by Caleb Casey
The Insomniacs
A Short Story
by C. Casey
This is a work of fiction.
Copyright © C. Casey, 2011
All rights reserved.
Cover designed and created by the author using a variety of programs.
Original cover image “Woman under snow” © Andrey Kiselev | Dreamstime.com
Cover image purchased from Dreamstime.com and used in accordance with the website’s Terms of Use & Conditions.
Original title page “golf club” image © C. Casey, modified by the author using a variety of programs.
Visit C. Casey’s Facebook author page:
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Table of Contents
I. The Big Truck That Hospital People Drive Around
II. Insomnia
III. Mask
IV. The Thing That Starts With V
I. The Big Truck That Hospital People Drive Around
An ambulance creeps through the edge of a dying snow-covered town sometime after midnight . Flakes of ivory snow swirl in the breeze, falling from the trees and sky, shining like miniature stars in the vehicle’s headlights.
The serenity of the scene is short-lived.
The back doors of the ambulance fly open and a young woman – she’s wearing only a black bra, blue jeans, and a gold necklace – jumps out and tries to run away. The vehicle stops and someone else steps down from the back of the ambulance, following her into the cold.
The girl doesn’t get far. She tries to run in the loose snow on the shoulder of the road, but her bare feet find a slippery spot and she goes down awkwardly, hitting her head on the edge of the pavement, her flailing arms unable to break her fall. Red blood stains the white snow and soaks her blonde hair. Dazed, she starts to crawl. When her pursuer catches up to her, she’s trying to climb up the snow bank on the side of the road. An electronic beeping sound emanates from the ambulance while it backs up to their location. The vehicle stops.
“Leave me alone,” the girl says, whispering it, her breath visible. She is trying to wipe the blood from her eyes. Her hands are covered with red, slushy snow. There’s blood on her neck, chest, and pants.
The pursuer, dressed in several layers of dark clothing, including a large gray coat with a hood lined in fur, has a silver scalpel in one black-gloved hand. The pursuer’s hood is drawn up, concealing the mask that’s underneath. The girl can’t see the knife – she’s still fighting a losing battle with the blood that’s seeped over her eyes – but she doesn’t need to see it to know it’s there. She stops trying to clear the blood from her face and curls into a ball. Her teeth are chattering; her body is shaking. She braces herself for the pain that’s coming.
The pursuer looks up from its prey, scalpel in hand, the blade’s metallic edge glistening red from the brake lights of the ambulance. Snow flakes continue to swirl above them. In the distance, headlights appear. A vehicle approaches. The pursuer takes one last look at the girl and crawls into the back of the ambulance. Inside, there are two gurneys – one empty and one full. A different girl, a brunette, also shirtless, rests face up on one of them, bloody from a variety of lacerations near her face and neck. She doesn’t seem to be moving. The pursuer closes the doors and the ambulance drives away, leaving the blonde girl bleeding and freezing on the edge of a snow bank.
II. Insomnia
I can’t sleep.
I’m stretched out on the couch, watching TV. The digital faces, chattering away, don’t seem real. I wonder if I have any cigarettes left; I know the booze is all gone. The coffee table in front of me is littered with empty bottles, crumpled cigarette packets, dirty dishes. Somewhere under the mess is a note with an engagement ring taped to it just below Sheila’s signature. Goodbye, the note says.
I know there’s a pack of smokes on the floor. I reach down, fingers searching for it blindly. I find it, peer inside; it’s empty. I toss it in no particular direction.
I’m out of cigarettes, booze, and fiancées. I’m not happy.
I decide to go to the store. It’s been – what? – a week since I’ve left the apartment? Is that all it’s been since she left the note and took off?
Abandoned.
Miserable.
Angry.
I get up and walk past my desk, the one with the computer on it, and grab some winter gear out of the closet. Hooded sweatshirt. Zip. Leather jacket. Zip. Gloves. I pull them on. Hat. I grab the other stuff – keys, wallet, cell phone – from the desk, stashing it. Lighter? It’s on the coffee table. I grab it, catching a glimpse of the engagement ring; it’s a simple gold circle with a small diamond on top. I salute it with one middle finger.
