by Amy Cross
As I leave the room, I can't shake the feeling that I'm making a mistake. Then again, I guess any choice right now is a mistake. Whether I stay here or leave, those creatures are coming, and I don't see that the world is going to set itself right any time soon. There's nothing I can do to fix things, but staying at the farm would feel like accepting the inevitable. I can't face the idea of staring at the horizon every day, waiting for those things to appear. I'd rather keep moving, and hoping that maybe around the next corner, there might be something that makes everything okay again.
Thomas
Missouri
"Let me out of here!" I scream, staring up at the ceiling.
No reply.
"I'll do anything you want!" I shout. "I'll be your slave for life, but you have to let me out of here!"
Silence.
"Please!" I scream, before dropping to my knees. I can't take this any longer. My body feels weak, and I think I've seriously damaged my shoulder after all those attempts to break the door down. After a moment, I roll onto my side and stare at the nearby wall. I have to work out how to get out of here. I can't die in this hellhole. Not now. Not like this.
"Fuck you!" I scream, filled with anger. "What's wrong with you, you fucking pervert? Why did you leave her down here to die? Why are you doing this to me?" I wait. "Why won't you fucking answer me!"
No reply.
"Fuck you!" I scream again, and even though I'm starting to taste blood in the back of my mouth, I can't stop. "Fuck you!"
Eventually, I go back to the corner and wait. I don't even know what I'm waiting for, but I figure that I've got no other option. Time passes, and finally I notice that it's getting dark again. As I stare at the window, I see that the light is getting low, which means the sun is starting to set. I've spent another day down in this basement, and for most of that time I've simply been watching the window, trying to watch as the light's subtle changes become evident.
Damn it, I think I'm losing my mind.
No, I'm definitely losing my mind.
My throat hurts. I've spent the best part of the past two days screaming for help, and eventually I started to taste blood. When I try to speak now, my voice sounds harsh and gravelly. There's no way that old bastard didn't hear me, and I doubt there's anyone else around for miles. Barring some kind of miracle, I'm not getting out of here. There's certainly nothing more I can do to save myself.
There's been no movement upstairs. No sound of the old man doing anything. As far as I can tell, he hasn't done anything at all, and I can't help wondering if maybe he died in his sleep. After all, he explicitly told me that he was going to put me to work, but now he seems to have forgotten about me. He seems so excited at the prospect of having a little slave to push around, and it's hard to believe that he would have changed his mind. I guess there's still a chance that he might suddenly open the door and start giving me orders, I'm becoming more and more certain that he's dead.
And if he's dead, then I guess I'm as good as dead too.
After all, there's no way out of this place. The door is way to strong, and the glass in the window is unbreakable. The walls of the basement are made of concrete, as is the floor, and there's no way to break through the ceiling. I'm starving, and I desperately need water, and as a result I'm starting to feel weaker and weaker. It's as if my body has already started to accept the inevitable. I barely have the energy to move, so all I can do is stay right where I am and stare at the window. As the sun continues to dip, I realize that I might not make it through the night. This might be the last light I ever see.
I can't help thinking about Joe. Given everything that has been happening over the past couple of days, I haven't really had time to process the fact that I killed and then buried my own brother. In the space of a week, I've lost my mother, my father and finally my brother. The only remaining member of my immediate family is my sister Martha, but she lives in California and even in the unlikely event that she's still alive, I don't think I'll ever be able to find her. I just hope that while he's determined to make me die in pain, God can find it in his heart to help Martha. The only hope I have left is that somehow she's still alive out there.
Time passes. How much time, I don't know, but enough for the last of the sunlight to disappear. There's nothing but darkness now, all around me, and while there was moonlight last night, this time I guess there are too many clouds. I'm starting to feel cold, too, and for the first time I feel as if death might actually not be such a bad thing. If it meant that this pain and misery would be over, maybe I'd welcome the end. Anyway, it seems totally inevitable, so why delay things any longer? Death always used to scare me, but now it feels like an all-encompassing nothingness that would soothe away all my fears.
