She woke up Tuesday morning to a nightmare, of unbelievable pain in her arms. She pushed them into the blanket as if to smother the fire she felt burning; and in her mind, she smelled burning flesh, and tasted it too.
The nightmare ended when her alarm clock went off.
She opened her eyes and remembered where she was: Denver, Colorado. She was kneeling, hunched over, on her bed. The morning sun was cast over the floor and barely reached the bed. Her two posters, one the map of a fantasy world, the other a concert poster from college, hung like monoliths on the wall behind her.
She looked down at her hands and unclenched them. She only dreamt that the scars were burning again; they hadn't truly hurt for years.
The sound of the alarm filtered through her thoughts, and she sat up, stared at it.
Colorado. Not Wyoming, not North Dakota, not Michigan.
Colorado. Denver, Colorado.
Right.
She turned off her alarm and walked into the bathroom. She had more than an hour until work.
She stood in line at the café. Most days she just made herself tea or coffee, but on nightmare days she didn't bother. On nightmare days she couldn't be around anything hot.
She stepped up to order. "A medium strawberry–banana smoothie and a croissant."
"That'll be $5.68."
She grimaced at the cost but paid with cash. She sat down to wait for the drink, but something didn't feel right.
It's just the nightmare, she told herself. It's screwing with you. An employee called out, "Strawberry smoothie, medium!" She collected her drink and walked out of the café quickly.
The woman who had stood two people behind her in line walked out the door five seconds later, without her drink.
The same woman was on the bus to work.
She got off the bus five stops before her own, at the nearest busy intersection. She zigzagged through the streets of houses and came out a block from her office building.
A different woman stood on the street corner opposite her.
She took a picture of the second woman before she disappeared, and compared the two on her phone. It took her two minutes to recognize them.
She was so screwed.
That night she worked late and took the last bus home. She changed into a casually professional dress – one of the only two nice outfits she had – and looked up the nicest bar in town.
Sure enough, they were there.
She stayed at the bar and drank a beer alone, and ignored the two men who tried to hit on her. She quietly watched a man and a woman flirt, the one half–drunk, the other hiding her sobriety. When the man got up to get another drink, the woman's sociable persona dropped: she scowled at any man nearby and checked her watch constantly.
They left together soon after that. Neither noticed the young woman who tailed them back to her apartment.
Wednesday morning she didn't bother showing up for work. Instead, she packed her belongings into her trunk and her plastic boxes and began to load them into her car when the cell phone rang.
"Hello? Hello?" the man on the other end asked. She sighed.
"Let me guess – this is your phone," she said. "I realized this morning that I picked up the wrong cell at the bar last night. Do you have my phone?"
"Well – yes, I suppose I do. How–"
"I'll meet you at the bar in an hour. Does that sound good?"
The man, flustered, agreed.
She finished packing but left the car unloaded.
He stood shivering outside the bar, which was closed in the morning. She drove past the bar, saw him and parked three blocks away. He didn't recognize her when she walked up.
"You have my phone?" she asked. He spun around and fumbled the phone in his hands.
"Yeah, here it is."
"Good, thanks." They traded phones. The man checked his, and turned to go.
"Hold on," she said. He turned back. "You hooked up with a woman yesterday night."
The man gave her a none–of–your–business look.
"You're a businessman, right? I bet you said you were a CEO or something. Best sex you've had in a while. But she hasn't followed up with you and you love your wife. I can see the ring. You took it off last night."
"What are you–"
"You got into town yesterday, based on the ticket stub in your coat pocket last night. You're here on business, for a couple days, maybe a week, but you are going to leave today. Now. Get out of town and don't come back for at least a couple weeks."
The man stuttered, at a loss for words.
"That woman is going to kill you tomorrow night," she said flatly. A white lie, but necessary.
"What?"
"You heard me." She stepped towards the man; he stepped back. Even though she was the shorter one, she felt like she towered over him. "She will kill you."
"I'll call the police!"
"They can't help you. You will die. She will kill you. You're going to get sick, break your arm, whatever, and you go back home to your wife. That's the only way you come out of this alive."
"Who – who are you?! How do you know?"
"I know her," she lied again. "I know what she does. She picks up men in bars, sleeps with them and then kills them days later. She has done it before. She will kill you."
"I – I don't believe you!" Trying to be brave, she thought. Stupid. Men are such idiots.
She shouldn't think that.
She slammed the man into the wall and leaned in close. "You listen to me," she hissed. "You're leaving this town today or you're leaving in a body bag. Do not question me."
The man stared at her.
"So you're going to get sick or get in an accident. I don't care what. I'll break your arm myself if I have to. I couldn't stop the last murders but I can stop yours. Do you understand me?"
She felt the anger bubble up. Kill him, kill the men in the bar, kill them all. Stop, stop it, she told herself.
They stood there for a long moment.
The man nodded. She took her arms away from where they pinned him, and he leaned on the wall for support. He grasped at one more straw:
"How sure are you that it's her?"
She moved quickly. He scrambled backward and fell on the ground as she advanced.
"I will know if you don't leave."
And with one last cold, angry look, she turned around and walked away. Anything she could do to reduce the body count.
She pulled a slip of paper out of her jacket and folded it open. The phone numbers, the ones she memorized long ago, had faded with time and folding but they were still legible. The name written underneath them was also visible. She knew it was time.
She got into her car and started the engine for the heat. She took off her gloves and dialed a number on her phone, one she'd only dialed once before.
"Hello? Garth? This is Maria. You probably don't remember me, but I'm – yes, yes. That's me." She laughed. "Anyway, I need the number of a hunter. I've got a problem. No, I need this one guy specifically. Yeah, the name's Dean Winchester." She paused and listened to Garth's reply. "Okay, I got it. And they're on a job? Dalhart, Texas. Thanks, Garth, I owe you."
She hung up and pulled up the Maps application on her phone. 347 miles.
She checked her watch. She could make it by nightfall if she hurried.