Read The End Came With a Kiss Online

Authors: John Michael Hileman

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense, #Mystery & Suspense, #Suspense

The End Came With a Kiss (2 page)

BOOK: The End Came With a Kiss
2.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

There is a thump and several scrapes, but I can't see what’s making the sound. I creep around the front of the car and look down where the loopers went over. A piece of iron rebar comes up out of the concrete and bends backward over the edge. It’s wiggling as if something is hanging on it. Maybe one of the loopers got snagged on the way down. I inch forward and peek cautiously over the edge. To my utter astonishment, it isn't a looper at all. It's the rider! I fall to the ground and clutch his wrist. His helmet snaps up, and he looks through his dark visor at me.

"
It's okay!" I say. "I'm not one of them!"

He lets go of the rebar with his gloved hand and grips my wrist. With all my might, I pull. It’s hard getting him up and over the edge, but surprisingly easier than I expected. A full grown man would have been an excruciating lift. Is this a boy?

No.

As the helmet falls to the ground, long, beautiful strawberry hair lays to the side, and I see her face. She is a teenager. Possibly Irish. Flawlessly perfect. I scurry backward on hands and feet, skidding on my butt as I go.

"
Wait! Don't run," she says.

The dead don't speak. This thought causes me to freeze.

"
Please don't run," she says. "Don't leave me alone."

My heart wants to have compassion on her, but she is too perfect. Too beautiful. If she's not dead, she will be soon.

"
No. You're sick. I'm sorry. I can't risk it."

She scrambles toward me and I scramble back, in perfect sync.

"Look at me."

"I
am
looking at you. You’re like Miss Teen USA."

She scowls. "Have you looked at yourself lately? You look like a Hemsworth brother."

I shake my head. "A what?"

"You know. Hemsworth? Thor? Tall blond and Nordic—except thin—like his brother."

I start moving away again.

"Look at me," she repeats. "I have freckles. See! I have freckles."

I pause, and lean in to examine her nose and cheeks.

"
They don't have these," she says, "They don't have freckles."

She's right. They don't have freckles, or moles or birthmarks. I'm reminded of the day my secretary came in glowing. She had lost fifteen pounds and the mole that had been on her chin since birth was gone. There was a lot of that going on. It happened so subtly, no one questioned it. Until it was too late.

"
I swear I'm not sick! I don't have it!" her eyes are desperate.

I calm her with my hand. "Okay. All right. I believe you."

Her face is a tempest of emotions.

"
So—where does that leave us? Am I supposed to take care of you now?"

My words are like smoke in her face. "You don't
have
to do anything." The disappointment drips from her tongue.

I frown. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just- I can barely take care of myself."

"
I'm good with..."

"Oh no!" I launch to my feet. "I have to go!"

Her eyes round. "Where?"

I turn and sprint toward my car. "If you're coming, you need to run!"

 

2

Reaching street level, I am relieved to see that it’s clear. The loopers are still focused on the motorcycle and pay no attention as I pass. I don’t wait to pick up speed; there is no time for caution. I’ll have to race the entire route and still might not make it home in time.

"
Where are we going?" asks the strawberry-haired girl, sitting in the passenger seat with her helmet in her lap, and her gloved hands gripping it. Her biker jacket is open now, and I can see that she is wearing a bright orange shirt that is tucked into black and grey motorbike pants that go down into fashionable hard leather boots with lots of straps and no heels.

"
Home," I say, bluntly. Not wanting to reveal too much and hoping she won't pry.

"
Why the rush?" she pries.

Would she understand? Could I make her? I grip the steering wheel and stare at the road ahead. My new companion is quick to take offense to my silence.

"
O-kay," she says, elongating the A sound. "You don't want to tell me. I get it."

Great, this is all I need. Drama.

I give her an irritated glance, and then look back out the windshield, continuing my numbing stare. "Have you always been this way?"

"
What way?"

"
Temperamental."

"
I'm not temperamental." She huffs.

I shake my head and scrunch my face. This causes her to snuff out her nose and settle into her seat.

"
Do you have a name?" I ask.

Her voice is weak. I can tell she doesn't want to answer, but she does, probably out of fear that I will consider her too much of a hassle and ditch her on the side of the road if she doesn’t. "Ashlyn," she says, "Ashlyn Scott."

"
Why were the loopers chasing you?"

"The what?"

"The dead," I clarify.

She nods with understanding.

"I've never seen them chase a motorcycle before."

"
I figured the best way to get around would be on a bike. I didn't know it was one of theirs. He came running out of a store screaming, and I panicked."

"
And you picked up the rest trying to get away from the first?"

"
Sort of." I can tell by her change in demeanor she is embarrassed.

"
What did you do, run someone over?"

She swallows. "I hit a woman with a baby. Not a live one," she blurts defensively. "They were dead. I'm sure of it. The baby didn't cry or nothing when it hit the ground."

All I can do is wince.

"
She's the one who got them all going. Everyone started going ballistic."

"
And what made you decide going up into a parking garage would save you from them?"

