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#2
MAR 09 |
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“One More Death, More or Less” Part One
Chapter One. The Pictures
There it was, another folder from the files handed off to me, when the real cops couldn’t handle the case. Sometimes I think that I’ve got charity society tattooed on my forehead. Usually, they go out into the trash with the rest of the garbage, but that picture clipped to the cover kept tugging at me. Something about those two kids, smiling amidst the wreckage of a building, that would keep me up nights, if I didn’t already keep the graveyard shift. So I booked the red eye flight to the nearest city, and caught a cab the rest of the way. I got a room at a local hotel, nothing fancy, and proceeded to read through the files. For something that happened and got quickly swept under the rug, there was a lot of paperwork to sort through. I was out of luck, and arrived after all the liquor shops had closed for the evening, but room service would do in the pinch. Settling down in the chair with the TV on a low murmur, I started reading through the file with the picture on it for the first time.
The first thing that greets me when I open the file is the two children’s college portraits. Talk about opposites colliding here. I started with Tracie, the little girl next door.
Tracie Stantinns, AKA Trace, the cute little girl from the cheerleading squad. She was a parent’s dream I guess, according to her professors and her part time job boss. Always there, on time, bright eyed and bushy tailed; the adorable little petite blonde with the anti-gravity front that most teens drool over…most adults too, probably. She never got in trouble, always volunteering for community service, the whole works. Her family had money, but she never flaunted it amongst her friends. Even the outcasts on campus had nothing bad to say about her. You know, one of those kids who just turn out all right in spite of what they show on the television or play in the music. The picture from her yearbook shows someone with a lot of living waiting around the corner, all of it good. Guess there are some people who have all the breaks. Lucky her. Officially, she was about five foot five, one thirty pounds, brown eyes, blonde hair, Caucasian female, age eighteen. Friends told police that she was like sunlight on a cloudy day when she smiled. I’ll never know. The only problem that ever came up only surfaced when talking to friends of her boyfriend.
Krystopher Loldjik, AKA Krys, was another story all together. Where our petite beauty had no official police record, our pal Krys had one dating back to his fifteenth year of life. Burglary, theft, and a lot of drug possession charges. Nothing in the last three years, but there was enough mug shots of the boy to fill an art display. Father dead, and the mother often in jail, he was as about an opposite in up bringing from his girl as I had ever seen. He had a face that made vampires look lively, and I would know. His last demon was a bout with heroin, which he finally won his seventeenth birthday. He lived on his way, paid his own way with numerous part time jobs and other activities, and basically was the only serious Goth on a religious campus. The stats for him were in black and white. Six foot six, one seventy-three pounds, blue eyes, black hair, Caucasian male, age nineteen. According to friends, he was a quiet kid, doing his own thing in art and music. According to friends of his, he helped Trace through her problem with bulimia, just as she was there for him as he came off the junk. What a caring couple. Not one for just hanging out, but there in a pinch. No one will be calling him anymore for a lift. Of course, the girl’s parents deny there was ever a problem. Nothing is as perfect as it seems, right?
Them together outraged the girl’s parents, but after three years, the shock had pretty much worn off for everyone. Even the jocks quit trying to beat up Krys for getting someone out of his league. Friends close to them claimed that they were considering marriage after completing school, and moving to some big city, they never decided which one. They never got the chance.
Official police reports state that the two drove off a bridge on rainy night, in his car. They were reported missing after Trace’s parents got worried about her not coming in on time. The car was discovered three months later by an amateur scuba diver on his first dive. I don’t want to know what they looked like at that point, but the photos in grainy black and white speak a lot. They looked like hell. The case was pointed at Krys, and that he was probably under the influence of something at the time of the crash. There was a memorial for them, and Trace got Prom Queen posthumously.
