by A. E. Rought
The video starts rolling, shaky at first, someone running while it was recording. Then it settles, and focuses on Emma. She’s bloody from shoulders to feet, hair blowing around her face in an updraft, eyes wild. Em pulls upward on a raccoon’s back legs, with its head apparently trapped beneath her feet. The rotten tissues give way, and the raccoon’s existence is finally over.
Emma flings the body into the ditch beside the drive, and kicks the head off camera. Whoever filmed the video pans across the snow-clad field beside the road, and settles on the doe. Em must’ve ended her too.
The video continues to roll as the person walks up the drive following Emma.
I can’t watch anymore. My stomach rolls, acid burns up my throat. The phone plummets to the bed when I release it and run to the bathroom. Bile roils up from my stomach and into the toilet when I drop to my knees. She truly was soaked in slaughter when she crawled in my window. The blood of those innocent animals was on her hands, in her hair, soaked into my quilt.
Oh God, Em, what have I done to you?
Dawn light peeks through the curtains when I return to my room. Emma sits on the floor, her back to me, her legs crooked and hunched forward, a marionette with cut strings. Light filters through her hair, giving it a sickly glow. Renfield is coiled in her lap now that she doesn’t reek of death. Tremors slither along her body, seeming to start from her hands and flowing outward. Then I notice all of Em is moving, rocking back and forth and mumbling, “It’s me. It’s me.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me when I sink behind her and take the phone away. The video reaches its end, a close up of Pam, our old dog, finally dead, her skull completely crushed, and a shovel driven through her neck.
“Oh Alex,” She sobs, holding a hand over her mouth like she might puke, too. “I’m a killer.”
Vengeance in sneakers, dealing a final death to all the undead creatures on our property.
“No, Em. That was mercy. The kind I didn’t give to them.”
“But I killed them.” A dislodged Renfield meanders off when Emma spins, and holds her hands up by my face. “I. Killed. Them. And I don’t remember doing it. It was me. Not even with a weapon. A gun would’ve been merciful. I used my hands.”
“You didn’t hurt them. You set them free.”
Emma starts when my cellphone rings. The screen says it’s Bree. “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Emma says, and collapses to my chest. I wrap an arm around her, and answer the call, “Hello?”
“Please tell me she’s OK,” Bree says. “Please tell me she’s in her right mind, and that was some lookalike.”
“I’m not going to lie, Bree.” Emma’s hair feels so clean when I stroke it, all the red washed and gone. “At least she doesn’t remember it.” Although I think I know why she might’ve done it. We’d been arguing about the animals right before she climbed out of the car.
“Well, that’s a small comfort,” says Bree. “I don’t know how she could do that and be sane.”
Me, either. Or how she could do it and not remember.
“Where the hell did that video come from?” I ask.
“Unlisted number,” she answers, “That’s all I know.”
“Alex,” Bree then says, “she needs to come back here. Her mom is going nuts and talking about buying a plane ticket home if she doesn’t talk to Emma today.”
“I’ll have her back there in a little bit.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
With the call ended, I put the phone on the nightstand, and take Emma’s hands in mine. I lift them, kiss her knuckles and press her hands to my face. Then, with her skin so close, I notice the red irritation, almost like a chemical burn or allergic reaction. I lean closer and look at her throat, and face, where she smoothed the lotion.
“Em? Did you notice you have a rash?”
“Maybe I’m allergic to killing,” she deadpans.
“It’s definitely a reaction from something you came in contact with, but it’s only where you put that lotion yesterday. I would stop using it. We can go buy you something else when you feel up to it.”
“Up until seeing that video, I felt pretty good,” she says, and runs a finger down my bare chest. She circles her arm around my waist and clings tight. “I feel better with you.”
“I do, too.” I kiss the top of her head. “But you have to go back to Bree’s. And I want to look at her phone, and see if we can trace that video back to its source. We might find out more of your missing time.”
“Do I really want to know?” Her voice is sad, already defeated.
