Trish frantically shook the can of spray paint. It made a click click click sound, a sound she now subconsciously associated with panic, hurry, alarm.
The row of trees in front of her, trunks stained dark from a recent storm and skeletal branches reaching into the gray January sky. She marked the first with a large orange X, a bright contrast over its black bark.
She moved to the next, and then the next, slashing out with the hand clutching the can.
X. X. X.
Heart hammering, she finished, and shoved the can into her rucksack. She then lowered the scarf covering her nose and mouth and looked back to the road.
The banged-up SUV still sat where she had parked it, engine idling, in the growing shadow of the graffiti covered overpass.
This stretch of I-70 cut through the dense, hilly countryside. Around her, the trees remained still and silent. As if the woods were suspended in time, under the spell of an evil witch from one of the fairytales her mother used to read to her as a child.
Her mother…
Trish forced the thought away and reached for the Beretta 9M holstered at her hip. Gun raised, she cautiously made her way down the embankment and back to the SUV. She slid into the driver’s side, pushing her rucksack into the backseat, and engaged the locks.
Breathing heavy, she jammed the gun into her holster and checked the time.
The walkie on the dash crackled.
“Trish, this is Base. Do you copy? Over.”
She grabbed the walkie.
“Trish here.” She wiped at her nose. “Finished marking the west line at Exit 39.”
Her eyes darted right, toward the east.
“Waiting on Greta, over.”
More static.
“Do you have a visual on her? Over.”
Sweat sprouted on her brow, dampening the dark tangle of bangs hanging in her eyes.
“That’s a negative, over.”
There was a pause on the other end of the walkie.
“Give her five more minutes. No more. Over.”
“Affirmative,” Trish said. “Over and out.”
She set the walkie down and flipped open the glove compartment, pulling out a stale, crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.
Her hand closed around a Zippo lighter in her jacket pocket, and pulling it out, Trish ran a thumb over the naked woman silhouette on its silver case.
She stuck a cigarette between her lips, brought the Zippo up and flicked open the lid.
A tiny orange flame danced in the deepening twilight.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Trish screamed, and the partially lit Marlboro fell from her mouth. Tiny red embers exploded in her lap.
“Let me in!” Greta screamed, pounding her fists into the passenger side door.
Slapping at her lap with one hand, Trish hit the unlock button with the other.
Her partner jumped into the SUV, cursing.
“What the fuck, Trish?”
“Sorry,” Trish said, cracking her window and tossing the ruined cigarette. “Did you see something?”
“Yeah.” Greta grabbed the pack of Marlboros and Zippo, lit up her own cigarettes. She took in one long, shaky inhale.
“More than one something.”
“Well, I’m glad you made it back.”
Greta’s eyebrow shot up.
“I bet you are. If I didn’t, people would really start to believe you’re bad luck. More than bad luck,” she muttered.
“Cursed.”
“How do you think I feel?” Trish asked. “Losing so many partners?”
Greta took another inhale and stared at her warily.
“Being a marker is a dangerous gig. I knew that when I signed up, and so did you.”
“And so did the twelve people you worked with before me,” Greta replied.
Suddenly very tired, Trish switched on the headlights. The stretch of road in front of them was dark and empty.
“Let’s just get the fuck out of her,” Greta said, and cracked her window, tapping out ash from her cigarette. She stared into the darkening woods on the east side of the embankment.
Trish looked too, and thought she saw movement between the shadow draped trees.
“Sure, okay,” Trish said, and removed the gun from her holster. In one swift movement, she slammed the butt of the Beretta into Greta’s left temple and the girl crumpled over in her seat.
Heart hammering again, Trish shifted into drive and stomped her foot hard on the gas. The SUV peeled out, fishtailing to the right, then to the left, before rocketing forward.
As the stars began to appear in the velvety blanket of night above, human-like shapes emerged from the tree line on each side, moving in jerky, disjointed herds down the embankment onto the road.
Thirty miles south, Trish exited the highway and took a long, windy two-lane road further into the country. The same witch’s spell cast over the woods behind the marked trees seem to extend here. She passed no other cars or signs of life. Or even signs of what had once been life. No houses or abandoned vehicles.
Not even roadkill.
Eventually a structure did rise up in front of the SUV’s headlights, a tall barn constructed of wood so old, Trish wouldn’t be surprised if it had been built 100 years ago.
She veered off the road and drove through overgrown grass, not stopping until she was almost at the large door, hanging slightly skew on one broken hinge.
Beside her, Greta groaned.
She was a petite girl, but lean and well-muscled. Fast too, Trish thought, as she collected the unconscious Greta into her arms.
But not fast enough.
Quickly, she approached the barn, kicking open the door. Once inside, Trish set her partner on the ground.
A hole in the rafters let in light from the moon. It cast a shaft of bright white, like a crystal beam, into the center of the space. It landed on the closed door of a stall, probably for a horse.
Trish could hear dragging sounds inside.
Grabbing Greta’s ankles, she pulled the girl across the barn.
“Hey mom,” she said, as she drew near. “Dinner time.”
Heather Santo is a chemist in Pittsburgh, Pa. She has studied biochemistry, forensic science and law. Her publications include stories with Bowery Gothic, Ink & Sword and Yellow Mama. Other stories are pending with The Stray Branch, Meduspod and Hybrid Fiction.