I groaned as another bug smashed across my helmet, trailing sticky, clear blood as the momentum of my motorcycle flung its carcass behind me. I revved the throttle, gripping my bike's handlebars as I felt the exhilarating acceleration. The empty highway stretched on into eternity, and I could speed freely without fear.
I loved taking the long way home from San Francisco.
Yes, it peeved Raye. Yes, I often arrived home at obscene hours (further peeving Raye). But, to a thrill seeker such as myself, the opportunity to go unnecessarily fast on one's motorcycle doesn't present itself often enough. I had to take advantage of the open road and lack of cops.
As I write this, it seems odd referring to them as 'cops'. I'm a law-abiding ex-FBI. I just get ticketed every now and again. (Still worth the thrill.)
Anyway, I was an hour or so into my return trip to Los Angeles. Just for my own amusement, I sometimes see how quickly I can make the route. I remember that specific run very clearly – I was making record time, even with a few dead insects splattered over my helmet.
For the first time in half a year, since the BB Murder Cases, I felt truly at ease.
Then, my bike ran out of gas.
It was extremely, almost comically sudden; I was whizzing along one moment, and skidding to a halt the next. In my haste, I had forgotten to fuel up back in San Francisco, and, as I grappled with the brakes and tried to scrub off my precious, hard-earned speed, I glanced at the endless highway again.
"Damn road," I muttered as my bike's tires screeched.
Grumbling irritably, I clamored from my seat. I removed my helmet, sighed dejectedly, and began to push my 150-horsepower Kawasaki down the highway. My cell phone didn't get reception, and I was six miles or so from the nearest exit.
I suppose I should explain. The route I took home was essentially a freeway, but, as I rode a motorcycle, I often used the high-occupancy vehicle lane. It was almost always empty, and I was free to ride at any speed I chose.
About three car-lengths to my left was the main highway, buzzing with automobile traffic. The same distance to my right was a breakdown lane, and, beyond that, an expanse of trash-carpeted grass.
My mind went blank as I plodded along the breakdown lane, taking the rare chance to just daydream. I don't tolerate boredom well, but I admit, it feels good every now and then. My eyes lazily scanned the unchanging scenery, as if expecting to see something interesting.
After a while, I did. It was a large tour bus, parked in the green no-man's-land on the side of the road. The bus itself was grey and unmarked – suspicious. But the people wandering around the bus made its purpose unmistakably clear.
Thirty or so thuggish-looking men milled around, tugging at their safety-orange jumpsuits. They prodded unenthusiastically at roadside litter with sharpened wooden poles, stabbing the trash and stuffing it into their garbage bags.
I watched them work as I passed the prison bus, amused by their utter lack of interest. They seemed almost robotic, and only a few inmates bothered to notice me. A blue-clad guard tipped his hat as I wandered by him, but I was otherwise invisible to the little scene unfolding beside me.
And then, somehow, I spotted him, idly drawing scratches across the back of his hand. He was propped against the bus's back fender, half-crouching, half-slumping. As I scanned over his features, wondering why he looked so familiar, his eyes widened. We recognized each other almost simultaneously. For a brief moment, I felt the grip of panic upon me.
Beyond "Ryuzaki" Birthday.
We just glared at each other for a few seconds, utterly stunned. I doubt I'll ever understand what was going through his mind, but I saw him begin to snap his wooden trash-stick in two. He did it precisely, calmly and carefully, just as a murderer of his calibur should.
The world began to slow around me, the same feeling you get when you're in a car crash. Just the knowledge that something horrifying is about to happen, and you can't do much about it.
I held my breath. My heart skipped. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins.
His trash-stick snapped, and so did he.
"MI-SO-RAAAAA!"
B roared and bolted towards me, brandishing his improvised dagger. I was shocked at his agility, and, for a moment, frightened out of my mind. His scream was all but dripping with hatred, and, as he approached me, I saw what a monster he had become.
