So this is what's it's like to be dead, Rodger thought. Raising his hands against the harsh light, his arms moved impossibly slow, feeling impossibly heavy. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. The thoughts and memories of his mind seemed to be dancing in the distance, too shy to come any closer and reveal themselves. Everything was moving in slow motion, and he had the irresistible feeling that his brain had outgrown his skull, compressing it so hard that liquid spurted out of his nose, ears and mouth, like pulp from a squeezed orange. Rodger tried to cough through it, but his lifeless body could barely respond.

The light was so powerful and so shocking that he thought it could only be the light of god. The light of heaven. Was this what heaven was like, he thought? It certainly doesn't feel like heaven should feel. This feels substantially worse than being alive, which doesn't exactly sound like an apt description of heavenly paradise. I don't even feel like my body is my body. But then, bodies don't follow you into heaven, he heard his Sunday school teachers voice whisper through the vaults of his memory. You leave your body behind, because it was merely a portal your soul traveled in for a short time, before entering eternal salvation.

Just then, one of Rodgers thoughts broke away from the rest in the distance, and danced its way towards him, not truly revealing itself, but showing just enough to fill him with fear. The thought was brutal, hitting him fast, its message certain beyond any shed of doubt, although he himself couldn't exactly explain why. The message that danced its way towards him in the darkness of his mind, through the brightness of that harsh, unforgiving light, was pure and true:

There is no heaven, when you have done what you have done.

The thought danced away from him, weaving its way once more through his empty brain, loosing itself on that dark dance floor where all his other thoughts and memories spun and twirled, refusing to let him join.

But what have I done?

The light was brighter than bright, now. Brighter than the brightest sun, a white so pure that it should have felt cleansing, although it just made his skull feel even tighter, and those chunks rose up once more with no way out. Rodgers arms felt heavy as led as they were raised to block the light, but he couldn't see them or notice if they had any effect. He couldn't see where his arms should be, and they didn't feel like they should feel, but he felt something.

My soul is still in my body, Rodger told himself.

I must be alive.

He could feel the struggled movement of his arms, sluggish and unfamiliar to him.

Something was happening. The light was changing, becoming softer. The crushing vise his skull was in seemed to relieve some if its pressure, allowing his brain to retain its precious pulp for the time being. Some of his thoughts and memories let him on that exclusive dance floor, and a few even got close enough for him to hold. Still, even with the vague notion that he wasn't dead and this wasn't heaven, all was not as it should be.

Why won't I wake up from this?

Or is this what hell is like?

The question was almost laughable. If he were in hell, then he would still be feeling what he felt just a little while earlier, because hell is awful. So I'm not dead, and this isn't hell. I should be happy, because things are coming back to me. My memories are leaving that distant dance floor to return to me, as they should. They are mine, after all.

My name is Rodger Vidmar. I'm thirty-eight, and I have a nine year old daughter in Evergreen, Maryland.

These thoughts that returned, however, are all but meaningless next to that first thought that came back. That first thought that danced around him and left the others, that was different. It was stronger. Like your first car, or the first girl you ever ******, that first thought left its mark. That first thought fried into him like a branding iron is fried into a cows side; you take it to your grave.

But what have I done?

Open your eyes, stupid.

I can't.

Are you even trying?

They're stuck. Glued, or something.

Maybe I don't even want to open my eyes. The light is still so strong, and something isn't right here. My arms are slow and my body feels useless.

Open your eyes, Rodger.

Someone glued them.

"Rodger, open your eyes."

I can't, Goddamn it! I'm trying! Don't you think I'm trying?!

There! Movement. Light. Not the same, bleak light as before but more...real. Living light.

His eyes open slow and carefully, like an old book whose pages were stuck together over the dampness of time. They opened through the gunk of sleep, and as far as sleep gunk went, he must have been sleeping for years.

"Open your eyes, Rodger."

I'm trying.

"Rodger?"

Blinking away the cobwebs and crud of sleep, he shielded the bright light from above with his hands. The headache returned with renewed force and the painful moan of his mind was matched with the painful moan of his raspy voice. His arms felt terribly heavy, but the light was too bright for his eyes just yet, and his cupped hands were all the protection he had.