I lock the door and step outside. Winter.
The other apartments in the complex are dark, no lights in the windows. The stairs have snow on them and the wooden railing is rickety. I can see my breath. I’m craving a cigarette. A shot of whiskey, or two or three or twenty, would also be nice. It’s snowing.
I click the locks and get in the Explorer. Start it up. Four-wheel drive? Check. I start the journey into town.
The open-24-hours party store looks like it’s closed. I mumble a series of expletives.
I get out, leaving the Explorer running, headlights shining into the store’s glass exterior. I cup my hands against the clear surface and look inside; the coolers holding the soda and the beer are lit up, but all of the other lights in the place are off. There’s no one inside that I can see. More expletives. I grab the door’s metal handle and give it a swift yank, expecting it not to budge; the door, apparently unlocked, flies open and I nearly slip and fall in the snow. A bell above the door chimes. I go inside.
I stash the bags of supplies – minus one pack of smokes – in the back seat, having left money on the counter inside the store. No one here. The only other car in the lot has a foot of snow on top of it. No people, no voices. Something is wrong. Maybe everything is wrong. I light a cigarette and pull out of the parking lot.
The roads are a mess, so I’m taking it slow. No hurry. There aren’t any other cars. It’s not until I come over the hill near the river, the spot by the playground – I can hear the chains on the swings jangling in the wind – that I finally see lights from another vehicle. It’s still quite a ways away. I poke the cigarette tip through an opening in the window, tapping the ash off. An orange ember flies away. The other vehicle is gone; I can’t see its lights anymore.
I see the girl; she’s lying in the snow bank on the side of the road. This can’t be good.
I park near her, sliding a little on the slippery pavement before coming to a stop. Hazard lights, click. The girl’s curled up in the fetal position, hands over her face, barefoot. She’s wearing jeans and a bra and that’s about it. She’s covered in blood.
I flick my cigarette into the snow and approach the girl. I kneel next to her, remove one glove, and touch her exposed shoulder. She shudders; she’s alive.
“Leave me alone,” she says. It’s barely a whimper.
“It’s okay, I’ll help you,” I tell her.
The girl starts shaking violently, the worst of it with her hands. She tries to pull them from her face.
“I can’t see,” she says. Her eyes are shut, covered with caked (and maybe frozen) blood.
“One second. I’ll get you out of here.”
I open the back door of the Explorer and clear a spot for her.
“I’m going to lift you,” I tell her.
She seems to nod; maybe she’s just shivering.
I crouch, get my arms under her, and stand up. I’ve got her; she feels like a round block of ice with legs. I take small steps, trying to avoid a fall. She’s not all that heavy, but carrying her in the snow is a
wkward.
I ease the girl into the back seat, letting her rest on her side. I take off my leather jacket and drape it over her like a blanket.
“Thank you,” she says. Barely audible.
I nod. It occurs to me that she’s been attacked. Do I have anything that I could use as a weapon? I turn the heat on full blast from the driver’s side and go around back to the hatch. I open it, rummaging through the junk I’ve got stashed in there. Golf bag. Should’ve put it inside months ago, but now I’m glad I didn’t. I prop it up, spilling a few balls and tees from the open compartment on the side. It only takes me a second to choose; I grab the one-iron. It’s sturdy and heavy and could really do some damage if the need should arise, although I’ve never had much luck hitting golf balls with it.
I put the golf club in the passenger seat, peek back at the girl, and turn the vehicle around. I pull the phone out of my pocket and call 9-1-1, heading towards town.
There’s no answer at 9-1-1 dispatch.
No one at 9-1-1, no one at the open-24-hours party store. Not good signs.
