Lori Loud phoned the super at 7:05am:The toilet was broken again and water was leaking into the hall. She closed the door and stuffed towels in the crack, but the carpet was saturated and she imagined she could already smell it beginning to mold.

Like every morning since she moved into the building, Lori woke at 6:30 to get ready for work and used the bathroom. She made herself a bagel with avocado, then went to take a shower when she was done.

That's when she discovered the leak.

Only leak was too feeble a word. Water literally gushed over the rim and spilled onto the floor. Panicking, she managed to turn the tank off, but the bathroom was flooded and the toilet was unusable.

Again.

A ball of hot anger formed in the center of her chest, and she stabbed rather than dialed the super's number.

Lori had been living in the apartment on West 53rd for less than a year, and this was the third major plumbing issue. She paid very good money to live in Manhattan, and she didn't even have a toilet to show for it.

Ridiculous. If it happened one more time, she was withholding her rent. That was her right under the law.

The super answered on the third ring. "Mr. Goldsmith, it's Lori Loud in Apartment 3C," she said. She was standing impatiently by the front door in nothing but a leopard print robe, one arm hooked beneath her breasts. She was naked underneath, the kiss of the fabric against her bare skin a constant reminder that she was screwed out of her morning shower, which threw her whole routine into disarray.

"Hello, Missus Loud," he replied, intentionally using Mrs. when he knew damn well that she wasn't married. "What's the problem?"

Lori didn't like his tone and almost said so. Instead, she told him about the toilet. "I'll be right there," he said.

"Thank you," she replied tightly.

Hanging up, she heaved an exasperated sigh and cast a longing look at her desktop, perched on an end table in a corner. She had hoped to have the contents of her latest anthology - a collection of romance stories titled From the Heart - entirely selected today, but she had two dozen submissions left to read and this promised to turn into an all day ordeal. Lori pursed her lips and exhaled through flaring nostrils. As soon as the toilet was fixed, she would look for another apartment.

Only she knew she wouldn't. Finding this one was nearly impossible and she almost gave up. But as a full time editor and part time fiction writer, she needed to live in New York the way a film producer needed to live in Los Angeles. New York City was the capital of American publishing, home to the Big 5 publishers and a dozen smaller ones. Everything and everyone was right here, and walking sixteen blocks to a meeting was far easier than taking a train from Stamford.

Her time in the city, however, had been nothing but a headache, and standing there in the middle of her dingy-no-matter-how-hard-she-cleaned studio apartment, no counter space and now no toilet, she regretted the move. As a girl in Michigan, she had dreamed of the hustle and bustle of the big city, but after three years of living in a cramped apartment on a cramped street on a cramped island, she missed wide open spaces. She missed sunshine and clean air. She missed not being afraid to leave her home. She missed her parents and her brother and her sisters.

I Love New York?

Not quite.

Lori looked at her computer again, wishing she had time to at least get started. If she did, though, Mr. Goldsmith would only break her concentration, and for her, once it was gone, it was extremely difficult to get back.

Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of chai tea instead and sipped it while leaning against the counter. City sounds drifted in through the window over the sink - honking, jackhammering, the wail of distant sirens. Even in the middle of the night, New York was never quiet, another thing she thoroughly disliked about it.

She considered getting dressed before Mr. Goldsmith got here; he liked to look, and every time he came into the apartment, he raped her with his eyes. She decided against it, though. If he wanted to look, let him look; with the mood she was in, she had no problem calling him out.

A few minutes later, a knock came at the door.

Well, that was prompt.

She sat her mug on the counter, crossed to the door, and unlocked it, first the handle, then the dead bolt, then, finally, the security chain.

Short and fat with thin gray hair, Sam Goldsmith looked sixty but was really fifty. He wore a pair of gray overalls and a gray baseball cap. In one hand he held a dented red toolbox.

"Morning, Missus Loud," he said with a nod.

Lori's brow lowered. "Miss," she said. "I'm not married, you know that, Mr. Goldsmith."

And why would she be? She had no interest in men and never had. Her career had always come first, and even if it hadn't, the vast majority of men were Neanderthals who thought only of sex and looked at women as objects at best...and subservient slaves at worst. Lori was a a proud liberal feminist and downright refused to even entertain the idea of sacrificing herself on the altar of marriage, refused to be anything but a strong and independent individual the way her mother had raised her. She did not hate men, even the misogynists (until they tried to mansplain to her on Facebook), but she wanted no part of them. The only man she had ever loved was Bobby Santiago and that was a long time ago.