"Rodger?" the voice asked again, deep and distant.

He didn't care about answering, or anything else for that matter. All he cared about was stopping the light from reaching his eyes, because it seemed to fuel his headaches like gasoline feeds a fire. And right now, the flames were consuming him.

Why are my arms so heavy, he thought?

Chains could be heard offering a soft, muted rattle, their clinking and clanging unnecessarily close to himself. Squinting at his hands, he saw the steel-thick shackles banded around his wrists, with massive, bolted chains connecting them as if it were the newest fashion statement. They weren't the chains of a swing set, or the chains people use to walk their dogs. These were bigger, heavier chains.

The chains of an animal.

"Rodger? Can you hear me?" the distant voice asked.

"No," Rodger mumbled. The light was still so painfully bright, but he was able to hold his hands so his eyes could adjust to his surroundings. He was able to catch a glimpse of his lap, and he didn't like what he saw. Dressed in an outfit he never remembered buying, or even putting on for that matter, his heart began to beat faster. The clothes were bright orange overalls, the kind a hunter would wear so his buddies wouldn't shoot him. But Rodger wasn't a hunter; he was and insurance salesman. Around his waist was a thick leather belt lined with white fur, pulled tight and buckled, with more of the heavy chains connected to it. A massive padlock hung from the center as if it were the ugliest belt buckle on earth.

"Rodger? Can you hear me yet?"

"Yeah," Rodger snapped. His voice had the tone of a man about to loose his cool.

"Good," the distant voice said through the bright light. "My name is Marcus. We have a lot to discuss, it seems."

"Yeah we do," Rodger said, finally letting his arms rest on his lap. Where am I, he thought? "Why don't you turn that light off and come a little closer so I can see you?"

"I really don't think that's possible, Rodger."

"And why not?"

"Because you're a very dangerous person," the distant Marcus said.

"Listen, if I don't get a lawyer in here soon to talk to, I'm going to bury this place in lawsuits. I know some good people and if you don't-"

"There will be no lawyers, Rodger," his voice sounded like a school teacher admonishing a young student. "There is just you and us. Now, let me-"

"Go to hell!" Rodger screeched, his voice hoarse and scratchy. "Somebody! I'm chained up in here! Somebody?!"

"Like I said, Rodger, it's just you and us."

Rodger began looking around frantically. His vision was still blurred, but it was returning a little bit more every second. The light from above was no longer so strong and disorienting. He was seated in a wooden chair that was bolted to the floor, and a short distance before him stood a wooden desk, similarly bolted. On top of the desk was some sort of recording device he didn't recognize. Almost at once, he recognized where he was. It was some sort of performing stage.

"Is this an auditorium?" he asked, looking around the stage he was placed on.

"You are correct, Rodger," Marcus called from far away. "This is a high school auditorium."

Rodger looked around himself. The stage was large and empty of everything except himself, his chair, and the desk. Even the stages curtains seemed to have been removed. Around him on the floor was a large circle of red tape, about the size of a hot tub. Bending around, he was able to see much more clearly behind him, without the piercing light clogging his vision. As he turned, he noticed a long chain that extended from his back, all the way upstage, where it threaded a steel ring bolted to the cement wall, continuing on to his left out of sight. Beginning to rise, his long, heavy chain scrapped against his wooden chair.

"Sit down, Roger," the voice boomed with what felt like unquestionable authority.

Rodger slumped back down to his seat with a thud. In the distance, he could see rows and rows of indoor, stadium seating, rising up and away from him beneath a massively high ceiling. At almost the exact center of the audience seating sat what looked like eight individuals clustered together like some sort of judging panel. They were far away from him, almost ridiculously so. The harsh light that had been crushing his senses came from a spotlight high above in the back. He couldn't tell if it was being operated by someone or if it were just propped there.

"Before you get any ideas, we have a few ground rules to go over," Marcus said from the distance, his voice echoing throughout the dark, high ceiling auditorium. "You are chained up because you are dangerous. You were drugged with a powerful sleeping agent and brought here. It is my job to understand the timeline of recent events that occurred in Evergreen."

