Paper sacks of junk food and soda in hand, the two girls made their way back to the motel while keeping an eye out for any watchful teachers. While they hadn't been expressly forbidden from visiting the store, they still weren't sure if it was okay to do so either, and neither of them had any desire to hear a stern lecture from DeMartino.
Opening the door to their room revealed a sordid scene. Jennifer and Andrea were both passed out on one of the room's two beds, on top of the covers with their day clothes still on. The blonde girl was relatively quiet, but Andrea was intermittently letting out a series of snore-snorts.
The remains of a joint smoldered in an ashtray on the nightstand between the beds, and Andrea had a deathgrip on the neck of an empty whiskey bottle. How they had managed to smuggle either past Li's paranoid personal property searches, neither Jane nor Daria could figure out, but both of them were happy enough that the combination had put the other two girls to sleep.
After setting their bags on the table just inside the door, Jane moved to turn the blaring television down and change the channel while Daria went to grab the ice bucket.
"They could be anywhere . . . they can look like anyone . . . your teacher, your boss, your best friend, or even you! Do genetic copies dream of cloned sheep? Next on Sick, Sad World!"
Satisfied with the selection, Jane muted the TV. Daria placed a plastic ice bag in the bucket and the two of them stepped back out into the night again.
"So, how's that insomnia treatin' ya?" Jane asked once they were outside.
"If I could be sure I'd be learning anything worthwhile, I'd wish I was this alert every day in school," the other girl replied. "It's almost like being hyper awake. Even the dark seems to be vibrating right now."
"That's probably what Quinn feels like all the time."
"What a horrific proposition," Daria said with a frown. "But it would explain why she always wears bright pink shirts. They're the only color that really registers with her jacked up eyes and nervous system."
The rumble of the ice machine hit their ears as they approached its little alcove right at the halfway point of the building. Daria pressed the bucket under the dispenser, causing chunks of ice to gradually and very noisily fill the bag inside. As they waited for it to do its business, Jane looked out across the parking lot and stifled a yawn.
"Keep your shirt on," Daria told her. "We'll get you filled with more caffeine than you can stand soon enough."
Jane laughed softly, then blinked as the parking lot went completely dark. The ice machine rattled to a complete stop, leaving the entire area in utter silence.
"What the-"
Jane had only started her sentence when ice started clattering into the bag again, accompanied by the faint pop of the lot lamps striking back up.
"That was a little weird," Daria said, topping the bucket off and turning around to watch as the lights slowly built to full brightness again.
"Yah," Jane agreed. "Must've been a brownout. We're probably half a state away from the nearest power station."
"Yah," Daria echoed. "Must've been."
The two girls shrugged at each other and headed back to their room.
"I would like to call this meeting of the Fashion Club to order," Sandi intoned crisply. "Regular president, vice president, and treasurer presiding, and let the record show that joining us today is honorary club member and temporary secretary, Tori Jericho."
"So noted!" Tori chirped as she marked the information down in a notebook.
Sandi nodded approvingly, then turned to the other two girls. "As our first order of business, I would like to propose a vote to extend a formal invitation to the Fashion Club to Tori. I believe she will be an exceptional addition to our ranks, especially if we should so happen to . . . lose a member in the near future. Any seconds?"
Quinn fidgeted with discomfort that had nothing to do with sitting cross-legged on the hard motel bed. As seconds of silence started to drag by, she dreaded the idea that she might actually have to betray Stacy just to keep her own position secure, but Sandi's words seemed to finally click in Tiffany's head, pushing the club's treasurer into action.
"Oooooh, yaaaaaah," Tiffany said, looking up from her compact. "I totally secooooooond . . . "
Sandi glanced ever so briefly at Quinn, then said, "Very good. Motion carried. Before the vote begins, we shall hear debate regarding Tori's eligibility for induction. Thoughts?"
"She wears, like, these totally cute ooooutfiiiiiiiits, and she knows a looooooot about who's popular and who's noooooooot." Speech finished, Tiffany lost all interest in the proceedings and started to prep a bottle of mascara.
Sucking in a big breath, Quinn tried to sort her thoughts into some kind of order. All of the implications of the situation, especially the current meeting, struck her as extremely unfair. Despite all her own power plays concerning the club, she actually liked Stacy and didn't want her to be hurt in any of those maneuvers. Sandi, it seemed, had no such qualms.
She ran her fingers through her red hair and said, "Well, I think Tori would make a great member of the club. She fits all the requirements and stuff for entry. She, like, takes pride in her appearance and interest in the appearance of others. I think she'd make a great addition to the Accessory Committee!"
