Resurrection

by Sara Reinke

  RESURRECTION

  by Sara Reinke

  Published by Sara Reinke at Smashwords

  Copyright 2006 Sara Reinke

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincident and beyond the intent of the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the author. Cover artwork designed and created by Sara Reinke. Cover photo credit: Michael Gordon.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords. com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  She was dead.

  Jay Frances knew this even before he saw her body. The lights on the fourth floor stairwell of the parking garage landing were out, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. She lay slumped against the cinderblock wall to his right, at the bottom of the steps that led up to the fifth floor landing. But even before he had seen her, he had sensed her presence the way he always did when the time would come. He’d felt it first in his hands and he’d known.

  His mind had been preoccupied with thoughts of his daughter, Emma, who would be celebrating her sixth birthday in another week. Sometimes people would remark to him about how horrible it must be, having a child born so close to Christmas, but Jay always tried to make each occasion separate and special for Em. Especially over the last two years, since Lucy was gone.

  It was desperately, bitterly cold outside. Jay had bundled up in his wool overcoat and taken the afternoon off from work so he could head to the mall and get a jump on birthday shopping. He was on his way home, tired from fighting the Christmas shopping crowd and ready for some supper as he made his way up the stairs in the mall garage. The garage was not heated and the air was painfully cold to breathe. The warmth, the tingling had begun in his hands, spreading underneath his gloves the way a shot of good whiskey will spread inside your belly.

  He’d noticed the sensation, but it had been so long since he’d felt it, his mind dismissed it. After all, there had been more pressing issues that required his mental attention. He was thinking of Em’s birthday wish list, and of the Easy Bake Oven he had found on sale at the mall toy store. Emma had been pleading for one for months now, and she was going to be so pleased when she unwrapped it on her birthday. Jay carried the oven in an oversized plastic shopping bag, along with a couple of other gifts he had found.

  He was so lost in thought that he walked right past the small yellow sign at the top of the third floor stairs, the one that cheerily informed him: “SORRY! Staircase closed for maintenance!”

  Jay never even noticed it as he climbed the flight of stairs to the fourth tier, where he had parked his car. He was imagining Emma grinning ear to ear and squealing with delight when she pulled back the wrapping paper from her Easy Bake Oven.

  I need to talk to Marie this afternoon and make sure she’s got everything she needs so she can whip up that Dutch-chocolate cake Em likes so much, the kind with the cherries on top…

  Jay had hesitated midway up the steps from the third floor, pulled inexplicably from his train of thought. He stared at the dark landing above him and his brain finally began to process the peculiar, tremulous sensation in his hands. He felt as though there was something there in the gloomy darkness that drew him near, beckoning to him. Suddenly his mouth went very dry and his throat seemed to constrict and tighten.

  Can’t be that, it can’t be, he told himself. There’s nothing there. Nothing at all. I’ve got to get home. I’ve got too much shit to do and

  He walked up the remaining steps, his body moving seemingly of its own accord, as if he suddenly found himself a marionette being led by invisible strings. There was something on the ground; something sticky and damp that made his shoes slide on the rough concrete floor. His breath drifted around his head in a dimly-lit halo.

  There’s nothing here, he thought, pressing his hands together, feeling that dim heat shooting up his wrists and arms, tightening in his shoulders. I have to go. There’s nothing here. Please let there be nothing here. Let there

  Then he realized he was stepping in blood, just as his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows and he saw her there, saw what someone had done to her. He drew in a sharp, startled gasp and the plastic bag containing the Easy Bake Oven and other birthday delights dropped to the floor.

  His hands were thrumming now, pulsating, guiding him closer to her.

  Oh, God, please no! I can’t do this, not again. Not now.

  She stared at a point beyond his left shoulder, her eyes unblinking, frozen wide in stark terror. Her lips were parted slightly, and there was blood coming from her mouth and nose, smeared against her chin. Someone had slashed at her breasts, her stomach and groin. There was blood everywhere, pooled around her hips in a black, glistening puddle.

  No, please

  She was propped against the wall, nearly seated. Her legs were spread apart and her white slacks were bunched clumsily down on her hips, as if someone had tried to yank them down. Her feet turned in towards one another, pigeon-toed and she was wearing white rubber surgical clogs. One had fallen off and lay on its side next to her.

  Jay could feel an incessant, electrical humming in his chest, hear it crackling inside his skull, throbbing. He realized he was shaking violently all over, as if he’d grabbed hold of a live wire.

  He knelt next to her. He didn’t want to see her, but couldn’t take his eyes off her. He reached out for her once and jerked his hand away. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, wanting to block out the sight of her, the smell of her, the sensation of her.

  What the hell are you doing? Get out of here, for Christ’s sake! Get out of here and call Paul! Call someone, anyone, please! I can’t do this. I can’t…I can’t.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, helpless to prevent himself. Maybe it was a hallucination, or the dim light, but he could swear there was steam rising from her eviscerated abdomen. She was dead, but her death was a fresh and new thing, and her body’s grimmest secrets steamed in the frigid air.

