Endurance

by Jack Kilborn

  “Get the fuck out of here, asshole!”

  More silence. More staring.

  Mal felt like his legs couldn’t support him anymore. He’d been in confrontations before. Shoving matches in bars with men who’d had a few too many. Once, a fist fight in high school, that resulted in a black eye.

  But this was something different. Something very bad.

  This isn’t someone in the wrong room. This is someone who wants to hurt me.

  Mal reached up, wiping his palm across the glass so he could see the man’s face.

  Holy shit! What’s wrong with his—

  The door jerked open, the giant’s hand reaching for Mal’s neck. Mal danced under the grab, making a fist, letting it fly.

  His fist hit the man in the face—

  —and sunk in to the gaping hole between his upper lip and his nose.

  Mal’s knuckles were engulfed in something warm and wet; snot, saliva, or both. He recoiled, pulling his hand out of the giant’s harelip, and got shoved back against the shower wall.

  Then a wet towel was pushed over Mal’s face. When he tried to breathe, his lungs filled with an acrid stench that Mal knew all too well. From his cop days, busting huffers—kids who inhaled chemicals to get high.

  Ether. He’s trying to knock me...

  That was Mal’s last thought before he spun into unconsciousness.

  # # #

  I should have kissed him.

  Deb sat on the Teddy Roosevelt bedspread, staring at the door, willing Mal to knock on it. She had wanted to kiss him. She had really wanted it. But when he went for it she chickened out, no doubt humiliating him.

  He’s not going to knock. He’s not ever going to try it again.

  Deb closed her eyes and fell back onto the bed, sighing deeply.

  I can run triathlons, but I don’t have the guts to kiss a guy I like. Pathetic.

  She thought back to Scott, her last boyfriend. He patiently waited during her months of recovery, and when they finally tried to have sex again for the first time since her accident, he couldn’t get it up. Her cheeks burned at the memory.

  “I’m sorry, Deb. I can’t.”

  “Why, Scott? I’m the same woman.”

  “You’re... grotesque.”

  Mal didn’t seem to find her grotesque. And Deb doubted he’d have any sort of problems in bed.

  But Deb knew she had problems. Body image problems. Mobility problems. Self-confidence problems.

  She wasn’t comfortable letting another human being see her bare stumps. How was she supposed to get completely naked with somebody?

  I’m so sick of hating myself.

  Deb opened her eyes, struck by an intriguing thought.

  I could go to his room.

  Not to sleep with him. Deb knew she wasn’t ready for that. But she could at least kiss the guy good night.

  It had been so long since she’d kissed a guy.

  Deb pushed herself off the bed, and walked to the door. When her hand rested on the knob, she paused.

  Now I’ve gone from being a chicken to being needy.

  She thought about what was worse, cowardice or insecurity, and decided cowardice was worse.

  Deb stepped into the hall and walked over to Mal’s room. Surprisingly, his door was open a crack.

  Is he expecting me?

  Deb hesitated again.

  Knock? Go back? Or go in?

  She knocked lightly.

  No answer.

  Deb lightly bounced up and down on her Cheetahs, trying to decide her next move. If he left the door open by accident, going in would be a bad move.

  But who leaves their door open accidentally?

  Deb went inside. Immediately, she realized why he didn’t respond when she knocked. She heard the shower, and saw steam coming out from under the bathroom door.

  He isn’t expecting me.

  For a moment she debated walking into the bathroom and joining him in the shower. It was purely fantasy—she just wasn’t the type to do that, legs or no legs. But she let herself imagine how it would unfold. Maybe she could say something clever, like, “Is there room for two?” Or maybe she’d just slip in behind him, and start washing his back.

  Damn it, I should have just kissed him.

  The shower cut off.

  I could wait here. Surprise him when he walks out. “Your door was open. I thought maybe we could give that kiss another try.”

  The bathroom door creaked, pushing outward.

  Deb turned fast and got out of there. Heart pounding, she slunk back into her room and locked the door behind her.

  “Nice, Deb,” she said to herself. “Real mature.”

