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THE DAY AFTER

24. The calm.

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

"Hey . . ."

"What?"

"Thanks."

"For what? For the ride?

"For everything. For being there."

"Whatever. It's nothing. If you didn't always tag along then I wouldn't have to keep saving you."

"Well, I appreciate it nonetheless."

"What the hell were you doing down there anyway?"

"Staying in a place down by the docks . . . "

"I knew it! You really like that smell, don't you?"

"Tails, I want you to do something for me."

" . . . . . . . . What?

"Just listen to me for a second. I have a plan." He nods, and for the first time that I've ever seen him, in all the time I've known him, is completely attentive. "I . . . I've been thinking about this whole thing. You know, about how they choose their victims, about how they kill, why they kill the way they do . . ." He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but then decides against it and lets me continue. "And I know how to end it. Quick and easy. So no more have to die. So nobody else has to suffer, and most importantly, so HE doesn't get more of what he wants."

"I don't like where this is going."

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"Okay, but don't expect to just stand aside and let this happen . . ."

"I can take care of myself, ya know."

"Not against this. No way."

I don't know how to fight him on this one. He knows me all too well.

"I'm not about to let someone I care about take on something like this all alone."

Good enough for me, I guess. If I can't get him to break, I can settle for him bending a little.

"Then you already know what I have in mind?"

". . . Go ahead and tell me."

"Guess." I attempt a coy smile. Keep it light, keep it light.

He takes a deep breath, which sounds slightly angry. The next word he speaks is laced with a mixture of disgust and fury. "Bait."

I nod. "Bait."

"That's bullshit." But the words are hollow. In his mind he knows that I've already made the decision.

"You either play along or you leave me to do it alone. And you don't want that, now do you?"

Swish.

Goal.

I've won.

The apartment, somehow still here, somehow left alone by the superintendent, chills and shivers. He glares into me, which is colder than anything I've ever felt in my life, and he storms out of the window, hovering into the air.

"Bitch."

_________________________

It was well into the night by the time I managed to pry all of the wooden boards off of the windows. Every time I pulled one off I found myself not being able to remember when or how I got them up in the first place.

Don't get me wrong. I may be conceited, but I can still learn, from both my mistakes and others' examples. What I can piece together from experience and teachers is that some things actually do require careful thought and planning. Especially when playing defense.

So, I gather what I can. Hammer, nails, light bulbs, electrical cords, toilet water, blankets, towels, clothes, a broken gun, a bent knife, a couch, an un-working television, two mattresses, a hot plate, broken glass from the window in my room, snow globe, wallet, various kitchen utensils like forks and spoons. All of it mostly wooden, or made of glass. The only thing I leave plugged in is the phone.

Every uncovered window, I bust with a hammer. The shards fall past the fire escape, through the thin metal grating, breaking into a thousand pieces onto the street below. I don't break them down to their frames, and by the time I'm done with the living room, all of the windows look like mouths, gaping in terror, with sharp, clear teeth lining every edge.

Next. I clear out every other room, bringing my bed and my dresser out, bringing Rouge's bed and cabinet out. All of her clothes and the closet doors. Everything we own is moved into one room, and only then to I close everything else off. The doors are tied closed with the cords of whatever appliance that was in the kitchen. Unlucky for me, all of them have to be pushed open from my side, so it makes it harder to keep them from opening. Oh well. All of this is cannibalized anyway. Can't expect perfection.

The doors that open my way are nailed shut and barricaded with one of the many large hunks of wood. Each object is much lighter after the contents are spilled out onto the street with the broken glass. And no, not all of it goes to waste. Those things big enough to trip over are scattered on the floor, a maze to jump over, dodge, and navigate. The left over nails I just slam into the wall. A bed of spikes. My hammer I toss into the corner near the front door.

My intention is to make sure the upcoming dance stays in one room only. Every advantage must be taken advantage of. Everything that I could possibly control has to be.

All of this is done with surprising swiftness. The living room already looks like a battlefield, a post-war tornado. A graveyard or a junkyard, constructed out of little pieces of Rouge's life. Of my life. None of it served a real purpose until now . . .

The only door I don't barricade is the front, because that still serves somewhat of a purpose. A test as well as a failsafe. Every light bulb available, I take and throw down the hallway, some at the other lights hanging along the walls. They all shatter and hit the ground fast, flowing like fine, crystal water in one direction. I throw all of them, both directions, some far, some close. Alternating. The halogen lights from the bathroom arc in giant circles, spinning like a top in mid air, and they come crashing down loudest of all. I run out of ammunition, and the floor is littered with white shredded newspaper that cuts deeper than any bad paper cut, that makes more noise than the couple upstairs.

Yes.

Perfect.

I take off my shoes and throw them down the hall, then slam the door shut.

It's been an hour or two since Tails dropped me off. This all adds new definition to the word "haste." The reaper should be here for the party any minute now. I hope he bringing the casserole . . .

Joke. Seriously.

For the final touch to complete this masterpiece, I tip the couch over, bottom side facing the window. Over in the corner is a metal pole, about the same length and width, but not weight, as a baseball bat. My only weapon besides my wits. Home-court advantage doesn't count.

I find myself grinning at all of this. I can't help it.

But, of course, it fades when I hear the engines approaching.

It's time.

One more thing.

I dial the number Tails gave me, and of course, he answers immediately. He sounds scared . . . but not as scared as me.

And I tell him that they're coming.

I tell him that he can deal with it if he wants.

He still has time.

And I know we're alone on this one, me and Tails. All by ourselves, because the line isn't clicking. No static. No noise. It's clear . . . so clear . . . .

Click.

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