Time & Space (Short Fiction Collection Vol. 2) (4 page)

Plain and simple: They were survivors.

The thing that had once been Wendy Harding shuffled into the room with teeth and claws ready, and as hideously deformed as she was Tim still found himself strangely attracted to her. Maybe it was the growing creature within him, or maybe he’d just finally gone completely crazy. Instead of running away or trying to protect himself Tim simply opened his arms and waited for her deadly embrace.

Fucking cockroaches…

STORY NOTES

I think we all have an idea or at least a best guess as to how the world as we know it might come to an end. Being a horror writer I happen to have many of those scenarios bouncing around in my skull and Timothy Meek is merely one of those possible endings. It’s a good one, though; one that doesn’t seem all that far-fetched to me if you think about the way diseases and germs can spread and everyone is so scared of the next SARS and Bird or Swine Flu to come along. It wouldn’t shock me at all to see some airborne bug mutate into existence or a deadly virus be released out of some government laboratory. I’m actually surprised it hasn’t happened yet, to be honest. Time will tell, I suppose.

Anyway, the genesis of this particular story was when I was listening to some Rush cd’s and thinking about the end of the world. At the end of the first song on their classic 2112 album the only lyrics on the track are…”And the meek shall inherit the earth.” Great tune and great album but it got me thinking. I was wondering if the meek really might inherit the world someday? Doubt it, but it could happen I suppose. And then I thought, well, what if it wasn’t all of the meek but maybe just one of them…Timothy Meek, to be exact. Maybe it will be just him who ends up inheriting the world as the last human left standing. Sure…why not? The plot of my story flowed naturally from there…

MARCELA TRANSMUTING

“Anger is a great force. If you control it, it can be transmuted

into a power which can move the whole world”

–William Shenstone

“Sweet is revenge–especially to women.”

–Francis Bacon

Marcela jogged along the Westside biking trail in the park, initially wishing Peter was with her. But he was packing his things at the apartment, their relationship over. She’d come back home unexpectedly early this afternoon and found Peter in their bed with another woman. She had no idea who the petite blonde was, but it didn’t matter. Bottom line was Marcela would be living alone now for the first time in seven years, since leaving her native Dominican Republic to attend school here in the City of Angels.

Marcela scoffed at the ridiculous nickname. Peter certainly hadn’t turned out to be an angel; that was for sure. Far from it!

Even though Marcela didn’t like to run by herself at night, she’d hoped it would be cooler this late, and she couldn’t really stand the sight of Peter. Besides, she asked herself with a flippant sense she didn’t really feel, what self-respecting low-life would be out here, now, in this absolutely sweltering sauna? Being from the Caribbean, heat never really bothered her, but she hated the humidity and stifling smog LA afternoons were famous for. And it was indeed muggy, regardless of the late hour: her light green tank top and shorts were soaked with perspiration already, and she hadn’t run a quarter mile yet.

Marcela sighed, speeding up slightly.

She didn’t need a man in her life right now, anyway. Not with the demands at the office–she was very close to being offered an associate position. She smiled wryly, thinking that maybe this would work out better for her, after all. She’d have more time to do work at home, instead of sitting around fretting about Peter, when he was out supposedly playing three-on-three basketball but actually seeing a girlfriend. In any event, she was resigned to the decision. And really, the idea of being alone didn’t seem quite so frightening, now; Sandy was next door, if she needed company.

Maybe, I’m going through some kind of transformation here, Marcela told herself, wiping a wrist sweatband across her forehead. Yeah, finally growing up.

It seemed to suddenly grow darker as the trail curved away from 10th Avenue into the heart of the park. Scary–

That’s when she saw them ahead standing in the path, instantly realizing they were wrong, all three wearing black windbreakers in the muggy heat.

Marcela slowed to a walk, eyeing them warily.

