Long Live the Queen

by Ellen Emerson White

  Good thing she didn’t wear contacts.

  Oh, yes, indeedy, things could be worse.

  She should think about something good. Something nice. Something not fatal.

  Awards shows. God, she loved awards shows. From the Teddy Awards on Mary Tyler Moore, right on up to the Academy Awards. The Emmys were her second favorite, although the Golden Globes were a goof, too.

  “And,” she said aloud, “for Best Actress in a Television Drama—” She fumbled with the flap on her pretend envelope. “They really are hard to open,” she said to the audience—who chuckled warmly. She opened it, pulling the card free. “And the winner is—I’m sorry, I mean, the Emmy goes to … Meghan Winslow Powers.”

  Tremendous applause.

  She allowed herself to smile shyly, modestly, on her way up to the stage. “Love your work,” she said politely to the presenters, then lifted her Emmy. “They really are heavy,” she said to the audience, receiving terribly warm chuckles in return. She gazed at her nice shiny trophy. “I didn’t prepare a speech, I—” She paused for demure reflection. If she was gracious, maybe they’d give her one every year. “It was such an honor just to be nominated.” Which was probably enough groveling, since—obviously—she deserved every single bit of the attention, acclaim, affection, and admiration her peers had decided to bestow upon her. “I’d like to thank the Academy, of course.”

  Oh, to be able to say that, and not be addressing the faculty at Exeter or someplace. There, she’d be saying something like, “I’d like to thank the Academy in general, and Mr. Jarvis, in particular, for his splendid array of jam tarts.” To which, her audience would respond with kindly smiles and delighted chortles, of course.

  She had been—family legend had it—the kind of child you could put in an empty room, and it would sit there for hours, laughing wildly at nothing. “Meg is very imaginative,” her mother would say tactfully. Meg was a bloody simpleton, more likely. Give that child a shoebox, or a piece of string, and she’d be amused for hours. Kind of like Dudley Moore in Arthur shrieking with laughter, and then saying, “Sometimes I just think funny things.”

  “Like I said—” How colloquial—and non-elitist of her—“I didn’t prepare a speech, but—” She pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, greatly amusing the crowd. “There are one or two people I’d like to thank.” She paused to examine the pages. “My agent. My broker. My sponsor. My parole officer.” The audience, of course, went off into gales of laughter. “Working with Brad was—well, unforgettable. And let me assure you that the rumors were—just that.” Sympathetic, respectful nods from the audience. Her millions, upon millions, of fans. “I’d also like to thank my family, and—”

  Family.

  Suddenly, this game didn’t seem quite so funny.

  SHE HAD TO get out of here. Now. If she didn’t, she was going to die, and—any second now, she was going to—she had to get out of here.

  She yanked at the chain, crazily, with both hands, pulling so hard that it felt like the muscles were ripping right off the bones in her arms. It wouldn’t move. Oh, Jesus God, she had to get out of here. Why wouldn’t the god-damned thing break, or—she hated him. Fucking coward. How could he have left her here, and—how could any human being do that to someone else? Let her sit here for hours, and days, slowly, slowly feeling herself dying. A new symptom every hour—less movement in her hands, her tongue so swollen that it seemed to fill her whole mouth, dizziness—that god-damned son of a bitch.

  She toppled over into the dirt, trying to cry, but her throat was so dehydrated that she couldn’t even whimper, and breathing hard and making self-pity noises somewhere inside was all she could manage. Then, she lay there, drained, not sure if she was going to be able to sit up again. Ever again.

  This was it. This was abso-fucking-lutely it. And now, she just wanted it to hurry up and happen already. It wasn’t scary anymore, or something to fight, or—she was ready. It was too soon—in life—but, there wasn’t anything she could do to change that, so she was ready. It was going to be over.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not sure who she was talking to. Her parents, probably. Josh, maybe. If her tear glands were still working, she would have cried. “I’m really sorry.” She hadn’t ever done anything, she hadn’t helped anyone, she had wasted her whole pathetic life. Seventeen years of—coasting. Drifting along like she had all the time in the world. No direction, no conviction—just a complete and total squander.

