Zoe clicked the key to the left to momentarily turn the radio on and check the time. It was almost three in the morning now and she began to grow worried. Deacon had told her to leave the area if they weren’t back in a half-hour and had now been about fifty minutes since then. Sitting in the car kept her insulated from the brutal wind blowing outside, but what little heat the interior had retained had slowly seeped away through the broken back window. She had dressed in a hurry when they left her hotel room and had not been prepared to spend an evening in the bitter Chicago cold. Her feet were particularly numb, the tights were not thick enough and her platform heels were cute but not warm.

Suddenly something caught her eye in the rearview mirror, and it momentarily caused her heart to skip a beat, and when it began beating again was beating in her throat. She imagined all forms of villainous evil charging out at her at that moment, in a scary neighborhood all by herself in the middle of the night, but the two figures that came running out were ones she would realize that she recognized.

The passenger doorhandle began to jiggle, but it had been only moments after the men disappeared into the darkness that she had locked the doors. She looked up and saw Mario in the window, slapping it a few times to get her attention. She reached over to pull the lock up and he slid in, turning around to pop the back lock for Ian.

“Go, go, go.” Mario ordered.

Zoe turned the key and the motor cranked over. She was hesitant to pull away though and leave the others behind. The look of confusion was obvious on her face, and she opened her mouth to ask where the others were, but before she could get any words out, Mario was explaining.

“There’s some crazy shit going on in there, we were the only ones to make it out. Go back to the hood for now, we’ll have to figure something out.”

“Are they Okay? They didn’t…?”

“They were still alive when we left. I don’t think those people just want to kill them. I think they have worse things…” Mario exchanged a worried look with Ian, who just silently nodded.

“Well can’t we just call the police?” The fear in Zoe’s voice caused it to waver slightly. “Was Ava in there?”

The other two guys laughed at her suggestion, as though she had told a joke. She looked over at Mario as she pulled the column shifter down and began to pull away from the curb and they stopped laughing when they saw it was no joke.

“Look chica, you don’t understand how it works in the southside. It works a little different where we’re from than where you’re from. The cops don’t give a shit about us. If some rich white girl goes missing from Beverly Hills, there’s a nationwide manhunt. A black or Mexican from the southside goes missing? No one cares, just one less hood to worry about.”

“That’s just sad. Well, what are we gonna do then?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Mario lit up a cigarette and cracked the window, leaning back in his seat.

“Well tell me what happened at least, and where I’m going now.”

“Make a left out of this neighborhood up here.” Mario pointed through the windshield with his cigarette hand. “We split up and the next thing I knew there was some fucking creatures coming after us. No shit ask Ian.”

“Hey man, I dunno what the fuck’s in that place. Like some horror movie.” Ian agreed.

“Wait, you just saw your friend turn into some werewolf monster and you were scared of some kind of creature?” Zoe returned confused by their reaction.

“Damn straight. These were some kind of zombies or something. I dunno what they were. They took everybody but us.”

“The rest of them fools was stupid enough to try to fight ‘em. Man, you don’t fight something that’s dead!” Ian replied while waving his hands for emphasis.

* * * *

Deacon opened his burning eyes and tried to look around. They were watering and he wanted to wipe them, but he found that he could not move his arms. He was in some dingy surroundings, filled almost wall to wall with cobwebs, save for a clear path to where he was to a closed door on the other side of the room. He turned his head as far as he could to examine what was holding his arms back behind him. There was a tiny window towards the ceiling that probably hinted that this room was underground and a weak stream of light poured inside. His arms were held by handcuffs and he was cuffed around a pole next to a large boiler.

“Hey man, you awake?” Came a soft, shaky voice from his side, startling the young man.

He turned to see a young girl in exactly the same predicament he found himself in. She was cuffed to another pole that spanned ceiling to floor. She was a pretty young thing, looked to be in high school or barely out of it, with long blonde hair and vaguely familiar features…

“Ava?” Deacon ejected far more loudly than he would have liked.

The girl shrank back, seemingly frightened by his sudden statement, or perhaps that he had spoken her name, or maybe both.

“How…how did you know my name?” She asked with distrusting, narrowed eyes.

