Brriiing - brriiing - Shifting the clunky cream-colored phone from one
shoulder to the other, I shoved a plate of nachos into the microwave with
my free hand and slammed the door, counting the rings out loud, by that
point. "Nine.ten.Christ, Sean, pick up the damn phone." A click - a voice
- I opened my mouth to slam him for sleeping in (Why else wouldn't he
answer? He told me he'd be home.) only to realize that I was hearing an
automated recording - the answering machine.
"Fuck."
I hung up, punched thirty-seven seconds into the microwave pad, and headed back towards the phone console to hit the redial button. Four - five - six - Nothing. As the microwave timer went off and the nachos within stopped rotating, I followed the cord back to the phone's cradle, prepared to slam it down - you know - to teach it a lesson for being difficult - but just as I pulled the phone away from my ear, I heard a click.
"What do you want?" It was a voice, but definitely not Sean's - and definitely not the answering machine. Level, cold, and unfeeling, it reminded me vaguely of a history teacher I'd had a few years back.
"Ah - Hello?" I ventured after a few seconds of silence, finally moving to rescue my cooling nachos from the microwave. It didn't occur to me to answer his question for another two seconds - Sean had his own phone line, so I wasn't used to having anyone else answer - much less his dad, presuming that's who it was.
"What do you want?" The voice spoke again, much the same as before - only this time, it sounded vaguely annoyed. Jerk.
"This is Ashley - Is Sean around?" Hopefully sounding more courteous than I felt, I figured it would be wise not to get snappy, unless I wanted to be growled at. My own dad had a habit of hanging up on my friends if they got on his nerves.
"Yes and no." Level, cold.smug. The voice hung up, and vaguely I wondered if I had dialed the wrong number. If not, it seemed increasingly likely that a mad axe murderer had chopped Sean into little pieces, and was taking his phone calls until he finished getting him all into one bag.
"He better not have gotten any blood on the poster board." I growled to my miniature schnauzer, Harley, who only pretended to be interested because I was holding a plate of nachos. The truth was - my grade in Spanish was bad enough without my last chance at a project grade being ruined by my partner's untimely demise.
The rest of the day was uneventful. I tried to call Sean again at around four, but there wasn't any answer. I left him a message and gave up, reasoning that - if he was dead - I could just quote that as an excuse for not having the project finished Monday. It might work - it might not. I was lazy enough that I was willing to make the gamble.
Then the cable went out.
"Fuuuck! Stupid-" the sitcom picture flickered back on - I sat up - and off it went again, into static nothingness. "-piece of crap." I finished, slumping back into the seat. Great. No project, and no TV. Reaching over to shuffle through a stack of video tapes, I sighed, got up, and figured I'd do some of my homework while listening to the radio - or at least fill in some random answers in hopes that my teacher would only check for completion.
Fumbling with the radio controls, I happened to glance out my window, only to see my neighbor's dog scamper past merrily, its leash trailing in its wake. Just as I began to wonder whether or not it'd be worth my while to go out and catch it, the radio cut in full force - droning out a long, flat, and extremely annoying beep. Without thinking, I muttered something inappropriate and mashed the 'power' button. Still muttering, I stepped around Harley (who was barking at the poodle still running around in our yard) and took the stairs two at a time to get down to the front door.
The sky was grey - the heavy clouds bulging low to smother the surrounding landscape so that the grass even seemed to be duller than usual. There were only four different kinds of houses in a repeating pattern over and over - one tree in the yard, two in next, none, then three. Brown roof, black roof, grey, and then a darker grey. And in all of these yards, not a single tree rustled on the wind. The heavy clouds even seemed as if they were frozen in place, their sagging bellies hanging motionless in the cool, crisp air. Despite the cloud cover, it was still - the idiot dog was actually the only thing that seemed to be moving for the next few blocks (My house is on a main street through the neighborhood).
"Er.Ralphie! Come!" The dog didn't so much as lift his head. Maybe his name wasn't Ralphie. He didn't really look like a Ralphie. "Sam?" Nothing. "Foofoo?" The dog lifted his leg next to my mailbox. "All right, you little shit." he took off running, and I went after him, my sneakers pounding out an irregular beat on the concrete under my feet.
Then I saw him.
