by Paul Jones
Waggggggghhhhhh!!!!!
The cry sounded stronger this time, and her ears were sharp enough to distinguish it did indeed sound as though it was coming from the floor above hers, possibly the one above that. It didn't really matter; she hadn't a second to lose. All this time looking for survivors and it hadn’t even crossed her mind there might be kids out there. A child wouldn’t understand the implications of a fire-alarm and a baby couldn’t let her know it was there other than doing the one thing it instinctively knew would attract attention: bawling its eyes out!.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! All this time and I was so sure I was alone in this place. How fucking dumb am I.
The poor kid must have been on its own from day-one of this disaster. It sounded young, probably no older than a year. God knew what it had gone through for the past few days, stuck in the room on its own, its parents surely dead.
She would have to move fast if she was going to help, but first, she needed to check on the red dust.
While she was still 99% convinced the dust wasn't interested in her and that probably extended to the baby too, she didn't want to risk over exposure to it, just in case. She was dealing with indeterminables here and this situation was all so freaking weird, who knew what the long-term effects of contact to that shit would do to her. That was the least of her concerns, right now though, what mattered was finding that baby and finding her quickly.
Emily threw on a pair of jeans and tucked in the tee-shirt she'd worn to bed while she stumbled her way to the living room window. Throwing back the drapes she was greeted by a beautiful blue sky and a view of the city that stretched for miles... and not a sign of one piece of dust—nothing. Just sunny skies.
She stood, mouth agape, staring at the view outside the window. Not a trace of the dust could be seen, at least not from up here. What was going on? It was as though the storm she'd witnessed over the last two days had never happened. If she was—
Wagghhhhh!!!
The baby’s cry broke Emily from her thoughts and she immediately dragged her attention away from the dust-free sky to the finding the child.
Of course, just because the outside of the building was clear didn't mean the dust wasn't still lurking inside the apartment complex somewhere. She jogged back to the bedroom, grabbed her sneakers from beneath the bed, quickly laced them together and then started to make her way to the door, but before she got there she had another thought. She needed a blanket. Who knew what the poor kid had been exposed to; she needed to make sure she had something she could wrap the child in when she brought it back to her apartment. Emily rummaged through the linen closet and quickly found what she was looking for; the baby-blanket her mother had swaddled her in when she was a child. There was something very poignant in grabbing this particular blanket, Emily had never expected to have kids of her own and, at her age, the prospect had looked pretty bleak. It was something her mother and father had hinted at whenever she visited them. She laughed for a second at the thought of her mother's not so subtle probes about her love life and whether there was anyone special.
Who knew, Mom? All it took was the end of the world for you finally to get a grandchild.
Looking through the apartment’s spy-hole out into the main corridor, Emily could see no evidence of the probing red dust that had caused her to turtle-up the previous evening. Of course, the spy-hole only allowed for a limited view of the hallway and the dust could be sitting just out of sight, like some coiled snake waiting to strike, for all she knew. That, of course, was just her nerves playing havoc with her mind. She'd been in contact with both the red rain and the red dust with no ill effects—yet, she cautioned herself mentally—but that didn't mean she should start getting careless.
Even though the adrenalin pumping through her body was urging her otherwise, Emily decided to take her next step cautiously. Instead of pulling away the towels (now long dried out, she noted) from the base of the door and tearing the tape from the keyhole, she decided to remove just the towels first. She did this, making sure she kept them within easy reach in case she needed to throw them back in place. With the towels out of the way Emily slid the security chain off its fastener, thumbed the button on the door latch and gently twisted the door handle.
The door swung open just a crack and Emily felt a refreshing wave of cool air sweep over her. Thank God, the air conditioning was back on again. That’s a good omen, she thought hopefully.
Emily allowed herself a few short seconds for the air to cool her while she peeked through the crack. Her eyes quickly scanned up and down, first checking the ceiling then the floor of the corridor. No sign of anything. She opened the door an inch more, her eyes fixed on the corridor for any movement, ready to slam it shut at the slightest hint of trouble; still nothing. Emboldened, she pulled the door wide enough to slip her head outside far enough so she had a full view of the corridor in both directions.
There was no movement. No sign whatsoever of the strange red tendrils that had seemed so intent on insinuating themselves into every nook and crevice of the apartment and the city. Except, that wasn't entirely true. Here and there, scattered over the floor of the corridor was a fine red residue that stood out against the light blue carpeting. While it retained some similarity to the red dust, it was now more of a pink color, and seemed to have lost the diaphanous structure that had allowed it to move so easily. Whatever this residue was, it seemed brittle, granular even, and nothing like the delicate structures she had seen propelling themselves through the air. It reminded Emily of the pink Crystal Light powdered drink she would sometimes mix-up over the summer.
Emily stepped out of her apartment, quietly closing the door behind her, listening all the time for any indication of the baby. It was only a few seconds later and she heard the telltale wail of the infant. In the corridor the baby’s cry was much louder and was definitely coming from somewhere above her. She began jogging towards the stairwell.
Crunch!
