Stalked Read online

  STALKED

  LOUISE KRIEG

  table of contents

  STALKED

  BROKEN GLASS

  SCALPED

  FRANKIE

  THE LAST VICTIM

  COMPULSION

  The flash of Tasha’s camera covered the rapidly stiffening body on the ground in front of her in a momentary pure white sheen. She studied the image on the LCD screen before bringing the viewfinder up to her eye again. Another burst of pure white blanketed the deceased.

  She nearly dropped her camera when a voice startled her from behind.

  “I got me one of those a while back,” it said in an authoritative tone she’d come to associate with cops.

  Tasha didn’t need to turn around to know it was Vince standing behind her. He liked to creep up on her, and she was getting real sick of it.

  “Oh?” she replied uninterested, kneeling down to get a different angle of the body. It was uncommonly hot for so early in the day, and she could feel the first bead of sweat trickle down her back. The protective coverall she was wearing spun tight over her legs as she kneeled, creating a human shaped oven for her to bake in.

  Vince went on talking for some time about the DSLR he found at a great price online, bursting with pride at how he practically swindled the seller, some kid from Washington who needed the cash. Tasha didn’t say anything. She was immersed in her routine of brief flashes, checks, angle adjustments, focusing the lens, another flash--

  “Tasha?” Vince asked, still behind her, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  “Huh?” she turned around.

  “I asked if you’d like to get some dinner tonight.”

  She stared at him mutely for a few seconds. His resilience was commendable. She’d turned him down probably a hundred times before, yet here he was again, a look of absolute self-importance on his face as he expected her to do nothing but agree to his offer. But she wasn’t about to be swindled out of her time and self-respect as easily as that kid with the camera.

  “Sorry, Vince,” she said, knowing full well she sounded anything but sorry, “I told you, I don’t go out with cops.”

  The self-importance turned an ashy grey on his face.

  “One of these days I won’t take no for an answer anymore,” he said. The corners of his mouth twitched into what she could only describe as a snarl.

  “Eh- excuse me?” she asked, incredulous.

  Vince took a step closer to her, the stench of cigarettes and cheap cologne wafting off him like the heat on the pavement. She’d never been this close to him before, and she noticed a small piece of something green caught in his teeth.

  “You prance around with your little camera,” he said, cigarettes and garlic on his breath, “All serious and uninterested in anything else. Life’s gonna run right by you, honey.”

  Tasha forced herself not to take a step back. She straightened her spine and looked him dead in the eyes.

  “Don’t call me honey,” she said, struggling to keep her voice under control.

  A serpentine smile spread on Vince’s face. It would have been more effective had the piece of green garnish not been stuck in his yellowing teeth.

  “I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “You of all people should know that there are bad characters creeping around out there. The work we do shows us the ass-end of the world and the people crawling over it. We need each other.”

  He ran his cigarette stained fingers over the back of Tasha’s hand. The sensation made her skin crawl, and for the second time that day she nearly dropped her camera. She snapped her hand back, fighting the ever growing urge to step away from him. If she retreated now he would see it as some sign of weakness.

  “Vince,” she said softly, keeping her voice low despite the fact that none of the other cops and crime scene investigators around them could hear their conversation, “I told you, I don’t date cops, so stop asking.”

  The undercurrent of threat which loomed just beneath the look of semi-playfulness on his face came to the foreground quicker than the pure white light she draped over murder victims.

  “I won’t stop asking, honey,” he said, emphasising the word with malicious intent.

  Her own anger seethed inside.

  “Not if you’re the last guy on earth,” she spat.

  Tasha finally gave in to the urge to get away from him. She turned around and stomped off on shaky legs, biting her lower lip to fight off the tears threatening to well in her eyes. She didn’t look back at him as she stowed her equipment in the white CSI van. But if she had, the look of resentment and determination on his face as he stood watching her would have made her blood run cold even in the baking heat.

  …

  “…hospitals are currently overcrowded. The Centre for Disease Control has asked that anyone showing flu-like symptoms please report to their nearest town hall for examination. Multiple cases of—“

  Tasha flicked off the news, surprised at how utterly dark it was inside her bedroom without the artificial glare of the television. She lay in the dark for a while, staring into nothing, her brain firing at what felt like double speed. People were dying. A lot of people were dying. Her familiarity with dead bodies did nothing to make the thought of the rows upon rows of corpses lying under those stark white sheets in the glaring sun any more bearable. It was just a glimpse, a fleeting image caught on camera by one of the news anchors flying over the St. Bernadine hospital downtown. A big open stretch of lawn most probably previously used by doctors and patients for a reprise from the sterilised chemically bleached halls of the hospital was now being used as a storage space for victims of a virus which at first seemed like nothing but the common cold. How many bodies were there? A hundred? Two hundred? How many more in the hospital morgue?

  Her cell phone vibrated next to her head. UNKNOWN NUMBER the caller ID read.

  “Hello?” her phone was cool against her cheek.

  There was no reciprocal greeting from the other side, just the faint electric hum of the connection.

