Blood Money

Jesse watched the clock on the dashboard. 2:47 a.m. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly, they ached against the worn leather. Beside him, in the passenger seat laid a plain black duffel bag containing two burner phones, a key card, and an envelope filled with fifty thousand dollars freshly printed on crisp hundred dollar bills.

That cash was only the down payment. The remaining 2.9 million was waiting in an offshore account, programmed to release the moment he completed the handoff.

It was an unfathomable sum of money for one night of work. Enough to pay for Layla's experimental trail, her private medical transport, her specialized surgical team, and the years of post op care she was going to need to beat this. It was enough to buy her life back from the stage four monster mass slowly suffocating her lungs.

Marcus had been the one to set it up. He was an old acquaintance from the warehouse who had suddenly vanished three years ago only to resurface driving a brand new customized car and wearing watches that cost more than a nice suburban home. When Jesse broke down in tears at a diner six weeks ago, drowning in unpaid hospital invoices, Marcus had leaned across the table and slipped him a business card with no name on it.

"They buy silence, Jesse." Marcus told him. "The buyers are people you see everyday. The ones on billboards, YouTube, the people who give speeches on TV begging for your vote, people who own music studios and radio stations. They all have more money than God and appetites normal people can't begin to comprehend. You don't ask questions. You pick up the package, drive the route, drop it off, and save your wife."

Jesse had tried not to think about what 'package' meant at the time. He had forced himself to imagine luxury contraband, smuggled artwork, drugs, exotic animals. But deep down, he knew. Everyone knew. The absurdity of the payout proved it. Nobody would pay millions to transport drugs or the Mona Lisa. They paid millions because what they were buying was horrifying enough that any normal human would rather die than facilitate it. Society protected those elites because they were charming and charitable and they voiced aloof fishes in huge children's movies. Nobody would ever suspect them... and nobody would ever believe it.

A soft, muffled sob came from the backseat.

Jesse's throat was already dry, but that tiny sob made it shrivel up. He glanced in the rearview mirror.

She looked so tiny and helpless beneath the dim interior dome. The packet Marcus had given him before the job said her name was supposed to be Emily and that she had been sold off by parents who never wanted a child to begin with. She looked so fragile to Jesse. She was about six years old and wearing a light yellow dress. Her hair was white blonde and framed around a face so fair that blue green veins traced spiderweb patterns across her temples.

What caught Jesse's eyes most were her eyes. One was a deep shade of blue, the other a sharp striking emerald green.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice tiny and cracking with terror. "Please, mister. I just want to go home. My arm hurts."

Her tiny wrists were bound together in heavy metal cuffs. they looked brutally large against her frail wrists.

"Shut up," Jesse snapped, his voice far rougher than he had intended. His heart was hammering against his chest. "Just... sit there and be quiet."

"I'm scared," she wept gently, pulling her little knees up to her chest. She looked so small, a delicate doll thrown carelessly into the back of a black rental car. "Where are you taking me?"

"I said keep your mouth shut!" Jesse yelled, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. He breathed heavily, staring out at the empty two lane highway carving through the dense pine forest. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Just let me drive. The sooner we get there, the sooner this is over."

"You're not going to hurt me..." the girl whispered softly. "But they are, aren't they?"

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting off a sickening wave of nausea. He couldn't think about that. It was none of his business. If he thought about that at all... about where she was going... and what was going to happen to her... if he pictured the face of the billionaire waiting at the end of this road, he would lose his mind. He had to keep Layla's face in his head. Layla. Pale in her hospital bed and hooked up to monitors fading away a little more every day. This was for her.

"I'm doing this for my wife." he spoke out loud to himself. "I have to save her."

The car moved gently across the quiet highway, counting down the miles toward the coast.

Suddenly, a metallic clinking sound rang out from behind Jesse. He flinched and looked down at the center console. Sitting right beside his elbow, resting on the cupholders, were the handcuffs. They were unclasped, intact, and empty.

Jesse slammed on the brakes. The car skidded along the asphalt before coming to a complete stop on the paved shoulder of the deserted road. His breath came out in short gasps as he twisted around to look into the back seat.

The little girl wasn't crying anymore.

She sat completely still, her tiny hands resting politely on her lap. Her mismatched eyes were staring directly into his. There was no fear in her expression and no tears. Her chin was no longer trembling.

"How did you do that?" Jesse choked out, his hand reaching toward his belt where a stun gun rested. "How did you get out of those?"

A small laugh slipped from her throat, but It wasn't the innocent giggle of a child. It echoed into Jesse's skull and made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.

"You didn't really look very closely at the house when you took me away, did you, Jesse?" she asked him calmly.

Jesse froze, his breath locked in his chest. "What did you just call me?"

"Jesse..." she repeated, leaning forward. "That's your name right?" She leaned forward, the motion was smooth, almost fluid, like a creature who hadn't quite mastered how human joints were supposed to bend. "Jesse Speer. Born in a small town. Spent four years as a mechanic. Worked 12 hour shifts at the Target Warehouse until the insurance dropped Layla's coverage. Layla... who like her tea with two spoonfuls of honey. Layla, who has a tiny little mole right behind her left ear."

Jesse pulled the stun gun from his belt, his hands were shaking as he aimed at her. "Who are you?" He stuttered. "Who told you those names? Did Marcus set me up?"