"Heeeeeeey, then I wouldn't be the only ooooooooone," Tiffany said, a bare hint of cheerfulness breaking through in her voice. "That would be, like, soooooo cooooooool."
Sandi frowned at Quinn and Tori gave her a nasty look over the top of her notebook. "I believe I will be deciding what position Tori may or may not be taking in our organization, Quinn, if you don't mind," Sand said, her tone dangerous.
Quinn quickly retreated. "Oh, of course you will, Sandi!" she wheedled. "I was just making a suggestion, that's all. You did ask for our thoughts, right?"
"Well . . . yes," said Sandi, somewhat mollified. "Very well. As Tori is eligible and there are no remarks against her possible entry, we shall hold the vote after a brief recess. During this recess, we shall be giving Tori a makeover in preparation for her imminent entry into the Lawndale High Fashion Club."
Reaching over the side of the bed, she picked up one of the many makeup cases littering the floor. She opened it up, pulled out a tube of lipstick, and removed the cap.
"Ladies, let's get to work!"
Normally, Quinn would have enjoyed any chance to help someone improve their look, but no matter how she tried, she found her heart just wasn't into it this time. And though Tiffany was as oblivious as ever, she could sense that Sandi and Tori could tell. She tried to concentrate solely on brushing out the blonde girl's hair and putting it in a complicated braid, but she could still feel Sandi's eyes flitting toward her from time to time and narrowing in suspicion.
Stacy was out there somewhere, alone without her friends. A year ago, Quinn might not have cared, but she liked to think that she had grown a bit since then, and part of her growth was giving a damn about things like that. She felt trapped between the old her that wanted nothing but the rest of the Fashion Club's approval and the new her that-
The overhead light flickered off, breaking Quinn out of her reverie. All of the girls jumped in surprise, and Quinn was fairly certain that she heard one of them - Tori, she hoped - squeal a bit. Beside that, everything was eerily silent.
The light came back on a few seconds later, and the tension left the air as everyone relaxed.
"I do believe that has proven my idea of a fashion lockdown was an excellent one," Sandi said as she went back to applying rouge on Tori's cheeks. "None of us would want to be caught outside if all the lights went out. No one would be able to see how cute we are."
Quinn ruefully resumed her braiding. "When you're right, you're right, Sandi," she said with a sigh.
After releasing the lock and opening the door as quietly as possible, Stacy slipped into the dark room. She stood still for a few moments, waiting for her eyes to acclimate, then slowly crossed over to the other side and set her bags in the small alcove next to the bathroom.
In the dim light filtering in around the edges of the curtains, she could make out the sleeping faces of the three other girls. She sort of recognized one of them, but the other two were completely unfamiliar, probably from some lower rung on the popularity ladder and thus beneath Stacy's notice.
She immediately felt bad for thinking of them like that. Besides the fact that it just wasn't nice, she realized that by all appearances, her own position had dropped like a stone and those girls might very well end up being her new best friends by necessity. The unfairness of the system struck her like it often did, and she briefly wondered if now that she was one of its victims, would she have the courage finally to stand up against it?
Probably not, she decided with a sinking feeling. Too many years under Sandi's heel had crushed any rebellious feelings she might have once had. And she did have them, once upon a time. She remembered those days when she had been a little more like Quinn, pushing the boundaries that Sandi set and working to make things a little better on herself and Tiffany.
Quinn.
Stacy could see Sandi and Tori's angles. Sandi had probably long grown tired of Stacy's constant indecision, her toadying, her whining, and her freakouts. And Tori naturally just wanted to be a part of the most popular club in school. Even Tiffany she could understand, being as blind to what was happening to Stacy as she was to everything else that wasn't Tiffany. But Stacy had thought Quinn at least would have stood up for her.
In the end, however, it was just one more disappointment in a day full of disappointments, discomforts, and general unhappiness. And that was just one more day in the cavalcade of horrors that had become Stacy's life. Without bothering to take off anything other than her shoes, she carefully slid under the covers so as not to disturb the other girl, then closed her eyes and prepared to finally drift off to sleep.
Just as she was about to nod off, something caused her to snap her eyes back open and sit up in the bed. She looked around quizzically for several seconds before she realized she couldn't see or hear anything. Fear welled up in her chest as the thought of having gone blind and deaf on top of everything else invaded her mind, but it quickly dispelled as the soft background hum of machinery started up again and the light outside the window began to build back up to its previous vague glow.
Sleep slowly spread its tendrils across her mind again as she laid back down. This time, she hoped, nothing else would interrupt it.