And here, in front of her, was a reminder why she didn't want anything to do with men.

"Right," Mr. Goldsmith said with a mocking little grin.

Lorik stepped aside and he came over the threshold, closing the door behind him. He sat the tool box down and turned to her. For the first time, she noticed something about him.

His eyes were cloudy.

They darted to her breasts, and he licked his chops like a dog.

Lori instantly crossed her arms.

"Mr. Goldsmith," she said tersely.

He continued staring.

"Mr. Goldsmith! Stop looking at my breasts!"

That snapped him out of it. He looked up, confusion in his eyes. "I...I'm sorry, I just feel..."

Suddenly his hands were around her throat, shoving her back into the breakfast bar, his teeth bared and his eyes flashing.

Lori's heart rocketed into her throat and her entire body went rigid with shock. Mr. Goldsmith tightened his grip, cutting off her air supply, and panic detonated in her chest like a bomb. She lashed out, raking her nails down his cheek and drawing blood, but he wasn't fazed. His flabby features twisted and contorted in hatred, but his eyes, milky white, only stared ahead, transfixed, unnatural, like a zombie in an old black and white movie.

A grunt escaped his lips, and he threw Lori to the floor. For a second, the world tumbled end-over-end, then she landed on her back, pain exploding in her hip and a wheeze knocking from her clutching lungs. Animal terror surged through her, and she rolled to her hands and knees in an attempt to get to her feet, to run, to fight, to save herself from what inevitably came next.

Panting so hard that his shoulders shook, Mr. Goldsmith dropped to his knees and grabbed her hips. Lori's heart blasted and her eyes widened. "No!" she screamed. "NO!" She rocked from side-to-side, then cried out when his fist came down hard between her shoulder blades. She fell limply to her stomach, rasping for air. Her robe had fallen open and the linoleum was cold against her naked skin. She tried once more to push herself up, but Mr. Goldsmith rolled her roughly onto her back.

Kneeling over her, his chest rising and falling with excitement, he stared down at her body. He reached out, and reacting on instinct, Lori kicked him in the face, his nose crunching beneath the sole of her foot. His head whipped to one side and blood gushed from his ruined nose, but instead of toppling over and curling up, he just looked at her and smiled.

Now he was on top of her, his hands pinning her wrists above her head and his weight tacking her to the floor. She thrashed and screamed, but he was too strong, and when he thrusted into her, she shrieked in a mixture of agony and outrage.

Mr. Goldsmith slammed in to the hilt, his cursed thing violating her deepest and most secret places. Stinging tears filled Lori's eyes and she sobbed openly as he raped her, powerless to stop him, powerless to save herself.

Letting go of her wrists, he wrapped his hands around her delicate neck and squeezed. Lori's heart slammed and all rational thought fled away as mortal terror welled up in her chest. Her hands went to his and scratched weakly; Mr. Goldsmith bared his teeth and squeezed even harder, pumping faster, a combination of his fluids and her blood greasing the way.

The edges of Lori's vision were starting to go gray, and the fuzzy warmth of the void stole gradually and inexorably over her. Her movements were slowing, her heartbeat was slacking, her lungs were exploding, throbbing, burning.

She was going to die.

Her tears dried and her spasmodic twitches wracked her body. She was barely aware of Mr. Goldsmith expanding inside of her, hardly felt his orgasm injecting her like poison and pooling hotly in her stomach. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her fighting tapered off.

Then, she knew no more.

Sometime later, Lori came awake in a spill of sunshine, her head muddled and her body aching. She rolled cumbersomely onto her stomach and sucked greedy gulps of air, her back rising and falling and her throat burning.

For a time, she lay there, drifting on dark tides like an errant leaf on a stormy surge, then the memory of Mr. Goldsmith on top of her, choking her and violating her, gradually came back, and she started to cry.

Was he still here?

A hammer head of fright struck her heart, and she tensed. She shot a jerky glance over her shoulder. The door was shut, the apartment empty. She listened, but heard nothing.

Slowly, she got to her knees and used the breakfast bar to stand. Blood and semen trickled down the insides of her thighs and her pelvis throbbed so badly that she thought it might be cracked or broken. She picked the phone up with trembling hands, dialed 911, and waited.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I-I was just r-r-raped," Lori chattered, hating the weakness in her voice.

She gave them her location, then limped into the living room, each step sending waves of pulsating agony through her groin. She sat on the couch and hugged herself. Tears filled her eyes and she couldn't even try to stop them. Hanging her head, she gave into them.