There are stacks of pictures in here. Many of the two dead children, a couple taken of Krys’s car as it got pulled out of the lake, one particularly bad one of the windshield missing and you can see the two of them holding onto each other. They held on until the bitter end. How touching. I would cry, if I had the capacity for tears still. One of Krys’s pet dog, a giant white lab that answered to the name Ramius. Yes, after the movie. The dog passed away the day after the funeral for them. Dog dies for master. It made print. Also included were pictures of friends and acquaintances crying at the memorial on the campus, even a shot of an empty throne from homecoming. A tree with a swath of blue paint on it, from the impact of the car before it went into the water, just in front of a shot of a missing chunk of retainer rail from the bridge.
So many pictures and still nothing quite as moving as the one I found clipped to the cover of the folder when it arrived at my office in Boston. The one of the two lovebirds, cuddled next to a fire, inside an abandoned and condemned building. In spite of the squalor, they were happy, laughing at some forgotten joke. Just two kids happy to be alive and in love. When was the last time I remember being happy just to be alive? When was the last time I was alive for that matter?
Case closed, right?
So then why am I listening to the flow of traffic out my hotel window, ignoring the hum of the television? Well, you see, some dead just don’t lie still enough for those still breathing. It’s been over three years. And now I’ve been called in to see what I can do. They wanted someone with a history of solving odd and disturbing cases. A friend called a friend, who called a friend of mine. And the file arrived the next day with a politely phrased plead. Make it all better. Hannibal King, late of Borderline Investigation, is on the case. And I have to find out what’s making these two’s death so important that I have to leave my home grounds.
Case closed, right???
Chapter Two. The Scene
Before talking to the police who called me out here, I like to do some rummaging of my own. Something about seeing the site with new eyes. Yeah, I know it’s been over three years, but there’s always something about the place of death that remains. Like a calling card that keeps falling out of your wallet every time you pull it out, not really reading it but remembering it when you put it back, a scene where death has occurred is kind of the same. I’m lucky, it’s in the middle of the worst rain season this part of the country has seen in years, and I don’t have to wait until nightfall to head out to the lake where it happened. Across a couple of bridges and over hill and dale, getting a few directions from the local people, I finally find the site. It’s the first time I’ve seen it in something other than black and white, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m there. Pulling over into the mud they laughingly call a shoulder would be a quick way to lose my rental car, so I pull farther up the road to a graveled in parking area. Apparently this is one of the local parks out here. Stepping out into the heavy drizzle, I backtrack, to the bridge that led to those two kids’ death.
The feeling is still there. That feeling of hearing squalling tires come around the dead man’s turn is just about to happen. There’s death still here. Locals told me this used to be the favorite make out spot for teens, but no one’s been out here in a while. Even the park looks run down, like no one comes out here so why bother taking care of it. A little fighting against the weeds, and I find the tree that marked the last point they contacted with nature. The gouge is still there, but in the dim light, I can’t really make out the color of the paint chips embedded within it.
It must have looked something like this to them. Stormy evening, the sun setting over the lake nearby, the rain just enough to bring on that feeling of I can do anything. What were they heading out here for? Surely they could have found a dozen better spots for some night sports. After all, Krys had his own place and Trace was no stranger to it. Romped like rabbits, according to the rumors.
The sound of tires on wet road comes echoing up the street, and I turn, pulling the collar of my coat closer. Yes, it’s a trench coat, as all wannabe P.I.’s wear all the time. The sound builds, and I am thinking I’m about to have company, when I hear something else. Something I can’t place. Then the tires start squealing, sliding, and I’m running, there’s the unmistakable sound of metal and glass hitting something hard, then...
Nothing. I’m standing on the guardrail of the bridge, looking down at the ink black water. Hallucination? couldn’t be. Vampires don’t get those. I whip around, and look, but all that greets my sight is the cedar tree just standing there in the rain, a gouge still in its side from an impact from three years ago. Nothing. Nothing. I’m missing something here. I can smell it. The feeling of death is closer. Maybe it’s because I’m so close to the waters that claimed their last moments? I’m not going to lie, I jump off the rail and walk at a fast pace away from the railing. No sense in tempting fate, right?
