Among the Living by Timothy Long

a credit card across to a smiling attendant who had clearly seen it all. Then the two were off, and the desk worker couldn’t help but follow the girl as she strutted across the floor in a tiny plaid shirt, torn-fishnet-clad legs on display.
    She had checked in with the same attendant a few hours ago, but dressed in professional clothing with a pair of sunglasses to hide her eyes. She had an old plane ticket hanging out of her wallet so the guy could see it, just a little something to complete the illusion. She had worn a different pantsuit, a brown number with a plaid jacket. The expensive license Kate Osborne handed over proclaimed her Leslie Miller, the result of a forged birth certificate that cost her a quarter year’s pay.
    No one who saw the two women enter would ever guess that they are one and the same. She checks out with a disinterested look on her face and clicks out the door after shooting the attendant, whose nametag identifies him as Steve Bolling, a quick smile meant to dismiss, to say, “I’m far too busy to engage with you. I have other things to attend to.”
    The glass door slides shut behind her with a whisper, and she is on the street. The same dark sunglasses complete her disguise as she steps onto the sidewalk.
    She glances around and wonders what is out of place. There is something in the air, as if the city just took a breath and forgot to exhale. People pass her, but they don’t make eye contact. A young couple holds hands, but instead of looking carefree, they are in an awful hurry to get somewhere. The young man glances around but doesn’t see Kate. He passes behind her, and the two turn right at the next corner.
    Her eyes light on a man across the street. He hovers in an alley, staring at a wall, then staggers toward a green dumpster and walks straight into it. He backs away, then leans forward and bashes his head against it several times.
    “Whoa, whoa, buddy, you all right?” A black guy with short dreads glances over at the lost soul. He turns into the alley and approaches the man. Kate continues to watch, half interested, as she flags down a taxi.
    Second Avenue has a hundred yellow and green cabs on it. She shoots her hand up as one passes, but another pulls up, and the driver hops out so fast the trailing end of his shirt nearly catches the corner of his car door.
    He pops the trunk and drops her bag in quickly. She jumps in the back and says “Airport please,” then commences to stare at an old Blackberry. She looks up at the two men still in the alley. The black guy leans forward so his hand can rest on the other man’s shoulder. He has a concerned look etched on his face as he asks a question.
    “What the fuck?” she gasps as the taxi pulls away. Did that confused-looking man just attack the black guy? For a split second, it appeared that he spun around and bit the guy’s arm. Then the taxi speeds down the street as her eyes follow the action for as long as she can.
    Must be imagining things, she assures herself. Nothing to see here, move along. Don’t mind the biters. She stifles a giggle at her weird humor, then turns her attention to the dead Blackberry as if checking the stocks or maybe texting her significant other. This may be an unnecessary part of her disguise, but she follows it every second or third time she makes a kill. Anything to mix up the MO.
    Traffic is light on I-5, which isn’t unusual for this time of day. She stares out the window at the city of Seattle, its waterfront that teems with life as freighters arrive day and night. She has seen old black and white pictures of the city from decades ago when it was all wooden structures and people in funny hats. Now, high-rises cut into the landscape against a background of white-tipped mountains. On a clear day, you can see all the way across the Puget Sound from here. On a normal gray and rainy day, you can’t see shit.
    Still, she can’t think of a better place to live, what with the cultural Mecca aspect,