Dark Screams, Volume 9
Page 1
Dark Screams: Volume Nine is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Hydra Ebook Original
Copyright © 2017 by Brian James Freeman and Richard Chizmar
“Invitation to the Game” by Kelley Armstrong, copyright © 2017 by KLA Fricke, Inc.
“Summer of ’77” by Stewart O’Nan, copyright © 2008 by Stewart O’Nan
“The Dead Years” by Taylor Grant, copyright © 2017 by Taylor Grant
“The Blackout” by Jonathan Moore, copyright © 2017 by Jonathan Moore
“Variations on a Theme from Seinfeld” by Peter Straub, copyright © 2009 by Seafront Corporation
“Torn” by Lee Thomas, copyright © 2011 by Lee Thomas
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Hydra, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Hydra is a registered trademark and the Hydra colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
“Summer of ’77” by Stewart O’Nan, “Variations on a Theme from Seinfeld” by Peter Straub, and “Torn” by Lee Thomas were originally published in the United States by Cemetery Dance Publications.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to The Martell Agency for permission to reprint “The Blackout” by Jonathan Moore, copyright © 2017 by Jonathan Moore. Reprinted by permission.
Ebook ISBN 9780399181962
Cover design: Elderlemon Design
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Invitation to the Game
Summer of ’77
The Dead Years
The Blackout
Variations on a Theme from Seinfeld
Torn
About the Editors
Invitation to the Game
Kelley Armstrong
The invitation is waiting when Vivienne gets home from work. It’s on the kitchen table, and she stands over it, clutching a handful of mail fetched from the community box. She looks at the envelopes in her hand and then at the one on the table. It’s even in her spot, and she tells herself that Marco must have stopped home for lunch and brought it in from the door, but she doesn’t text to ask him. She knows that’s not the answer. She just wishes it was. The truth brings with it the uncomfortable reminder that their employer has the keys to their company-owned condo. As for how the invitation is at her place setting—
The front door slaps open, and Vivienne jumps. Marco calls, “Here comes trouble!” and the kids tumble in, ignoring his shout of, “Guys! Shoes off!”
Vivienne slips the envelope into her laptop bag and scoops up one child under each arm. “So, who’s going to tell me what happened at preschool?”
“After they take off their shoes!” Marco shouts to be heard over the dual cries of “Me, me, me!” Vivienne laughs and carries them into the living room, where she tugs off their tiny sneakers.
—
It’s just past eight. Vivienne sits cross-legged on the bed with the unopened envelope in front of her. One white vellum envelope. Her name printed on the front. It looks so simple. So innocuous.
Marco walks in and collapses beside her. “I don’t know how you do that every night. Grace wants one book, Jamie wants another, and, apparently, reading a chapter from both just won’t do, and—”
He stops, his gaze following hers to the envelope. “Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
He grabs it, rolls from bed, and walks toward the blazing fireplace.
Vivienne leaps up. “You’d better be joking.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. They say that if you burn them, they’ll magically appear in your house the next day, with one teeny-tiny scorch mark in the corner.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I’m not sure it’s meant to be.” He lifts the envelope to the light, as if he can read the contents without opening it. “Fuck.”
“You said that. I agree, but it’s not going to change anything. Nor is burning it. Nor is pretending I never got it.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s an honor, right? We have to remember that.”
“Sure.”
She glowers at him. “Once more with feeling?”
Marco tosses the envelope onto the bed and gives her a one-armed hug. “Sorry, Viv. Yes, it’s an honor. The biggest the company offers. The chance to join the executive ranks, which you absolutely deserve.”
“So do you.”
He makes a face. “I’m a programmer. Dime a dozen. You’re the one they can’t afford to lose.”
“It would mean a raise. A big one. An actual house. Better location. Better school. More opportunities for the kids. That’s the main thing, right? A better life for them?”
“Sure.”
This time, she doesn’t tease him about his lack of conviction. She feels it, too, in the pit of her stomach.
It’s lousy timing. That’s the core of the problem. Their year got off to an amazing start with baby number three, a little girl. Then, six weeks later, Vivienne woke after a glorious five-hour stretch of uninterrupted sleep and went into Hannah’s room to find their infant daughter cold in her bed.
After that they began to talk about leaving the company.
Their jobs are perfect. The compound is great. Everything they could want is at their doorstep. But this cookie-cutter life isn’t for them. The walls close in too easily, and Hannah’s death only made that so much more obvious. As bad as Vivienne feels about abandoning the company after it’d been so good about their loss—giving them all the time and support they needed—she has to do what’s right for her family.
“Did you tell anyone we’ve considered leaving?” she asks.
Marco’s brows lift. “Are you kidding?”
“Sorry.” They both knew better.
“I bet it’s an algorithm,” Marco says.
“Hmmm?”
“An algorithm to determine who they need to retain. You’re valuable. And after…Hannah, it could be assumed we might be looking for a fresh start someplace else.”
She picks up the envelope.
“Don’t,” Marco says.
“Not opening it doesn’t change—”
“I mean…” He exhales and shakes his head.
