by Lucas Coon
"Hello?" That same voice. It was a voice that sent chills down his spine every time it tickled his inner ear. He knew it was important that he tell her where he was, though he couldn't figure out who she was nor how he was going to tell her. At this moment he realized that in his panic, he neglected to analyze his location. Even if he could say he was there, he had no idea where there was. He drowsily looked around. He was in the middle of a street. Not just any street, but the street he lived on, only a few houses down from his own. It was warm outside, the sun was beating down on his head, but at the same time everything felt hazy. It was almost as if Mitchell had been drinking, and then found himself in the middle of his street on a sunny afternoon. He had no recollection as to how he got there, but he was just amused at the fact that he was home. He tried to remember what had happened just before this exact moment. He vaguely remembered running away from something, what it was he couldn't remember, but then he had felt safe and happy, and now he was home. Now, he was home.
He looked up the street at his house and smiled. There it was. Dark blue, single story with a horse-shoe driveway in the front. The flower beds off to the side were in full bloom, and the big oak tree was shading the front of the house just enough to keep it a little cooler. There was a grey brick path from the driveway to the front door, with a single step up to the actual door, and a single step up into the house. He started to walk towards his home. It was so close, but every step he took seemed to push his destination that much further away. His steps were heavy, like something was holding him to the ground.
"Mitchell!!" A piercing scream exploded from the direction of the house. Mitchell’s ears perked and he turned his stiff walk into a consistent sprint. He dashed as fast as he could towards the door, but it remained just out of reach. His sprint continued until he kicked the back of his own foot and tripped. He slammed into the pavement with the entirety of his body weight. He laid there with his eyes closed, he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, not from pain, or the shock of slamming into the cold ground, but out of fear and anger. He began to feel the warm tears roll off his face onto the road.
"Why? Why can't I save her? Why can't I help?" He began to sob uncontrollably. He laid flat with his stomach on the ground. He remained motionless, until he felt the presence of someone staring at him. He pushed himself to his knees to see who it was that was watching him. He looked up and saw her staring at him. Her hair was a mess, and her skin looked pale. Her clothes looked well worn, as if they were they only thing she'd been wearing for several days. She was standing, blocking the sun from Mitchell's vision. He examined her face. It was sickly, and she looked as if she had been crying, black eyeliner running down her cheeks. Her eyes were focused on his, her pupils fully dilated to the point of taking up her entire iris. She stared at him curiously.
"Mitchell…." She uttered his name, entirely emotionless. There were several moments of silence between this moment and his response.
"Aria, I…." He noticed that he was able to speak again. "Is that you?" He was dumbfounded. She was standing right in front of him. His reason for continuation was right in front of him. He'd found her.
"Mitchell…." She repeated his name in the same manner as before.
"I'm right here Aria. I'm right here." He held his hand out to her. Her gaze shifted from his eyes to his hand, then back again. She began to open her mouth. At this point Mitchell's smile broke into a look of absolute dread. His happiness broke into a feeling of life-threatening terror. He was face to face with death, and it had taken over Aria. The moments between his break in emotion and her leaping in to attack him felt like forever. The exact moment where he knew that his life was ceasing came at the exact instant he opened his eyes.
"Aria!" He gasped in the cool night air and struggled to stabilize his breath. His heart was pounding to a degree that he thought it could burst at any given moment. He laid flat on his back staring at the office ceiling, biting into his own lip trying to calm down. It was still completely black out. He pressed the side of his watch to get the tiny lights beside the face to glow. The hands pointed to around three-forty five AM. He laid his arm back down on the floor. 'At least I was able to fall asleep. That's promising, right?' His mind began to race quickly. He hated these kinds of dreams; the kind that jutted you awake in a harsh manner. The ones that crossed the boundary between imaginary and reality and lead to waking in a cold sweat.
His eyes remained focused on the tiled drop ceiling. There was nothing in particular about the ceiling that was interesting to him, he was just slightly afraid to close his eyes again. What he had just dreamed was easily his greatest fear right now, the possibility that she was infected, that all of his attempts would be in vain. That everything that he was fighting for wouldn't actually be worth the effort put forward. 'What if she is? What if it's a waste of time?' He shook his head. 'No! Stop Mitchell! You can't do that. You have to remain positive.' He placed his hand over his eyes and rubbed his forehead upward, removing the sweat from his face. He lay motionless staring for a while longer. After a while, he felt his eyelids slowly drifting downward. He wanted to remain awake, but decided not fight it this time. He embraced sleep and slowly drifted back into unconsciousness.
As with every other day, the morning came. On any normal day, around seven-thirty AM the first office worker would wander up the rear stairwell, and slowly trot up to the third floor. She'd pull the keys off her purse and press her identification card to the reader and the door would beep, followed by a clicking noise of the locks releasing. She'd turn the handle and attempt to balance her laptop bag and purse while trying to put her keys away and walk in heels. She hated heels, but they looked good, and that mattered. She was one to always live by the saying "dress for the job you want, not the job you have" and she was aiming for the chief financial officer position. She knew that Mr. Patrick would be leaving the company in the next few years. She'd been his assistant, often times covering his duties for seven years. She knew the ins and the outs of his job, and felt that before her tenth anniversary with the company, she'd be sitting in that office. It would be a dream come true to be at her age and sitting in the chair of an executive office, running the financial department for the company.