"What branch of government do you work with?" Roger asked from the empty stage.

"It's not exactly like that," Marcus said, sounding like he had a smirk on his face. Rodger thought he saw the dark haired man in the white shirt speaking, third from the right, but he couldn't be sure just yet. "We don't operate within the normal boundaries of any one branch. All I can say is that we protect this country from very bad people. We use any means necessary and we aren't bound by any laws. Now-"

"What do you mean you aren't bound by any laws?"

"Rodger, I'd hate to have you put to sleep again. I hear its painful, and you look as though you've already injured yourself."

Instinctively, Rodger lifted his chained hands to his forehead and felt the tightly wrapped bandage that was there. The sudden image of a jet black Sedan sliding over the rain-slicked yellow lines into the path of his taxi flashed before him, then the memory faded to black.

"Now," Marcus continued, keeping his cool. "The ground rules. Your chain has a very little amount of slack in it. Just enough for you to move around in your seat comfortably. You will notice a circle of red tape around you on the floor. This is your area. You don't have enough chain to go past this area, but if you try, you will be put down. Do you understand?"

Rodger was pretty sure he knew what being ‘put down' meant, and he nodded his head. "Do you have a cigarette?" he asked, smelling a lit one coming somewhere from his audience of eight.

"Yes," Marcus replied. "We have cigarettes, but-"

"Can I have one?"

"I don't think I can throw one that far, Rodger. In a couple of hours we‘ll take a break and you can have one then."

" **** you," Rodger mumbled.

"Now," Marcus continued, completely unaffected by the remark. "We need to have a talk. And I assure you, it will not be easy, but we need to know these things. You need to tell us what happened in Evergreen two days ago."

"Two days ago?"

"Yes, Rodger. People died, and things...started happening. We need to hear what you have to say."

At the mention of death, Rodger remembered that first thought that came back to him. The one about heaven, and how he couldn't get into it after what he'd done. As soon as the word ‘death' was spoken, he knew it had to do with him. His jaw nearly dropped, and that one word was like the key to the dance club that all his memories locked him out of, all his thoughts and recollections. They all crashed down on his aching mind, like junk in an overstuffed closet that was opened up by one of those sitcom dads. He asked the question he'd already known the answer to:

"I killed someone, didn't I?"

"Yes, Rodger. You did."

Two days earlier. Maryland.

"So...they took everything," Rodger spoke into the airport phone. "My watch, my cell, my wallet. My suitcase and even my ******* electric toothbrush." He looked around at the bustling Baltimore airport. Everyone was in such a hurry.

"I'm sorry hunny," his wife, Marie replied. "Did you get the cash I wired you?"

"Yeah, I got it this morning. Thanks."

"Well, you'll be back in Baltimore tomorrow night, right? We'll spend some time together, lay around, and I can help you forget all about your hotel room being robbed."

"But my ******* toothbrush, Marie. I loved that goddamn thing. Today I had to brush my teeth using a normal toothbrush and the power of my own arm, like a chump."

"We'll get you another one hunny," Marie said, a bit distracted. "Oh, and Jim stopped over to borrow your drill. You don't mind, do you?"

"Nah. He's a good neighbor. He can borrow anything he wants."

"That's what I thought," she said.

Rodger decided to tell her he was coming home early. "What are you-"

"Madeline, sweetie, get off the counter," he heard his wife moan. "Rodger, listen, we need to get to the store. Madeline‘s sleeping over at Jamie Thompson‘s house, and I need to make brownies. I can't wait to see you tomorrow, okay? I love you. Bye."

"Wait, what are-"

Click.

Rodger pulled the phone away from his ear and examined it, as if it might share some insight into his wife's odd behavior. He hung it up on the receiver. Turning around, he leaned against the phone booth and gripped the wad of twenty-dollar bills in his pocket that his wife sent him early yesterday. It was the biggest pain in the ass to get his plain ticket back from the west coast without any identification. It took him four hours to work his way through security. If he was planning to highjack the plane, Rodger would of at least have the decency to bring his ******* plane ticket and drivers license.

