AN: And hello, my dears, this short story is back! I have trashed my old story, rebuilt it from scratch (more or less), and obsessively rewritten things. It's probably as good as it can get without me killing it and none of my family members will/can read it, so I send it out to you for viewing--hoping you'll like it and not tar and feather me, of course, and for any help you can offer.
I've spell-checked it and proof-read it (though reading over small sections too many times makes your brain numb), like I did before, and I hope it has improved.
Anyway, enjoy. And if you come back to read it after putting it aside and everything has suddenly changed, I've probably edited it once more (because I've finally gotten someone I know, like my grammar-wise mother, to look it over). Or I've edited it again because I have mild OCD if I let myself express it.
Warnings: Implications of violence, violence, general grossness, and death.
(Part of my HAZE AU, with "Sampson" and the HAZE books themselves, which are unwritten but living a jolly life in my head.)
///
BARBARA
Barbara
She may have been the only person known to man that had thrown up newsprint. Honestly. She gagged, hating the acidic taste in her mouth. She glanced down into the beige trashcan that was balanced nicely on her legs to see the glop of white and gray sticking to the trash bag, looking like papier-mache art gone wrong.
She licked her cracked lips, then looked around the room.
She was in the restroom of a gas station and it looked it. Cracked tile wall that the toilet, sink, and broken mirror were attached to, metal shelves with slightly crushed boxes and bottles of cleaning products, and two doors--one which led into the store, the other to an unknown destination and which had a heavy lock keeping it shut. She figured the boiler was in there. Leaves scattered the floor, along with the bodies of insects, and there was an indiscreet puddle lying on the floor. She wrinkled her nose. It also smelt of sharp, fake citrus and bleach in here, no matter how filthy the place was and whether or not there was a softball-sized hole in the wall letting in petrol stench.
She sighed and just shifted. The trash can was cutting off her circulation. She placed it on the floor, back under the sink like it had been before, and accidentally banged her wrist on withdrawal.
“Ouch!” She clapped her other hand over her mouth, silencing herself. The little yelp had the time to come out, anyway. She looked at the door, eyes wide. Nothing. Not a sound. She let out a small sigh behind her fingers. Good. She didn’t need the angular-faced help in the front coming to knock on the door. She needed privacy. She needed privacy because she needed to figure some things out.
She gave her head a small shake and then brought her hand close for inspection. Nothing seemed amiss, except she had one broken nail with a bit of dried blood around the bed. Nothing that could cause pain like that. She then frowned to herself, as she took in the faux diamond band around her arm, something held together with elastic and plastic. She gently slid the band off and she almost cried out again at the sight. Her whole wrist was a mess of scratch marks, probably from long nails.
She felt her eyes start to water. She was so confused. This didn’t make any sense. Of course, neither did her life. She could remember some birthday from long ago. She’d sorted that out in the car, as she hadn’t had much else to do as the sun rose and she neared the closest town--Redwood. She remembered being dressed as a princess, with a feather boa and silvery tiara. She remembered strawberry cake. She remembered a black girl named Eva and a red-head named Lily. She remembered the shadowy faces of her parents. Her mother--long black hair and gentle brown doe eyes. Her father--gruff, with graying brown stubble.
She could remember being rocked by her mother, playing hopscotch with Lily, playing cards with her dad. She could remember random small things, like going to buy socks.
However, she couldn’t recall yesterday, the week before that, or the month before that. She could hardly remember elementary school. She couldn’t recall where she’d lived, or if she’d ever been on a date.
She’d had two hours before she reached this literally hole-in-the-wall gas station. She’d had two hours to try and remember as her head throbbed and a place between her shoulder blades burned; remember as her pleather skirt stuck to her legs in the dry heat, car burning up because it had no air conditioning.
Speaking of which, she couldn’t remember where she’d gotten that car.
She just resolutely grabbed a paper towel and got it wet. She rubbed it over her wrist and then took off her other bracelet--this one a dark mocha cuff studded with old-looking iron. There was some chafing there, but no more nail marks.
She wondered if her mother had left those nail marks; if maybe she’d tried to leave home and she hadn’t wanted her to go. But that didn’t match up with the vision of the round-faced woman. She wouldn’t do that. She knew that, at least.
She sat there another moment, the acid taste still on her tongue and her wrist still smarting--then she stood. She wobbled on the tall heels she wore for a moment, before she scoffed to herself and bent down. She undid the buckles and slid off the shoes. The ground might be nasty, but she didn’t want to wear those awful shoes anymore. She chucked them at the wall and just stood in front of the mirror.
She’d been taken down about three inches, but she was pretty tall, she thought. That being said, everything felt sort of surreal about now, so she couldn’t say so for sure. She wasn’t even sure what people measured tallness with. Feet? Maybe it was feet. That sounded right.
She narrowed her eyes at herself in the finger-smudged mirror. White dress shirt, camel-colored long coat that she’d put on as she’d driven further north and the weather got chillier, dark eyes like her mother, and her hair was so badly dyed she felt like hitting the mirror just to get rid of the view. Half of it was peroxide blonde and scraggly, just hitting her shoulders, the rest went from there to her roots--dull, natural black.
She blinked when she saw a flash of red in one of the upper cracks in the mirror. She tilted her head, then ducked down. She pulled back her bangs and saw a gash, covered in congealed blood.
She shuddered, hands shaking a little, and straightened back up. She clasped the edge of the rust-accented metal sink and just stood there, eyes closed.
She needed to figure out what was going on. But how could you figure out what was going on when your only possessions were a truck, the clothes on your back, and a bag that held little more than a melted Kit-Kat bar, a wallet carrying twenty dollars, and an ID? An ID that was half burnt at that; plastic melted and browned?
But at least she did have that ID, something to tell her that her name was Barbara and she was nineteen. Not that she probably couldn’t have figured out her name. Carved into the hood of her truck was that name, bone-white against the dusty golden-orange paint.
That being said, that could have been a girlfriend’s name. She shook her head at the thought. Ugh.
She glanced around. Both bracelets on the toilet; army green tote on the floor. The cashier would probably come pounding soon.
