by Tristan Vick
She tried to breathe slowly, calmly, but every time that strange clank rang out she gasped a little. It clanked four more times, then died down. After several minutes of not hearing anything, she decided to creep along the wall, crouching low, like a panther.
Coming to the corner, which segued into the next series of pools, she heard the loud clangor again. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the knife firmly and leapt out screaming.
“Holy shit, lady!” the man said as he reeled back. He was dark-skinned, had slicked back oily hair, and gripped a pipe in both hands, holding it up like a baseball bat ready to defend himself. His prison-issue orange jumpsuit and ankle monitor gave away the fact that he was an escaped convict.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jennifer barked, in the most threatening voice she could muster.
Eyeing her fine rack which was practically bulging out of her jacket, without so much as attempting to make eye contact, the man replied, “The name’s Derrick Hanson.”
“Look,” Hurley said gruffly, “You can’t be here. You have to go.”
Looking down at his ankle monitor, he replied, “Look, lady, I don’t want any problems. All I want is to get this goddamn thing off my foot. It itches like the goddamned clap.” His smile stretched ear to ear, and, although it was probably meant to be enduring, it only creeped Jennifer out. Jen didn’t like the macho chauvinistic vibe he was giving with his body language either, and without being consciously aware of it, she continued to hold the knife between herself and him. “So you’re like an escaped prisoner then?”
“Is it that obvious?” he sniggered.
Jennifer had a bad feeling about this guy. She knew that she had to stall. Keep him talking until one of the guys got back. Hopefully not the boy blunder, but one of the others. “The bright orange sort of gave it away.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” he chuckled. Looking at her knife, he said, “Hey, how about using that thing to help me with ankle doohickey?”
“How about you just stay where you are and answer my questions?” Jennifer said threateningly, pointing the knife at him.
“Okay, okay,” the man sighed, taking a step back. “Just calm down.”
“How many are with you?” Jennifer asked, looking around suspiciously.
“Oh, don’t worry, hot stuff. It’s just you and me down here.”
“Don’t feed me that bullshit,” Jennifer snapped. “Nobody escapes from a prison all on their own.”
“Well, if you’ll just put down the knife we can get better acquainted and I’ll share my whole story with you. What do you say?”
“I say stop stalling and answer the fucking question,” Jennifer growled.
Raising his hands defensively, Hanson said, “Whoa there, sweetheart. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. The least you could do is tell me your name, sugar.”
“No offense, but I don’t know you. And you as sure as hell don’t know me. And I think I’d like to keep it that way.”
Hanson frowned. “No offense taken, sweetheart. You don’t know me from Adam. We’re complete strangers and I frighten you, I get it. But don’t you think that you’re being a little bit rude? Whatever happened to common decency?”
“Well what did you expect? You’re wearing fucking orange, for fuck’s sake! For all I know you could be a mass murderer or a serial rapist.”
“Actually, I’m just a lowly drug dealer,” he said, smiling at her with a hair-raising toothed grin. “Tony is the one you have to worry about. Although his mama meant well, and did her damnedest to raise him right, Tony just ain’t right in the head.”
“Tony? Who the fuck is Tony?”
“Oh, remember just a moment ago when I said we were all alone down here?”
“Yeah,” Hurley replied, squinting at Hanson suspiciously.
“Well,” Hanson laughed, “I lied.”
Jennifer looked back at her reflection in the mirror, and it screamed out, “Behind you!”
But it was too late. Before she could turn around a metal bar bashed her in the back of her skull. She immediately blacked out.
27
Killing Time
Clacking her fingernails on the countertop, Alyssa looked up at the clock on the hospital wall. The hands seemed to tick by at a snail’s pace. She knew she couldn’t stall forever, but the problem was that she wasn’t so sure that Jamal Treslan would like her verdict. Her results had been less than satisfactory. His daughter no longer existed. That was for certain.