He began to walk towards the arrivals exits of Baltimore's airport, and he could see the evening gray sky beyond and the pounding rain of a storm through the sliding glass doors. As he walked, Rodger constantly felt as though he was forgetting something. It was an odd sensation, traveling without any luggage at all. Just not having his cell phone seemed to put him on edge. No wallet, no keys. This trip was a ******* mess. The hotel wouldn't even reimburse him for his loss, because he left his door propped open to get a bucket of ice.

Two minutes he was gone. Two minutes, and everything he brought from the east coast to the west coast disappeared. They even locked him out of his room after they robbed him, the pricks. After the hotel fiasco, Rodger decided to end his work conference a day and a half early. He needed to see Marie and Madeline after all this anyway, and he looked forward to surprising them.

Hailing a taxi, Rodger slid into the back seat.

"Where's you luggage?" the obese taxi cab driver asked him over his shoulder. He was a fat man, extraordinarily so. And greasy.

"No luggage," Rodger said through the rain pounding on the cab. The mans car stank like old cabbage. "Evergreen. Reams street." Rodger cracked the window.

The driver groaned and leaned his head back. "Evergreen is pretty close."

Rodger rested his tired head against the window and closed his eyes. "Not close enough," he said...

Rodger's head snapped up. The cab seemed to drift off the road, vibrating on the rumble strips next to the guardrail. He must have only been asleep for two or three minutes.

"Sorry," the cab driver said, lifting a sandwich. "They don't give us time to eat."

Rodger looked out the window. The rain had worsened considerably, and the sky had turned from an evening gray to a stormy black.

"Where are we?" Rodger asked, looking at the rain-slick interstate they were on.

The cabby cleared his throat and took another bite. "I-88," he said.

"I-88?" Rodger said with annoyance. "That's the stupidest way you could have taken. We should have been to my house in twenty minutes ago. This is turning into a forty minute trip."

The cabby shrugged. "We'll be there soon. Five, six minutes tops."

"No we won't," Rodger said, starting to get a little pissed off. "I'm not paying for this whole fare. You're trying to-"

"Do you want me to pull the **** over?" the cab driver turned around. "Because you can walk the rest of the way."

Rodgers face became illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming car that slid into their lane of traffic.

"Watch the road!" Rodger screamed. But the black sedan was coming too fast, and there was nothing the cab driver could do. His ham on rye flung into the air as both his hands gripped the wheel and yanked it to the right.

Rodger glanced at the odometer of the cab: 77mph

How could something happen so slowly and so fast at the same time, he wondered.

The cabby spun the steering wheel in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable.

Rodger gripped the edge of his seat. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt.

Rodger knew he was a dead man.

The cars collided with earth shattering, murderous force.

And what can a dead man do, Rodger thought, except die?

"We know all about the car accident," Marcus told him from the depths of the auditorium seating. "We are more interested in the events of the hospital and your house."

"Fine," Rodger said. "But I need a drink of water. And a ******* cigarette. Can I have a cigarette?"

"Sure Rodger," Marcus said. "I think now is a good time for a break anyway." Marcus lifted what looked like a radio to his mouth and spoke some indiscernible words into it. Almost instantly Rodger could feel the heavy chain attached to his waist loose slack and drop the floor. The steel ring the chain ran through attached to the far wall behind him rattled off a rapid succession of clanks as the slack slid through.

Rodger looked behind him at his heavy leash on the floor that ran through the steel ring and out of sight through the back of the stage.

"There," Marcus said, once more gaining his attention. "It is exactly forty-five feet to your room. You have exactly forty-nine feet of chain to get you there. In your room you will find a toilet, a bed, cigarettes, a sandwich and water. You have three minutes. Follow the red line to your room."

Rodger looked at the thin red line of tape that circled his chair and led out of sight in the same direction of his chain. He stood unsteadily to his feet.

"Oh, and Rodger?"

"Yeah."

"Do not deviate from the red line. We are watching you."

