Shaun Jeffrey: Dead Man's Eye

She felt as though trapped in a waking nightmare. Things like this – whatever the hell it was – didn’t happen in real life.

At the end of the backstreet, she saw vehicles driving along the main road. Saw people walking by. No longer necessary to remain quiet, Joanna screamed and shouted.

She burst out onto the main road, sweat coursing down her face. Shoppers traipsing between the rows of shops steered clear, avoiding her gaze, as though not wanting Joanna’s nightmare to invade their reality.

“Help me,” she screamed.

A bald old man sitting at the bus shelter opposite looked up from his newspaper. “Are you alright?” he shouted.

Joanna didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain something that defied explanation. She opened both eyes, the scene losing any semblance of focus as the vision from both eyes combined.

“There’s someone after me,” she shouted back.

Before the man had a chance to respond, Joanna felt a hand grab her shoulder, sharp nails digging into her flesh, almost burning. She turned, looked straight into Nina’s black eyes.

“It’s okay,” Nina said to the man, holding up her free hand in a placating manner. “We’ve just had a little argument. You know what it’s like.”

The man nodded.

“No, you’ve got to help me,” Joanna screamed. She tried to pull free of Nina, but her friend seemed unnaturally strong, her grip that of an iron shackle. She felt certain that Nina would rupture her shoulder if she squeezed much harder.

“Come with me, now,” Nina hissed in Joanna’s ear.

Acting more out of instinct than sense, Joanna spun around, swinging the chair leg. She heard and felt the wood strike Nina’s head, sending a shaft of pain reverberating along her arm. Although feeling instantly guilty about hitting her friend, Nina didn’t bat an eyelid, the attack as insubstantial as a fly landing on her cheek.

Fear replaced Joanna’s guilt. Nina squeezed harder; started to pull Joanna towards the backstreet.

Unable to combat her friend’s unnatural strength, Joanna twisted and pulled, grimacing, teeth bared, called upon every ounce of muscle, but it was useless. She might as well have been a baby squirming in its mother’s arms for all the good it did.

She gripped the chair leg in both hands, twisted her body, scrambling to use her feet as brakes.

Nina pulled harder, snaked her other arm around Joanna’s neck. Unable to save herself, Joanna lost her balance and fell. Nina fell with her, landing heavily on Joanna’s stomach and forcing the wind from her lungs.

Panting for air, Joanna released the chair leg and rolled Nina aside. She got to her feet, breathing heavily.

Before she had time to regain her composure, she heard someone scream. Above the cacophony, someone else shouted something unintelligible.

Confused and breathless, Joanna put her hands to her sides and leaned over to catch her breath… and saw the chair leg protruding from Nina’s stomach, her body surrounded by a growing pool of blood.

Lincoln jerked awake. In the distance, he heard a scream followed by shouting. When he realised that he was standing upright in a strange corridor, with no recollection of how he got there, confusion reigned supreme. It was like the storeroom all over again.

He blinked and went to rub his eyes, felt the hand move through the air, but didn’t feel any of the relief the movement should have elicited as he rubbed at his face. That’s when he realised that he had tried to use his missing hand. The nerve endings still somehow received signals from his brain and went through the motions of following out the command to the extent that it still felt as though his arm was attached.

With an inward groan, he rubbed at his eyes with his other hand. When he looked down, he saw that he was dressed in a grey jumper, the armless sleeve of which hung limp like a balloon devoid of air. The sight made him scrunch his face up in anger; made him feel impotent. Now a cripple, no way would he ever wear the usual vest tops that he favoured before the accident to show off his physique. Only freaks and sick fucks would want to look at a grotesque lump of scar tissue.

He stared along the corridor, rubbing his cheek as he tried to fathom how he’d arrived where he was. It didn’t make any sense. The last thing he remembered was being in the hospital.

The narrow walls of the corridor seemed to contract, making Lincoln feel sick. He took a deep breath, willed his heart to cease its frenetic war beat. Sweat beaded his forehead. He tried to swallow but it felt as though a lump had lodged in his throat.

Despite positive affirmations, he still felt out of kilter.

“Where’d she go?”

Lincoln turned at the sound of the voice and saw the nurse that he had seen when he had his last bout of memory loss.

Lincoln shook his head. “What’s going on? Where am I?”

The nurse peered at him quizzically. “You’ve lost control then.”

“Lost control of what?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the nurse snapped, making Lincoln step back in shock.

“Of course you’re talking to me. There’s no one else here.” He lifted his arm to indicate the empty corridor.

The nurse snorted loudly. “If you can’t keep control of a mere human, how do you expect to control the army?”

Lincoln frowned. “I don’t understand.”

The nurse continued unperturbed. “Perhaps I should take charge. The legions respect me.”

“You’re talking crazy.”

“Perhaps I should just kill your vessel.” The nurse advanced towards him.

Lincoln backed into the wall. He didn’t know why he felt so afraid – it was only a nurse, albeit a butch one, but there was something unwholesome about her.

“Yes, perhaps we should find another way,” the nurse said, her face a vicious mask.

“Another way to what? You’re not making any sense.” Lincoln’s heart felt as though subjected to running a marathon. It thumped within his chest. His fingers tingled. As the nurse drew closer, he felt a wave of heat that made him feel faint.

Whatever the hell was going on, Lincoln didn’t want any part of it. About to turn and walk away, he saw the nurse lunge for him, and instead of walking, he ran.

Despite still feeling weak from the loss of blood after the accident, terror drove him on. Unsure where he was, or where he was going, he headed along the corridor. Closed doors on both sides with numbers attached gave him the impression that he was in an apartment block of some sort.

At the end of the corridor, he fled down a flight of stairs, almost falling in his haste. The smell of piss lingered in the stairway, and graffiti marred the walls, love’s young dream spelled out with permanent black marker.

Up ahead he saw grimy glass doors leading outside, and he ran towards them, grabbed the handle, pushed and tumbled out into the street. He noticed a crowd of people gathered outside a shop, and headed towards them, seeking safety within their presence. Behind him, he heard the doors slam open and he looked back to see the nurse exit the building.

Returning his attention to the crowd, he made his way towards them and shuffled through to see a young girl lying on the pavement. A piece of wood protruded from her stomach and a blanket of blood circled her body.

Lincoln cringed.

In the distance, he heard a siren.

“I tell you, she just stabbed her in cold blood,” a middle-aged woman said to the police officer taking notes.

“I saw the whole thing,” a bald old man said, shaking his head. “They were arguing-”

“How do you know?”

“That dead girl said so after I asked the other girl, the one who ran away, if she was okay – she shouted for help, you see. Anyway, then the girl who ran away, she hit that dead girl on the head with that piece of wood. Next thing you know, they were fighting and, well, that’s how it ended up. Damn shame. What’s the world coming to?”