by Louise Krieg
She followed him here, to the hospital, where he burst through the double doors of the entrance and let them slam shut behind him. That was probably twenty minutes ago. She’d been standing by the fence ever since.
A hospital was a strange place to use as a hideout in normal situations. Tasha laughed to herself. What was a normal situation? She didn’t know anymore. She only knew that since this whole thing started, St. Bernardino Hospital was the one place that she absolutely avoided. In her mind it was the place all of this had started, with that big stretching lawn covered in humanoid sheets baking in the heat of the day. Her imagination had turned the place into some kind of torture chamber, and all she saw when she thought about its stark white hallways were half decomposed bodies piled on top of each other, hospital beds overturned, blood smears on the walls, flickering fluorescent lights, like something from a zombie movie. Were there zombies? She wondered. Were all the dead people lining the streets and occupying the buildings going to stand up and come after her? She shook her head. Surely if that was a possibility it would have happened by now. That was the logical way to think about it, anyway, but she still cast a nervous glance at the bloated woman lying on the sidewalk a few feet away, big fat black flies lazily buzzing over her. At least the insects were flourishing.
Tasha unzipped her backpack and took recon of the items inside. Water bottle, flashlight, extra batteries, zip knife, first aid kit, lighter, a couple of breakfast bars. Her eyes lingered for a while on the last item. She struggled to suppress a shudder despite the heat. The 9mm Glock was almost completely covered in Nature’s Surprise breakfast oat bars, but the weight of it was unmistakable. She didn’t even know why she had it. That’s a lie, she thought, you know exactly why you have it, and you know you would have gotten it anyway whether the world had gone to shit or not. She kept it in the backpack in case… In case what? She couldn’t tell. She just knew that having it made her feel better somehow. She hadn’t actually fired a gun in years, having never really liked the things. But desperate times and all that.
She took out the flashlight, zipped up the bag and slung it over her shoulders. She took a deep breath, through the mouth, of course. Her nose was permanently off duty to prevent her lunch from ending up on the front of her shirt. She glanced at the storm clouds approaching and calculated that she’d have probably another hour of good sunlight before she’d have to high tail it out of there. The most unexpected thing about the end of the world was how completely and utterly dark it was at night. The power had failed all over the city in stages, the last of the lights going out only a couple of days ago. For all the brilliant machines man made, they still needed maintenance. Tasha had never been afraid of the dark, but you had this way of reassessing your fears once all the lights go out forever.
She knew the hospital would be very dark inside. While the actual patient rooms had windows to let in natural light, the hallways, operating theatres and reception area would be pitch black. The layout of the place wasn’t a mystery to her as she’d visited it often because of the nature of her work. But the knowledge of the floor plan did little to ease the rising trepidation she felt in her stomach.
“Okay,” she said to herself, “Let’s go.”
The words EMERGENCY ROOM glared at her like a big red exclamation. As she walked up to the double doors she glanced at the windows looking out over the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of a red baseball cap, but the sun was behind her, effectively turning all the windows into blinding mirrors. The inside of the building was surprisingly cool. Tasha stood inside the small patch of sunlight streaming in through the doors, shifting her weight from one leg to the other as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. The smell wasn’t as bad as she expected, but she was still only in the reception area.
“Hello?” she called out nervously.
There was no reply, big surprise there.
An oppressive stillness filled the place. The air was stuffy and thick. The beam of her flashlight moved steadily over the chairs in the waiting area. She cried out loudly when it fell on the back of a man slumped over in a chair. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the noise. Disturbing the unnatural peace in here felt like some kind of sacrilege. The man, although not bloated as the bodies outside in the sun, was obviously dead. The back of his grey shirt read “Dodgers” in big blue letters. She couldn’t see his face, and for that she was grateful.
Tasha made her way through the reception area and into the hallway leading to the examination rooms. A scuttle of noise made her turn to the right. There was movement in one of the rooms down the hall. Her fight or flight instincts were kicking in hard, and her legs were itching to take her right back out into sunlight where she would be safe from the darkness and whatever was hidden in it. But the thought of the boy made her push on. The flashlight beam was shaky and unsteady. She tried to get herself under control, but the darkness and the quiet of the place seemed to press in on her from all sides. It took every ounce of strength she had to stop herself from simply trembling uncontrollably. She thought about calling out, but her voice had done that thing again where it disappeared as thoroughly as if she’d never had it. Another scuttle of noise ironed her resolve.
“Exam C” the little label on the door read. Tasha put her ear closer to the cool wood, but she couldn’t hear anything else. She stood gripping the door handle for what seemed like hours before she finally convinced herself to give it a turn.
The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing the small examination room inside. The boy was half sitting half lying on the elevated examination table, his baseball cap lying on the floor. He seemed to be struggling with something one either side of his legs. His head shot up as she shone the flashlight on his face. His mouth was covered by a large piece of silver masking tape, and Tasha realised that he was struggling against restraints tying him to the table.
“Oh my god,” she cried, rushing over to him, “Are you okay? Who did this to you?”