" ******* pricks," Rodger mumbled as he walked off stage, following the hastily laid red tape at his feet. The entranceway to the stage's side had its doors removed, and Rodger found himself following the red line into a well lit hallway of white. His chain ran through another steel ring imbedded into the concrete wall a few feet from the side stages entrance, then his chain drifted down a further hallway to the left. His red line, however, took a different direction than his chain.

Rodger stopped moving and stared down the distant hallway to where his leash generated from. There were two double, swinging-doors at the end of the hallway, and he saw that the slack in his chain originated from a pile at the foot of these two doors.

He watched for a moment longer, and swore he saw movement through the crack in the doors, but he couldn't be sure.

"Rodger?" an electronically garbled voice of Marcus broke through his curiosity on the schools loudspeaker system. His vision drifted upwards on a wall at the hallways intersection. A small camera was placed there, its blinking red light an annoying reminder of those who watched him from the other side. "Rodger, you must follow the red line to your room."

Rodger gave the camera the finger.

Casting one more glance at the distant double doors, and the second steel ring at the hallways intersection, he moved on.

After all, he had to see the wondrous sights that the red tape were leading him to.

Needless to say, Rodger was disappointed.

His room was some sort of modified janitors office, except everything had been removed. Concrete floors, walls, and ceilings surrounded him. The door had been removed, and all that lay before him was a small mattress on the floor and a flimsy collapsible chemical toilet. Besides those two luxuries, the room was barren.

Moving to his mattress, he noticed that there was a sandwich sitting on a single napkin, three loose cigarettes, a pack of matches, and a bottle of water. He picked up the sandwich and examined it.

"Bologna?" he wondered aloud. "A ******* bologna sandwich?"

He looked around his small, concrete cell, locating a small camera high in the corner. Its red light, just like the one in the hallways intersection, was blinking at him knowingly.

"Marcus! You ******* prick! Are you on a budget or something?"

Wolfing the sandwich down, Rodger placed a cigarette in his mouth and flipped open the match booklet.

There were only three matches left.

"Assholes," he muttered, ripping the match to flame from the back of the little white booklet. He lit the cigarette and took a long draw from it, exhaling it into the air above him.

"God that's good," he said softly through the smoke.

"Rodger?" the schools intercom crackled.

Rodger tenderly touched his bandaged forehead. "What now?" he asked, his voice dripping with venom.

"Its time for you to return to the stage."

"Do you want to see me dance or something, Marcus?"

There was a pause.

"Return to the stage, Rodger."

Rodger scowled up at the camera. "You do want to see me dance, don't you Marcus? I can hear that undertone of eager, impatience in your voice." Rodger took another long drag from his cigarette. "The girls I used to **** in college before Marie used to talk to me with the same inflection, so I can only assume that-"

Rodgers insult was cut short as he heard an industrial sized machine being fired up somewhere down the distant hall. He moved to his doorway to investigate, when the slack in his chain disappeared with rapid speed, ripping him off his feet.

His chain was pulling him out of the room with relentless tenacity. His hands gripped the steel doorframe in an attempt to slow the indomitable force that was pulling him from his shitty room, but it was to no avail. Although a mildly strong man, the force against him was far superior in strength, and Rodger could offer little protest. He was pulled from his room like a child struggling against his infinitely stronger father. The only sign of resistance he seemed to put forth was the loud squeaks his hands offered as they were dragged across the shiny floor.

Before he knew it, Rodger was sliding past his second steel ring in the wall, at the intersection of the hall before his room.

Tossing a quick glance at the double doors at the end of the distant hall the red line would never lead him to, Rodger saw his chain being pulled through the door at high speeds.

I wonder where it ends, he thought?

The next thing he knew, Rodger was pinned against his first ring, center stage, under a blinding spotlight. His chair and desk were twenty feet in front of him.

Rodger had somehow, by the grace of god, managed to keep the lit cigarette in his mouth the entire time.

"Thank you for returning so promptly Rodger." Marcus called out from the distance. "Your compliance will be properly noted."

"I'm so glad you approve," Rodger spoke, pinned against the wall. The pressure behind his chain was unreal, his feet were barely touching the ground. Gripping his cigarette between to fingers, he blew a cloud of smoke out, pretending not to be impressed.

