Page 44 of Gone Hunting

Celia whips around, the fury she pegs him with making him stumble. He crashes into another man, starting a fight. Their friends join in, turning the fight into an all-out brawl.

Celia ignores them, cutting right and down a street filled with apartments that should be condemned. This city block reminds me of purgatory. Empty souls, their life and hope long ago stolen from them, shuffle blindly along the streets, waiting for death to finish them off.

A homeless man stretches out his free hand as Celia passes. His other clutches a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. I keep pace with Celia, my keen senses taking everything in, although I’m helpless to intervene.

The next group we pass is a pimp, giving girls as young as Celia their instructions for the night. I almost lose it when he tries to snag Celia’s attention, but the pimp senses she’s different, respecting the predator lying beneath the surface. He’s not stupid enough to follow, and just smart enough to stay alive.

With every step she takes further down the street, I struggle to stay in control. I barely manage as more of the city’s damaged residents approach. Drug addicts stagger past her, scratching at their skin and begging her for money. A woman in trashy black underwear sneers at Celia, calling her names the woman likely often hears herself. Her face is swollen with bruises and track marks run up her arms. I pity her in a way. Yet, I want to pull Celia far away from her reach.

We’re almost halfway down the block when Celia’s determined steps slow. She stops in front of a small stoop, lifting her chin as her gaze shifts right. As I watch, her nails protrude about an inch and her nose twitches.

She found him. Her tigress showed her the way.

With a deep breath, Celia opens the door and bolts toward the stairs. I follow her up three flights. Celia’s out of breath by the time she reaches the top. She’s not tired. She’s scared. Still, her beast drives her forward, unwilling to allow her to leave.

There are six doors on the floor. All brown and in need of sanding and a fresh coat of paint. Celia stops in front of each one, breathing deeply, taking her time. She reaches the end and starts her return, only to stop at the next door she reaches.

She presses her ear against the door and closes her eyes, listening. I close my eyes, too, breathing slowly as I extend my senses past the door and beyond.

A TV is blaring one of those old sitcoms they only show on cable. It almost muffles the soft cries of a woman. But I still hear it and so does Celia.

She pushes away from the door, glancing around.

“Don’t go in there. Please,” I beg. “Not by yourself.”

In theory, she’s supposed to live and find her way to me. Right now, that theory does nothing to ease my worry. She squeezes the doorknob and gives a hard push, breaking through the deadbolt. I respect her need for revenge. But the price she pays destroys me.

Celia walks in, trembling violently as she passes the small kitchen. The sink is overrun with dirty dishes and the floor is covered with spilled flour. Bugs skitter through the mess, greedily getting their fill. On the stove, a pot of soup with carrots and cabbage floating on top reaches a boil. Freshly made tortillas line the counter and a block of white cheese with a knife sticking from it rests on a brown plastic plate.

Someone was busy cooking. Someone else interrupted the process. Both are still here.

Celia barely glances at the kitchen or the tiny living space that follows. She stalks forward, shaking out her hands even as her claws extend.

A deep satisfied growl builds as she approaches the room where the TV’s volume is set on high and the woman continues to cry. I expect her to kick open the door. I would. Instead, she slowly pokes it open with one of her nails, giving her time to take everything in, but not enough time for the man who shot her parents to act.

He watches TV with his hands folded behind his head, ignoring the young woman crying in bed beside him. She could be one of the prostitutes we saw on the way in. She could be his daughter. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care either way.

His eyes widen when he sees Celia’s tigress eyes set on his throat. “No. Por favor. No!”

He reaches for the shotgun next to his bed. The young woman screams. But Celia is too fast for either of them. She leaps on top of him, yanking the barrel of the shotgun out of his hands and bringing the butt crashing down on his skull.

One strike. That’s all it takes to splatter the contents all over the walls.

“Dios mio!” the woman shrieks, her Spanish accent thick. “You killed him. You killed him!”

The woman falls off the bed, trying to cover herself with the sheet, as if the flimsy fabric can somehow protect her. But this young woman isn’t Celia’s prey and Celia has no use for her.

Celia smashes the rifle against the wall, bending the injection port and breaking the stock. She tosses the useless thing on the floor and walks away, stopping in the kitchen long enough to swipe the tortillas in cheese.

“Diabla,” the woman screams. “Diabla!”

Celia doesn’t take the stairs out. She tucks the food into her shirt and charges toward the fire escape. With barely a sound, she races down the next two levels, leaping over the final railing and landing in a crouch along the narrow alleyway.

I follow, worried she’s seconds from falling apart.

A few miles away, a police car blasts its sirens. Celia retraces her steps, stopping only long enough to hand the homeless man the food she stole. She hurries along, catching the next bus before it finishes closing its doors. This doesn’t seem to be the right bus. It’s just the one she needs to take her far away from the scene.

She drops a few bills into the slot and stretches out in the back seat. It’s only when the bus moves away from the curb and onto the main road that she finally breaks down.

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