Anthony twisted the lid off of the medicine bottle, shook one of the tiny pills out into his hand, and held it up to the lamp. The light sat directly behind it, casting both the pill and his hand in deep shadow, like a miniature eclipse.
Blood pressure medication had been a part of his daily routine for around two decades. It was, he knew quite well, the only reason that he was able to function as a teacher without actually popping a blood vessel, as well as one of the small factors keeping him from having another heart attack.
His doctor, however, had decided that it still wasn't quite enough and had switched him to a new type of pill. While DeMartino was happy to have anything new to help him keep the tension in his head from exploding and taking his skull with it, he wasn't too happy with the new medication. No matter when he took it, it put him to sleep, and that worried him a bit.
It had only been a week since he'd switched over, so he hadn't gone back to Dr. Florence yet to complain - though he wanted to, oh how he wanted to - and had kept on taking it in the hopes that the problem would soon right itself. The first few days he had popped them right after breakfast, but after nearly passing out in front of his history class, he quickly switched to taking them in the afternoons after the end of the school day.
As he looked down at the peach-colored circle sitting between his thumb and index finger, he debated on whether or not he should take it before going to bed. He had skipped his afternoon dose in the interests of keeping an eye on the kids during the bus ride, but he was wary of taking something that would put him to sleep when he was already going to be sleeping. The more he thought about it, the more paranoid the idea sounded, but he was afraid that the combination of actual sleep and lowered blood pressure might put him to sleep somewhat more permanently than he desired.
The lamp went dark, blinding DeMartino temporarily. He blinked rapidly and turned his head to look over at the sleeping form of Coach Gibson in the far bed, but before his eyes could adjust the light came back on.
Instead of allowing his brain to settle back into its earlier debate, he popped the pill in his mouth and dry-swallowed it.
Ms. DeFoe paced back and forth anxiously.
You're really too sensitive, Claire, Li had told her when she had expressed her concerns about the Rowe girl. These children need to learn how to work both in groups and as individuals. This will be a grand opportunity for growth for . . . what was her name again?
The rest of the conversation had started to go downhill from there, so Claire had given up and retreated to the room she was sharing with Janet Barch. She hadn't even bothered talking to Janet about the situation. She could already hear the most likely response in her head, telling her that getting shunned would just help Stacy toughen up, so that way she wouldn't fall prey to some man later on in life.
Claire had to admit that the science teacher's pathological philosophy certainly didn't lead to lack of sleep, as the markedly nasal snores coming from the other side of the room attested. But Claire's own ideals wouldn't allow her the same. Stacy had been in obvious distress, and it bothered her that that distress would be allowed to fester overnight.
You're turning into Timothy, Claire tried to warn herself, but it sounded hollow. Despite the unfortunate example O'Neill set, she knew it wasn't wrong to care about the students on a personal level and want to help them not just educationally but emotionally as well.
Finally making up her mind, Claire threw a housecoat over her nightgown, put on a pair of slippers, grabbed her copy of the room key, and stepped out into the rapidly cooling night.
Even with the massive school and rental buses sitting not too far away, the parking lot of the Erbie Motel seemed desolately empty. She began her journey across it with a slight shiver at the loneliness that pervaded the air. The sound of one of the ice machines rumbling in the distance merely added to the effect, the low pitch of its refrigeration unit serving as a poignant dirge.
She had just crossed the lot and stepped onto the street when everything shut down all at once. Starlight and a tiny sliver of moon provided the only illumination, and it seemed like every sound in both the natural and man-made worlds had simply stopped. Claire stood in the middle of the road and strained her ears, but she couldn't detect a trace of anything. No cars on the highway, no children playing music in their rooms, no crickets in the sparse tufts of grass.
Then, just as suddenly, everything came back. The lamps overhead were taking their time turning back on, but the rumble of the ice machine was back and the soft choir of insects and other small animals of the nighttime countryside returned as if they'd never left.
Shaking off the strange feeling left by the temporary blackout, Claire bundled her housecoat around herself and made her way across the street to the office of Nick's Inn.
As soon as she was sure all of her roommates were asleep, Brittany poked her head out the door and scanned the area with the eyes of a hawk.
A nighthawk.
That could see well at night.
Confident that her movements would be unobserved, she slid out and locked the door behind her. With careful tip-toe steps and a continued alertness, she made her way to the corner of the building. Only a few doors separated her room and that corner, but her insistence on a high level of stealthiness made the journey stretch out over several minutes. She made not a sound, not a whisper, not a-
She reached the corner and nearly screamed when a giant form loomed over her and let out a muffled roar. She got the brief impression of a male figure dressed in coveralls and gloves. His face appeared nearly featureless in the dim light, which glinted for a moment on what appeared to be wide lens goggles.
