Clean Sweep (17 page)

"What the hell is that?" the woman whispered.

The stalker turned, twisting its body as if it were boneless.

"Run," I barked and grabbed the metal shelves, sending a precision pulse through the building. The magic zapped through the shelving and into the floor.

God, this place was huge. I pushed harder, the magic streaming from me, dashing through the wires under the floor and in the walls.

"What?" The woman gaped at me.

The stalker's muscles bunched.

"Run!"

The woman planted herself. "Like hell! This place is full of old people and kids."

The one time I get caught in the open and my bystander wants to stand her ground instead of running away.

The magic "clicked," wrapping around the right set of wires. The security cameras died.

The stalker leaped, claws poised for the kill. I yanked the gallon-sized jug of bleach from the cart and swung it like a bat. The jar connected with a solid thud, knocking the stalker aside. It flew, righted itself like a cat, and landed in the aisle, sliding back. Claws scraped the concrete.

The beast charged me. I swung the bleach again. The stalker dodged left. The dark-haired woman grabbed a six-pack of Del Monte canned corn from her cart and hurled it at the creature. The blow took it on the shoulder. The stalker stumbled and shied toward me. I smashed the bleach over its head. The stalker jerked back and raked the bottle with its claws --the plastic held.

A huge jar of tomato paste crashed into the beast's side. The stalker snapped at the woman, lashing with its claws. The tips of its talons cut across the woman's forearm, and she cried out. I grabbed a bottle of olive oil from her cart and brought it down like a hammer. The stalker leaped back. I threw the bottle at it.

The stalker made an eerie, whispery growl that raised every hair on my body. The woman swiped cans from her cart and threw them one after the other. The stalker retreated under the barrage of cans, baring ugly red teeth. Step, another step. The shelves loomed behind it.

The stalker leaped straight up, scuttled over the plastic-wrapped inventory on the shelves so fast it was a blur, and leaped straight at me. I had no time to react. The huge claws caught my arms, ripping through the fabric. Pain lanced my shoulders. The impact knocked me back and my spine hit the metal shelves. The red teeth snapped an inch from my face. Fetid, sour breath washed over me.

I twisted the cap off the bleach and dumped it over the ugly face.

The stalker's scream was like nails on a chalkboard.

The woman took a running start and smashed her cart into it, knocking it off me and driving the cart and the creature into the shelves. The stalker squirmed, pinned between the metal framework and the cart.

I pushed from the shelves. It liked bleach, I would give it bleach. I ran and dumped the bottle on the beast's face. The chlorine drowned its eyes and mouth.

The stalker convulsed. The cart went flying, cans and meat scattering on the concrete. The creature thrashed about, spasming, its limbs twisted. Cramps wracked its body. It jerked off the floor and crashed back like a fish out of water, and its head hit the concrete with a wet crunching sound. Cracks split its skull, seeping white slime. It hammered its head against the floor, leaving wet puddles.

The beast arched its back, clawed at the air, then stopped moving.

The woman picked up a set of cans wrapped in plastic off the floor. Ten jars of Bush's Best Baked Beans rose above her head and came down on top of the stalker's skull with a solid, crunchy thud. Score one for
Homo sapiens.

The woman stared at the ruined body. Blood dripped from her arm. A fine spray of red covered her face --must've been cast off when she slammed down the cans. She wiped her face with her left forearm and kicked the stalker's corpse with her sneakered foot. "Don't mess with Texas."

I looked at her.

She shrugged. "Seemed like the right thing to say."

I had a dead stalker in the middle of Costco. There was no place to hide it. Even if I managed to miraculously stuff it somehow behind some paper plates, it would stink and be found, not to mention I had an eyewitness who probably wouldn't change her story and if someone suggested she was crazy would likely hit them with a thirty-six-ounce can of vegetables.

We were on the verge of complete exposure. Ice slid down my spine. Thoughts came in a panicked stampede, stumbling one over the other. They would come for the body, take tissue samples, snap pictures, and document it. It would be on the Internet within minutes. Once the body left Costco, there would be no way to contain it, and I would be irreversibly tied to it. I had fried the cameras and the hard drive, but my fingerprints were all over the place. The woman would identify me. I had blood and alien slime on my clothes. I had to take care of it here and now.

