After parking next to Rocky’s pickup, Sydney went through the gate to the guardhouse. She pulled on the door but it was locked. Cupping her hands on the glass to shield her eyes from the glare, she peered inside. The guardhouse was empty, but there was the master key sitting on the desk. Without it, she had no way of getting inside.
Which didn’t make any sense. Rocky would have needed the key to lock the door in the first place. How could the key be locked up inside if he wasn’t in there as well? But her eyes were insistent on what they saw and what they didn’t see. The guardhouse was very small, and she could see every inch of the space, even under the desk, and Rocky was definitely not in there.
Frowning, hesitant to leave the gate open like this, Sydney finally started off across the parking lot to the plant. The first thing she noticed when she stepped inside was that all the administrative office doors were open when they should have been closed and locked.
She went to the nearest office, got on the P.A. system and said, “Officer Turner, this is Captain Mercer. Please report to the front of the plant immediately.”
Leaving the office, Sydney headed into the plant proper, expecting to see Rocky scurrying to the front, but there was no sign of the man. She searched the plant thoroughly, but he was nowhere to be found.
Rocky was gone.
REBECCA WESTON SPEAKS THE TRUTH
There was nothing particularly unusual about that Wednesday afternoon, nothing that would have indicated to Rebecca Weston that by day’s end she would be huddled in a corner, butcher knife grasped in her hand, blood streaming down her chin.
It started at the supermarket. Rebecca always did her grocery shopping on Wednesday afternoons, just after her morning shift at the local radio station where she did the weather and traffic reports. She got to the market around one, wheeling her cart through the familiar aisles, picking up much the same items that she picked up every week. Ground beef was on sale, so Rebecca tossed a couple extra pounds in her cart. Wednesday was usually fried chicken night, but perhaps tonight she would surprise her husband Arnold with a nice meatloaf.
At the checkout counter, the teenaged cashier smiled vacantly as she scanned all the items, the total coming to seventy-three dollars and eighteen cents. Rebecca handed over four twenties. The cashier handed back a five, a one, three quarters, a nickel, and two pennies. Her vacant smile widened as she told Rebecca to have a nice day.
Rebecca smiled back, opened her mouth to thank the cashier, and said, “You’re going to die on Christmas Eve.”
The teenaged cashier blinked, her vacant smile withering. “What?”
Rebecca put her hand to her mouth, aghast, as surprised to have heard the words coming from her mouth as the cashier. She hadn’t meant to say such a dreadful thing, had not even been aware the words were going to leave her lips until they were out there. She didn’t know what had come over her. She opened her mouth to apologize and said, “It will be a car accident. You’ll be driving home late from your Grandmother’s house on the back roads. A deer will bolt in front of your jeep. You’ll swerve to miss it, the tires will slide on the slick pavement. You’ll flip down an embankment and smash against a large tree. You’ll be trapped inside when the jeep catches on fire.”
The cashier went pale, her mouth working soundlessly, her eyes darting around like pinballs. She spotted the manager and started waving him over, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.
Rebecca, horrified by her own unexplainable behavior, grabbed her bags and dashed out the doors. She tossed the groceries into the backseat of her SUV and peeled out of the parking lot.
Why had she said those things? She did not know. It was as if they hadn’t come from her at all, as if someone else had been speaking through her. But that was madness, the type of thing that happens in cheap horror novels or trashy B-grade films. Not the type of thing that happens in the real world, in the patently normal life of Rebecca Weston.
Rebecca pulled into the driveway just as the mail carrier, a lovely young lady with mocha skin, was delivering the day’s mail.
“Hello, Mrs. Weston,” the mail lady said as Rebecca retrieved the bags from the backseat and headed for the door. “How are you today?”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say she was fine and said, “Your husband is cheating on you.”
The mail lady paused on the sidewalk, staring back with an expression of puzzled amusement, as if she’d just heard a joke but didn’t quite understand the punchline. “I beg your pardon?”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say she wasn’t feeling well and needed to get inside and said, “Her name is Debbie. She works as a paralegal at his office. He does things to her that he tells you he doesn’t like.”