She opens the envelope and pulls out what she knows is inside. The vellum card. The six words.
You are invited to the Game.
There’s no hint as to what the Game is. If you ask, they’ll say it’s a silly little thing. The company was founded by gamers and this is a tribute to that sense of whimsy and nonconformity.
We may be a multinational corporation, but we remember our roots, and when you ascend to our executive ranks, we don’t invite you to some boring cocktail party. No, you get an invitation to the Game.
Just a silly little thing.
But as Vivienne stares at those six words, the RSVP number on the back, she knows what her husband meant by “Don’t.”
Don’t accept.
Don’t go.
Please, just don’t.
—
“I hear an envelope winged its way into your condo last night.”
Vivienne looks up from her desk to see Erika Price, VP of Strategic Design. This time last year, Erika had been a skyrocketing star, two years younger than Vivienne and two pay grades beneath her. No one had been surprised when she received her invitation.
Vivienne studies Erika. She’s not sure what she’s looking for. Sig
ns of terrible damage inflicted by the Game? The haunted emptiness in eyes that have seen too much, reflecting the memory of a horrific choice she’ll regret to her grave?
Uh…yeah. Sorry, Marco, but you’ve seen too many horror films. We both have.
Even thinking that about Erika is enough to make Vivienne smile. She knew Erika before the promotion, when she’d been a vivacious new hire, always bubbling over with excitement at some innovative design concept. She’s even happier today, newly married and expecting her first baby.
Vivienne flinches at the last thought. Ten months and she only need think the word baby for the grief to surge. Grief and guilt, remembering how relieved she’d been that Hannah slept so long, greedily seizing the chance for a little extra sleep, never even thinking of checking on her.
She shakes it off and fixes her eyes on Erika’s face, careful not to let her gaze drop to the bulge under the younger woman’s blouse.
“So getting an envelope isn’t exactly a secret, huh?” Vivienne says.
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I had to offer my congratulations.” Erika pulls over a chair and sits. “And I wanted to see how you’re doing. People talk about the Game. Rumors are everywhere. Hey, we’re a tech firm. We’ve all seen one too many sci-fi films.”
“I was thinking horror.”
Erika grins. “That, too. So, while I can’t say anything specific, if you have any concerns, I can tell you this much about the Game.” She leans in. “It’s really kinda lame.”
Vivienne raises her brows.
“Boys and their toys,” Erika says. “I used to be a hardcore D-and-D’er. Pencil and paper. So I appreciate old school. But there’s nostalgia and then there’s embarrassingly outdated.” She whispers, “Our first joint project? Convincing the board it’s time for version 2.0.”
—
As Vivienne walks out of the staff dining room, she looks at her cellphone. The RSVP number is right there. Punched in and waiting. It’s been punched in and waiting for almost two hours.
Just push it. Press the button and say yes.
Marco’s overreacting. He’s worried about you. And you’re not the only one still reeling from Hannah’s death. Being overprotective is his way of coping.
She spots a woman leaving the executive dining room. Vivienne knows her. Knows of her, at least. Everyone does. Hers is the name invoked in whispers of the Game.
Just look at Fran Lee. She played the Game. Got her big promotion. And something inside her snapped. You can see it in her eyes. Her husband left and took the kids, and she doesn’t even seem to care. All she has is her job, and every year, she slips a little bit more.
She’s broken. The Game did that.
Vivienne wants to lag behind. Find some excuse to stay far from Fran Lee. Return to the dining room and grab a cappuccino to go. They really do make the best cappuccinos. Well, unless you count the executive dining room’s version. The average employee gets better food and drink—free—than he or she could buy over in San Francisco, but the executives get just a little bit better. Not merely handcrafted cappuccino from an Italian-trained barista—their cappuccino is made from freshly roasted beans, ground after you place your order.
Which is all the more reason to ignore the niggling voice that urges her to run after Fran and talk to her. Go back, get a cappuccino, and dream of next week, when she’ll taste the wonders of the executive version.
Yes, that’s what she should do, because, really, a good cappuccino is worth it. Worth just closing her eyes, strangling her doubts, and plowing blindly forward.
My life for a quality caffeinated beverage.
She picks up her pace, and she’s almost at the elevator when she catches up to Fran.
“Ms. Lee?” she says. “May I have a moment?”
Fran keeps walking. “Is it about the Game? Silly question. It’s that time again, meaning no one just stops me to chat. Let me guess—you’ve received a little white envelope. You’re concerned. You’ve heard rumors. You look around at your options to determine who best to speak to. Fran Lee. It’s always Fran Lee. Poster child for the horror that is the Game. What is it they say? That the Game broke me. Yes?”
When Vivienne doesn’t answer, the white-haired woman stops and turns. “Well, speak up, girl. If you’re executive material, you’d better put some steel in that spine and some snap in that tongue or those old boys will roll right over you.”
“Yes, that’s what they say.”
The old woman snorts. “Bullshit is what they say. You want the truth, girl? Here, unvarnished truth from one professional woman to another. Being made an executive won’t solve all your problems. It just might make them worse. But it’s the job that does it, not their foolish Game. Do I look broken to you?”