Marcus cleared his throat. "Rodger, you mentioned Marie a moment ago. Why don't you tell us a little more about her? About your family?"

The pressure holding him up disappeared, and he could hear the slack in his chain return as its length collapsed to the floor. His ass hit the stage with teeth grinding force.

Rodger sat there, beneath his steel ring, taking another pull from his cigarette.

"We both know that's not why I'm here, so why don't we cut the crap?" he said. "What happened at the house wouldn't warrant this ****," he shook the chains around his waist. "I'd be in ******* prison if that was my only problem."

"Then you remember what happened to you?" Marcus wondered aloud. "You remember what happened in Evergreen?"

"Yeah," Rodger took the last drag from his cig, flicking it away from him. "I remember now..."

Two days earlier. Evergreen County Memorial Hospital.

The beeping was steady. Incessant. Irritating.

Rodger slowly opened his eyes. He felt like death, but he wasn't dead, and for this he was glad. His head ached with unimaginable pain, so much so that it made him moan. It was bound in a thin bandage and gauze, and he touched it tenderly, wincing with the pain.

But the pain was life, and Rodger was alive.

Sitting up slowly, he looked around. His small hospital room was sparsely furnished, and the door was propped open to a dim hospital hallway beyond. There was no loving wife by his bed, and no young daughter hoping her daddy was okay. He was alone.

"Hello?" he called out hoarsely, examining the IV tube that was connected to the inside of his arm.

There was no response. The entire floor seemed to be eerily quiet.

"Hello?!" he tried again. "I'm awake!"

Nothing.

Looking around him, Rodger saw a thin remote control attached to a cord that disappeared beneath his bed. Grabbing it, he began to randomly push buttons. After his bed reclined into four different positions, he finally found the call button on it for the nurse. Pressing it, he waited.

Down the hall, he could hear a feint buzzer sounding in the distance.

He leaned his head back against the pillow and waited, but either no one heard it, or there was no one there. The buzzer stopped.

"What the ****?" Rodger mumbled, pressing the button again. Once more its sound resonated to him through the long hallway. He listened until it stopped, and still no one came to his call.

Rodger swung his feet to the floor and rose unsteadily.

What if I was dying, he wondered? This hospital sucks.

A powerful wave of dizziness washed over him, so intense that his vision turned to black. Doubling over onto all fours, he vomited on the floor.

"God," he moaned, gripping his IV rack for support.

Finally he was able to stand.

"Hello?!" he called out yet again, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hospital gown.

His head began to throb, and his vision went black again. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

After the dizziness subsided, he shuffled to the foot of his bed and picked up his chart. The doctors writing might as well have been in Sanskrit, it was so hard to read. But there was one thing that grabbed his attention and answered some of his questions.

" ****," he said softly, reading where his name should be. "John Doe."

He hadn't had his wallet on him.

Rodger replaced the chart into its slot at the edge of his bed.

So that's why Marie isn't here, he thought. She doesn't even know I've been in a car accident.

Slowly, Rodger moved to the open door, bringing his IV rack with him for support. It's wheels squeaked softly as he reached the doorway.

He moved out into the hallway and froze.

Just a little way down the hall there was a body, sprawled out on the floor. A small puddle of blood had pooled around it.

"Jesus," Rodger said softly. "Hello?"

There was no sound at all, just the echo of his voice down the dark hallway. The body was motionless.

His heart began to beat faster.

This is not good, he thought.

"Is there someone here?" he called out unsteadily, hesitant to move forward.

Nothing.

He turned around and took a glance at the relative safety of his hospital room, then down the dim hallway. At the body. At the blood.

" ****," he said softly, and began to slowly move out into the hall. His heart was beating wildly now as he neared the body, his IV racks wheels squeaking in soft protest.

The body was a young nurse, face down on the floor. Her pink scrubs were stained crimson by the blood that had pooled from her face. There were two broken teeth in the red puddle.

Rodger looked away and kept moving down the hall, past the body. He looked into a room on his right and stopped moving.

