Authors: Stefan Petrucha
Chelsea felt as if she were in the heart of a thunderstorm, not safe on the earth, but stuck between the two clouds that crashed into each other and crackled.
As the world turned to light, the force of Koko's powerful arms faded against the terrible wall of energy that swept toward them both. It slammed Koko and the table into her, lifted her and took them all into the door behind them. The metal table legs crumbled like wet spaghetti and the top kept coming, flattening her against the door, squeezing all the air out of her, but continuing to push.
Her eyes were closed, but even the insides of her eyelids were filled with white light and heat. She swore her skull and rib cage were crushed as the door came
free behind her. She had no idea what had happened to her arms and legs. She only knew she was flying, falling, and landing in a horrible darkness.
And all that had taken less than a second.
When the motion settled and her consciousness caught up with the flow of events, she couldn't be sure, but she thought maybe she was on her back. She heard a rush and a crackling like fire, but her back and hands felt cold. In the blackness, she heard the OCD singing weakly in her head, sounding dazed itself:
I told you so, I told you so, and now you're dead. You're dead forever.
But she wasn't, and just to prove it, she opened her eyes.
At first everything was blurry. Far off, some reds and yellows swam together like fish floating in the air. The rest was grays and darkness, until a wave of heat hit her hard. It was a focused heat, and everything around it felt cold, as if little icy needles were jabbing at her skin. It reminded her of when she had had her ears pierced, only the feeling was slower and more insistent.
The thick smell of smoke brought back more of her senses. She coughed from a mouthful of the stuff, and then started breathing through her nose. The pain
shooting through her ribs jolted her brain, made her focus.
The back of her head ached as she raised it. She could see now that the distant red and yellow were flames, licking like giant lizard's tongues at a gaping wound in the back of the house. In addition to the red and yellow, blue and white flames shot out from pipes where the stove used to be. The explosion hadn't just forced her and the table through the door, it had torn out half of the rear wall. And now the back of the house was burning.
She noticed the white of the stove about ten feet to her left, lopsided on the ground where it had landed. She and it were far from the house, maybe fifty feet. It was still snowing, she could see the individual flakes gently landing on the shattered bits of tabletop that covered her chest.
Finally, blissfully, she heard the sirens, not far off at all, getting louder.
But help was not the only thing coming this way. Something big and black and thick as a fallen tree trunk moved near the wreckage of the house.
Koko. Koko had survived the blast as well.
He was dazed, but he saw her lying there helpless, and was coming for her, following the final command
his brain had given when fully conscious. One foot after the other, he came, hips and shoulders waddling like a giant push toy, his huge tail dragging behind him, making a thick line on the ground in the soot and the snow.
One step, two steps, three steps, more.
Chelsea tried to move, but her legs were pinned under the combined weight of the pieces of the table and the door. On her back, unable even to flip over, she dug her hands into the wet ground and tried to pull herself out by her fingers, but could not. Whatever strength had carried her this far was gone.
Five steps, six steps, seven and eight.
Her hands were filled with wet mud and snow, but her body did not move. He was coming. He was still coming, until all she could see was his big head with its unhingeable jaw, that and the flames dancing around it like a living frame.
He would always come for her. It didn't matter that the sirens were deafening now, that she heard the cars screeching to a halt. It didn't matter if the police came, or the army. Even if they took her a thousand miles away from here, this thing, this lizard would still be waiting.
Forever.
Inches away, Koko stood there, staring at her with his deathly ebon eyes. He flicked his tongue once, then stopped moving. It wasn't until the snowflakes started to land right in those black, unblinking eyes, it wasn't until they melted into little wet pools that ran down the sides of Koko's face, down into the crack that formed his Muppet grin, that Chelsea realized the dragon wasn't going to be moving anymore.
Two police officers ran up, guns drawn, circling Koko and her, keeping their distance.
“I think he's dead,” she said hoarsely.
One of them nodded at something she didn't see, something that made them relax a bit. They both holstered their weapons and set to work pulling the boards off her. She was breathing again. It was hoarse and painful, her ribs ached, but she was breathing, and though the officers offered her their hands, she stood up pretty much by herself.
They spoke to her in reassuring tones as they walked her in a wide circle around Koko. As she passed the lizard's side, she noticed the huge gash in it, and the dark blood and entrails that oozed from it.
Not the cold, then. Not just the cold anyway.
The front of the house was a maze of flashing lights, the police, a fire truck, an ambulance.
“How many in there?” a red-faced paramedic shouted at her.
“Two,” she answered, but it was still hard to speak, her voice rough from screaming. “Derek's in the hall closet, Dr. Gambinetti's on the living-room floor.”
