by Amy Cross
“I'm not in heaven,” I call out, hoping against hope that they'll be able to hear me, “I'm -”
Before I can finish, I feel something moving behind my back. Turning, I spot a man walking past the door, staring into the room and smiling at me. He moves out of view almost as soon as I see his face, but as a shudder passes through my body I realize with absolute certainty that I've seen him before: not only is he the man who was watching me a few minutes ago, but he's also the man whose blurry form I saw back at Mr. Kenseth's compound. Running to the door, I look along the corridor, only to find that the man has disappeared completely, even though all the doors are shut.
“I killed a little girl,” says Aaron, the male soldier. “I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that moment.”
“It's not about forgetting,” Ortiz replies, “it's about living with it, and the first stage is to recognize that you did the right thing at the time. Hindsight's a wonderful thing, Aaron, but when that girl died, the siege was over. You have to focus on the positives. You did your job, okay?”
He shakes his head.
“Yes, you did!” she says firmly. “It's not your fault that other people, bad people, put that little girl in your way!”
I watch as she hugs him, and I can't help feeling that I have to find some other way to get people to notice me. Everyone's talking about me as if I'm dead, but I know I'm here, I'm right here, and I'm not a ghost. Heading out into the corridor, I hurry along to the next intersection, where I spot a badly-wounded soldier on a trolley, his face barely visible from beneath a bloodied sheet. Turning, I start to make my way to one of the rooms.
“Hey,” the injured man whispers, “kid.”
Stopping, I turn to him and find to my shock that he's staring straight at me with his one remaining eye, while the other eye looks to have been mashed out of its socket.
“Kid,” he whispers, reaching out a bloodied arm until his fingers can almost touch me, “what are you doing here? What's happening to us?”
Today
Stopping at the crossroads, I look up at a nearby sign and see that Silverglade is still twenty-eight miles away, to the north. Turning to look along the dusty, barren road, I sigh as I try to imagine the long journey ahead of me.
This is going to take all day, and most of the night too.
When I take another step forward, I feel a sharp pain on the sole of my left foot. I know it's just a blister, but the agony is so bad that I decide to stop for a moment and sit in the dirt. I untie my laces and ease the shoe off, only to find that the blister has burst and the underside of my sock is matted thick not only with blister juice but also with blood. I try to peel the sock off, but a sharp pain causes me to stop and finally I realize that there's no point. It's lucky I never get scars, or this would be a doozy.
Figuring that I have to just accept the pain and get on with things, I slip my shoe back on and look along the road, trying to summon the strength to keep moving. I know that somewhere, Attaroth is watching me and laughing. He's always been laughing, ever since I first met him.
Ten years ago
“Help me up,” the man grunts as he tries to prop himself up on his elbows. Blood is trickling down his face from the huge wound where his left eye was destroyed, and finally he lets out a gasp of pain as he falls back down onto the bed. “Fuck!” he shouts. “Someone help me!”
“Can you see me?” I ask, trembling with fear.
He glances at me.
“What kind of a question is that?”
“You can hear me too, can't you?”
He looks along the corridor as a nurse comes this way.
“Hey,” he calls out to her, “over here! Hey! I need some attention!”
I turn and watch as the nurse hurries past us, as if we're both invisible.
“Hey!” he shouts, rattling the metal railing on the side of his bed in an attempt to get her to notice him. “For fuck's sake, will someone just stop?”
“How long have you been like this?” I ask.
“Kid,” he continues, “I need you to go and get a doctor for me, okay? Just get someone to come and look at me. Since I woke up here, I swear to God not one fucking person has even looked in my direction.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare into the bloody hole that once housed his left eye: the bone looks to have been shattered all around the socket, and when he turns to look along the corridor again I can't help but notice that part of the side of his skull has been crushed, with blood-matted hair interrupted by a sharp piece of bone extruding from beneath the skin. It's hard to believe that someone could survive such a horrific injury.
“Does it hurt?” I ask finally.
He turns to me.
“No, it doesn't fucking hurt. Excuse the language, kid, but...” He pauses, eying me with suspicion, as if he's slowly starting to realize the truth. “They must've given me something for the pain,” he adds, a little defensively. “At least they did that, huh? I'm starting to think no-one in this entire hospital knows how to do their fucking job.”
“Were you at Mr. Kenseth's hospital earlier?” I ask.
“Hospital?” He pauses again. “You mean the Rover's Ridge cult compound? Yeah, I was with the...” Another pause; he seems to be struggling to remember things now, as if thoughts and memories are coming in waves separated by periods of darkness and inertia. “I was with a Special Investigations Unit checking the perimeter, and then when we moved in we found...”
I wait for him to finish, but he's starting to look more and more lost.
“The fucker had rigged that whole place up,” he says finally. “It was like a death trap in there. Every door, every window, every fucking corridor, there was something new, and then...” Reaching up, he runs a hand along the side of his head until his fingers reach the section of crushed skull; he feels the damage for a moment, and I can see from the look in his eyes that he's struggling to understand. “Something came at me. We'd cleared a door going into one of the rooms, but then when I went through there was this loud popping sound from one side and...” He turns to the left, as if he's reliving the moment. “It hurt for a moment, just a few seconds, and then...”