  “Hello?” she said again, a bit louder this time.

  The phone beeped in her ear as the caller hung up.

  She looked at the screen quizzically for a few seconds before putting the thing on silent. She lay in the dark for a while longer, thinking about the dead, before falling into a deep fitful sleep.

  Her dreams were filled with white sheets. They covered everything, cars, benches, mailboxes, even the buildings. Every now and then the wind would pick up and lift one of the corners, revealing a decaying and rotting structure beneath. In the dream, Tasha shielded her eyes from the glare of the sheets baking in the sun. The light was extremely bright, but she felt no heat whatsoever. The light started to flicker, suddenly growing brighter in an instant and then fading away again. From somewhere far away she could hear a high pitched noise, then the flash of light again.

  Tasha’s eyes sprang open, only to have a bright flash of light nearly blind her. The flash was followed by the high pitched tone of a camera flash charging. Another flash of light and she was seeing stars floating on her bedroom ceiling.

  “What—“ she was confused and still thick with sleep. Was she still dreaming? No, another stab of light in her eyes and the unmistakable sound of the camera flash recharging was too real. And so was the weight on top of her. Someone was straddling her, trapping her in the light blanket she’d crawled under before going to sleep.

  She wanted to scream, but it was as if her voice never existed. She momentarily completely forgot how to make even the simplest of sounds. She tried to heave the figure off her, but the blanket was spun tight around her legs and she could barely get them an inch off the mattress. The camera kept flashing in her face, and she had the sudden insane thought that somehow she was dead, and it was a CSI taki
ng photographs of her corpse, gathering evidence of whatever brutal end she’d suffered. That thought alone was enough to give her a kind of strength she didn’t know she had. Tasha dug her fingers into the mattress and gave a mighty shove upwards with her hips, knocking her assailant to the side, giving her just enough leeway to tuck her feet in, lift her knees, and throw him off completely.

  There was a thud and a scramble as he hit the floor. She finally found her voice and screamed as loud as she could. She fumbled for the bedside lamp, her hands shaking and her fingers useless. In her panic she knocked it onto the floor, dying a little inside at the sound of the bulb shattering on the tiles. She vaulted out of bed to the other side, finding the light switch for the ensuite bathroom, and flicked it on. A few feet of dim yellow light streamed into the room. It was enough for her to see the intruder’s silhouette as he fled through the doorway, camera in hand. She heard his heavy footsteps race down the hallway before her front door slammed shut.

  It was only later, after she’d barred the door and phoned the police with no answer, that she stopped trembling. All the lights in her house were turned on. She sat cross legged on her bedroom floor, her back resting against the bed, her knuckles white as she clutched the biggest kitchen knife she could find. She was ready to kill absolutely anything that came through the bedroom door. She sat like this until her usual morning wake up alarm went off at 6am. She ignored it and continued to sit staring, smelling her attacker on the bedsheets behind her – the stench of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

  …

  The police station was absolutely packed with warm bodies. As with most unbearably accurate cliché’s, there was no air-conditioning in the building, only a few unstable wireframe fans moving the hot air around. The only thing more insufferable than the heat was the noise. People were shouting over each other, children were screaming and crying, and what seemed like every phone in the precinct was ringing relentlessly. Tasha looked around nervously, scanning the faces of those around her for one which would fill all her future nightmares, but Vince wasn’t there. In fact, there were very few police officers at all. She caught the eye of one of the other crime scene regulars making her way through the throng of people to the access door leading to the back of the station.

  “Marci!” Tasha shouted over the racket, “Marci, hey!”

  Marci caught a glimpse of Tasha and beckoned her over with a wave. There were deep purple bags under her eyes and she was sweating profusely. Tasha shoved through the people pressed so close together in the small space of the reception area. Shoulders and elbows jabbed into her from all directions. The air in the place was stifling, and she was sure there would be a few fainting cases before the morning was over.

  “What’s going on?” she asked when she finally managed to break through the crowd.

  “It’s not good,” Marci replied before wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Her voice was thick and nasally.

  “What do you mean?” Tasha asked, the fear for her own life suddenly giving way to a more homogenised panic.

  Marci’s eyes darted around the crowded station. She dug a tissue from her pocket and loudly blew her nose before shoving it back down.

  “Look,” she said, lowering her voice and bringing her face closer to Tasha’s, “This flu thing’s got out of hand. It’s not just here, it’s everywhere upstate. Some kind of fucking epidemic or something. 90% of the force didn’t even show up for work today, they’ve either fled or died, I don’t fucking know. Point is, go home, lock your doors, don’t talk to anyone and wait this thing out. The less people you come into contact with, the better, okay?”

  Tasha nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “I gotta go,” Marci said, punching a code into the pad next to the access door, “Get some supplies if you can. Water, canned food, that kinda stuff. Something you can keep for a while, until this thing blows over.”

  “Marci,” Tasha finally managed, “Are you okay?”

  Marci smiled, but it was tired and mournful. Her eyes were watery, her nose red and swollen.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said before stepping through the door.