The scream had caught in Brittany's throat, but the rest of her moved freely, snapping a kick to her attacker's mid-section. As her leg came down, she twisted her torso and pushed forward, ramming her shoulder into his chest and sending him sprawling.
Just as she reached his side and prepared to smash a heel into his head, he put up his hands in surrender and started pushing away from her with his legs. He seemed to be trying to say something, but she couldn't make it out until he reached up and pulled the paintball mask from his face.
"It's just me, babe!" Kevin whimpered pitifully. "Don't hurt me anymore, okay? I'm, like, totally sorry and stuff!"
"Kevvie?" she breathed in surprise, then more angrily, "Kevvie! What in the world are you doing?"
The jock had just enough sense in him to at least look ashamed. He cradled his mask in one arm while pushing himself up with the other and said, "Aw, Brit, it was just a little joke. I mean . . . we're still gonna do it, right?"
Brittany glared hatefully at him, but her expression quickly softened. She couldn't stay mad at her Kevvie for long.
"Well of course we are!" she squeaked as she stepped forward and helped him back up. She then put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him lightly against the wall. "In fact," she said, her voice dropping an octave, "why don't you leave the mask . . . on."
A wide grin broke out across Kevin's face just before it was covered by the paintball rig. The tint on the goggles made it difficult to see what was going on, but as Brittany slowly unzipped the front of his coveralls and reached in to caress his chest, he realized that sight wasn't the sense he really needed to be paying attention to anyway.
Brittany's lips brushed against his neck, right under the jawline of the mask. She moved down his collarbone as she pushed her hand further back, stroking her way across his ribs. He moaned into the mask's filter and congratulated himself on the idea of not wearing anything under his coveralls as she pushed the front open wider and laid butterfly kisses all along his pecs and abs.
Gradually, torturously, she moved further and further down, pulling the zipper along with her. When she finally reached her ultimate destination, Kevin pushed back hard against the side of the building and shoved his hips forward with a grunt of ecstasy.
Mmm, he thought, ec . . . Stacy . . .
Closed off in the miniature sensory deprivation chamber of the mask, Kevin found it easy to imagine Stacy Rowe was the one clinging to his pelvis, massaging his butt as her mouth worked all sorts of wonders on other parts of his anatomy. He kind of wished it was her, as he liked some variety from time to time, but the way things were going down . . . well, he couldn't really complain.
"What was that?"
Complaints started flooding into Kevin's head the second he felt cool air hit his nethers and heard Brittany's whispered question. The idea of getting caught pushed all of those complaints to the side, however, so he quickly pushed the mask up and started asking "What was what?" but stopped when it became immediately apparent.
The area between the buildings they were in had been fairly dark to start off with, but with the disappearance of all the lights in the parking lots of the motel on one side and the diner on the other, everything had gone almost pitch black. An unnatural silence permeated the air, sending a chill down Kevin's spine.
Then, it was over. The lights clicked back on and the regular sounds of the night slipped back into place, dispelling the hold it had seemed to place over the two teenagers.
"Uh, babe?" Kevin said, looking down at his girlfriend. "I'm, uh, gettin' a little cold here, if you know what I mean."
Brittany looked up at him and blinked in confusion, then, "Oh! Right! Sorry, babe!"
Sliding the mask down, Kevin was back in his own personal heaven again. Warmth suffused his lower body and spread, radiating through his skin and muscles, relaxing him. He laid a hand on the side of Brittany's neck and rubbed his fingers gently upward until they pressed through the hair on the back of her head.
He felt like he was floating downward, serene, down into a comfort he'd never known before. Something was calling him, beckoning him into that comfort, slowly guiding him deeper and deeper until before he realized it, he had closed his eyes and fallen asleep.
Brittany's skin thrilled as Kevin's other hand came up to stroke across her cheek. Usually he just grabbed onto her and held her still, and she didn't really like that, but this time he was moving with a care he only rarely showed. Both hands moved up and down, kneading her along the neck and shoulders as they went along.
Then, suddenly, he did grab her, pressing his palms into either side of her head. She grunted in surprise and pulled back, but he stayed on her, pushing against her temples with gradually increasing pressure.
"Kevvie, stop, go back to what you were doing before," she said, then cried out. "Ow! You're starting to hurt me, babe! What are you doing?"
She looked up at him, but only the blank mask looked back. She called out his name a few more times, but there was no answer as he pressed in harder and harder.
"Darnit, babe, that's enough!" she cried out, then slapped his crotch to get his attention. When she still got no reaction and with the ache in her head starting to become actual sharp pain, she pulled back and punched him square in the balls.
