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“Shit,” I said. “Come on.”

Without thinking about it, I took her by the hand and led her towards the dark hallway. She squeezed my fingers. I squeezed back.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “About before. I shouldn’t have said all that. I feel like a real asshole.”

“Is okay, Larry. We are both…how you say? Having a bad day?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you can say that again.”

“We are having a bad day?”

This time I laughed. “You’re something else, Sondra Belov.”

“As are you, Larry Gibson. And I was wrong, too.”

“About what?”

“When I say you are like other men, I was wrong. You are not like them. If they say mean things, they not apologize. You do. You say you are sorry.”

“Well, I am. And I do apologize. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

“Once we get out of here, you buy me big dinner and we make it up to each other after—in bedroom. Does this sound good?”

“Sound good? It sounds great. Especially the bedroom part.”

Smiling, Sondra squeezed my hand again. Suddenly, it was like falling for her all over again. Even after everything that had happened, her smile—that perfect, beautiful smile—had complete power over me.

And that was all that it took to suck me back in.

I no longer felt pain. No longer felt betrayed.

Instead, I felt hope.

Women will do that to you—make you feel things that you shouldn’t.

nineteen

Hand in hand, side by side, we crept into the corridor and let the darkness envelop us. The hallway wasn’t much to look at. From what little I could see, it was in the same run-down condition as the rest of the machine shop. The pitted, brown floor tiles were warped and peeling up around their corners, revealing the grimy, dried paste beneath. The cinderblock walls were cracked and covered with mold. Once our eyes had adjusted to the gloom, we were able to see that the corridor didn’t go far. On the left side of the hallway was an old time clock, along with an empty rack where employees had once kept their timecards. The clock hands were forever stopped at three in the afternoon. Quitting time.

The right-hand side of the hallway had three doors. Two of them led into the men’s and women’s bathrooms. We explored those first. Both restrooms were empty of their fixtures. Exposed PVC plumbing stuck out of the walls and up from the floors. The copper pipes had long since been plundered. The walls were covered with fading graffiti. Most of it looked like it had been written a decade ago, referencing politicians and pop culture who were no longer relevant. The crude slogans reminded me of the men’s room at the Odessa, right before we’d found Sondra hiding beneath my Jeep. Already, that seemed like a million years ago. I suddenly felt old and weary. Not tired. Not exhausted. Fucking weary.

The smoke was tangible now. I still didn’t know what was on fire, but I didn’t think it was the building. The air tasted like soot. I wondered how much longer we could breathe it. My eyes and nose were starting to burn.

“Come on,” I said. “No luck here.”

The third door opened into a break room. There were some round tables and a few chairs, none of which looked safe to sit on. Three dusty vending machines stood against the wall, one for soda and two for candy and junk food. All of them were empty of their contents, but otherwise seemed to be in decent shape. I wondered why the vending machine company would just leave the machines here, and decided that maybe they hadn’t. Perhaps the machine shop had owned them instead. An old bulletin board hung on the wall, clinging precariously by one remaining hinge. The board’s cork was slashed and torn in some spots. Yellowed bulletins were still pegged to it—OSHA and MSDS procedures, safety regulations, policies for Equal Opportunity hiring and sexual harassment. All were things that no longer mattered to the men and women who had once worked here. With luck, those employees had gone on to other jobs after the machine shop shut down, and had new OSHA procedures and safety regulations to follow. The alternative was as depressing as our dismal surroundings. Unemployment in early twenty-first century America—a living death in a world where even the telemarketing jobs had gone overseas and the only work you could get was through a temp agency. No room for pride or dignity or a fair day’s work for a fair day’s wage. The stock market rose in direct relation to your fall. You were better off dead.

But I wasn’t ready to die yet. I still had a job, hopefully. At this point, it was the only thing I still had going for me. That—and Webster, if Animal Control or the landlord hadn’t taken him after the shootings. I suddenly missed my cat very much, and wondered what he was doing right now. Was he hiding in the apartment, watching the CSI guys and wondering when I’d be home? Was Webster hissing at them in annoyance, demanding that the intruders at least have the courtesy to feed him before they left?

My sigh was heavy. So was my heart.

“What is wrong?” Sondra asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just thinking.”

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Фантастика / Боевая фантастика / Научная Фантастика / Ужасы / Ужасы и мистика