But there's one thing I've got to do first.
Getting to my feet, I stagger unsteadily across the dark basement. I can't see where I'm going, but it's not as if I can get lost. My mind feels weak and vague, as if I can't quite put my thoughts together properly, so this is probably going to be the last thing I do before I drift away. Maybe I'm insane, but I don't care. All that matters, now, is that I'm not alone with I die. I need someone, anyone, to be close to me. If that means I have to lose my mind a little, I don't care.
Slowly, still fumbling in the dark, I manage to find the pile of cloth sacks in the corner of the basement. I lift them aside, and seconds later my hand brushes against the dead girl's withered corpse. Instead of withdrawing, I lie down next to her. I can't see her, of course, but I can feel my feet touching hers, and when I put a hand out into the darkness, I feel one of the cloth sacks that has been left over her torso. Right now, she just feels like another person, albeit one who isn't breathing. It's enough. I guess one day, if someone finds our bodies like this, they might think we were friends. That's fine by me. Closing my eyes, I wait for the inevitable. I just hope that death comes quickly.
Epilogue
"Maybe," says Miles, the I.T. guy, as he stares at the blue screen.
"I need better than that," replies Dr. McNulty. "I need guaranteed access to every file on Joseph's computer, and I need it fast."
"Maybe," Miles says again, plugging a U.S.B. drive into the computer. "Problem is, he knew what he was doing. When you delete data from the drive, the data doesn't actually go anywhere. The computer just marks it as available space. What this guy did, though, is he very carefully saved new data over that space several times. It's like covering your tracks by adding lots of extra tracks."
"But you can get the original data, can't you?"
"Maybe."
Sighing, McNulty steps back and watches as Miles boots a series of programs from the U.S.B. drive. For several minutes, Miles types furiously, switching between various windows as he attempts to peel back the layers of extra data that have been used to clutter the drive.
"Anything?" McNulty asks eventually, keen to get some answers as soon as possible.
"Maybe."
"So you can do it?"
"Maybe."
"What have you found so far?"
Miles pauses. "I've found the basic architecture of the system he was using," he says after a moment. "He had a partition, like a secret section of the drive, and..." He pauses again. "Good news and bad news," he announces eventually, hitting a couple more buttons. "The main part of the drive is no good. There's too much corruption. However, this guy wasn't quite as smart as he thought he was. He partitioned a side of the drive and hid it pretty well, but not well enough. The best part of this is that the partitioned section wasn't over-written. I guess he just forgot to take that into account."
McNulty stares at him. "Which means what?"
"Which means that he basically went to great lengths to delete all the boring data," Miles continues with a grin, "but he left the important data almost untouched. Classic rookie mistake. You see, if he'd come to me, I'd have been able to help him get the job done properly, but obviously he decided he could do it all himself, which turned out to be bullshit.
It's pretty typical, really. Most people just assume that this kind of thing is easy, when in fact it's highly complex."
"Let me see," McNulty says, watching as a series of files are opened on the screen.
"What was this guy working on, anyway?" asks Miles.
Ignoring him, McNulty continues to stare at the screen. For a moment, he's not sure what he's seeing, but finally he started to understand. All the color drains from his face as he realizes that Joseph's plans have far, far exceeded his worst fears.
Day Thirteen
Prologue
Six months ago
"Can you listen to me?" Shauna asks, hurrying through the house as she tries to cut Eriksen off at the door. "Carl, this is fucking important!"
"So's my job," he mutters, grabbing his leather jacket and pulling the door open. "Don't worry. I'll be back by nine and we can fool around."
"It's not that," she says, grabbing his arm and trying to force him to stay. "I need to tell you something."
"You hot for the cock?" he asks with a grin.
"I'm pregnant," she shouts, pushing the door shut.
He stares at her, his face suddenly losing all its color as his eyes search her expression for even the slightest hint that this might all be a really, really bad joke.