She needed to get on with what had to be done, something she knew instinctively but couldn’t recall where the instinct came from.
She took off her coat, slipping the sleeves off, and she tossed it on top of her pack. She unbuttoned the pearl-looking buttons of her dress shirt, then added the shirt to the heap.
There was a bruise; covering her entire left side. She’d felt that in the car, something just not right. She moved her fingers over the ugly mess of green, purple, black, and yellow and winced. It hurt. That shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did.
She unzipped her skirt and let that slide down to her feet. She picked it back up once she saw she had no lower body wounds--thank goodness. Zipped it back. Then she just stood in her sports bra and skirt, watching herself.
She couldn’t remember what had happened to her--maybe because of the head wound--and she wanted to cry. She knew crying was a sign of weakness, but she felt like she deserved to cry a bit. But she didn’t. She just sniffed and then put back on her shirts, something that made her feel more sore than before.
She went and sat on the toilet seat once again, but this time she drew her legs up to her chest and hugged them. She rested her chin on her knees and just closed her eyes.
Two guys, fighting. One shirtless, the other with his pants near torn off, wood sticking from his leg. Both eight feet into the earth.
She jerked, eyes opening, lips parting in shock. What was that?
Well, at least she knew that ‘feet’ was the proper measure.
She rubbed her face and turned her head at a sudden rustling sound. The leaves blocking the hole to the outside were moving. She blinked at them, confused. Then a wiry, black-furred body burst from them, dragging a naked pink tail behind it.
She clapped a hand over her mouth again and fell back against the back of the toilet, hard enough to make her cringe.
The fat rat moved slowly across the brown linoleum, sniffing, whiskers twitching, as its beady black eyes cased the joint.
It walked over to her bag and started smelling it. She had the vague feeling she might puke again. It moved on, though--hopped into the trashcan with such practiced ease she felt like complaining to the manager. Not that she could. Something had told her to avoid people. Or someone.
She heard it snuffling around and she decided it was about time she left. She flushed the toilet to help with her deception and put back on her bracelets, which also sat on the toilet seat with her. She then went over to pick up her shoes--watchful of the rat. She slipped them on, semi-glad they were great for stomping on potential rats, then picked up her coat and bag. She looked into the trashcan to see the rat chewing on the newspaper clump and she wrinkled her nose.
She was out of the restroom in an instant, door swinging closed behind her.
#
“H-hey,” the guy at the counter said.
She looked over him. His name-tag said William and he seemed to be wearing a dress shirt a size too small, something that didn’t go with his lip ring or lank brown hair whatsoever. Neither did his khakis.
“Hello.” She coughed into her fist.
“That doesn’t s-sound good,” he said in a monotone. He reached forward and grabbed her bottle of orange soda off the counter then rang it up and did the same with the beef jerky. “Dollar twenty five.”
She handed him five dollars. She fought the urge to leap back when his fingers touched the palm of her hand.
“S-so, you from around h-here?” he asked her, as he gathered up her change, head bowed.
She shrugged. “I’m from anywhere and everywhere.” That was the best answer she could come up with. Her address had been lost in the same unknown blaze as her last name.
The guy chuckled, though. Like she’d made a joke. “Fun. I’m born and raised here,” he glanced up at her, “h-hence me working in a gas station. I’m even a high school dropout. Such a cliche, huh? S-some Midwestern boy with no hopes in life since he can’t be a cowboy.” He shook his head, smiling.
She didn’t laugh. It sounded sad to her, even if she was sure he had meant that to be a joke.
“Oh well, here’s your change.”
She put the money in her wallet.
“Um, are you alone?”
She stared at him.
He immediately blushed. “Sorry. That s-sounded creepy. I just--you look sort of off.”
She raised an eyebrow, even if it hurt the gash hidden under her bangs.
“How so?” she asked.
“There’s a bruise on your jaw.”
She blinked. She’d missed that.
He looked closer at her, with something akin to worry on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked in a whisper. “I mean, do you need me to call s-someone?”
She shook her head and grabbed her stuff hurriedly off the counter. “No.” He’s way too perceptive for his own good. Either that, or I’m too stupid.
Her hand tightened on the strap of her bag as she waited for a response.
“There’s also blood all over the back of your shirt.”
She scowled. “It’s none of your business.”
He raised his hands in a peace gesture. She jerked back this time, feet moving of her own accord.
He looked horrified.
“Bye,” she muttered. She stalked off, heading for the glass door.
She needed to escape. Now. Get away from here. Go somewhere else. Far away. She just wondered if there was a place for her to go.
///
Fischer
For a long moment, William Fischer just watched where the old Toyota truck had sat. The parking space was now an empty stretch of oil-laced asphalt, but he felt the need to keep staring.
He finally moved. That is, he gulped. That start allowed him to move his magazine out of the way and rest his elbows on the counter. He ended with his hands in his hair; eyes closed.
What the heck just happened? He couldn’t answer that. All he knew was that he felt guilty. He should have called the cops. Or something. He should have at least invited her back to his apartment for the night, no matter if that would be creepy or not. He’d seen her wallet--three other five dollar bills and the plastic of an ID poking out a pocket. He’d seen the five dollar bill she’d given him, of course, too. He’d seen it wrinkled and with a Spanish word printed on it messily with sharpie.
Gosh, she was probably some trafficked prozzie. He cursed under his breath. He’d failed, badly.
And then something urged him to look over the counter.
Blood. All over the floor. Shiz.
His boss was going to skin him.
#
He’d mopped up the floor of the crescent shaped blood marks and drips. The first still confused him, but he half wondered if it had come off one of her shoes heels. Thinking of a stiletto with blood on it sent him shuddering, too, as he put the mop up in the backroom and wandered over to the bathroom. He figured there would be a mess in there.
He was right.
There was a blood smear on the back of the toilet, but that was about it. Better than the time when he had a couple of drunk girls go in there. However, the rest of the bathroom was a wreck. He winced.
