by Adan Ramie
LAST ONES LEFT
Adan Ramie
Copyright © 2021 by Adan Ramie
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Adan Ramie
Beaumont, TX 77707
www.AdanRamie.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2016 BookDesignTemplates.com
Last Ones Left/ Adan Ramie. -- 1st ed.
Sometimes good things come from tragedy.
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
DON’T GO YET...
CHAPTER
1
August 17, 2017
This is what you guys have been asking me for since I started this blog. You’ve begged and pleaded, and now, I’m finally giving it to you!
Want to meet me in person? I’m going to be at Nick Serling’s Slasher Girls, True Crime & Horror Con, in person, face-to-face, with a group of women like me – survivors.
Riley squinted at the text, changed a few words, then read through it again. It didn’t really feel the way she wanted it to, but since the app had somehow lost the post, she didn’t have very much time to get it done and submitted before she would be late for her deadline.
If there was one thing she hated, it was missing a deadline. Even the word made her skin crawl – deadline, the line that separated life from death – and she couldn’t bring herself to be on the wrong end of it.
She read through the blog post again, realigned the convention-provided graphic, and pressed Schedule. And it was done.
Next, she clicked over to her email inbox. It was unusually full, probably because Nick Serling had already announced on his website that she was going to be at the convention, and she would have to deal with it before she left.
She hadn’t realized when she agreed to be a part of the convention that he had so many fans, but she knew better than to be surprised. As much as sex sells, murder sells better, and Nick Serling, the true crime writer, made his name on the backs of murderers and psychopaths.
She guessed she was sort of like him, since her blog was about the crime that had changed her life and ended the lives of her family. She frowned and opened the first message in her inbox.
Dear Riley,
You don’t know me, but I know you. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I think what I like most about you is that you don’t hide your scars. They’re so beautiful, the same color as your lips, those beautiful, pouty, fuck-me lips. I wish I could open those lips with my
Riley didn’t finish reading it. She sucked the inside of her bottom lip between her teeth and held it there until the blood pooled hot inside it, then clicked Reply.
Dear
She checked the header information and made a face, then forced a smile on her face and went back to her reply.
Dear Murder.Fan.69,
Thank you for your letter. It means a lot that my story touched your life, and that I can give you
A hard on? She thought.
hope in a world like ours. Have a great day! xo Riley
She read the message and her again, then pressed Send.
She had sent similar replies before – an alarming amount, so many that she knew she should probably create a template in her email program. Then she could click a button and it would populate itself.
But it meant more when she typed it out by hand, and she knew that was what she had to do. Every time she read one of those emails and answered it with grace, she was one step closer to becoming the kind of woman who inspired people to do better instead of inspiring them to become a murderer.
She clicked open the next message.
Dear Riley,
You survived a slaughter at your boyfriend’s hands. Do you ever lie awake at night and wonder what could have been? Do you wonder if someone is coming for you to finish the job?
Riley stood up, walked over to the television, and turned up the volume to listen to the weather report.
“It looks like some strong weather out there in the Gulf, Courtney,” the morning show host said.
“That’s right, Kyle, but it’s nothing we need to worry about. We have seen almost half a dozen of these systems in the past couple of weeks, and none of them have amounted to anything for us. I would hate to be in the tropics right now, though.”
She shook her head sadly, then smiled.
“Back to you, Kyle. What can you tell us about the chili cook-off this weekend? Are you going to be bringing your famous Lip Sizzlin’ Chili?”
Riley turned off the TV and went back to her computer. She clicked reply.
Dear Not2Late2Finish,
The world can be a scary place, but while I try to be cautious, I don’t dwell on new nightmares of what could be. I try to do everything I can during the day to make sure that, should I die before I wake, I will end up with my family in a restful place.
Thanks for your message! xo Riley
She glanced at the subject lines of the next few messages and decided it would be more of the same, but nothing had been in her inbox more than her stated 72-hour reply window, so she could wait until she landed to answer them.
She opened a browser and clicked on the bookmark bar for her latest saved website, the landing page for Nick Serling’s convention guest list. To drive up excitement, he was still releasing guest names one by one up until the last moments before the convention, and by the count of people who had already bought tickets, it was working.
She glanced through the list and found Cindy Jordan, Jolie Court, Veronica Shine, and herself. Each name had a short bio and pictures if you clicked on them, but she had already read through them all, and she knew the faces by heart.
