Heartless (3 page)

I made it across the room in five drunken, lumbering steps. I reached out for the knob. The heavy metal door gave way easily, and it opened with a slippery silence that made me pause. It wasn’t chained, or locked, or barred in any way. I’d expected to be trapped, locked in, and the fact that I wasn’t was, simply put, terrifying.

I’m dead. Dead people don’t escape the morgue because they’re dead.

It was absurd, but I was afraid to laugh, afraid another terrible moan might escape. Instead I took a deep breath, pulling air into lungs that didn’t need it, and stepped over the threshold. The door slammed shut behind me.

Once again, what I faced was nothing like what I expected, with as much of a passing thought as I devoted to any one thing in those first moments. I expected to find myself in a hospital basement. I expected to find stairs leading to a waiting room, or a nurses’ station, or somewhere, anywhere, that I could find help.

Instead, I stood in a snowdrift on a blinding, sunny winter’s day. I was outside, somewhat sheltered by an overhanging roof, but not at all in a sterile hospital wing. There were stairs in front of me, leading down to more than a foot of snow. I stopped in my tracks and spun around.

Behind me, framing the door I’d just exited, stood a small, innocent-looking mountain cabin. I happened to be standing on its quaint, downright
picturesque
front porch, in a snowdrift that had blown in from a storm. The wooden banisters were well-covered with white, and there was evidence of a welcome mat beneath my toes. A cozy-looking wooden swing hung on my right, rocking slowly back and forth in the gentle breeze.

That was when I realized I was really in trouble. Waking up inside a normal morgue was bad enough; waking up in a morgue in a quaint little mountain cabin was something else entirely. I swallowed a mouthful of nothing, not even saliva, and I reopened the front door to make sure I hadn’t dreamed up the whole thing. But there it was, the morgue, complete with cadaver cabinets and dead girls on tables.
Naked
dead girls on tables, I noted. Whatever had happened to me, and to them, hadn’t just been your average snowy-mountain accident. Because that was no average, snowy-mountain morgue.

I shuddered, and reached up my arms to hold myself together. I realized, then, that I was naked too, just like the girls on the tables, which led to my next realization: even though the breeze blew frozen snow particles through the air around me, I wasn’t cold. At all. I wasn’t shivering, I didn’t quite feel the breeze’s bite, and I couldn’t see my breath. Probably because I wasn’t breathing. Again.

I wanted to throw up, but my body didn’t seem able to cooperate so instead I just opened my mouth and made a pathetic attempt at gagging. Nothing happened. So I decided it was probably time to go, since leaving felt more productive than standing there, waiting for something to happen. Inside the morgue, I’d noticed a giant snow parka hanging on a hook beside the door, less than three feet away. I walked inside one last time, grabbed it, and yanked it over my arms. It was a reflex gesture, a reaction to being naked and exposed and not wanting to run without something covering me up. The coat was long, reaching almost to my feet. Outside again I zipped it up with a yank. Terror bubbled up again as I stared at my feet, bare beneath the parka, toes touching the icy snow. They weren’t cold either. They were fine, cozy, even as I stood barefoot in a snow bank.

This is wrong. Bad. All that money I’ve spent on shoes…

I ran. I didn’t know what else to do.

I ran through the snow, through the forest, down the face of one mountain and up the face of another. I ran blindly, not paying any attention to where I came from or where I was going. It was a panicked run. There was no sense of reason or rationale left anywhere in me. I ran from the morgue, from the devastating absence of feeling I remembered in my fingers and toes. I ran from the grim sense that I was in the worst danger of my life.

As I ran, and as roots and rocks hidden in the knee-deep snow tripped me up and sent me tumbling, and as branches grabbed at my face and coat, I tried figure out what could be going on.

I leaped over an icy stream, sliding my bare feet across its frozen, pebbled edges. I felt nothing.

Maybe I really am dead.

I tripped over a rock and tumbled head-over-heels down a hill.

