wasn’t unconscious or someone else could hear her.

An adult human body contained over five liters of blood. The man had only bled about 10% of that. She would leave him about 20%. She didn’t want him to die–the Great Work didn’t require that she murder anyone–and he needed enough left to bleed convincingly for the EMT’s.

She reached out a hand. “Mister,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Are you OK?” His muscles tensed as she touched him, as she forced his heart to beat faster, pump harder.

The blood that pumped out of him evaporated almost immediately, absorbed into her. She got lost in the ecstasy of power.

Finish him, a woman’s voice said in her ear. Or rather, with her ears she heard, “Is he alright?” In her mind, though, the meaning of the words was very different. Finish him, and I’ll let you live.

Keccia started to take her hand from the man’s shoulder, but a force, a strength she couldn’t budge kept her hand from moving. She twisted her head around. A woman in a neatly pressed navy blue business suit leaned forward to look into the cabin. The woman smiled at her.

“Hang on, mister,” the woman said. “Help is coming.” In her head Keccia hear: I don’t need the blood you’ve taken. I don’t use blood in that way. But you will kill him.

“What?” Keccia asked, ecstasy turning to fear. “Who … ?”

“I’m a lawyer.” The words in her head agreed.

“You’re an ambulance chaser?”

“And you’re not?” the woman asked.

“Why do I have to …”

“Check his pulse,” the woman said.

The force holding Keccia’s hand now moved it to the man’s neck, touched his carotid artery.

“Is he still alive?” Make his heart pump out the rest of his blood.

Keccia struggled to pull her hand back, to get out of the car. She wanted to run. She had never been more scared, more afraid of anyone. She had more than enough power to open the door she needed to step through. As she thought of that, though, something sharp and hard cut her off from that power.

“How bad is he hurt?” Nice try, but I need this man to die. And you’re too damn convenient to pass up. Besides, I’m curious about you.

Sweat beaded on Keccia’s forehead as she tried to break through the invisible shield. She couldn’t budge it, any more than she could move her hand.

“Can you feel a pulse?” Think of me as your lawyer now, and this task as your retainer payment. I never kill my clients, the voice added. So once you do this for me, I can help you.

Even her superiors in the Great Work had never demonstrated such power to Keccia before. They needed to know about this woman, this lawyer, maybe as much or more than they needed the bloodpower she had absorbed.

“I’m sorry,” Keccia whispered, to the man, to herself. She stopped the coagulation that had begun in his wounds, and kept his heart pumping. The red blood flowed anew down his face, dripped onto the interior of the car. “I … I think his pulse … is getting weaker …” He had less than 10% of his blood now.

The ambulances were less than a half mile away, Keccia could tell, trying to thread through the gridlock.

“Here,” the woman said. She took off the jacket of her business suit and handed it into the car where Keccia could reach it. “Use this to staunch the blood from the cut on his head.”

Keccia glared at the woman and her false concern. But she grabbed the jacket, folded it over several times, and pressed it against the side of the man’s head.

“Is that helping?” You harvest blood, but you’ve never killed someone?

“No,” Keccia said, answering both questions. “He’s … I don’t think this is helping.”

The wail of ambulance sirens became deafening. Keccia could no longer hear whatever meaningless words the woman was saying, but the sirens didn’t stop the voice in her head. Once you’ve given your statement to the police, you can leave. I should have this case wrapped up in less than six months. Feel free to come back any time after that. Perhaps I can help you, the voice went on. You never know when you’ll need a good lawyer.

Copyright © 2006 by David Michael. All rights reserved.