Turned By Him

Eliza shook her head. “This can’t be real.” She felt her nerves rise and the fall. She knew she should be afraid but wasn’t. She looked over at Tom. He was keeping her calm, or trying to. Now that she was aware of it, the touch of his mind on hers was sensible. She recognized him in her mind like a distant memory too vague to recall. “You’re telling me I have to kill someone.”

“Yes,” Mirana said plainly. “You may choose your kill. It is part of the deal.”

“Deal,” Eliza said bitterly. “Sounds like you must become a killer to be a killer. It makes perfect sense.”

“My first kill was my mother.” Mirana said. “Judge who you kill and how you do it for yourself. If you cannot, then you will succumb to the virus and you will return to the earth. Life is something we trade for life. Whomever you kill, there memories will fill your mind. Their life force will be with you so long as you live.”

Eliza thought about that a while. Neither Tom nor Mirana moved. They seemed content as statues to stay motionless; their comforting expressions froze in an almost cryptic pose. “So, you’re saying that I probably should go kill someone on death row. Who should I kill then, huh?”

“Who is to tell you that?” Tom’s message seemed empowering.

“Well,” Eliza thought. “I don’t think I can, I think I’d rather die.”

“A choice she can make” Mirana said as she turned to Tom. “She is not our responsibility.”

Eliza could sense the tension in the cool tone of Mirana’s voice. She suddenly felt unwelcome. The purse, the cold explanation, it all seemed more practical than passive aggressive. Get out, Mirana seemed to be saying. “Well, if it’s all the same then, I’ll just go die in a hospital or something.”

“Sorry doll,” Mirana said. “It’s a cold world.”

“Mirana.” Tom exclaimed. “C’mon.”

“It’s alright,” Eliza said rising from her seat. Tom was stricken with hopelessness. Eliza could see his agony written across his face as he shook his head. “Why do you even care so much?”

Mirana seemed equally interested in the question. Both women looked at Tom intently. “This is what we’re trying to do,” Tom exclaimed. “We are trying to make this city a safer place for us, for everyone! The doctors aren’t going to be able to help you. At best you die, worst you attack and infect someone else.”

Tom was serious. His expression of desperation revealed sensitivity within. Eliza looked around the room. She still didn’t know where she was. She knew that she wasn’t well. She looked inside her purse for her phone but the battery had died hours ago. “I won’t attack anyone, I promise. I just need to see someone. Get a second opinion and all that.”

Mirana rose to lead Eliza. “I’ll show you out. Just so you know this place is a secret. Tell know one of it. It would be…” Mirana seemed to be selecting her words carefully. “Unwise,” she concluded.

Mirana briskly led Eliza up the spiral staircase which ended at street level. To Eliza’s surprise they had been beneath St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She hastily moved around the long wooden pews to the large double doors. The hulking statues of angles and gargoyles seemed to chase at her heels.

Once back on the bustling Manhattan streets, Eliza immediately made her way towards George’s apartment on 8th. She didn’t hail a cab or dip down into the intricate network of subway tunnels. Eliza didn’t mind the cold and clearing her head seemed a good idea. A nagging hunger ached within her however, and her mind remained filled with images of gory gourmet.

The sidewalk was lined with mounds of snow. She could hardly tell the day. As she passed a few newspaper stands she was able to discern that it was only a few hours later in the day. She had blacked out and had been unconscious, she figured, for about 3 hours.

The sun would soon be setting and, though she wasn’t cold, Eliza wanted to see George as soon as possible. The door man, whom she had seen many times before, greeted her with a tip of his cap. The old man with white hair erupting out from his ears had been the doorman at George and Heather’s building since Eliza could remember. The door man reached out and touched Eliza on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss,” the sweet old man said.

“Thank you,” Eliza said a bit taken aback. She hadn’t forgotten about Heather. In light of the days chaotic and discombobulating events however, Eliza had somehow ignored her sorrow. Or perhaps it was Tom keeping the sadness at bay. A sudden swell of sorrow hit her as she pressed the “29” in the elevator. She had taken the ride up 29 floors hundreds of times to see Heather, now it seemed so empty. Eliza herself, while not cold, felt deadness inside where her love for her friend had once been. Eliza found herself often thinking “I’ll talk to Heather about that,” only to check herself with the depressing reality. As the doors slid open to reveal the long hall of floor 29, Eliza’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp reminder from her stomach that she was very hungry. It would soon be 48 hours since she’d eaten last.

The hallway was as familiar as the elevator and as empty. It all seemed off. Eliza rapped her knuckles on the door marked 2912, which was George’s apartment. She waited a long moment. She could hear someone inside. It sounded as though someone was gasping for air. Eliza knocked on the door again. She could feel the weakness in her arm but not the crash of wood against her skin. There was a distinct click which she heard from inside the apartment. It only took her a second to recognize the sound. “George,” Eliza screamed through the door. “George no!”

Her cries were interrupted by a loud BANG followed by several cascading thuds. In her soul crushing epiphany she began to slam her shoulder into the door. She was weak, she could feel it. Yet the door gave way under her lunges as though she were slamming into it with a 200 pound battering ram. The door exploded at its deadbolt and allowed light from the hallway to fill the apartment. Eliza’s knees were weak. She didn’t even guess where George was. She knew. Eliza peered around the corner of the apartment’s entry hall into the living room. George was slumped over in his chair, a pool of thick blood in his lap. A gun rested on the floor beside him.