She proudly waltzed over to her cubicle, it was the furthest in the back, closest to the office, and it offered a great view of downtown. She set her purse down and placed her laptop onto its docking station. She gingerly slid her finger over the power button, and the system began to boot up. She turned and looked out the window directly to her right; she could see the sun inching its way ever higher into the oceanic sky. It was starting to cloud up some, but not much. She looked over and saw cars following the standard hustle routine. The fast-food restaurant a block or two over had a line that had wrapped around the building, and into the parking lot. It wasn't normally that busy, but it was busy today. She glanced a little over and noticed a brightly colored sign, "Buy one, Get one on all Breakfast Sandwiches!" The use of an exclamation point was unnecessary, but gave it a sense of urgency. It was if the sign was telling the world they needed to take advantage of this deal or else they would regret it for eternity and, in her opinion, it seemed to be working.
She soaked in the colors of the sunrise for a little while longer, but decided to press on into her morning routine. She stood up and walked towards the kitchen area. Her actions were rhythmic, as if she'd been doing this act for quite a while. She put the coffee pot in the sink, and turned the knob. While it was filling with the cool water, she reached up in the cabinet and pulled out a metal coffee tin. She opened the lid and her smile turned into an annoyed frown. She sighed and threw the empty can into the trash. 'If it's empty, why can't you people just throw it away?' She rolled her eyes and grabbed a fresh can from the back of the cabinet. She tore off the metal "freshness-seal" and scooped some coffee into the filter placed in the head of the machine. Without skipping a beat, she turned off the water, poured it into the receptacle, and pr
essed the power button. The coffee maker began to make its normal crackling noise as it prepared to brew up a murky liquid that a majority of the workers on this floor had come to depend on. Coffee had become the lifeblood of the third floor team, and she was happy to prepare their transfusion, so to speak.
Once she was certain the machine was operating appropriately, she walked over to the fridge, grabbed a small container of strawberry yogurt and took the trip back to her desk. She sat down in her chair and logged into her computer. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flickering yellow light. She unlocked her phone and read the message from her husband under her breath.
"Hey honey, our little grown up was asking if she could stay home from school today since it's her birthday, and I told her that I'd have to ask mommy." She smirked. "Dammit, Darren, you are such a softie." She tapped the keyboard swiftly to respond. "Well you tell Lilly-Anne that if she stays home she has to clean her room because that's what grown ladies do." She chuckled under breath. "Jeez, she's such a sweetheart." Her phone buzzed, it was a reply from her husband. "Oh Kayla! Don't call her that! Pretty ladies aren't called Lilly-Anne remember? She said she would. I'm home all day, so I'm gonna keep her with me. Apparently there was a pipe burst and our entire office is a swamp. I might be home for the week. Fun!" Kayla placed her phone back in her purse and shook her head. 'Just his luck. He has a major project to do for a client, and the entire office gets literally swamped.'
This was what would happen on a typical morning at this building on the third floor. While the specific events would change, the characters would remain the same. It didn't change for close to seven years. Today was not like every other day. Today, there would be no chipper lady walking up the stairs to the third floor. Today she would wake up in her cubicle, next to her husband and their five-year-old daughter. Today she would wake up confused, and the confusion would slowly become fear and anxiety. This morning, there were six people sleeping in the financial department, because it was secure for the time being. The only consistency was that the sun would rise and the sky would tinge a beautiful pink tone. All the dreams and the aspirations of the once energetic woman were gone.
After his horrifying nightmare, Mitchell didn't dream about anything. The remainder of the night was still until the morning came. Just before the sun was fully visible over the horizon, just before the people, if you could still call them that, down below went into hiding, there was movement on the third floor. The door to the office that Mitchell was residing in slowly opened and the figure crept in as quietly as he could. He loomed over Mitchell, lying motionless on the floor. Mitchell was unaware he was being watched. He was comfortably positioned on his side with his arms in front of him. He didn't know that his peaceful rest was going to be abruptly cut short.
The figure that loomed over him glared angrily at him. He pulled his right leg back and kicked Mitchell with enough force to cause tremendous pain, but nowhere near as hard as he possible could. The boot connected its mark, hitting Mitchell in the wrist, arm and stomach. Mitchell was jerked out of his sleep to the sight of the man that had decided to ruin his morning.
"Get up." The man's voice had a thick accent, one Mitchell couldn't quite pin-point. He had darker olive-colored skin and his head was shaved bald. He had a thick black mustache that indicated, had the man had hair on the top of his head, it would've probably been black with spurts of grey. To Mitchell's disappointment, he couldn't fully work out the details of the man through the tears that we're starting to well up in his eyes. "I said, get up!" the man shouted and connected his boot a second time. This time he was very well conscious during the event, and this made it hurt even more. Mitchell remained on the ground curling in pain. As the foot reared back for a third blow Mitchell complied with his request.