It was only after the paramedic turned away and ran off that she realized she hadn't mentioned Eve Mandisa.
Oh well, they'd probably find her anyway. No rush.
Out of nowhere she felt two arms grab and pull at her. It took her a few seconds to realize it was her mother, saying nothing, but hugging her so tightly her ribs hurt. Her father was there too, his arms wrapped around them both. In that big nest of family and winter coats, Chelsea let go and sobbed.
They stood there like that until a paramedic pried them apart so he could have a look at Chelsea. He sat her in the back of an ambulance, checked her cuts, her blood pressure, her heart rate. As he worked on her, Chelsea watched them pull two gurneys through the front door.
Strapped to the first was Derek, his head twisting left and right, his eyes moving wildly in his head. They steadied for a second as the gurney passed her, and Chelsea swore he grinned at her. If he could talk,
he'd probably make some stupid joke.
“She seems fine, just some scratches and bruises. We'll need the ambulance for the other two, but you'll want to take her to County General just to check her out,” the paramedic said to her family.
Chelsea slid out of the ambulance to make room for the second gurney. Dr. Gambinetti was stillâvery stillâbut his head wasn't covered with a sheet. Maybe he was alive too.
Seeing her standing, her mother hugged her again. Chelsea tried to swallow, to clear her throat, but couldn't. Gently, she pulled herself away from her mother's embrace.
“My throat's so dry. I really need some water,” she said.
Helen Kaüer looked around and spotted the convenience store on the corner. “I'll get you some.”
Chelsea shook her head. “No, it's okay. I'll go.”
Her mother stared. “Don't be silly.”
“I'm not. He said I was fine.”
“I'll go with you.”
Chelsea shook her head and pressed her palm against her mother's cheek. “I'll be fine.”
There were tears in her mother's eyes. “You're not. You're not fine. You're going to the hospital.”
“Okay. Whatever. Right after I get some water, okay?”
Without waiting for a response, Chelsea pulled away and started walking. Helen Kaüer tried to follow, but her husband gently held her back. He spoke softly, but Chelsea heard him.
“Let her go herself if she wants. We'll watch her from here.”
She didn't need to hear the rest. The cacophony of fire hoses, shouts, and flames quieted a bit at her back as she made her way to the convenience store. Somewhere far off, she heard music and people laughing. Hobson Night was still in full swing. Most of the people in the town were enjoying themselves.
Snow gathered in her hair. Everything ached, but it felt good to be moving after having been pinned under the wood, felt good to be outside after having been stuck in the house. When she pushed the door open and walked into the cleaner air of the store, she noticed for the first time how much she smelled of sweat and soot. What a fright she must be to look at.
But right now she really didn't care.
“Dasani, please,” she said, pushing a five-dollar bill toward the creepy man whose eyes were lines of folded skin.
They'd found Derek. They'd help him. Maybe even Dr. Gambinetti was still alive.
He put the change on the counter next to the bottle.
Only if you count all the change. Then they'll be alive.
She grabbed the coins and stuffed them in her pocket. The cashier stared at her.
“Aren't you going to count your change?”
In her mind's eye, amidst the frenetic, chipmunk chattering of the OCD, with all its horrid, comic-book images and insane, magical cures, she caught a glimpse of the stone plaque in “Restrooms” Gambinetti's unkempt, cozy little office:
WHAT MIGHT BE ALWAYS OWES ITS DEEPEST DEBT TO WHAT IS.
“No,” Chelsea said, between gulps of water. “I trust you.”
Anne leaned back against the cold metal frame of the cot behind her. The last remnants of the story faded, and she laid her head back against the ratty sheets to gaze at the ceiling.
“Crap,” she whispered.
Still here
.
But it shouldn't have surprised her. She knew right off the bat that the story wouldn't be about her. No way. That Chelsea chick was mental, scared of everything. That was so not AnneâShirley maybe, but not Anne.
She wondered how much time had passed since the bones had hit the winning combo. One of the problems with telling the story was that it consumed the mind so completely. She'd lost all track of time, and
was totally oblivious to her surroundings. An hour may have passed. Two or three could have ticked away, and she wouldn't know it. Hell, a Komodo dragon, like the one in the story, could have come in, taken a bite out of her, and wandered off, and she wouldn't have even noticed, not until the story was done. That's why it was safer to play in a group.
Screw the group. There was no group
. There was just Daphne, Mary, and Shirley. And then there was Anne.
Did she have time for another game? Another story? It would be dangerous. For all she knew, the Headmistress had finished tormenting the three girls and was wandering the halls searching for
her
.
