Year's End: 14 Tales of Holiday Horror (12 page)

It was not to be. Fully two blocks shy of his destination, Rob tripped, landing into the muscle-bound man.

“What the hell?” the guy yelled, pushing Rob off of him. Rob landed flat on his back, with people milling around him, stopping just long enough to stare—just long enough to point out his position.

“I’m sorry,” Rob said, scrambling up, trying to duck back into the crowd. But his assailant wasn’t done with him. He grabbed him by the shoulder and whipped him around.

“You tryin’ to cop a feel or somethin’?!”

“I’m sorry. I just tripped.” Rob tried to argue, but the guy wasn’t hearing it. He pulled back his arm to take a swing.

“Well, that’s one way to get to the first aid station,” Rob thought. He closed his eyes, anticipating the pain of a clenched fist. But it never came. Instead, the hand on his shoulder suddenly released, throwing him off balance and back onto the street.

Rob opened his eyes, to see the bodybuilder on the street just four feet away. He was convulsing uncontrollably, and there was a small spatter of blood spreading across his shirt.

Had he been shot? Rob wasn’t really familiar with guns, but he had seen enough TV violence to think that a gunshot should probably be a lot bloodier than the slowly spreading crimson stain that covered about a 3-inch circle in the center of his chest.

While he was staring, wondering what was actually going on, something hit the street a few feet from his hand.

Whatever it was, it hit hard. But when he looked closely, he didn’t see anything except what looked like glass shards.

Another hit, this one much closer. Now Rob could smell a distinct, chemical smell.

Glass bullets? Maybe darts? Rob looked over at the man across from him. He wasn’t convulsing now. He wasn’t doing anything.

Rob got up and ran.

He might have been feeling paranoid earlier, but there’s nothing like watching somebody die right in front of you to throw a heaping dose of reality into your fears. Rob kept thinking about Andy, meeting up with him in just another 45 minutes. No time at all, really—unless someone is trying to kill you.

There was a cop standing just 50 feet away, at the corner of 7
th
and Angel Oliva Sr. street. If Rob could get to him, he could help.

Or take a glass bullet like the dead bodybuilder a block behind him.

Rob was only one block away from 17
th
street, then he just had to cut up one block to get to Centro Ybor. He could run up to the cop, or continue to work his way up. He knew he had to choose fast, and he had to choose right. A wrong decision could get him killed, and maybe an innocent police officer along with him.

“Hey, watch it!” somebody screamed from off to his left. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon thing to hear in a crowd like this, but it made Rob turn toward it, anyway.

That’s when he saw him. The man stood a head higher than just about anyone else, his features were tight and focused, his hair was so closely cropped he was practically bald, but what was most distinctive about him was the way his eyes were set upon Rob’s position.

Steadily, he moved toward Rob, pushing people out of the way if they didn’t move quickly enough.

Contract Fulfillment. That’s what Doctor Gellingham had called it. At the time, Rob had pictured a lawyer.

This was not a lawyer. But there was no question in Rob’s mind that this was the man Gellingham had sent. This was the man who would take care of his contract fulfillment.

And that was the way of it. Rob understood, in one horrifyingly clear moment. He had been paid a large sum of money for his body. Once he was dead, his body belonged to The Best Days Group. This was the man who would make certain it became available.

Rob started to head toward the cop. With his pursuer amongst the crowd, he wasn’t as concerned about the man taking a shot at him. He still wasn’t certain what he would say to the cop, exactly, but Rob didn’t care if the officer thought he was crazy, as long as he took him somewhere safe.

Not seconds after making that decision, however, it ceased to be an option. When Rob forced his gaze away from his would-be assassin, he saw the cop was talking with someone. That someone was Dr. Gellingham.

Going to the cop was out, but it also meant that Rob’s direct path to Centro Ybor was out of the question, as well. No doubt the good doctor was feeding the cop a tall story that would guarantee Rob landed right where he wanted him. So, if he went anywhere near the corner where that cop was standing, he was a dead man.

That presented a problem. Scary guy was behind him, blocking him in.

Rob was feeling the first tinges of panic start to break through his resolve. If he didn’t act soon, he would be done.