“Knowing is always better,” I tell her. Except the world knowing what’s happened, thanks to my father’s fringe science. “You can’t defeat what you don’t know.”
“Only if I don’t have to watch it again.”
“Never, Em. I’ll do my best to make sure nothing like that ever happens to you again.”
“Promise?” she asks.
“With everything that I am.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I don’t know, Paul,” I say. “We’ve been over this a hundred times.”
“And we’ll go over it a hundred more. Have her in and draw blood samples, take readings, measurements, anything we have to.”
“I checked Bree’s phone when I got there. When I dialed the number, I got an out-of-service message.”
“So, we have no idea why Emma flipped,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know who shot the video, or what else they may do with it. But we do know what she did for part of the time. We really need to do some tests.”
“I’ll get her in, maybe tomorrow.” Pacing does nothing to burn off the worry and agitation twisting my gut into a nauseous tangle. Paul sits behind his desk in Ascension Labs, almost a part of the chair now. We’ve been at this for hours, dissecting the events since Emma hit the lab table, discounting no possibilities, yet, and no closer to figuring out why she flipped or how to prevent it.
“I think I’ll try to get some sleep,” he says, “if you’re bringing her in tomorrow.” Paul stands slowly. Deep creases refuse to smooth from his clothes, and even I can hear his joints creak. “A rested mind is a sharp mind.”
“Thank you,” I say. I never felt I could lean on my father after he revived me. Paul invites confidence, seems eager to fill the loss of both my parents. He may never know how deeply I appreciate it.
“Don’t thank me yet.” He reaches behind him, to a shelf of supplies and grabs a notebook. “You have work to do. I want you to make a timeline of events, as accurate as you can be. Include all food, drink, amount of sleep, laundry soap, dryer sheets, perfumes… hell, farts if you think of it.”
I flick a glance at the wall clock, and sink into his desk chair.
“We will figure this out, Alex.” When he says it like that I believe him. “Order yourself takeout, put it on Ascension’s tab. I’ll leave the gates up.”
Paul walks out leaving me surrounded by why, who, how, and what-if.
The blank notebook page daunts me with the number of empty lines to fill. The cause of her mood flip may not be what happened after I revived her, it may involve what was already in her system. It could be a component in the formula. My heart recoils from that line of thinking. If something in the formula caused the split in personality, it could reoccur, she could get worse with every dose. And I will have to live with the guilt of destroying the girl I love with every attempt to prolong her life.
The sudden ache makes me think of what she said days before her accident, to text her something about myself. I pull my cell phone out, and text Emma: The truth is, my mom read lullabies to me when I was sick, even as a teen. I think your quiet breathing makes the best lullaby.
Papers, articles, charts, pens and other gadgets clutter Paul’s desk. I find the least chewed-on pencil, and write “before” on the heading of the page then start listing everything I can remember about the day of the accident. When she woke, Bree’s organic shampoo and body wash, what she said sh
e had for breakfast. I’m up to listing details about the afternoon before the party when Emma texts back.
I open the message: That is so sweet <3 I know I sleep better by you. Tell me more!
Maybe this is a way to give Emma what she wanted, and win her heart from Daniel’s memory. I tap in the reply field and type: The truth is, my imaginary friend’s name was Rasputin. He had green hair, and hated broccoli.
Sullen quiet fills Paul’s office, punctuated only by the scratch of my pencil. An uncomfortable feeling of being watched settles on me like a prickly jacket. I scan the security cam feeds Paul has installed in a bank beside the desk. The screens are all void of life, except for the experimental animals in their sealed, locked cages in the wing separated by double locked doors.
I start when my message notification tone breaks the silence. I tap the screen and read Emma’s response: LOL I never had an imaginary friend. Mom never allowed me enough room to squeeze one in. Tell me more!!
This feels normal. So much like the Emma before her accident, I can’t help but smile. Pencil down, pacing animals and lab ghosts forgotten, I type: The truth is, I would love to chase tornadoes.