Deacon frowned.

“I met your friend Zoe the other day, it’s really a long story but we’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Yeah right, creepo!”

“Huh?” Deacon asked. This was not the grateful response suited for a heroic savior. When was the last time a maiden in distress called the shining knight a creepo? “Uh, you don’t believe I’m here to help you?”

“Nice try dickhead, your story is full of shit. Zoe would never be caught dead with a hoodlum like you.” The young girl emphasized the last word accusingly, like a barbed spear aimed to inflict as much damage as possible.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“A hoodlum like me?” Deacon banged the handcuffs against the pole angrily, but to little use. “A hoodlum? Little girl, what do you know about hoodlums? This is probably the first time you’ve ever been to a hood and I’m guessing this wasn’t entirely your idea.”

“Fuck off loser, totally lame.”

“Well ain’t you a golden ray of sunshine? When I get outta here I just might leave your ass--.”

“Laaaaaame. You’re lame.” The annoying young girl rolled her eyes and raised her voice to cover up his.

Deacon groaned and turned away from the brat. His eyes were still itchy and irritated. Somehow, they were simultaneously dry and had water streaming from them. At the same time, his stomach was upset and churning, while his whole body was weak and shaky like he was suffering from low glucose. He wasn’t sure if he was having an allergic reaction to something, but he knew that he had to get the hell out of this place soon.

Suddenly the door that he was facing on the other side of the room opened. Three men entered the room boldly, two Jamaicans and a young white man with a cocky swagger. The cocky kid was tall, muscular in a ribbed black t-shirt that looked two sizes too small and a black Caesar haircut with blonde frosted highlights. It was the kind of style and swagger that rubbed Deacon the wrong way, well before the guy even spoke a moronic word.

“Let me look at him.” The pretty boy, who was probably just a year or so younger than Deacon smiled while he sauntered into the room. “You must be the guy I’ve been hearing about for the last few days. You’re the cab driver who Ava’s friend hired to save her?”

Deacon looked up, his blazing eyes dangerous in the dim lighting, but a cocky half-smile rested easily on his lips.

“And you must be the waiter? That’s awesome ‘cause I’m dying for a drink. I’ll take a dirty martini with a whisky sour to chase it down. And do hurry, I have an appointment soon.”

The man feigned a weird macho laugh that seemed as though he were trying to save face more than any sense of actual humor. He glanced at the pair of grim gangsters on either side of him who did not seem to share his sentiments.

“Oh, you’re a funny guy huh?”

“I don’t like to brag but some people think so.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re funny at all. So, tell me, who thinks you are?”

“Uh, your mom thinks I’m pretty funny. She especially likes it when I tell the joke…what do you get when you cross a new kid on the block with a cairn terrier? Your son!”

The two Jamaicans laughed at that one. The white guy scowled in response and punched Deacon in the stomach. He must have hit some organ because a sharp pain exploded from the inside out like daggers sticking into his gut. Despite this, Deacon straightened to look the guy in the eye and refused to let any pain shine through.

“It’s a good thing your singing career is going good Jordan, because you would’ve made a lousy boxer.”

This time the guy hit him in the face. Deacon could tell the man was not used to hitting things with his soft knuckles because though he tried to hide it, he pulled his hand away and hid it behind his back immediately to shake the pain off. Deacon grinned on the inside, knowing his skull was pretty hard from the beatings he’d taken over the years. There would likely be negative repercussions from that in his old age, but for now it was just fine.

“You hangin’ tough over there big guy?” Deacon chuckled.

Deacon’s eyes no longer showed any lightheartedness, they were fiercely trained on the guy standing over him, a little dimple in his cheek flexed as he ground his teeth angrily. A thin line of blood started on his cheek from a ring the pretty boy wore on his hand. Besides that, it was hard to tell the punch had done any damage, with all the other bruising and swelling from the last few days.

“We done acting all hard? Where is she?”

“We? When did you start acting hard? I must have missed it. Where is who?”

“Don’t play dumb Romeo. You know you never…” He grabbed the sides of Deacons cheeks with his hand in a show of dominance. “…never stood a chance with her.”