The mail lady’s expression hardened, her lovely smile mutating into a vicious sneer. She suddenly looked dangerous, like a wild dog on the loose. “What the hell are you talking about? What do you know about my husband?”
Rebecca, not trusting herself to speak, just turned and ran for the house. She slammed and locked the door behind her. What was wrong with her? Was she losing her mind? It was as if her tongue had a will of its own, was making decisions without consulting her brain.
Rebecca dropped the groceries on the floor and collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing. She was still sitting there when Arnold came home just after five. He noted the groceries spilled on the carpet then the tears streaking his wife’s face. He rushed to her, took her hands, and asked, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? What happened?”
Rebecca looked into her husband’s face. Such a sweet-tempered, gentle man. He would know what to do, surely; he would be able to help her. She opened her mouth to tell him about the strange events of the day and said, “You’re gay.”
Arnold froze, his grip on his wife’s hands tightening involuntarily. His eyes widened and filled with panic. He forced an unconvincing laugh and said, “What kind of joke is this?”
Rebecca opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t know what was happening to her and said, “You’ve been chatting with guys on the internet, and a few times you’ve met some of them for sex without even exchanging names. One was only sixteen.”
Arnold flung away his wife’s hands as if they were suddenly hot to the touch. Standing quickly and backing away from the sofa, expression wary, he said, “Have you been spying on me?”
Rebecca just shook her head but kept her mouth closed. She felt ill, like she was going to vomit. Her rigorously maintained life of normalcy and habit was crumbling around her.
Arnold continued retreating across the living room until the back of his legs hit against the end table in front of the window. “I just…you don’t know what it’s like…I never meant…I just need…”
Rebecca put her hands over her ears, shaking her head violently, dislodging her ponytail and sending her hair flying wildly around her face.
“I have to go,” Arnold said, sidling to the door. “I’m sorry, I just can’t…I need time to think…I never intended…”
Then Arnold was out the door. She heard his car crank and drive away, but she made no attempt to go after him. She merely sat there for a moment more, taking deep breaths and trying to quell the queasiness in her gut. She was just beginning to think she had it under control when she felt her lunch rising.
She rushed down the hallway, making it to the bathroom just in time to void the contents of her stomach into the toilet. When there was nothing left, she went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. Distantly, as if heard through a filter, she became aware of the phone ringing.
She picked up the hall extension, opened her mouth to say hello, and said, “You killed your younger sister’s dog when you were twelve.”
There was a pause on the line then a male voice said, “Uhm, hello? This is Michael, calling on behalf of Charter.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to tell Michael this wasn’t a good time and said, “His name was Zorbo; he was a dachshund. You were upset because he urinated on your new leather jacket, so
you kicked him across the room. You buried him in the backyard and told your sister he ran away.”
There was a click followed by the dial tone.
Rebecca walked on numb legs to the kitchen. A bottle of aspirin sat on the windowsill above the sink. Pouring a glass of cold water, she washed down two pills to combat the headache that now pounded in her head like a snare drum. She wasn’t aware that she had taken the butcher knife from the dish drainer until she looked down and discovered it in her hand.
It had grown dark outside, and Rebecca could see her faint reflection in the window glass. She looked the way she felt—like a madwoman. She opened her mouth to scream out her anguish and frustration and said, “You’re going to do something rash and stupid.”
Her legs no longer able to support her, she collapsed in a heap to the floor. She crawled to the corner of the room, next to the backdoor, and curled up in the fetal position, crying as she hadn’t cried since childhood. She clutched the knife to her chest like a security blanket.
She knew what must be done. Her tongue had betrayed her and was ruining the life she had worked so hard to build. It was a traitor, a terrorist, and this was mutiny. She had no choice; she had only one option if there was any hope of salvaging what was left of her life.
Rebecca closed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and started to slice.
THE DINER
“What is this place?” Jess asked.
Harold looked around. “It was what they called a diner, back before the war.”
“Diner? I’m not familiar with that word.”
“Well, like I said, it was before the war, when the world was…different.”