  He took off his gloves. They had been a present from Lucy; real Italian leather

  (“Rich, Corinthian leather,” she’d giggled in a rotten Ricardo Montalban impersonation on that once-upon-a-time-ago Christmas morning.)

  but he let them fall, as forgotten as the gifts, to the ground.

  The pounding deep inside his skull was deafening.

  Please don’t let me do this please there’s Emma now and I can’t do this because I have Emma to think of.

  Please don’t let me touch her.

  His hands moved, again as if some malevolent puppeteer jerked his strings, forcing him to move, and he reached for her, hands outstretched, fingers spread wide.

  It’s not too late if I don’t touch her, some last, desperate part of his mind pleaded. Jesus if I just don’t touch her…

  His fingers brushed against her face, trailing into her hair as he cupped his palms against her battered, bloodied cheeks.

  My God, he thought. She’s still so warm.

  And then there was light, brilliant, blinding, searing. It swallowed the sky, swallowed the girl, swallowed everything, a
nd he threw his head back and screamed in both agony and ecstasy.

  Jay Frances blacked out.

  And raised the dead.

  * * *

  Jobeth Montgomery heard a soft, droning buzz in her ear, and as she stirred from unconsciousness, she wondered if she’d left the kitchen window open again and a fly had found its way into the apartment.

  She wanted to ignore it, to fall back into the deep, warm cocoon of sleep, but the buzzing was persistent. She opened her eyes and looked up at the source of the noise: a ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. Something about the fan didn’t quite fit to her, but she was groggy and didn’t know what exactly.

  Who gives a shit? she thought dimly. Go back to sleep, Jo.

  She closed her eyes and now she could feel the gentle breeze from the fan against her face. Her head throbbed and her mouth and throat felt parched. She could feel the pulse in both temples marking rhythm just behind her eyes, deep in her sinuses and she knew if she opened her eyes again in that bright sunlight, it would be very, very painful.

  Did I go out drinking last night? she wondered dazedly. Feels like one of the all-time hall-of-famer hangovers coming on here. Sure hope someone got the license plate of that dump truck that plowed into my skull. Not to mention the squirrel that apparently shit in my mouth.

  And then she realized. No…

  That wasn’t right. She hadn’t been drinking. She knew it. She struggled to think, to clear the cobwebs from her mind. She had a dim but distinct recollection of being at the mall. I was looking for a “Secret Santa” present, she thought. I drew Laney’s name in the hospital pool. I was looking for a picture frame for her.

  There were blankets on her, heavy and stifling. Jo felt claustrophobic from the heat, but her hands and arms seemed to weigh a ton and she couldn’t will them to move, to shove the covers back. Just lie still, she told herself. Lie still and sleep it off, Jo. You must be coming down with the flu. You went shopping. You came home. You fell asleep and woke up with a fever. It’s not too hot. The ceiling fan is on.

  Now it clicked in her mind and her eyes flew open.

  I don’t have a ceiling fan!

  She forced herself to sit up, although the sudden movement left her light-headed and nauseated. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands against her face, breathing in slowly and deeply, willing the sensations to pass. At last, she moved her hands slowly, tentatively, and peeked around. She was in a large bedroom with expansive hardwood floors and large windows. There were unfamiliar paintings framed on the walls and an unfamiliar bookcase and bureau across the room from her. In the far corner, surrounded by windows, she saw a treadmill and a large TV set with a DVD player on a small cabinet. There were an assortment of DVD cases scattered on the floor, and a couple of small, colorful stuffed animals in front of the TV.

  On the far side of the room, she saw three doors, all ajar. One appeared to lead out into a corridor; one was a closet and the third, a bathroom. Beyond the drone of the ceiling fan, she could hear the faint, busy hum of water running in the toilet bowl.

  Where am I?

  She looked down and realized two things simultaneously: she was naked, and she was not alone in the bed.

  Jo cried out, startled, and then clapped her hands over her mouth in shocked horror. There was a man sleeping next to her, turned on his side away from her. The blankets were pulled up only to his waist and she could see that he was naked, too, at least from the midriff up. He did not stir at her cry.

  Oh, my God, she thought, panicked. What did I do?

  She shoved the covers back and swung her legs around until her feet hit the floor. She tried to stand, but her legs didn’t want to support her. They folded beneath her gracelessly and she yelped as her knees smacked painfully against the floor. She glanced up at the man, frightened, but still he did not stir.

  She tried to stand once more, pushing against the mattress with both hands. She drew her knees up, but the moment she put her weight on her legs, they sprawled out from under her again, and she plopped back down onto the floor.

  What’s wrong with my legs? she thought, feeling frightened, bewildered tears welling in her eyes. She sucked in a quiet, shuddering breath and struggled to compose herself. Stop that, Jo, she tried to tell herself with some semblance of conviction. You’re a nurse, damn it, a registered nurse, now pull yourself together!