Some days--like today--he really hated being a gas station attendant. For one, he hated germs. For another thing, everyone thought he was scum (including his step-dad and his boss, the latter strange to even him). Like, seriously. How hypocritical could you get? That point aside, he also really, really hated germs. And he’d been cleaning up the blood of a person who may well have some deadly STD for a half hour already.
He shook his head, then grabbed up the roll of paper towels off the rack. He ripped two off and wet them, before cleaning up the mess.
While scrubbing at the porcelain of the toilet, he heard a wheeze. He froze, expecting some fat woman in a floral dress complaining about him being in the woman’s bathroom. (That had happened before and the lady hadn’t been able to grasp the fact there was only one bathroom and he worked there.)
“Yeah, what is it?” he asked, not glancing up.
He got no response.
He breathed in a lung-full of smog and turned his head. Nobody was in the doorway. The light flickered overhead. He glanced around, wondering where the sound came from.
Then something rattled.
He froze, muscles tensed. Nothing else happened.
He rolled his eyes at himself. “I’m s-such a nancy,” he said. He let out a weak laugh and chucked the spent paper towel gob at the trash bin.
His blood went cold at the snarl that came out of the trashcan in return. He picked up the paper towel roll like an idiot and held it aloft. As of that would help him. He felt like smacking himself, but he was too freaked out. There’d been a raccoon in the store before--an evil little devil. He didn’t want a repeat experience with that. Yet, with a tilt of the bin, a rat covered in white mess tipped out. He stared at it and it stared right back.
He walked back into the metal shelves hard enough to bruise his shoulder blades.
In his crib, vision blurred, something black creeping up his legs; tiny, pin-tip-sized claws digging into his baby skin.
Oh, he hated rats.
They’d been in his parents’ house’s walls for two generations and he he’d had enough of them.
He picked up a bottle of Windex off the shelf at arm-level and threw it at the little monster. The beast just got knocked off his feet with a squeak. Seconds later, it was running around in circles, snarling.
“What?” That’s the only question he could come up with. He didn’t think that would be the reaction. Stunned or dead would have been good. Wigging out, though?
Then blood started to appear on the floor, from no particular place except from the rat--but he couldn’t see from where on the rat.
What?
A shriek that sent his hair standing on end came from the critter. The thing suddenly fell limp to the floor. Well, mostly limp. Its legs flailed a moment, but that was it. Dead, staring eyes--black as the girl at the register’s.
Gosh.
He shivered, something in his stomach threatening to rise, and he put the paper towel roll back down. He edged towards the doorway and, once the rat was out of sight, bolted.
#
He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up in the gray fabric driver’s seat of his car. All he knew was his key ring was still swinging back and forth, the car was on, and his glove box was open. Oh, and he also had enough antibacterial gunk on his hands to drown a small country’s population. He rubbed his hands together a bit more, paranoia setting in. His shoulders were still shaking and he could see his eyes in the rear view mirror, wild from stress and shock. He let out a shuddery sigh and just slouched down a bit more; foot tapping the break.
He glanced over at the phone on the passenger seat. His phone--sleek and silver, but with duct tape. He let out a small groan, then rubbed his hands on the front of his pants. He’d have to call his boss. And maybe 911, to alert them of a possible rabid rat hanging out in his workplace. Did rats even get rabies? He didn’t know. It was probably dead now, anyway. Still. And then there was that girl. Gah, what was he going to do about her? He didn’t have an answer for that, either.
He swore and jerked away from the window at a tap. He glanced sideways to see his neighbor, Timothy. He hated that overweight, pink-polo-shirt-wearing, egotistical jerk-wad. Oh well.
He rolled down his window. “H-hey. What do ya want?”
“Why is the gas station closed?” Timothy asked, straightening his glasses.
“Eh. Something happened. Just drive on to the next one, okay?”
Timothy huffed. “Oh?” The high-pitched question sent his nerves frazzling. “Well, that’s too bad. I assume it wasn’t your fault.” Tim gave him a certain look, then walked off, and he felt instant relief.
Fischer waited a minute. He shook his head and reached over blindly. His slippery hand latched onto his phone. He tapped in three digits, even as he cranked the window back up.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Um, can you get s-somebody to the Redwood gas station as s-soon as possible?”
He hung up. He had nothing else to say. Watch out for the crazy rat? Eh. They had shots for that. And he had a feeling that telling them the girl’s tag number wouldn’t help the girl in the least. He hoped she’d do fine on her own and that’s all he could do--hope. He didn’t want to stick his nose in somewhere it didn’t belong.
And, of course, his phone started to ring--right when the clock’s glowing green-blue numbers changed from 9:14 to 9:15.
He answered, half wondering if the 911 people (did they have a technical name?) were calling him back.
“H-hello?”
“William!” Fischer winced. His boss was the only person born in Redwood that he knew of that called him that. And the throaty growls that were coming through the phone were enough to inform him it was most certainly his boss.
“Yes-s, s-sir?”
“Stop stammering, you nimrod. Why am I getting calls from folks saying the gas station is closed? You off smoking weed or something, you broke-neck?”
Fischer closed his eyes. He really hated his boss, too.
“No. There was an incident.”
Silence. A crackle of static. “What sort of incident?” His boss’s voice both dropped an octave and dropped to a whisper.
Fischer would’ve said that sounded fishy, but the boys in his classes always used to taunt him in the same way they taunted the post-puberty girls so the word itself, even just in his head, made him tense. So he forgot all about it.
“Uh, there was this girl,” he said.
More silence. Then, finally, Mr. Schneider said, “Explain please.”
“She came into the store and there was just blood everywhere and stuff. Then there was this rabid rat or some shiz and I called the cops.” Fischer chuckled, brushed a bit of his hair out of his face. “You know, I’m starting to agree with you about how that bathroom’s haunted.”
“Don’t talk about that.”
He heard a dull click. He pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the screen. ‘Call Ended’ showed up in big, black letters.
Huh.
#
He’d managed to get through three stoplights, a stop sign, and avoid two kids, one on a scooter and the other on a skateboard, and lived (without harming anyone else, too). Going by his sweaty palms and tense shoulders, he found that pretty awesome. Luckily, he had nothing else to contend with, as he’d pulled up into his parking space--
The phone rung again.