He didn't even flinch.
"Kevvie, let go! Let go!" Brittany screamed. She punched him everywhere she could reach. She clawed at his hands, drawing blood. She tried shifting her legs to kick him in the shins, but she couldn't move back far enough to get into a good position. His hands held her close like a slowly closing vise.
She sobbed. She pleaded with him. She screamed for help. She simply screamed.
He leaned over her and pressed even harder.
Consciousness had just begun fading when she heard the first sickening crunch of her own skull fracturing.
When the girl finally stopped moving, he released her. Her misshapen head hit the ground and slowly dripped blood to pool in the dirt. He looked down at the corpse, twisting his head to view it at different angles, but betrayed no sign of any kind of emotion.
Once certain that she wasn't going to be getting up again anytime soon, he zipped up his coveralls and stalked off into the parking lot of Nick's Inn.
Sleep eluded Stacy once more as she was brought fully awake by the sound of a girl screaming. At first she thought it had just been part of a half-dream that had been forming as she had been drifting off, but the scream came again with the full clarity of reality behind it. It was somewhere outside and somewhat distant, but unmistakable.
None of the other girls in the room stirred at the noise, so Stacy quietly slipped out of bed and padded over to the window in her stocking feet. Once there, she slowly parted the curtains and peered out into the night to see nothing but the empty parking lot.
The screams continued and Stacy was about to dismiss them as the sounds of a TV in one of the other rooms turned up too loud when she suddenly recognized the squeaky voice strained by fear and pain as Brittany's. Her skin froze at the realization.
She felt the urgent need to run out and see if the other girl needed any help, but she found that she couldn't move. At first she panicked at the thought that it was a reaction to Brittany's unfair attitude earlier, but as she pushed that thought from her head, she found that the only movement she was capable of was a subtle trembling.
She was afraid.
The screaming became more anguished as Stacy cursed herself for her inaction. She pushed and pulled at her own body until she finally lifted her arm and flipped the light switch sitting next to the door. Still staring out the window, she waited for the angry cries of the other girls to hit her ears. If nothing else, she hoped it would partially drown out those horrible shrieks of terror.
The muscles in her neck creaked with tension as she tore her gaze from the parking lot and looked behind her to find that the three girls were still sound asleep, faces peaceful in their repose.
"Hey," she tried to say, her voice barely coming to a whisper. "Hey," she managed, more insistently. Then finally, "Wake up!"
Soft snores were all she got in return. Strangely emboldened by this yet frightened at the same time, She moved away from the window and stood over the nearest bed. With as much force as she could muster, she pulled her hands back and clapped loudly over the pretty brunette and that side. Getting no response, she moved to the blonde girl on the other side and actually grabbed her shoulder to shake her. She rolled over and completely ignored Stacy's efforts.
"Wake up wake up wake up! Come on! HEEEEEELP!"
Even jumping on her own side of the other bed right next to the third girl and shouting at the top of her lungs elicited little more than a cough-snort that shifted right back into the gentle, even breaths of sleep.
Stacy stepped down from the bed and started plotting her next move, then stopped and stared into the distance as she listened to the complete silence around her. After a few seconds of hearing nothing, she scrambled back to the window and placed her ear directly against the glass. Still nothing. The screams had stopped.
She turned her head and looked out the window, but with the light behind her it was difficult to make anything out. She reached over and flipped the switch back off, then gasped as she saw a man walking across the parking lot a few yards away. She could just barely make out the brown, black, and green splotches of his camouflage coveralls in the blue-white lighting of the lot lamps, but she could clearly see his heavy boots and thick work gloves. His face, however, appeared almost featureless-
Stacy snapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream as the man stopped in his tracks and turned that almost flat, featureless face her direction. He seemed to bore into her with eyes shaped like wide-lensed goggles sitting under an oddly sloping forehead and a head of black hair.
Standing statue still, Stacy waited, frozen with fear that the man with the goggle eyes could see her and would start walking her direction. She heard a thin whine start to escape from her throat, and to stop it she simply stopped breathing entirely. An eternity of seconds creeped by agonizingly slow as the two of them seemed to study each other in complete detail, staring hard enough to bore holes.
Stacy fought the urge to breathe an explosive sigh of relief as the man suddenly turned and continued on his way. Tears began to well up in her eyes, and her body shook with unreleased sobs.