We’re in town, what’s left of it. Brookhaven’s been dying for years. Look at all the empty storefronts and houses, crooked FOR SALE signs hanging in the windows and staked into the lawns. The street lamps don’t seem to be working. I see broken glass under the nearest one, bulb shattered, shards of it in the snow. The sidewalks haven’t been shoveled; they’re covered. The roads haven’t been plowed, either.
I dial 9-1-1 again. Nothing.
We’re near the hospital.
III. Mask
I’m parked a car’s length from an ambulance just outside the emergency room entrance. The outside lights are on, but it looks dim inside. No movement, no signs of life. It’s still snowing.
I get out, open the back door. I think the girl’s asleep. Gently, I try to wake her. She stirs, groaning in pain.
“We’re at the hospital,” I tell her. “I’m going to carry you in.”
She seems alarmed. The girl tries to sit up, shedding the jacket. Her blonde hair is stained red and matted to her face and scalp. Her eyes are still closed and caked with blood. She reaches out towards me, touching the zipper on my sweatshirt. She moves her hand upward until it reaches my face; she touches it like a blind person might.
“We can’t be here,” she says. “We have to go now.”
Hmmm. What am I supposed to do with her then?
Her fingers are touching my goatee. “They’ll kill us both,” she says, making the urgency clear without speaking above a whisper. “We have to leave. Anywhere but here.”
I take her word for it. “Okay.”
I grab the jacket, wrap her back up, close the door, get in the driver’s side. That’s when I see it – a figure – walking through the hallway in the hospital. The automatic doors swing open and it steps outside onto the cement walkway. This thing doesn’t look right; it’s draped in several layers, at least two heavy jackets, which makes it look round and bloated. It’s carrying some sort of shiny metal medical tool; I can’t tell exactly what it is at this distance.
Also, it’s wearing a mask.
It’s not much of a disguise, a mask of a man’s face that looks only slightly more realistic than a cheap Halloween costume. The long, black hair attached to the top of it is flying around in the wind. The figure is just standing there, staring at us, while the automatic doors repeatedly slide open and shut.
I click on the high beams and it doesn’t seem to like that; the masked figure holds up one arm to cover the mask’s eyeholes. Light hits the tool that it’s holding, giving off a glare.
I glance into the rearview mirror. Expletive. Another one of the heavily clothed masked things is approaching the vehicle from behind.
I pop it into drive. Gas pedal. I swerve around the ambulance, passing another masked thing on the way. Its line of vision stays with the car. For a second, our faces line up; I see nothing behind the mask’s dark eyeholes.
“Did you see them?” the girl asks.
“Yes. What are they?”
“They killed my sister,” she says, offering no further explanation. No sense pressing for one.
I dial 9-1-1 one last time. No answer. I’m not surprised.
I head for home.
The girl’s sitting on my couch. The one-iron’s nearby.
I go through the bedroom into the bathroom and turn on the faucet; warm water pours into the tub. I grab some towels and washcloths and put them on the toilet lid. I go get the girl – she’s walking on her own but she’s a little wobbly – and help her into the bathtub. I give her one of the washcloths. She scrubs her eyes first. She opens them, blinking and squinting. She dips the washcloth, turning the water pink, and starts to scrub individual spots on her neck and chest.
She’s attractive and I feel guilty that I’m looking at her. She’s trying to clean areas around her bra. I pull the shower curtain back so I can only see her head. I rummage around in the medicine cabinet for bandages and disinfectant.
“I’m going to warm up some soup and I’ll back in a minute,” I tell her.
She stops scrubbing and turns her head toward me, shifting in the tub. “What’s your name?”
“Ramsey.”
“I’m Hannah. Thank you. Thank you for helping me.”
She tries to smile but can’t quite do it. I nod, point toward the kitchen, and leave for a moment.
I knock on the door, one arm cradling a batch of clothes that Sheila left behind.
Hannah’s voice from the other side of the door: “Can you help me?”
I go in. She’s holding a bandage, looking in the mirror at the gash on her forehead.
She’s also completely naked.