“I hope you have good news for me,” Treslan’s voice boomed as he manifested behind her. Alyssa startled in fright. She hadn’t heard the doors open, and now he was standing directly over her shoulder, like a looming old schoolmarm. But she knew if she told him the truth he’d either put her back in the blood bank, or worse. All she could think to do was stall. “I just need to run one more test, and then I should have real answers for you.”
“Another test?” Treslan said with a less-than-enthusiastic smile. He folded his arms and stared at her intensely as he contemplated how to proceed. Then, abruptly, he broke out in wide toothed grin, and said, “Whatever you need.”
“It’s the last one. I promise.”
“You have one hour,” he said, clasping his wrists behind his back.
Alyssa watched as his face turned back into the same old stone façade that he liked to browbeat people with. He glanced at his Dahlia, then spun around and stormed out of the room.
Alyssa sighed with relief. The only problem was she had already tried everything she could think of. The simple truth of the matter was that this girl was a mindless zombie. End of discussion.
Fighting the restraints and squirming on the table, the little black-eyed beast growled at Alyssa like a rabid dog. Whatever humanity she once had, whatever innocence there once was, it was all lost now. Treslan was haunted by the memories of how his daughter once was, a giggling, happy, little girl. It was her spirit that he wanted to put back inside this hollow, mindless, husk. For the life of him, he could not let his Dahlia go.
Alyssa paced the floor wondering how she’d get herself out of this mess. Feeling a chill, she put on a white lab coat she found hanging on the back of a chair. The nametag read: Boyles, M.D. Whoever that may have been. Alyssa knew that she couldn’t stay in this place any longer. It was too dangerous. She had to escape. She grabbed a surgeon’s scalpel off the table and tucked it into the sleeve of her jacket.
The hour flew by, and before she knew it the doors swung open, and Jamal Treslan marched in with two of his guards following close behind him. They were armed with Uzis. It was probably the only gun Alyssa knew by name.
“What are your results? When will my daughter get better?”
Alyssa didn’t much care for the way he phrased the question. Apparently not getting better wasn’t an option. Looking at him with sad eyes, she spoke in a comforting tone. The kind she used when consoling a pet lover who has learned that the best recourse is to put their beloved animal down. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do for her.”
“What do you mean we?” Treslan said with a laugh. “I haven’t given up on my daughter, even if you have.” Treslan clapped his hands, and the two big guards picked Alyssa up by her armpits and dragged her out of the room.
“Wait, where you taking me?” she implored.
Ignoring her cries, Treslan simply sat down on the bed next to his zombified daughter and began singing the lullaby “Hush Little Baby” to her.
A shiver shot down Alyssa’s spine. The eerie sound of his singing flooded out into the halls.
“Dahlia’s gone,” Alyssa shouted as the guards carried her away. “She’s gone! Do you hear me Treslan?! She’s not coming back!”
She’s not gone, Treslan thought. She’s in there somewhere. He knew it in his heart of hearts. As for Alyssa, she had proved to be as useless as all the others. He’d deal with her later. For now, however, he would stick to his evening ritual and sing to his sweet, beloved Dahlia. Gently, Treslan brushed
a wad of hair from her face and began to sing, “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s going to buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird doesn’t sing, papa’s going to buy you a diamond ring.”
Treslan’s eyes filled with tears as he sang. Nobody knew his agony. No father should ever have to suffer watching his beloved child endure such a horrible illness. Unable to hold or comfort her, Treslan swore he’d do anything it took, go to the ends of the earth if he had to, but he’d find a cure and restore his dear, beloved, Dahlia.
His voice catching in his throat, Treslan paused, wiped his eyes, and then began singing the next verse.
“And if that diamond ring turns to brass, papa’s going to buy you a looking glass.”
