Paul Jones - Extinction Point - The End

So, why was she so excited at the possibility of seeing another human being? She couldn’t answer that, she was a reporter not a psychiatrist, but the idea of being no longer totally alone, of having someone, anyone, to talk to was the most astonishingly important thing to her right now.

Emily smiled widely at the thought. It had created a brightness in her that she had not known had left her, and as she opened the door onto the 18th floor landing she began calling out.

“Hello?” she yelled as loud as she could. “Is there anyone else alive here?”

As if in answer to her yell she heard the cry, this time louder and definitely somewhere on the same floor with her.

Wagghhhhh !!!

She paused for a second to try to identify which direction the cry was coming from.

Wagghhhhh!! !

From her left, definitely. And not too many doors down either by the sound of it.

“Hello,” she continued yelling. “I’m here to help. Can you hear me?”

Waggghhhg ! Waggghhh ! The reply came, doubled to match her own urgency, and luckily too, because she had passed the door to the apartment where the cry was coming from. She doubled-back and stood outside the door. Placing her hand flat against the wood of the door she gave it an experimental push: locked! Of course it was, what had she expected?

Emily slapped her hand twice against the door.

“I’m outside your door,” she yelled. “You don’t have to worry, I didn’t get sick. I can help you. Please, just let me know that you’re okay. Please.” The sentence came out almost as a single word, she was speaking so fast, babbling with excitement, she realized.

As if in answer, the cry sounded again, this time it was a single, long, drawn out syllable.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa !

It was then that Emily realized with an abrupt certainty that the kid was in there on her own. How do I know she’s not a he? She thought, but it sounded better than calling her ‘it’. Somehow, she had survived for all this time on her own and now it was up to Emily to help. She had to rescue the child. But how the fuck was she supposed to get into the room?

She could try kicking down the door but she didn’t think she’d have much luck with that if it was anything like the entrance to her own apartment. Years of cycling had given her strong legs, but she knew she was not strong enough to break down a secured door. No, this was going to take a more focused application of force to open.

“Of course!” she said and ran back to the stairwell. On either side of the doorway was a large red fire extinguisher, housed in its own box behind a front of glass. Next to the fire extinguisher, on the opposite side of the doorway, was a similar red box and behind its glass was a large and equally bright red fire-ax. A small metal hammer, about the size of an icepick, hung from a metal chain on the right side of the box. She grabbed the hammer, turned her eyes away and hit the glass with as much force as possible. It shattered with her first strike crumbling to the floor. Gripping the ax with both hands, she pulled it from its retaining clasps and sprinted back to the apartment.

The apartment complex owner hadn’t skimped on anything when he built the complex, and that attention to detail also extended to the doors of each apartment. They were made of a high-density wood-mix that could withstand a fire for up to an hour. Hacking her way through the door would probably take her a month of Sundays so there was no time to spare.

Rather than try to chop a hole large enough to fit through, Emily decided to concentrate on disabling the actual locking mechanism of the door instead. If she could get to the lock, she should be able to gain access to the apartment.

Emily planted her feet shoulder-width apart with enough room between herself and the door she could put some real momentum behind her swing. The ax weighed about thirty-pounds but she managed to heft it up to head-height and take aim at the lock tumbler. She drew in a deep breath and brought the ax down with as much force as she could muster against the face of the door. The impact transmitted waves of pain through her arms and up to her shoulders but she was rewarded with the satisfying sound of wood splintering and saw the ax head bite deep into the wood. She had to wiggle the haft of the ax up and down a few times to free it from the door, but once it was out she could see a six-inch long, inch-deep gash just to the right of the lock.

As if in encouragement to her attempt at breaking and entering, the child inside the apartment let out another mournful wail. As the cry reached her, Emily raised the ax again and sent it down into the door, this time the shockwave of pain was worse as she felt the tip of the ax hit the metal shaft of the lock’s cylinder. Sweat had already begun to trickle down her forehead and she felt an uncomfortable wetness under her armpits, but it was worth it because she could see the lock was canted at a slightly different angle than when she first arrived outside the door.

This explains why I became a reporter and not a firefighter , she thought as she felt the dull ache of the pain in her muscles.

Emily summoned her energy again and drew the ax back up above her head, holding it there for a second, she sucked in as big a gulp of air as she could before exhaling it in a scream that was half frustration and half anger. The ax plummeted down, scoring a direct hit on the lock, dislodging it from the receiver and sending it whistling towards her, missing her head by mere inches.

“Jesus Christ,” Emily exclaimed as she turned to follow the trajectory of the six-inch piece of metal as it clattered to the floor behind her after rebounding off the opposite wall. When she turned back, the remainder of the lock lay on the floor too.

The door to the apartment was now ajar.

The line of work Emily was in had long ago taught her to trust her gut instinct. For some unknown, subconscious reason, she hesitated at the threshold of the apartment, the flat of her left hand resting against the door, her right hand clenched so tightly around the shaft of the ax she could feel her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. Something did not feel right, she realized. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but she had a definite sense of offness about what she was hearing. From the dark apartment beyond the door the wail of the child sounded again, louder now she was so close, breaking through her indecision.

Wagghhhhh!!!

A scene from the movie The Shining —the one where an insane Jack Nicholson chops down the door to his kid’s room with an ax—leapt unbidden into her mind, sending a shudder of unease down her spine, but she dismissed it as just nerves.

“Here’s Emily,” she croaked as she pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment.

The stench of ammonia hit Emily the second she eased the apartment door open wide enough for her to slip inside. It filled her nostrils and seared the back of her throat, instantly triggering her gag reflex. She spent a full minute trying not to throw-up before she could move any further into the apartment.

The smell was not what she had expected, it wasn’t the bittersweet stench of putrefaction, this was more like a hundred cats had spent a week peeing freely in the apartment and then sealed the place up for another week.

Waves of heat rolled out through the open door. Emily felt beads of moisture condense against her skin. What had the kid’s parents been keeping in here? Were they running a meth lab or something?

How had the kid survived so long breathing this air?

If she had a towel or a rag on hand, Emily would have soaked it in water and used it to filter the cloying, ammonia-laden air. She was tempted to use the blanket but decided against it. Instead, she untucked her tee-shirt from her jeans and pulled it up until it covered her nose and mouth, keeping it place with one hand. It wasn’t perfect, she knew, but it should help keep some of that vomit inducing stench at bay. Gritting her teeth against the smell, Emily stepped into the apartment’s entranceway.