"OK! OK, OK…..I'm getting up…." He groggily hoisted himself up to his feet with the desk's legs and surface. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. He peered to his left to get a better picture of the man that had assaulted him. He was about six foot and five inches tall. He was a little thin for his height, but he wasn't small by any definition of the word. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt that had a tear in it, and what appeared to be a blood stain. Based on his most recent actions, Mitchell was wondering if it was his blood, or some poor innocent person or creatures. His pants were dirt-covered and ragged. He had clearly been involved in something destructive. Now that he was in a mental state where his thoughts and memories flooded back to him, Mitchell assumed that it involved what was going on outside.
'Wait, who the hell am I looking at?' Mitchell realized that it was just he, Darren's family and the family down the way. 'Wait, that's him. That's the guy that was asleep last night.' Mitchell realized that this was the man that was perched uncomfortably with his wife in the cubicle at the far end of the floor. He didn't look so tall last the night before, but that could very well have something to do with the fact that he was curled up and lying on the floor. 'Maybe I should have woken him to introduce myself. Maybe he thinks I'm an intruder or something.' Mitchell cringed through the pain and straightened his back to stand erect and look potentially more threatening. This was a complete failure as Mitchell was three inches under six foot and wasn't thick for his height at all. The man towered over him, and was double his size. Mitchell thought about his situation for a moment and opted to take the path less traveled.
"I'm sorry, I think there must be some sort of misunderstanding my name is Mitch--" His words were cut short when the man pulled a hand gun out of the holster strapped to his belt. Mitchell was taken aback. 'Not sure how I missed that….'
"I don't care what your name is. You need to leave." Clearly this person felt that he had some authority in this case. The firearm in his hand tended to agree. Mitchell looked around the room to see if there was any way he could get out of this situation. He was looking for anything that he could grab to knock this guy out, or an alternate escape route. Unfortunately, holing himself up in an executive's office on the third floor limited his ability to escape this kind of scenario. He could jump out the window and plummet to the ground. This would hurt, but it wouldn't kill him, but this would defeat the purpose as he would be doing what the person holding the gun wanted him to do. It would make more sense to comply and just walk out the door. He kept looking. He saw that the lamp had a nice heavy base on it, and would do some damage if it was introduced to the side of someone's head. However, the time it would take for Mitchell to grab the lamp and swing it would be more than enough for this rugged maniac to lift his arm and pull a trigger. This was aside from the fact that it was still plugged in. It would be more likely than not that, when he went to pull the lamp and swing, it would just fall out of his hand and hit the floor. Mitchell doubted that he would be gentlemanly enough to let him go ahead and unplug it.
After a few moments, Mitchell had to concede. He had lost this time; there was nothing clever he could do.
"Let me just grab my bag…." Mitchell felt this was a reasonable request.
"Leave the bag."
"I will go ahead and just leave my bag…." Mitchell motioned that he would be doing what was requested by edging towards the door. The man with the gun kept the barrel pointed towards Mitchell, and walked backwards out the door. Mitchell began to walk towards Darren and his family, hoping that he could get them to see what was happening. His trick, however, did not go unnoticed.
"Other way." He was a man of few words. Mitchell knew that he was caught so to speak, and yet again complied. 'It's amusing what a large man with a gun can accomplish.' He motioned for Mitchell to go down the center aisle towards the front door. Again, Mitchell looked around. 'Could I duck into a cubicle? Grab a pair of scissors?' None of this sounded like a good idea. He began to feel a wave of sadness come over him when he realized what he was leaving in his bag.
"Wait, I really need my bag." Mitchell tried to sound as desperate as he could, hoping that the brute in front of him was actually a man in a
monster costume.
"I said leave the bag."
"You don't understand. There are personal things in there. I really need them. Please." He got to the point of begging.
"No. Leave the bag!" He was obviously getting angry.
"You really don't understand; there are pictures of my wife in there. I really need them." He attempted to plea using the family aspect.
"Shut up! You need to leave now!" He was visibly becoming frustrated with the situation. Mitchell had guessed that the man probably didn't want to kill him. If he pressed matters a little more, he may be able to at least get his backpack before he left.
"You've lost family out there right? Your sons?" This was a push in the wrong direction. The man's face became wide with surprise. This quickly turned to rage.
"How do you know that?"
"I saw your picture last night when I got here. You know how it is; just let me get my bag so I can have her photo with me. It's all I have left.”
"How about I just send you to be with her in hell instead." Obviously Mitchell shouldn't have mentioned this. The man lifted the gun perpendicular to Mitchell's face. Mitchell closed his eyes tightly. 'Yep, this is how I die.' He accepted the situation for what it was.
"Drop it, or I'll drop you…." That was a familiar voice. Mitchell opened his eyes again and saw Darren behind the man. He didn't realize how short Darren was the night prior, but the size of the man holding a shotgun to the back of your head doesn't really matter at times like these. Mitchell guessed that the barrel of the twelve-gauge was cold against his shaved head. He noticed that the tables had turned and the look of defeat was being portrayed by the other party.