"Marcus didn't set you up. Marcus is currently lying in an alley three cities away with his greedy chest opened up like an empty suitcase," she said matter of factly. Her voice didn't rise but the air inside the car felt much colder. "I don't prefer to eat junk food... but he didn't know how to use his heart anyway. It helped me out more than it ever did him. Clearly."

Jesse stared at the girl.

"You were supposed to pick up Emily. Her father threw her away like garbage so he could clear his gambling debts. But she's safe now. I sent her somewhere far away from here, somewhere no one like you or your friends will ever find her."

"Then... who are you?" Jesse asked, his voice shaking.

"I'm the revenge of a thousand helpless children," she said. "I'm what happens when the universe gets tired of watching monsters in suits buy children's innocense only to detroy it without mercy. I take on the shape of what they want... and they never see me coming." She smiled. "But, you can just call me Samara."

Jesse stared at her, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing come out of this child's mouth. The little girl's pale skin seemed to shimmer under the cab light, the thin blue veins beneath her cheeks were twitching like tiny worms under her skin.

"Look at you," she murmured, leaning her chin on the back oh his headrest. Her breath against his ear smelled like blood and soil. "You're quivering. You think you're just a good man who was forced into a bad situation, don't you? You tell yourself you're doing this out of love..."

"I am!" Jesse sobbed out, the pressure in his chest finally breaking open. Tears streamed down his face, hot and furious. "She's dying! You don't understand! She only has weeks left! I have to come up with three hundred thousand dollars just for the entry into the trial! Where could I ever get that kind of money? I worked every shift! I begged the bank! I sold everything we own!"

"And somehow, you came across the conclusion that another family's child was worth less than your wife's life," Samara said softly. "Do you know what happens at the end of this road, Jesse?"

"I don't know!" He yelled, covering his ears with his hands. "I don't want to know!"

"They don't just keep them and give them some holly jolly life," Samara continued, her voice slipping underneath his skin and into his mind, bypassing the hands still covering his ears entirely. Her words echoed inside his skull with perfect clarity. "The man waiting for you tonight is named Thomas Banks. You know him? You've seen him on magazine covers. He builds children's hospitals. He hosts charity galas. Such a great guy."

"No!" Jesse was screaming.

"He has a room built behind sound proof glass where he takes little children. Do you want me to tell you what he did to the eight year old boy delivered to him last month?"

"No!" Jesse screamed, banging his forehead against the steering wheel. "Stop it!"

"He started with the teeth... pulling them out one by one" Samara said, her tone devoid of emotion, clinical and cold. "He kept the boy awake and alive for three weeks using military grade painkillers so he wouldn't pass out from shock while he..."

"Shut up! Please, God! Shut up!" Jesse wept uncontrollably, his body shaking with deep, wracking sobs. He slumped over the wheel, crushed by the weight of the nightmare he had allowed himself to walk into. "I didn't know... I didn't want to think about it. I just wanted Layla to live."

"Ignorance is a very comfortable shield," Samara said. She reached out a small, pale hand and rested it upon his shoulder. Her fingers felt like ice. "But that shield is gone now, Jesse. You're standing in the dark, and the door is closing."

She pulled her hand back and pointed out the windshield.

Down the road, nestled behind towering iron gates and surrounded by dense oak trees, sat a huge estate. Lights illuminated the perfectly manicured laws, casting long shadows across the driveway. A solitary figure in a tailored dark suit was standing near the grand entryway checking the time on a silver pocket watch.

Jesse looked at the digital clock on his dash. 3:15 a.m.

"We're here." Samara whispered. Her voice sounded nothing like a little girl. It was deep and layered as if dozens of voices were speaking in perfect unison from the bottom of a deep trench. "This is your last call, Jesse."

Jesse wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He stared at the huge estate in the distance and shuddered at the horrors within.

"What does this mean?" he choked out.

"It means your time for choosing is over," Samara said. She leaned forward until her face was inches away from his rearview mirror. Her mismatch eyes were wide and unblinking. "You brought me to the door step of a predator. You have a choice right now. You can take your bag of blood money and walk away. You can try to look your wife in the eye while she breathes through a machine paid for by a tortured and murdered child... or you can sit in this car, turn off the engine, and let me handle the business I came here for."

Jesse looked at the black duffel bag on the seat next to him. Fifty thousand dollar. The key to his wife's survival.

Then he looked at Samara in the rearview mirror. Her small face was beginning to distort. The delicate features were stretching and her pale skin was cracking to reveal something dark and ancient underneath.

He thought of the innocent child he had put in the back seat. He thought of the real Emily, and what would have happened to her if this creature hadn't taken her place. He thought of the billionaire standing on that porch, waiting to collect his prize with a smile on his disgusting face.

A sickening wave of shame washed over Jesse, burning away the last remnants of his desperation. He realized there were things far worse than death, and he was sitting on the edge of becoming one of them.

Jesse reached out and grabbed the duffel bag. He threw it out the driver's side window onto the dirt below. He put the car in park and turned off the ignition before pulling the key out.

"Burn it all down." Jesse said, his voice steady for the first time all night.

Behind him, a long, low growl filled the cabin.

"Good answer," Samara smiled.

The rear door opened, and a figure stepped out into the cool night air. Jesse didn't look back as the silhouette glided toward the gates, growing taller and wider with every step, her limbs lengthening into impossible angles as Thomas Banks stepped down from his porch with a welcoming smile that would quickly turn into a scream.