Standing at least fifty feet away on the sidewalk, unmoving - a guy in a black suit and sunglasses stood staring across the street. Average height, average build, average brown hair.Slowly and deliberately, he turned his head to peer at me, his expressionless face showing no apparent interest. I took a step back. I'm generally not the sort of person that believes in a sixth sense, but this dude was giving off some major creepy vibes. He took a step forward. I took another back - Then I broke into a jog, heading in the direction of my front door while pretending to chase the dog. Immediately, I heard his polished dress shoes clapping after mine.
"Screw the dog." My jog immediately sped up into a sprint. Being sort've a chicken myself, I lunged off the cement and onto the grass without bothering to look back - it was enough that I could hear the clap of his shoes on cement change abruptly into muffled crunching as he pelted across the dry grass after me. The door was ten feet away - four, one.I felt his fingertips brush my shoulder - and I was through the double doors. Only the left was open, and I swung it shut after me, turned the lock with agility spurred on by the shock of adrenaline that I received at his touch, and rolled to the side to rest against the right door. Only the left one was supposed to be able to open - I have no idea why.
Not more than a second after my back thumped against the right door and I squeezed my eyes shut, gasping - the left door jarred noisily at the man's impact. There was a sick thump, as if I'd literally slammed it right in his face, and he'd simply been going too fast to stop. Relieved, I managed to slow my breathing, working up the courage to turn and open one eye enough to squint out of the peephole.
I saw a blur of black suit and the off-white of bared teeth, and the left door was simply thrown off of its hinges beside me. BANG. With a sound like a gunshot, in a shower of shattered plaster and splintering wood, he burst through - smashing into the door before him like it was nothing at all. I guess he didn't expect there to be another door just a few feet behind the first, because he simply crashed through the second one as well, his momentum flinging him into the cramped closet under the stairs in a swirling cloud of plaster and fist-sized chunks of what must have been the roof.
Pausing only to catch a glimpse of him struggling to stand within a loose, shifting pile of old boxes, gift bags, and vacuum cleaner attachments - his black suit now mostly a powdery white from the plaster dust that belched out of the demolished closet in thick clouds - I bolted past the closet towards the back door, through the kitchen.
I nearly ran right into the next one standing placidly in the laundry room as if he was waiting for me.
Skidding to an abrupt halt on the tile, panting, I simply stared. It was the same guy that had just done some major remodeling around the foyer of my house, but he was clean and calm. Taking the time to slide his sunglasses down his nose to wipe them carelessly against the suit of his jacket, effectively clearing the thin film of plaster dust that had begun to settle upon them, he stared right back, awaiting my reaction. I could hear his twin still rummaging around in the closet - and so could he. Turning his head slightly in that direction, his cold grey eyes still on me, he arched a brow - And I ran.
Back to what was left of the front door, past the caved in closet and a glimpse of another man in a suit coming steadily down the stairs, I literally scampered across the tile like a frightened animal. Even with a new burst of adrenaline, I was tiring - slowing down. Coughing and sputtering through the dry plaster and probably about as ghostly white as the first guy, I plunged back into the crisp air, and what I saw was enough to make me wish that I had stayed inside to have a quiet dinner with the first three FBI agents from hell.
From every house, expressionless men with the same black suit, average height, average build, and average brown hair were pouring into the street in twos and threes like seething ants swarming out of their nest at the prod of a stick.
"You've got to be shittin' me."
There was no point in running. They were everywhere, and still more were trickling into the street from the sidewalk. As one, at least a hundred heads turned slowly to peer at me, their sunglasses glinting dimly, like the fractured eyes of an insect. As one, they took one step towards me. I staggered back on my heels, too disturbed to say much of anything. There wasn't anywhere to go, and nobody to call for help. Some distance away - seemingly in the sky above my head, there was an explosion.
As one, the men tilted back their heads to look. I turned to run back into the house. There was nothing else to do. Like thunder, I heard them coming as I whirled - to look the ghastly, plaster coated original in the face. I faked left. He didn't move. I faked right. He plunged his right hand into my rib cage. At least, I think that's what happened. I watched it disappear into my side with a measure of surreal amazement.
There wasn't any pain or blood - just a liquid metal that seemed to trickle and spread from him like mercury, and a feeling like ice that hissed quickly through my veins like liquid nitrogen. Smothering and unbearably cold, the liquid spread quickly up around my neck, but I couldn't do anything to stop it. I couldn't move, and as I looked up into his look of disgust, I felt the stuff surround me entirely.
