“The zombie, the water rushing in…”
“That’s primal terror,” Story said, as if he had invented the concept. Sitterson thought he was being a dick; he hadn’t come up with the whole scenario on his own, after all. In fact Sitterson himself had created the van-in-the-lake idea years ago, during his own time in Story
But for now, he’d let the dick have his glory.
“Woulda been cooler with a merman,” Hadley said, sounding almost wistful. He smiled at Sitterson, who laughed softly and shook his head as he strolled away.
Nodding to some people, shaking the hands of others, he edged his way toward one of their military liaisons, a big major with a clichéd moustache and hands the size of small dogs. He was talking with a werewolf wrangler—redundant during this show, unfortunately, but Sitterson had seen his sterling work before—and Ronald the intern.
From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Virgin being pummeled by the zombie. It doesn’t matter, he thought. It would be over soon. Nonetheless, he wished regulations allowed him to turn off the screens.
“Do you know if we made the overtime bonus on this one?” the liaison asked.
“Accounting’s right over there,” the wrangler said. “Ask them.”
“I don’t need to ask them,” the major said, “I already know the answer.”
“‘We’re accountants, and we’re full of hate?’” the wrangler mimicked.
“Exactly,” the major said, and he smiled.
His moustache’s alive, Sitterson thought, amazed. It must have a life of its own. It flexed and twitched while the soldier seemed utterly motionless.
“I’m an intern,” Ronald said sadly. “I don’t qualify for overtime.”
“No big deal, Ronald,” Sitterson said. The major looked at him respectfully—moustache almost saluting—and the werewolf guy nodded a greeting. “No big deal?” Ronald asked.
“Sure. We’ve all been noticed today. You can take that to the bank.” Sitterson walked away smiling. Today had been stressful, but the outcome was good for all of them.
As he walked past a fellow from Chem, Sitterson chuckled at the guy’s efforts to get into his pretty coworker’s pants.
“Don’t worry about my eyes,” he was saying. “That’s why we have eye washes, right? And they say baking soda is good for your complexion. Anyway… it’s funny that you like the ballet, because I happened to get two tickets to… ”
The pretty woman just turned and walked away. “…your favorite…”
His voice trailed off, he looked around, embarrassed, and Sitterson made a point of pausing and smiling in his direction. The Chem guy rubbed his eyes and wandered away toward the drinks table.
And then Sitterson saw the Demolition team standing by one of the control desks. They were laughing too loudly, the desk was scattered with empty bottles, and he saw something a little too self-congratulatory about the way they slapped each other’s backs and hugged.
He downed the rest of his tequila, smacked his lips, and sauntered over to them.
“You!” he called. “Yoouuuu! Knuckleheads almost gave me a heart attack with that tunnel!”
“That wasn’t our fault,” one of them answered, and it was the guy he’d dealt with in the Demolition control room. The woman was there, too, pouting a little now as she half-hid behind her wine glass.
“I’m just giving you a hard time,” Sitterson said. He raised an eyebrow at the woman. “C’mere you, let’s have a hug.”
She snorted, glanced around at the others, and finished her full glass in one long swig. He could see that she was already drunk, glassy-eyed, and unsteady on her feet.
“No,” the guy said. “Seriously. That wasn’t on us.” Something about his voice hit home a little too hard. Sitterson was enjoying ragging on them, but—
“There was an unauthorized power re-route from upstairs,” the woman said, blinking in surprise at her empty glass.
Sitterson frowned. Then he went cold.
“What do you mean, upstairs?”
And then a shrill, loud, ringing sound shattered the atmosphere of the place, all within a split second. They all knew what it was, though they had never heard it for real. Perhaps it haunted some of their dreams, and played the theme of their nightmares. Sitterson closed his eyes, trying to hold onto that air of success for just one more second, and then looked at the phone.
It was a single telephone, sitting in an alcove at the back of Control, close to where the mahogany covers had shielded the levers and their apparatus from view. Red, an old-fashioned analogue phone with a silver metal dial, its shrill ringing came from a bell within the solid plastic casing.
The alcove echoed its call, and between each of the rings the jaunty lilt of dance music still filled the room.
Sitterson locked eyes with Hadley. They both saw each other’s fear. And then Hadley walked quickly across the room to answer the call.
“Turn that fucking music off!” he snapped. As his hand rested on the receiver the music snapped off.
He took a deep breath and picked it up.
We could run, Sitterson thought. But of course that was an utterly stupid idea. If something they’d begun was not yet finished, it was their duty to ensure that it was put right.
And there would be nowhere to run.
“Hello,” Hadley said. All eyes on him. He listened for a few seconds. Then, “That’s impossible! Everything was within guidelines and the Virgin is the only—” He winced. “No, no, of course I’m not doubting you. It’s just—”
Hadley’s face fell and he looked over the heads of the assembled observers, back at the large viewing screens.
What are we going to see? Sitterson wondered. The drink in his hand felt warm and sickly, and he noticed others putting down their bottles and plastic cups. Maybe they all sensed the work they still had left to do.
And then Hadley said something which Sitterson had guessed anyway, and there was no longer cause for celebration.
“Which one?”
He turned to follow his friend’s gaze.
Suddenly he was rooting for the Virgin like never before.
She jumped aside one more time as Matthew swung the broken bear trap. It was easy enough to dodge— however hard he swung it, she had at least a second to judge its passage and eventual impact point—but doing so was rapidly tiring her out. And each time she concentrated on the swinging trap, Matthew’s other hand lashed out and caught her across the shoulder, chest, cheek.
Several times now she’d almost backed up and jumped into the lake again, but she knew if she did that she’d die for sure. If she didn’t drown from exhaustion, Father Buckner would grab her and haul her down. He was still below the surface, she knew. Still down there somewhere, stalking the lake bottom, looking up, perhaps even seeing the blurry starlit struggle on the wooden dock. He was waiting.
She ducked to one side and felt the trap whoosh down past her ear. It snagged her jeans and tore them, scoring a cut on her ankle before embedding itself in the dock. She tried to jump sideways to avoid the zombie’s other hand, but it caught her across the nose this time, sending a flash of bloody hot pain through her head. Her vision swam, her whole face caught fire, and it was all she could do to retain her footing on the shattered, splintered dock.
Dana couldn’t run past him because he was too big. She couldn’t fight him because she had no weapons— besides, the crowbar through his face proved that fighting wasn’t even an issue. And there was nowhere else to go.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you, she thought, part of it directed at the zombie but most at the unseen puppeteers she was convinced were steering him. Whether or not they watched her now, she was determined not to give them the satisfaction.