I had to hide the body.

Now.

"What the hell is this thing?"

"I have no idea, but you need to take care of that arm." I struggled to keep the shaking out of my voice. "It doesn't look sanitary."

"Isn't that the truth. It got you too. You think I should get the manager?" She looked at me.

I gripped the jug of bleach so tight it hurt. "Cleanup on aisle five." I smiled.

She giggled. I giggled back. It came out a little crazy. I sounded like a lunatic who just saw the full moon. I swallowed the giggle. "You go get the manager. I'll watch this, whatever this is."

"Okay. I'll be right back."

"Wait!"

She turned.

"Quietly," I said. "Old people and children."

She nodded and took off.

I sprinted to the corpse and dropped the bleach bottle onto the stalker.

It lay on a solid concrete slab. In a building that wasn't an inn.

Don't think about it. Just don't think about. Just because everyone says it can't be done doesn't mean jack.

The olive oil. I turned on my foot, ran down the aisle, grabbed the bottle, and dropped it onto the body. Cans dotted the aisle. I had to pick them up.

No time.

I crouched by the body, pressed my palms into the floor and concentrated. Why couldn't it have been wood? I could've wrenched individual boards up.

The magic streamed from me, pooling in the concrete like an invisible puddle.

Innkeepers had limits. Basic poltergeist was all most could hope for with a non-inn building. If you could mess with wires, you were way ahead of the pack.

Don't think about it. It's only impossible because nobody has done it before. I had no choice. I had to do it.

My skin went numb, but the inside of my arms hurt as if someone had hooked my veins and slowly began pulling them out of my body.

God, it hurt.

Don't think about it.

Just do it.

My body shook from the strain. The pain wrapped around my spine. I could barely breathe. It wasn't just pain, it was Pain with a capital P, the kind of agony that blocked out everything else.

The concrete was saturated. I could give no more.

I strained.

The pain lashed out like a white-hot whip across my back. A hair-thin crack slid across the aisle. The floor split.

That's right. That's exactly it.

The gap widened. The olive-oil bottle slid into it.

Just a little more. I clenched my teeth and pulled the inert concrete apart.

The body toppled into it.

Yes.

The world was growing dim. I wasn't passing out. I was just stuck in this horrible place between life and dying and it was made of hurt. I paused above the gap and for a second I thought I'd fall into it too.

Opening it wasn't enough. I had to close it. I pulled the concrete back. Come on. I might have as well have tried to push a semi out of the way. Come on.

My legs and arms shook. Slowly the concrete moved, inch by tiny inch. Come on.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't close it.

Yes, I could. It was my duty to close it. I would close it.

The pain wrapped around me like a scorching blanket.

The last inch of the gap disappeared. The concrete smoothed.

I couldn't get up. Oh no.

I grabbed the metal shelving, clung to it and pulled myself up. My head swam. I leaned onto my cart and pushed it. Got to go. Got to get out of the store. I forced myself to walk. My shoes must've sprouted needles, because walking hurt.

I turned behind the freezers and kept going. Through the gap I saw the dark-haired woman hurry across the floor, followed by a man in a black polo shirt and khakis.
I'm sorry. You helped me, and because of me they will think you're crazy.
If I ever had a chance, I would repay the favor.

I passed another aisle, wiped the handle of my cart with my shirt, and walked away from it. My shoulders were bleeding. I veered toward the tables with clothes and grabbed a dark sweatshirt. Slipping it on hurt. I kept the tag in plain view and headed for the checkout.

The shortest line had four people in it.

"Ma'am, I can help you over here!" A man. Average size. Dark hair. Costco tag.

I followed him and showed him the tag.

"Just the sweatshirt?" he asked.

I forced the word out of my mouth. "Yes."

"Your card."

I reached into my purse, fumbled with my wallet, pulled out the Costco card, scanned it, handed him a twenty, got a dollar in change, and then there was the door and I walked through it and out into the sun, car keys in hand.

