by Indi Martin
“Ready for what?” she asked, studying his impassive face for answers.
Neither man spoke, but the unnamed one lowered his head until his face was again shadowed.
“What’s behind the door?” she pressed, turning her attention to the one who called himself Nasht.
In answer, he, too, lowered his head until his strange eyes were no longer visible. They each resumed their statue-like stance, unmoving and unreadable.
“What am I not ready for?” she nearly yelled.
The world gave a sickening lurch, and Gina fell to her knees. The two men seemed unaffected by the earthquake, and Gina felt the dream beginning to unravel. “No!” she yelled. “Not yet!” She tried to concentrate on the floor, the hem of the cloak in front of her with its strange weave, but her surroundings dissipated into mist and she felt herself rising. Sounds of chaos and anger began to drift in, shattering what was left of the staircase, and she blinked against sudden light as her eyes opened.
17
Chris watched as Nathan threw the awful clump aside, crying. “I’m so sorry!” he whispered, horrified, into his friend’s bloody face. “Oh my god, Danny, be okay, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to!”
Danny’s eyes stared back past him, glassy, his pudgy face slack and almost serene. Nathan looked down at his hands, red and twitching, and wept.
A crackling sound caught Chris’ attention, and he watched as the wriggling threads covering the floor curled and flaked away to ash, and then to nothing. He stood, frozen, blinking, unable to understand what had just transpired. This is all a nightmare, he thought. I will wake up in the morning, and we’ll get out of this fucking place, and never come back. Danny isn’t dead. His eyes swept quickly over his best friend’s body and looked away. He can’t be dead. Nathan stumbled up to his feet, staggering past Chris and running to the bathroom. He kicked the small table away from the door and fumbled with the doorknob, leaving wet streaks of crimson on the brass and wood, weeping loudly. Luke walked slowly towards Nathan, and opened the door for him. Chris observed all of this distantly. He felt his knees buckle and he sat hard on the floor, a dull pain throbbing from his tailbone.
Chris heard rushing water mingling with Nathan’s sobs from the bathroom. He drew his knees up and hugged them. Okay, he thought. Okay. He struggled to control his breathing and corral his thoughts. What do we know? There’s a killer outside. Melissa’s dead. He felt his breathing quicken again and forced himself back from hyperventilation. There’s a killer outside, he repeated, omitting the second part. We can’t go outside until it’s light, when we can see. Danny… he closed his eyes, allowing grief to wash over him for a moment, holding steady in a tide that rushed over his body, before he steeled himself and opened his eyes. Cold. I have to be cold. I’m the only one who can think us out of this, he thought, and he didn’t care if it were true. It was enough just to form the thought. As the oldest of five boys, he was used to taking charge and protecting others. He tried to place himself mentally back into that role. I have to take care of my brothers, he thought, and nodded. Something killed Danny, maybe the house, maybe some fucked up disease. Maybe it was the same thing that killed the rabbits. Horrible as the thought was, he still preferred it to a supernatural explanation, but on the other hand he couldn’t forget the reflection in the mirror that had prompted all of this. Where will we be safest? If it’s a disease, he glanced at Danny and then quickly away again, it could be contagious. If it isn’t a disease, then we shouldn’t stay here any longer anyway. There’s a killer outside, but I’d rather deal with a guy I can fight than whatever the hell is in here.
He stood and walked to the others. Luke was leaning against the doorframe, staring impassively at Nathan, who was scrubbing his hands in the sink. “I think we should try to leave,” announced Chris. “Again.”
It was then that the lights flickered off, leaving them in pitch blackness.
18
“I… I’m not sure,” Morgan heard Gina stammer, sounding distant and crackly, as though speaking through a CB radio instead of her cell phone.
“Are you okay?” Morgan didn’t wait for an answer, half-running out of the room and weaving through the labyrinthine complex toward the exit. He heard the click of Charlie’s heels behind him, following.
The crackle grew in volume, overtaking Gina’s response. It sounded like a radio with poor reception, old swing music breaking in occasionally and then receding back into the white noise. “Gina?” he tried again. “Gina, are you okay? Can you hear me?”