Motion on the edge of my vision catches my eye. I track the blinking light to the computer monitor, the email notification icon flashing in the task bar. I mouse over to the envelope image and left click. The machine processes the command, the subject line reads, Re: Video, then the message opens.
“Contain this problem.” Beyond curious, I click on the attachment, and the horrid video of Emma rolls on the screen in High Definition. Choking on shock, I shut down the media player. What the hell? Why would someone respond to that bloody recording?
Disbelief numbing me, I open the message details and find a digital trail from Paul’s computer to an unspecified recipient. No matter what trick I try, I can’t find the source. A search of the computer files turns up nothing, not even a copy of the video.
Has he been playing me from the start? Is Paul responsible for Emma’s flip?
I grab my cellphone, thumb through the contacts to Paul’s and push the little green phone.
“What the hell is going on Paul?” I snap the instant he answers.
“Whoa, son. What are you talking about?”
“Don’t call me ‘son’.” Keeping me close to get to Emma. Hell, keeping me close for observation. Paul’s been concerned about the lab from the start. “An email responding to that video of Emma just showed up in your inbox.”
“I haven’t seen the video, Alex.” His voice is level, too calm. “I have no idea how it got in my email. You have the computer there, go through it.”
“Already did. I found nothing.”
“Why would I hurt her?” He pauses, draws a breath. “Why would I put the lab in further jeopardy? Someone has to be setting me up.”
A logical answer. Given his tenuous control, and my demands undermining it, he wouldn’t do anything at all to make things worse. Logic is heavy and sharp. Trust, fragile and delicate and gone now.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” I say and disconnect the call.
He calls back, and I flick the icon to ignore the call. I can’t talk to him now. My head is spinning, a foul sinking feeling pulls in my chest. This is not the time for me to doubt the man I’ve been relying on. Doubt has sprung up, though, fissures in the bedrock of my trust. Now I’ll have to watch Paul, too.
I turn to the surveillance screens and my mood further deflates. A familiar silver Audi A4 passes the gates, headed toward the lab. If putting the building into lockdown wouldn’t alert the other scientists, I would flip the switch. Hailey has keys, and entrance codes. Nothing short of a Hazmat lockdown will keep her out of here.
My jaw muscles tighten as I track her progress. She parks and then steps from her car, the wind blowing her jet black hair over her face. It settles enough for me to see her calculating green eyes and her smug grin.
This is not going to end well.
My fingers hover over the lockdown button. Just one push…
Then the front doors open and it’s too late.
I scramble to cover the notebook under a pile of Paul’s collection of charts. I don’t even want to imagine what he has hidden in here, or what Hailey would do with the information on Emma. Hailey’s stride is light, graceful, almost catlike, matching her expression when she looks at the security camera like she knows I’m watching. “Got you,” her eyes say. I jerk my gaze to the mess of files on Paul’s desk and find one marked “H – Hailey Westmore” on the floor, near the trash can. It’s empty, but I slide it to the top of the pile, rest my fingertips on it. Let her wonder, maybe it will show a chink in her armor.
Her footsteps pause at the open door to Paul’s office. Hailey, all overpriced clothes and flashy jewelry, raps her knuckles on the doorjamb, then drapes herself against it. She toys with the end of her ponytail.
“Looking good, Alex,” she says. “The throne suits you.”
Of course she would go there. My father wanted me to run Ascension if he died, he wanted me at the helm of all the great discoveries he had steered it toward. And he’d chosen Hailey as my companion right after Mom died. Seeing me in the head office, at the desk, is a visual tease of what he promised us both.
“What the hell do you want?” I pour as much annoyance as I can into the question. “Did you come to survey the damage your little argument caused?” I hate to think of how she would act if she knew Emma ended up on the receiving end of death.
Her laughter has a silky, poisonous feel. “Oh, Alex, please.” Hailey drifts from the door to the wingback armchair, and perches on the arm. “That was just for fun. Trent and I had a good laugh about it at Papa’s Pizza afterward. You remember Papa’s? You remember our old haunts, right? The Sadony gang used to hang there every weekend.”