28
Blood Cult
Rachael Ramirez sat in a bath far too cold for her liking, as a fleet of hands washed and scrubbed every inch of her body until she was raw. A woman in an elegant sky-blue Persian gown sat in a chair before her, smiling. The dress had dazzling gold embellishments on its bodice, all along the draped sleeves and scalloped lace hemline, and an ornate floral embroidery along its elegant horseshoe neckline. With a soft voice with a slight southern twang, the woman said, “There now, child, we’ll get you all presentable and looking like a real lady again.” She then raised her hands and clapped, and a gaggle of servants rushed to her side. “After you’re finished here, I want you to bring her down to the main hall.”
“Yes, marm,” the women said simultaneously. They all bowed, as if they were addressing royalty, and then scurried off. The woman simply gazed at Rachael’s naked body, who felt uncomfortable under the weight of her penetrating gaze. Something about her eyes; they seemed void of any genuine emotion. This woman, whoever she was, had hollow eyes—as if she had no soul.
“Stand up, my dear.”
Rachael did as she was told. Sheets of water glided down her body as she stood up. The cool air of the room caused her nipples to perk up and she folded her arms across her chest for warmth.
“Now turn around so I can see you.”
Rachael hesitated, but then did as requested. She wasn’t exactly shy, but she wondered why the woman was examining her so methodically. It felt like a physical at the doctor’s office, but was slightly more unnerving.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said in a disappointed tone.
Rachael raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, what?”
Waving her hand at the thin air, the woman said, “Never mind. It’s unimportant.” Getting up out of her seat, she glided over to Rachael and gave her hand to take as she helped Rachael out of the tub. “I am Mrs. Campbell, the pastor’s wife. You may address me by Mrs. Campbell or Sister Mary Campbell. Mary is my first name. What shall I call you, dear?”
“My name is Rachael,” she replied, stepping out of the tub. Her feet touched down on a soft rug made out of faux fur. It felt good under her feet, still tender from the scrub down.
“My, what a beautiful name,” Sister Mary Campbell gasped in exaggerated delight. “Well, Rachael, I think you’ll find our humble home a safe-haven, and I hope you will join us here. We have been truly blessed. Although the city is falling apart all around us, we are under the watchful protection of our Lord. But you will see for yourself once you get all cleaned up. My husband would like you to come down and tell everyone your experience and how you came to be in our care. Would that be all right?”
“I suppose so,” Rachael said despondently. But even as she answered yes she harbored secret suspicions. Why would they want her to address their congregation?
Mrs. Campbell’s smile grew into a manic Cheshire cat grin. “You must pardon my manners, but there are a few ground rules I must lay out, or my husband will be furious with me.” Mary Campbell laughed artificially and then continued on. “First, no guns, or for that matter, weapons of any kind. Only Hank and his men are allowed them. And only for security purposes. Second, as long as you are under our care you will share the chores and graciously accept what is asked of you, no matter how strange the request. Third, no cursing. You are in a house of the Lord. Fourth, if you go outside the sanctuary of this church, we cannot guarantee your safety. In fact, it is highly recommended that you stay inside where it is safe. Fifth, if you do decide to stay with us, you will be expected to take a husband, of your choosing, of course.”
Rachael’s head tilted to the side, and she gasped. “What? I’m sorry, but what do you mean I will be expected to take a husband?”
“Darling,” Mrs. Campbell snorted, “If you haven’t noticed, the end of the world is upon us. How else will we repopulate the earth with God’s chosen? Like I was saying, you will be expected to follow all these rules if you decide to stay.”
“If I refuse?”
If it were at all possible, and apparently it was, Mrs. Campbell’s smile grew even bigger, tighter, almost to the point of looking downright menacing. “Who are we to refuse God’s will?” Sister Mary asked. “But, if you prove to be unworthy, we will say a little prayer for you and send you one your way.”
Rachael searched for the right words to object to this Bronze Age nonsense, but before she could come up with something she was abruptly handed a large bath towel so she could dry herself off.