My silver Chevy HHR was all the way at the end of the lane. I had always parked at the far end of the parking lot, both because it made leaving easier and because it put my car as far away from the security cameras as I could get. Today my habit would cost me.

The asphalt stretched in front of me. I put one foot in front of the other. The parking lot was doing a jig and it was making me dizzy. The heat of Texas summer assaulted me. I pulled the sweatshirt off.

If I passed out in the parking lot, it wouldn't be good. It would be very terrible.

I swayed and managed the last couple of feet, squeezing the remote of the car keys. The doors clicked and I slid into the back seat, shut the door, and lay flat.

Is this what dying felt like? Had I managed to kill myself? Mom? Dad? Do you know what happens now?

Snap out of it. I pulled my phone out of my jeans and fumbled with the icons. Last call. Sean.

"Hello," Sean's voice said into my ear.

I struggled to say something but I had no voice.

"Dina, are you okay?"

What happened to my voice?

"Are you hurt?"

...

"Where are you?"

I tried to hit the button for text message. Someone had turned my fingers into limp things that refused to obey. Here it is. C... O... S... The text showed complete gibberish. Ok, this won't work.

Attach picture. Attach. I got it on the third try and held the phone straight up. The camera clicked. I pushed Send on the screen.

The phone slipped out of my fingers.

If I died in the parking lot of Costco, I would be very unhappy in my afterlife.

Chapter Twelve

I didn't lose consciousness. I thought I would, but I just lay there on the seat, gulping the air like a fish out of water and hurting. My mouth had gone dry and bitter. I had this absurd feeling my tongue had shriveled up and dried out like a dead leaf. Every breath took forever.

This was really, really stupid. If I survived, I would never do it again. Well, at least not without a lot of practice first. Very careful practice, the kind that wouldn't hurt like this.

I really didn't want to die. Thinking about dying stabbed at me. Suddenly I was so unbearably sad I would've cried if I could have. I didn't want to die. I wanted to live. There was so much still that I wanted to do and to see. I wanted years. Years to grow the inn, to meet strange guests, to experience the small, happy comforts. Years to fall in love and be happy. Years to search for and find my parents.

Mom... I'm so afraid. I am so, so scared. I wish you were here. I wish you were with me. You always made everything better.

Sean wasn't coming. He probably didn't even know where I was. I had to get myself up. I had to do something.

I tried to move my right arm. It just lay there. I strained. Not even a twitch of my fingers. I was trapped in my own body.

Nobody would find me. I was in the middle of a parking lot in the back seat of a car with tinted windows. It wasn't even noon and the car was already sweltering. The heat pressed on me like a thick, suffocating blanket. Even if I managed to hold on, I'd die of heat stroke before too much longer.

Get up. You're not going to roll over and just die here in the back of your own car. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

I concentrated on my hand. No response. I was getting weaker.

All I had to do was pick up my phone, dial 911, and speak. Such a small thing. I had never felt so helpless.

Not matter how much I kicked and screamed inside, my body refused to respond. Sweat beaded on my face.

The passenger door swung open. The hot air escaped in a sudden draft and I saw Sean's face. He leaned over me. His eyes widened. His face didn't change expression. It just turned a shade paler. I must've looked like hell.

"Can you speak?"

...

"Hospital?"

"Nnnn..."

"Inn?"

I tried to nod.

"Don't worry. I've got you."

He leaned in, his body over mine, so close I felt the heat of his skin, picked up the car keys off the floor, and disappeared. The door closed.

Don't go.

The driver door opened and Sean dropped into the seat. The motor started and then we were moving.

Ten minutes. That's how long it usually took me to drive to Costco. Fifteen, if I caught red on every streetlight.

I could hold on for fifteen minutes.

I clung to life. The car moved, the shadows of the trees we passed sliding over us in long stripes. A blast of cold air washed over me. He must've turned on the AC. It felt like heaven.

"Don't worry," Sean said. "Passing Redford. Almost there. It'll be okay."