  And she didn’t even give a damn. Just wanted it to end. The sun would come up, her family would go on, her class would graduate—and her being there, or not, wouldn’t make much of a difference. People would be sad, for a while, but they’d get over it. Everyone would. Everything would.

  It was going to be peaceful. At least, it’d damned well better be. She would let her eyes close gently and—there’d probably be warm light, and music, and—she opened her eyes. Music. With her luck, she’d get English madrigals or something. Gregorian chants. Rap. The Best of Bread. Seventeen years of listening to good rowdy rock and roll and—if she had to listen to stuff like “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “Amazing Grace,” death definitely wasn’t going to be her kind of place.

  Motown’d be okay. Or the Doors, or the Stones, or—“I Love Rock and Roll” was probably asking for too much. So was Rodgers & Hammerstein. Sadly, that would probably be reserved for a much higher caliber of dead person. But, maybe she could get—hey, wasn’t she supposed to be dying right about now? Christ, instead of chess, she and the Grim Reaper were going to be fighting over the jukebox.

  “Put it this way, pal,” she said. “You play me any folk or country, and you will never work on the East Coast again. On either coast.”

  That’d be telling him. Was Death a him? Oh, no doubt. But, her Death wouldn’t look like Darth Vader—no, not a chance. She’d get stuck with a little, fat, effete one. A Republican. If her Death was a woman, it would be a Disneyland tour guide. With Tupperware. And make-up samples.

  If she went to hell—always a possibility—there would be a lot of standing around, holding hands and singing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”—or, maybe, “My Heart Will Go On.” Over and over. Indiscriminate hugging. Waiting in an endless Wal-Mart line, while some grating, yet cheery, voice kept shouting, “Attention, shoppers!”

  Hmmm. For someone who was about to die, her mind seemed to be clicking again.

  “Death Scene, Take Two,” she said aloud.

  Except this time, she was going to change the ending.

  13

  THERE HAD TO be a way out of here. The chain wasn’t going to break, or fall off, or unlock, or anything. But, there had to be some way—like, if she could cut her damn arm off, or—wait a minute. Maybe—that might be it.

  Heart beating faster, she looked at her hand, not sure if she was overjoyed or nauseated. She could cut her hand off. That’s how poor little animals got out of traps, right? She’d be free, she could run away, and—blood. All that blood. And what was she going to cut it off with—that nice, straight orthodonture? Or one of the rocks? Yeah, right.

  If only there was some metal around. On television and everything, they always seemed to have an ax or a saw or something conveniently nearby. And usually even a tourniquet. And sometimes, afterwards, they said, “Ow!”

  Lucky sons of bitches.

  Maybe she could find an old can lid buried in the dirt, or—Jesus, what a thought. But, that was the only possible—the Idea hit with such force that she actually flinched. A way out. She had actually thought of a—she yanked at the cuff, the base of her thumb keeping her hand from going any further. She’d lost weight—her hand was a little slimmer, maybe—all she had to do was break it. Break a few of the bones, so her hand would be able to slip right through. It would work. It would actually—she pulled the cuff, studying her hand. Figuring out what to break, so excited she could barely breathe.

  And, it wouldn’t be so hard. Just a question of the right rock. With a solid edge, but not to
o sharp—she didn’t want to slice herself open. And it couldn’t be too blunt, because she needed to shatter the bones at the right spots. Oh, what a wonderful, wonderful plan.

  Scrabbling through the dirt, trying to find a good rock, she actually found herself grinning. She loved this plan.

  And, she’d found the rock. Fist-sized, with a slightly flattened edge, maybe an inch wide. Perfect. She rubbed it across her leg, wiping the dirt off. The edge even came to sort of a rounded point at one end. Absolutely perfect. She kept cleaning it on the only slightly cleaner sweatpants, getting ready.

  If her hand was resting on the ground, the dirt would absorb most of the blow—so, she’d have to flatten it against the rock wall. Hand pressed down, fingers spread apart, so she could see the bones.