She clicked through to the guest-only portal, confirmed for the last time that she was attending, then surfed to the booking website and checked that her flight and hotel room were still booked and ready for her. They were, so she exited her browser, turned off her computer, and slid it into her computer bag.
It was the only thing she would carry on, so she checked again that it had everything she needed – including her medication. It was there, so she shook it to make sure she had enough pills to make it through the few days she was scheduled to attend and a few extra in case anything went wrong with her flight.
Then she zipped up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and went through the apartment checking doors, windows, the oven, and anything else that could go wrong while she was gone.
When she was done, she grabbed her keys, tapped each of her pockets to be sure she had everything she needed, then headed out, locking three deadbolts and the doorknob on her way out.
Better safe than sorry.
CHAPTER
2
The flight had turbulence in the beginning, but by half an hour in, everything went smooth as melted butter. The plane landed a couple of minutes ahead of schedule, even, so after she grabbed her suitcase from baggage claim, she had time to go to the bathroom before she made her scheduled ride to her hotel.
The hotel room was immaculate. The sheets were crisper and whiter than any she had seen before. And there wasn’t a mint on her pillow, but a personalized card from the manager, which was a nice touch that immediately put her at ease.
She put her bags down right beside the bed, where she always did when she checked into a hotel for a professional conference. This time it was a fan convention, but she assumed the same kind of planning was needed, so she didn’t deviate from what she normally did.
She put her computer bag on the side of the bed she wouldn’t be using, turned the air conditioning up so she didn’t get too cold, and checked under the bed. It continued straight down to the floor, which was a relief, so she moved back to the window. It was sealed shut as hotel windows usually are, and the air conditioner was very securely mounted.
Then she walked over to the closet. It was empty save for a couple of hangers, an ironing board, an iron, and a couple of plastic bags for storing dirty laundry. She pushed against the back and found it didn’t give, then closed it soundly and moved on to the bathroom.
Empty and white. It was so clean it glistened, and even the mirror had a gorgeous sheen. She stepped up, smiled, and slid her fingernail behind the thin glass. The mirror was mounted soundly to the wall; maybe too soundly because she couldn’t feel where the mirror ended, and the wall began.
She frowned, flipped off the lights, then pulled out her phone. She turned on the flashlight, then leaned forward, cupped her hands around her eyes, and tried to peer through the glass. There was no shadow room hiding behind it, so she concluded it was only an ordinary mirror. She sighed.
Better safe than sorry.
She left the bathroom and closed the door. She glanced around the room one last time with her phone’s flashlight, then walked up to the television and searched around for strange openings or lights. There were none. Same with the cable box, remote, desk lamp, and air conditioner.
The last thing she did was drag the stiff-backed upholstered chair over, stand on it tiptoe, and check over the fire alarm. There was nothing unusual about it, no pinholes or reflective lens.
The room wasn’t bugged.
She sighed not out of relief but exhaustion, put the chair back, and tapped her pockets to make sure she had her phone and her room key. Both were there.
The next thing was always the hardest. She had to find the organizer, which in this case was a true crime writer who had found fame in documenting the horrors that went on in the United States, and who now had set up a convention for murder fans.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Serling,” she practiced. “My name is Riley. Thank you for the invitation. I’m happy to be here.” She smiled, then let her face drop into a blank stare.
She tapped her pockets again, smoothed down her shirt, and headed for the hotel room door.
CHAPTER
3
Downstairs, Riley measured her breathing and tried to keep her heartbeat stable by imagining slowly moving water, and it helped to some degree. In the convention center proper, only a few people were milling around, and all but one were dressed as hotel personnel.
“You must be Riley David!” he said and rushed over to her.
When he got to her, he stretched out his hand and waited for her to take his, a plus as far as she was concerned. He obviously knew what it was like to deal with people who weren’t natural extroverts like him. They shook and he tucked both hands in his pockets like a little boy.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you. I almost feel like I know you after all our conversations over the past few months.”
His emails were a welcome relief mixed within begging requests for interviews, thrill-seeker questions, and the mass of men who loved to let her know how her survivor status and body made them feel. Despite his request that she be a part of the convention, he had never made her feel like a broken doll on display or a sex object.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Serling. I appreciate the opportunity,” she said. “Am I early?”
“No. I deliberately chose a week the hotel had closed down a lot of its rooms for renovation so we wouldn’t be swamped; most of the people coming to see you and the others will have to stay somewhere else and drive in.”
“Smart.”
