Part 28 (2/2)

”We all done?” she asked.

Steve looked up at the approaching Blackhawk. Five minutes till they hit the roof. Right on time. Right on time. ”Just had to take out the trash,” he answered without looking at her. ”Just had to take out the trash,” he answered without looking at her.

He gunned the engine and felt Naomi's arms grip him tightly around the waist. ”Back there,” she said, tilting her head to the spot where he'd rescued her, ”did you call me 'Babe'?”

Steve c.o.c.ked his head in perfect innocence and spoke the only French he would ever want to learn: ”Moi?”

Steve gunned the engine and the brain of Professor Theodor Emile Schlozman splattered under spinning rubber like an overripe tomato. Steve smirked as the bike thundered towards...

Fred closed the book. He should have stopped several pages back. The pain behind his eyes had now spread to his forehead and down his neck. Most of the time he could ignore the constant headache. Most of the time it was just a dull pulse. The last few days though, it was getting almost debilitating.

He lay flat on his back, his skin sticking to the smooth granite floor. He rested his head on the oily, crusty rag that had once been his T-s.h.i.+rt and tried to focus on the center of the ceiling. The light fixture above him almost looked like it was on. At this point in the afternoon, sunlight from the small window struck the bulb's prism gla.s.s bowl. Rainbow sparkles, dozens of them, marched beautifully across the cream-colored wallpaper. This was by far his favorite part of the day, and to think he hadn't even noticed it when he first arrived. It's the only thing I'll miss when I get out of here. It's the only thing I'll miss when I get out of here.

And then they were gone. The sun had moved.

He should have thought of that, planned better. If he'd known what time it was going to happen, he could have read up until then. He probably wouldn't have even gotten such a bad headache. He should have worn a watch. Why didn't he wear a watch? Stupid. Stupid. His cell phone always had the time, and date, and... everything. Now his cell phone was dead. How long ago had that happened? His cell phone always had the time, and date, and... everything. Now his cell phone was dead. How long ago had that happened?

Way to be prepared, a.s.shole.

Fred closed his eyes. He tried to ma.s.sage his temples. Bad idea. The first upward motion tore the scabs between skin and fingernail stubs. The pain drew a quick hiss. f.u.c.kin' idiot! f.u.c.kin' idiot! He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. Remember... Remember...

His eyes flicked open. They swept the walls. One hundred seventy-nine One hundred seventy-nine, he counted. he counted. One hundred seventy-eight One hundred seventy-eight. It still worked. One hundred seventy-seven. One hundred seventy-seven.

Counting... recounting, every b.l.o.o.d.y fist print, foot mark, panicked, frantic forehead indentation. One hundred seventy-six. One hundred seventy-six.

This is what happens when you lose it. Do NOT go there again!

It always worked, although it always seemed to take a little bit longer. The last time he'd counted down to forty-one. This time was thirty-nine.

You deserve a drink.

Getting up was painful. His lower back ached. His knees ached. His thighs and calves and ankles burned a little bit. His head swam. That's why he'd given up morning stretches. Dizziness was worse than anything. That first time he'd shot up too quickly; the bruise on his face still throbbed from the fall. This time he thought he'd gotten up slowly enough. Thought wrong, moron. Thought wrong, moron. Fred dropped back to his knees. That was safer. He kept his head turned to the right; from this angle you Fred dropped back to his knees. That was safer. He kept his head turned to the right; from this angle you always always looked to the right! One hand on the rim to steady himself. The other dipped the plastic c.o.ke bottle into the reservoir. The water was only a few degrees colder, but was enough to jolt him back to full consciousness. looked to the right! One hand on the rim to steady himself. The other dipped the plastic c.o.ke bottle into the reservoir. The water was only a few degrees colder, but was enough to jolt him back to full consciousness. I need to drink more, not just for dehydration, but when I start to drift. I need to drink more, not just for dehydration, but when I start to drift.

Four sips. He didn't want to overdo it. The plumbing was still on. For now. Better to conserve though. Better to be smart. His mouth was dry. He tried to swish. Another bad idea. All the pain washed over him at once; the cracks in his lips, the sores on his soft palate, the staff infection at the end of his tongue he'd gotten while unconsciously trying to suck out any last particles of food between his teeth. Lotta f.u.c.kin' good that did. Lotta f.u.c.kin' good that did.

Fred shook his head in disgust. He wasn't thinking. He'd left his eyes open, and that's when he made the biggest mistake of the day. He looked left. His eyes locked on the floor-length mirror.

A sad little weakling stared back at him. Pale skin, matted hair and sunken, bloodshot eyes. He was naked. His janitor uniform didn't fit anymore. His body was living off its own fat.

Loser. No muscle, just fat. No muscle, just fat.

p.u.s.s.y. Hairy skin hung in blotched, deflated rolls. Hairy skin hung in blotched, deflated rolls.

Pathetic piece of s.h.i.+t!