Brittany was dead. Stacy didn't have to see the corpse to know it had to be true. And somehow she knew it was her fault. She had tried to wake up the others, but it had probably been too late by that point even if they had gotten up. She told herself that if she had only run out when she had first heard the screams, banging on every door along the way and making as much noise as possible, she might have been able to scare off the cheerleader's attacker, if not gather a huge group of people to help her fight him off. Instead she had stood frozen, unable to help anyone or do anything of real consequence.
And she cried in shame at her cowardice.
"Hello?"
Claire held her robe close around herself as she poked her head into the motel office. The lights were on and she could hear a small TV belting out the sounds of some late night adventure show, but she couldn't immediately see anyone in the small room. Thinking the clerk might have stepped off into a back room somewhere, they stepped into the office and rang the small bell sitting on the counter.
No answer, no shuffling of feet or the particular sound of doors being opened and closed. She could see the black and white TV set sitting on a desk behind the counter, but the only sign that anyone had been watching it at any point was an empty swivel chair sitting nearby.
"Is there anyone here?"
Calling out and ringing the bell again brought the same results as before, and though Claire thought of herself as a very patient woman, something about the situation was starting to put her nerves on edge. She couldn't quite put her finger on what that something was, but it was enough to make her walk around the counter and push open the single door sitting on the other side without fully considering her actions.
A short, dark hallway sat on the other side, lit only by a dim bulb hanging from an old fashioned ceramic socket. Claire stepped past the threshold and carefully opened the first door on her left. The sharp chemical smell of industrial cleaning solvent hit her nose as she looked into a small, dingy housekeeping closet.
She was just about to open the door on her right when a sound from the other side caught her attention. Placing her head next to the door's faux wood paneling, she could make out an irregular grinding noise. At first she thought it was some kind of machine, but she quickly recognized it at organic in nature and opened the door to step inside.
The room beyond was a small lounge of sorts, with a scratched up table sitting in one corner and a small cot in the other. A coffee machine and various minor condiments and plastic eating utensils littered the table, while on the cot sat the slumbering figure of the Nick's Inn clerk. His ragged, uneven snoring filled the small space, as did the acrid tinge of cigarette smoke.
Though the smoke came from a cigarette that was still lit, it appeared that the clerk hadn't taken a drag from it in quite some time. It was nearly burnt down to the filter, but half of the tobacco still hung on in the form of ash. Claire took a moment to thank goodness that the clerk had fallen asleep with the cigarette sitting in one of the crooks of an ashtray on the floor instead of in his hand over flammable clothing or cot material, then grew somewhat miffed that the man would fall asleep on duty at all.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, pressing his shoulder gently. "Excuse me."
The man's snoring became even more irregular for a moment, then settled back into a lower register. His lips smacked underneath the ball cap that he had pulled over his eyes, but that was the last reaction she could get out of him, no matter what she tried.
Irritation turned to worry as Claire continued to try and wake him. She stopped and stared down at him, her head suddenly filled with thoughts that he might have some sort of medical condition, like narcolepsy, and that she should possibly call an ambulance for him.
Giving him one more shake to be sure he wasn't going to suddenly come out of it, she left the room and stepped back into the office to jump in surprise when she saw a man wearing camo coveralls standing at the door.
"Oh, goodness," she said, collecting herself. "I'm sorry, you startled me. If you're here to see the clerk, he's sleeping in the back room and I can't seem to wake him up. I'm afraid that he . . . I'm sorry again, but . . . why are you wearing a mask?"
Instead of answering, the man simply stared at her for a second before swiftly jumping over the counter and leaping onto Claire. He pushed her back against the office desk and clamped his hands around her neck, cutting off her windpipe before she could call for help or even cough once as he choked her. Her back began to ache as he pressed her down with his own body, jamming the bones in her spine against the edge of the desk and bending her backwards until she was nearly laying down on the flat surface.
She grabbed onto the man's wrists and pulled on them, but it was like trying to bend steel bars for all the good she did, and she could feel deep scratches in the skin along the area between his gloves and coverall sleeves. Looking over, she could see a small bit of blood ooze from those wounds onto her hands, realized how fresh they were, and wondered if the other person he had attacked had managed to get away.
As the techno beat of the adventure show on the TV beat in time with the blood trying to pump furiously through her head and darkness started to fold its way into her vision, she wondered if she would manage to get away.
He grinded against her as he squeezed her neck tighter and tighter. Some small part of her felt disgusted at the movement, but another part recognized that there was nothing sexual about it. It only served to smash her further into the desk, as if the man wanted to crush every part of her, not just her throat. She found that her own struggles to push him back with her own body were becoming more and more feeble as weakness slowly suffused her from lack of oxygen.
