Lynn’s hand brushed back against her forehead, pushing back tangles of wet hair. She hung upside down in her seatbelt, with the airbag pressed against head. “Jack?” she whispered. He lay on the roof of the car, Wobbles lying under him, eyes open and still. Fluid ran steadily across the glass. “Jack?”
She knew he couldn’t answer her. She reached out desperately for his face, but couldn’t reach, struggling in her seatbelt. Her hands were too slippery to grab the latch. Dizzily she tried to push away from the airbag. She had to get out, get Jack out. Maybe he was only unconscious. Maybe, maybe…
The ground shook. She clawed at the belt, and then froze. The car slid backwards, metal screeching across the pavement, then still again. Those whispers again, the same as those from the wall, hissing and cajoling. Hanging tangled in the belt, she sat helpless, listening. Her breath caught in her throat.
The lights in the dash were gone, and there was no way to see what was jiggling the door handle and peeling at the broken glass. The car shivered under the assault. Part of her wanted light, even the clock, to see what was coming. It must be midnight. It was the last coherent thought she had.
Contract Fulfillment
Jeremy Tyler
Rob Carlisle was feeling pretty good, watching the never-ending and never-dull parade of partiers walk past him. On any given night, the old Tampa neighborhood of Ybor City was a great place for nightclubbing. The hottest clubs were all on 7th Avenue, with lines forming for blocks out on the street. But even without going inside, there were plenty of open air bars and patio clubs where you could sit back, listen to the overlapping sounds of the live music, and just feel the excitement in the air.
Yes, Ybor was always a great place to be. But on New Year’s Eve, it was an absolute riot.
And Rob was in an especially celebratory mood. He had gotten word, not four days ago, that his life was actually his again. After three years of living with varying forms of chemotherapy, radiation treatments, and enough half-crazy experimental procedures to qualify as a decent sci-fi thriller, Rob’s doctors had given him the terrifying, but expected, final diagnosis. His cancer was terminal, and he had an estimated year to live.
Yeah, not exactly the kind of news that generally inspires a party. But, that wasn’t the part he was celebrating. It was the unbelievable, and clinically impossible, fact that his incurable, inoperable, and unrecoverable cancer had gone into full remission. Rob was cancer-free, and open to a life full of possibility.
That was something worth making a fuss over.
So, tonight he was out at the biggest New Year’s Eve party in the state, covering all of Ybor City. Tonight, he didn’t have a care in the world.
Those, he would tend to tomorrow. Or the day after, depending on how bad a hangover he was nursing.
There were considerations, of course. Rob had planned on living a short but full life for what time he had left, so he had quickly burned through his savings, indulging in a full range of once-in-a-lifetime activities. When he ran out of money, he realized that he hadn’t run out of things he wanted to do. At that point, an opportunity had turned up that seemed perfect.
The Best Days Group, a non-profit organization based out of the Cayman Islands, had approached Rob about a bold, new program they were running for people with terminal diseases.
You see, the current law stated that a person could not legally sell his or her body to science, even after they were done using it. But, through special funding and creative legal jargon, The Best Days Group were able to bestow sizeable grants to individuals who made the decision to donate their bodies to their sister organization, Rising Dawn Technologies.
Rob had received one of those grants, allowing him to live a life of absolute luxury in his last few days.
The fact that they weren’t his last days any longer made for a bit of a sticky situation. He would have to contact the group and let them know that he was no longer a dying man. They would, no doubt, want their grant money back, but they would just have to be reasonable with him while he worked out a repayment program. After all, now that he had a future, he was going to have to find a new job—which could take a while. What little grant money he had left would have to sustain him while he was looking.
And after all, what were they going to do? Sue him over a monetary gift made under questionably legal circumstance?
Regardless, it wasn’t his fault. Rob didn’t plan on remission. It just happened.
But, Rob wasn’t really concerned, anyway. He was celebrating his second chance at having a full and meaningful life. In an hour or so, he would be meeting up with his friend, Andy Meering. Andy was also out for a good time. He had just been promoted to a sweet assignment with the Tampa Police Department, in the Major Crimes unit.
Andy was really more of the straight and narrow type. The fact is, he would normally never come on out to Ybor on a weekend night – let alone New Year’s Eve. But, Rob had no qualms about using his diagnosis and subsequent recovery to get his way. Andy couldn’t really say no.
It was still early—5 o’clock. The sun was just now starting to show the first glimmering signs of setting, but Ybor was still packed with partygoers, nonetheless. People of every variety, from buttoned up business types, fresh from the office, to every variety of goth-inspired, angst-ridden teenager. You just gotta love Ybor City.
Rob’s cell phone rang, breaking through his reverie.
“Hello?” he answered. He didn’t recognize the number, but he figured that Andy might be calling from the FDLE building, if he was running late.
“Mr. Carlisle, I hope you are enjoying the day,” announced the voice on the line. Rob recognized the clipped, precise annunciations that always came off as too antiseptic. Dr. Gellingham had been the one to approach him about The Best Days Group, and had been the one to walk him through the whole process of becoming a grant recipient.
