Angela had lived through the end of times and was sitting on a comfortable couch in the dark. She pulled her legs up from the floor and stretched out. She could see the pile of stone and brick where the church had stood out through the open window. She shifted onto her side for a more comfortable view. Angela studied the holy black mound outside and mourned for the people that once went there to worship. They were all gone now, burned away and scattered throughout the smoke of the city. But the site where that church had been was still there. The bricks, the stones, and the crushed pews underneath were still there. Those thoughts comforted Angela as she drifted off into sleep.
Chapter 7
Something was making a high-pitched squeal in her dreams. One of those dreams was of Trish the Dish Saquet spread out on the boss’s desk letting the piggish men of Bonn Accounting have their way with her, one after the other. Angela could see Trish’s pretty face hanging off the desk’s edge, upside down, and red with exertion. Her thick red lips were stretched tightly into her cheeks, and she was squealing between her big, too-white teeth. The upside-down frown looked demonic, the woman’s black eyes bore into Angela’s soul. This is what you always wanted, but were too afraid and prudish to ask for, the eyes accused. The men high-fived each other after their turns were done, and some high-fived during the act. Trish continued staring at Angela and squealed even louder when John Bonn went last. His penis was as thick as the 1-litre plastic pop bottle Angela had stolen from the corner store, and twice the length. He leered up at his personal secretary and wagged his tongue at Angela. You’re next, darling.
The grinning accountants with their pants still bundled around their ankles; the rocking desk, Trish’s black eyes and glistening white teeth were too much for Angela to bear. But worst of all was John’s threatening expression. He was so good to me over the years. We had a professional relationship… and I loved him. She tried covering her eyes, but the horrible scene remained with her. It’s a dream, my eyes are already closed. I can’t escape this.
The self-satisfied squeal whistling between Trish’s teeth became louder. The woman’s red makeup-smeared lips and cheeks morphed into something even more terrible. The teeth sharpened, transforming into yellow fangs. The black of her eyes narrowed into vertical strips surrounded in pools of bloodshot green. Whiskers sprouted from the sides of her nose. The noise she made burrowed into Angela’s brain like pins being jammed into her ears.
Angela snapped her head forward and stared into a bleak, grey sky. A cat was howling somewhere off in the distance. It sounded as if were being roasted alive, and chances were it was. She felt her heart hammering inside her chest and forced herself to breathe easily. The cat’s screeching died off and Angela’s heart rate slowed. She was sitting up on a chesterfield in a stranger’s house. She was alone and afraid, but she was safe.
So why could she still hear that incessant squealing? ellleeeeeeeeeeellleeeeeeeee
Angela looked out through the window at the church ruins. She could make more of it out now. Night had passed and morning was doing its best to show there was still a sun rising somewhere on the eastern horizon. She saw a blackened round surface sitting on a precarious angle near the top of the collapsed church. After letting her eyes adjust through the dull layer of ground smoke, Angela finally recognized the church bell. The weak squealing continued.
elllleeeeeeeeelllleeeeeeee
Angela could see more of the small room she’d snuck into the night before. There was a small, old-styled television—the kind they used to make before flat screens attached to walls took over—sitting on an equally small end table. It was pushed up at an angle into the corner next to the blown in window. Dozens of tiny photographs in cheap gold frames hung crookedly on the walls, and a few more were littered across the brown linoleum flooring. They were old pictures, mostly black and white, of people from generations past—grandfathers and grandmothers, aunts, uncles, sons, daughters, moms and dads. It was a scattered collection of silent memories, gathered along the walls with no one left living in the home to appreciate.
Elllllleeeeeeee… Elllllleeeeeeeeeeee.
The sound was in the room with her. Angela’s head turned slowly, towards the far end of the ancient chesterfield where her dirty shoes had streaked the burgundy-colored cushions filthy grey. There was an armchair in the corner, directly across from the television. Something black was seated in it, something fried into the upholstery. Angela jumped back, curling her legs up away from the thing. At first, she thought it was a pile of garbage bags, stuffed full with bits of refuse sticking through the melted walls of plastic. It moved, and Angela screamed.
The thing in the chair was still squealing when Angela had finished. ELLLLEEEE… ELLLEEEEEEEEEEE… ELLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. It was a person, and he or she was stuck there. Angela watched its fingers wiggle grotesquely on the arms of the chair. There was a long white knitting needle stuck between the swollen knuckles of her right hand. Its arms and shoulders squirmed in a hopeless attempt to free itself, and it squealed louder. Angela crawled across the chesterfield for a better look. She could tell it was a woman—had been a woman—from the blackened remains of her dress just below the knees, and the melted pantyhose fused into the skin on her legs. She had taken the brunt of the shockwave; shards of window glass were sticking out from every part of her. Blood had leaked from a hundred entry points over her burned flesh and dried.
Angela knelt in front of her and whispered. “What… what are you trying say?”
The woman’s