He came within about ten feet of me before the prison guards restrained him, so I was able to get a good look. His face was grotesquely deformed, burns covering his left cheek and spreading down his chin and across his forehead. Clumps of his hair were missing, and what remained was snarled. I couldn't see much of his body, as his jumpsuit was a few sizes too large, but I caught sight of his right hand – mangled and singed, like the rest of him.
But, like him, fully functional.
His eyes still had traces of those dark circles, and he still walked with that awkward hunch. But his expression had morphed completely, into an unrecognizable torrent of emotion.
His lips were spread into… well, not a grin. More of an animalistic baring of his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging with malice, and he snarled under his breath. His breathing was shallow and irregular, and his fingers curled into claw shapes. I'll be honest – the look in B's eyes remains one of the scariest things I've ever seen. Only someone with an honest intent to kill could look that way. And I realized then, as he raced desperately towards me, that that face, that terrible image of homicidal insanity, was the last thing Beyond Birthday's victims ever saw.
Then, the guards caught him, and slowly, the slow-motion effect of fear began to wear off me. They twisted B's hands behind his back, prying away his trash-stick. He spat with rage, and fought against them, but they easily overpowered him. One pulled a taser from his belt and pressed it to B's waist. B let out a howl of agony and crumpled to his knees, panting and struggling weakly. He was still fairly close to me, and he raised his head to lock eyes with me. He made no attempt to stand up, as if he preferred – or was used to – others looking down upon him.
For what seemed like an hour, he just slumped there, defeated and disheveled before me. I fought the urge to pity him, remembering that he'd tried to kill me only moments before. Even so, I sensed his pain. He had spent God knows how long hurting for L's sake. He was prepared to give his life, if only it meant retribution. But he failed, and was stripped of his dignity, his body, and… dare I say it, his very will to live. No, I didn't feel sorry for him. He killed a few innocent people, and nothing good should come of that. But I wouldn't wish his fate on anyone.
He sank even lower to the ground, his abs still weak from the taser. He never broke eye contact with me.
Then, quietly, Beyond Birthday began to smile.
His original, spiteful expression was slowly replaced with a macabre smirk, an image I desperately wish to forget. His canine teeth poked out from his mouth, and they reminded me of fangs (perhaps it was just the heat of the moment). He chuckled softly, the volume of his laughter steadily increasing. After a few seconds, I could hear him very clearly, and it's a sound I'll always remember.
His laugh was hoarse, dry, and disgusting, like a laughtrack from a satanic sitcom played backwards. It seemed just as rehearsed. Every few seconds, B interrupted himself with a coughing fit, but always went back to chuckling crazily.
"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha… ack… henh-henh-henh."
It was somewhere between disturbing and pathetic, but I knew he'd explain what was so funny. He cracked his neck, first to the left, then to the right. I could hear the awful crunch of his bones, and it sent a chill down my spine. B didn't bother to straighten his gaze after he'd snapped his neck, and simply left his head cocked at an odd angle. It only added to his display of madness.
"Naomi Rose Misora," he hissed, using my full name. "You forced me to go on when I so clearly thirsted for death. You punished me with life itself. It would be… unfittingly merciful for me to kill you as means of revenge. A far worse fate would be to tell you this." He paused, his cruel grin widening. "You have two weeks, three days, six hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three seconds to live."
I just stared. He was dead serious.
"You may not believe me, but you know I'm right. Think about it. Why else would I be so… specific? And, if I wanted to lie to you, to psych you out, wouldn't I have picked something a little more believable…?" He licked his bared teeth, as if tasting my blood, my denial.
I shook my head and sighed. "You're completely insane."
"Perhaps. But if I must lose…" He tugged at his shackles. "I'll be a sore loser."
Demurely, I turned away from him, dragging my bike behind me. As I strode away, most of my dignity intact, B made a last, desperate attempt to anger me.
"Save L and I a spot in Hell, won't you?"
I tried to ignore him, but he had won. I believed him. A tiny, stupid, illogical part of me genuinely believed that I would die in 17 days. And, in that puny, miniscule way, Beyond Birthday had beaten me.
He hadn't killed me, but he was happy all the same.
I lost. He won. And I hated it.