  Annoyed with herself, she hobbled into the bathroom to check out the clawfoot tub. Earlier, all she wanted to do was take a nice, hot bubblebath. Deb loved bubblebaths. She loved being weightless while immersed in water, and getting the suds high enough to imagine that under them, her body was whole.

  But looking at it now, she saw how steep and high the bathtub’s edges were. Unlike modern hotels, there was no hand bar or railing next to the tub. That meant getting in and out would involve flopping over the edge. The tile floor was probably cold, and there weren’t enough towels to cover it. Then, afterward, Deb would have to put her prosthetics back on to get into bed.

  A whole lot of work for a bit of relaxation. Besides, she didn’t like that gigantic framed poster of Theodore Roosevelt that faced the toilet.

  It seems to be looking right at me.

  Deb decided against the bath. She’d get up early, deal with it then. Right now, she just wanted to sleep and try to forget this day ever happened. She took off her fanny pack, placed it on the sink, and pulled out her toothbrush and toothpaste. The water was gross, but she made do. Afterward, she picked up a hand towel and left the bathroom. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and undressed down to her underwear.

  I really hate this part.

  Deb hit the release valves on her prosthetics, breaking the suction. She eased them off and set the Cheetahs on the floor, next to the bed. Then she rolled down the gel sock, sheathing the vestige of her left calf. A day’s worth of accumulated sweat dripped onto the floor. Deb wiped the sheath with the towel and gave it a tentative sniff.

  Not too funky. I can get another wear out of it.

  She pulled the silicone end pad out of the bottom, dried it off, and repeated the process with the other side, setting the sheaths on the night stand. Then Deb finally looked at her legs.

  The amputations were transtibial; below the knee. Her left leg was three inches longer than her right, and both came to tapered ends. Deb hated that they were uneven—it made her feel even more deformed. To make the complete package reach eleven on the hideous scale, each leg had raised, ugly scars, from her surgery, and from her cougar injuries. On top of all that, she needed to shave.

  Yuck, Deb thought. I’m a monster.

  She always thought that when she looked at her stumps.

  Her skin below each knee was pruned and red. The gel sheet provided cushioning, but Deb sweat so much she got heat rash. The alternative was to wear stump socks, which would wick away sweat just like regular socks did. Unfortunately, the suction of the prosthetics weren’t as tight when she wore socks, and Deb didn’t want to risk having a leg fall off while in motion. Still, she’d eventually have to come up with some sort of compromise. Even the strongest antiperspirants didn’t do much to help.

  She draped the towel over her legs, then began to dry her stumps, massaging the muscles.

  For half a second she pictured someone else doing the massage. Mal.

  The fantasy ended with Mal gagging and running away.

  You’re... grotesque.

  Yes. Yes I am. And it’s my own stupid fault.

  Deb considered jumping into the self-pity pool and wallowing around, but she was presently too tired to hate herself. Instead she yawned, then flicked off the light switch next to the bed. The room went dark, and Deb buried her fac
e in the Roosevelt pillowcase, letting her mind blank out.

  Less than a minute later, she heard something creak.

  Like someone is walking toward the bed.

  Deb’s eyelids snapped open, and she fumbled for the light switch.

  The room was empty.

  She waited, riding out the adrenaline, her heart dancing a rhumba. But there were no more noises. No one around.

  Okay. Old houses creak. No need to get paranoid about it. The door is locked. I’m alone. I need to go back to sleep.

  She hit the switch, adjusted the pillow, and rested her head.

  Creak, creak, creak.

  Closer this time.

  The light on once again, Deb sat up in bed. No one was in the room. She wondered if there was some reasonable explanation for this. Maybe the creaks were coming from the floor below. Or next door. Or maybe she was hearing something else that she mistook for footsteps.

  But it didn’t sound nearby. It sounded like it was coming from in the room.

  She waited longer this time. Waited for the creaking to come back.

  There was only silence.

  Deb put her head back down, but she left the light on. If there was another creaking noise, she wanted to be able to see what was causing it.

  Is someone messing with me?