Instead of taking the fast way, I got for the more difficult walk down to the water thing. Yeah, I could mist and get there in record time, but I prefer to hold onto what’s left of my humanity. Mortal flesh I’m still bound, you get it? Anyways, there’s nothing on the banks that would give me any clues but after all the time that’s progressed I was not surprised. There’s probably been enough flooding and drought around here to erase just about everything on the surface. So I’m thinking I need to get a little different point of view. I pull my handy dandy waterproof flashlight out of my pocket (never investigate a crime scene without it), and wade out into the dark water.
The first few steps go just fine, and then the bottom up and vanishes on me, soaking me and leaving me sputtering water out of my mouth like any other average mortal. Enough of this, get on with it. Under the surface I go, clicking on the light. The water is just as black as it appeared from the surface, and there’s all kinds of silt floating around in here. The bottom is out of sight, the river must have cut some serious gouges in here over the years. No wonder they could lose a whole car down here if it hit at the right angle. They were lucky to find the damn thing in this mess. How anyone would want to go swimming or diving in this mess is beyond me.
I’m about to head for the surface, when something glitters in the light I’m tracing around here and there. I head deeper, off into the blackness. It’s damn cold down here, and for me to feel it that must be pretty bad. There’s something reflective, metallic down there. I keep pushing, it’s like trying to swim through Jell-O. Something’s in here and if I find out it’s nothing more than a fishing lure...
I grab a hold of something, just about the time the water goes from gunky black to solid green. I can see lights from the bottom, like headlights? No way, I’m not buying it this time, I’ve seen all the Poltergeist movies people. It’s nothing more than a figment of my imagination, right? Then what the hell just wrapped around my neck. Even though I don’t need to breathe, the old reflexes kick in, and I’m struggling in the water, trying desperately to claw free and get to the surface. Something is down here, and it’s pissed off. Never mind the visuals, get whatever’s on my neck off! It’s like trying to grab a hold of a slug, slipping out of my grasp, and I’m seeing a figure moving in the green light that in any other case I would say was coming from headlights on the bottom of the lake river. Don’t worry about it; just kick free, pull for the surface.
Straining, a few bubbles of air escaping and heading to the surface like I’d like to be doing right about now, I get loose of whatever the hell was holding onto me was, and make for the surface. I hear something move below me, and like some idiot in a horror movie, I shine my light back down to see what it is. Big mistake. There’s something really ugly coming out of the light, like a figure dressed in silt and rot. It motions to me, and I finally lose it. Screaming underwater is a great way to lose a bunch of air, not like I was using it, and I scramble to the surface, breaking the mirror like top of the water and immediately going to mist, getting the hell away from the edge of the lake. Looking down, I see nothing out of the ordinary in the water. No lights, no big bad monster to rip my undead skull off, nothing. If this was not happening to me, I’d be laughing right about now.
Wonderful thing about going all misty, none of the other water comes with me. I’m all nice and dry when I reform inside the car, coming through the heating vents and taking my spot behind the wheel. It takes me a bit longer to calm down though. I know, it was nothing more than a light show and a little props, but something definitely wanted me to stick around for dinner so to speak, something still very restless. Now I understand why no one comes out here anymore. I add it to my list, check to see if there have been anymore deaths at this location since the accident. As I reach into the glove box for the pad to write that down on, I realize I still have the item I snagged off the bed of the lake in hand. It’s a class ring, green stone in a gold setting, ladies’ style from the looks of it. It’s a grimy mess, but a little attention with the edge of my coat wipes the last of the silt off of it. On the inside, there’s an engraving. Tracie Stantinns. No way. I pull out the case folder, to check what she two were buried with. And there’s a picture of this very ring, on her dead hand. No way. This is not happening.
It takes me a bit to finally pocket the ring and put the car in gear. Hard to believe that, according to the clock on the dashboard, it’s been only ten minutes since I pulled over here. Well, that’s long enough for me. I leave the way I came in, over the bridge and past the cedar tree.
Remind me never to go to the lake again around here.