"I'm pregnant," she says again, searching his face for some sign of a response. "Are you listening to me? I'm having a baby. I'm already a month gone. I saw a doctor this morning and had it confirmed. In about eight months' time, I'm gonna give birth." She pauses, giving him a chance to say something. "Did you hear me?" she continues after a moment. "Carl, I'm fucking pregnant."
Eriksen stares at her, his mouth hanging open.
"Say something," she continues, forcing a faint, hesitant smile. "Carl, what are you thinking?"
"Is it mine?" he asks after a moment.
Before she can stop herself, she slaps him on the side of the face.
"Of course it's yours, you fucking asshole!" she shouts, barely able to contain her anger. "Who else's do you think it'd be? Some random guy down at the bar? A customer from the mall? Some passing guy in the street just slipped one in me?"
"Fine," he mutters. "Okay." He takes a deep breath, before checking his watch and then walking across the hallway to sit on the stairs. "I used protection," he says after a moment. "Every fucking time, I used a condom. I mean, those things are supposed to be one hundred per cent reliable, aren't they? That's what it said on the machine at the bar. Kind of, anyway. Ninety-nine per cent or something, but that's basically a hundred. What the hell happened? Did you tear them on purpose?"
"Why the hell would I do that?"
He pauses.
"I'm having it," she says firmly. "I don't give a damn what you think, but I'm having this baby. There's no fucking way I'm letting you talk me into getting another abortion. I can't go through that again."
"But if -"
"No!" she says, raising her voice. "Just... no! Seriously, Carl. You weren't there, okay, so you don't know what it was like."
They stand in an awkward silence for a moment.
"Sure," he says eventually.
"Sure?"
He nods.
"And you're gonna need a better job," she continues. "There's no way you can support me and a baby on whatever your uncle gives you at that garage. You need a proper job, Carl. One with proper regular hours and a regular pay-check and all that crap. Something with a contract, and health benefits, and stable hours and holiday time and all that stuff that other people, normal people, have. Something decent and fucking solid."
"You know any jobs like that?" he replies with a fatalistic sigh.
"This baby's gonna need shit," she says, walking over to him. "Clothes. Medicine. I don't know what else, but babies are expensive. I'm gonna need help too. You think I can carry on working at the mall when I'm as big as a beach-ball?" She smiles, hoping that he might do the same, but she can see the worry in his eyes. "You'll be a good father, Carol," she continues after a moment. "I know you probably don't think you will, but I know you've got it in you. I know you're worried you'll just be like your father, but -"
"I'm not worried about that," he mutters. "Seriously, Shauna, don't tell me what I'm worried about. It's money, okay? It's always fucking money." He sighs. "Just when I thought I'd got everything sorted out, this comes along. I mean, seriously, this is the worst possible moment in my entire life for you to get pregnant."
"No-one forced you to screw me," she replies, "and no-one forced you to buy cheap condoms."
"They were not cheap!" he says firmly. "It's obvious, isn't it? My swimmers are clearly too strong for any rubber to handle."
"This isn't a joke," she replies, trying to stay calm.
"No, but come on..." He pauses. "In a weird way, it's kind of impressive, isn't it? I beat medical science."
"If that's really how you want to look at it," she continues, with a faint look of disgust on her face. "Jesus, I was hoping for a mature reaction, not a bunch of lame jokes."
Getting to his feet, he sighs. "I've got to go to work," he says, heading to the door. "We'll talk about this later. We should talk about it, but not now. You wanna meet me down the road around five, and we can get a beer?"
"I'm not drinking," she replies, placing a hand on her belly. "Are you kidding, Carl? I can't drink alcohol while I'm pregnant, and you need to cut down too! Things have got to change around here. We need to find a place of our own, and we need to start thinking about baby clothes and names and all that stuff. I've already been online and started reading about stuff. I'm gonna buy some books -"
"Jesus," he mutters, interrupting her, "did you win the lottery or something?"
