by Adams, M. L.
Still on for 4? 1253 Terrace Lake Road #412. Door code is 1473.
“Okay students,” called Mrs. Bradley over the chatter. “Don’t forget Wednesday’s exam.”
More groans.
“And, Mr. Raine, please see me before you leave.”
The groans turned into a collective, “oooo.”
My smile flipped to a frown.
“Good luck,” Mason said as he ran to the door.
“Thanks,” I grumbled.
I grabbed my bag and jacket off the floor and walked to the front of the room. I hoped whatever it was would be quick. Holly still sat at her desk in the front row. She had bright red hair, green eyes, and an overly sarcastic smile. Whatever Bradley wanted, Holly was in on it.
“Mr. Raine,” Bradley said as I stepped in front of her desk. “Did you know that I’ve been to every school football game—home and away—for the past fifteen years?”
Oh crap.
“No, ma’am,” I answered. “I didn’t know.”
Bradley stared at me for several seconds, then picked a piece of paper up off her desk. “You are perilously close to failing this class. If you don’t get better than a C on Wednesday’s test, you will not pass.”
“I haven’t been doing that bad,” I replied. “Have I?”
She lifted the paper to her nose. With pursed lips, she rattled off my previous test and quiz grades. Lots of D’s mixed in with a few C-’s.
I thought about arguing the merits of her testing style. Memorizing random facts for multiple-choice tests was not the way I preferred to learn. But a quick glance at the wall clock reminded me that priority number one was getting out of there. Instead of arguing, I chose diplomacy. “I’ll study tonight, Mrs. Bradley,” I said. “I promise. I don’t want to fail your class.”
“No, Mr. Raine, I’m afraid that is not good enough.”
She dropped the sheet of paper on her desk and sighed heavily. “I realize you’re new at this school, so I’m going to help you out.” She glanced at Holly and nodded. “Ms. Brennan here will tutor you. She’ll make sure you’re ready for the exam.”
My mouth fell open as I turned to look at Holly. She stared back, a smug expression on her face.
“Happy to help, Mrs. Bradley,” she said.
All the formality was about to make me puke. Mr. Raine. Mrs. Bradley. Ms. Brennan.
Ugh.
I knew there was no way out of it. But as long as the tutoring happened after Megan’s, I didn’t care. After my terrible weekend, surviving an hour or two with Holly would be a piece of cake.
“Thanks, Mrs. Bradley. I appreciate the help.” Turning to face Holly, I said, “How does tomorrow before school sound? We can meet in the library.”
Holly grinned. “Sure, that’s fine.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“No, Mr. Raine, I’m afraid that won’t work,” Bradley said, shaking her head. “You two will study now. Here, in this classroom.”
“I–I can’t right now,” I sputtered. “I have a . . . doctor’s appointment.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Raine,” Bradley said with an evil grin. “It’s a little late in the day for a doctor’s appointment, don’t you think?”
My shoulders sank and I silently cursed myself for the terrible excuse. I lifted my phone to type Megan a short message that I’d be late. Before I could hit send, Mrs. Bradley reached out with a long bony hand and snatched the phone away.
“You know the rules, Mr. Raine,” she barked. “No phones in my classroom.”
“Hey, what the . . .” I protested. “Class is over.”
“Not for you it’s not. Rules are rules.”
“But . . .”
She signaled stop with her hand. “I’ll take good care of your precious phone. You can pick it up in my office after you’re done.”
With a heavy sigh, I looked at Holly, and said, “Let’s get this over with.”
An hour later, I sprinted out of the classroom. In what had to be my first break all day, Mrs. Bradley wasn’t in her office when I rushed in and grabbed my phone off her desk.
As I raced down the hall toward the student parking lot, I checked my phone for an angry message from Megan. To my surprise, there wasn’t one. My only new messages were from Mason.
Dude, what happened with Bradley?
And:
Dude, Brewer was looking for you after school. He didn’t seem happy.
