Abigail
"Per favore. No!"
A thud echoed down the stone walkways. It was a man's voice. Italian. And something was terribly wrong.
Every bit of me urged me to run, to find the bus stop as quickly as I could, leave this place and never look back. However, the stupid part of me— the one who was brash and curious—overpowered it. My hand dipped into my bag, where art supplies mingled with hair ties and coins, and found my box-cutter. I used it to cut canvas and linen, but it was also a good weapon if need be.
I was light on my feet as I ducked into the shadows, my blade at the ready just in case I had to defend myself.
Stupid, Stupid, Stupid, my mind yelled, but I ignored it.
There was the sound of a struggle in the next piazza. It was a square I wasn't familiar with, but it seemed tiny compared to most in the city. As I got closer, I realized that I'd made a terrible mistake not listening to my gut.
There were three men in the middle of the shadowed square. While most piazzas were places people would congregate, this one had no shops, no windows facing the center, just a stone against stone. Like a prison. My side of the square was one of two streets that were connected, the other alley on the opposite end of the piazza. However, in-between the streets, violence irrupted.
Two men were on top of another, throwing punches into his gut. I stepped back, so the light didn't hit me, making me difficult to spot. The victim was older, but I couldn't make out his face since it was covered in blood. However, I could clearly see the faces of the attackers. Something about them was...wrong. Even though they were doing an utterly cruel thing, you could see no sign of emotion in their continence. Their eyes were lifeless pits. Arms moved in robotic motions—up and down—connecting with soft flesh.
I clutched my exact-o-knife, too afraid to make any movement. One of the attackers pressed a hand over the victim's mouth, muffling his screams to keep from drawing any more attention. Above, a cloud moved away to reveal the light of the moon, which streamed down to fill the small square. One of the men leaned over the groaning victim. I thought he was kissing the gentleman at first and I wrinkled my nose. But it only took a moment for me to see that the attacker had sunken his teeth into the man's neck. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt my stomach drop and I had to press my hand into the stone from falling to my knees.
What kind of sick joke is this?
Both men were upon their prey, opening gashes in his neck and wrist. Black liquid pooled underneath them as they drank freely from the man, drop upon drop until it looked like they had splattered a bucket of carmine red paint across their faces.
It was not a joke.
I had to leave, I had to get help, but I felt paralyzed. It was as though my body had forgotten how to work. After preparing myself mentally for a moment, I finally stepped back...
...and slipped.
My body hit the cobblestones hard, and I let out an uncontrollable yelp. I tried to prop myself up with my hands but slipped again against the ground. Taking a second, I looked at my palm, and it was bright red.
The entire courtyard was silent. The man who'd been bitten was still, his lifeblood still pooling around him. The two attackers were like Renaissance statues, standing over his body, their eyes trained on me. When I met their gazes, all I could see in them was an empty void. Seeing their attention trained on me flipped a switch in my body. A primal urge rushed through me.
I had to get away, or I'd soon be dead—or worse.
We were all motionless for a few breaths. Their sharp teeth dripped with the blood of their victim. Yellow eyes gleamed. I took a deep breath in, then moved like a deer darting from a hunter.
As soon as I leaped to my feet, the men started running. Thankfully, one of them slipped on the puddle of blood, falling into his partner. That would give me more time to escape.
I'd never been a runner, nor was I in top physical shape. My body stayed fit with a daily walk, and I was regretting my lack of running skills. My heeled boots were cumbersome against the cobblestones, but I tried my hardest to stay upright as I flew through the tight streets.
I could hear them catch up behind me. One yelled something in Italian I couldn't understand. They were closer than I thought.
"Shit, shit, shit," I didn't usually swear, but I'd cut myself some slack in the heat of the moment. When I got to a larger square, there were multiple businesses: a coffee shop, family deli, and a laundromat, but there was no one in sight.
"Help!" I screamed, "Aiutami!"
My feet brought me to the church, where I banged on the door, hoping that a priest— or anyone— was inside. I was met with silence.
"Zitta, stupida troia!"
When I glanced back at the alley, they entered the piazza. My blood ran cold. This wasn't supposed to happen. Why did I have to investigate the stupid noise in the first place?