“Doctor, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” Rob said, nervously. He didn’t want to have to deal with the whole grant situation right now.
“Of course, of course. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but I wanted to congratulate you on the recent good news you received.”
Despite the fact that there was absolutely nothing sinister about the sound of the man’s voice, Rob couldn’t help but feel a shiver down his spine.
“How did you know?” he asked. The doctor laughed slightly.
“You forget, Mr. Carlisle, as a condition of your contract, we have unlimited access to your medical records. We knew of the remission almost as soon as you did.”
Rob had forgotten that.
“I know that I need to return the grant money—and I will. I just need to set up some sort of payment plan…” Rob began.
“Slow down, Mr. Carlisle. Relax. We are not interested in getting our money back. And, even if we wanted to take it back, we couldn’t. Your contract was not provisional upon your having cancer. The money is yours. Enjoy it.”
“Thank you,” Rob replied weakly. He wasn’t sure how to accept that.
“No need. We couldn’t be more pleased, Mr. Carlisle. The fact that your body was able to stave off such a deadly type of cancer is validation of what we do. In many ways, we could not have hoped for a better result,” the doctor assured him.
“Well, that is certainly a load off my mind,” Rob admitted. “I just feel guilty accepting all that money. Are you really sure you don’t want me to return at least some of it?”
Rob wasn’t quite sure why he was trying so hard to give back the money. He just knew that there was something that seemed off about this situation.
“I am certain. We stick to the letter of our contract, and are happy to do it. But, if it makes you uncomfortable, I would be happy to send someone from our “contract fulfillment” department to assure you.”
That was the last thing Rob wanted. Some pasty-faced lawyer stopping by to bore him with a bunch of legal jargon—it sounded about as dull as dull could get.
“No, that’s not
necessary,” Rob started to tell him, but Doctor Gellingham just talked right over him.
“It’s quite alright. As it happens, we have someone in your area. He’d be delighted to assist you, and it won’t take more than a few moments. Just sit tight, Mr. Carlisle. We’ll take care of everything.”
And with that, he hung up.
Rob stared down at his phone, as a dozen things just ran through his mind. Things like, how did I go from enjoying the holiday to waiting for a legal briefing; how could an organization afford to throw that kind of money at someone, then casually write it off when they had an opportunity to get it back; and most disturbing of all, how did they know where I am?
The odd little tingle at the base of his skull was beginning to bloom into full-on panic. What did he really know about these people?
He knew that they had plenty of money, and plenty of connections. He knew that they liked their privacy—he even had to sign a non-disclosure statement promising that he would say nothing about where his money had come from. He knew that they were involved in some cutting-edge medical stuff.
And, when you got right down to it, that’s all he knew.
Well, now he could apparently add one more thing to the list: they could track his location through his cell phone.
He had heard of such things. He knew that it was possible, and it was really the only thing that explained how they knew where he was, and why Dr. Gellingham would call him now, for no real reason.
Rob punched in another number in the phone, anxious to get in touch with Andy. Andy would be able to help. He would be able to get him help.
But, when he put the phone to his ear, there was nothing. His phone was suddenly, inexplicably, dead.
The crowd. Rob got up and started moving amongst the constantly flowing river of human bodies that covered 7th Avenue. They might have been able to find him, but Rob guessed that they would have to really work at locating him amongst the masses.
He weaved his way into one knot of people, then slipped into another. He was dressed in a nondescript pair of jeans and a green t-shirt, so he actually fit in, no matter where he was, or who he was with.
It seemed a good plan, at first. That is, until the third time he felt something sharp poke into him amongst that seething mass of flesh. In any other situation, he would have just assumed it was an accidentally exposed key, or an inconveniently outlandish bit of body piercing. At the moment, however, Rob couldn’t help but picture the prick of a hypodermic needle, and a well-timed depressing of the plunger.
Rob began to hyperventilate, which just served to draw attention to him. That was the last thing he needed. He needed to get out of the crowd, but he sure as hell didn’t want to be alone. He started looking amongst the various clubs and bars around him, but most of them had lines out the door, and even those that didn’t were so packed in, he’d have more breathing room on the street.
His best hope lie at Centro Ybor. Built to provide a more modern aspect to the Ybor City nightlife, Centro Ybor was a market square located just off the main drag of the old Cuban neighborhood, featuring a large movie theater, touristy shops, and a dozen or so casual dining restaurants.
The one thing that really made it important right now, though, was that it had a bit more space. A live band was scheduled to set up in three hours, but for now, it was just a spot for people to take a breather when the crowds were too much. One of the local hospitals had even set up a first aid tent there.
Rob began sliding through the bodies, worming his way west, toward the shelter of Centro Ybor. He ducked behind a massively built guy who probably would have had to move sideways to get through your standard door. He walked purposefully through the crowd, inspiring one and all to make room for his sizeable bulk. As long as he didn’t notice Rob slinking along immediately behind him, Rob should be able to ride his wake all the way to Centro Ybor.
It was not to be. Fully two blocks shy of his destination, Rob tripped, landing into the muscle-bound man.