The line went dead and he glanced at his phone to make sure the connection had dropped. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he burst out of the main doors and broke into a run towards the housing units.
“Is she in trouble?” called Charlie from behind him, her footfalls sounding in time with his own.
“Don’t know,” he answered gruffly, his thoughts bent on running. Reaching her door, he slung off his laptop bag and tossed it deftly near the walk, sliding his gun out of its holster with his right hand as he turned the doorknob with his left. It opened without hesitation, and he grimaced. Dammit Gina, why don’t you lock your door?, he thought, though he was relieved he didn’t have to kick it in.
Morgan slid smoothly inside, glancing back to see Charlie with gun in hand as well, half-crouched and nodding at him. He checked the living room and kitchen quickly, noting Gina’s cell phone lying on the kitchen counter. He frowned.
“Freeze!” he heard Charlie yell. He sprinted to join her at the door of Gina’s bedroom and flicked on the light just inside, illuminating the room with garish brightness. Blinking, he saw Victor bowed over the bed. He had both hands on Gina’s shoulders, and was looking directly at Charlie, unmoving.
“Get away from her!” cried Charlie, and in a blink, Victor was thrown across the room and crashed into the wall hard, cracking the drywall and sending a cloud of plaster puffing into the air, pinned by some unknown force. Morgan glanced at Charlie, who had both the gun and her outstretched, taut hand trained on the vampire, her hazel eyes narrowed to slits and her face contorted with rage. Morgan hurried to the bedside.
“Gina,” he whispered, flinging back the blankets to inspect for any damage, turning her head carefully from side to side to check her neck; the only touchstone he had to go off of was old horror movies, though he doubt the information within was terribly valid. The skin was unbroken, and she murmured wordlessly, raising her hand to cover his. “Gina,” he said louder, brushing her red hair out of her face.
“Hello, Ms. Parker,” Victor said in a slightly strangled voice. “Please let me down.”
“Not on your worthless life,” she snapped. “What were you doing to her?”
“Let me explain,” he replied, still sounding a little breathless but more casual than Morgan would expect. He looked up in time to see Victor sent flying again, this time crashing into a table, the wood splintering beneath him.
“Stop this,” commanded Victor, and he stood up, apparently free from Charlie’s influence. Morgan glanced at the tall blonde, whose eyes narrowed further as she gestured wildly with her free hand. He heard Victor’s breath catch and looked back to see a broken table leg floating in front of his chest, less than an inch from his shirt. His eyes flashed dangerously, and he seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure.
“What were you doing?” asked Charlie, her voice low and menacing, her glittering hazel eyes barely visible under her falling platinum hair.
“What…” murmured Gina, blinking against the light. Batting Morgan’s hand away, she sat straight up, taking in the scene. “What the hell is going on?!” she yelled.
“We found Victor…” started Morgan.
“Charlie, what the hell are you doing!?” she screamed, crawling quickly to the edge of her bed past Morgan. “STOP.”
Morgan saw Charlie Parker fall to her knees, the gun clattering to the ground, her hands over her ears and her eyes and mouth wide as if screaming, though no sound erupted
from her. Gina brushed past him and ran to the silver eyed man, grabbing and tossing the table leg across the room. “Are you alright?” she asked breathlessly, trying to brush off the plaster pieces and wood splinters that covered Victor’s clothes and hair.
“I am still alive,” he answered, staring past her at the collapsed woman, his face tense and anxious.
Morgan stood, his concern morphing into outrage. “Gina, I don’t understand,” he started, trying to keep his voice measured while anger simmered beneath his skin.
“YOU don’t understand!” she cried, spinning to face him. “I wake up to see a battle scene in my bedroom! Get out!”
Morgan made no move to leave. “What was… he,” he flicked his head toward Victor, “doing in your bedroom?”
Rage filled Gina’s eyes and Morgan felt his own spilling over. “Apparently getting nearly murdered by your friend over there!” she hissed.
Morgan glanced over at Charlie, who was clumsily re-holstering her gun, her hair obscuring her face. He saw her shoulders hitch and looked away. “You know what I mean,” he snapped.