Vivienne looks into Fran’s deep-set dark eyes and thinks, Yes. In those eyes, she sees exactly what she searched for but didn’t find with Erika.
How had she mockingly put it when she’d studied Erika?
The haunted emptiness in eyes that have seen too much, reflecting the memory of a horrific choice she’ll regret to her grave.
Vivienne can tell herself she’s being foolish, but that’s what she sees in Fran’s eyes.
What Vivienne says, though, is, “No, of course not,” and Fran sniffs.
“Exactly. What you see is a tough old broad. Cranky? Yes. Unpleasant? Sure. But broken?” Another sniff. “People believe what they want to believe. How’s your marriage, girl?”
“My—?” Vivienne blinks at the change of subject. “Fine. Great, actually.” Which it is. A child’s death can drive a couple apart, but in their case, it brought them closer—in shared grief, shared support, and shared determination to be amazing parents to their two living children.
“Be careful, then. That’s the danger you face. You’ll be raised up when he wasn’t. Some men can’t handle it.”
“That isn’t an issue with us. I’ve had a better job for years.”
“Good. But keep your eye on it. Worry about that, not some silly game.”
The elevator arrives and Fran steps in without a goodbye. Vivienne watches the doors close. Then she pushes the cellphone button, makes the call.
—
Vivienne reads to Grace and Jamie that night. One full story each. When she gets back to the living room, Marco is hard at work coding, but a glass of Scotch waits at her end of the couch. Fingers and gaze still on his laptop, he swings his legs down to make room for her. She smiles, takes her spot, and tugs his feet onto her lap. Then she sips her drink and waits. When the tap-tapping of the keyboard pauses, she says, “I have sent my regrets.”
“Hmm?” He glances up, gaze distant, still lost in the labyrinthine terrain of his code.
“I refused the invitation. I said thank you, but I’m happy where I am.”
“You refused?” He swings his legs down. “What did they say?”
“They reassured me that my decision doesn’t affect my life insurance policy. I’m still fully covered with double indemnity for accidental death. I’m not sure why they mentioned that, but it seemed important.”
“Ha, ha. So they were okay with it?”
“Well, not exactly okay. I said I was still recovering from Hannah, and I didn’t feel I could take on an executive position at this time. I need to focus on my family. There wasn’t much they could say to that. They tried. Maybe a job change is exactly what I need, et cetera, et cetera. I politely but firmly declined, and in the end, they said I would be considered next time. No guarantees, but I’ll be considered.”
She puts down her scotch. “I don’t want to be here next year, Marco. That’s really why I decided this. I don’t want an executive position. I want to leave. To start over.”
He exhales. “So do I.”
“And…” She twists to face him. “I know it might be too soon, but I’d like…I’d like to try again. For another baby. If that’s okay with you.”
He pulls her into an embrace. “That is absolute
ly okay with me.”
—
Vivienne is being punished. With each new email that hits her inbox, each new folder that’s dropped on her desk—all of it containing fresh work, due ASAP—she knows what’s happening. She’s being buried under an avalanche of corporate minutiae, pointless little tasks that have her working through her breaks, through lunch, into the evening, with little hope of making it home at any reasonable hour.
All week, she has braced for trouble. For Erika wanting to “chat” about her decision. For a meeting with HR about a demotion or pay cut. Yet work continued as usual, and she’d begun to feel foolish for expecting a penalty. It’s a promotion, for God’s sake. They were hardly going to punish her for refusing it.
Then today came, and she realized they’d been giving her time to change her mind. But she’s shown no signs of budging, so it’s time to give her a shove.
It’s after seven when a rap sounds on her door, and she looks up to see Erika.
“Yep, I’m officially here to talk you into a last-minute reconsideration,” Erika says before Vivienne gets a word out. “But unofficially, I just really want a drink.”
Vivienne arches her brows.
Erika continues. “I have to show the board I’m taking you aside for a girl-to-girl chat. But you’ve made up your mind, and I understand why—it’s bad timing for your family. I feel bad because I’m the one who recommended you, back before…your daughter.” She inhales and then says, “I’m not going to push. I just need to fake it or we’ll both get reprimanded. So we’re going out for a drink.”
Vivienne lets her gaze drop, briefly, to the bulge under Erika’s blouse. The younger woman sighs. “Okay, I’m not actually going to drink. I’ll get a virgin cocktail, and you’ll let me pretend I’m actually imbibing an alcoholic beverage.”
Vivienne smiles and shuts off her computer.
—
They don’t leave the compound. Vivienne suspects Erika is being watched—to ensure she performs her duty—and going offsite would be suspicious.
Erika drives to the entertainment district and they choose the sushi place. When Erika flashes her executive card, they’re taken to a private dining room before the hostess darts off, promising a sake sampler and appetizers. And, yes, Vivienne does feel a stab of envy at that. But one flash back to Fran Lee’s eyes evaporates the pang. She’s made the right choice.