As the mob hit its peak, Rob took his opportunity to dash to the stairway. He didn’t look back, trusting to the mob to keep his killer occupied, blind, and incapable of following.
At the top of the stairway, there were three doors. He chose the one furthest from the front of the building, hoping it didn’t do some weird turn and lead away from the back, where the fire escape—and his freedom—lay waiting.
He knocked, and waited just long enough to be satisfied that nobody was home, then kicked the door like they do in those cop shows.
Apparently, cop show doors were made of different stuff than the one in front of Rob. It took him four solid kicks to break it open. With each thunderous pound, he was certain some curious neighbor would pop their head out and challenge his right to break and enter. But, when the door finally gave, he entered unchallenged.
As he had hoped, the apartment led straight back to a casement window, a small steel grate patio, and a fire escape. He twisted his ankle when he hit the ground, but he barely noticed. Within 60 seconds, Rob was rushing down the back alley. If he hurried, he might make it to safety and actually survive the night.
Rob emerged onto 8th Avenue, where the crowds were considerably thinner. Looking to his left, he could see the lights of Centro Ybor. His goal was close enough to see, but until Rob was standing in front of the first aid station, and was able to borrow a phone to call Andy, he wouldn’t consider himself safe. He started hop-running, hoping that an unforeseen set of eyes wasn’t upon him.
When he hit 17th Street, just a block from the Centro Ybor courtyard, he looked back toward 7th Avenue, briefly, to see if he was drawing any attention. Three men, along with scary guy, caught his face and started heading toward him. They were all in black riot gear and had the word “security” printed across their backs. Rob almost laughed at the irony. At a time like this, in a place like this, you couldn’t ask for a better license to hunt somebody down. Hell, you could even carry a gun and nobody would question it.
Rob forgot about the pain in his ankle and ran. Those men still had to hustle through the crowd to reach him, and Rob did have a sizeable lead.
It was a race, just like Rob used to run when he was in track and field at Chamberlain High School. The only difference was that there was no second place trophy. Rob either crossed the finish line first, or he was dead.
Rob was halfway across when they hit the intersection at 8th and 17th, but instead of giving chase, they just drew their weapons. Rob risked a look back to see one of them pull a wicked looking dart gun, and ducked to the right as he fired.
He saw the glass dart impact and shatter just a little ahead of him.
He didn’t want to think about what was in them. Probably one of those weird chemical cocktails that was so hard to trace that the M.E. would just assume the victim had died of a heart attack, and the cuts and glass on the body were the result of the crowds of drink-toting partiers swarming all over Ybor.
But, the means and tactics of his hunters wasn’t really Rob’s top concern at the moment. He pushed all but one thought out of his head. As he ran, he only thought of staying alive, long enough to get to the courtyard. The courtyard was safe.
Without realizing it, Rob was actually repeating those words to himself as he ran:
“The courtyard is safe. The courtyard is safe. The courtyard is safe.”
Purely on instinct, Rob dove to the left, and practically felt the wind parting as another glass dart whistled past his ear.
And then, just like that, he was breaking into another crowd of people as he emerged into the Centro Ybor courtyard. The first aid station, the source of all his current hopes, was a mere ten yards in front of him.
He limped toward it, his ankle throbbing mercilessly, and sank into a folding chair.
“Are you okay, sir?” asked the cute girl manning the booth. She couldn’t be more than 19—probably a nursing student. But, at that moment, she was the person who represented Rob’s protection and security. She might as well have been a Green Beret, for all Rob was concerned.
“Can I borrow your phone” Rob asked.
She looked confused, and a little apprehensive, but when her eyes landed on his gravely swollen foot, they went wide.
“Oh, my God! Let’s get you over here to a stretcher!” she insisted, practically leaping across to help him.
“Sure, thanks. But, about that phone?” Rob repeated.
“Sure, sure. Let’s just get that foot taken care of, first.”
Rob nodded, slowly. If she wanted to play nurse, first, he wouldn’t argue. It might even be fun.
“Just lie here,” she told him, directing him toward the promised stretcher. She reached into a cooler behind the table and pulled out an ice pack, placing it on his ankle.