She looked up into the goggles that formed part of the mask and tried to see past the amber tint of the plastic with her fading vision. She couldn't be certain if what she saw was real or hallucination, but it almost seemed as if the eyes on the other side were closed, as if he wasn't even looking back at her as he killed her.
Just as she was about to give up and accept her fate, the pressure came away from her throat as the man staggered back from her and turned to swipe at something behind him. As she lay gasping and choking for air, she could just barely make out several inches of what looked like a nail file sticking out of his back just above his right shoulder blade.
Various items that had been sitting on the counter flew through the air around the man's form, some of them hitting him, more of them glancing off of him, and most sailing straight past to land on and around the desk. Through it all, the man didn't make a noise, merely trying to ward off the assault before running to one of the office windows and jumping through it. Claire heard the crunching of gravel and glass as the man made his escape.
As she tried her best to recover as quickly as possible, Claire felt small hands on her back and shoulders and heard a female voice echo in her ears as if from a great distance. She wasn't sure how long she had been wheezing and coughing before she could finally look up to see Stacy standing over her, looking concerned.
"Huh-who . . . ?" the teacher managed before going into another coughing fit.
Stacy looked at her, tear stains and terror wrecking her usual pretty features. "The Goggle Eyes Man," she said, voice trembling. "He followed me here."
"Wha . . . ?"
"I saw him in the restroom mirror back at school, just before we left," Stacy told her. "I didn't say anything because I thought it was just my imagination or something, but that was him! He's here! And he killed Brittany, and I didn't try to stop him, I just listened to her-"
"Britt-" Claire cleared her throat again. Though her voice was still scratchy, she seemed to be regaining some control over it. "Brittany? Are you sure?"
Stacy nodded vehemently as tears began to form in her eyes again. Claire made a sharp intake of air and put her hand to her mouth in horror. She might have written off the young girl's statements as a cry for attention combined with hysteria brought on by stress, but she could already feel the bruises starting to form around her neck in the shape of her attacker's hands. It was all the evidence she needed to know that Stacy might very well be telling the truth.
"Okay," she rasped. "Okay. We need to call the police and wake everyone up. I'll-"
She stopped short when Stacy gripped her arm. "I tried to wake up the other girls in my room," Stacy said, shaking her head. "They wouldn't. I was knocking on doors all the way down here, and no one answered. I . . . I don't think they can wake up!"
Claire looked over at the hallway door and felt her heart begin to sink. "We can still try the police," she said as she picked up the phone sitting under the front counter. With shaking fingers, she carefully pressed the buttons for 911 and put the receiver to her ear.
At first she thought she was hearing nothing at all. There was no dial tone, no ringing, and no sound coming from the other side of the line. Thinking that the phone was completely dead, she was just about to put it back in its cradle when she noticed the soft hiss coming from the speaker, denoting an open line.
"Hello?"
If anyone heard her, they betrayed no sign. No answer in kind, no quickened breathing, no soft chuckles of a prankster. Pure silence.
The hiss seemed to reach out of the phone to crawl into Claire's ear, trying to tunnel its way down into her brain. With a grunt of disgust, she tore the tore the receiver away and held it in front of herself as if it were a live thing, squirming between her fingers.
Stacy had been nervously staring out the windows, watching out for any sign that the Goggle Eyes Man would return, but upon hearing Claire's movement, she turned to look at the older woman with a worried expression. For Stacy's sake if not her own, Claire smiled back and tried to appear as if nothing was wrong. When the girl turned back to her vigil, the teacher pressed down on the phone's disconnect and toggled it a few times.
The open line remained, still menacing somehow without making a sound. She didn't bother dialing or saying anything. She simply listened to the silence until she couldn't stand it any more. Slamming the phone back into its cradle a little harder than she'd meant to, Claire took Stacy by the shoulder and started to guide her back out into the parking lot.
"The phone is out." She purposefully refrained from using the word dead. "We should go find the other teachers. Do you know which room they're staying in over here?"
When Stacy shook her head, Claire chewed on her bottom lip for a moment and made a decision. It was something of a risky move, but it had to be done. "Alright," she said. "We'll have to go over to the other motel, then. Keep an eye out for anything, and if you see the masked man, just stay behind me. Okay?"
Nodding her pig-tailed head in understanding, Stacy pressed in close to Claire's side as they moved to cross the street. The older woman took note that whatever bravado Stacy might have shown in saving her before had completely disappeared. If what the girl had said was true and Brittany had been killed because she hadn't tried to defend the cheerleader, then the act of heroism had probably been fueled entirely by guilt, and unfortunately it didn't seem to be enough to get her through a second encounter.