  She clenched her fist, testing it once again at the cuff. It was the joint at the base of her thumb—the bottom knuckle—and the bone leading from there into her wrist that were causing the problem. The knuckles at the bases of her forefingers and pinky might be trouble, too. Mainly, though, it was her thumb. If there was some way to cut that off, she’d be in business. However. With luck, pulverizing all of those bones would work almost as well.

  Hard enough. She had to be damned sure to do it hard enough. If she just bruised, or cracked, the bones, her hand would swell horribly—and she’d also probably never have the courage to smash herself again. Hard. Very god-damned hard. And fast. Any time she’d broken a bone in her life—including recently—it had swollen up instantly, almost before she felt the pain. Big tight swelling, not flexible stuff she could yank through the cuff. So, she would need to move very, very quickly.

  Okay, okay. She had to get ready. Had to do this before the light faded. She flexed her right thumb, wondering—with a sudden twist of nausea—if this were going to be the last time she’d move her hand like that in her life. Maybe she’d maim herself permanently, have a crippled—for Christ’s sakes, better crippled than dead.

  Calmer, she leaned back, moving her thumb back and forth, watching the bones’ and muscles’ responses. Okay, okay. A couple of deep breaths, and she’d be ready to go. This was the only possible way out. A way he obviously hadn’t anticipated. The only thing he hadn’t anticipated.

  Bastard.

  Now, she was ready.

  She pressed her hand against the cold rock, trying to decide where her other hand would have the most striking power. The best angle. Eye level, maybe. No, slightly below eye level would be better. Then, she hefted the rock, adjusting its position in her hand until it felt just right.

  Okay, okay. One shot. Well, actually, two—to break both places. One quick break, then another. She couldn’t take time to think, or—slam! She heard some kind of yelp come out of herself as the rock crunched into her hand, but was already swinging harder, smashing the rock into the other place. She pulled against the cuff as hard as she could, feeling a scream rip out. But her hand didn’t come out. Oh, God, it didn’t come out. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. She smashed the rock down again, panicking, and again, and again, and again, wrenching at the cuff with all of her weight, suddenly finding herself lying flat on her back, a convulsion of pain jerking through her hand, and then her entire upper body.

  She was out. Dear God, she was out. Her hand was twitching and jerking, the pain so hot and horrible that she was whimpering, but she was out. Out!

  She had to hurry. To get out of this place! He might come back, to see if she was dead yet. What if he came back? What if he was on his way right now, and—she had to hurry. And half of her body was useless, and—it was time to go, damn it!

  Pulling with her left hand, pushing with her right leg, she dragged herself to the boards, the fear giving her energy. Heart thumping with excitement, she peered out through them. There might be a house right out there, or—woods. Forest and mountains, darkening fast.

  Okay, okay. She twisted around, her broken hand resting limply on her stomach, and gave the boards a kick with her good leg. They were rotten. Thank God for that. She kicked a couple of them free, then crawled out.

  Outside. Jesus, she was outside.

  She couldn’t waste time; she had to get away. But, first, she had to put the boards back, so he would think she was still in there. Then, she had to escape. Fast.

  Except, she was in the middle of the damned woods. Where was she supposed to—who cared where? She just had to go. She crawled towards the thickest part of the woods, feeling too panicked and exposed to think about anything except finding a place to hide. Someplace safe.

  Push with the right leg, pull with the left arm. Push, pull, a few inches at a time. She made it about fifty feet—well into the woods—before collapsing completely. But, she couldn’t stop, she had to—except, even breathing seemed like too much of an effort. Okay, she was going to have to rest for a minute—and think. Think hard.

  It was dark now, and very quiet. A few birds, trees in the wind, rushing. None of which she could really hear over her heartbeat and breathing. Her hand and knee were throbbing, agonizingly, but she was too exhausted to focus on that. The ground felt prickly, even through her clothes, and she realized that she was lying on pine needles. Chilly, sharp, scratchy needles. So what. She stayed there for a long time, somewhere between sleep and passing out, still unable to catch her breath.

  Rushing. The rushing sound was loud, and fast, and—water! She opened her eyes. Where was it? Somewhere nearby, somewhere—it was all around her, rushing louder, almost deafening. She raised her head, turning it to try and find the right direction. It was coming from her left, or—no, behind her. It sounded like it was coming from behind her. She dragged herself in that direction, new adrenaline pumping in.