Darkness - A smothering pink membrane - The grind of machinery - A squelch, a pop. . .
Nothing.
"Fuck."
I hung up, punched thirty-seven seconds into the microwave pad, and headed back towards the phone console to hit the redial button. Four - five - six - Nothing. As the microwave timer went off and the nachos within stopped rotating, I followed the cord back to the phone's cradle, prepared to slam it down - you know - to teach it a lesson for being difficult - but just as I pulled the phone away from my ear, I heard a click.
"What do you want?" It was a voice, but definitely not Sean's - and definitely not the answering machine. Level, cold, and unfeeling, it reminded me vaguely of a history teacher I'd had a few years back.
"Ah - Hello?" I ventured after a few seconds of silence, finally moving to rescue my cooling nachos from the microwave. It didn't occur to me to answer his question for another two seconds - Sean had his own phone line, so I wasn't used to having anyone else answer - much less his dad, presuming that's who it was.
"What do you want?" The voice spoke again, much the same as before - only this time, it sounded vaguely annoyed. Jerk.
"This is Ashley - Is Sean around?" Hopefully sounding more courteous than I felt, I figured it would be wise not to get snappy, unless I wanted to be growled at. My own dad had a habit of hanging up on my friends if they got on his nerves.
"Yes and no." Level, cold.smug. The voice hung up, and vaguely I wondered if I had dialed the wrong number. If not, it seemed increasingly likely that a mad axe murderer had chopped Sean into little pieces, and was taking his phone calls until he finished getting him all into one bag.
"He better not have gotten any blood on the poster board." I growled to my miniature schnauzer, Harley, who only pretended to be interested because I was holding a plate of nachos. The truth was - my grade in Spanish was bad enough without my last chance at a project grade being ruined by my partner's untimely demise.
The rest of the day was uneventful. I tried to call Sean again at around four, but there wasn't any answer. I left him a message and gave up, reasoning that - if he was dead - I could just quote that as an excuse for not having the project finished Monday. It might work - it might not. I was lazy enough that I was willing to make the gamble.
Then the cable went out.
"Fuuuck! Stupid-" the sitcom picture flickered back on - I sat up - and off it went again, into static nothingness. "-piece of crap." I finished, slumping back into the seat. Great. No project, and no TV. Reaching over to shuffle through a stack of video tapes, I sighed, got up, and figured I'd do some of my homework while listening to the radio - or at least fill in some random answers in hopes that my teacher would only check for completion.
Fumbling with the radio controls, I happened to glance out my window, only to see my neighbor's dog scamper past merrily, its leash trailing in its wake. Just as I began to wonder whether or not it'd be worth my while to go out and catch it, the radio cut in full force - droning out a long, flat, and extremely annoying beep. Without thinking, I muttered something inappropriate and mashed the 'power' button. Still muttering, I stepped around Harley (who was barking at the poodle still running around in our yard) and took the stairs two at a time to get down to the front door.
The sky was grey - the heavy clouds bulging low to smother the surrounding landscape so that the grass even seemed to be duller than usual. There were only four different kinds of houses in a repeating pattern over and over - one tree in the yard, two in next, none, then three. Brown roof, black roof, grey, and then a darker grey. And in all of these yards, not a single tree rustled on the wind. The heavy clouds even seemed as if they were frozen in place, their sagging bellies hanging motionless in the cool, crisp air. Despite the cloud cover, it was still - the idiot dog was actually the only thing that seemed to be moving for the next few blocks (My house is on a main street through the neighborhood).
"Er.Ralphie! Come!" The dog didn't so much as lift his head. Maybe his name wasn't Ralphie. He didn't really look like a Ralphie. "Sam?" Nothing. "Foofoo?" The dog lifted his leg next to my mailbox. "All right, you little shit." he took off running, and I went after him, my sneakers pounding out an irregular beat on the concrete under my feet.
Then I saw him.
Standing at least fifty feet away on the sidewalk, unmoving - a guy in a black suit and sunglasses stood staring across the street. Average height, average build, average brown hair.Slowly and deliberately, he turned his head to peer at me, his expressionless face showing no apparent interest. I took a step back. I'm generally not the sort of person that believes in a sixth sense, but this dude was giving off some major creepy vibes. He took a step forward. I took another back - Then I broke into a jog, heading in the direction of my front door while pretending to chase the dog. Immediately, I heard his polished dress shoes clapping after mine.