The boy continued to struggle against the restraints, his cries muffled behind the masking tape. Tasha peeled it off as gently as she could, wincing internally at the sight of the tape peeling off the top layer of skin on his dry lips.
“You have to go!” he cried frantically as soon as the tape was off.
“What?”
She was trying to undo the IV tubes that were used to tie his hands to the table, but he was struggling so much that it was hard to get a good grip on the knots. She remembered the knife in her backpack.
“You have to get out of here,” the boy said pleadingly.
“Not until I’ve gotten you out of these,” Tasha said much calmer than she felt, “What happened?”
“It’s a trap,” the boy whimpered.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Who would tie up a kid in a hospital room? Who was even left to do such a thing? Her mind raced with questions, but she focused on the task of cutting him out of the tubes.
As soon as he was free he shot off the table quicker than she’d ever seen anyone move, knocking the knife out of her hand onto the floor and darting out of the room like it was on fire. Tasha stood mutely for a few seconds before running after him.
What the fuck, she thought as her flashlight caught him just before he sprinted around the corner into the reception area, I’ve probably just saved his life and he thanks me by running away AGAIN?
His silhouette was black against the light streaming in through the double doors. With a loud BANG he was through them and out into the parking lot. Tasha ran after him, her flashlight casting mad beams of light around the waiting area. It took her brain about a nanosecond to notice something she would probably have missed under any other circumstance. It must have been the adrenaline shooting through her system, heightening her observational senses to a level they’d never been before. It made her stop cold in her tracks. With a shaky hand she directed the beam to the empty chairs in the waiting area. And that’s exactly what they were. E
mpty. The man in the Dodgers shirt was nowhere to be seen.
Her entire body went numb.
But the adrenaline was still running, and it told her to do the same. She ran for the doors and reached for them. But her fingers only managed to graze the steel handle before her arm got snatched to the side in a hard grip. Rough hands pulled her into the darkness untouched by the greying light streaming in from outside. Two arms enfolded her from behind. Her backpack and its contents dug painfully into her back as she was squeezed tightly to someone’s chest.
The rough prickly texture of beard stubble grated against the side of her cheek as the man behind her pressed his mouth to her ear.
“What’s the rush, honey?”
…
Stark white sheets covered everything except the bodies. The wind lifted the corners of the sheets, revealing the pristine and flawless objects below. Tasha strolled down the street, relaxed and uncaring. Each body she passed had the same face and wore the same clothes, but each was in a different stage of decomposition. She knelt down next to one and studied the face a little bit closer. The mouth and eyes were open, as if shocked by the prospect of death. She knew the facial features well. It was like looking into a mirror that could somehow show you the future. She stood up, brushed the dirt from her knees and looked around at the other bodies lying haphazardly in the street. All of them were the same. All of them were her.
Lightning flashed overhead, but instead of the sound of thunder following the explosions of light, there was a high pitched tone ascending into the clouds. It flashed again and again. She lifted her arm to shield her eyes from the light. Suddenly, from some primal depth of self-consciousness, she realised that she was afraid. In fact, she was scared to death. The sky darkened, but the lightning continued to rain down on her. She turned her head to the sound of approaching footsteps. A boy in a red baseball cap was running towards her. He was shouting something, but the high pitched tone was too loud for her to hear. Only when he got closer could she make out the word.
“Run!”
Tasha jerked awake violently, her eyes popping open in a panic. A bright flash of light assaulted her senses and she cried out. There it was again, the high pitch hum of the camera flash recharging.
“Stop!” she screamed.
The flash did not come again.
It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the darkness around her. She had no idea where she was, only that she was seated on what appeared to be a wheelchair. Her neck spasmed in pain from the way she had been slumped over for God knew how long. She tried to reach up a hand to rub it, only to feel the unrelenting steel of handcuffs stopping her short.
“I wish I didn’t have to use those,” an all too familiar voice said from behind her.
“Vin—Vince?” she stuttered, incredulous.
“Yes, honey,” he replied, the satisfaction clearly audible in his voice.
“What—you’re alive?”
“Oh yes,” there was movement behind her, she tried to look around but her neck protested painfully.
“Let me out of these,” she said, rattling the handcuffs against the frame of the wheelchair.
“Not quite yet,” his voice was closer behind her now, “Not until I know for certain that you’re going to be a good girl. And that could take weeks, maybe even months to determine.”
The cold fingers of dread ran up her spine, and her bladder was dangerously close to emptying itself.
“Please,” she whimpered, the sting of tears rising suddenly to her eyes.
“No, honey,” he came around to stand in front of her, the big jolly blue letters on his shirt swimming in her vision.
He looked terrible. His face was covered in what looked like acne scars, but Tasha had never seen him with acne. Massive bags under his eyes and hollowed cheeks made him look about 20 years older. He’d also lost weight. But despite the change in appearance, the smell of him told her he was still a smoker, and he must have found a lifetime supply of that cheap fucking cologne he loved so much.