The sound surprised her and, as she looked down at her feet, Emily saw she had stepped on a pile of the seemingly inert dust, shattering it with a sound like crisp autumn leaves. Lifting her foot she saw the residue of the dust had turned to powder under her foot, leaving bits stuck to the soles of her sneakers. She had no idea what this signified, but she got the impression that whatever had happened while she was asleep, this powdered residue was all that was now left of the dust.
Doing her best to ignore the constant crackling of the desiccated dust under her feet Emily continued on her way to the stairs. She would head up to the 18th floor first and listen for the child there. If she could not pinpoint where the plaintive cry was coming from exactly she was going to have to start going door-to-door and listening.
A sudden thought struck her as she climbed the stairs up to the next level: what if the kid wasn't the sole survivor? What if there was someone else alive? That would explain how the kid had survived all this time without access to food or water. The thought excited her more than she would ever have expected.
For most of her life, Emily had been a loner. That she had gone into a profession bringing her into contact with people on such a regular basis had surprised both her parents and her few close friends. She had explained it easily enough; as a reporter, contact was always on her terms. She dictated the start and finish of her interaction with every person she interviewed. It was simple really, she maintained complete control of the amount of exposure she had with people and when she tired of them, she just ended the interview. Easy, really.
So, why was she so excited at the possibility of seeing another human being? She couldn't answer that, she was a reporter not a psychiatrist, but the idea of being no longer totally alone, of having someone, anyone, to talk to was the most astonishingly important thing to her right now.
Emily smiled widely at the thought. It had created a brightness in her that she had not known had left her, and as she opened the door onto the 18th floor landing she began calling out.
"Hello?"
she yelled as loud as she could. "Is there anyone else alive here?"
As if in answer to her yell she heard the cry, this time louder and definitely somewhere on the same floor with her.
Wagghhhhh!!!
She paused for a second to try to identify which direction the cry was coming from.
Wagghhhhh!!!
From her left, definitely. And not too many doors down either by the sound of it.
"Hello," she continued yelling. "I'm here to help. Can you hear me?"
Waggghhhg! Waggghhh! The reply came, doubled to match her own urgency, and luckily too, because she had passed the door to the apartment where the cry was coming from. She doubled-back and stood outside the door. Placing her hand flat against the wood of the door she gave it an experimental push: locked! Of course it was, what had she expected?
Emily slapped her hand twice against the door.
"I'm outside your door,” she yelled. “You don't have to worry, I didn't get sick. I can help you. Please, just let me know that you're okay. Please." The sentence came out almost as a single word, she was speaking so fast, babbling with excitement, she realized.
As if in answer, the cry sounded again, this time it was a single, long, drawn out syllable.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
It was then that Emily realized with an abrupt certainty that the kid was in there on her own. How do I know she's not a he? She thought, but it sounded better than calling her 'it'. Somehow, she had survived for all this time on her own and now it was up to Emily to help. She had to rescue the child. But how the fuck was she supposed to get into the room?
She could try kicking down the door but she didn't think she'd have much luck with that if it was anything like the entrance to her own apartment. Years of cycling had given her strong legs, but she knew she was not strong enough to break down a secured door. No, this was going to take a more focused application of force to open.
"Of course!" she said and ran back to the stairwell. On either side of the doorway was a large red fire extinguisher, housed in its own box behind a front of glass. Next to the fire extinguisher, on the opposite side of the doorway, was a similar red box and behind its glass was a large and equally bright red fire-ax. A small metal hammer, about the size of an icepick, hung from a metal chain on the right side of the box. She grabbed the hammer, turned her eyes away and hit the glass with as much force as possible. It shattered with her first strike crumbling to the floor. Gripping the ax with both hands, she pulled it from its retaining clasps and sprinted back to the apartment.
The apartment complex owner hadn't skimped on anything when he built the complex, and that attention to detail also extended to the doors of each apartment. They were made of a high-density wood-mix that could withstand a fire for up to an hour. Hacking her way through the door would probably take her a month of Sundays so there was no time to spare.
Rather than try to chop a hole large enough to fit through, Emily decided to concentrate on disabling the actual locking mechanism of the door instead. If she could get to the lock, she should be able to gain access to the apartment.
Emily planted her feet shoulder-width apart with enough room between herself and the door she could put some real momentum behind her swing. The ax weighed about thirty-pounds but she managed to heft it up to head-height and take aim at the lock tumbler. She drew in a deep breath and brought the ax down with as much force as she could muster against the face of the door. The impact transmitted waves of pain through her arms and up to her shoulders but she was rewarded with the satisfying sound of wood splintering and saw the ax head bite deep into the wood. She had to wiggle the haft of the ax up and down a few times to free it from the door, but once it was out she could see a six-inch long, inch-deep gash just to the right of the lock.
As if in encouragement to her attempt at breaking and entering, the child inside the apartment let out another mournful wail. As the cry reached her, Emily raised the ax again and sent it down into the door, this time the shockwave of pain was worse as she felt the tip of the ax hit the metal shaft of the lock's cylinder. Sweat had already begun to trickle down her forehead and she felt an uncomfortable wetness under her armpits, but it was worth it because she could see the lock was canted at a slightly different angle than when she first arrived outside the door.