“Butch?” Ava’s voice sounded from beside Deacon, unlike when she had spoken to him, it now sounded hurt and vulnerable. “Why are you doing this Butch?”

Butch. Deacon thought for a moment. Where had he heard that name before? Oh yeah. Butch Verdun, the rich boy heir to the Aon company, and also wasn’t he Ava’s boyfriend? All along Deacon had assumed that the piece of crap boyfriend of hers had gotten himself over his head with some bad players, but it now began to look like all of this was his fault all along.

“Yeah Butch, why?” Deacon repeated. Butch flashed her a truly contemptuous look before turning his attention back to the cabbie. “Let me guess, you got into trouble with these Jamaicans and owe them some money. You thought you’d ransom your girlfriend for a quick buck to pay them back? Am I on to something?”

“I still say we should kill you, runt.” The tall good-looking man leaned in close and flashed a set of unfeeling, truly evil eyes on Deacon. “You should be thankful that the boss saw something in you that he wanted to keep you alive for, but for the life of me I can’t see anything at all you might be worth. It was my idea that they should just kill you.”

Butch straightened out again and took a few steps back, regaining a measure of the cocky posture he had held upon entering the room.

“So, you thought that I was in trouble?” Butch chuckled. “In fact, this was all my idea. I came to Mr. Saturday for help. I offered Ava and Zoe to him as payment for his ritual. With that said, I need to know, where is she?”

“Ritual? Mr. Saturday? That’s the tall voodoo guy’s name? Huh.” Deacon’s mind was working hard to keep up. It was hard without any alcohol in his bloodstream. Mr. Saturday must have referred to the tall creepy guy that he had met last night.

“Yes, Mr. Saturday agreed to help me to inherit my father’s business and fortune a little early and in exchange, he only wanted the two of them. Not a bad deal, right? Two spoiled little rich valley girls? No big loss to the world. So, we can do this the easy way and you can just tell me where she is or…”

“What does he want with them?”

“What does it matter? Have you talked to either of the vapid wastes of air? He likes them for some reason and that’s good enough for me. Now do hurry, these guys here have agreed to help me break into Aon and we are leaving soon.”

Deacon returned a fierce gaze, one that only a true rough and tumble Chicago Southsider could deliver.

“You’re going to have to hit a lot harder than that to get me to tell you anything.”

That’s when the door opened again and a chilling, tall statue of a man stood in the opening. A tall figure with dreadlocks and white face paint. Mr. Saturday, the obvious leader of this Jamaican posse. His eyes fell on Deacon and he felt goosebumps rise on his arms, his blood froze in his veins.

“Mistah Deacon.” Saturday spoke as he began to approach. “Let mi ‘ave a word wit’ cha boi.”

Deacon wanted to let loose some witty quip about the guy’s mother or something, wanted to remain defiant in the face of the dangerous situation he found himself in, but somehow his courage and his mouth failed him at that point. Saturday walked over and placed a clammy palm over his forehead and began chanting low under his breath. The man’s touch was like clammy snakeskin rubbing against his flesh and made him want to shudder and vomit at the same time. Though he wanted nothing more, he could not shrink away from the man’s touch shackled as he was.

“Where’s my friends?” Deacon summoned the reserves of his courage and managed to ask the frightening figure.

“Don’ worry mon. Your friends dey be okay as long mi gets what I wants. Dey in anudder room.”

Saturday’s eyes rolled back in his head and then a grin slithered across his face. He turned and whispered something to one of the guards, who quickly turned to leave the room. Something about the exchange was deeply troubling to Deacon.

“Mi got what I needed. Rest now little beastie.” Saturday ran his cold fingers down the side of Deacon’s face. “We got work ta do. Once me help steal da weapon from Aon, we be unstoppable.”

“I’m not tired.” Deacon returned, but instantly regretted it. The edges of his vision blurred and soon he was once again in a deep slumber.

“What are you going to do with him?” Butch asked the tall voodoo man as they both turned to exit the grungy makeshift prison cell.

“We take ovah de city soon, an’ when we do, it nevah hurts ta have an attack dog. De beasties dey make good pets, yah?”