by Jeff C. Carter -
Nosey ran through the hall ways of Avenir singing and screaming and crying tears of joy. She had never felt so free from fear or guilt or obligation. She painted the walls, marking them as she explored the wide open spaces outside St. Christina’s Clinic.
She heard shouting up ahead and saw a bloody handprint on the wall. The mark of Rahab. She sprinted around the corner and found herself in an enormous ball room with a high vaulted ceiling. On any other day she would have shriveled in panic to find herself in such a large space, but not today. With Rahab working through her she was fearless.
Her little friend Bruzzy was nearby, clinging onto a rich lady’s back and roaring into her ear.
“Rahab is death!”
He sank his small teeth into her neck.
Nosey giggled and snatched a broken bottle from the floor. Sweat and blood flew from her hair and hospital gown as she danced and whirled, painting people red like roses and sunsets and fire.
A sound like a dozen corks popping echoed off the ceiling. Bruzzy and the rich lady both fell down in the most gorgeous spray of scarlet and cherry red.
A big fancy old man with gray hair and a mustache swung a pistol towards her. He was surrounded by piles of bodies, some in hospital gowns, and some in satin and lace.
“I just want to help you, Mister. Once I open you up you can feel the wide open space!” Nosey whined.
The big fancy man pulled the trigger but nothing happened. He cursed.
Nosey giggled. She darted forward, the bottle in her hand shining crystal green and crimson.
The big fancy man pulled a glass off a table and splashed its bronze liquid into her face. Eyes stinging, Nosey slashed at the air blindly. No fair! She wanted to see what was inside of him!
The big fancy man slapped her to the ground with a meaty hand. Nosey rolled over and rubbed her eyes. There was a shiny blur in the big fancy man’s hand, and when it opened it produced a beautiful red glow.
“Rahab…” Nosey squealed.
The big fancy man dropped the lighter onto the girl and she was instantly wrapped in flames.
“Councilman Moab, you’re alive.”
The big fancy man turned from the fire to see Lancet Palmar VIII panting in the doorway, holding a bloody sword.
“You’re here. Good. What do we know?” the big fancy man asked.
“Too soon to say for sure. Terrorists, perhaps?” Lancet said.
“Perhaps. Any idea who or what this ‘Rahab’ might be?”
Their faces were both illuminated by the crackling flames.
“Yes,” Lancet said, “an opportunity.”