Chapter Three. The Locals
They say that anyone, with enough skill, can fit in anywhere. I beg to differ. I make this my living, but everywhere I went, I had eyes staring at me. It couldn’t be the clothes, they were nondescript enough to blend in anywhere but at a full tux and dress formal dinner, nor could it be the car. I had pulled the rental sticker off of it as soon as I had picked it up, but still the stares of the locals around the corner stores and mini malls. This might be a good thing though. People always ask questions of things they don’t quite understand. Or they drag it out into the field and burn it. I’m hoping for the first response really. Burning hurts a bit.
It’s like fishing really. You throw out a line, and see if you get a nibble. It took a few hours, but something finally pulled on the line. “Hey, you! Yeah you, next to the rental car.” So much for removing the sticker: Memo to self, in a town this small, everyone knows all the cars. Stupid, King.
I turn my attention from re-fueling to see who was calling for me. It had to be me, there was no one else in the neighborhood in a rental. “Yes?”
It was a teenaged girl, all tattoos and piercings. She would be hard to miss, considering her hair was more colors than an average rainbow. Ok, it’s one of the rebelling types around here. She kind of hopped off the curb and sauntered over, as her friends still on the sidewalk did their best impression of a still life painting. “Whatcha doin’ in town? It’s a little early for the tourist season.”
“I’m here for work.” Never just spill the tale. It keeps them interested.
“Oh. Work? What kinda work? There’s nothing around here to afford a rental like that. You from the big city?” Oh, spare me. The corn pone attitude was going to get real old real fast on me. Don’t these people read or at least watch movies? She sounded like a reject from Fried Green Tomatoes.
“I just got in from Boston. Business trip.” The pump dinged at me and I put the nozzle back on the hook, then headed into the store to pay. They were a trusting bunch around here, no pre-pay in twenty miles. Too bad the big bad world would eventually make its way here.
“Wow, Boston? Never been there. What kinda business?” Then she realized what a fool she was making of herself. She scuffed one toe of her ratted out high tops on the concrete, and looked away. “Sorry. None of my business really.”
“Quite alright. I’m here on request from the police.” There, that should stump her.
Instead, she got very still, and glanced around warily. “You’re here ‘cause of Krys and Stace, right?” She had gotten very quiet, and her friends on the curb had given up the pretence of not listening in, and had started wandering their way over to us. Looks like pay dirt to me.
“What makes you think that?” I asked her.
“They gotta do something about them...they won’t go away.” She replied. “You looked like someone out of town, so I guessed. Am I right?” More right than she could have imagined.
“Why? I thought they were dead.” Now the fun part would start.
And I was not wrong. They fell over each other, telling their stories.
“They welded their lockers shut, ‘cause there was dead animals falling out of them!”
“You can still see them at night in their classrooms, watching a teacher that’s not there.”
“They way that if you go out to their spot at the lake on the night they died, you can hear the car fall into the water again and again.”
“I saw Krys once, he looked like something dug up outta the round! No joke.”
They kept up, long after the facts had gone out the window. But it was not the actual stories that were keeping my interest. Every one of them were sure of what they had seen and heard, and they were not lying. There was something up here, and it was more than the price of a cup of coffee. Not that I can stand coffee mind you.
I finally waved them off, and headed inside to pay my tab. When I came back outside, the only one still there was the punk that had approached me in the first place. “You think we’re full of it, don’t you.” She stated it, no question in her voice.
“I’m not going to say that. What I am going to say is that I’ve been out to the site, and there was some strange things out there. Fair enough?” She nodded yes, then turned and ran off. The natives were definitely restless.
I got back into my car, and sat there for a moment, watching the wipers go back and forth. Through all of the stories, there were two sites that kept turning up: the school and the lake. Well, I had done my time in the water, and I’m not going back out there just yet. It sounds like the next stop would be the school. Thing is, it’s in the middle of the winter, and the Christmas holiday. I didn’t know the security setup of the university, but who was I to worry about little details like that? I would hit it as soon as the remnant of the sun finally set on the town.