He smiled like a child given a sticker by a favorite teacher and looked at the floor. When he looked back up, his smile had gone soft and almost apologetic. “I know things like this probably aren’t great for your mental health. How are you doing? Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine but thank you for asking. As much as it makes me nervous to sign up to speak at events, it’s more cathartic than anything. Once it’s over, I feel almost purged.” She blushed. “But that’s TMI. You don’t want to hear about that.”
“You know, I heard the same thing once before. It always gives me hope to hear a survivor using opportunities like this to let go of some of that grief, so thank you for sharing.”
“Thanks for that, by the way.”
He looked at her with curious smile. “For what?”
“Calling me a survivor instead of a victim.”
His tentative smile turned into a grin. “Of course. You’re not a victim any more than anyone else, but I think you’re especially strong because you chose to face your trauma instead of trying to hide from it and letting it eat you from the inside.”
They looked at each other through a companionable pause until it was interrupted by a loud, brash voice from the other side of the room.
“Nick Serling, as I live and breathe.”
They both turned to look at the woman standing in the doorway Riley had walked through a few minutes before. She had big, blonde hair, deeply tanned skin, a too-bright smile, a too-tight skirt, and a pink shirt whose V dipped precariously close to her bellybutton, and Riley recognized her from her bio picture. She didn’t register her thick Southern twang from the picture, though.
“Cindy Jordan, thank you for coming,” Nick said, and walked over to meet her halfway.
His voice was more salesy than it had been when they were speaking before, and Riley felt assured that he liked her more than he liked Cindy. The thought made her feel ashamed, and she chastised herself for worrying about what a man like Nick thought of her.
He was a true crime writer, and though he seemed like a very nice person, he also profited off the pain of others like her. He had even asked her if he could write her story, as if she would agree to it; then again, he hadn’t reacted badly when she wouldn’t let him. Instead, he had said he understood and never brought it up again.
But maybe this convention invitation was a way of trying to butter her up...
Riley looked up when she realized both Nick and Cindy were beside her, and neither were talking.
“Riley?” Nick asked softly.
“Hm?”
“This is Cindy Jordan. She will be on several of the panels with you this weekend.”
Cindy held out her hand and Riley tried not to flinch at the long, shiny pink fingernails. Then she smiled and felt her face darken with embarrassment.
“It’s nice to meet you, sugar. I have heard so much about you.”
Riley looked at Nick.
“Not from him,” Cindy said with a braying laugh. “From the news, silly. It’s not like you’re an everyday girl!” She leaned in conspiratorially, but her voice didn’t drop any. “But I guess we have that in common, huh?”
Riley didn’t know what to say; despite reading Cindy’s bio, she hadn’t read much else about her. The idea of ingesting the life stories and the brutal retellings of the attacks of her fellow survivors never was something she could wrap her head around.
“You nervous, honey?” Cindy asked.
“A little.”
Cindy smirked. “You get used to it. I promise.”
Riley nodded, not knowing what else to do, and hoped Nick would jump in. And, as if he had read her mind, he did.
“Cindy, Riley, the other panelists are already here,
and I’d like to introduce all of you so that you will be more comfortable sitting on the panels together.”
Riley couldn’t imagine being comfortable in this or any other public situation, but she didn’t say it. She could keep some things to herself. It wasn’t her place to contradict someone who did this for a living.
Or, if not for a living, at least he did it as a hugely profitable hobby. During her research, she had learned that his annual conventions had been the talk of the murder fan community since he started them three years prior, and the tickets always sold out fast.
“But first, I have to ask you to turn off your cell phones.”
Red flags went off in Riley’s head, and she snuck her hand down into her jeans pocket in a protective gesture. She always kept her phone charged and on her person.
“This is for the safety of everyone involved. We’re the only ones who will know where you all are at any given time, because none of the convention goers have been given a schedule. To be on the safe side, I want to make sure no one is accidentally broadcasting hers and the others’ location.”
He waited until Cindy turned off her phone, then looked at Riley, who hadn’t made a move for hers. He gave her a reassuring smile. “I only want it off. You can keep it with you, and if there is an emergency of some kind or you find you’re no longer able to stay with us this weekend, you’re welcome to turn it back on and use it to your heart’s content.”
It didn’t feel right, but nothing had for a long time, and being at this convention was what she knew she needed to do. She turned it off and stuffed it back into the pocket of her jeans. She felt exposed.
She let herself be led behind Cindy out one set of doors, down a hall, and into another door. They walked into a smaller room already populated with a group of women, and Riley automatically regretted agreeing to the meeting. Each woman looked up as they entered, and not one looked at her with a friendly face.