“Thanks,” Rob told her, suddenly feeling very tired.
The girl had slipped off his shoe, and was working on his ankle. Rob let her. He was looking around him, searching for his pursuers. So far there was no sign of them.
As he looked, he spotted a familiar face. With a sense of relief he had not felt since Doctor Gellingham called him, he laid eyes on the face of his friend, Andy Meering.
“Andy!” he called, waving his arm to catch his attention.
Only, his hand didn’t move so well. And, he couldn’t quite form his friend’s name very well. Confused, he looked back to the girl working on his foot to ask a question. But she wasn’t there.
When did she put an IV in his leg? And, for that matter, why? Rob wasn’t an expert on first aid, but it seemed a bit like overkill.
Rob was suddenly having a hard time focusing.
“Why?” he tried to ask. Things were getting blurry.
He tried to look back over to where Andy had been walking, but he couldn’t see anything. Somebody had pulled a curtain, blocking his view of the crowd. Blocking the crowd’s view of him.
All Rob could see, on the back of the curtain, was one of the banners that identified the first aid station.
Rob read, and suddenly felt terrified:
First Aid Station—Sponsored by Rising Dawn Technologies.
Rising Dawn Technologies! The sister organization to The Best Days Group.
“Relax, Mr. Carlisle,” announced a soothing, articulate voice. “Everything is just as it should be.”
Rob saw Doctor Gellingham for a second, standing over him. Then, he saw nothing at all.
Mixology
Betsy Miller
It’s New Year’s Eve in a city where Nancy hasn’t lived very long. She graduated from college last June and moved when she found a job. Maybe she moved to D.C., or New York, or L.A., or San Francisco. It doesn’t matter. She was glad to get the job because jobs are scarce, but now that she has it she’s dissatisfied and yearns for something more. Nancy’s at a party. Chloe from work invited her, and she didn’t have anywhere else to go—didn’t want to go home to her family for the holidays. Such a relief to escape from the well-intentioned but smothering press of intimacy, of familiarity that comes from people she’s always known.
So here we have Nancy, a contemporary girl with something of an old-fashioned name, at a swanky party in a fancy house with a few people she knows slightly from work, and other than that she doesn’t know a soul in the place. Nancy’s wearing a little black dress—the slinky kind that only seems appropriate for New Year’s Eve parties, and never goes out of style. It’s cut with a low V-neck that Nancy can pull off because she’s built slim, with discreet breasts that cooperate and stay out of the middle of the v. She has great legs and knows it.
Nancy caught a ride to the party with her work friends. She’s lost track of two of them, but spots Chloe across the room standing very close to a good looking guy who needs a shave. He looks rumpled and disreputable and hot as hell. Nancy is annoyed that Chloe found him first. Nancy works her way through the crowd to the bar to console herself and scope out the action. Maybe hot-as-hell guy has a friend, or maybe she’ll spot a hot girl, or maybe sh
e’ll coast along with the crowd. Anonymous parties like this are the best because no one knows who you are and you can skate on the edge of expectations without giving anything away.
Nancy discovers there’s a mixologist at the bar. A tall, striking woman with sleek, dark hair and a sleek, silver sheath of a dress that hugs her curves, and chunky jewelry that somehow works. She says her name is Alyssa and she asks to see Nancy’s ID. Nancy shows it to her.
Alyssa looks carefully at Nancy’s driver’s license, then at her face. “Twenty-three. You look younger, but that’s you all right. Oh, hey,” she says, noticing the date. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks. It’s the day everybody parties along with me,” says Nancy.
Tonight’s signature drink is Midnight Ice. Nancy decides to try one, though event-based drinks are usually awful. In moments, Alyssa has whipped up a concoction made of Blue Curacao, Black Haus, and two kinds of gin with crushed goji berries and a basil leaf, finished with a squeeze of key lime over ice. “Stars?” she asks.
“Sure, why not?” Alyssa sprinkles tiny silver stars over the top of the drink, which turns out not to be awful. In fact, it’s surprisingly good.