That didn’t hurt. I must be dead.

I pulled myself to my feet and pulled the parka tighter around my body, more out of habit than need.

Am I crazy? Drugged?

I’d heard of drugs that stopped pain or caused hallucinations; I’d seen friends strung out on some of them. But I’d never heard of a drug that allowed you to live without breathing. And though I ran, and ran fast, in the dry, icy air, never once did a pant or even a shallow, panicked breath escape my frantic lips.

Time passed while I ran, but I wasn’t aware of how much until the sun began to set behind the mountains. When it was so dark that the only light came from a bright, waxing moon, I found a spot under some overhanging rock. It was mostly free of snow, a reasonable shelter in which to pass the night, so I sat down and pulled my knees to my chest.
At least I won’t be cold,
I thought, and I came close to smiling. Whatever was going on, it had at least one benefit. I’d always hated being cold.

The night passed slowly. I tried to sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes, my brain swirled and twirled in a dance of terror. The more I tried to shut it down, the harder it worked. By sunrise, all I had were more questions.

Like, why
wasn’t
I cold? And why
wasn’t
I even the least bit tired? And what
was
that green gunk on the snow beside me? It looked just like the goo from the morgue, and it made me want to hurl.

With the first crystal glimmers of sunrise came more bits of rational thought. I needed to find help. I needed to walk instead of run so that I wouldn’t break my neck on top of everything else. And I needed to figure out where I was and what to do next.

In a flash, I knew. I needed Lucy. My roommate. Lucy had a way of solving everything. She was just that kind of a girl.

And thus a second choice was made, small though it seemed at the time. I pulled Lucy into the dangerous web surrounding me, and changed her life forever.

O
nce I realized what I needed, it was easy enough to accomplish. Initial waves of panic finally abated, I took a deep, unnecessary breath and crossed my fingers, hoping for a little bit of luck in the soft dawn light. I eased my way out of the rocky overhang, and turned to look up. The rock under which I’d passed the night was at the base of Mount Schnoz, aptly named by Smytheville students because of its resemblance to a giant nose, sniffing the hills around it. There were two caves on the southeastern side of the mountain that looked like nostrils and doubled as make-out spots for students in the warmer months.

I’d been sitting, cowering, in the left nostril.

My first break of the day.
Mount Schnoz was less than five miles from campus. I started to jog.

I reached campus quickly, making use of my newfound ability to run flat-out without ever getting out of breath, or, you know, needing
any
breath. The gates of campus were welcoming, if snow-covered, offering a promise of security beyond their awe-inspiring arches.

I crossed the threshold onto campus and immediately relaxed. Comparatively speaking, of course, since I still couldn’t feel my heartbeat. But at least I was home. I pulled the parka’s hood over my head, shielding myself from the lone runner heading toward the track for his morning workout. It was early, based on what little I knew of the sun’s path through the New England winter sky, but it felt strange for my typically bustling campus to be so stark and empty. Especially on what I thought was a Thursday morning (because hadn’t I left Eli’s on a Wednesday night? Wasn’t it a Thursday? Suddenly I wasn’t sure), when classes started early and winter sports started even before that.

Is it a snow day?
I wondered.
Did they finally close campus?
I looked down to my feet, buried in the snow, and almost laughed at the thought. The snow was only knee-deep. Smytheville
never
shut down, not even when it was over my head. Instead, they kept snowplows on duty for the entire winter, ready to keep our streets free from snow and our sidewalks safe for student pedestrians.

The buildings around me looked sleepy in their thick winter blankets, the gothic towers standing straight against the wind, blurred and softened with white. Drifts collected on the faces of gargoyles high overhead, hats and scarves hiding the ugly faces that had kept watch over college co-eds for centuries, or so the school’s administration wanted potential students to believe. Me? I just thought they were creepy. I shuddered as I passed them on my path toward home. My dorm.

