Jillian Eaton
Pitch
Death Day #1, 2012
“Death is when the monsters get you.”
STEPHEN KING,
PROLOGUE
I can smell the blood. It tastes metallic on my tongue and I close my mouth tight, clamping my teeth together until my jaw aches. Still the scent of it invades my nostrils, sweet and ripe as an apple left out to rot in the sun. My stomach cramps, a knee jerk reaction to what the smell of blood has come to signify: death.
A Drinker has been in the hotel. I can see its claw marks running down across the woodwork of the main desk. What little furniture remained in the lobby has been completely wrecked, as if the Drinker went into some kind of mindless rage, destroying everything in sight.
He was wrong. Not all of the Drinkers left. At least one remained. One who knew where we were hiding. One who waited until I left to finally strike.
With my heart in my throat I sprint across the lobby and fly up the stairs, screaming their names with every step.
The green and cold carpet muffles my footsteps as I race down the hall, bypassing door after door until I get to the one I want. I throw it open with such force I nearly fall forward onto the mattress, but I catch myself just in time.
The smell of blood is stronger here. There is no mistaking it. No point in convincing myself I am imagining things.
The shades are still drawn tight. My pounding heart counts off the seconds as I search the pitch black room. I know every nook, every cranny of this small space and I go through it ruthlessly. My fingers glance off the wooden dresser that houses my meager collection of clothing. I don’t bother opening the drawers. What I am seeking is not here. But it is somewhere. The blood does not lie.
Cursing, crying, pleading for their lives I stumble down the hall and search room after room after room, yelling until my voice is hoarse.
The further I go into the hotel the darker is gets, until I am running blind, using the walls to support me. When I see the light blossoming from the edges of a door at the end of the last hallway my knees nearly buckle with relief. I have found them and they are hiding away, just like they should have been. Safe and sound. A breathless laugh forces its way past my lips. I have worried myself to death for nothing. Except the scent of blood is stronger than ever, and I cannot shake the terrible feeling of dread that is threatening to choke me.
I push open the door and instantly cover my eyes, blinded by the light after running so long in the dark. For a few seconds all I see are two blurry shapes. One sprawled lifeless on the ground and the other hunched over it.
My vision refocuses like a camera lens. Sharpening slowly around the edges before spiraling in towards the middle until everything is clear. Clear as crystal. And I see who is on the ground. And I see who is standing over him. And I see what I have chosen to overlook for too long.
“Is he dead?” My words come out flat. Emotionless. It is a rhetorical question. I know he is dead. No one can lose that much blood and survive. It seeps across the tile flooring, reaching all the way to the door and I am forced to step in it as I walk across the room.
The survivor turns to face me and my breath whooshes out to stain the air with shock and betrayal. I had not thought… I had never imagined… But the blood does not lie and his face is covered with it.
“You,” I whisper in agony. “How could it be you?”
His mouth opens and closes. Quick, so quick, but I see the flash of tell tale silver before he can conceal it. He reaches out his hand to me. A silent plea. Blood drips from his fingertips.
“This is not what it looks like,” he says quickly. “Lola, you don’t understand. Let me explain.”
“Isn’t what it looks like?” I repeat dully. “You’re one of
He says nothing. His eyes dart to my left hand.
The gun. It has become such a part of me I almost forgot I had it. I raise it now and point the muzzle true. His face pales. He takes a step back, then stops. Goes still. “Do it then. Just do it, Lola. If you think I could have done this I am dead already.”
“No.” I look at the body on the floor. “He’s the one who is dead.”
I aim the gun dead center of his chest. Aim it right at his black, lying heart.
“Lola, I love -”
I pull the trigger.
CHAPTER ONE
Once upon a time there lived a beautiful girl. The beautiful girl had two parents who loved her and an older sister who doted on her. She had a golden retriever named Buddy who knew all kinds of tricks. She lived in a perfect house on a perfect street in a perfect neighborhood. The beautiful girl got all straight A’s in school and wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up. She was captain of the varsity soccer team and cheerleading squad. She had a handsome boyfriend named Todd and she was always very, very happy.
Yeah, that girl is not me. My name is Lola. My parents are divorced. My older sister hates my guts, and my dog got run over by a car two weeks ago.
After the big D my mom moved across the country to California and got married six months later to some guy who rides a motorcycle and has a fu Manchu (for those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s a really stupid looking mustache). I decided to stay with my dad in Birdsboro, Pennsylvania.
We lived in a crappy apartment building on the wrong side of town. Big Sis went with Mom to California and I haven’t heard from her since. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I don’t play sports. The last time I got anything close to an A was in seventh grade English, and that’s only because I sat next to Patricia Clark, the smartest girl in the entire school.