  Tasha never saw her again.

  …

  Dry leaves scuttled over the parking lot of St. Bernardino Hospital in the feint breeze. Heat waves rolled off the cars still parked there, some of them empty, some of them occupied by swelling corpses trapped forever in their oven-like coffins.

  Tasha rested her forehead against the chain-link fence, taking care to breathe through her mouth only. The stench was at its worst this time of day, and the scarf she’d tied around her face did little to mask it. She wiped angrily at a drop of sweat as it ran stingingly into her eye. The shade of the massive oak she was currently under shielded her from the worst of the sun’s rays, but the heat coming off the tarmac in the parking lot seemed to warm her up from below through the very soles of her sneakers.

  She continued to stare at the hospital entrance from the other side of the fence, not trusting herself to go any closer. She blew out a frustrated breath and kicked at the fence.

  “Hey!” she shouted for what felt like the hundredth time, momentarily removing the scarf tied around her face, “Are you in there?”

  But there was no answer from within, and the hospital continued to loom over her like a silent sentinel guarding some kind of portal to hell.

  It had been two weeks since Marci had warned her to gather supplies and get indoors. Two weeks since her biggest concern was some crazy fucking stalker cop. Two weeks since her life had any type of semblance to sanity. Fourteen days had been all it took to completely destroy the world around her.

  At first she’d stayed inside, heeding Marci’s warning of not coming into contact with anyone. Tasha had no family left, no one to call and check up on, so she called the few friends she’d retained from college. None of them answered or returned her calls. That was before her cell phone reception died altogether and she couldn’t call anyone even if she wanted to. The television had been no better, replaying the same bulletins over and over, warning people to stay inside even if they felt sick. Especially if they felt sick.

  With each passing day it had grown quieter and quieter outside. Every now and then a car would speed past, tyres squealing. Tasha had run out of her house the last few times this happened, waving her arms madly, trying to get the driver’s attention. She didn’t care if they were sick, she just wanted to talk to another person, find out if they know anything about what was happening in the world. Because it was indeed the entire world which was affected by what had been labelled the “flu-demic”. The last few news bulletins which were actually broadcast live said the virus had spread to every corner of the world. Major cities all over the globe were going dark – one day there were calls and texts and emails streaming out of them, the next there was simply nothing.

  A week after what she’d come to think of as “Marci’s premonition”, she’d gone to every house in her street, knocking on doors and windows, ringing bells and calling out. But there was no one. A few times while peering through windows she caught a glimpse of a figure either lying on the couch or the floor, the skin a blueish purple, already straining to keep the gasses and fluids inside.

  The stench of decay permeating from every building was bad, but the absolute quiet was worse. Every now and then she would hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance, but then all would be still again and her ears would start ringing from the very lack of sound. There had been a few fires and even a couple of explosions in the city proper, but most of them had either burned out or been doused by the recent rains.

  The deep and throaty sound of thunder rumbling in the distance seemed to pantomime her thoughts. To the east the sky was a dark and ominous grey with thunderclouds racing in her direction. She looked at the hospital entrance again, willing the boy she’d seen run in there to come out.

  She’d been walking to the pharmacy when she caught sight of him darting through the streets ahead of her
. She called out to him, but either he didn’t hear her or he didn’t want her to catch up to him. He couldn’t have been older than 15. Initially she’d been so startled by the sight of another person that she thought the heat was getting to her and she was hallucinating, but as the kid sprinted away he bumped into a parked SUV, setting the alarm off and a flurry of pigeons racing into the sky. Tasha ran after him, shouting for him to stop, but the few nervous glances he shot at her over his shoulder told her that only a hazmat suit would have made him comfortable enough to come close. She got it – he was scared. She was, too, in the beginning, but she’d come to the conclusion that if she hadn’t gotten sick yet at this point, then she probably wasn’t going to. The dead were literally lying in the street like some medieval plague procession. If she was going to catch whatever they had, she would have by now.

  That morning she’d caught glimpse of the kid again, but this time she didn’t just start running and shouting after him, she just watched him from afar for a while as he moved between the abandoned cars. He still looked nervous, and he was sweating in the heat. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, much like Tasha, and from her shadowy hiding place she watched him go into the Kroger grocery store. She leaned against the side of a building, nervous and apprehensive. A part of her wanted to run into the grocery store where she could maybe corner him, but she didn’t want to scare him half to death. He had bags under his eyes, not the flu-demic kind, the no-sleep kind. She wondered if he had nightmares too.

  She stood waiting for him like that for what must only have been a few minutes, before he came darting out of the grocery store and down the street, back the way he’d come. She struggled to keep up with him whilst retaining a stealthy following distance. After a few blocks she couldn’t keep her pursuit quiet anymore, and he seemed to double his speed when he realised she was running after him.

  “Hey! Please stop! I’m not sick! I’m not going to hurt you!” she called after him desperately, but the kid just kept on running, the sound of his sneakers hitting the pavement echoing through the quiet streets.