Why do I keep jinxing myself?
He let out a long sigh and picked up the device once more, pushed a button out of memory. “H-hi?” He choked on a whiff of cigarette smoke coming through the cracked passenger window. Ugh. Why did he have to live in such a shiz-hole apartment complex, anyway? Right. He had no money.
“Hello, Fischer.” It was his boss. Again. Except he wasn’t talking like normal. Fischer raised an eyebrow, half glad his boss couldn’t see his expression because he would smack him.
“Hi?”
“Don’t repeat yourself. It’s annoying.”
He scoffed.
He heard a gulp come down the line. Heard something scratching on something else. His boss’s fingers on a starched collar, maybe? “Um. You are coming into work tomorrow, right?”
“I’m not sure,” Fischer admitted. “I’m sorry. I just--”
“You need to come in tomorrow.”
“I can take a day off. I have some saved up. You even had me work a few Sundays, remember? I deserve a break.”
“Everyone works Sundays now, you--” His boss let out a meek chuckle. “Sorry.”
Fischer rolled his eyes, then leaned back and put his sneaker-ed feet on the dash. “Fine. I’ll come in. But I’ve been thinking of quitting. I’ve told you that. What happened today is probably the final nail in the coffin.”
He heard a clatter.
“You all right, boss?”
“Fine, fine. Uh, just come by noon, okay?”
“I get there at six o’clock every morning. If anything, I’m not a person to be late.”
“Right, you have Daddy Issues. I forgot.”
Click.
He huffed. The one thing his boss did know how to do properly was be dramatic.
Tap, tap.
LUNGE--he was over by the opposite window, his back to the door.
Gracie, his sole blond-haired neighbor, gave him an odd look through the glass.
“You about scared me to death!” His heart pounded behind his ribs and his hand flew to his chest.
“Oh, stop being a sissy. I need sugar for a pie. You have any?”
“Why would I--”
“You drink coffee, don’t you?” Gracie blew smoke at him, white-and-tan cigarette in her hand. Explanation for smell--found.
He nodded. “Yeah. But I only have packets--”
“That’ll do. Now come out and up to my place before a bird singing causes you to wet your pants.”
He frowned. “I’ve had a rough day.”
“I’ve had a rough year. And be happy. You get to come up to my place and perv on Laurel.”
“I’ll be there in ten.” He blinked, realizing he should have said something about not getting weird on her sister.
“I’d much prefer five.” With that, Gracie tossed her cig down and walked off, feet clomping hard on the asphalt.
#
“I knew you had a thing for her. You look like James Dean. And you smell like mouth wash.”
“Who?”
Gracie just blinked at him. “God, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”
He brushed his wet hair out of his face with one hand, then handed Gracie a plastic bag filled with sugar packets.
“What, you bring me a shrunken head?”
His eyes narrowed. “Can you refrain from being sarcastic for two seconds?”
“Sure.” Gracie stayed perfectly still. “Two seconds up. What’s with your hair?”
“That isn’t sarcasm.”
“You don’t know who James Dean was. I think I still win.”
“Gracie! Leave the poor boy alone.”
Fischer perked up at the sound of Laurel’s voice; high, smooth, and with a biting edge meant specifically for Gracie.
Gracie rolled her eyes. “But I don’t wanna,” she mock-whined, as Laurel bounced into sight.
He was pretty glad for the familiar face--a flushed, rounded face with big brown eyes.
“Hi, Laurel.” He smiled.
“See? I told you he--”
Laurel raised a hand.
Gracie sighed. “Eh, I’ll go call Jimmy.” She wandered off.
Fischer watched her a minute. “He run off again?”
“Yeah, went to the casino at the rez.” Laurel looked him up and down, concern growing on her face. “Gracie said you were jumpy. You okay?”
“Fine,” he said.
“Will--”
He chuckled. “I just had some trouble at work. Crazy chick and a whacked rat in the bathroom that probably took his dangerous arsenic addiction a bit too far. No biggie.” He shrugged a shoulder. “May I come in, though?”
Laurel’s eyes crinkled at the corners and she let out a small laugh.”Sure,” she held open the door, stepped out of the way. “Where do you come up with that stuff, anyway?” She giggled, then walked deeper into the apartment--towards the living room.
“Come up?” he mouthed to himself, before following her.
#
Laurel soon had him sitting in an overstuffed armchair not long after and Mister Mittens was holding him captive, fat body sprawled on his lap and clawed paws prone to kneading things when petted far too close to his zip for comfort.
In the background, Gracie was talking on a clunky phone in hushed tones; voice harsh. The television had a Spanish soap opera on it and he half-heartedly watched it as Laurel hummed in the nearby kitchen, the half-wall blocking most of his view of her. He could see the top of her frilly apron and a bit of brown hair out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t stare, obviously.
“Pie’s almost done,” she called out a second later.
He nodded and carefully continued trying to move the obese animal residing in his lap onto the couch’s red and gold pillows. It wasn’t working. It was like playing Pick-Up-Sticks, except every time he moved the tabby wrong the claws started to dig through his jeans. He caught a smell of the pie and just settled back, deciding to let the fight hit stalemate.
“Cool,” he said, mouth watering a bit as the perfume of burning sugar and heating cherries hit his nose. As an afterthought, he decided to tack on, “By the way, your cat has a completely black sense of humor.”
“That’s all cats. Missy--the gray striped one, remember?--she used to go up to our Aunt Bertha, who was allergic, and sleep ‘round her neck.”
His head fell back as he laughed. Then his eyes got huge, as he spotted Gracie was standing behind him, grinning. Some of her blonde hair fell onto his mouth and he jerked away. “Stop scaring me!”
“Stop being a girly-boy,” Gracie retorted.
“You’re a very bitter person,” Fischer informed her.
She didn’t respond. “Make room for me on the couch.”
He gestured down at the cat.
She rolled her eyes and just swung around, coming to sit right up beside him.
“You said the pie is almost done?” Gracie asked.
“Yep. It’s cooling now,” Laurel responded. She smiled at the two of them. “Trying to make a move on poor, innocent Will there, G?”
