Death Alarm Page 3

  Oh god, oh god, oh god.

  Jeremy backs his clunky air bottle through the living room and back out onto the porch as the house creaks and crackles. He turns for help. The man from the driveway meets him on the porch, which scares the shit out of him.

  Jeremy rips off his mask. "We gotta get help. My captain's in there."

  "I know," the man says with a creepy, toothless grin. "Sorry ’bout dat." The man steps forward, crowding Jeremy back toward the door.

  A chill runs up the back of Jeremy's neck as he senses someone standing behind him.

  "Cap?" he whispers.

  The voice that returns from the smoke isn't the gruffness of the captain's, but the delicateness of a scared child.

  "Help usss," the voice cries.

  Jeremy looks past the grinning homeowner to the engine where the chauffeur lies motionless on the ground beside one of the wheels.

  Oh my Go…

  The stranger tilts his head, growls, and then lunges, pushing Jeremy through the doorway. He pulls the door closed behind him. Jeremy chokes and gags on razorblades as he inhales a lungful of smoke. He tries to scream, but a terrible pain explodes from his gut.

  The stranger whispers into his ear, "I best be goin' now. Thanks for the fun." He coughs and Jeremy hears the door open and close.

  Sirens wail from the distance and Jeremy prays they'll reach him in time. He holds his gut as every movement sends ripping pain throughout his body.

  The sirens get louder. He's got a chance, if he can just get to the door. He coughs and gags and ignores the pain as he rolls to his chest. Each agonizing pull toward the door fills him with more smoke and more pain. He holds his breath and reaches again, touching the door with his gloved hand. Almost there. Just a bit farther. He strains and pulls himself toward the handle.

  He touches it. He's going to make it. He turns the handle.

  The floor shifts below his knees. He looks down. Oh no.

  The floor, with him on it, gives way and crashes into the inferno that is the basement. He gasps, filling his lungs with superheated air, and it is the last breath he ever takes.

  He sees an angel in the flames. She is beautiful.

  END

  JANITOR

  By Douglas R. Brown

  "If you are physically sick, you can elicit the interest of a battery of physicians; but if you are mentally sick, you are lucky if the janitor comes around." ~Martin H. Fischer

  NIGHT ONE

  "The keys are on the desk, Jeb. Have a good night and I'll see ya tomorrow."

  Jeb nodded at the always friendly security guard, Bill, without looking up from his mop bucket.

  Bill hesitated and asked, "You alright today, buddy?"

  "Um-hm." Jeb dunked his mop into the sudsy water without looking up from the floor.

  "You ain't been acting yourself lately. You sure you're alright?"

  "I'm sure." He squeezed the bucket handle tight against the mop, draining the milky water.

  "OK." Bill, or Duck Bill as Jeb liked to call him under his breath, slipped past the flickering red exit sign and locked the aluminum-cased front door behind him. Jeb had secret nicknames for everyone he met. Like the girl at Starbucks, Mocha Mama. Or the police officers who waved at him while he drove his VW Bug to work three days ago--he called them the Blue Man Group.

  Once again Duck Bill was gone and Jeb was alone in the cold, dank factory with only his iPod to keep him company. Though he could have up to 20,000 songs on his device, he was content with a single hour's worth. After all, why have thousands of songs when the 16 he had were enough?

  He looked at his watch. 11:07.

  Perfect, he thought and pressed play.

  The first song excited him, just like it did every time he heard it. Johnny Cash couldn't be beat.

  "Well, you wonder why I always dress in black. Why you never see bright colors on my back." Jeb sang along with Mr. Cash without missing a word. "And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone. Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on."

  Jeb swooshed his mop side-to-side on the rough entranceway linoleum. "I don't know why I wash these floors," he mumbled. "They still look like shit when I'm done." Johnny continued singing about being the man in black while Jeb dragged his yellow mop bucket through the double doors and into the bathroom hallway. One of the bucket's wheels stuck and splashed the filthy water onto his pant leg.

  He knocked on the ladies' room door first. No one answered, but then again, no one ever did. He cracked the door and said, "Hello?" just to be on the safe side.

  Mick Jagger screamed, "Angie" into his ears which told him he was right on schedule. He finished the linoleum office floors at 1:29 a.m. and then scuttled to the breakroom and the snack machine for his 1:30 oatmeal cream pie.

  "Ummmm," he groaned and slipped his 55 cents into the machine. He savored his first delicious bite.

  As he bit down on his second bite something clattered outside of the breakroom door. He flinched and froze, not moving for all of "Beth" by Kiss and part way into "Sweet Home Alabama," before finding the courage to investigate. After a mental pep talk, he decided to take action. He set his cream pie on the edge of the dirty table and tiptoed to the door.