“He was helping me,” she answered, her voice seething. “What are you - and HER - doing here?”
“Helping you,” repeated Morgan, shaking his head. “Well then I guess you don’t need me.” He realized his gun was still in his hand and he quickly slid it back into its holster, striding across to Charlie to help her up. He could hear her breath catch as he got close, and saw her shaking. She didn’t raise her head as he hoisted her to her feet, sliding an arm around her to help her walk. Morgan looked back at Gina to see her staring at them, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I guess you don’t need me, either,” she replied, looking suddenly exhausted.
“It’s not…” started Morgan, but he stopped and bared his teeth. “Why is everything so fucking hard with you? YOU called ME.”
Gina blinked at him. “No, I didn’t.”
Morgan opened his mouth to argue, but he heard Charlie whimper next to him, and shook his head. “I’m done,” he announced. He turned his attention to the silver-eyed Victor, who hadn’t moved since the argument had begun. “Good luck with whatever,” he snapped, nodding back toward Gina. She glared at him but he turned his back and walked slowly out of the apartment. “LOCK YOUR GODDAMN DOOR,” he yelled back over his shoulder, feeling Charlie wince from the noise. “Sorry,” he whispered, turning to close the door behind him. He set her down on the concrete steps and crouched in front of her. “Are you alright? What can I do?”
Charlie covered her face with her hands, wincing with pain. “I need to go home,” she whispered, barely audible.
“Okay,” he answered, leaning over to pull the laptop back back to him. “Are you okay to walk?”
She shrugged noncommittally, and he saw her shoulders hitch again. He shook his head wonderingly at how frail she looked. Sighing, he slid his arms under her and lifted her easily, standing and pausing to make sure she didn’t hit him or throw anything. All she did was slide her arms around his neck and bury her face in his shoulder, openly crying. Still shaking his head, Morgan Snyder began walking toward her unit, speculating on the events that had ended with him carrying Charlie Parker home.
⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼
“What…” stammered Gina. “What just happened?” She collapsed on her bed, running a hand through her hair.
“Mr. Morgan seems to think you called him,” answered Victor who, regardless of his stated lack of need for sleep, sounded very tired indeed. “I detected a rise in adrenaline and tried to wake you. I think Ms. Parker misinterpreted my actions when she arrived, although she may not have cared what the truth was.”
Anger boiled inside her, useless and impotent. “I didn’t call him.”
Victor shrugged. “He arrived for some reason.” He brushed his shoulder with his hand.
“I feel awful,” said Gina, standing and walking back over to look him over for injury. He raised a hand, keeping her at an arm’s length.
“Please, don’t, Ms. Gina,” he said. “I am hurt. I need to heal.”
She paused, considering. “Can I help?”
He looked at her, silver eyes flashing, and Gina felt lightheaded. Distant alarm bells rung in her head. His eyes seemed to swallow her up, and she felt like she were floating. She took a slow step toward him before she realized what she was doing.
It would be so easy, she heard his tenor voice ripple through her mind. It would be so easy, Gina.
What would be so easy? she wondered, and felt her feet take her another step forward. Why are they doing that? she thought.
With a fanged snarl, Victor pushed her away, roughly, and she landed on the bed, blinking in confusion. She heard him rush through the house, and heard the door slam behind him as he exited through the front. The fuzziness dissipated and a slow, dawning horror overtook her. What just happened? she thought, though she was afraid she knew. Victor said he needed to heal. She could guess how a vampire went about doing that.
Unsure of what to do, Gina walked into the kitchen and picked up her phone. I can’t call Snyder, her thoughts raced. And Charlie… she thought back to the woman’s animalistic snarl as she telekinetically held a stake to Victor’s heart. ...she’s out. Hanagawa’s still offsite. She blew a piece of hair out of her face and dialed the contact labeled “Chaz.”
“Hello?”
Gina almost smiled. The ginger kid sounded surprised and alert, and only a little irritated at being awoken. “Chaz, it’s Gina. Victor got… well, he got hurt. Don’t ask. Can you check on him? Make sure he got back to the lab without… incident.” She could only guess as to the protocol for this scenario, but Chaz didn’t seem ruffled in the least.