  The sharp words worked like a slap in the face, giving her something immediate and clinical to focus on. She was a nurse; she would assess her condition and then her situation. She would figure out what was wrong with her; what had happened to her. And then she would find a way out of there.

  She began to massage her legs briskly. She could feel the friction and pressure of her hands against her skin. Not paralyzed, then, she thought. Something’s happened to me, but at least I’m not paralyzed. I’m not

  And then suddenly, she wasn’t sitting on the floor anymore, but in what appeared to be the landing of a public stairwell. It was almost completely dark with only a thin sliver of faint blue light glowing from underneath the edge of a nearby door. Jo could feel the damp, freezing concrete against her bottom. There was a man in front of her

  him

  and he was leaning over her, pulling at her uniform slacks with one hand

  him

  while stroking himself into a swollen, obscene erection with the other.

  HIM

  “Oh, my God!” Jo tried to scream, and she jerked violently. She knocked her arm into something hard and sharp and cried out in pain.

  She was in the unfamiliar bedroom again, on the floor. She’d banged her arm against the corner of the nightstand behind her, gouging a fine line into the meat of her bicep.

  “Oh, my God,” Jo whimpered, staring around her frantically, trying to see every which way at once. “Oh, my God…”

  She couldn’t remember anything else, but that fragment of memory, so terrifyingly vivid, played over and over again in her mind. She stared at the man sleeping in the bed.

  He tried to rape me, she thought, suddenly feeling sick.

  The man moaned lightly and rolled over to face her. Jo shied back, drawing her hands up to her face in a childlike gesture of horror but then she realized

  not him

  the man in the bed wasn’t the man from the alley at all. His face was somehow familiar to her, but instead of making her feel frightened, the familiarity seemed to comfort her.

  He’s so handsome, she thought. Why do I feel like I’ve seen him before? Did I sleep with him? What the hell is going on here?

  She decided she would try to stand again. This time, she was able to get to her feet, although she had to lean heavily on the bed to support her weight. Her legs felt like they were made of rubber, and the sudden shift in equilibrium as she stood left her feeling decidedly queasy. She managed a couple of small, shuffling steps and the queasiness grew immediately alarming. She lurched clumsily for the bathroom, stumbling on the tiled floor and falling against the commode. She grasped the sides of the bowl and leaned over, retching.

  What happened to me? she thought after her vomiting had subsided, but there were no memories except for the man in the dark stairwell trying to force her pants down, preparing to violate her.

  Jo limped over to the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was ghastly pale and there were deep, dark patches like bruises around the contours of her eye sockets. Her red hair hung down to her shoulders in matted, knotted twists. She tried to run her fingers experimentally through it and winced.

  There was something brown and caked on her skin, on her chin and upper lip. She peered more closely in the mirror at it, rubbing with her fingertips until it flaked away in spots. Blood, she realized. That’s dried blood!

  There were no visible wounds on her face and when she pressed against her nose and mouth, there was no pain or soreness.

  Maybe I bit his dick off, she thought. That creep from the stairwell.

  That struck her as absurd
ly funny and she began to giggle helplessly.

  Stop that, she scolded herself. This is not funny, Jobeth!

  She saw more dried blood on her belly, breasts and shoulders. She ran hot water from the sink faucet and scrubbed at it fiercely. Blood was crusted in her hair, and she struggled to rinse it away, bending over and ducking her head clumsily toward the sink. When she was finished, she stood, shivering from the cold, dripping water all over the floor, and regarded her reflection. “How do I look?” she whispered hoarsely.

  If I was a man, I’d do you, she thought in reply. If you didn’t bite my dick off, that is.

  She laughed out loud and realized she was teetering on the brink of some kind of breakdown. She had to get out of there.

  She limped back into the bedroom and found a T-shirt and grey sweatpants folded neatly on top of a laundry basket. She put them on and spied her shoes by the bathroom door, the white rubber surgical clogs she wore at the hospital. Of her uniform, her smock and slacks, there was no sign, but she grabbed the shoes, vaguely disturbed by the streaks of dried blood on them.

  So much blood, she thought, and she pulled up the T-shirt to make sure once again that there were no wounds on her. There were none; no bruises, scrapes, cuts. Nothing.

  Where did all of the blood come from?

  Her keyring lay on the floor under the shoes. She stared at the little can of mace she carried on it and felt fresh tears sting her eyes as she thought about the pathetic and false sense of security it had always provided her. Her hospital photo ID badge rested next to the keys. Both had been tucked into the pocket of her slacks; both were, like the shoes, spotted with blood.

  What happened to me? she thought again as she slowly sat against the side of the bed, holding the keys and blood-peppered ID badge in her hands. She felt herself tremble and then she burst into tears, unable to contain them any longer. Her keys and badge tumbled to the floor as she covered her face with her hands, shuddering with the sudden force of her sobs. She was confused, aching, exhausted and frightened and wept like a grief-stricken child.