Jess wandered around. There were tables with dishes on them and plastic chairs, everything covered by mounds of dirt and ash. In places the ceiling had caved in, offering a view of the dingy gray sky above. “What manner of place was this?”
“From what I’ve gathered from the books I found in the ruins of the library, a diner was a place where people came to have food prepared for them.”
Jess frowned. “Prepared for them?”
“Yes, apparently before the war, people did not have to forage for scraps. There was an abundance of food, and people could come to a place like this and exchange something called money and in return someone else would prepare meals for them.”
“That sounds like science fiction.”
“I have learned from the books that life before the war was a time of luxury.”
“But I don’t understand…why have you brought me here?”
“Because I plan to open my own diner.”
“What? That’s insane.”
“No it isn’t. I don’t know what this money was exactly, I think it was mainly some sort of symbol, but I could offer people food here, and in exchange they would provide me with fuel or candles or clothing for the harsh winters, any number of items I may need.”
“That sounds wonderful, but there’s only one problem. Where are you going to get the food?”
“That’s the answer to your earlier question.”
Puzzlement put a crease between Jess’s bushy eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”
“That is why I have brought you here,” Harold said, brandishing the cleaver.
HOMEBODY
By the time Brian got home from work on Friday afternoon, he felt about ready to collapse. It had been a hell of a rough week, and he was looking forward to a relaxing weekend of vegetating. He walked into his apartment, kicked his shoes off by the sofa then went straight to the kitchen for a cold beer. When he returned to the living room, his wife Erica was sitting on the sofa.
“So what are we going to do this weekend?” she asked.
Brian paused, downed half his beer, then had a seat next to her. “I figure we’ll just hang here and watch some movies.”
“You know, there are these places you can go to with great big screens, and they show movies there too. We should try it sometime.”
“Erica, I’m really not in the mood for a crowd.”
“Well, we can go to the drive-in over in Shelby. It’s the best of both worlds. We get out of the apartment, get to see a movie on the big screen, but separated by the crowds in the privacy of our own car. What do you say?”
“I’m just not up for it.”
“You’re never up for it,” Erica said, a pout in her voice. “All we ever do is sit around this apartment watching TV. I want to go out, I want to see people, I want to do things. We’re wasting away here.”
Brian let out a weary sigh. He couldn’t believe they were having this conversation again, seemed like it was happening more and more often lately. “Erica please, I work all week. On the weekends I just want to kick my feet up and relax. I just want to rest.”
“Well, it’s not like you ever take me anywhere during the week either. I mean, rest and relaxation is fine, but every once in a while couldn’t we do something, go somewhere?”
“I really don’t want to argue about this. I’m starving, I’m going to order some takeout.”
“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”
“You’re never hungry,” Brian grumbled as he headed back to the kitchen. Riffling through the takeout menus in the junk drawer, he selected Chinese and placed the order on his cell. When he turned around, he found Erica standing behind him.
“If you want Chinese, why don’t we go out to a Chinese restaurant? You used to love that place down by the Mall.”
“No, Erica. I don’t want to go out. Why can’t you just enjoy being here with me? Why can’t that be enough for you?”
“Brian, it’s not that I don’t love you or enjoy spending time with you, but I’ve always been a social butterfly, you know that. I need more than just this tiny apartment. If you won’t take me out then I’ll just go by myself.”
“No you won’t.”
“What do you mean, I won’t?”
“I mean you can’t.”
“Can’t? Oh, so now you’re telling me what I can and can’t do? That’s the kind of marriage you think this is? Well, you’ve got another thing coming, buster. If I want to, I’ll walk right out that door and go where I please when I please.”
Brian brushed past his wife and went straight to the front door, opening it wide. “If that’s how you feel, go ahead. I’d like to see you try.”
With a resolute expression, Erica marched right to the door. She seemed a woman on a mission, like nothing could stop her…but when she got to the threshold she suddenly let out a startled yelp and stumbled back. Frowning, shaking her head as if to clear it, she tried again but with the same result.
