Freeze

their toothbrushes, but when she felt around the area, she found nothing but the toothpaste.

Warren was in here, remember? Looking for tweezers. Who knows where he put the damn things.

She slid her hands around the sink and found the box of tapers pushed into a corner of the countertop. She grabbed a candles, found the smaller box of matches, and lit one. Even before she touched the flame to the candle’s wick, she saw the streaks of red on the floor and down the sides of the toilet. She gasped and almost dropped the candle. It looked like someone had died in here. Swirls of thick, dark blood floated in the toilet bowl, and a mess of red footprints and knee prints surrounded the toilet.

She turned to the mirror, and a bloodied, zombified version of herself looked back at her. The red stains running down her face and chest made the rest of her body look pale, ghostly, lifeless. Her drooping boobs swayed as she sucked in one long breath after another. The sight of all this blood made her want to puke, but she didn’t dare if she could help it. She was afraid she’d hack out another pool of blood.

You swallowed some glass. Or breathed it in. That’s the only explanation.

Okay, fine, but what was she supposed to do about it?

Wake up Warren. Tell him.

But what could he do about it? The truck wasn’t going anywhere; he’d said so himself. And they had no way to call for help. Not that help would have had a chance of making it up here anyway. And it wasn’t like he was a doctor or anything, not like he could cut her open and do some exploratory surgery.

You’re bleeding. Badly. You have to wake him up and tell him. Right now. Don’t be an idiot. Maybe he can’t do anything, but two minds think better than one.

She felt that tickle in her throat again and leaned over the sink, ready to puke out another helping of gore, but the tickle never worsened, and after a few seconds, it went away altogether.

A drop of wax dripped off the taper and onto Tess’s hand. She hissed and dropped the candle into the sink. It sputtered but didn’t go out immediately. Before it did, Tess turned away from her reflection and walked to the living room, holding her hand between her breasts again, trying to be careful, not wanting to dislodge any bits of glass that might be floating around her lungs or throat.

Warren lay spread-eagle on the mattress, his head buried between their two pillows and one of his feet sticking out of the covers. Tess hurried to him, grabbed his shoulder, and shook him.

He grumbled, turned away from her, and curled into a ball on his side of the bed. She rolled her eyes and shook him again.

“Warren.” She whispered it but realized there was no reason to be quiet and said his name again, louder this time. Between the chairs, Bub lifted his head from the doggy bed and looked over at her, but Warren still didn’t open his eyes.

“Warren!”

He turned, blinked his eyes, and rubbed his face. “Huh? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m bleeding.”

He pushed himself up on his elbow. “What? Your cuts?”

She shook her head. She’d done her best to wipe the blood off herself, but she hadn’t gotten it all. At first, she didn’t know how he’d missed it, but then she realized she was kneeling between him and the fire, which meant she was backlit, and he’d just woken up. She was probably nothing more than a blur to him right then.

“No, not my cuts. Or at least not just my cuts. I coughed up some blood.”

Now he sat up all the way. She saw the fire reflected in his eyes. The blanket dropped around his waist and revealed his lean, not-quite-bony torso.

She said, “Not just some blood—a lot of blood.”

He opened his mouth but didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Are you okay now?” he finally asked.

She started to say something, maybe I don’t know or I’m not sure or some other worthless non-answer, but before she got out a word, that tickle came again. The cough came quickly this time; before she could turn her head, a streamer of blood came shooting out of her mouth and hit Warren right in the center of his chest. It splattered there, ran down his belly and splashed up against his chin. It rebounded off of him and onto the sheets, bedspread, and pillows. By the time she turned away, Warren looked like something out of a horror movie, like Carrie at the prom. She spat the last mouthful of blood on the floor between her legs, but Warren had gotten the bulk of it. The blood dripped down his belly and into his lap.

Bub whined, got to his feet, and inched over to them. Tess reached out to comfort him, to tell him it was all right, but before he got within reach, he bowed his head and shied away from her. She realized her hand was covered in blood. Bub looked from her to Warren and whined again.

Warren ran his hand across his chest and stared at his bloody fingers. “My god,” he said. “We…I have to get you some help.” He pulled her to him, either forgetting about the mess or ignoring it, and hugged her tight. “It’s going to be okay.”

Tess wasn’t sure how it could possibly be okay—she’d already lost a disturbing, surely dangerous amount of blood—but in his arms, with him whispering reassurances in her ear, she couldn’t help but believe his lies.

11

Warren’s first thought was that he needed to clean himself off before he left. No time to take a shower, but he could at least towel off most of the blood. He pushed himself off the mattress, bundled up the sheets and the comforter to keep the blood from soaking through, not thinking about it, just doing it because it seemed like the only thing to do. And then he walked naked through the living room and toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Tess followed him. “What are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer, not because he was purposefully ignoring her but because he wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

Bub followed them out of the living room but stopped only a few feet into the hallway, sat down, and whimpered.

Warren decided to ignore him for now, stepped into the bathroom, and reached for the light switch, forgetting about the blackout, forgetting about everything except the blood geysering out of Tess’s mouth. He flipped the switch half a dozen times before he remembered and shook his head.

This is no time to go senile. Tess needs you to think straight. Pay attention.

He clenched his jaw and remembered the box of candles.

“Don’t light a candle,” Tess said from behind him. “You don’t want to see this.”

And, of course, he didn’t want to see it, but he needed to see it. He swept his hand across the counter until he found the box of tapers and matches. He lit one, and when he saw the

(slaughterhouse, bloodbath, crime scene)

mess that had once been their ordinary bathroom, he almost choked on a sob. Bloody streaks ran down the sides of the toilet. A wad of toilet paper floated in the toilet, watered down and pink instead of red but still undeniably horrific. Smears of blood covered the area around the toilet and the floor between there and the doorway. He guessed there were probably some in the hallway, too, although he hadn’t noticed them. There were a few splashes of blood all the way back to the hamper and even the shower curtain beyond.

“Jesus, Tess. This is…” He was thinking, This is very, very bad, but he couldn’t say that. For her sake. For his own. So he said, “This is going to be okay.” He turned to her, grabbed her shoulder with his free hand. “Okay?”

She nodded. By the glow of the candle light, she looked worse than before. The darkish bags beneath her eyes had become bottomless chasms; the streaks of blood on her face and body looked darker, thicker, more fatal.

Don’t think like that.

Except how the hell else was he supposed to think? His wife was coughing out blood; she’d lost what seemed like a bucketful. In the bathroom. In the living room. All over him and herself.

She stood there in the flickering light, looking into his face, looking a little faint and a lot worried.