He looked around. There was an alleyway, but on the wrong side of the street. He would have to cross closer to the guy chasing him, and it would only take him further from Centro Ybor. Over on the other side of the street, there were two bar entrances, a dress shop that was closed for the evening, and a stairway leading up to an apartment.

Rob figured the apartment would be his best bet. If someone was home, he might be able to talk his way in. If not, he could just break in. Once inside, it was a quick hop to the fire escape, and a dash to Centro Ybor. It was perfect, except for the fact that somebody big, scary, and terrifying was pushing toward him, and had his eye on Rob’s every move.

Rob didn’t have any kind of weapon. He didn’t have any special training. All he had were his steadily dwindling wits, and the wad of cash he had in his wallet so he could party steady all night without pulling out a credit card.

It dawned on him, then. Money did have a lot of uses.

Rob pulled every dollar he had out of his wallet, held the bills high above his head, and yelled for all he was worth:

“Happy New Year!”

And with that, he tossed the whole enchilada into the crowd in front of scary guy. The maddening herd of people formed a writhing, seething knot of greed, right where Rob’s attacker was standing.

As the mob hit its peak, Rob took his opportunity to dash to the stairway. He didn’t look back, trusting to the mob to keep his killer occupied, blind, and incapable of following.

At the top of the stairway, there were three doors. He chose the one furthest from the front of the building, hoping it didn’t do some weird turn and lead away from the back, where the fire escape—and his freedom—lay waiting.

He knocked, and waited just long enough to be satisfied that nobody was home, then kicked the door like they do in those cop shows.

Apparently, cop show doors were made of different stuff than the one in front of Rob. It took him four solid kicks to break it open. With each thunderous pound, he was certain some curious neighbor would pop their head out and challenge his right to break and enter. But, when the door finally gave, he entered unchallenged.

As he had hoped, the apartment led straight back to a casement window, a small steel grate patio, and a fire escape. He twisted his ankle when he hit the ground, but he barely noticed. Within 60 seconds, Rob was rushing down the back alley. If he hurried, he might make it to safety and actually survive the night.

Rob emerged onto 8
th
Avenue, where the crowds were considerably thinner. Looking to his left, he could see the lights of Centro Ybor. His goal was close enough to see, but until Rob was standing in front of the first aid station, and was able to borrow a phone to call Andy, he wouldn’t consider himself safe. He started hop-running, hoping that an unforeseen set of eyes wasn’t upon him.

When he hit 17
th
Street, just a block from the Centro Ybor courtyard, he looked back toward 7
th
Avenue, briefly, to see if he was drawing any attention. Three men, along with scary guy, caught his face and started heading toward him. They were all in black riot gear and had the word “security” printed across their backs. Rob almost laughed at the irony. At a time like this, in a place like this, you couldn’t ask for a better license to hunt somebody down. Hell, you could even carry a gun and nobody would question it.

Rob forgot about the pain in his ankle and ran. Those men still had to hustle through the crowd to reach him, and Rob did have a sizeable lead.

It was a race, just like Rob used to run when he was in track and field at Chamberlain High School. The only difference was that there was no second place trophy. Rob either crossed the finish line first, or he was dead.

Rob was halfway across when they hit the intersection at 8
th
and 17
th
, but instead of giving chase, they just drew their weapons. Rob risked a look back to see one of them pull a wicked looking dart gun, and ducked to the right as he fired.

He saw the glass dart impact and shatter just a little ahead of him.

He didn’t want to think about what was in them. Probably one of those weird chemical cocktails that was so hard to trace that the M.E. would just assume the victim had died of a heart attack, and the cuts and glass on the body were the result of the crowds of drink-toting partiers swarming all over Ybor.

But, the means and tactics of his hunters wasn’t really Rob’s top concern at the moment. He pushed all but one thought out of his head. As he ran, he only thought of staying alive, long enough to get to the courtyard. The courtyard was safe.

Without realizing it, Rob was actually repeating those words to himself as he ran:

“The courtyard is safe. The courtyard is safe. The courtyard is safe.”

Purely on instinct, Rob dove to the left, and practically felt the wind parting as another glass dart whistled past his ear.

