Mr. Burke was nowhere to be seen.
I let them load me into the ambulance.
As we sped down the freeway, the paramedic gave me the news. Helen, Theresa, and Kyle were all being rushed to the nearest hospital. They were all alive.
Roger was also in an ambulance on his way to the same hospital.
"Will she be okay?" I asked, looking over at Samantha.
The paramedic nodded. "She'll live. But what on earth happened to you people?"
I didn't answer.
ROGER GOT RELEASED first, and his job was to bring us huge amounts of fast food instead of the crap they had available at the hospital.
Samantha regained consciousness in the middle of the second night. I got the news while I was sitting in Theresa's room, staring at my daughter, hating myself.
Kyle sat in the room with me, his arm bandaged up. "She's going to wake up," he said, knowingly.
"Yes, she will."
He scooted his chair closer to mine. "I know you didn't mean to do it. I know they gave you drugs."
"You're right," I said. "They did."
"I'm never, ever, ever going to use drugs."
I managed a smile. "Good for you, kiddo."
He looked at me, his expression solemn. "Daddy, if you want to cry, it's okay. I promise I won't tell anybody."
I held him tight and did just that.
Theresa regained consciousness three days later and couldn't remember anything that happened.
MR. BURKE GOT AWAY. He must have hitchhiked or stolen a car at gunpoint, but as I write this the police still haven't caught him. Personally, I hope right now he's making cyborgs in hell.
WITCH WAS FOUND sitting on the side of the road, muttering incoherently to herself. The last I heard, she still hadn't spoken to anybody at the psychiatric ward.
MOST OF THE corpses were identified by their dental records, at least those who still had teeth. They'd been missing over a period of three years.
Roger had ridden to safety on a man named Herschel Eberhardt, whose family issued a statement saying how proud they were that Herschel had saved a life six months after his death.
SAMANTHA WOULDN'T TELL us exactly what Troll did to her behind the closed door in the lab, but of course the doctors told us about her injuries. You don't want to know. Trust me.
THE DOCTORS ADMITTED there wasn't much they could do to reattach a finger that had been flushed down the toilet. I kept trying to encourage a cool nickname like "Nine-Finger Mayhem," but nobody embraced that idea.
JOE WAS PERFECTLY fine.
A FEW DAYS LATER, Samantha and Theresa were transferred to Chamber Memorial Hospital. Two weeks after the whole ordeal began, we had a huge "Welcome Home!" party for Theresa, which included balloons, cake, pug tricks, and fun for the entire family.
Helen stroked my arm tenderly as we sat on the couch, watching Theresa and Kyle fight over who loved Joe the most. I'd apologized to her approximately 1,837,612 times for what I'd done, and after a couple of days she seemed convinced I wouldn't have a relapse.
That night, we lay in bed, sweaty from our lovemaking. It was the first time we'd had sex since before the vacation, and though we were forced to be extremely careful because of our injuries, it had been a wonderfully pleasant experience, even with that stupid pug scraping on the door the entire time.
"I love you so much," she whispered. "I don't want to ever lose you."
"You won't." I kissed her gently on the lips. "I promise."
Theresa screamed.
I threw on a bathrobe and we rushed into her bedroom. Theresa was sitting up in bed, sobbing.
"What's the matter, sweetie? What's wrong?" asked Helen.
"Daddy! Daddy's trying to kill me!"
I LAY ON ROGER'S couch, unable to get comfortable. His couch sucked. Quite frankly, his apartment sucked, too. He needed to just move in with Samantha already. She had a much nicer place.
His cat, Reverse Snowflake, jumped up onto my chest and began to lick my face. "Your cat has very foul breath," I informed Roger as he walked into the living room.
"That's only because he pukes a lot."
I sat up and Roger sat down on the couch next to me. "What time is it?" I asked.
"Middle of the night."
"That's what I figured."
"Samantha told me all about what happened in the back of the semi."
"You mean when I took off my pants?"
"No, when you wouldn't leave without her."
"Oh, that. I was drunk."
"It means a lot to me. I'm serious."
"You would've done the same for Helen."
"Yeah, I probably would have. So I guess we're even." He grinned. "Anyway, thanks for getting her out of there."
"No problem."
"So is it okay if she hangs out with us at the Java Joint next Wednesday?"
"Sure."
"I'm kidding, Andrew."
"Oh. Good."
"Get some sleep."
"I will."
I lay back down and closed my eyes. I still couldn't sleep, so I pushed the cat away, got up, found a notebook, and started writing.
And now I'm just about done.
It felt good to write this all down, but I'm not sure I want anybody to read it, except for Helen, who filled in some of the gaps.
I'm going to lock it away with instructions not to publish it until after I'm dead.
Or maybe I'll publish it after I get a happier ending.
So if you're reading these words… well, let's pretend it's the latter. I'm feeling optimistic.
Epilogue
HELEN AND I GAZED at the sonogram monitor, which featured bizarre shapes that looked like nothing identifiable as a human or even alien child. The sight brought tears to our eyes anyway.
She'd taken a beating, but she hadn't lost the baby. She was one strong mother and she was going to have one strong kid.
"Is it a boy or girl?" Helen asked.
The doctor smiled. "Both."
My eyes widened. "Oh my God! The kid's a hermaphrodite?"
Helen laughed and playfully swatted my arm. "No, you goof. He means we're having twins." The realization of that fact sunk in and her voice became somewhat less chipper. "Twins."
"Actually, no," said the doctor. "Triplets."
Helen swatted my arm again. This time it wasn't quite as playful.
Jeff Strand
Jeff Strand grew up in Alaska, where his parents insist that he had a normal childhood, no matter what you might think after reading his novels. His outrageously warped books include Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary), Single White Psychopath Seeks Same, How to Rescue a Dead Princess, Elrod McBugle on the Loose, and Out of Whack.
He's a past President of the Electronically Published Internet Connection, an international organization of professional authors, which he rules with an iron fist and a wooden paddle. He's also "host for life" of the annual EPPIES awards banquet, which gives him the opportunity to act goofy in front of a large audience and wear a tuxedo, not necessarily in that order.
Jeff lives in Tampa, Florida with one wife and one mentally questionable cat. In his day job he's a remittance processing analyst, which is even more exciting than it sounds.