Behind him, on the opposite wall were the other marks he'd made. Day Two, when he'd stopped trying to widen the twelve-by-twelve-inch window with fingernails and teeth. Day Four, when he'd taken his last solid c.r.a.p. Day Five, when he'd stopped screaming for help. Day Eight when he'd tried to eat his leather belt because he'd seen some Pilgrims do it in a movie. It was a nice thick belt, birthday present from- No, don't go there.

Day Thirteen, when the vomiting and diarrhea had ended. What the h.e.l.l was in that leather? Day Seventeen, when he became too weak to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e. And every day, filled with crying and begging, silent deals with G.o.d and whimpering calls for- Don't.

Every day that ended, fittingly, huddled in the fetal position because there wasn't any room to stretch out.

DON'T THINK ABOUT HER!

But of course he did. He thought about her every day. He thought about her every minute. He talked to her in his dreams, and in the no-man's-land between dreams and reality.

She was okay. She had had to be. She knew how to take care of herself. She was still taking care of him, wasn't she? That's why he was still living at home. He needed her, not the other way around. She would be fine. Of course she would. to be. She knew how to take care of herself. She was still taking care of him, wasn't she? That's why he was still living at home. He needed her, not the other way around. She would be fine. Of course she would.

He tried not to think about her, but he always did, and of course, the other thoughts always followed.

Failure! Didn't listen to the warnings! Didn't get out when you could!

Failure! Let yourself get trapped in this little room, not even the whole bathroom, just the closet-sized toilet box, drinking out of the G.o.dd.a.m.n s.h.i.+tter!

Failure! Didn't even have the f.u.c.kin' b.a.l.l.s to break the mirror and do the honorable thing you should have done! And now if they get in, you don't even have the f.u.c.kin' strength!

Failure, FAILURE!

”FAILURE!”

He'd said that out loud. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k.

The loud thumping against the door sent him crumpling against the far corner. There were more of them; he could hear their moans echoing back down the hall. They matched those coming from the street below. They'd looked like an ocean down there, the last time he'd stood on the toilet to look. Nine floors down they roiled like a solid ma.s.s, stretching almost out of sight. The hotel must be entirely infested now, every floor, every room. The first week he'd heard shuffling through the ceiling above him. The first night, he'd heard the screams.

At least they didn't understand how to open a pocket door. He'd been lucky there: If it had been the kind of door that swung instead of slid shut; if the wood had been hollow instead of solid; if they'd been smart enough to figure out how to open it; if the doorway had been in the back of the outer bathroom, instead of off to the side...

The more the ones in the bedroom pushed, the more they pinned others in the bathroom helplessly against the rear wall. If it had been a straight line, their collective weight, their sheer numbers...

He was safe. They couldn't get in, no matter how much they clawed and struggled and moaned... and moaned. moaned. The toilet paper in his ears wasn't working as well anymore. Too much wax, too much oil had flattened them against the sides of the ca.n.a.ls. If only he'd saved some more, and not tried to eat it. The toilet paper in his ears wasn't working as well anymore. Too much wax, too much oil had flattened them against the sides of the ca.n.a.ls. If only he'd saved some more, and not tried to eat it.

Maybe its not the worst thing. He rea.s.sured himself, again. He rea.s.sured himself, again. When a rescue comes, you need to hear the chopper. When a rescue comes, you need to hear the chopper.

It was better this way. When the moans got too bad, Fred reached for the book, one more bit of good luck he'd found by running in here. When he got out of here, he'd have to track down the original owner, somehow, and thank him for forgetting it next to the toilet. ”Dude, it totally kept me sane all that time!” he'd say. Well, maybe not quite like that. He'd rehea.r.s.ed at least a hundred more eloquent speeches, all delivered over a couple of cool ones, or probably more likely a couple of MREs. That's what they'd been called on page 238: ”Meals Ready to Eat.” Did they really make them with chemical cookers right in the packaging? He'd have to go back and reread that part again. Tomorrow, though. Page 361 was his favorite; 361 to 379.

It was getting dark. He'd stop this time before his head hurt too much. Then maybe a few sips of water, and he'd make it an early night. Fred's thumb found the dog-eared page.

”There's too many of them!” Naomi shrieked, the sound perfectly matching the skidding of the motorcycle's tires.

The Rapeworm By Charles Coleman Finlay

Charles Coleman Finlay is the author of the novels The Prodigal Troll The Prodigal Troll, The Patriot Witch The Patriot Witch, A Spell for the Revolution A Spell for the Revolution, and The Demon Redcoat The Demon Redcoat. Finlay's short fiction-most of which appears in his collection, Wild Things Wild Things-has been published in several magazines, such as The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Strange Horizons Strange Horizons, and Black Gate Black Gate, and in anthologies, such as The Best of All Flesh The Best of All Flesh and my own and my own By Blood We Live By Blood We Live. He has twice been a finalist for the Hugo and Nebula awards, and has also been nominated for the Campbell Award for Best New Writer, the Sidewise Award, and the Theodore Sturgeon Award.

<script>