  Who? I’m alone in here.

  After another long minute, she closed her eyes. She let her mind wander, and it found its way back to Mal. Cute guy. Obviously interested. All Deb needed to do was get out of her own way, and let things develop. If she stopped second-guessing everything, stopped thinking ten steps ahead, maybe she could actually—

  Creak.

  Deb opened her eyes, wide.

  The creak came from right under my bed.

  Moving slowly, she peeked over the edge, half-expecting to see some masked psychopath lying on the floor, waiting to spring.

  She saw nothing. And that scared the living hell out of her.

  My prosthetics are gone.

  Deb left them alongside the bed. She was sure of it. She checked the nightstand, saw the gel sheaths were still there.

  Maybe I’m brain dead. Maybe I put them on the other side.

  Rolling over, Deb peered over the other end of the mattress.

  All she saw was bare floor.

  Someone took my legs.

  Then the bed moved. Just a bit, but enough for Deb to realize what was happening.

  The person who took my legs is under the bed.

  Deb stared at the closet. She had her cosmetic legs in her case. If she could get to them, strap them on, she’d at least have a chance at getting away.

  But how? Ease onto the floor and crawl there? That’s at least five yards away. I’ll never get there in time.

  The bed jerked again. Harder this time. Whoever was under there lifted up the box spring and let it drop.

  Then she heard him chuckle. Soft and low.

  The fear that overtook Deb was the worst thing she ever felt. Worse than when she was falling off the mountain. Worse than when she was being stalked by the cougar.

  This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t mother nature.

  This is a human being deliberately intending to do me harm.

  Her mind flashed back to the blowout. Maybe Mal had been right. Maybe someone had shot out the tire, to make sure they couldn’t get away.

  And maybe that someone was under her bed right now.

  What am I supposed to do? Any other person would be able to run away.

  Maybe I can talk to him

  Deb’s voice was shaking when she said, “Who’s there?”

  After a terrible silence, a voice directly beneath Deb said, “I’m Teddy.”

  It hit Deb like a slap to the face. She was so frightened she began to shiver. He was right beneath her.

  “What... what do you want, Teddy?”

  No answer.

  “Teddy...?”

  “I wanna watch you bleed, girl.”

  Deb put her fist in her mouth, biting on her knuckles so she didn’t scream. She cast a frantic glance around the room, looking for some kind of weapon. There was nothing. And she’d left her fanny pack—and her knife—on the bathroom sink.

  “I got yer legs.” Teddy said. “You can’t get away.”

  The fear was overwhelming. What could she do, other than wait there, unable to escape, while this crazy man crept up the side of the bed and climbed on top of her? She might as well have been tied up. Or paralyzed.

  How do I run from someone when I can’t even stand up?

  Mal, Deb thought. He’s right next door.

  “Mal!” she screamed, banging on the wall behind her. “Mal, help!”

  “Help me, Mal!” Teddy joined in, using a falsetto. “Please help me!”

  Deb filled her lungs and yelled as loud as she could. “MAAAAAAL!”

  Mal didn’t answer.

  “Your little boyfriend ain’t gonna help you, Debbie. Harry already took care a’ him.”

  Teddy pushed the mattress up, so hard and violent that Deb almost rolled off.

  “Ready ‘er not, here I come.”

  She heard a palm slap the wood floor. Summoning up some dregs of courage, Deb peeked over the edge and saw Teddy’s hand, sticking out from under the bed. It was large and grimy, the fingernails long and yellowed. Teddy’s thumb was actually two thumbs; at the knuckle it split into a Y shape.

  Deb thought about reaching down, grabbing it, trying to break a finger, but she was too scared to move.

  Another hand came appeared, also with a bifurcated thumb. Then Teddy slowly eased himself out. His hair was brown, matted, a bird’s nest of tangles. He turned and stared up at Deb. His face was just as ugly as his hands. Bushy eyebrows. A scraggly beard. One eye bigger than the other, the lens gray with a cataract, the other so deeply bloodshot it looked like a maraschino cherry. Teddy smiled, showing stained, rotten teeth, and Deb caught his pungent odor—stale sweat and sour milk.