  "Is someone there?" he asked with a wobbly voice, hoping once again no one would answer. He tugged one of his earpieces from his canal and turned the door handle as quietly as he could. The door seemed to weigh a ton.

  He took a deep breath, held it, and leaped into the hallway. He landed in some kind of made-up kung-fu stance. He wasn't sure what he would do if someone was actually there, but he knew he would do something.

  His mop bucket lay overturned in the middle of the hall; the stupid broken wheel spinning like it was brand new. The hallway was as quiet as a mausoleum. One of the overhead fluorescent lights flickered as if possessed and he cursed it under his breath. I'll never keep on schedule if I have to change that damn bulb.

  He righted his mop bucket and picked up his mop. The water set like a series of small shallow ponds in the lowest parts of the warped, half-rotted floors, and he spent the next ten minutes cleaning up his mess. The Statler Brothers sang about flowers on their walls, telling him he was way behind.

  NIGHT TWO

  "Good night, Jeb."

  "Hey, Bill. Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Have you ever seen anyone in here who shouldn't be?"

  "Not a chance. Why?"

  "Oh, nothing. Just wondering is all." Jeb fiddled with his fingers as Bill reached for the door to leave.

  "Guess what?" Jeb blurted, stopping his friend. Without waiting for an answer he said, "I met a girl."

  "Yeah?" Bill paused and turned back. "That's great. What's her name?"

  "Becky. She works at Starbucks."

  "Well, good for you, Jeb. Good for you."

  Bill slipped through the front door and locked it behind him before disappearing into the night. Jeb shoved the earphones into his ears and pressed “Play” to start his music with thoughts of blue-eyed Becky filling his mind.

  "Well you wonder why I always dress in black. Why you never see bright colors on my back. And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone …"

  By 3 a.m. Jeb realized that, for the first time since he started working at the factory, his music fell on preoccupied ears. His entire night had been spent thinking about Becky and her perfect straight blond hair. Her phone number flashed through his mind like lyrics to a catchy song that couldn't be shaken.

  555-5646. 555-5646.

  Until his dying day, he'd never forget that number, not because it was hers, not entirely, but because it spelled John. 555-JOHN. Just like Johnny Cash.

  He scrubbed a greasy handprint from high up on a second-floor window and cursed the workers for what he was sure was a prank against him. After all, how could a handprint get up there if it wasn't a joke? The window cleaning took him out of his routine so he decided to wash all of the windows instead of emptyin
g the trash, which he could do later.

  The factory had more pain-in-the-ass windows than a terrarium, he imagined, and the washing of them took nearly 2 cycles of his iPod playlist. He ended at the very window where he had begun, set his window cleaner back into his cart, and admired the shining results of his work.

  Until he saw it.

  What the f…?

  The window he’d washed first now wore another handprint near its top, identical to the print that started his whole window-washing adventure, only the new print appeared to be on the opposite side--the outside.

  He felt his pulse in his feet.

  Oh no. Someone IS in here.

  The lights flickered and turned out.

  He spun toward the door where the light switch was.

  He lost his breath. A man, a large man, stood only a few feet away. Jeb flinched and stumbled backward. The big man lunged and grabbed his shirt, catching him and ripping two buttons away from his collar.

  "Who are you?"

  The man lifted Jeb by his shirt and hurled him through the air. Jeb crashed face-first into an antique steel-press machine. Blood exploded from his nose and his precious iPod slid across the floor, ripping his earpieces from his ears.

  Frantic, he scurried to his rear and backed against the presser. The moon shone through the many windows, illuminating the room enough that he could see that the man was gone, or at least hiding. Jeb pinched his nose to stop the blood. He'd never been in a fight before, even when the other kids bullied him in school, and his hands trembled. He couldn't catch his breath or slow his pounding heart.

  He stood up, snatched his iPod from the floor, and backed out of the room. With the coast clear in the hallway, he sprinted to the breakroom and slid a table against the door. Fifteen more minutes passed before he could stop his hands from shaking. The bloodflow from his nose slowed to a trickle, though the numbness remained. He waited in the breakroom until morning, to hell with the rest of his work.

  He knew none of the oncoming workers, with their airs of superiority, would listen to him or believe his story, since they were no friendlier than the bullies from high school, so he decided to keep the big man a secret. Heck, they probably wouldn't even notice his swollen nose.

  He was right.

  NIGHT THREE

  "Jeb, what happened to your nose?"

  Duck Bill and best-girl Becky were the only two people to notice or care. "I bumped it last night on the press machine," he’d told them both.

  "Ouch. It looks sore," they’d both replied.

  "It is."

  That night as Bill was leaving, he said, "Well, be careful tonight, Jeb."

  Jeb was dying inside to tell Bill about the man, but he didn't want one of his only friends to think he was crazy. He'd been through that before. Bill locked up and left, leaving Jeb to start yet another lonely night.