In the next instant a rotund woman came and began taking her measurements. Another woman came into the room with a crimson Persian dress just as elegant as Mary Campbell's. It was a short crinkle chiffon in burgundy with bishop sleeves, a standing collar neck that tapered down to an open V cut that exposed her cleavage, and a dramatic flared bottom. Glittering gold flourishes along with embroidered floral patterns embellished the whole of the dress. It was the most beautiful thing Rachael had ever seen.
Dressed by a fleet of hands, Rachael then had her hair and nails done. A makeup artist touched her up, and then signaled to Mrs. Campbell that she was ready. Taking her hand, Mary Campbell guided Rachael to the standing mirror in the corner of the room and Rachael looked at herself in the mirror. She was astonished by the woman being reflected back at her. She recognized that it was her, but it felt unreal. Dark mascara eyeliner brought out her eyes, the sharp contrast between the elegant red dress and her porcelain white skin gave her a lustrous quality, and her silky raven-black hair completed the stunning package. She had never seen herself so radiant before. It was otherworldly.
“Gorgeous!” chirped Mrs. Campbell, clapping her hands daintily. “Absolutely stunning!”
Mary Campbell suddenly snapped her fingers, and the entire team of women all scurried out of the room. Then turning toward Rachael, she said with her phony voice and her counterfeit smile, “Now come with me, child. We have to show you off to the whole church!”
Rachael didn’t like being referred to as a child. It felt demeaning. What’s more, being treated like Mary Campbell’s personal Barbie doll wasn’t helping matters any. Looking at her hostess, Rachael smiled pithily. Mary Campbell smiled back, but it looked more like a grin pressed permanently onto the face of pure psychosis than anything resembling sincere emotion. Rachael looked away for fear she might begin laughing at the absurdity of Mary Campbell's theatrics.
Mrs. Campbell ushered Rachael down a long hallway and through a side entrance and hurried along the wall behind the ambulatory. At the end they hooked a sharp left into the main chamber. Rachael could hear people gasping at the sight of her as she glided into the room alongside the wraithlike Mrs. Campbell.
Looking up at the podium before her, Rachael’s eyes met the Reverend Campbell’s. He had on a lustrous black suit with deep blue necktie with a silken shimmer to it. The reverend grinned like a politician and extended his hand to help her up the raised dais and onto the podium stand.
“Praise the Lord! Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, we have with us tonight a very special guest. Some might even call her an angel. Some might think of her as a phoenix, rising up from the ashes. But ladies and gentlemen, this stunning creature before you is no ordinary woman. No! She is prophecy fulfilled. B
ut some will ask, ‘How are the dead raised? And with what kind of body do they come?’ And it is said ‘That which you sow does not come to life unless it dies; and that which you sow, you do not sow the body which is to be, but a bare grain, perhaps of wheat or of something else.’”
Reverend Campbell took Rachael’s hand and walked her down the steps, then down the aisle, and paraded her in front of all to see. Continuing to cite scripture from memory, he quoted, “‘But God gives it a body just as He wished, and to each of the seeds a body of its own. All flesh is not the same flesh, but there is one flesh of men, and another flesh of beasts, and another flesh of birds, and another of fish. There are also heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is one, and the glory of the earthly is another.’”
Turning toward Rachael, and holding both of her hands in his, he smiled at her. “‘There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory. So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown a perishable body, it is raised an imperishable body; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a natural body, there is also a spiritual body.’”
The entire congregation had fallen silent, waiting with bated breath for what he’d say next.
“Behold, our first fully resurrected body! A sign that the Second Coming is upon us!”
The audience erupted in cheers as Perry Campbell bent down and whispered into her ear, “Tell them who you are and why you’re here.”
Reverend Campbell turned back around, skipped down the stairs, and took a seat next to his wife in the front pew. Rachael glanced nervously at the audience, the Campbells, and the back doors. Her mind raced as she searched for the right words to say, but none came to mind. Suddenly the sensation of being in the wrong place at the wrong time overcame her and she felt like fleeing.