“You and I can finally have that dinner,” he said with a smile and moved behind her again.
He pushed the wheelchair to the other side of the room. Tasha looked at the door quizzically. It was extremely familiar to her. But surely…
“Is this my house?” she stammered.
Vince laughed gleefully.
“Yes!” he said, “We can’t stay at my place, the whole building fucking reeks.”
He pushed her down the hallway. Candles on either side of the passage lit their way as he rolled her into the dining room. More candles were on the floor here, and on the table, which was set for two. He parked her behind one of the porcelain bowls. Cans of tinned food were stacked in the middle of the table. Vince pulled out the chair next to her and sat down, taking a napkin from the table and tucking it into the front of her shirt.
“The boy?” she asked softly as he reached for the can opener.
His hand stopped midway in the air, and a look of annoyance replaced the serene calm which had settled onto his face.
“That little punk,” he spat, “You shouldn’t have let him go.”
His eyes flashed at her dangerously. She shrunk back into the wheelchair.
“I had to chase him down, of course,” he said, the calmness returning to his face and voice, “I couldn’t risk him returning the favour, now could I? Little shit joined the rest of them. He’s just another dead asshole in the street now.”
Tasha started to sob loudly. She couldn’t help it. She wished she could join the boy as one of the dead. Anything to escape the reeking, crazy bastard sitting next to her.
“Stop crying,” Vince said angrily, but her tears would not stop flowing.
Why was she left alive? Why was he left alive? What kind of sick cosmic joke was this?
“I said, stop crying!” the back of his hand rapped painfully across her cheek.
She stopped crying mid-sob, more out of shock than anything else.
“Now, listen” he said, struggling to keep his voice under control, “As far as I can tell, you and I are the only people left alive in this stinking shit hole. It’s fate, honey. We were meant to be together, to start the New Earth. To repopulate it. And we can’t do that when you’re crying, because you’re fucking ugly when you cry, and I won’t have that.”
He spent the next few minutes feeding her cold canned soup. At first she didn’t want to eat, but a few more backhands and a busted lip made her reconsider. The soup sat unsteadily in her stomach, but she refused to be sick. She suspected that another backhand wouldn’t be the only punishment for something like that.
“It’s funny,” he said with a chuckle once her soup was finished and he started with his own bowl, “You said, ‘Not if you’re the last guy on earth.’ Well, here I am, honey.”
He chuckled again before loudly slurping up a spoonful of soup.
“Here I am.”
END
BROKEN GLASS
CHRIS CARR
CHAPTER ONE
“My son, keep my words and store up my commands within you,” Logan said, reading from the well-worn Bible. “Keep my commands and you will live; guard my teachings as the apple of your eye. Bind them on your fingers; write them on the tablet of your heart. Say to wisdom, 'you are my sister,' and to insight 'you are my relative.'”
Logan slammed the Bible down on the counter then looked around himself. The second story loft of his farm house filled with his creations of the female form. He sculptured mini-statues, made paintings and took photographs of Cindy Eaton.
Blonde, with curly blonde hair and light brown eyes that suggested suffering.
“They will keep you from the adulterous woman, from the wayward woman with her seductive words.”
Logan walked over to the coffin in the center of the loft. Looking down, he caressed the hair of the wax figure he had created.
He made Cindy look so life-like. He crafted down every detail to the beauty mark on her neck to the
cleft in her chin.
Then there were the fire burns he created on one half of the figure's body.
“You're a sick man,” Cindy said when she showed her the figure a half-hour earlier. “Sick.”
She ran down the steps packed up her suitcase and left.
Logan stared down at the wax corpse, his perfect replication of the woman of his obsession.
“We still have more work to do,” he whispered. “We're not done yet.”
He slammed the coffin shut and ran down the steps, heading out of the door.
Logan leaped into his '65 Corvette convertible and sped off down the dirt road. The central California town that he lived in was so far down that it wasn't even on the map. But Logan liked it that way, he could drive as fast as he wanted.
And if he drove fast enough, he could catch her before she did something stupid.
Sure enough, about two miles down the road, he saw Cindy lugging her suitcase along.
He slowed the car down and kept pace with her as she walked, waiting for her to turn around and look his way.
“I can give you a ride,” he said.
She looked back at him, shooting dagger eyes, then looked ahead and never broke her stride.
“You want a cookie, little girl?” he laughed.
“Fuck off,” she said.
“You got a long walk ahead of you,” he said.
“What is it about the phrase 'fuck off' that you don't understand?”
“Come on, Sweetness,” Logan said. “I'm sorry. Okay? What more can I say? Call me a weirdo. Call me an asshole. Call me a jerk. But just let me drive you over to the bus depot. You're going to ruin those shoes that I bought you.”
“I'm breaking them in,” she said.
“You won't make it there in time,” Logan said. “Only bus leaves at 3 o'clock. You have less than a half-hour.”
Cindy gripped the handles around her suitcase and picked up her pace.
“Come on,” he said. “You won't make it in time and then you'll be another woman all dressed up with no place to go.”