  Jeb debated wearing his white iPod earbuds, afraid of the big man sneaking up on him again, but couldn't imagine getting through a night without Johnny. He would just be extra vigilant.

  "Well you wonder why I always dress in black. Why you never see bright colors on my back …"

  Jeb swept and mopped and cleaned the toilets, never allowing himself to be completely immersed in his songs or his thoughts. When Billy sang about being the piano man for the fifth time of the night, Jeb knew he had to take out the trash, and he dreaded it.

  He made eleven trips with eleven bags of trash to the back door. After a moment to gather himself, he shoved his iPod and his earbuds into his pocket and slung the door open. A motion-sensing light flickered and came to life, illuminating the dumpster. He scoped out the alley before leaving the safety of the doorway. If the big man dared to return this night, he had a surprise for him and he put his hand at his waistband just in case.

  He hurriedly carried bag after bag to the dumpster, tossing each of them into the green behemoth. With his last bag, he clanged the metal lid down and turned back to the door.

  The man was back. He stood in the light of the doorway, wearing an all-black suit and jet-black, slicked-back hair like a character straight out of an episode of Jeb's favorite show, The Sopranos. For an insane second, he feared the stranger may be death himself.

  "Who are you?" Jeb asked, his voice a quivering mess.

  The man had no answer and stood statuesque-like in the doorway. Jeb had two ways out, neither of which appeared promising. He could try to get through the doorway past his tormentor or he could make a break down the alley to the parking lot. He decided the latter. The man stared as Jeb took his first step.

  When Jeb took his second step, the man stepped from the doorway. Jeb weighed his chances and then broke for the parking lot. The big man was fast, way faster than his size portrayed, and cut him off. He grabbed Jeb's wrist, squeezing until Jeb felt like the bones in his arm were about to snap.

  Jeb dug into his waistband and pulled out his surprise--a sheathed hunting knife. He yanked the blade from its sheathe and drove it toward the man's arm. The man let loose of his wrist and Jeb sank the blade deep into his own forearm. He recoiled and bit his lip in pain. He collapsed to the ground, squeezing his wound.

  The big man just stood and stared.

  "Why are you doing this to me?" Jeb screamed. "I thought we had a deal."

  THE MAN IN BLACK

  Jeb scooted away while the man simply watched. Jeb slowly pushed to his feet. He backed away for a few steps and, when the man didn't stop him, he broke for the parking lot again. His arm throbbed and bled as he dug through his pocket for his keys. His car was close. He slammed against his VW, spearing blood on the window, and shoved the key into the lock.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed only darkness. He climbed into his car.

  "I can't believe I made it," he whispered as he jammed the key into the ignition and cranked his engine to life. He slammed the gear shifter into drive and crushed the gas pedal. A glance in his rearview mirror caused his heart to skip. No, no, no.

  The man stood beneath the only working streetlight in the parking lot and held a sign. Jeb slammed on his brakes and strained to read the backward writing in his mirror.

  He spelled out the letters. "B-E-C-K-Y."

  Oh, no.

  What did he want with Becky? There was no way Jeb would let the man get to Becky. He shifted his car into reverse and stomped on the gas. The big man didn't move. Jeb steered until the man was directly in his path, yet the man still didn't move. Jeb closed his eyes as he rammed his car against the man before crashing against the light post. His car died on impact. He cranked the key over and over, but no matter how many times he tried, his car was as dead as he would soon be.

  He climbed from the driver's side door. Though he was sure he had hit the man, he didn't see him beyond the rear of his car. He gingerly stepped toward the back, his eyes fixed on the pavement.

  Then he saw him. Actually, he saw the man's motionless legs sprawled out from the passenger's side of his car.

  And then they moved. Jeb turned and ran. He wanted to go to Becky's, but he knew the run was too far and he'd never make it.

  "Find a phone," he whispered to himself. "Call the police."

  "No," he shouted back at his own words.

  It was happening again.

  THE PAINFUL TRUTH

  Jeb slammed his apartment door closed behind him. He gasped for air and his side stung from the three-mile run, probably the farthest he had ever run in his life. His one room studio shack seemed smaller and darker than ever before.

  "What do I do?" he whispered.

  "Wait for him to come," he answered.

  "Shut up." He grabbed his telephone and dialed 555-JOHN. Pickuppickuppickup.

  Instead of Becky answering, the familiar tone of a disconnected number rang in his ear, and was then followed by an operator's recorded message of a nonworking number.

  "Damn it." He slammed the portable phone against the counter.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. The door rattled with each knock f
rom the outside. The man in black?

  He ran to the door and pressed his ear against it.

  "Jeb?" Becky called out, her voice like a song.

  Jeb ripped the door open, but no one was there. He turned and Becky stood in his room.

  "How did ... Never mind. You never should have come here, Becky."