I glance over my shoulder as a doctor and nurse hurry past, but they both ignore us completely.
“Fuck!” the man shouts, reaching out in a futile attempt to grab the doctor's arm. “Why won't somebody fucking look at me!” He leans further, but this time he goes too far and topples over, bringing the trolley crashing onto its side with enough force to make me jump back.
“What the hell was that?” says the doctor, stopping up ahead and glancing back this way. From the look in her eyes, it's clear that she's startled by the sight of the trolley suddenly resting on its side.
“Someone must have nudged it,” the nurse replies, hurrying back this way and grabbing the side of the trolley, before the doctor joins her and they lift it back into position.
“A little help!” the angry man shouts from the floor. “Hey, I'm down here!”
“I swear I'm going nuts,” the doctor mutters to the nurse.
“How long have you been on?” she asks.
“It'll be thirty-six soon, and I've barely even had time to pee.”
“Coffee?”
“The strongest you've got.”
“Hey!” the man shouts as they turn and walk away. “What the... What the fuck is wrong with you people!” He tries to haul himself up, but the pain is clearly too much and he falls back down with an agonized grunt. “What the fuck kind of hospital is this?”
“I don't think they can see us,” I say quietly.
“No shit, Sherlock,” he mutters.
“Why can't they see us?” I ask, trying to think of a reason. “Why are they -”
“What?” the man shouts suddenly, turning to look along the corridor.
I turn and follow his gaze, but I don't see anything.
“Someone said my name,” he continues. “Didn't you hear that? Someone called out Ma
rtin.”
“Are you Martin?” I ask, turning to him.
“You're a real child genius, you know that?” He smiles, before looking along the corridor again. “There. I heard it again.”
“I didn't hear anything,” I tell him.
“Well someone's calling me, that's for sure.” He lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck. I was starting to think something crazy was going on, like...” Another pause. “Well, you know how it is. Sometimes you get weird thoughts in your head, right?” He turns back to me. “Where are your parents, anyway? Are you just wandering around this place? I don't think... I mean, you're just a kid, this isn't a place for you.”
Before I can answer, I spot a man at the other end of the corridor. He's the same person I saw a few minutes ago, and as he smiles at the pair of us I can't shake the feeling that he was also at Mr. Kenseth's compound. He starts walking toward us, seemingly taking his time as he passes a couple of nurses who emerge from a room. With every step he takes, I can feel some kind of darkness coming closer, and finally I start backing away, fighting the urge to turn and run.
“Martin,” the man says, stopping by the trolley and looking down at the man on the floor. “I've been calling for you.”
“About fucking time,” the man on the floor replies, reaching up with his remaining good hand. “Help me off the fucking floor, won't you? What are you, some kind of hospital orderly?”
“No,” the man replies, ignoring the outstretched hand, “I'm not a hospital orderly. If I was a hospital orderly, I wouldn't be talking to you, would I?”
“Your bedside manner needs some work,” the injured man tells him. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“It's been noted,” he replies, glancing at me. “Hello, Clay. We haven't been properly introduced.”
I take another step back.
“Hey!” the man on the floor shouts. “Seriously, can you -” Before he can finish, he lets out a gasp of pain, and a fraction of a second later flames start to ripple across the top of his torn uniform. “What the fuck?” he mutters, trying to pat them out as they spread down onto his legs, filling the air with a kind of thick, acrid smoke. “Hey, what the fuck's going on here?”
“What do you think's going on here?” the other man asks, keeping his smiling eyes fixed on me. “You're on fire, you moron.”
“Hey!” the man screams, as the flames start to reach his face. “Hey, what the fuck? What the -”
He lets out another scream as he rolls across the floor, desperately trying to put the flames out with his flailing hands.
“That smell,” the other man says calmly, “is the smell of a burning ghost. It's not that uncommon, but few people get to see the accompanying light show.”
Still screaming, the burning man struggles to get to his feet. The flames are roaring from his body now, and I can no longer see his features as he grabs the side of the trolley and tries to desperately to pull himself up. Thick smoke is filling the corridor, but seconds later a couple of doctors hurry past, seemingly oblivious to the inferno.
“Don't worry,” the calm man says, taking a step toward me, “I know it sounds bad, but I can assure you he's in far more pain than you'd ever guess. This is what happens to ghosts when they defy the natural order of things and try to hang on. Well, it's what happens if I deem it to be necessary, at least.”
“Who are you?” I ask, backing all the way against a nearby door.
“You know who I am.”
Behind him, the burning man lets out another agonized scream before slumping back down onto the floor. The whole corridor is filled with fire and smoke now, but no alarms are going off and doctors are regularly hurrying past without paying any attention to what's happening here. The flames are getting stronger however, and I can feel their heat on my face. Turning to run, I feel a hand grabbing my wrist, and I turn to find the calm man holding me tight.
“Say my name,” he says firmly.