Chapter Four. The Murder
When I finally arrived at the precinct, everyone was doing their best impression of the headless chicken. This was a small town, so I was puzzled what would cause such an uproar. I found out sooner than later that it had to do with my case. After a hurried briefing from an officer, I was hustled out to a crime scene, loaded into a coffee stained patrol car. We headed out to the university, where it had taken place.
I listened to the interviews, and took a look at the scene itself, and pieced together the story for myself. The only witness was in tears, about three seconds away from a total shock meltdown. After I heard his story, I could understand why. After all, it’s not every day you witness the death of a woman by two ghosts.
Night after the big game, the hallways were filled with crepe paper and fliers. Most of the cleaning staff had taken the night off, leaving poor Melinda Birch in the lynch, cleaning up what felt to be miles of hallways, all finished in tiles that had to be buffed that weekend. She knew the job would take that long, and had brought her lunch for the next day. She had placed it in the cooler in the teacher’s lounge, for safe keeping, and locked her purse up in one of the empty lockers, where it would not accidentally get thrown out with the rest of the trash. Muttering to herself in the slightly chill air, she pushed around her wheeled cart, going through the rooms and emptying out the trashcans.
Slow and steady was her motto, and the sheer amount of work that faced her did nothing to change that this night. Slow and steady, or her knees would give out before the dawn finally broke through the overhanging clouds that had plagued the area all winter. Nothing could be heard except for the slight squeak of one of the wheels on her cart, and the sounds of her worn sneakers scuffing against the floors. Nothing was out of place, nothing disturbed the night outside, as the wind wound itself up for another bitter cold night of sleet.
Then she heard it. Stopping in her tracks, Melinda glanced around. No one should be in the building, she had checked it out as was her habit before starting the evening cleaning round. But she had heard something, out of place. Sounded like a locker closing around the bend in the hall up ahead. Shaking her head, sure that her mind was playing tricks on her in the darkened halls in the silence, she continued along, picking up the trash in the hall and in the classrooms. Then she heard it again. It was definitely the sound of a locker closing.
Melinda took the spray bottle of glass cleaner off it’s hook and held it like a gun, and tiptoed around the corner of the hall to see where the sound was coming from. Her shoes squeaked a bit on the slick flooring, but she paid it no mind, all of her attention on the hallway in front of her and the source of the noise. Then came a new sound…the sound of someone moaning in the darkness.
Melinda rounded the corner, and was met with a sight she had never thought to see after hours in the religious university. Two people well into making out against the lockers on the wall. Her skirt was jacked up past her hips, revealing black panty hose, one of her legs wrapped around his hip, as he nuzzled the base of her neck. Melinda sighed, and grinned to herself. Nothing more scary than kids with too much time on their hands, nothing evil or dark, just a little misguided she thought to herself.
The woman tugged at his coat, and it finally worked loose enough to tumble to the floor. Then the scene got a little strange to Melinda. It hit the floor, then began to melt into what looked like iridescent green goo, as it spread over the floor around the two. Lightning flashed, and she realized that there was something seriously wrong with the two kids. But that became her furthest worry, as the two turned from their embrace to notice her standing there with the spray bottle outstretched.
Covered in both water and the same green ooze that the jacket had turned to, the duo looked like Hell warmed over. His stained teeth grinned through blackened lips, and there was a gaping hole in one cheek, as though something had been gnawing on him in bits and bites. Her blonde hair was streaked through with blood, and one eye blinked milkily at her. Both were covered in slime. There was a dim light beginning to form around them, like light through murky waters, as they slowly broke their embrace, and started to shamble towards Melinda.
Melinda was terrified, far beyond words, nailed to the floor in fear. Her hands were shaking, and she dropped the spray bottle to the floor nervelessly. Then one of them, the female, spoke to her. “Good morning Melinda. Are we late to class again?”
That was it. Melinda remembered that voice, and her tall companion. But they were dead! Flight became her next coherent thought, and she turned and bolted down the hallway, the sounds of the two taking up the chase echoing in both the hallway and her ears. It was now a race. Melinda slammed into the banister in the stairwell, and stumbled down the stairs, all her beliefs in slow and steady thrown out the window. Around the base of the stairs, through the hall, and out the double front doors she ran, the sounds of them drawing ever closer goading her on to greater speed.