And then, just like that, he was breaking into another crowd of people as he emerged into the Centro Ybor courtyard. The first aid station, the source of all his current hopes, was a mere ten yards in front of him.

He limped toward it, his ankle throbbing mercilessly, and sank into a folding chair.

“Are you okay, sir?” asked the cute girl manning the booth. She couldn’t be more than 19—probably a nursing student. But, at that moment, she was the person who represented Rob’s protection and security. She might as well have been a Green Beret, for all Rob was concerned.

“Can I borrow your phone” Rob asked.

She looked confused, and a little apprehensive, but when her eyes landed on his gravely swollen foot, they went wide.

“Oh, my God! Let’s get you over here to a stretcher!” she insisted, practically leaping across to help him.

“Sure, thanks. But, about that phone?” Rob repeated.

“Sure, sure. Let’s just get that foot taken care of, first.”

Rob nodded, slowly. If she wanted to play nurse, first, he wouldn’t argue. It might even be fun.

“Just lie here,” she told him, directing him toward the promised stretcher. She reached into a cooler behind the table and pulled out an ice pack, placing it on his ankle.

“Thanks,” Rob told her, suddenly feeling very tired.

The girl had slipped off his shoe, and was working on his ankle. Rob let her. He was looking around him, searching for his pursuers. So far there was no sign of them.

As he looked, he spotted a familiar face. With a sense of relief he had not felt since Doctor Gellingham called him, he laid eyes on the face of his friend, Andy Meering.

“Andy!” he called, waving his arm to catch his attention.

Only, his hand didn’t move so well. And, he couldn’t quite form his friend’s name very well. Confused, he looked back to the girl working on his foot to ask a question. But she wasn’t there.

When did she put an IV in his leg? And, for that matter, why? Rob wasn’t an expert on first aid, but it seemed a bit like overkill.

Rob was suddenly having a hard time focusing.

“Why?” he tried to ask. Things were getting blurry.

He tried to look back over to where Andy had been walking, but he couldn’t see anything. Somebody had pulled a curtain, blocking his view of the crowd. Blocking the crowd’s view of him.

All Rob could see, on the back of the curtain, was one of the banners that identified the first aid station.

Rob read, and suddenly felt terrified:

First Aid Station—Sponsored by Rising Dawn Technologies.

Rising Dawn Technologies! The sister organization to The Best Days Group.

“Relax, Mr. Carlisle,” announced a soothing, articulate voice. “Everything is just as it should be.”

Rob saw Doctor Gellingham for a second, standing over him. Then, he saw nothing at all.

Mixology

Betsy Miller

It’s New Year’s Eve in a city where Nancy hasn’t lived very long. She graduated from college last June and moved when she found a job. Maybe she moved to D.C., or New York, or L.A., or San Francisco. It doesn’t matter. She was glad to get the job because jobs are scarce, but now that she has it she’s dissatisfied and yearns for something more. Nancy’s at a party. Chloe from work invited her, and she didn’t have anywhere else to go—didn’t want to go home to her family for the holidays. Such a relief to escape from the well-intentioned but smothering press of intimacy, of familiarity that comes from people she’s always known.

So here we have Nancy, a contemporary girl with something of an old-fashioned name, at a swanky party in a fancy house with a few people she knows slightly from work, and other than that she doesn’t know a soul in the place. Nancy’s wearing a little black dress—the slinky kind that only seems appropriate for New Year’s Eve parties, and never goes out of style. It’s cut with a low V-neck that Nancy can pull off because she’s built slim, with discreet breasts that cooperate and stay out of the middle of the v. She has great legs and knows it.

Nancy caught a ride to the party with her work friends. She’s lost track of two of them, but spots Chloe across the room standing very close to a good looking guy who needs a shave. He looks rumpled and disreputable and hot as hell. Nancy is annoyed that Chloe found him first. Nancy works her way through the crowd to the bar to console herself and scope out the action. Maybe hot-as-hell guy has a friend, or maybe she’ll spot a hot girl, or maybe she’ll coast along with the crowd. Anonymous parties like this are the best because no one knows who you are and you can skate on the edge of expectations without giving anything away.