  “Ain’t you a pretty one. Ol’ Teddy may get hisself a taste ‘fore we get to bleedin’ you.”

  Then Teddy pulled himself the rest of the way out from under the bed, and Deb got another shock.

  He doesn’t have legs.

  No, wait. He does.

  His overalls ended just below the buttocks, and jutting out of them were two tiny, underdeveloped feet. Like those of a baby.

  I have a chance.

  I can get away.

  Fear gave way to action, and Deb rolled to the opposite side of the bed. She slid off the end, face-first, landing on her hands and knees. Then she peeked under the dust ruffle to see where Teddy was—

  —and stared directly into his gray eye, only inches away.

  Teddy’s hand shot out, grabbing Deb by her hair before she had a chance to flinch. Deb made her fingers stiff and poked at his good eye, jabbing hard. Teddy howled, releasing her, and Deb crawled like crazy around the bed.

  Hall or closet? Hall or closet?

  Closet. I can’t get away without my legs.

  Deb beelined for the closet, her bare knees beating a painful staccato against the hardwood floor. Teddy slid out from under the bed, pushing himself along on his belly, cutting off her route. Then he headed for her, efficiently dragging himself forward in a serpentine manner, like a fish swimming on land.

  Deb spun around, scurrying past as his hand reached out. His fingers brushed her thigh, but he couldn’t grab on. She frantically tried to figure out where to go next. The closet was blocked. So was the hallway. And Teddy was slithering toward her at a quick clip, a grotesque, hairy snake.

  The bathroom? Go for the knife?

  No. I’d be trapped in there.

  So what the hell can I do?

  My Cheetahs. He took them.

  Maybe they’re under the bed.

  She grabbed the post, sliding under the bed, immediately seeing the displaced boards and the hole in the floor. Teddy was reaching for her again, fingers grazing her stump. She caught a quick gl
impse of his wide, brown grin, and then Deb pulled herself, face-first, through the trap-door.

  Then she was falling—a sick, familiar feeling that was worse than any pain in the world. Her fear was short-lived, and she quickly banged her arms and head into a recessed floor, only a few feet lower than the one she’d just fallen from. Trying to catch her breath, Deb squinted at her surroundings.

  I’m in a crawlspace between the first and second levels.

  A few yards away was a dim, flickering light.

  A candle.

  Deb felt around, finding one of her Cheetahs, then the other, and then Teddy was dropping through the trap-door, landing next to Deb with a huge thump.

  She swung her prosthetic like a scythe, hard as she could, trying to catch Teddy’s face with the blade edge. The blow hit home, the leg vibrating in Deb’s hands. Teddy howled, covering up his head. She followed up with two more strikes, trying to pound his face into hamburger. But the Cheetahs were lightweight, not much heft to them, causing only superficial injuries.

  Tucking the legs under her arm, Deb crawled toward the candle. It was awkward, and she had to switch from crawling to a sideways shuffle. She sucked in dust and cobwebs, trying to avoid banging her head on various support posts.

  Teddy began to chuckle. “Oooo, y’all gonna pay for hittin’ me, little girl. Y’all gonna pay dearly.”

  Deb reached the candle and smacked her palm on top, snuffing out the flame. The blackness was stifling, and the enormity of her situation hit her like a sledgehammer.

  I’m trapped in a dark crawlspace with a psychotic freak.

  She began to hyperventilate, unable to get enough oxygen. That led to wheezing.

  I’m too loud. He’ll find me.

  Deb clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to silence herself. When she was sure she wouldn’t pass out, she scooted away from her position, moving quietly. It was slow going. She didn’t want to bump into anything, or make the floor creak.

  After she got some distance between herself and the candle, she began to put on her Cheetahs. Even though her hands were shaking, her years of competing in races paid off and Deb was able to get them on in less than thirty seconds.

  Now I need to find an exit.

  Deb raised her hands up over her head, feeling above her. She found a beam, and began to follow it along its length, crawling as silently as she could.