I winced. Danny Brewer was the football team’s starting middle linebacker. He was twice my size (more than likely on steroids) and had a terrible temper. I pushed through the exit door and ran toward the student parking lot. In the distance, I could hear the distinct sounds of blocking drills and coaches yelling. Thankful Brewer was at practice and not waiting to bash my face in, I ran to my Jeep and climbed in.
Turning the key with one hand, I typed a message to Megan with the other.
OMW. Sorry I’m late.
5
I arrived at Megan’s apartment at five-thirty, an hour and a half late. I parked across the street and gazed up at the gray clouds in the sky. The forecast called for light rain, turning to snow after midnight. I briefly considered raising the top of my Jeep, but decided I was already late enough.
Megan’s apartment building was four stories tall with a gray brick exterior, large floor-to-ceiling windows and black metal trim. She recently bought the place and spent several appointments telling me more about home ownership than I ever cared to know. She called it a studio. What that meant, I had no idea.
I ran into the small entryway and was greeted by a flat-screen display embedded in the wall next to a heavy glass door. I touched the screen and it came to life. Four white boxes appeared along with a message to enter a passcode. I quickly punched in the four-digit code from Megan’s text message.
1-4-7-3
The screen turned red.
Error. Please try again.
I re-entered the code, slower than before.
Error. Please try again.
Frustrated, I pressed the directory button and typed Megan’s name into the search box. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a gray keycard pad similar to the ones at CyberLife. Instead of red, the small LED light was green. I reached out and pushed the handle down.
The door clicked open.
Not wanting to wait for the elevator, I raced through the small lobby and took the stairs two at a time. When I reached the fourth floor, I followed the signs to apartment 412.
With a deep breath, I ran my fingers through my hair. Thanks to Mrs. Bradley, running home for a quick change of clothes hadn’t been an option. I frowned at my chosen outfit: sneakers, blue jeans, and an old, striped button-front shirt.
I knocked.
A knot in my stomach formed.
It’s not a date . . . It’s not a date . . . It’s not a date.
Talking to myself did little to calm my nerves.
Several seconds passed and Megan didn’t answer. I knocked again, harder than before. When she still didn’t come to the door, my shoulders sank. At that moment, I decided to fail Wednesday’s history exam on principle alone.
“And the worst Monday ever gets even worse,” I said quietly. Leaning against the door, I typed Megan another message.
Sorry I missed you. Got kept after school. Rain check? —B
As I took several slow steps down the hall, I stared at my phone and prayed for a reply. Maybe she’s in the shower, I thought. Or went to get coffee. Or better yet, pizza.
Somewhere nearby, a phone chimed. I back-stepped to Megan’s door and stood perfectly still. I placed my ear near her door and listened.
Thirty seconds later, I heard the chime again.
Certain the sound came from inside her apartment, I felt the blood rush back into my face. Megan never went anywhere without her phone. Which meant she was home after all.
I lifted my hand to knock again, but stopped when I spotted the now-familiar small gray pad above the door handle. Jus
t like the front door, the LED on the pad was green. I knocked a third time as I reached out and pushed the handle down.
The door swung open.
I peered inside. The apartment was dark, quiet, and cold.
“Megan?” I whispered.
I stepped inside and listened. The only noise came from the sound of sporadic raindrops hitting windows from somewhere deeper inside.
“Megan?” I repeated.
Not a sound.
I stepped farther in and quietly closed the door. In case she was home and taking a nap, I left the lights off. Instead, I lifted my phone and flipped the display on. The light barely lit the area around me, but was bright enough to reveal the outline of a kitchen to my right.
I tiptoed into the kitchen and jumped when another light popped on. It took me several seconds to realize what it was.
A mobile phone.
It sat on a granite kitchen island. Car keys lay next to it.
“Megan, you here?”
No reply. I set my bag down on the counter and picked up the phone.
You have 5 unread messages.