"This stuff is important!" she reminds him, trying not to raise her voice. She hates the way she always ends up sounding like her mother when she talks to him, but she always has to lecture him about taking things more seriously. "I'm not gonna be one of those bad mothers you see down the mall," she continues. "I'm not gonna be bad for this kid, and neither are you. We're gonna read the books and we're gonna be good at this stuff."
"Sounds like it's gonna be a lot of fun," he mutters.
"Is that your only response?" she asks. "You find out you're going to be a father, and all you care about is the fact that you won't be able to go out all the time and get fucking wasted?" She waits for a reply, but finally she realizes that he has nothing left to say. "I guess it was dumb of me to think that you'd be a man about it, huh?" With that, she pushes past him and heads upstairs.
"Wait!" he calls after her. "Shauna!"
"Be a man!" she shouts back at him.
"Shauna!"
By the time she gets to her bedroom, tears are streaming down her face. She sits on the end of the bed, expecting him to come up and tell her that everything's going to be okay, but a moment later she hears the front door being slammed shut; thirty seconds after that, she hears his van pulling away, and she realizes that he's left for work. All she wanted was for him to follow her upstairs and tell her that it'd all be okay, that he'd accept his responsibilities and do the right thing.
Instead, he left. He went off to work, leaving her alone to deal with it all.
"Fucking asshole," she whispers through the tears, before leaning back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. "Fucking stinking asshole!"
Today
Elizabeth
Pennsylvania
"Do you know how to use this thing?" Bridger shouts, holding a rifle out toward me.
I nod.
"Then take it," he spits, thrusting it into my hands. "And for God's sake, don't blow any of our heads off."
All around me, people are running and shouting. A couple of minutes ago, just after sunrise, Bridger raised the alarm. He'd been on sentry duty all night and he swears that as the sun came up, he spotted a distinctive, lurching figure on the horizon, stumbling toward us. In other words: one of the creatures.
"Are they smart enough to go around and try to come in th
rough the back?" Thor asks.
"It's possible," Patricia replies, loading two cartridges into her shotgun. "We need to form a defensive perimeter. I'll take the north, Bridger takes the south, you take the east and..." She pauses, before glancing over to me. "You take the west, Elizabeth."
"Where are the others?" Bridger asks.
"Toad's too badly hurt to get up," she continues, "and Shauna's a liability in her current state."
"Eriksen was wasted last night," Thor points out. "The guy's probably still sleeping it off. There's no way in hell I'm giving that dick a rifle."
"We don't have time to stand around talking," Patricia says, heading out the door. "Everyone get ready."
We all follow, making our way onto the wooden porch that runs along one edge of the farmhouse. The whole world seems to be bathed in a warm orange glow, but there are plenty of shadows in which a creature could be lurking. As the four of us fan out and take our positions on different sides of the building, I can't help wondering whether I was right to say that I know how to use the rifle. I mean, I've used one before, but I'm no expert. I have no idea, for example, whether there's any kind of safety catch on the damn thing, although I can't find one. Taking up my position on the west side of the farmhouse, I stare at the nearby trees and look for any sign of movement.
"Anyone see anything?" Bridger shouts.
"Shoot on sight," Patricia replies. "Don't let the damn thing get close to you. As soon as you see it, blow its fucking brains out. Aim for the head or the chest. Remember, we don't have a whole lot of spare ammunition, and it's totally possible to finish one of these bastards with a single bullet. Aim for precision and efficiency."
My heart racing, I keep my eyes glued on the trees. I keep expecting one of those creatures to come stumbling toward me at any moment. Since I doubt I'm a very good shot, I figure my best option would be to let it get a little closer before firing straight at its face, although I'm worried that maybe the creature might be able to move faster than I'm anticipating. Every time I even look at a gun, I still think about Henry, but at least I'm no longer scared of the damn things. The rifle feels heavy and substantial in my hands; I respect and I know it's powerful, but I'm not terrified. It wasn't a gun that killed Henry. Not really. It was Bob.