"
I was riding for my life, I didn't know what it was till it was too late." She grips the helmet in her lap, and her voice cracks. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I just keep running. I just keep hiding."

"
Me too, Ashlyn," I say softly. She seems grateful for the tenderness of my response, and we drive in silence for a while.

"
What's your name," she says at last.

"
Ben Carter."

"
Are you alone too, Ben Carter?"

"
It's just me and my wife Kate."

"
Is that where you're going? To her?"

"
Yes."

This is enough for her. She looks out the window, and we drive in silence again. Not another word is spoken until we get to the gate of the cul-de-sac where I live.

"
You live here?" she says, wide eyed.

"
Yes," I say, turning in. My eyes scan the yards for any strange activity—well—stranger than usual. There is always something weird to see.

"
You were a rich guy before all this went down." Her eyes brush over the expensive houses. Half the lawns are overgrown now. The loopers still mow them, but, without gas, the mowers don't do a very good job.

"
I made a decent living."

I check my watch. I have five minutes. There were no surprises on the trip home, so I made up the lost time. "See that house?" I say, pointing to a two story on the right.

"
Which one? They all look the same."

"
The one with the green garage door."

"
Yeah."

"
That’s my safe house. The key’s under the mat.

She turns. "Aren't you coming?"

"
I have to grab some supplies."

"
What about your wife?"

"
She's not in there. You're safe."

"
Where is she?"

"
Up the road."

"
Then I'll go with you," she says, settling into her seat.

"
No. You stay here."

"
But I want..."

"
You stay here," I say sharply. "This isn't a debate."

She studies the stern face I'm giving her and a look of understanding washes over her features. "I get it. You have to do this alone."

My muscles loosen. "Yes."

"
Okay." She lifts her chin. "I'll wait here."

"
There's food in the cellar. I won't be long."

She climbs out and holds the door open. "Promise me you're coming back."

"
Of course I’m coming back."

After an excruciating pause she closes the door, and I continue on up the road around the long gentle bend. My house is the last one on the left before the dead end loop. I slow down and pull into the driveway.

There’s no sign of danger, so I get out and take my place on the lawn. Harold, my neighbor across the street, is clipping his shrubs—again. He gives me a friendly wave, but I don't bother to wave back. If I wave, it will trigger another automated series of movements that will bring him down to the edge of the driveway to talk with me. I used to look forward to those conversations. He would always tell me some new gardening secret he had discovered, and I would tell him what product my company was working on that would change the future. I liked him. Who he used to be. The thing he is now grieves me to look at, and I have enough grief to last a lifetime.

A movement pulls my attention back. It is my wife. She’s running toward me around the bushes on the side of our house. There is anguish in her countenance, an anguish that still makes my gut tighten. She comes to a full stop in front of me, chest heaving to take in a breath. Her lips move, but only a husky noise comes out. My mind inserts the words. "She's gone, Ben. She's gone." My heart hurts as though the wound upon it is fresh. She falls to the ground with outstretched arms and groans another sentence. Against my will, my brain translates. "It pushed her and she fell."

I reach out to hold her, but she pushes my arms away as she has done some forty times before. But it doesn't matter. I do now what I did on that horrible day. I don't care if she's sick. I don't care if the poison inside her tears leaks into my skin. I can't let her suffer the loss of our daughter alone.

I fall to my knees and clutch her squirming body. She could easily resist me with the strength she now has, but she doesn't. Her movements are a pantomime of submission. She collapses within my arms, sobbing deeply.

And for the first time—I cry too.

 

3

There was never any time to grieve over the death of my daughter. The day Katherine came running up the lawn, so much had happened. I was in shock. It was like a roller coaster back then. One thing after another. People I'd known my whole life—people I loved—were dropping dead in the streets, or right in front of me. It was too much. I was on nonstop adrenal overload.

Since that day, all of my energy has been spent on Kate, learning her loop and keeping her safe. My daughter’s death was just another detail I had to remember. But today, it feels different. I have played this scene out so many times, I do it now without thinking, so my mind has time to wander to memories I have not allowed myself to visit. Memories of my precious little girl.

They flood forth without concern for what harm they will do, and I allow them. Each flash is like a dagger in my gut, but I want to remember now. I need to remember, no matter how much it hurts. I can't live in this dead skin any longer. If I do, I will be no better than them. As I kneel, pressing my wife's wavy blonde head to my chest, soaking her cold forehead with my tears, I feel almost alive.

But it doesn't last long. She pushes me onto my heels and crawls backward. Her finger points at my shirt, and her jaw moves to perfectly form words that don't come out. I don’t know why they do this. She obviously remembers the words that were spoken, but her brain can't make her vocal cords produce the sound. All that comes out is a slight hiss.

BOOK: The End Came With a Kiss
2.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Enthusiasm by Polly Shulman
The Lady Vanishes by Nicole Camden
The Frog Princess by E. D. Baker
Lethal Bayou Beauty by Jana DeLeon
The Messenger by Stephen Miller