“Ew.” Gracie wrinkled her nose prettily and Fischer just attempted to scoot away.
“I second that settiment.”
“It’s sentiment.”
Fischer blinked. “Oops?”
Gracie shrugged her shoulders and took the tawny afghan off the back of the sofa. “Eh. Mind if I change the channel?”
He glanced back at the TV screen. The light of the window made it look off, but the image was so grainy it didn’t make much difference. A girl on screen in a purple dress was bawling on the floor, some guy with slicked black hair and a monkey suit was speaking down at her. “Sure.” He’d fulfilled his quota of melodramatic BS already.
“Great.” Gracie switched the channel to news; using an ancient remote.
Oh well. He was going to have to deal with even more BS, then.
He blinked as he saw a blonde news-lady wearing red lipstick to match her cheap red business suit glare at someone--a camera man, maybe--whilst wearing an all too fake smile. “Today we regret to inform the public that Rachele Lockean was found dead by Strung Pond Point. The cause appears to be suffocation...”
A photo appeared on the screen. A girl with ragged black hair and too much eyeliner popped up.
He ducked his head and let out a small sigh of relief. It hadn’t been that other girl. Thank goodness. He felt like making the sign of the cross, but then he remembered, unlike his mother, he wasn’t Catholic. Not anymore. He wasn’t the kneeling-on-cue-because-some-dude-said-so sort. He left that to prozzies.
“You look oddly pleased. You kill her, then?” Gracie poked him in the arm.
His eyes widened. “No. I most certainly did not. It’s just some h-homeless girl or whatever came into the s-store, kinda looked scared. Got me worried--that openin’ statement.”
Gracie shook her head. “Pitiful.”
He heard a drawn-out squeak and he glanced down. Mittens followed his gaze and licked his chops. A plate with a slice of nice-looking cherry pie and whipped cream was now placed in front of him. Laurel had moved to sit by Gracie’s side now, too, in one quick move. She held out a pie plate to her sister and Gracie snatched it up.
“You know, I’m impressed. You didn’t look down her shirt.”
His gaze snapped to Laurel’s pink camisole. “What?”
“Never mind,” Gracie said, in the air of, you’re hopeless.
Fischer just shook his head and took his own plate. He dug in and just glanced around the room. Everything was non-cluttered, neat. And it seemed better than his. No cracked ceiling. Candles marking a table; lit. Even the windows had nice curtains. His apartment, by comparison, with its over-sized brown couch, ancient television, and the mattress residing in his bedroom seemed threadbare in comparison. But he was a guy. If it looked all pretty or whatever Gracie would be calling him a butt-pirate more often.
He still didn’t get that.
Then he saw it. The girl, but with long, curly black hair. She was wearing a cross, lying between her collarbones, and a black dress shirt. His heart leapt into his throat and his hand constricted on the armrest. “That’s her!”
“What?” Laurel asked, but he only paid her half a mind.
“Barbara Sanchez was last seen at Under, a dance club prominently has patrons under twenty-one--something it is well known for, by Jessie Tyndale, her good friend, at 10:15 p.m. Her whereabouts are still unknown, but the police are looking for her to their best of their ability.”
His pulse quickened; the sound hammering his ears.
“Barbara has been known to runaway to a supposed boyfriend in the past, but as her disappearance has lasted over a week, it has caused alarm. If anyone knows about her whereabouts or has any sort of insight on the case, please call 1-800--”
“Well, you’re doomed,” Gracie informed him, through a mouthful of pie. He glanced at her, saw crumbs falling down into her lap as she ate quickly; a drop of whipped cream threatening to drop from her plate.
“What?” His voice was too quiet. He saw Laurel tense beside Gracie as the blonde of the sisters turned to him.
“Think about it. You’re a lonely, miserable gas station attendant and you saw her last. She’ll wind up dead and they’ll pin it on you; claim you’re her mysterious boyfriend. That’s what they always do. Go for the most pathetic guy they can find. It especially helps if he is creepy. Or has piercings.” Gracie shot him a malicious smile.
“No way. I never even saw her before today!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gracie sung.
Laurel gave her sister a push. “Stop it.”
Gracie sighed. “Fine.” She poked him in the arm again. “Did you call 911?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you give them your name?”
“I don’t believe s-so.”
Gracie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter either way, I suppose. Next question: Did you touch her or make advances on her?”
“What?”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t touch h-her, no. I don’t think I came onto her either. She just seemed hurt. I offered to call someone for her. Um--”
Gracie chuckled. “Oh well. It’s not like it matters. You do, you die. You don’t, you die.”
“Die?” He stared at Gracie. Her brown eyes, muddier than Laurel’s, seemed sort of wild. Was she enjoying this?
Gracie leaned forward and put that about-to-fall drop of whipped cream on his nose. “Good luck.” She laughed.
Mister Mittens ran off his lap like a bat outta Hell.
#
Lying in bed, he was more confused than ever. And scared. Quite scared. Eventually, he decided it was no big deal; that he couldn’t be blamed for something he didn’t do, or something that he was pretty sure hadn’t happened yet since he’d seen the girl, like, five hours ago still kickin’. And by eventually, he meant about the time he got a can of ravioli open, heated it up in the microwave, and ate with the same sort of shaky hands he’d had previously.
Then he’d brushed his teeth and nearly drowned himself in mouthwash again.
He was scared of more than just being blamed. He was still--the rat had been sick. He could get sick. He shuddered. He, like any sane human being, did not want that. Especially something that looked so painful.
He sighed and stared up at his cracked, stained ceiling. A water-spotted plaster version of Orion stared back at him. “Sweet dreams,” he muttered to himself. He winced at the dull pain in his head, then just closed his eyes.
He turned over, rough stubble catching on the cool side of his pillow as he burrowed into the lumpy thing. He reached down blindly and pulled his blankets to his chin.
Aspirin. He needed some of that. Why was he always out of that shiz? Or maybe he just needed some anti-anxiety drugs.
He just inhaled. Oh well. At least he had the familiar smell of his apartment to comfort him.