  Every few feet, the underbrush got thicker and she had to struggle through it, but the ground seemed spongier. Then, moss, damp ground, mud, rocks. Lots of rocks. Louder and louder rushing. Closer and—there it was. A fast-moving stream, barely visible in the early moonlight. She stared at the water, so happy that she would have cried if there had been anything left in her tear ducts.

  She was going to let herself fall right in, but had enough control to remember that water wasn’t always safe to drink, and—for Christ’s sakes, she was damn near dead anyway. It wasn’t like she could take the time to crawl around and find different water. And this stream had a pretty decent current, which—she was almost sure—was a good sign.

  Carefully, she touched the water with her left hand. It was cold. Wonderfully cold. She splashed some across her face, and that felt so good that she splashed more. Across her face, her neck, her chest. She touched a palmful to her lips—cold—fresh—then sipped some, waiting to see what happened.

  Nothing happened. And it tasted okay. She drank more, then put her whole face in the stream, her skin seeming to soak it up, expand. Okay, okay, she shouldn’t go crazy with this. After not having any for so long, drinking too much water probably wouldn’t be too intelligent.

  But, Christ, it was tempting.

  She lifted her face out of the stream and lay in the mud by the edge, trailing her left hand in the water, and washing her face again and again. The water was numbingly cold, and she lifted her right forearm, slowly lowering her hand and wrist into it. There was one hard jolt of pain, then icy relief. She let her hand float until the current made everything hurt too much, then lifted it out.

  Safe. Safer, anyway. Lost God only knew where in the wilderness—maybe not even in America—but, safe. And alive. And a hell of a lot better off than she’d been an hour ago. It was dark, and shiveringly cold, and she hurt—badly, but it didn’t matter. Right now, it didn’t matter at all.

  SHE MUST HAVE either fallen asleep or fainted, because suddenly, it was light out. The brightness hurt her eyes and for a minute, she couldn’t figure out where she was, except that her teeth were chattering, and she was covered with mud—and in pain. A lot of—she started remembering—and remembering and remembering and remembering.

  “Jesus,” she said aloud, her voice c
racking from disuse.

  Which reminded her that she was probably supposed to be overjoyed. Eternally grateful and all. Sing a song, maybe.

  She slid her left hand into the water, then wiped it across her face, the coldness waking her up even more. Then, she drank a couple of palmfuls, almost able to feel her mind clearing. And definitely feeling the pains sharpening. All of the pains, her right hand now the dominant one.

  She looked down at it, the shape so swollen and deformed that she came close to throwing up. If she could find anything inside to throw up. Her stomach—empty for, Jesus, days now—felt shriveled. It hurt. And her knee hurt, and her jaw, and her nose, and Christ, her ribs—okay, okay. She couldn’t just lie here and feel sorry for herself. If he came back to the mine shaft and found her gone—she had to get out of here. Move as fast, and far away, as possible.

  What a tiring thought.

  Using a nearby boulder, she hauled herself to a sitting position—not bothering to fight the requisite groans, and leaned against it, looking around.

  Yep, she was in the woods, all right. And, judging from the pitch of the land, mountain woods. American woods? Pine trees, other trees, bushes, and stuff. Who the hell knew? She’d never exactly been one to sit around watching PBS nature specials. The only thing she could be pretty damn sure of was that this wasn’t the Amazon. Probably not the Nile, either.

  It would be nice to sleep some more. Block out all of the pain. But, he really might show up here any second now and—all that work breaking her hand, just to have him—she needed to get away from here.

  She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. To make her mind work. There had to be a road nearby, because they wouldn’t have carried her miles. For one thing, she’d be heavy; for another, the odds of their being seen went up that way. So, all she had to do was crawl back to the mine shaft, look for their footprints, and—oh, yeah, right. Follow the prints to wherever the road was, and have them find her. No, she couldn’t take that chance. Unless this was the stupid Yukon or something, she had to be relatively near civilization. And the nights hadn’t been cold enough to indicate that she was way far north like that.