Smytheville College, my father’s alma mater and the only school to which my parents allowed me to apply even though it was far from our Colorado home, was created in the image of the classic Ivy League schools. In warm months, buildings crawled with ivy. It blanketed them, made everything look lush and verdant and like it belonged here in the mountains. It was stunning, really. Once I’d arrived on the busy Smytheville campus, with its hiking parties and skiing excursions, I rarely missed the west. Smytheville quickly became home. Comfortable. Cozy, even on those frequent snowy nights.

But suddenly I was disconcerted by the absence of people on the usually crowded campus, where students often built snowmen like small children celebrating a snow day. It was creepy, and empty, and the soothing, homey feeling wore off quickly.

Where is everybody?

I cut behind Shepherd Hall, home of our English Department, past the athletic center. My dorm, Calvin Hall, stood behind them in all its nonconformist glory. Calvin was a recent addition to the campus; it was covered with cheap yellow stucco, and it stood out like a dandelion among the ivy. Still, it was home, and I wanted to go inside. The only problem? The front desk, where a student attendant would be waiting to check my ID card and make sure I was allowed inside. Too bad a naked girl who couldn’t speak, oozing greenish goo from
somewhere
, would likely cause a stir. I had to hope not to draw any attention to myself if I had any hope of reaching Lucy inside.

I walked past the front doors of the building, peeking in. A girl sat, dozing, at the front desk, her face cushioned in an open palm. Her head bobbed and nodded while she tried and failed to stay awake.

I knew her, sort of. She was an RA on a different floor from mine, a mousy little thing with thick glasses and curly hair. She sat at the front desk most mornings, and probably knew my face well enough to raise an alarm if I looked as bad as I suspected I looked. Since she was half awake, I didn’t trust my battered body’s ability to sneak past her. I wiggled my toes in the snow and thought for a second.

What I needed, really and truly needed, was the perfect thing to say to shut her up if she saw me. Only problem was I hadn’t said a word since the morgue the day before. I’d only moaned. I’d need to practice first.

Staying outside, I slipped past the dormitory’s doors, cringing when they auto-opened, and sneaked around the corner of the building to the bench where students often gathered to smoke. Even in the snow, the ground was littered with cigarette butts.

But the area was blessedly empty; even the ever-present smokers were missing, and I shuddered at the oddness of it all. I brushed the snow off the bench, sat down on gems like “LC & JB 4EVER” and “FU PROF PRICE,” and I tried to talk.

My first attempt at the not-so-creative “Can I talk?” came out like a gravelly
“Cra gaaa tass?”
I was a six-pack-a-day-smoking, broken old lounge singer.

I cringed.
That’s not gonna cut it.

I tried again. “How about now?” Another moan. Throaty, dry. Way too raspy to formulate proper vocal sounds. I took a handful of snow and forced myself to swallow it, focusing hard on engaging my throat muscles in a downward thrust. It took a minute, but finally the snow went down. I tried to speak again.

Lubrication worked like a dream. On my attempt at “Maybe third time’s the charm,” I managed “time” and “charm” without too much difficulty. From there, it was only a few more minutes before I was able to say s’s and th’s. I still sounded scratchy and weird, but I didn’t care. It was progress, and progress was good, no matter how small. I headed back to the front doors of Calvin Hall.

They opened before me, wide and welcoming. A lusty breeze flew through the open doorway and scattered papers on the front desk. The mousy RA startled awake, shoving her glasses up on her nose. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed an O when she saw me.

I pulled the hood tighter around my face and stared into her eyes for a second.

I smiled, as best as I could manage. My face crackled and creaked. I spoke.

“Rough night.”

I barely croaked it out. I sounded like a frog with a hangover.

But she nodded, her mouth hanging open. As I walked past, she rubbed her temples and shook her head in confusion or disbelief. There was really no way to tell.

It didn’t matter to me, though. I was inside. It was time to wake Lucy.