#
Pulling up in front of the gas station was a weird event. The whole thing seemed sinister, like some Gothic mansion or something like that, even if its happy yellow awning and white/blue lit interior should make him more cheerful. Heck, even the sky was blue, just a few tattered clouds swinging low over the distant pines by the highway. Birds were even chirping, somewhere; maybe in those pink-flowered faux cherry trees the boss’s late wife planted.
He just moved away from his car, keys dangling in his hands, and made one last sweep. A lonely, FOR SALE camper was resting in two parking spots and a compact, two-door car sat in the spot directly in front of the Port-a-Johns that were left over from building the gas station. Or he assumed they were. Ancient, falling apart, and forest green, they hadn’t seemed to have moved for a while. The twining vines and ivy growing up their east-facing sides told that story well enough.
He just shrugged, stomped on the rare ember still orange cig in front of his car, and stepped up onto the concrete landing.
With a rattle of keys, he was inside.
He flipped the sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’ and looked around. The rows and rows of candy, dried meat, and potato products were perfect for his boss to be hiding in. If he was crouched, that is. He felt a twinge of annoyance. Either he was here, playing a prank on him, or he wasn’t even here yet. (And he bet on the later. His boss wasn’t the prank sort of guy.)
“Boss?” he asked.
No response. Figured.
“B--” he started, only to turn around as he heard the air kick on, louder than normal. What? He looked left. Of course the boss left the door open.
He better have cleaned up the mess, or I am quitting. Today. He let out an unamused snort of a laugh, then walked over.
The floor was clear. Awesome. There was even a plastic trash can lid blocking the hole. Heck, the whole place was sparkling. Well, except for the sink. Rust stains were hard to get off. Or, at least, he had no clue how to terminate them.
He tugged at his stiff collar. Okay. This was going to be fine--
The door to the hot water heater and the A/C was open. The lock was even broken in half. He froze. Oh shiz. If some stupid kids went and stole the copper wires or whatever, he wouldn’t have the chance to quit--he’d be fired. And he’d probably have to pay for it. Heck, maybe the boss wouldn’t fire him, but force him to work until he paid it off. That sounded like him.
He winced, unsure if he wanted to look, but eventually he padded over, soles of his shoes light on the waxed vinyl floor, and he pulled the chain. The light flicked on to show nothing. Well, not nothing. Everything seemed to be in place. Or he assumed it was. He’d never been in the room before. Hank, the repairman, and his boss had always been the ones to go in there. He’d only even seen in it once, when he started the job.
He let out a relieved breath, but then he stepped on something. Something that cracked under pressure. He glanced down. Black plastic, yellowish white dull against it. There wasn’t enough light to see what he was standing on, though. He searched for his keys in his pocket and pulled them out. He flipped on a tiny LED flashlight he kept on the ring and turned it down.
His following scream almost assuredly alerted the people in the compact packed outside someone had just been terrorized.
He swore viciously and stepped back. Bones. He’d been standing on a bag of bones. What the heck?
“William, are you in here? I think I heard a scream.”
His boss. Oh shiz. He looked down, jaw hanging open, and he just turned off the light. He closed the door with his foot and then walked out.
“I’m fine,” he said, voice a bit high.
“What’s up with your pipes? You sound like a school-girl.” His boss cocked his head; a bit of his hair falling back to display his receding hairline.
He just stared at the permanently ruddy-necked man. “Uh. Nothing. I need to, um--”
“William,” Mr. Schneider asked, “what’s wrong?” He smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Fischer’s eyes went to the open restroom’s doorway without a thought, just for a second. He managed to turn back to his boss to see the flash of understanding go through his eyes, then see it turn to something else.
“Oh shit. Really?” He heard himself ask. Right before something heavy hit the wall behind his shoulder.
He bolted like a rabbit running from a fox.
“Come back here right now!” His boss’s voice rose to a point he doubted he could even match, as he darted into the holding room in the back. Swearing followed him as the heavy door slammed shut behind him.
He rushed between aisles of boxes and narrowly avoided tripping over the aluminum bars marking the floor, empty bones of shelves soon to be built. He saw the door to the outside.
“Oh!”
Something rammed his legs. He looked down to see Mr. Schneider glaring up at him, brown eyes burning twin holes into his skull. Nails dug into his skin through his thinner, work pants.
“Dude. Geoff!” He kicked out at him, but his boss’s arms just constricted on his legs. “Dude!”
Bite. He looked down in shock. He’d just bit him. His boss had his chompers digging into his skin, saliva wetting his jeans. He just stared a bit more, noting every blemish on the guy’s face. What the freak? Then, finally, his body reacted. “Ouch!” He flailed and suddenly one leg was loose. He sent his size twelve sneaker straight between Mr. Schneider’s eyes. Well, maybe not right between.
“Ow!” His boss swore, looking around and blinking owlishly.
He jumped up to his feet and was off in a flash, the bite mark smarting like a bee sting, something he wasn’t sure was exactly normal or not.
He had bigger problems to contend with, though. Namely the fact his boss was completely insane and possibly a killer.
Gah, why did he leave his cell phone in the car?
#
“Phone, need a phone,” he said.
He’d made it out--out onto the half dead grass, half red dirt “backyard” of the gas station. Surrounded by trees. In the middle of bloody effing nowhere--nearest house at least four miles off. Nearest phone who-the-bloody-heck-knows-where.
He just stared back at the gas station’s rear door. Nothing. Maybe he could get back to his car?
BANG.
A window shattered. Glass falling everywhere. He glanced down at himself. Something felt wrong. He shivered, wondering if he’d have the horrible luck to see his shirt stained red. No. Then he noticed his shoe. Blood all over it. He swore again. The gun they had in case of a robbery. Freak.
He stared one more second at his foot, then headed off into the woods that marked the edge of Redwood and the beginning of Floris Nature Park. The dense pack of trees suddenly seemed a lot more inviting. Even if they were most certainly the scene from a horror movie, unlike the cheery old-town gas station.
At least they didn’t have a gunman in them. Yet.
He bolted once more, this time one foot completely numb, something he doubted would remain that way for long.