Four of the messages were from me. Way to go stalker, I thought. The fifth was from someone named Akira. A friend or co-worker, I assumed. It simply read: you there?
I frowned, realizing Megan hadn’t seen any of my messages. I set her phone back on the counter. “Megan, you home? It’s Ben,” I called out, louder than before. “If you’re messing with me, you win. It worked.”
Dead silence.
A faint tingling at the base of my neck told me something wasn’t right. The more time that passed, the less likely she was just playing a prank. She hadn’t left, that much I knew. Her phone and keys were right there on the counter.
So where is she?
My eyes began to adjust to the darkness. Over the kitchen island, I spotted the silhouettes of a couch, several chairs and other pieces of furniture. The dark swallowed my phone’s pathetic light as I crept forward into the living room.
Half way to the couch, my cybernetic leg’s anti-slip system kicked in. Designed to make me more stable on wet or icy surfaces, a common problem in Colorado, it saved me from more than a few bruised hips. Although I couldn’t remember the last time it activated indoors.
I looked down and spotted a dark shape on the floor. All around it, a pool of liquid glistened on the hardwood. I aimed my phone down. It took a split-second for my brain to rationalize what my eyes saw.
Then it hit me.
“Megan!”
I dropped to my knees and felt the liquid seep into my jeans. My initial thought was that she spilled something on the hardwood floor, fallen and hit her head.
“Megan!” I yelled again. I shook her shoulder but got no response.
Needing a better source of light, I stood and raced back toward the panel near the front door. I flipped all four switches up and the room exploded with light. I squinted back across the room.
Despite the blinding illumination, my eyes shot open.
Megan lay on her back, one arm across her chest and the other above her head. She wore the same clothes she’d been wearing that morning: blue sweater and khaki pants. From ten feet away I could see her eyes were closed. But the part that frightened me the most was the liquid.
Not water like I’d thought.
Blood.
6
“Megan!” I screamed.
I rushed back to the center of the room and fell to my knees.
“What happened!?” She didn’t respond and I felt foolish for asking. Her eyes were closed. Skin cool to the touch. She was unconscious. Or worse.
With shaky and bloodied hands, I fumbled for my phone. It took several tries, but I managed to dial 911. “Hang in there, Megan,” I said as the phone rang.
A calm female voice answered. “9-1-1 emergency response.”
“My friend, she’s hurt,” I blurted out. “There’s blood everywhere, please hurry!”
“Okay, sir, remain calm. This appears to be a mobile phone. I need the address where you’re calling from.”
I almost told the operator I didn’t know, but then remembered the text Megan sent earlier. I opened the message and quickly read her address aloud.
“Okay, sir, paramedics are on the way. Can you tell what happened?”
“Uh . . . I . . . I’m not sure. I just got to her apartment and found her on the floor. I think she might have fallen and hit her head.”
“Can you tell if she’s breathing?”
I leaned down and put my ear near Megan’s face. After several seconds, I said, “I’m not sure. I think so. It’s faint.”
“Megan, wake up,” I pleaded. “Please.”
“Okay, that’s good,” said the operator. “You said she might have fallen. Can you tell where the blood is coming from? The back of her head, maybe? We need to try and slow her blood loss.”
I looked Megan up and down and then inspected the growing pool of blood. For the first time, I noticed the bleeding wasn’t coming from her head. The blood was pooled under the center of her body.
I lifted her hand off her chest and recoiled in shock. There was no mistaking the small round hole in her sweater. Panic sped my breathing as I realized Megan hadn’t fallen.
She’d been shot.
“I . . . I . . . think she’s been shot,” I stammered. I wasn’t certain of course, but I’d seen enough movies and played enough video games to have a general idea of what a bullet hole looked like.
“Sir, did you say shot?” the operator asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay, help is on the way. You need to find something you can use to put pressure on the wound. A towel or even your shirt.”