As she got closer the three black teenage boys aggressively maintained their position, actually blocking her way on the bike path. Now she could see the funny caricature of a grinning skull on the breast of their jackets, and they were all wearing black satin bandannas on their heads, like defensive backs in the NFL. But she didn’t think these boys were playing a game. No indeed.

She came to a halt about ten feet from the three young men, reaching up and nervously stroking her good luck charm hanging around her neck: the tiny silver ball pendant, a smooth and shiny sphere with a hole drilled through the middle.

Well, Marcela thought with forced confidence, maybe those two nights a week studying karate at The Divine Wind will pay off, now. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that though. “Can I pass, please?” she asked, with fake bravado, trying to keep her voice from breaking.

“No, momma,” the biggest boy said, with a kind of half apologetic tone, shaking his head. “Go ‘head, tell her why, Silk.”

The smallest boy took a step forward, holding out his hand. “We collectin’ toll,” he said, an evil smirk on his face.

The big guy nodded at Marcela. “Tha’s right, momma. Hope ya’ll holdin’ somepin’ in tha’ little purse.” He pointed with his left hand at the blue waist purse that contained her apartment keys, a few dollars, and some change, his right hand unbuttoning his windbreaker, revealing a pistol stuffed in the front of his pants.

Oh, my God, she thought, her heart hammering her ribs as the grim reality of the situation began to fully register.

I’m going to be robbed!

The three of them edged closer.

It’s now or never, Marcela decided, trying to stave off her growing panic as she lashed out with a front kick, catching the leader a glancing blow with her foot in his upper thigh. She had intended to kick him in the crotch, but she was a trifle off because of her fear, and he was surprisingly quick for his size. He recovered easily, and before Marcela could cover up, he moved in a step or two and lashed out with a punch, smashing her squarely in the face.

Pinwheels of light went off in her head accompanied by sharp, shooting pains. From flat on her back Marcela groaned, fighting nausea, arms protecting her face, immediately knowing that her nose was broken.

Then, they were all over her, and she felt her purse being snatched from her waist…And even worse, hands were pulling down her shorts. She tried to scream once, but she was kicked in the side and pain exploded along her ribcage, fireworks again bursting in her head; and the cry for help stuck in her throat. She felt one of them on top of her, ripping off her tank top, hands roughly clutching her breasts–

Thankful blackness engulfed her as Marcela lost consciousness.

***

She was roused to partial awareness by something…an unusual but strangely familiar sound? Marcela was naked and lying on her side, curled up in a protective ball, hurting all over, one hand squeezed into a tight fist. She managed to lift her head slightly, blinking; but it was much too dark to see anything. She cocked her head, listening.

It was the steady background noise that had roused her–a constant monotonous drone. And the smothering smell of decay. All so familiar. And for a moment, despite the pain, she was flash-backed to last summer, the trip to Costa Rica with Peter, and hiking in the rain forest–the muggy nights in the Central American jungle and the constant background
hum
of a thousand or more insects.

Then she opened her clenched hand; she held the silver sphere they’d bought from a street vendor in San Jose, a spooky old lady with piercing black eyes. Marcela had apparently ripped the charm free of the necklace during the attack, hid it in her hand. She curled her fingers again around the pendant, remembering the old lady had claimed it contained magical protective and restorative powers.

Strange, but as she held the tiny metal ball, it seemed to move within her tight grasp, to expand and contract, pulsing ever so gently. It didn’t seem quite as round and smooth, either, her fingers seeking out and finding several small bumps and dents in its previously unblemished exterior.

She tried to move, tried to sit up to take a look but a sharp pain in her side overwhelmed her semi-conscious state, and she sank back down into the relief of cool blackness.

***

The darkness is good. It cools her naked skin and heightens her senses. She is hungry, thirsty too, but she waits patiently for the last few orange rays of light to disappear from the western sky before moving. Wait for it… almost gone… now!

She uncoils her muscular body, running at first for no other reason that to feel the power, experience the rush, relish the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she shoots off into the thick green foliage of the rainforest.

