The Door (Flash Fiction)

What if it didn’t work?

And even if it did, how will she know?

Of the three antidotes she shot into that thing that used to be her husband, only one hit square on the chest. One grazed the skin on its hairy shoulder, or maybe just got stuck in the hair, and fell off as it came running after her. There was no telling how much of the drug got injected. One missed completely. What if the one that missed was the right antidote?

She leaned against the door, the empty crossbow still in her hands, trying to hear any sounds that might come from the other side.

It was dumb luck, sheer accident really, that she got it trapped in the meat locker. Even that monster couldn’t possibly break through the steel door. Now all she had to do was to wait and see if the antidote worked. She felt her muscles relax as she slid down the door. Her shoulders were still heaving from the chase.

They never told her how long it might take for the antidote to start working. She couldn’t ask now. She was the sole survivor.

The smart thing to do was to get away. She knew that. But the monster had destroyed the cars. She would have to walk miles before reaching any road with traffic, and she would not walk the woods during the night. Not after this. Maybe one of the cars could still run. She should test them. But her body was too heavy. She needed to rest just a few more minutes.

Her cell phone had no reception. The landlines were down. There was no way to call for help. In the morning the crows would be picking on the bodies, or what was left of them. She needed to leave this place. She needed the strength to stand up. She wished her husband was there to support her, to hold her. Her mind drifted at the thought of his touch.

What if it worked?
What if the monster had reverted back to the human form?

Would her husband survive a night in the meat locker?

She would have to find a way to cut the power before leaving.

Her knees were numb. When will she ever be able to stand?

“Angie?”

The voice came from inside the door, a human voice.

“Angie, please open the door.”

Had it worked? Was it her husband?

“Please, Angie. I’m cold.”

She stood up. She put her face against the door to better listen to the voice. She realized she was trembling.

“Open the door, Angie. Help me.”

There seemed to be some scratching, some struggling.

“Jack?”

The scratching stopped.

“Jack, is that you?”

Silence.

She put her hand on the door lever. Then she realized that she had jammed it with a crowbar. She jerked her hand away.

“Open the door, Angie.”

“Jack, tell me what you know.”

“Please, Angie.”

“Tell me what you know. Tell me what you remember.”

“I love you, Angie.”

“I love you too, Jack.”

“You have to help me.”

“Tell me what you remember.”

“I- I don’t—”

“Can you remember what you did?”

“No, I — I’m not wearing a shirt. I don’t know what happened to it.”

“Can you remember where you are?”

“We were going to a restaurant. On an island. How did I get in here?”

“What day is this?”

“Our anniversary. Our twelfth wedding anniversary.”

She put her hand on the crowbar. It was jammed tight. She would have to give it a jerk. She gripped hard.

“I promise I won’t hurt you, Angie.”

She stopped.

“Do you remember hurting anyone?”

“No, Angie. I-I’m cold!”

“If you don’t remember anything, how did you know I was outside the door?”

“Angie, please! Open the door! I love you!”

“Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything!”

“Then tell me what you don’t know.”

“I don’t know why I’m in here. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why I’m not wearing any clothes. And I don’t know why you won’t open this door.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know anything. I don’t know what you are saying.”

“You don’t have any more pressing questions?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re covered in blood, Jack. I’m sure there is a taste of blood in your mouth. Why aren’t you asking about that?”

“Angie, please. I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve got to believe me.”

“No, Jack. I won’t.”

“You’ve got to believe me!”

 

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