“Will do,” he answered snappily.
“Thanks,” she answered, and hung up the phone. She knew Victor took his… meals… in his laboratory; as long as he got back there without a problem, she didn’t think there would be any further repercussions. Well, at least no more right this minute. She sighed and flicked on the electric kettle again, glancing at the time against her will. 230. Gonna be a long night, she thought, grabbing a pen and a pad of paper. She wanted to get as much of her dream down on paper before the details began to fade. His name was Nasht…
19
Luke screamed. Nathan whimpered. The sounds sounded even louder than they should have in the abject darkness, and Chris felt around for the shelves he knew were nearby. “Shhhh! Keep quiet!” he commanded in a hoarse voice.
“My phone is over there,” whispered Nathan in panicked breaths.
“Just be quiet,” Chris snapped back, listening for any sounds of entry and concentrating on his fingertips rolling over the shelves’ contents. Everything felt weird. It’s just the darkness, he reassured himself, his eyes straining to make anything out in the pitch black. Finally, he found what he’d been looking for: a set of candles they’d placed to light the doll scene. He drew his lighter from his pocket and flicked the wheel, wincing against the sudden flame. Lighting the first candle, he handed it to Luke with a finger on his lips, reminding them to stay quiet. Bastard must have cut the power, he thought to himself. He lit the second deftly, and gathered a few more by the light from the fire. Something caught his notice, and he paused, observing his surrounding as much as he could by the light of the candle. There was something different, but he couldn’t place his finger on it exactly. Frowning, he squinted at the bookshelf. There was a darker spot on the shelf, no, two or three. He ran his finger through it and stood straighter. The darker spots were where the candles had stood; beside them, the rest of the shelves, trinkets, and books were covered in nearly an inch of dust.
Chris heard a strangled cry from Luke and turned around. “We have to get out of here!” yelled Nathan hoarsely, but cowered behind Luke, not moving. They were staring in shock at the floor. Chris traced their gaze and followed it to the floor; their candles illuminated the dusty hardwood floor and a ratty, ancient rug covering a scant few boards, their thr
eads worn bare and nearly transparent by years of neglect. It took him a moment to realize that they weren’t reacting to something they saw; rather, something they didn’t see. There was a black cover sheet bundled up near the rug, at the base of the doll-dresser. The sheet had been covering Melissa’s body. Looking further down the floor, he could still see the large heap of his best friend’s body, lying undisturbed on the grimy floorboards.
Chris angled his light up. The twenty or so dolls on the dresser were also covered in dust, their cracked faces barely visible under age, save for their glassy eyes, which shone brightly against the orange glow. They seemed to smile at him. Every face was trained on his own.
It took him a moment to realize he was holding his breath. Then, he was running towards the door, hearing a clatter as his friends followed at his heels. He slid in the dust and rammed into the door, but felt no pain in his excitement; frantically, he turned the knob, but it would not open. “What the hell!” he screamed in frustration. “It’s locked!”
“Window,” spat Luke. Whirling, they slid to the first window, above the sofa. Rusty springs glinted dimly in the light, yellowed cotton spilling from the ancient cushions. The pattern on the fabric was no longer recognizable. Feeling his sanity slip, Chris stared at the window.
It was boarded up from the outside. The glass was long since broken, spiderwebs of cracks traversing the short spans of the remaining window panes. Frigid air seeped through the tight cracks between the boards, sending a shiver down his spine. Quickly, they made their way through the rest of the house. None of the windows were unblocked. The bunk beds in the smaller bedroom were broken, the top having long fallen into the bottom mattress, and the frame had given way to splintered wood on the floor. The master bedroom was even worse, with the mattress in better condition than the others, but with an obscenely large black stain marring most of the right side. The pipes in the bathroom were broken and rusted, clearly not having been used in years, maybe decades - even though the sound of running water was so recent it was still sounding in his ears. Spewing a steady stream of obscenities under his breath, Chris circled back around to the front door.