Grabbing his fingers, I try to peel them off my arm.
“Say my name,” he says again, leaning toward me.
Staring up at him, with the flames rising to the ceiling behind him, I can see my own terrified face reflected in his eyes. All I want is to get away from him, to run forever until I find someone who can help me, but finally he forces me down onto my knees and all I can do is stare at him as the flames fill the corridor and their heat starts to burn my face until suddenly the inferno seems to vanish in a split-second, leaving the corridor completely unscathed.
“You know who I am,” the man continues, stepping closer and leaning closer than other. “Say my name, Clay. It's Attaroth. If you have any sense whatsoever, you'll bow down before me and beg for mercy.”
Finally, filled with horror, I start to scream.
Today
Welcome to Silverglade, reads the shining, new-looking sign by the side of the road as I stop for a moment and stare at the smattering of buildings up ahead. Far from being anywhere of note, this place looks like some kind of tin-shack community that would blow away in a strong wind. There look to be just a few dozen buildings huddled on either side of the road, arranged haphazardly as if they were dropped into position from a great height.
“Great,” I mutter, limping along as I try to work out why the hell Attaroth chased me down and told me to come here. It's getting late, so I figure I just need to find somewhere to sleep before the sun goes down and the temperature drops.
A few minutes later, I reach the first of the buildings and find that it's a diner. Peering through the window, I see rows of empty booths and a long counter. I'm starving, of course, after walking for well over half a day, but stealing from a diner isn't so easy. A supermarket would be useful, though, and I could -
Suddenly I spot movement inside the diner, and I realize that the waitress behind the counter is waving for me to go inside. After checking over my shoulder to make sure that this isn't a case of mistaken identity, I limp to the door and push it open, only to immediately hear some kind of fifties rock music playing on an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. Maybe I'm overly suspicious these days, but I stop for a moment, looking around for some sign that this is a trap.
“You must be Rebecca,” the woman says with a friendly smile. “Don't ask me how I know that, I'm just a little bit psychic. I can always match a name to a face.”
“Huh,” I reply, still feeling on edge. Something about this situation doesn't feel right.
“Come on in,” she continues. “I was told you were coming.”
“You were?”
“I was told someone called Rebecca was on her way here,” she replies with a smile, “and as soon as I saw you looking through the window, I knew immediately that you were the girl in question.”
“And I guess you get a lot of people coming through Silverglade?” I ask, trying to hide my cynicism.
“Come and sit down,” she continues. “Take a look at the menu and let me know what you want.”
“I don't...” Reaching into my pockets, I feel the meager collection of coins that represent my entire life's savings. “I'm not sure I can -”
“Sure you can,” she says. “The gentleman on the phone said the sky's the limit.”
“Gentleman on the phone?”
“He warned me you might be a little surprised,” she continues. “He phoned up earlier and said that a girl named Rebecca Layton, sometimes going by the nickname Clay, would be dropping by today, and he left his credit card number to cover all the food and drink you want. Even beer!” She grabs a laminated menu and holds it out for me. “Been on the road long?”
“Long enough,” I mutter, limping over to the counter and taking the menu. As soon as I see the photos, I feel my stomach turn a back-flip. It's been a long, long time since I got to eat a proper meal, and although I hate the idea of accepting anything from Attaroth, I sure as hell can't turn down free food. That's something that no-one ever understands if they haven't spent time struggling to get food: when you're really hungry – I
mean truly starving – there's nothing you won't do in exchange for something to eat. “I kinda want everything on here,” I whisper, before spotting a particularly mouth-watering image of a burger and fries. “This,” I say, pointing at the photo, “with extra everything. Please.”
“And to drink? A beer?”
I shake my head. “Water.”
“You don't want something stronger?” she asks, grabbing a bottle of beer from the cooler. “Trust me, after a -”
“Just water, thanks,” I tell her. “I don't drink.”
“Well, that's admirable.” She sets the beer aside and notes down my order, before heading over to a red door and leaning through. “Mike! Burger with all the works!” Coming back to me, she grabs a box from under the counter and places it in front of me. “I almost forgot. He had these delivered for you.”
Opening the box, I find a fresh pair of shoes, along with some socks and a blister-treatment pack.
“Woah,” the waitress says, leaning over to take a look, “those look expensive.”
Although I know I should turn the shoes down, I can't help myself. I've been wearing the same sneakers for damn near a year now, and every day I'm worried the sole's going to fall off completely. The smell of new shoes is, all by itself, almost enough to make me cry.
“So what are you doing out here, honey?” the waitress asks as I slip out of my old sneakers and set the new pair down on the floor. “You got a car?”
“I'm walking.”
“Seriously? Silverglade's a hell of a long way from anywhere, you know.”
“I noticed.”
“And there's not...” She pauses. “Well, we're not exactly a big tourist draw.”
“I noticed that too.” As the smell of food starts to drift through from the kitchen, I slip into the fresh socks and shoes, before setting the old ones in the box.
“Oh...” the waitress says, clearly shocked by the state of my old footwear.