“I can’t seem to get it right,” she says, handing the blood-stained bandage to me. Her arm’s scraped and bruised near the elbow.
I put the clothes on the sink, snag a towel from the rack, and drape it over her. I pick up the box of bandages, take a few out, and focus on the cut on her forehead. I spray some disinfectant on a dry washcloth and dab the wound before adding a series of bandages. She needs stitches, probably, but there’s no way I’m going to attempt that. She has blue eyes and they look a little glassy; I wonder if she has a concussion. I finish the bandaging.
“All set,” I tell her. “Here’s some clothes.”
“Thanks.”
She hugs me, still mostly naked, for a moment. I have no idea how to react to this so I just let her do it. Her grip loosens and I slip out of it, telling her the soup’s ready. I leave the room and go into the kitchen.
Whiskey. I open the bottle, pour some into a glass, and drink it all in one gulp.
She’s dressed when she walks into the kitchen. She sits down across from me. It’s weird seeing this girl dressed in my ex-fiancee’s clothes. The two girls bear little physical resemblance other than similar height and weight; they’re both short and thin, about five-foot-nothing. Hannah’s blonde; Sheila’s a redhead. Hannah’s fair-skinned; Sheila has freckles. Sheila wears glasses. I try to put Sheila out of my mind.
I point at the bowl of soup in front of her with my spoon and she shakes her head, saying that she feels a little nauseous.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah says. “I know I asked your name and you told me, but I forgot it.”
“Ramsey.”
“Are you always up this late, Ramsey?” she asks.
“Not always, but often, yes. I don’t sleep much.”
“I’m a night owl, too,” she says. “Could I have a sip of that?” She points at the whiskey bottle.
I pour some into a clean glass for her; I pour myself another dose.
IV. The Thing That Starts With V
Hannah’s sitting on the couch, wrapped in several blankets, whiskey glass in hand, TV on. When I join her in the living room she’s reading the goodbye note.
“She signed her name with a smiley sun over the letter I,” Hannah says. “Are these her clothes I’m wearing?”
“Ye
s.”
“How long were you together?”
“Seven years. Since college.”
“This is the worst thing I’ve ever read,” she says.
I reach out and she puts the note in my hand. I place it on top of the TV and sit next to Hannah on the couch.
“I saw my sister get murdered tonight. I almost died in the snow.”
I ask her for the story. She does her best to explain, stumbling over a word here and there, saying that she doesn’t remember bits and pieces. Hannah tells me that she and her sister, Julie, were on their way to Kensington for a job interview for one of them – I’m not sure which one – the next morning. They stopped for gas in Brookhaven and that’s when the masked things got them.
“They took us into their… the big truck that hospital people drive around and put injured people in…”
I provide the word: “Ambulance.”
“They put us in the ambulance. I think they drugged us. I remember a needle. When I woke up one of them was cutting Julie. She was dead. I could tell. I got out the door; I’m not sure how. I slipped and fell, I think. If you hadn’t come, they would have killed me too. Or maybe they would have left me to die out there, bleeding in the snow…”
I’m not sure if she’s going to start crying or start flipping over furniture in a violent fit of rage. She does neither.
“What’s the word for when you want to hurt someone that’s hurt you?” she asks. “Starts with a V.”
“Vengeance?”
“Vengeance. Whatever those things are underneath the masks, I want to see them die,” she says. “They’re not human.”
No point arguing that last part. I stand up, trying to think of a plan.
“I’ve tried to call a few people, police, 9-1-1, no answer. We might be on our own,” I tell her.
A silhouette passes the front window; we both see it through the curtains. It’s round and short. Another shadow passes the window. The doorknob starts to jiggle, making a light metallic sound. Hannah is up. Four steps and I’m in the kitchen. I pull a cleaver from the knife rack and take it to Hannah. As I’m reaching for the one-iron the doorknob stops jiggling. I grab the golf club. I have a firm grip on the handle and I feel ready.