Nancy sips her drink and scans the room. She hasn’t decided what comes next, who she might connect with. She’s relaxing into her drink, sensing the vibes in the room. The wait staff is carrying trays of Midnight Ice drinks and champagne to the guests along with hot hors d’oeuvres. Nancy has been too long inside the same skin—too long getting herself through college and into the job market.
“What’s the difference between a mixologist and a bartender?” Nancy asks.
“Well, to be a mixologist you have to be creative and invent drinks. I used to be a bartender. A lot of mixologists start out that way. I like to cook, and that’s useful too because I know how to combine ingredients.”
“Cool,” says Nancy. She senses a nudge on the edge of her perception and wonders if it’s Alyssa. Too soon to tell.
“Has anyone ever told you,” says Alyssa, “that you look kind of like Justin Bieber?”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“No offense,” says Alyssa. “It’s a cute look for a girl.”
“Thanks” says Nancy with a laugh. She’s pretty sure that Alyssa has noticed her legs, not just her face. She decides to hang out at the bar and watch Alyssa, who moves with a graceful theatricality, mixing drinks and bantering with the guests. Disarming, that’s what Alyssa is, thinks Nancy, but there’s a hard core underneath. Nancy’s on her second Midnight Ice, gazing at Alyssa, who looks her way and gives a little start. “Sorry,” Alyssa says hastily. “For a second you reminded me of someone else.”
“I get that too,” says Nancy. “Mostly on New Year’s Eve.” She’s almost done with her drink when she senses a change in the room, a predatory probing from someone at the party—someone like her, or maybe not quite like her. Peter—it has to be. How the hell did he end up here, halfway across the country? Damn social networking—Chloe and her phone—that would have to be it. Nancy doesn’t use Facebook, she doesn’t tweet, but she can’t prevent other people from including her in their posts.
Nancy flattens herself into a quiet Emily, mousy and inclined to blend into the background. She had thought an anon party would be better than home, but it won’t be if Peter’s in the same room. Last time that happened it had taken years for her to get over it. Emily-Nancy keeps still inside. She doesn’t allow herself to react—no adrenaline rush, no stab of fear. Nothing to raise her visibility.
“Alyssa, take a break,” she says.
“What?” Alyssa is tidying up the work area behind the bar.
“No one’s waiting for a drink. I’ll pay you $100 to go to the bathroom with me.”
Alyssa sets down the cloth she was holding. “You did not just say that. I’m a legit mixologist with straight-up skills. What makes you think—”
Emily-Nancy gets a flash—a mental picture of Alyssa, hands cuffed behind her back as a cop walks her to a police car. “Two hundred. I’m not hitting on you, I’m being stalked and I need to get out of this room.”
“Restraining order?” A flash of sympathy—Alyssa has dealt with stalker types before.
“Wouldn’t help.”
“You’re probably better off in a crowd, but if you’re that freaked, sure, I’ll walk you to the bathroom. It’s about time for my break anyway.” Alyssa puts a Be Right Back sign up on the bar and picks up her bag. Emily-Nancy slides off the barstool and falls into step next to Alyssa. A human shield might work if she can get out of the room before he finds her.
“This way,” says Alyssa, leading Emily-Nancy past the nearest bathroom and down a hall. “I’ll take you to the one for the staff. We’re supposed to use this one out by the garage.”
They go into the bathroom and Emily-Nancy locks the door. “Is there someone you can call?” asks Alyssa.
“I didn’t bring my phone tonight. I didn’t want to talk to anyone from home.”
“If you’ve got a stalker you should always have your phone.”
“Chloe’s phone got me into this mess. Stupid social networking—everyone saying where they are and who’s with them—broadcasting it to the world.”
“So what are you going to do? Lurk in the bathroom all night? I could tell the boss and get this guy thrown out.” Alyssa checks her look in the mirror, smoothes her dress.
“I don’t know what he looks like.”
“It’s an online thing? Then how do you even know he’s here?”
“I just know, I can feel it. He was probing the room for me. I let myself relax. Thought he’d given up on me—it’s been years. But you have to believe me.” Emily-Nancy matches her breathing to Alyssa’s and tries to keep her heartbeat steady. Keep blending, she thinks to herself.