There was a doctor lying on the floor, motionless. Another patient was laying in bed, still as death.

"Hello?" Rodger asked tentatively.

Nothing.

He started to move faster down the hallway.

Rodger was frightened now.

He passed a nurses station. More bodies, motionless, dead. Slumped across their desks or splayed out on the floor.

" ****, ****, ****, ****," he was saying, not looking at the ground.

Faster he moved, towards an exit sign at the end of the hall. His IV rack was squealing now, urging him forward, pushing him.

He passed another body, this one a young man. The pile of towels he was carrying were scattered all about, and blood had dripped from his mouth onto the linoleum floor.

What the **** was going on, his mind screamed?

A ******* terrorist attack. ******* biological weapons.

This was seriously ****** up, he thought.

Rodger reached the door and yanked the IV cord from his arm, and threw the rack down a short concrete ramp that led to a side parking lot.

The night air was quiet and cool, the parking lot still wet from the downpour that occurred earlier.

Rodger moved out into the parking lot, amongst the several parked cars and ambulances. There was a slight breeze that sent a chill up his spine. His hospital gown was far to thin to be running around like this, he thought.

There. Another body lying in between two cars.

It was a woman. Her short skirt was flipped up over her ass, and her hand still griped her car keys. It looked like whatever happened, it happened fast.

Rodger kept moving.

He had to find a phone, to get to Marie and Madeline. He had to make sure they were alright. He had to figure out just what the **** was going on.

First, he heard the car approaching over the hill. Then he saw the beams of its headlights peaking up over the incline.

"Holy ****," Rodger said. He began to move towards the street. "Hey! Hey, over here!" He was waving his arms frantically now.

At least there was someone else alive out here.

Rodger reached the street, and the car was making its approach down the hill.

"Stop! Please god stop!" the car was approaching him now, with no sign of slowing down.

"Come on! Please! Please!"

The car gradually veered off to the side of the road, but it didn't slow down.

It sped up.

"What the-" Rodgers concerns were cut short as the car headed straight for him.

The oncoming station wagon slammed into the guardrail just before reaching him, sending a cascade of sparks into the sky. Rodger dived out of the way onto the wet grass, the car narrowly missing him. He looked up just in time to see the station wagon bounce off the rail one last time and skid out across the road, finally slamming into a street light with jarring force. Its horn went off and held, piercing the still night.

"I don't believe this," Rodger said, shaking his head. "What the **** is happening?"

He rose up and ran across the wet street to the car.

The windows were smashed, and glass was everywhere. Rodger walked carefully to avoid cutting his bare feet. The man in the drivers seat was doubled over the steering wheel, his battered face holding the horn down. There were either no airbags, or they hadn't deployed. Rodger tilted the mans head back and felt for a pulse.

Nothing. He was dead.

Rodger backed away slowly, no longer caring about cutting his feet on the broken glass. He turned and started to run.

He had to get to Marie and Madeline. He had to make sure they were okay.

His feet pounded into the pavement, and the dark street swallowed him up. It was six miles to his house, and he was done with cars.

"So, at first you thought it was a terrorist attack?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah," Rodger said from his desk at center stage. His hands were folded in front of him, his wrist shackles resting easily on the worn wooden desk.

"And you ran the entire way home? With your injuries?"

Rodger shrugged his shoulders. "I had places to go," he said.

"And nothing else strange happened to you on the way there?"

"I cut through the park, It was too dark to see anything."

"I can imagine," Marcus said from the audience seating. "Tell us what happened when you got home."

"I don't know if I want to," Rodger said softly.

Marcus paused. "I don't blame you, Rodger."

Next Chapter >

Keyword: Waking Up Is Never Easy

Report this story | Add to Favorites | Send to Friends | Author's Profile

No Comments posted

Comments (2)

Posted by bubbly 2008-07-05 04:15:19 interesting hi! david. an interesting first chapter. lol. ;-) + Report this comment
Posted by David Relic 2008-07-25 02:35:24 .... do you take pleasure in writing stories as stupid as your face? I see....no comment... + Report this comment

Post a comment

Post a comment