Out in the front lawn, she sprinted towards the parking lot, where a few cars still remained from those studying late in the library. The library, a place of sanity and other people she thought, and turned her shaking footsteps in its direction. But she twisted her ankle on an uneven step, and slid to a stop, hands lacerated by the concrete and gravel. “No...”
“Why are you running, Melinda?” the man laughed as the two dead children closed in on her. “Afraid of the dark?”
Robert, who had been watching the mad dash, came out of the building across the lot, to try to help out Melinda, watched the scene in horror. He knew who it was that was chasing her, and had no idea how to stop them. His breath steaming in the chill air, he drew closer, trying to stay out of sight.
The man lunged towards Melinda laying there on the ground, and for a moment had a grasp upon her throat. Then he passed through into the ground, leaving a splattering of green goo on the cement. But the contact was for long enough, as Melinda’s neck was snapped from the impact, a look of terror forever frozen on her face. The female turned towards Robert, and smiled. “Sorry about the mess Rob. You know how Krys can be.” And she fell forward as though she were nothing more than a puppet with it’s strings cut, only to sink into the concrete along with the other, once again leaving a trace of some slime on the ground in her passing.
Robert had enough strength to call the paramedics, before shock sent him sinking into unconsciousness himself, only to be revived by the arriving police and ambulance staff.
They finally exhausted the kid who saw the incident occur, and I finally ran out of film for my camera. Not exactly Casper the friendly ghost, our duo of dead college kids, were they? What had happened to turn them into monsters during their stay in the great beyond? And why was I not going to like the answer when I found it out?
Chapter Five. The Dream
I made it back to my hotel room in time, just as the sun began its normal thing of rising in the morning routine. Though it was likely that it would cloud up later in the day, this morning had dawned under one of those really blue clear skies that you think could only exist in a National Geographic photo shoot, you know so blue that it almost matches that crayon from childhood that you always used to color in the sky. No puffy clouds though, only those ones that look like jet trail racing across the stratosphere. I made it inside only a little toasty around the edges, nothing that wouldn’t heal while I worked. But work was the last thing on my mind. All I could think of was those two dead kids, and what I had seen at the college campus. I still had flash images in my head of the pictures as they were taken. There’s something about the sound of a forensic camera going off that’s always given me the shivers. Maybe because the only time they get used is when something goes wrong. I dunno, it’s just one of those things I guess.
I had told myself that I was going to look into the possibility of there being other deaths at that bridge over the lake river, but I just didn’t have the stamina to call the police back. Instead I settled for a quick drink, and a nosedive into the bed. Let sleeping vamps lay, I needed some rest.
Interesting trivia, if you care to hear it. As far as I can tell, the undead just don’t dream the same way normal breathing people do. Maybe it’s because we’re only ‘alive’ when we’re moving around, or perhaps it’s the lack of a soul. Whatever it is, I can count on three fingers with great accuracy the number of dreams I’ve had since my turning. I’ve carefully asked around, and the totals about the same for most of the bloodsuckers I’ve known. So when something’s important enough to send images across closed eyelids, it usually catches our attention. Otherwise, it’s a real life sleep of the dead for us.
Dreams are funny things to begin with really. You never know what is going to be served up each night.
I don’t care how good your memory is, the first part of a dream never gets remembered when you wake up. It’s like turning on a channel where there’s already a show on, and you just flow in with what you see after the fact. And you never realize that you’re dreaming at first. No, you convince yourself that it’s real, and you only realize that it’s nothing more than junk from the back of your mind when it’s too late to turn away from the scary parts.