"Screw the dog." My jog immediately sped up into a sprint. Being sort've a chicken myself, I lunged off the cement and onto the grass without bothering to look back - it was enough that I could hear the clap of his shoes on cement change abruptly into muffled crunching as he pelted across the dry grass after me. The door was ten feet away - four, one.I felt his fingertips brush my shoulder - and I was through the double doors. Only the left was open, and I swung it shut after me, turned the lock with agility spurred on by the shock of adrenaline that I received at his touch, and rolled to the side to rest against the right door. Only the left one was supposed to be able to open - I have no idea why.
Not more than a second after my back thumped against the right door and I squeezed my eyes shut, gasping - the left door jarred noisily at the man's impact. There was a sick thump, as if I'd literally slammed it right in his face, and he'd simply been going too fast to stop. Relieved, I managed to slow my breathing, working up the courage to turn and open one eye enough to squint out of the peephole.
I saw a blur of black suit and the off-white of bared teeth, and the left door was simply thrown off of its hinges beside me. BANG. With a sound like a gunshot, in a shower of shattered plaster and splintering wood, he burst through - smashing into the door before him like it was nothing at all. I guess he didn't expect there to be another door just a few feet behind the first, because he simply crashed through the second one as well, his momentum flinging him into the cramped closet under the stairs in a swirling cloud of plaster and fist-sized chunks of what must have been the roof.
Pausing only to catch a glimpse of him struggling to stand within a loose, shifting pile of old boxes, gift bags, and vacuum cleaner attachments - his black suit now mostly a powdery white from the plaster dust that belched out of the demolished closet in thick clouds - I bolted past the closet towards the back door, through the kitchen.
I nearly ran right into the next one standing placidly in the laundry room as if he was waiting for me.
Skidding to an abrupt halt on the tile, panting, I simply stared. It was the same guy that had just done some major remodeling around the foyer of my house, but he was clean and calm. Taking the time to slide his sunglasses down his nose to wipe them carelessly against the suit of his jacket, effectively clearing the thin film of plaster dust that had begun to settle upon them, he stared right back, awaiting my reaction. I could hear his twin still rummaging around in the closet - and so could he. Turning his head slightly in that direction, his cold grey eyes still on me, he arched a brow - And I ran.
Back to what was left of the front door, past the caved in closet and a glimpse of another man in a suit coming steadily down the stairs, I literally scampered across the tile like a frightened animal. Even with a new burst of adrenaline, I was tiring - slowing down. Coughing and sputtering through the dry plaster and probably about as ghostly white as the first guy, I plunged back into the crisp air, and what I saw was enough to make me wish that I had stayed inside to have a quiet dinner with the first three FBI agents from hell.
From every house, expressionless men with the same black suit, average height, average build, and average brown hair were pouring into the street in twos and threes like seething ants swarming out of their nest at the prod of a stick.
"You've got to be shittin' me."
There was no point in running. They were everywhere, and still more were trickling into the street from the sidewalk. As one, at least a hundred heads turned slowly to peer at me, their sunglasses glinting dimly, like the fractured eyes of an insect. As one, they took one step towards me. I staggered back on my heels, too disturbed to say much of anything. There wasn't anywhere to go, and nobody to call for help. Some distance away - seemingly in the sky above my head, there was an explosion.
As one, the men tilted back their heads to look. I turned to run back into the house. There was nothing else to do. Like thunder, I heard them coming as I whirled - to look the ghastly, plaster coated original in the face. I faked left. He didn't move. I faked right. He plunged his right hand into my rib cage. At least, I think that's what happened. I watched it disappear into my side with a measure of surreal amazement.
There wasn't any pain or blood - just a liquid metal that seemed to trickle and spread from him like mercury, and a feeling like ice that hissed quickly through my veins like liquid nitrogen. Smothering and unbearably cold, the liquid spread quickly up around my neck, but I couldn't do anything to stop it. I couldn't move, and as I looked up into his look of disgust, I felt the stuff surround me entirely.
Darkness - A smothering pink membrane - The grind of machinery - A squelch, a pop. . .
Nothing.