Alyssa gives Emily-Nancy a look. She freshens up her lipstick. “I walked you in here, but I have to get back to the bar.” She runs a comb through her hair, angles her head to see the back. “Why don’t I get your friend Chloe? Whoever this guy is, I bet he won’t bother you if you’re with a friend. Tell me what Chloe looks like and I’ll go find her for you.”
“No, please, don’t go,” says Emily-Nancy. She feels desperation rising inside of her, but she can’t tamp it down. “Stay here and keep me company—just for ten minutes—just long enough for me to collect myself.” Emily-Nancy digs in her clutch and pulls out her wallet. “Here’s a hundred,” she says, counting out twenties, and keeping one for herself. “I’ll get the rest to you after the party—I promise. I just have to hit an ATM.”
Alyssa raises an eyebrow. “Two hundred bucks for ten minutes? Either you’re very rich or I’m very good.”
“You’re very good. I can tell that you are, but that’s not what I need.” Emily-Nancy presses the money into Alyssa’s hand. Alyssa hesitates, shrugs, and sticks the bills into her purse. “Just hold my hand and look at me,” says Emily-Nancy, taking Alyssa’s hand. Strong hands. Probably an athlete. “At the bar, who did I remind you of?”
“Justin Bieber?”
“No, later on.”
“Oh, that,” says Alyssa. Her face softens. “Iris—my half-sister. Something about your expression.”
“Yes,” says Emily-Nancy. “Think about Iris.” Emily-Nancy closes her eyes. “She has almond eyes, right?”
“Yes, she did, but how do you know?”
“Just a guess, and there’s a gap between her front teeth.” Iris-Nancy opens her almond-shaped eyes.
Alyssa gasps and pulls back her hand. “Iris? It can’t be. How did you—?”
Iris-Nancy gets a flash, another memory. Iris is speaking, “Really, you’re going straight? No more trouble with the cops?” “Forward, never straight,” says Alyssa, and the sisters laugh. She’d stayed out of trouble ever since but it hadn’t saved Iris.
“Don’t be scared, Alyssa,” says Iris-Nancy.
“Your voice—it’s the same—but your face…”
“It’s my once-a-y
ear chance, to become someone different,” says Iris-Nancy. “Not like at home. Not where everyone sees me the same and their seeing makes me stay the same. I tried to experiment once before. I was too young. We were in love, but it all went wrong. I got stuck in a bad place, and then when I tried to shift away from it—from him—well, I turned out with this Justin Bieber face and America’s Top Model legs. It sort of worked, and my family thought it was so funny that it stuck in their heads, which reinforced the pattern. This year I really wanted to do something different. To break away from the past.”
A sharp rap on the bathroom door startles both of them. Iris-Nancy shakes her head and holds a finger to her lips. The knock comes again. “Alyssa, if you’re in there, finish up. Break time’s over.”
“Almost done,” Alyssa calls out.
“It’s him,” Iris-Nancy mouths.
“Are you sure?” Alyssa mouths in return.
Iris-Nancy nods vigorously. Alyssa is pulling out her phone when the door is forced open. Hot-as-hell guy is standing in the doorway holding a gun. “Smile, Nancy,” he says with a wicked grin. “It’s your birthday.”
“No,” says Iris-Nancy, shrinking back. “Get away from me!”
“Put down your phone, Alyssa,” says Peter. “Don’t look so surprised. It was easy enough to find out your name—not like tracking down Nancy. That took some time.” Iris-Nancy gets a flash of Peter waiting for her to drive to college, following to find out where. Different face, different height—she’d never noticed him. He’d gone to her commencement ceremony, eavesdropped to find out where she got a job.
Alyssa sets her phone on the sink. Peter steps into the now-crowded bathroom, pushes the door closed behind him and leans against it. “Really, Nancy? A bartender?”
“Mixologist,” says Iris-Nancy.
“Whatever. Why would you pick up this…person when you know I can be everything that you want?”
“I don’t want you,” says Iris-Nancy.
“She didn’t pick me up,” says Alyssa. “She’s just scared. You don’t need a gun. Just tell us what’s on your mind. We’ll listen.”
Year's End: 14 Tales of Holiday Horror Page 10