“What the hell?” the guy yelled, pushing Rob off of him. Rob landed flat on his back, with people milling around him, stopping just long enough to stare—just long enough to point out his position.
“I’m sorry,” Rob said, scrambling up, trying to duck back into the crowd. But his assailant wasn’t done with him. He grabbed him by the shoulder and whipped him around.
“You tryin’ to cop a feel or somethin’?!”
“I’m sorry. I just tripped.” Rob tried to argue, but the guy wasn’t hearing it. He pulled back his arm to take a swing.
“Well, that’s one way to get to the first aid station,” Rob thought. He closed his eyes, anticipating the pain of a clenched fist. But it never came. Instead, the hand on his shoulder suddenly released, throwing him off balance and back onto the street.
Rob opened his eyes, to see the bodybuilder on the street just four feet away. He was convulsing uncontrollably, and there was a small spatter of blood spreading across his shirt.
Had he been shot? Rob wasn’t really familiar with guns, but he had seen enough TV violence to think that a gunshot should probably be a lot bloodier than the slowly spreading crimson stain that covered about a 3-inch circle in the center of his chest.
While he was staring, wondering what was actually going on, something hit the street a few feet from his hand.
Whatever it was, it hit hard. But when he looked closely, he didn’t see anything except what looked like glass shards.
Another hit, this one much closer. Now Rob could smell a distinct, chemical smell.
Glass bullets? Maybe darts? Rob looked over at the man across from him. He wasn’t convulsing now. He wasn’t doing anything.
Rob got up and ran.
He might have been feeling paranoid earlier, but there’s nothing like watching somebody die right in front of you to throw a heaping dose of reality into your fears. Rob kept thinking about Andy, meeting up with him in just another 45 minutes. No time at all, really—unless someone is trying to kill you.
There was a cop standing just 50 feet away, at the corner of 7th and Angel Oliva Sr. street. If Rob could get to him, he could help.
Or take a glass bullet like the dead bodybuilder a block behind him.
Rob was only one block away from 17th street, then he just had to cut up one block to get to Centro Ybor. He could run up to the cop, or continue to work his way up. He knew he had to choose fast, and he had to choose right. A wrong decision could get him killed, and maybe an innocent police officer along with him.
“Hey, watch it!” somebody screamed from off to his left. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon thing to hear in a crowd like this, but it made Rob turn toward it, anyway.
That’s when he saw him. The man stood a head higher than just about anyone else, his features were tight and focused, his hair was so closely cropped he was practically bald, but what was most distinctive about him was the way his eyes were set upon Rob’s position.
Steadily, he moved toward Rob, pushing people out of the way if they didn’t move quickly enough.
Contract Fulfillment. That’s what Doctor Gellingham had called it. At the time, Rob had pictured a lawyer.
This was not a lawyer. But there was no question in Rob’s mind that this was the man Gellingham had sent. This was the man who would take care of his contract fulfillment.
And that was the way of it. Rob understood, in one horrifyingly clear moment. He had been paid a large sum of money for his body. Once he was dead, his body belonged to The Best Days Group. This was the man who would make certain it became available.
Rob started to head toward the cop. With his pursuer amongst the crowd, he wasn’t as concerned about the man taking a shot at him. He still wasn’t certain what he would say to the cop, exactly, but Rob didn’t care if the officer thought he was crazy, as long as he took him somewhere safe.
Not seconds after making that decision, however, it ceased to be an option. When Rob forced his gaze away from his would-be assassin, he saw th
e cop was talking with someone. That someone was Dr. Gellingham.
Going to the cop was out, but it also meant that Rob’s direct path to Centro Ybor was out of the question, as well. No doubt the good doctor was feeding the cop a tall story that would guarantee Rob landed right where he wanted him. So, if he went anywhere near the corner where that cop was standing, he was a dead man.
That presented a problem. Scary guy was behind him, blocking him in.
Rob was feeling the first tinges of panic start to break through his resolve. If he didn’t act soon, he would be done.
He looked around. There was an alleyway, but on the wrong side of the street. He would have to cross closer to the guy chasing him, and it would only take him further from Centro Ybor. Over on the other side of the street, there were two bar entrances, a dress shop that was closed for the evening, and a stairway leading up to an apartment.
Rob figured the apartment would be his best bet. If someone was home, he might be able to talk his way in. If not, he could just break in. Once inside, it was a quick hop to the fire escape, and a dash to Centro Ybor. It was perfect, except for the fact that somebody big, scary, and terrifying was pushing toward him, and had his eye on Rob’s every move.
Rob didn’t have any kind of weapon. He didn’t have any special training. All he had were his steadily dwindling wits, and the wad of cash he had in his wallet so he could party steady all night without pulling out a credit card.
It dawned on him, then. Money did have a lot of uses.
Rob pulled every dollar he had out of his wallet, held the bills high above his head, and yelled for all he was worth:
“Happy New Year!”
And with that, he tossed the whole enchilada into the crowd in front of scary guy. The maddening herd of people formed a writhing, seething knot of greed, right where Rob’s attacker was standing.
Year's End: 14 Tales of Holiday Horror Page 9