Read Online Iona Portal by Robert David MacNeil - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert David MacNeil
Tags: Science-Fiction, adventure, Thrillers, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense
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to enjoy the sex. He just wanted to hurt her. And each time he came, her depression and hopelessness deepened.
Her mixture was boiling now. The heroin had dissolved. She sat the spoon down on the floor in front of her. Rolling a small wad of cotton into a ball, she placed it in the spoon, then pushed the tip of the syringe into the center of the cotton and pulled back the plunger until all the heroin was sucked in. She tapped the syringe with her finger, checking it for air bubbles.
Then she picked up the electrical cord and tied it around her arm as a crude tourniquet. With her forefinger she palpated her skin, searching for a vein. She inserted the needle, drew back on the plunger and looked to see if blood was entering the syringe. It was not. Syl shifted the needle under the skin probing for a vein. Four times she pulled back the plunger but without success.
The voice was louder now… she could hear it plainly. It was pleading with her, screaming at her, telling her to stop. To run. To try one last time to escape.
Finally she found a good vein… She carefully pressed the contents of the syringe into the vein, and in a few moments felt the warmth spreading through her body. And then nothing else mattered. The voice stopped screaming. She lay back on the mattress in momentary bliss. For the moment she didn’t hurt anymore. That was what mattered. Sylvia closed her eyes and sank into a dreamless sleep.
***
There was a flicker of light, then the rasp of leathery wings sounded from the dark alleyway. Three gaunt figures emerged from the alley and walked purposefully down the row of crumbling, three-story tenements.
In the lead was a woman who called herself Kareina. A tall, thin, plain-faced woman with a pallid complexion and long black hair, Kareina looked to be in her early twenties, but was, in fact, much older. Her subordinates, Botis and Turell, followed a few steps behind her.
The street around them was a picture of devastation. Broken glass crunched under their feet and the stench of garbage rotting in the gutter assaulted their nostrils.
Tremont Point had been an exclusive suburb of New York City in the late 1800’s. After the First World War, however, when its aging mansions were supplanted by cheaply constructed apartment blocks, the neighborhood became a melting pot for the city’s immigrant masses.
As the community aged, living conditions deteriorated. By the late 1970’s, a dramatic rise in violent crime and random shootings forced the city to cut off essential services. When police patrols, fire services, and even garbage removal finally ceased, there was a mass exodus from Tremont Point.
Those bold enough to drive through Tremont Point today pass block after block of burned out or abandoned tenements. While other neighborhoods in the Big Apple have experienced a measure of renewal in recent years, Tremont Point remains one of the most dangerous in the city, a haven for gangs and drug dealers.
Near the middle of the block, the trio turned and climbed garbage-strewn concrete steps to the door of an abandoned tenement. Not a single pane of glass remained unbroken on its dingy façade, and the front door had long ago been ripped from its hinges. As they crossed the threshold into the dim interior, a rat ran across the hallway in front of them.
The stench of urine and feces permeated the hall. Fearful eyes peered through the narrow cracks of chained doors as the three intruders walked past. Through an open doorway they glimpsed a cluster of emaciated people lying motionless on soiled mattresses scattered around the floor.
Ascending a narrow, creaking stairway, they made their way to the third floor and walked a darkened corridor to the back of the building. They paused before the closed door of the last apartment. On the door, someone had clumsily scrawled two words in dark red paint, “THE
Her mixture was boiling now. The heroin had dissolved. She sat the spoon down on the floor in front of her. Rolling a small wad of cotton into a ball, she placed it in the spoon, then pushed the tip of the syringe into the center of the cotton and pulled back the plunger until all the heroin was sucked in. She tapped the syringe with her finger, checking it for air bubbles.
Then she picked up the electrical cord and tied it around her arm as a crude tourniquet. With her forefinger she palpated her skin, searching for a vein. She inserted the needle, drew back on the plunger and looked to see if blood was entering the syringe. It was not. Syl shifted the needle under the skin probing for a vein. Four times she pulled back the plunger but without success.
The voice was louder now… she could hear it plainly. It was pleading with her, screaming at her, telling her to stop. To run. To try one last time to escape.
Finally she found a good vein… She carefully pressed the contents of the syringe into the vein, and in a few moments felt the warmth spreading through her body. And then nothing else mattered. The voice stopped screaming. She lay back on the mattress in momentary bliss. For the moment she didn’t hurt anymore. That was what mattered. Sylvia closed her eyes and sank into a dreamless sleep.
***
There was a flicker of light, then the rasp of leathery wings sounded from the dark alleyway. Three gaunt figures emerged from the alley and walked purposefully down the row of crumbling, three-story tenements.
In the lead was a woman who called herself Kareina. A tall, thin, plain-faced woman with a pallid complexion and long black hair, Kareina looked to be in her early twenties, but was, in fact, much older. Her subordinates, Botis and Turell, followed a few steps behind her.
The street around them was a picture of devastation. Broken glass crunched under their feet and the stench of garbage rotting in the gutter assaulted their nostrils.
Tremont Point had been an exclusive suburb of New York City in the late 1800’s. After the First World War, however, when its aging mansions were supplanted by cheaply constructed apartment blocks, the neighborhood became a melting pot for the city’s immigrant masses.
As the community aged, living conditions deteriorated. By the late 1970’s, a dramatic rise in violent crime and random shootings forced the city to cut off essential services. When police patrols, fire services, and even garbage removal finally ceased, there was a mass exodus from Tremont Point.
Those bold enough to drive through Tremont Point today pass block after block of burned out or abandoned tenements. While other neighborhoods in the Big Apple have experienced a measure of renewal in recent years, Tremont Point remains one of the most dangerous in the city, a haven for gangs and drug dealers.
Near the middle of the block, the trio turned and climbed garbage-strewn concrete steps to the door of an abandoned tenement. Not a single pane of glass remained unbroken on its dingy façade, and the front door had long ago been ripped from its hinges. As they crossed the threshold into the dim interior, a rat ran across the hallway in front of them.
The stench of urine and feces permeated the hall. Fearful eyes peered through the narrow cracks of chained doors as the three intruders walked past. Through an open doorway they glimpsed a cluster of emaciated people lying motionless on soiled mattresses scattered around the floor.
Ascending a narrow, creaking stairway, they made their way to the third floor and walked a darkened corridor to the back of the building. They paused before the closed door of the last apartment. On the door, someone had clumsily scrawled two words in dark red paint, “THE
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