Lost Angeles

T he wind howled through the remaining trees, scattering leaves across the heaped snow. Low, heavy clouds blocked what little moon there would have been, had the storm broken even for a moment. But it hadn't. Not for months.

Bent forward into the wind, pushing one step in front of the other, the old woman edged her way out of the shadows into the faint remaining light. She stepped into the shelter of the abandoned bus stop, leaned against the broken wall, and adjusted her wraps. She muttered to herself, low and cracked, and flicked away shards of frosted cobweb to huddle into the corner of the bench. In the howling night, she was nothing more than another bit of debris waiting for the hunt.

The innocent being came out of nowhere to loom in the entrance. His near perfect, glowing white features should have inspired confidence. "You should not be out in this weather," he said.

She squeaked, backing further into the corner. "Don't hurt me! I don't have nothing. Please! Please, don't hurt me."

He knelt on one knee. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I won't hurt you. I'm here to help."

"Help?" She turned to him, one eye peeking out from under her hood. "I don't need no help!"

He reached out one hand, palm up. "It's late, and you've an appointment with your King. I'm here to show you the way."

"Late? What are you talking about? We're still free here in America. I don't have no king." Three desiccated leaves blew in on an errant gust, swirling about her feet.

He shifted, just a little off balance, and stretched out his arms to her. A soft light began to spread from his fingers and face as he said, "It's time to come home."

She reached towards him, hesitant.

He would have to stretch closer to her to win the prize. He gently whispered, "It won't hurt."

"Maybe just a little," she muttered, and grasped his hands, pulling herself up and into his embrace. He failed to disengage from her preternatural strength, and then panicked as the eerie light glinted off the alabaster white of her now bared fangs.

Bones scattered at her feet, she smacked her lips, and idly scratched her left eyebrow with a bloody feather.

© 2004 Guy Koehler