Running, running, running…

Searching…

***

Three days later Marcela was released from the hospital after treatment for shock, a concussion, a broken nose, and two fractured ribs. The three days of lying on her back left her with little to do except think. By the time Peter picked her up in his black BMW and drove her back to the apartment, Marcela had experienced a major attitude change. The idea of living alone, of being a completely independent person, that she’d speculated on just before the rape, was now an accepted fact in her mind.

In the apartment, Marcela curled her feet under her on the couch and listened to Peter fumble. Of course he felt guilty, blamed himself for letting her run alone that night, which was ridiculous.

“I guess, I, ah, should unpack, you know,” he said, looking around kind of sheepishly at the cardboard boxes stacked in the front room, containing his tapes and books and sports memorabilia. He nodded to himself, as if agreeing. “I can probably get my deposit on the new place back if I explain–”

“Why do that, Peter?” Marcela interrupted, feeling a little impatient with the whole thing. Absently, her fingers played with the silver ball pendant, the bumps and dents that had marred its surface surely the result of her shocked mind playing tricks on her, because her fingers felt nothing but smoothness now. “You’re not staying, you know.”

“B-but I thought that…Well, you know,” he said, looking confused. “I just thought you’d want me to stay, at least for a little while. The doctors said–”

She forced a smile and shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine here by myself. Don’t worry about it.”

“But, you’ll be all alone.”

She nodded. “I know.” Her smile was sincere, now. “I’ve come to a remarkable realization, Peter: Alone isn’t the same thing as lonely. Besides, Sandy is just across the hall.”

“Yeah, but after what happened…” Peter looked embarrassed now. Although he’d visited her each day in the hospital, they’d never specifically discussed the rape, her feelings, his reactions in any detail. It was something she’d allowed him to avoid. “For christsakes, Mar, the doctor said it might take months for you to get over the fear, the anxiety attacks, the nightmares and you know, you heard him. Some women need extensive counseling, for years even.”

She knew all that.

But even that first night in the hospital, Marcela hadn’t been afraid. Maybe it was her Caribbean resiliency, the potent drugs or her Costa Rican pendant that she wore again on a new chain–probably a combination. She’d had a strange dream about running naked through a rainforest, but awakened little more than slightly unsettled–not what she’d call overwhelmed with anxiety. In a way the rape seemed to have accelerated her attitude change. She wasn’t afraid or anxious, now, at the prospect of being completely on her own. She’d developed a kind of positive strength during the three days of contemplation in the hospital. She couldn’t really explain it. It was just a fact. And it wasn’t only about excluding Peter from her life, either. She didn’t even want a female roommate, although Sandy had volunteered to move in for a while. No, she had decided, she actually preferred being alone, and though she might be a little apprehensive at times, she knew that, for whatever reason, at least for now, she had become a solitary person. A completely independent being.

They argued for a few more minutes…

But Peter finally agreed that they would separate as planned, before the incident in the park.

Actually, Marcela thought, he’d probably put up only token resistance because he still felt guilty about letting her run alone that night. And the thought made her angry–an uncharacteristic response. Who the hell did he think he was, deciding anything about what she did?

When the final decision was actually spoken out loud and agreed upon, she could read the relief in Peter’s eyes. It was time to go their separate ways. And for Marcela, that meant by herself.

“Here,” he said, writing down something on a slip of paper beside the phone. “This is my new phone number. If you need me anytime, Mar, just call. Even, if it’s the middle of the night. You know, if you have a nightmare or something.”

She nodded, agreeing, humoring him. Anything to get him on his way.

At last, Marcela said goodbye to Peter, and sighed deeply with relief when he was finally out the door.

***

The compelling need for solitude extended to everything, including her work. After settling in alone at her apartment that first day, Marcela had called the senior partner in the firm, Ronald Benoit, getting him at two o’clock just as he returned from lunch; and after describing her injuries, she explained that she needed more time off.