“Don’t patronize me. Of course I remember.” The corner booth is where I asked her out. That’s one memory I wish I had lost. But she stressed “our old haunts” like it means something.
“Honestly?” she says and leans forward, exposing most of what little cleavage she has. “Your girl is lucky I don’t press charges for assault. Everyone saw her drag me around by my scarf.”
“Oh, drop it already. We both know pressing charges on a girl in high school is beneath you.”
“Well,” she simpers, “there is that…”
“So, what do you want?” I stress every word.
Her line of sight zeros in on the folder with “H – Hailey Westmore” written on it. Her green irises widen slightly. Then she sighs, crooks one corner of her lips into a smirk and leans back.
“I want what I’ve always wanted. You. The half of Ascension your father promised me, too.”
“Then get used to disappointment.”
“You know you loved being with me. Do I need to remind you?” She holds up her cell phone with plenty of damning pictures stored away in it. I’m tempted to smack it out of her hand and destroy it, but I’m sure she has backups somewhere. “You know I could expose everything your father did. I have the files.”
“And then Ascension goes belly up, and you lose your cushy position and access to the meds and processes you need.” Paul said Hailey was the experiment here. I’ve looked for something to hold over her, but all her personal files are locked. I’m digging now, looking for an angle, a foothold of any kind against her. She can’t expose Ascension – if it goes we all go, two of us to death. At least I haven’t damned Emma to the hell I’m sure I’m going to.
“True,” she admits, “It would hurt us both, and I really don’t want that.”
“You’re not getting what you want, Hailey. So, what will you settle for?”
“Silly boy. You know I never settle.”
“Then,” I stand and incline my head toward the door, “we’ve reached the ‘rock and hard place’ part of the conversation.”
Hailey slides off the chair arm, and slithers up next to me. She hooks the fingers of one hand in my hair, and drags a fin
gernail down the front of my shirt and snags it on my belt.
“I prefer unstoppable force and immovable object.” Her fingers tighten to a fist at my scalp, and her fingernail hits the top of my fly. “Think about all the kinetic energy to burn up.”
“If you don’t leave, I will kick you out. And if you don’t leave me the fuck alone,” I spin under her arm, yank it behind her back and pin her to the doorjamb, “I will have you banned from the premises.”
“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” she says, voice calm despite her cheek being pressed to the wood trim. “You have two choices: come back to me, or give me half of the company.”
“Or what?” I pull her wrist higher along her spine, and smile when she winces.
“Or I will make Ascension into a cross, crucify you on it, and laugh when your girl abandons you to burn.”
“That will never happen.” I nudge her knee with mine, taking out her center of balance, and then shove her down the hall. “Emma loves me.”
Hailey’s laugh makes me wish my mother hadn’t raised me right. I’m angry enough to smack her. “Sweet little Emma?” She jerks out of my hold at the doors. “That girl has a temper problem. Look what she did to me at the party.”
“Premeditated on your part, I’m sure.”
“Hardly,” she sniffs. “That girl’s not worth my time.”
I hit the button to trigger the door release, and push Hailey through the opening.
“Get out. And get out of my life.”
Hailey recovers instantly, as sure-footed as if she intended me to shove her outside. She turns, a delicate move like a ballerina, and waves with a coy smile on her face. Then she pulls her cell phone from her purse and types something in. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Hailey’s eyebrows arch, and I can hear her saying, “Well, read it.” Hell with that. I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me do what she wants.
I lock the doors, and turn away. Even the ghosts in this place have drawn back from me now. Ascension Labs feels vacant, more tomb than place of science trying to beat death. In Paul’s office, I drop into his chair and grab the folder with Hailey’s name on it. Still empty as the lab, but the edges are worn soft, the creases at the bottom speak of constant use. Hailey knows we are looking for a way to get her out of Ascension. She must’ve emptied out the folder and left it here, just one more way to prove her superior intelligence.