My feet carried me before I could even think about running. Something more primal took over. It was an overwhelming need to stay alive. I wouldn't end up dead on the streets of Venice tonight, and I'd do anything I could to survive. I headed North, knowing there were a few late-night bars and restaurants on the canals. If I could make it over there without being snatched, perhaps I could get some help.
As I ran, I started to tire. The adrenaline was still pulsing through my veins, but I could feel the muscles in my legs start to protest. There had to be someone in the area, someone who could help me—who would have heard my cries for help.
I neared a small bridge that was situated over one of the tiny canals. There was barely room for a gondola to go through, and I saw none in the area. As I leaped over the bridge, I saw the figure of someone in the street, on the other side.
'Hello! Help! Please help me I'm being-"
As the figure got closer, I could make out his face. There was a flash of a blade in his hand. His once-emotionless golden eyes were filled with something else—satisfaction. He licked the blood from his lips. I turned around and saw that the other man was approaching my back. They'd moved with impossible speed, to cut off my escape route. They were closing in on me, toying with me like a cat with a mouse.
"Stay back!" I said, pointing my boxcutter at one and then the other. I backed up to the middle of the bridge. Below me, the canal waters were black, reminding me of the blood that'd spilled in the piazza.
The men chuckled at me, then started talking to each other in Italian. While I knew a few words to get by, my internship was English-speaking. I could only imagine what they were saying about me, how they might kill me and dump my body. As they got closer, I looked them in the eyes. One was younger, around my age, with long, dark hair that was tied at the base of his head, and tanned skin that was ashen. The other was in his late twenties or early thirties and had a shaved head and tattoos on his neck that spread onto his jawline.
"I p-promise- I won't tell anyone what I saw if you let me go. Just, let me go."
"No, No," The tattooed man flipped the pocketknife in his hand skillfully. "No."
They were both at the bridge, blocking my path completely. It would only take a few steps, and they would be upon me. One of them lunged, and I braced myself for the impact. But it never came.
Instead, I heard the sound of an engine droning. My attacker froze, ignoring the flimsy blade I had pointed at him.
Then there were lights.
It was like pulling back the drapes in the morning. They shone upon us and came from the canal.
The sound of a gunshot pierced the air. It zipped past the younger man's head but didn't hit him. The men immediately threw their knives on the ground and reached for their belts.
"What the heck!" I ducked down behind the metal grating that lined the bridge. While it wasn't much to shield me from gunshots, it did make me feel better than standing in the middle of a gunfight. I looked down, and there was a small space in the grating that didn't even cover me, but I was afraid if I moved the men would try to shoot me too.
I thought that moving to Italy meant I didn't have to deal with gun violence. Guns were rare for Italians to own, and illegal to shoot in the middle of Italy's center of tourism. My hands covered my head, even if that might not do much against a bullet.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Then there was quiet. When I looked up, the two tattooed men had ducked to the safety of the buildings. They were still close, but not close enough to grab me. The lights got brighter, and when I turned my head to look at the small boat that pulled close, a man was standing in the middle.
His eyes were shining, bright with the excitement of the fight. There was a stream of blood running down the side of his face, but he didn't look mortally wounded. He wore all black, the clothes fitted well to his body, and his hair was cut short at the sides of his head. He raised his arm.
"Jump!" He yelled. His voice had no Italian accent. It was either American or Canadian, but I couldn't tell from one word.
"Huh?" I rose to my feet, my legs wobbling from both the run and the shock of the gunfight.
"What are you, stupid?" The boat was below the bridge, just fitting underneath the arch. "Jump! Saltare!"
Definitely American.
He didn't have to tell me a third time. As I climbed the metal railing, I heard another gunshot. A bullet whizzed by my head and hit the building behind me. I couldn't help but let out another scream as I pushed off into the air and landed with a thud in the back of the boat.
"Stay down," the young man said, then revved the boat's motor. We were off at full speed, two more gunshots exploding in our direction. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of the police siren. Someone had finally called the authorities, but it was too late.
We turned a corner, exiting the small canal and riding into the dark lagoon north of Venice.