“What’s going on?” she said, reaching out toward the doorway. “It’s like there’s something there, some kind of invisible barrier. What are you playing at, Brian?”
Instead of answering, he went down the hallway to the bedroom. When he returned, Erica was still standing at the door, trying to push through the barrier that would not let her pass. Without speaking, Brian held up a slightly yellowed newspaper and tossed it on the coffee table.
Erica approached carefully, as if afraid the paper might grow teeth and bite her. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, she glanced at the paper and saw that it was dated only two weeks after they moved into the apartment. But that couldn’t be, this paper looked like it was several years old and they’d only been in the apartment…how long was it now? She was having trouble remembering.
“Look at the article down at the bottom of the page,” Brian said, and his voice was hoarse as if he’d been gargling glass.
Erica glanced down at the article in question and read the headline aloud. “Young Woman Killed in Tragic Household Accident.” She scanned the article and was only mildly surprised to see her own name. It was all starting to come back.
“Best I can figure,” Brian said, “you were trying to put up those shelves above the sink in the kitchen. I kept saying I would do it but never got around to it. Guess you got tired of waiting. You slipped off the stepl
adder and hit your head on the side of the stove. I found you when I got home from work that afternoon; you were already dead.”
Erica put a hand to her mouth, glanced back at the article then toward the open door. “Yes, I remember now. How long ago was that?”
“Two and a half years.”
“And I can’t leave the apartment.” Not a question, just a statement.
“You keep trying, but it seems to be against some cosmic rule.”
Indicating the newspaper, she said, “And how many times have you shown this to me?”
“I’ve lost count. For some reason you keep forgetting, resetting. Lately it’s been getting worse and you seem to forget at least once a week. Sometimes more. I think maybe you’re starting to go stir crazy. Like you said, you were always a social butterfly, and perhaps all this isolation is getting to you.”
“A ghost losing her marbles,” she said with a laugh, but the sound had a brittle, unstable edge and she clamped both hands over her mouth to hold it in. “So it’s just the two of us then?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But you could still go out, you could still live life, Brian.”
He smiled at her, moved as if to stroke her cheek but then stayed his hand. “Nah, I’m more a homebody. I like just hanging out in the apartment with you.”
Erica nodded but looked near tears as Brian went and closed the door.
BEFORE AND AFTERMATH
Interview transcript. Subject: Tyler Robert Ferguson, senior at Corinth High School. Age: 17.
It was insane, man. Just insane, like something you’d see in a movie. Not something that would really happen. But it did. No, I didn’t see him come in. I was sitting in the back of the cafeteria with some of the other guys from the baseball team. The lunch period was about half over, and it was really noisy in there. I heard a few people scream, but I just thought it was some jokers fooling around, you know? Even when I heard the first gunshots, I didn’t realize what they were. Then there were a lot more screams, and people started running and diving under the tables. That’s when I first saw him, standing there in the doorway, holding that rifle in his hands. He was dressed all in camouflage, like he was going hunting, and he had some kind of black greasepaint smeared under his eyes. I didn’t recognize him at first, but then I realized who it was. Ned Terp. Ned the Twerp, that’s what everyone called him. He was just standing there, shooting into the crowded cafeteria. Didn’t look like he was even aiming, just firing at random, and he was smiling. He was actually smiling. My buddy Greg grabbed me and pulled me under the table. I looked out across the cafeteria floor and I could see bodies. I saw at least three, lying face down, blood pooling under them. And I saw this girl, Lila I think her name was, and she was shot but she wasn’t dead. She was crying and trying to crawl away, a huge bloody hole in her back. While I was watching, another bullet took her in the back of the head. It was like a watermelon exploded, that’s all I can think to compare it to. I’m not going to lie, I started screaming then myself, I couldn’t help it. I mean, it was Ned the Twerp, quiet little Ned who never said boo to nobody. I didn’t really know him, you know, but he always seemed like a harmless guy. Didn’t talk much, was real smart, didn’t have a lot of friends, but I certainly would never have thought he’d be capable of something like this. I mean, why would he do something like this? I just don’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense.
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