She glanced down at the sidewalks, expecting to see the usual groups of college students coming and going, chatting aimlessly or buried in their smartphones. College students with social lives were the bane of her existence, a reminder that she should be out there, not in here with her face buried in her books. Tracy would be the first person to tell her that. Where was Tracy, anyway?
But there was no one down there at the moment. There were cars parked along the curbs as usual, but the streets were silent and empty. After ten on a Friday night. The very idea was absurd.
Where was everyone?
She let the curtains fall and crossed back to her desk. The walk seemed to take days, another side effect of her ten-hour ‘nap’.
Never again…
Riiiiiight.
She was halfway to her desk when she heard loud pounding from the living room. Like hammers raining long, rusted nails into her skull. She winced at the very idea and stood still, hoping the noise might go away if she ignored it.
It didn’t.
Lara hurried outside her bedroom, crossing the small living room space to the front door as the pounding got louder and faster.
Wait.
She began to slow down as her brain finally caught up with her legs.
It wasn’t Tracy. It couldn’t be. Her roommate had a key. And even if she had somehow lost it — not a stretch, as Tracy was already on her third copy — she wouldn’t be pounding on the door like that. Tracy was five-two and 100 pounds soaking wet. She couldn’t have generated that kind of force even if she threw her entire body into the door, which she wouldn’t do, even when drunk. Tracy buzzed when she drank, she didn’t bang.
And whoever was out there now was banging.
Lara slipped behind the window next to the door, pulled back the curtains, and peeked out to the right.
A man stood outside, knocking furiously on the door. Even from a side profile, with most of his body and face hidden from the lights that dotted the second floor walkway, she didn’t recognize him. He was tall, with wild, spiked hair, and he wore baggy cargo pants with a white T-shirt.
He suddenly looked over in her direction, and Lara quickly let the curtain drop from her fingers and stepped back.
Had he seen her? Probably not. She was safe.
The knocking at the door stopped abruptly and she breathed a sigh of relief. It didn’t last very long.
The knocking resumed — this time at the window.
Slick, Lara. Real slick.
She heard his voice, and it was impossible not to notice the desperation in it: “Open the door! Come on, I saw you. Open the fucking door!” As if he realized that approach wasn’t going to work, he suddenly shifted gears, and his voice got lower, softer, and less deranged: “Please, open the door. There are things out here, I need to get inside. You don’t understand, there are things out here!”
Lara didn’t answer. Maybe if she stayed perfectly quiet…
“I know you’re in there!” He was shouting again, the desperation back in his voice. “I saw you at the window! Please, open the door. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just need to get inside. There are things out here, dangerous things. You have to let me in!”
He began pounding on the windowpane again, and Lara wondered how long before he actually punched his way through. She could tell he was big from the quick glimpse she had gotten — at least six feet tall — and it wouldn’t take much for him to break his way in. She had seen the aftermath of home invasions, and the idea of becoming another victim made her almost angry.
“I’m calling the police!” she shouted, trying to put as much courage into her voice as she could. She didn’t think it sounded all that convincing, but maybe it was enough.
“No, please, just open the door!” he shouted back. “You have to let me in! Please!”
Like hell I do.
She hurried across the living room to the cordless phone, picked it up, and dialed 9-1-1, keeping one eye on the window the whole time. She could see the man’s tall, silhouetted figure through the curtains.
“I’m calling the police now!”
He stopped pounding with her finger poised to push the final 1. For some reason, she didn’t go through with it. Maybe it was his voice — it sounded weaker than before, almost as if he had surrendered.
“Please, please, don’t call them. You don’t understand. I’ve been knocking on every door on this floor, and you’re the first one to even look out the window. I think everyone’s dead. Something’s happening. It’s all over the city. Please, I need to get out of the night. Please, can you hear me in there? You don’t understand, it’s bad out here, it’s bad…”
It’s a trick. Don’t be an idiot.
“I’m sorry,” she said, so softly that she wasn’t sure he had even heard, and pressed the final 1.
“No, no, please…”
The phone rang on the other end of the line, and as soon as she heard the call connecting, Lara said into the phone, “Hello, I’m at home—”
But she stopped when she realized the voice on the other end was a recorded message and it was talking over her:
“You have reached 9-1-1. We are currently experiencing a high volume of calls. If this is an emergency, please remain on the line.”
Sudden panic and indecision filled her. What now? She waited absently for something, some kind of direction from the computerized voice, maybe a beep to leave a message.
Something.
Instead, the recorded voice simply repeated itself: “You have reached 9-1-1. We are currently experiencing a high volume of calls. If this is an emergency, please remain on the line.”
Behind her, the man was still talking, his voice even lower now, more desperate if that was possible: “Please, please, you don’t understand, it’s happening everywhere, there are things out here… Please, for God’s sake, open the door. I’m begging you. God, I think I can hear them coming… Please. Please…”
He stopped talking, and there was only silence.
His silhouette had also disappeared.
Where did he go?
Lara took one step toward the door. “Hello? Are you still out there? You should know I already called the police. They’re coming any minute now.” She stopped and listened. “You better go before it’s too late!”
She waited for a response. Or at least sounds of fleeing footsteps.
There was silence.
The phone in her hand was still repeating the same computerized message.
Lara walked to the window. She took a second to make sure the door locks were still in place and the chain was still in its slot. Then she leaned toward the window, took hold of the curtain with two pinched fingers, and pulled it to the left, enough to look out without making it too obvious. She expected the man to suddenly lunge against the glass, the way masked killers did in horror movies.
It didn’t happen, and for a moment she felt almost disappointed.
She could only see the second floor walkway, with its metal guardrail seven feet away and a quiet Holman Street beyond that.
It’s so quiet. Where is everyone?
Then she heard it. It was a soft noise, but against the eerily quiet night, it stood out — an anomaly that demanded her attention. It sounded like slurping, like someone drinking.