Out of the Black - Lee Doty [106]
Then the fury was over and the world was at an odd equilibrium for a second or two. Anne stood near the center of the OR with Hawthorne in her arms like the cheesy cover of a gay romance novel.
"Sorry 'bout that!" Anne said, giddy triumph running through her.
Chilled bloodless, Hawthorne emerged from the panic-blurred experience in a quick succession of degrees. Degree one: A shock like being hit by a speeding Nerf cargo transport. Degree two: The sound of rushing air had transformed into the click-tinkle of showering glass. She was pretty sure her body had stopped spinning, though her inner ear told her differently. Degree three: She remembered standing in the observation booth and being attacked, then whirling, spinning hell, then here. Degree four: The realization that this was only a near-death experience so far. Degree five: The realization that she would have to kill Anne Kelley for this.
The breath she had not screamed out had been knocked from her by the impact, so she was left with her mouth open and eyes squeezed shut against the storm of falling glass. Every muscle was taut with anticipated demise. Though there wasn't any air left for it, her lungs squeezed anyway, needing just a little more scream.
She managed to disengage the lock o her throat, and the air jerked and hitched into her burning lungs. "If..." gasp, "you ask me...", wheeze, "if I'm okay..." She gestured with the weapon trembling in her right hand. "Pow."
Slow, evil chuckling filled the air around them.
***
In the janitor's closet among disinfectants and other implements of order and cleanliness, two men hid in complete darkness. One breathed in long, regular cycles; the other was investing a significant portion of his willpower into keeping his labored breath from drawing unwanted attention from the other side of the door.
Chase would be able to handle this a lot better if it weren't for the laughter. Outside the closet door, things shuffled by. No talking, no crashes of destructive fury, no melodramatic moaning or growling; just an occasional ripple of introspective laughter that had to be categorized as 'mischievous evil' (i.e. that evil which has just a little extra time for play).
Chase shivered, thinking about what playtime might be like for such creatures. In his mind's eye, he saw their misshapen faces on the security cam in the lobby. Their eyes dead, their faces pits from which all humanity had been strip-mined. They exuded the attitude and overall fresh look of hell's supermodels. He remembered his brief glimpse of the bodies and blood on the ground outside the ambulance and had to force his mind to stop trying to reconstruct that scene.
He clenched the stunner tighter in his damp palm. If that door opened, he didn't know whether he would use it on whatever came through the door, or on himself.
Outside, another chuckle sent chills jerking through his nervous system.
Until the End of the World
So close your eyes
For that's a lovely way to be
Aware of things your heart alone
Was meant to see
The fundamental loneliness goes
Whenever two can dream a dream together
-Wave
A tale best told by Frank Sinatra
Like a dungeon beneath a grand and polished palace, the gym lurked in the second and third sub-basements beneath the shining steel and glass of the immense Grant building. The first sub-basement held Fleck's, a stylish Euro-club, complete with bars both smart and less so. It was mainly frequented by singles looking for a connection; many would use the club to unwind after their workouts, looking to showcase newly stressed glutes and biceps. It was a popular club, not least of all because, unlike gyms of previous times, it was exceptionally hard to meet people while working out... at least in the less geeky sense of the word.
In the bottom level of the club were the VirtuaTrainers,