Sometime later, a loud banging filled the apartment, and she jumped, sure that Mr. Goldsmith had come back to kill her.

"NYPD," a muffled voice said, "open up."

Relief washed over her.

Using the arm to stand and wincing at the pain in her middle, Lori closed her robe and shuffled to the door. She unlocked the handle and the deadbolt, then pulled it open.

Two cops, both young men in black uniforms, pushed their way in, nearly knocking her to the floor. She fell back against the couch and grabbed on to keep herself from falling.

Both of them pointed their guns at her.

Lori's heart sank.

"On the ground," one ordered.

"There's been some mistake, I -"

"ON THE GROUND!"

Obeying, Lori dropped stiffly to her knees and stretched out on the cold, hard floor, her hands splayed on either side of her head. Her robe rode up her hips and a soft breeze caressed her bare bottom. Her face flushed with embarrassment.

"I'm the victim!" she cried, panicking setting in. "I-I called you."

The cop slapped her butt with a meaty thwack, and she jumped. "I know."

What?

His fingers crept along her thighs, sending tendrils of horror into her soul. She squeezed her legs closed, but he ripped them open and plunged his fingers into her. She felt herself rip, and shrieked at the pain.

"Standard police procedure," he panted. She heard the sounds of his belt unbuckling, of his zipper coming down.

When the shaft of his penis parted her tender lips, she screamed so loud she nearly fainted. In seconds it was over. A hot river of molten lava shot into her, filling her stomach, and for the second time that day, Lori had no choice but to take it.

"My turn," the other cop said.

Lori moaned, the room swirling.

He forced her legs apart with his knees and unzipped his pants. Lori squeezed her eyes closed and gritted her teeth for what was to come.

Nothing that had happened that day prepared her for the alien sensation of prodding at her rectum.

Her stomach shot into her throat and her eyes flew open. She opened her mouth to scream, but when he jammed himself into her, the pain was so exquisite that she couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

This time, it only took a few seconds for Lori Loud to lose consciousness.

Like a woman in a nightmare, Lori stumbled into the hall, her thighs tacky with blood. Her robe was gone; she was entirely naked now.

Supporting herself on the door jamb, the floor rocking like the deck of a ship at sea, she waited as a wave of nausea passed over her. She was tired, very tired, and her whole body was sore.

Groaning, she pushed away from the door and started down the hall, her bare feet shuffling on the carpet.

Up ahead, a door to one of the other apartments opened, and Mr. Johnson, seventy-eight and sickly, stepped out. When he saw her, his eyes widened.

"Help me," she whispered.

Moving as quickly as he could, the old man came to her, reaching as if to offer assistance. Instead, he grabbed her throat and pushed her against the wall.

Not again! God, not again!

Mr. Johnson, his eyes cloudy, smiled, revealing a row of rotten black teeth. He stank of cigarettes and beer. "Where do you think you're going?"

With his free hand, he grabbed her vagina, cupping it: The tip of his middle finger pushed into her.

Lori snapped then. Screaming, she lashed out, clawing the old man's eyes. He screamed, released her, and stumbled back against the wall.

Mustering all the energy she had, she threw herself down the hall, choking on her sobs. At the head of the stairs, she looked back. Mr. Johnson was lying on the ground. She must have killed him.

Gripping the bannister, she descended as quickly as she could. The lobby was deserted. Beyond the glass door, cars and people streamed by, the scene so normal that it shocked her. It was like she hadn't just been raped three times.

She pushed through the door and staggered out onto the sidewalk. The day was warm and dry. Horns honked, and down the way, a construction crew jackhammered into the street.

"Help me!" she screamed.

A man passing by grabbed her left breast and squeezed. Another slapped her on the ass. Someone else whistled, and a passing taxi slowed.

She looked left, right, hyperventilating now. Something was wrong, something was...

She noticed it then. Everyone she saw, on the sidewalk, in cars, everyone...was a man.

And each one had the same wild expression in his eyes.

As she watched, they began to come toward her. The jackhammering stopped and the man behind it let the machine fall to the pavement, started walking in her direction.

God, no!

She darted out into the street, dodging a taxi and the outstretching arm of a black man. On the other side, she looked back, and cried out.

They were coming for her.

A dozen men, two dozen, some in suits, others in jeans, all of them smiling, all of them with white, alien eyes, advancing with slow deliberation.

Lori sobbed.

Men were getting out of their cars now. Cops. Taxi drivers. UPS.

She started to run then.

And behind her, the men started to run too, others joining the chase until they numbered hundreds.

Thousands.

Millions.