#
“Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch,” he muttered to himself, as a low burn gradually started up in his foot, then started racing up his leg.
He realized he was leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints and he knew that was completely idiotic, but he wasn’t sure what else to do.
He then grimaced/grinned to himself as he caught sight of a lovely piece of litter--giant white plastic bag, stuck right on a sticker bush. Lovely. He hobbled over to it and tried to maneuver it off the bush without completely shredding it.
He let out a small yelp as his finger caught on one of the larger thorns and he stepped sideways onto--
Nothing. He’d stepped out onto nothing. Small flares of pain, something hard hitting his shoulder, and a tumble later--
Slam.
Oh. Goodie. He was staring at the sky. He let his head roll back and he looked up the dirt rise he’d just slid down. Well, he could be glad he hadn’t hit one of the pine trees, he supposed, or banged his head on any of the slate rock littering the ground.
He let out a low groan and he just shifted to a sitting position. He then noticed what was clutched in his hands--the bag. Amazing.
He glanced up, startled, as a slow clap started. He was staring at the same girl who had walked into the shop yesterday--Barbara. She’d changed her clothes; a black polo and some ragged jean shorts were now showing off her caramel-colored legs and arms. There was no blood in sight. Her hair was an odd, dark coppery-brown now as well.
He felt like he was seeing a ghost. “Wait, you--”
“Shut up,” she hissed quietly. She hopped off the hood of her truck, the truck she must’ve somehow managed to get parked in the low-lying clearing, and she stalked over.
She was kneeled beside him in an instant. “You shouldn’t have moved.”
“What?”
“You could’ve had a hurt neck.” Her eyes narrowed. “You still probably could.”
He glanced back at the short drop. “I didn’t fall far.”
She sighed noisily. “Fine. Your foot’s bloody, though. You accidentally shoot it?”
“No,” he said, looking back at her, “somebody else did.”
She blinked. “So you ran off like a startled hare?” She paused. “This somebody still chasing you? If so, tie that bag on your foot like you’d planned,” she shot him a knowing look, “and leave.”
“I’m not sure if he is,” he admitted. “I’ll leave, though.”
A distant shot startled the clearing’s birds, sending half a dozen cardinals and brownish song birds flying up into the sky in a whoosh.
“I’d say he’s still looking. What caused this tiff, anyway?”
He looked around the clearing. Dense woods. Steep sides in three directions. A spiderweb hanging only a few feet away that sent shudders down his spine. “He killed someone and I found out about it.”
Barbara let out a choked sound. He glanced at the girl, worried. Her eyes were clenched shut tight and her fists were balled hard enough the white of the bone showed through.
“Um, are you okay?” Fischer’s foot throbbed and he winced, and he shifted as he sat; trying to get rid of the pain. He then found his last question ironic, in a roundabout way.
“What’s his name?” Barbara asked.
“Uh. Schneider. I don’t know his first name. Ted or something, I think.” A sharp ache started in his back. He felt like he’d been punched in the kidney. Great. To top his hurt foot and thorn-stabbed hand off.
The girl didn’t move. “What did you find?”
“Bones, in a bag. Uh. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, or talking to you, or--”
“Get in the truck.”
“What?”
“We’re going for a ride.” She let out a small, completely humorless laugh; white teeth flashing in the muted, green light. For an instant, she looked feral.
He decided not to argue with her.
#
The tires of the car churned up gravel as Barbara drove along a road that cut straight through the forest. He hadn’t even been aware the road existed. He’d only been on a few mile-long trails into these woods when he was younger, though. He didn’t know the place like the back of his hand. His mother had always claimed letting kids roam was dangerous. He hadn’t roamed.
He looked out at the beautiful mess of forest; knee-high weeds, pines, spruce, poplars, and dogwood. Plus a lot he couldn’t name. Vines hung off the trees, too, something he hadn’t been aware existed out of the tropical rainforests he’d learned about in grade school. It was practically awe-inspiring.
He let out a small sigh, shaking his head. He’d probably get completely lost and manage to fall into some sort of pit filled with poison ivy and rattlesnakes with his luck, if he tried to go hiking.
“You okay?”
He glanced over at the driver. Her eyes were focused dead-ahead on the road; face back a blank canvas, not displaying a single emotion, except perhaps fear.
“Um, yeah.”
“You sighed.”
He shrugged his shoulders. His eyes roamed the interior of the car. A bag that probably ate purses for breakfast sat on the middle seat and his feet were pressed up to a strap-covered black backpack. His bad foot was also trussed up in that plastic bag, to ‘keep the blood off the carpets.’ There was nothing else to note but an empty bottle of orange soda in the cup holder.
“When we stop,” Barbara said, “I’ll let you have the first-aid kit to check out your foot, okay?”
He nodded, ran his tongue along his teeth. “Okay.” He lifted the black backpack experimentally. “It in here? And do you carry bricks along with it?”
She chuckled. “No. No bricks. Uh, I just have a lot of stuff in there.” He watched her eyes dart over to him momentarily. “It’s in the front pocket. Just--keep your hands to yourself.”
“I’m not touching you.” He stared at her. Her mouth twitched.
“I know. Don’t mess with my stuff, either.”
He dropped the backpack like a hot coal.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“You’re welcome.” He fixed his starched collar and turned back away.
#
Fischer knocked the bullet out of his shoe with unease as he leaned against the side of the Port-a-John. Speaking of which, Port-a-Johns were not the place to try and fix up your bullet-blasted foot--especially if you were sort of tallish.
He shifted into a better position and looked down at the foot in question. An inch long gash raced across the side and blood leaked out, dripping onto the filthy plastic floor. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, before bending down opening the first-aid kit. He snatched out some Neosporin and gauze and went to work. Went to work trying to ignore the smell and how hot it was in the wannabe bathroom.
#
Fischer took in a deep breath the second he stepped out of the green box. Barbara, standing by her truck, just raised an eyebrow.
“What?” he asked, as he limped over. His shoe rubbed his foot wrong, but he’d decided on wearing it anyway. Glass, rusty nails, ringworms--you couldn’t not wear your shoes.
“Nothing. Come on, there’s a diner nearby.”