They looked both ways before stepping out onto the road, though it was mostly a pointless gesture. It was just as devoid of traffic as it had been since they'd arrived that evening, and with the strange events that were transpiring around them, it seemed that there was a chance it might remain empty until the police finally came through the next morning to pick up the cold bodies of the Lawndale High student body and faculty.
Claire shoved the morbid thought out of her head just before she saw a hulking shadowy shape ahead of them, backlit by the sodium lamps of the Erbie Motel lot. She drew Stacy to a stop and the two of them tried to discern the identity of the figure before proceeding.
It was male, certainly, and seemed to be the same general build and height as the Goggle Eyes Man, but it was difficult to be sure. Stacy didn't seem to share Claire's doubts, however, as she clawed and twisted her fingers deep into the teacher's thick housecoat and let out a small whine.
The man apparently heard the noise and turned his head, revealing a familiar face to the light.
"Kevin!"
The strain of shouting caused Claire to descend into another spasm of choking coughs. Kevin ran toward them, but as he moved away from the backlighting, they could see the the camo coveralls and gloves that he was wearing. Stacy screamed and started trying to drag Claire away, causing Kevin to pull up short and hold his hands up.
"Whoa, hey!" he called out. "Ms. DeFoe . . . and, uh, Stacy! It's just me, the QB!"
Claire gently pushed Stacy around so that she was standing between the girl and the football player. "Yes, Kevin," she said sternly. "We can see that."
"Hey, what's wrong with your voice? Do you, like, got a cold or something?" Kevin asked, then looked around. "And . . . hey, how did I get over here?"
Claire called his name, getting his attention back on her. "Kevin," she said, "what's the last thing you remember?"
"Ummmmm . . . oh! Me and Brit were just . . . uh, enjoying a little moonlight stroll! And it was a very nice 'moonlight stroll', if you know what I mean." He waggled his eyebrows at the women for a moment before realizing what he'd said. "Uh, not that you would!" he quickly amended. "I mean, I don't even know what I meant! What did I mean? I dunno! No clue here!"
A feeling of surreality started to wash over Claire. "Kevin, where is Brittany?"
He looked around himself with an expression of guileless confusion. "Like, I dunno! She was just with me a second ago. Or . . . was I just with her a second ago? And why is my shoulder all hurty?"
Claire gasped when he twisted around to look at his own back. She could see Stacy's nail file sticking out just below his shoulder, a small stain of blood soaking through the fabric surrounding it. Immediately putting aside the danger he might still pose, she moved forward only to be pulled back by Stacy.
"No no no, don't," the girl pleaded, hanging onto Claire's sleeve. "He's the Goggle Eyes Man. He'll hurt you again."
"Honey, I think he's just Kevin now," Claire tried to reason with her. "And Kevin's hurt. We need to get him fixed up and talk to him some more if we're going to figure out what's goin on here, okay?"
Stacy looked unconvinced, but she let go of the teacher's coat and meekly followed along as they approached the wounded boy.
"No, Kevin, don't touch it," Claire said, pushing his hand away from the file. "If you take it out, you'll just bleed more. We'll take you to find some bandages first, and then we'll go look for Brittany together. Okay?"
Kevin beamed brightly at her. "Yah, that sounds like a great idea!" he said. "Y'know, for a teacher, you're pretty smart!"
Taking the backhanded comment in stride, she led the two teenagers toward the Erbie Motel office. She felt fairly certain that the scene there would be much like it had been over at Nick's, but there was still the good chance that they'd find first aid kit somewhere within.
And if we're lucky, she thought, if we're very very lucky, we'll find that the phone works, the clerk is awake, that Brittany is fine, and that all of this has just been a big misunderstanding.
"Hey," Kevin said as they walked up to the office door, "has anybody seen my mask?"
The words on the page swam in Anthony's vision as he stared dully at the book in his hands. He felt his head start to nod forward, and he immediately jerked it back upright and shook it to clear away the fuzz that was settling over his mind. His jaw fairly cracked from the massive yawn he involuntarily let out.
Trying to stay up after taking his medicine wasn't working out as well as he'd planned.
That neurotic worry that he'd sleep literally like the dead still gnawed at his gut, but the longer he stayed awake, the more he came to realize that the worry simply wasn't enough. He was going to sleep whether he wanted to or not, and he could either do it uncomfortably in a motel chair or somewhat less uncomfortably in a motel bed.
After marking his place and setting his book aside, he grabbed a plastic cup of water from the sink and set it on the nightstand next to his bed. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, then looked around the room one last time to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything.
He grunted softly as he remembered to slip the paintball mask on before turning off the light, sliding into bed, and swiftly falling into a deep, dark sleep.