She had promised the Headmistress she'd return to her room. She'd lied.
“Sue me,” she whispered, then broke up laughing.
Two stories had been told this night already. Did she dare try for a third?
“Hells yeah,” Anne said quietly.
She rolled her head and looked into the black nothing of the hole next to her.
This entire place is a big nothing
, she thought.
One massive hole in the world, filled with
nada.
Anne leaned forward and gathered up the bones. Just for the sake of ritual, she returned them to the
Clutch and pulled the strings to seal the vermillion bag. She counted to ten, thinking about the weird girl from the story.
Counting keeps the oogie boogies away
, she thought, amused. Then, she opened the Clutch and dumped the bones out into her hand.
“And what have you got there?” the Headmistress asked.
Anne's muscles tightened at the sound of the voice. She didn't turn to the woman. Instead she tightly closed her hand around the bones.
Then, ever so calmly, she dropped to the side and fell through the hole in the floor. She'd picked the infirmary for this very reason: its escape hatch. Though she could pass through wall and floor and ceiling, the bones could not. They were solid and if Anne simply vanished through the planks, they would be left behind, along with any hope she'd ever have of escaping this place.
So, she fell, clutching the bones. When she reached the dark pit of the basement, she glided to the cold stone floor. A monstrous boiler rose up in the shadows beside her. Crates and boxes, darker than the atmosphere, stretched out in this space like a small shadowy skyline. Rats squeaked and scampered as her form became solid among them.
Then she was running. She dashed through the corridors of boxes, carefully returning the bones to the vermillion Clutch as she tore around a corner. She found the door and threw it open. Behind her, she heard the great slapping steps of the Headmistress.
“Stop immediately,” the woman called with her mind.
The sonic command hit the back of Anne's head like a board. She stumbled and then found her footing. At the stairs, she let herself fade to air, all except her hand, which still gripped the Clutch. She flew upward, back to the first floor. She soared through the infirmary and into the hallway beyond. Quickly she emerged into the great room with its tattered furniture and carpets of dust. Up the main stairs she flew, to the second floor. She considered returning to the classroom where last night's story had been told, but thought better of it. She needed to find someplace new to hide the bones, someplace the Headmistress (and those three other bitches) wouldn't look. The bones were hers now.
Hers!
She wasn't sharing them ever again.
Desperate, Anne tried to remember the layout of the orphanage. She knew it all so well, but her panic was making it hard to think. All of the classrooms
were behind her. They took up most of the second and third floors. The dormitories were ahead. They would have to do.
A harsh wind blew at her back, announcing the approach of the Headmistress. Anne peered over her shoulder and saw her roiling black cloud form rise into the hallway above the stairs.
Anne fled down the gloomy corridor. She turned left and then quickly dashed to the right.
Daphne, Mary, and Shirley staggered toward her from the end of the hall. They looked dazed and lost until they saw her. Then all three girls snapped out of their delirium, eyes burning across the fifteen yards that separated Anne from them.
She didn't have time to deal with these three, but they were blocking her escape. The Headmistress would be on her in seconds.
Anne ran to the nearest door and threw it open. Once inside, she slammed it and began looking around for someplace to hide the Clutch. The room was lined with beds, like the infirmary, only without the metal frames. Here, the beds had wooden frames and tiny headboards. Many of the mattresses were slashed open. Others littered the floor. Unfortunately, the room had no nightstands. No chests of drawers.
Where should she put the Clutch? She didn't have much time. In fact, she had no time at all.
A dark mist was seeping through the door. Anne leaped back, flying through the room to the far wall. She put the hand holding the Clutch behind her back, searching for any last-minute hiding place for the bones. But even as she noted the hole in the window, the Headmistress appeared, looking impossibly large and furious. A moment later, the three girls were also in the room, and the sight of them scared Anne more.
They all looked totally freaky and pissed off. Daphne's face was twisted tight. Her auburn hair fell into her glaring eyes. Her mouth was cast downward in a stern frown. Next to her, Mary stood with her arms crossed over her chest. Her half-lidded stare was intense and hateful. But the worst one was Shirley. The Red Room had obviously cracked her majorly. She twisted a lock of hair until it tore out on her finger. She dropped this to the floor and started in on another strand. All the while she fixed Anne with dead eyes that seemed beyond pain or anger or remorse. She looked like a psychopath observing a helpless victim.
“Wretched whore!” the Headmistress roared. “Your
punishment will be merciless. Come with me.”
“Oh no,” Shirley said with a throaty growl. She took a shambling step forward and tore free another clump of hair. “She's ours.”
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TO BE CONTINUED