This explains why I became a reporter and not a firefighter, she thought as she felt the dull ache of the pain in her muscles.
Emily summoned her energy again and drew the ax back up above her head, holding it there for a second, she sucked in as big a gulp of air as she could before exhaling it in a scream that was half frustration and half anger. The ax plummeted down, scoring a direct hit on the lock, dislodging it from the receiver and sending it whistling towards her, missing her head by mere inches.
"Jesus Christ," Emily exclaimed as she turned to follow the trajectory of the six-inch piece of metal as it clattered to the floor behind her after rebounding off the opposite wall. When she turned back, the remainder of the lock lay on the floor too.
The door to the apartment was now ajar.
The line of work Emily was in had long ago taught her to trust her gut instinct. For some unknown, subconscious reason, she hesitated at the threshold of the apartment, the flat of her left hand resting against the door, her right hand clenched so tightly around the shaft of the ax she could feel her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. Something did not feel right, she realized. She couldn't put a finger on it, but she had a definite sense of offness about what she was hearing. From the dark apartment beyond the door the wail of the child sounded again, louder now she was so close, breaking through her indecision.
Wagghhhhh!!!
A scene from the movie The Shining—the one where an insane Jack Nicholson chops down the door to his kid’s room with an ax—leapt unbidden into her mind, sending a shudder of unease down her spine, but she dismissed it as just nerves.
"Here's Emily," she croaked as she pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
The stench of ammonia hit Emily the second she eased the apartment door open wide enough for her to slip inside. It filled her nostrils and seared the back of her throat, instantly triggering her gag reflex. She spent a full minute trying not to throw-up before she could move any further into the apartment.
The smell was not what she had expected, it wasn't the bittersweet stench of putrefaction, this was more like a hundred cats had spent a week peeing freely in the apartment and then sealed the place up for another week.
Waves of heat rolled out through the open door. Emily felt beads of moisture condense against her skin. What had the kid’s parents been keeping in here? Were they running a meth lab or something?
How had the kid survived so long breathing this air?
If she had a towel or a rag on hand, Emily would have soaked it in water and used it to filter the cloying, ammonia-laden air. She was tempted to use the blanket but decided against it. Instead, she untucked her tee-shirt from her jeans and pulled it up until it covered her nose and mouth, keeping it place with one hand. It wasn't perfect, she knew, but it should help keep some of that vomit inducing stench at bay. Gritting her teeth against the smell, Emily stepped into the apartment’s entranceway.
It was dark inside but she quickly found the light switch and snapped it on. The overhead lights revealed an empty corridor with just a single painting on the right wall for decoration. The humidity in the apartment was almost as overwhelming as the smell of ammonia. Within seconds of her entering, she was soaked through with sweat and moisture from the air.
"Hello?" she called out, lowering her hand from her mouth and instantly regretted it. She sucked in a huge gulp of fetid air and she felt the chemical burn as it scorched the roof of her mouth and back of her throat. Emily tried to resist but the stink and stinging irritation was just too much this time. She vomited onto the white shag-pile carpet. She wiped her mouth with the bac
k of her hand and quickly brought the tee-shirt back up to her mouth. The ammonia was biting at her eyes now, raising tears that blurred her vision so badly she had to wipe them away every couple of seconds with the baby blanket. She wouldn't be able to handle this for very long without passing out, going totally blind or choking on her own vomit. She needed to find the kid as quickly as possible and get them both out of there. She had to move fast.
The apartment was the next model up from Emily’s. It had the same basic layout but came with an additional bedroom. She knew the kid’s parents would have put the child in the smaller second bedroom, so she made her way to it, pushing the door open while fumbling for the light switch. She flicked the switch and revealed what was definitely a nursery. A cute crib sat against the right wall, and suspended from the ceiling above it was a child's mobile. Large pink plastic animals hung from the main frame of the toy; lions and tigers and bears. Oh my! White wallpaper, decorated with colorful flowers and butterflies, covered the room’s walls. Across from the door, she could see a changing station and a high-back chair where the parents could sit and spend some quality time with their kid. Emily walked over to the crib and pulled back the expensive looking wool blanket. There was no child hidden beneath it.
As if sensing her presence, Emily heard the child’s wail echo into the room. Instead of immediately rushing towards the source of the cry, Emily stopped mid-step. Her gut was trying to tell her something that her brain did not want to hear; something is not right here, it screamed at her, and this time she listened to its advice.
Waggghhhhrrrrrgh!
The cry came again, more insistent and, Emily noted, now that she was so much closer to the source, she could hear an odd trill to it that made it seem far more complicated than the simple cry of a child. It almost reminded her of the tones she’d hear when she was forced to use an old-fashioned dial-up modem to connect to the Internet. The sound was, what was the word? Mechanical? Yes, that was close enough. Now she could hear it clearly, without the layers of flooring and walls to filter it, the cry sounded less like a child.