All Your Fates (Currently editing/updating)

Chapter 24: Winter in Los Angeles Part 2 ~ Scott Albert

- David’s POV –

Emma.

I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, but she pulled and he pushed me through the door and into the small, ancient apartment.

The place inside was warm and bright. Dull electric lights, all plugged into one operational outlet, gave the room a cozy glow. Now that I was inside I could hear a radio playing quietly. I could smell dinner cooking somewhere. Worn-in couches, the best kind, invited me to sit. The last hour had been a lot, so I sat. There, in the middle of the room, was the girl that I had ripped dozens of holes in time and space to find. Her face gently touched by the soft light. Her eyes wide and glowing as she looked at me with concern. Her lips parted – as if to say something that she knew she shouldn’t.

And Glen, fat Glen, leaned in and gave her a quick peck for a kiss.

She said, “Did it…”

Glen glanced at me darkly out of the corner of his eyes. “Fine. It went fine.” But she could tell he was covering. Hell, I could tell and I only just met the guy an hour ago. Glen carried his parka into a back room while I regained some feeling, and some composure, by the glowing electric heater that was too big for the old fireplace it has been half-shoved into in some previous century of occupation.

I shivered, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She kept her gaze down, as she busied herself setting the tiny, half-moon of a table on the other side of couch. “I told you not to do it,” she said. In the back room we could hear Glen talking – either on the phone or a radio or a space satellite based internet type thing for all I knew. The gun felt heavy in my pocket.

“You must be lost…” I said. My throat dry. My voice cracked. She glanced up sharply, confused while I swallowed. She picked up a glass of water from the table. I took it from her and I gulped it down. “You must be lost,” I said again, “Because--”

“Fuck the lamb,” Glen growled as he came back in. “The fucking Bishop of Defense is fucking disavowing.”

From the way the words hit Emma, this was serious. Glen turned on me, “What is wrong with you?” His eyes wild. His nose flaring. His hair hanging limply in front of his eyes. “What is wrong with you? You didn’t even try to hide the body! You left your jacket in the peace damned hotel bar! They know it’s you! It’s like you wanted to screw this up for me.” Somewhere in the kitchen, I could hear something boiling over. Steam hissing and spitting. Emma grabbed Glen’s arm. “But you can fix this, right? You can talk to the Bishop…?”

Glen roared back, “That was the Bishop! Who do you think I was talking to?” He stalked back out of the room. Emma grabbed a suitcase that was beside the door and threw it on the couch beside me. “What else do you need?” Need? I blinked. I’d been two steps behind this whole time but suddenly, it hit me. I’d killed someone, on someone’s orders, and now I was being left to dangle in the wind.

“Look, I don’t know.” I said. “Forget that for a second, Emma, listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Emma set her mouth as she composed herself. “Talk to me about? You had ten years to talk to me, David. And now… Now I’ll never see you again. So no, I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Glen came out from the back room with two jackets – he shoved one at me and then shoved a new one on himself. “I got Mitch working the exit visas. He said he can get you over the border. Then you’ll be Emperor Maximillian the Third’s problem.”

Emma stepped in front of his flurry of activity. “You’re not going with him?”

Glen, mountain of a man Glen, stopped dead. The urgency left him as he took her gently by the arms and looked her in the eyes. “Baby. He’s got a better chance of making it on his own. They’ll be looking for me at the border. But if we go now, they won’t have time to get his description to the border deacons.” Reluctantly, she nodded. Glen smiled, “Give us a ten minute headstart, and then go to our place. You remember our place? Everything will make sense then.” He looked at her once more, like he was trying to tell her something without saying it. The urgency flooded back into Glen as he grabbed me by the jacket and marched me toward the door. I looked back. Emma looked after me, her fingers mindlessly tugging at her wedding ring.

You must be lost.

The bar was loud, the band was so big it took up over half the space. The other half was taken up by twenty somethings trading drinks at the bar and burning themselves with what looked like soldering irons. And I wish that that was the weirdest thing I had seen all day. Another framed picture of Gabriel was over the door as I walked in, alone. Glen has dropped me off and roared off in his choking, sputtering truck.

A guy waved from the bar. No, not a guy, a lumberjack. Beard, tuque, hands like they could split wood without the aid of an axe. I figured it was Mitch and pushed my way through the laid back, self mutalating crowd and to the bar.

Something dark and alcoholic was slapped down in front of me. I drank it.

“Peace of the lion.” Mitch said, loudly – covering for me, I guessed. Then, under the music, “What happened to you guys? The whole diocese is running around like they forgot where they left their socks and they’re late for choir.” Mitch drank. I drank. I turned on him.

“I have no idea what happened, or even what’s going on. All I know is, I’m in over my head. And…” And what? The thought pounded on my head. And what, Dave?

And then I knew and what. But before I could do or say anything, ‘and what’ happened to me. Mitch was looking over my shoulder as he muttered, “This night just keeps getting better and better.” He shoved an envelope into my hands. It was stuffed with stiff papers. I turned around to see what he meant.

Emma.

A/N

Sorry for late upload. Holidays got away from me and such. Enjoy!

Scot's bio:

Scott is a creator, writer and digital pioneer who has been described as “not weird, but pleasantly interesting” by those who know him.

Scott’s love of writing has led him into very different places through his career. His ‘day job’ is writing scripts for TV shows where anvils fall on heads in order to make 8 year old boys laugh. He’s written for dozens of hit shows including Almost Naked Animals, Jimmy Two Shoes and Invizimals. Scott’s debut novel, “Below the Line” was nominated for a ReLit Award. He’s written for feature films, network TV, magazines and he’s also sold cruises over the phone. (Sometimes when you’re starting out, you have to be elastic about your definition of ‘writing.’)

He is perhaps most well-known for his years creating and making web series, such as the 2 year long Transmedia epic Tights and Fights: Ashes (nominated for a WGC Award for writing).

He is a proud forming member of the Independent Web Series of Canada and his company, Art Horse Entertainment, both produces original content (the feature film Synchronicity, 2014) and works with Canadian production companies to develop and implement a digital and transmedia strategy for their TV series.

He thinks that education for cats should be free and mandatory, and he has a pathological fear of shoveling snow. He currently splits his time between Toronto and Los Angeles.