B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

I opened my eyes.

I noticed two things immediately. One, I wasn’t cold anymore. I wasn’t warm, either, but the icy ache began to slide out of my muscles the moment I opened my eyes. The second thing I noticed was that I wasn’t alone anymore.

Chapter Seven

One-Sided Conversations

I tried to scream, but he didn’t let me.

His hand, burning with feverish heat, clamped over my mouth and cut off the tiny squeak I’d managed to conjure. He pushed me down into the sand, shoved his face into mine, and used his other hand to make the universal shush gesture with his index finger.

I hadn’t had much time to get a good look at him. When I’d opened my eyes, he’d been a shadow crouched against the grey horizon, a black hulk of lanky limbs. He’d sprung at me with blinding speed, and the strength in those long skinny arms was incredible. I wasn’t weak, but he pinned me with one hand without effort.

Still, as I looked up at him and his shush finger, pressed tightly against his lips, I could see the planes of his face, even in the dim of the grey sky. They weren’t twisted in some trollish look of rage or slicked into the lines of a hungry predator. In fact, he looked determined more than anything, or cautious even. It was hard to tell his age in the dark, but the gray of his shaggy hair told me he wasn’t young. His eyes shot away from my face, looking over me, toward where I knew the hill to be.

I stopped struggling. It could have been a ruse, but he didn’t look like he was attacking me. I think he just wanted me to shut the hell up. So I did. I waited, watching his eyes scan the horizon. Finally, he leaned back, looked me up and down, and pulled his hand away from my mouth.

I opened my mouth, slowly, and pointed one finger toward my face. He nodded, but held his hand out and made a gesture. He pinched an inch of air between his index finger and his thumb. I nodded at that.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”

He laughed—I guess I caught him off-guard. His body shook with laughter, and his face contorted into a big friendly grin, but he made no noise. When his mirth had stilled, he made the see-saw doing okay motion.

“What—?” I said, and looked behind me, where he had been looking. Just a hill. Now, anyway.

When I looked back, he’d moved a few feet away from me, and I got a better look at him. His face reminded me of my Grandpa, long and narrow and creased with wrinkles, but he had round boyish eyes. His hair, shaggy for an old guy, hung around his ears. It didn’t look unhealthy—in fact, except for a slight thinness, he wasn’t balding at all. He looked a well-kept sixty-or-seventy years old, but he moved like a little boy.

An old-style brown tweed suit clung to him, and it looked well-tailored if a little worn. Instead of a tie, a bright red scarf wrapped his neck and hung lazily across one shoulder. He didn’t stand up, but remained in what almost looked like a football-hike crouch. Three of his fingers even touched the sand just in front of him.

“What was there?” I asked.

The old man made a pondering face. He leaned back on his haunches, freed up his hands, and opened and closed them in a slow rhythmic pulsing. It didn’t look that different from a hula dancer’s gestures. I shook my head.

“Can you talk?”

The old man shook with another silent chuckle and waved his hand in the that’s ridiculous gesture, like he was swatting invisible flies. I frowned, but then shrugged.

“Am I dead?”

It just popped in my head—the question that broke every unwritten rule I’d built since the attack. Suddenly I didn’t care about stupid rules. I hadn’t talked to anyone about it, and I could feel a torrent of word-vomit climbing up my throat.

I watched the old man’s features. He was extremely expressive, and went from thoughtful to concerned to inspired to defeated in less than ten seconds. In the end, he just raised his hand and made that see-saw gesture again.

“What? No, not kinda. That’s not an answer.”

He made the see-saw gesture again and shrugged. I sighed, reached up, and unloosened the hood that was still clinging tightly to my face like I was some kind of Thanksgiving pilgrim woman. I shook my hair out, rubbed my cheeks, and tried again.

“Are we in danger here?”

See-saw. I growled in frustration, but he just shrugged again.

“Is there somewhere safer?”

He nodded his head yes . Then shook it no . He sighed and shook his head with his hands out in front of him. It looked like an apology. I felt bad harassing him about it. I ran through my brain, trying to find some common ground or question I thought he might be able to answer.

Got one .

“Did you send the text message?”

That one was met with the most perplexed look I’d ever seen. It made me grin. I apologized and went on. If this guy had ever even touched a cell-phone, I’d eat my giant purple jacket.

“Are you dead?”

I got the gesture I thought I would. He looked hesitant to even make the gesture, but I waved it away.

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “I’m sorry. Is there a way out of here?”

He made the of course face.

“Not…back home. I mean, like. Is this beach and that highway all there is?”

A scoff. I nodded. Okay, little people, big world, I get it.

“Oh, I got it. Can you write?”

The old man offered only a pitied grin—it was the look you gave a toddler trying his very best to reach that infernal cookie jar. Oh, look, he’s up on his tip toes. I flashed a glare.

“What? Can you write or not?”

He nodded, but that grin didn’t go away.

“Write in the sand, like, with your finger. What’s your name?”

His smile widened.

“Ugh.”

I crouched in front of him, trying to suppress a flash of anger. I held one finger up, and like I was demonstrating to a particularly stupid child, began drawing huge letters in the sand.

“My. Name. Is. L-U-C-Y…wait.”

My finger cut long furrows in the sand, but none of the letters made any sense. They were twisted snakes of meaningless marks, strung together like a potful of spaghetti dumped on the ground. I looked up at him in shock.

His grin widened. He sighed, waved his hand at the twisting ideograms, and threw his hands up to the sky. What can you do , his gesture said.

“You can’t write here?”

He shook his head.

“Or read?”

Nope, his face said.

“Like a dream?”

Yup.

“ Is this a dream?”

Nope.

“Dammit.”

I propped myself back on my arms and let out a deep, chestful sigh. The old man copied my pose and did the same. I laughed—he didn’t seem to be mocking me, just playful. Or bored. That made another question pop into my head.

“Can you go back—back home? To the real world, I guess?”

He nodded, but his eyes never left the sky. They searched the grey blanket of clouds, and his face smoothed out.

“Do you?”

Yes.

He didn’t look happy when he indicated that. He also made a point not to look at me while he nodded. I stood up, finally, and took another look around the surroundings. I’d been here every night, but most of them I’d spent either in one exact spot or not terribly far from that exact spot. I’d visited the road only once—the first time, when the glowing thing had chased me.

“Oh,” I said, turning toward him. “Was it the man? The man made of light? Is he here?”

The old man sat up. He nodded furiously, and his wide eyes showed nothing but fear. Old fear, caution-fear, but fear nonetheless.

“Has he left yet? Has he…sonic boomed out of here?”