I tore off my long-sleeved shirt, bunched it into a ball, and pressed it against Megan’s chest. Into the phone, I said, “Okay, I’ve got pressure on the wound.”
“Good,” said the operator. “Next, I need you to elevate her legs and find something to keep her warm.”
I looked around and spotted pillows and cushions on the floor near the couch. Resting Megan’s hand on the makeshift bandage, I whispered, “Hold this here. We need to try and stop the bleeding.”
I stood, raced to the couch, and grabbed a pillow and blanket. Once back at Megan, I gently lifted her legs and slid the pillow underneath, then covered them with the blanket.
“Okay,” I told the operator. “Her legs are elevated and I found a blanket.”
“Okay, sir, you’re doing great. Is there anyone else in the apartment?”
My heart, already pounding in my chest, practically stopped. I hadn’t considered that whomever shot Megan might still be around. Keeping pressure on her wound, I scanned the large, open room. I now knew what a studio was and couldn’t be more thankful for it. Other than the bathroom, there were few places an intruder could hide.
As I took in the sight of Megan’s apartment, my heart raced even faster. Too focused when I’d run to get the pillow and blanket, I failed to notice her apartment was a mess. Couch cushions and pillows lay on the floor. On top of her desk, a monitor lay on its side, cables strewn everywhere. The drawers of her entertainment center were dumped on the floor, although I noticed her flat-screen television was still there.
“I don’t see anyone,” I finally said. “It may have been a robbery though. Megan’s things are all over the floor.”
After a pause, the operator said, “Sir, for your own safety, I need you to leave the apartment. Go to a neighbor’s and wait until the police and fire department to arrive. They will be there in under three minutes.”
“I just said we’re alone,” I shot back.
“I understand, sir. But for your own safety, you need to leave. The police are on their way.”
I looked down at Megan and swallowed hard. She was too weak to apply pressure to the wound without my help. “Sorry, I can’t,” I said. “I’m not leaving her.”
“Again, sir, for your own safety . . .”
I punched th
e END button on my phone and sat down on the floor next to Megan. I could barely feel her chest rise and fall against the press of my hand. With a gentle squeeze, I said, “Megan, if you can hear me, an ambulance is on the way. You’ll be ok. Hang in there.”
I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. The threat of panic lingered on the edge of my mind. The only thing keeping me somewhat calm was adrenaline and my overwhelming desire to help Megan. “Two more minutes” I said aloud. “Just two more minutes.”
“Ben?” said a quiet voice.
“Megan!” Climbing back onto one knee, I squeezed her hand and leaned down close to her face.
“Ben,” she said again. Her eyes, half open, were wet with tears.
“It’s me, Megan, I’m here.” I gently caressed her cheek with my free hand. I added, “Sorry I’m late.”
Through jagged breaths, her lips curled into a slight smile. Then she frowned and said, “You’re . . . not . . . safe.”
“It’s okay Megan,” I reassured her. “Whoever hurt you is gone. An ambulance is coming.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. The tears continued to flow. “I’m . . . so sorry . . . Benjamin.”
I frowned, unsure why she was apologizing. I then remembered why I was there in the first place. The software update. Even injured, the incomplete task drove her crazy. I forced a smile, and said, “It’s okay, Megan. The update can wait. I don’t mind.”
“No . . .”
Sirens wailed from the parking lot below.
One minute.
“Really, it’s okay,” I said. “Save your strength.”
She clenched her jaw and again shook her head, harder this time. “No . . . Ben . . . listen.”
“The paramedics are almost here, Megan,” I said. I wanted her to conserve energy. Instead, she was being her usual stubborn self. “Shh . . .” I whispered as I placed a finger on her lips. “It can wait.”
With surprising strength, she grabbed my wrist and pushed my hand away from her face. “Ben . . . stop.”
I stared at her, eyes wide. “Okay, okay, I’m listening.”
She swallowed hard and coughed. A bead of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “Ben . . .”