The first thing I remember clearly was that I felt like I was watching a movie, not really in it, just doing the innocent bystander thing, not like there’s an innocent anymore anywhere. Anyways, I’m watching a bunch of kids partying, having a grand old time. Looks like the parents are gone for the weekend at this shindig. I see about a dozen cars parked around the block, and there’s something about them that I keep looking back for, but I can’t quite put my finger on. Something out of place. But the camera makes its way into the house, and I get to watch the show. There’s a lot of drinking and ass grabbing, but it looks like it’s all in good fun, no one getting rowdy or rude.
Time goes in fast forward and I see glimpses of moments in the party. Someone making a run for the toilet, getting there just in time. Some boys with a funnel and a few beers daring someone to slam them. A game of truth or dare amongst the ladies in the backyard that gets broken up by some water balloons. The music is loud, someone’s turned on the television, and I can hear the sounds of something made out of pixels getting splattered on a computer in another room.
People are leaving the party, heading out to their cars and trucks. Something about the cars. Something about the blue car off to the side, the one with a patch of cancer eating into the rear quarter panel. There is something wrong, and I try to call out to warn someone, but I have no voice, no body, nothing’s there.
A guy and his girl get into the blue car. It’s a Ford Maverick, and it looks like it’s seen better days. The paint’s fading in places, but the color still shines through. Smurf blue. Who would want to drive a car that’s smurf blue? Thinking of smurfs, I remember the cartoon for a moment, you know that one with Gargamel and Azreal that cat? I’m still trying to warn them, but I can’t seem to find my voice, and it’s scaring me. There is something terribly wrong here. And something is stopping me from stopping them.
They laugh and pull off, leaving a smear of dark slick fluid behind them. Something is wrong here. There’s a stop at a local drive thru, and I can hear the crackle of the intercom speaker as the two kids yell out their order. I catch the scent of overcooked fries and greasy hamburger, but no alcohol. Funny, I guess that they didn’t drink at the party. I wonder why. They pull out and head for the outskirts of town, leaving behind the lights of the small downtown and the housing districts. There’s not much out there once you leave the city proper, and they know this. They head out into the country, crossing the dam over one side of the lake, going nowhere particular. They have no destination, happy just to be talking.
Then things get wonky for lack of a better word. I can see under the car like one of those cameras they use in racing to show you the inside where the driver sits. Well, this one is under the car, and I can see something glimmering, wrapped around a fender strut. It looks metallic, like tinsel for a Christmas tree, but it’s too thick. Something’s tied in place. What is it, what is it? Obligingly, the camera swings in closer, and I suddenly wish I had not gotten my wish to see better. Someone in their great and infinite wisdom has tied chicken feet and hair to the undercarriage of this car. And with the camera in closer, I can also see some kind of fluid leaking out of a hose, though what it goes to I have no idea.
My view suddenly swings back, and I see the car from the outside again. There is something terribly wrong, and though I have no voice, somehow the two inside know it. I can see him stomping and yelling, throwing an arm around her to hold her back. Her scream colors the air in red hectic waves, her terror visible around her. Up ahead, the road takes a sudden turn, and...
The car careens off a tree, snapping the driveshaft, and bouncing them into an ancient guardrail that looks like it was last serviced about the time that Atlanta burned down. The crumbling cement gives way, and the distinct sound of metal giving way and glass breaking fills the air. The car teeters on the edge for one of those moment you swear that you could fill with a speech but is only a breath or two of time, then over the edge it goes, into the blackness below. The sound of a full body car displacing a lot of freezing cold water fills the air, but it does not drown out the sound to the twisting metal and glass, which seems to hand in the air.
Headlights pierce the gloom, fading green as the car sinks to the bottom. A rush of air breaks the surface, spewing out the last hope for Kris and Trace.
I wake up in a cold sweat, something I’m not used to. It takes me a moment to realize that I’m awake, and the gloom in the room is normal. Completely normal, completely harmless, nothing here but the dead. Then I turn and realize that the dead were there. Really.
Two figures stood there, dripping cold winter water on the carpet of my hotel room. Even without guessing, I knew the two. Hell knows I had looked through pictures of them often enough. They just stood there for a moment, pointed at something in the distance, then faded away.
Talk about your rude awakenings.
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To Be Continued...
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