“Like, a 50s diner?”
“Like a 50s diner.”
#
It was a 50s diner, or something of the like. Going through the glass door with Barbara at his side, backpack flung over her shoulder, he could tell that much. The insides were clean white and red, with old pictures of movie stars, movie posters, and those music-playing machines you put coins in on each table. Fake roses in fake glass vases lined the bar and an overweight woman in a oil-stained white apron smacked on bubble gum behind said bar. She stared at them, one eyebrow raised.
“Find yourself a seat and we’ll bring you some menus, sugar,” she said.
Fischer wondered which of them she was talking to for a moment, but then Barbara yanked on his arm and pulled him back to a corner booth--and he forgot all about it.
#
Fischer lowered himself on the squeaky red booth-seat and looked across the high gloss table at Barbara. The girl had her newly-dyed brown hair all in her face as she looked down at the menu, one finger holding said menu off the table. She seemed oblivious to the fact he was there.
“So--” he began.
“Shh,” she hissed.
He shushed himself. He put his hands on the table, feeling like a bored kid in church, and looked about. An old, gray television was mounted on one wall and the news was playing. He watched as the news ended its report on horse racing and changed over to--Barbara Sanchez’s case. He immediately gulped and looked over at the kitchen. Everyone seemed oblivious.
The words at the button of the screen moved slowly even as the people’s mouths moved too fast. Barbara’s mother, going by her title as Marcella Sanchez, was crying in the camera’s view. She said something in Spanish the TV didn’t pick up, then something in English. He read the slow moving words--words that twisted his gut.
We just want our little girl back. I don’t think she’d run away. She’s such a good girl, you know? She’s an Honor Student. She does chores, takes care of her sisters and brothers when I’m at work. She was a good girl.
The woman just started crying again, and the news-lady tried to comfort her. Fischer about choked. He looked away, to the surface of the table, and just waited. He snatched looks at Barbara, but she seemed ignorant to the fact her mother was on screen--bawling her eyes out. He felt a twinge of disgust, unable to help himself. Who would do that? She was obviously loved.
“Why?” he asked finally.
Barbara looked up, black eyes wide. “What?”
“Why?” he repeated, jerking a thumb at the television.
Her eyes moved over the woman’s face and a bit of recognition lit them, but they held none of the emotion he expected. No sorrow, no guilt. She just looked confused.
“That’s my mother,” she whispered.
“Yeah, that’s your mom.” Fischer looked her over. “How old are you? She said you were an Honor Student.” He started to feel uneasy.
“I don’t remember.”
His eyebrows climbed under his unruly hair. “You don’t remember?”
Barbara pulled me forward by the collar of my shirt. “I don’t remember, you thick hillbilly. All I know is that I woke up, hurting all over, and bloody. I remember having a bag, driving to your gas station. I remembered looking in the back and finding a backpack in the metal box in the bed. I remember driving to that clearing, a place I remembered, somewhat, as soon as I realized I had multiple passports in the backpack.” Fischer’s eyes widened.
“I remember she’s my mother. But nothing else is there,” she finished, spitting the last word. “I don’t remember making cookies, or playing dress-up for her, or even doing well in school to make her happy I’m an Honor Student.”
He gulped, looking directly into those all-too-honest black eyes. She just held him, right there, looking his face over--as if she needed to know he believed her.
He did believe her.
And he really hated what he now believed.
“Um, hello. I’m here to take your order.”
Barbara dropped him and he flew back into his chair. A blonde girl was looking at them, a blush staining her cheeks.
“S-sorry,” he said, a knee-jerk action.
“No biggie.” The girl giggled nervously. “Um, tell me what you want? To eat?”
“I’ll have fries and your classic burger,” Barbara said smoothly across from me. I looked to see her with crossed arms and a tilted head. “He’ll have a barbecue sandwich and a milkshake.”
“What sort?”
“Chocolate,” Barbara bit off. He just stared, wondering where all the tension came from.
The girl walked off, but she now looked confused.
“What was that about?”
“I don’t like her.”
He wanted to ask, but how do you know that? He decided against it, though. And her looking back at the television, a blank, but sad, look to her face made his decision cemented.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Barbara said after a moment. “I was taken.”
“Do you remember by who?” Fischer asked softly.
“Tattoos. Had a lot of tattoos.” Her eyes took on a vacant air as she continued to watch the screen.
He nodded. “Do you know why you’d have those passports?”
“I got my freedom.”
“Freedom?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed and rubbed his face. “This is confusing.”
“You think?” Barbara asked snidely.
He didn’t respond. He just rested his elbows on the table and laid his head in his hands. He tried to breathe, something he hadn’t gotten to do normally since yesterday morning.
Then he heard Barbara gasp.
He looked up, followed her eyes to the screen, and saw his picture.
“What?”
She put her bag on the seat beside her and managed to wrangle out a baseball cap. She handed it to him.
“Put that on. Now.”
He obliged, but fear curled in his stomach like a barely-sleeping monster. “Why was I on the screen?” he whispered.
“Your gas station has cameras.”
“So? I obviously wasn’t some kidnapper if I was working!”
“No.” She frowned, eyes finding his face. “But your fingerprints were where they found the other body. Casey Durbrey.”
Fischer swallowed hard. A name to go with the bone he stepped on.
“You didn’t--”
He didn’t let the question be finished. The look on her face, a look of mild horror, told him what she was about to say. “This morning I found a door open that had been locked since right when I was hired, more or less. I hadn’t stepped in there, once.”
“The boiler room door,” she said, in a quiet voice. It was like she was talking to herself, as she played with the ketchup bottle on the table’s wrapper.
“Heating and A/C, actually,” I responded.
She didn’t seem to hear. She was back looking at the TV--only to let out a small, humorless laugh. “Well, I guess our story will be interesting from here on out, won’t it?”
///
I have the feeling everyone disliked the Scream-like meta-ness of the ending, but it'll go on eternally if I let it. Anyway, hope you all liked (or at least aren't gathering your pitch-forks). Also, remember: I'm a bit of a pyro, hence giving me flames is a bad idea.
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