shivered against the aches and bruises, and she knew that she had to find more clothing quickly. She found a pair of black button-fly jeans and a tight little t-shirt that quoted, “Don’t expect a gift, I shop for me!” on the front. Atop this, she pulled on a rather woolly sweater with long sleeves and again the plaid coat.
None of the shoes here were functional for much more than clubbing, but she found some thick tube socks, which she put on in triplicate. She would have to find better footwear, and somewhere in her mind, she knew there was a Coach's Corner store a few shops down where they sold running shoes.
As she turned, she caught sight of herself in a fragment of a hanging mirror. Her face was bruised on one side from temple to the end of her jaw, and her other eye was swollen almost closed. Under that, she could see at one point she was a pretty woman, slender and petite with curly blond hair…and a squinted, swollen eye and purple cheek. She scrubbed some dried blood from her face with the sleeve of the coat, but still could not recognize the face.
She could feel the strangeness of not knowing herself pushing emotion to the top of her throat, and she turned away before crying. She had to find shoes, then her car, then a cop or a hospital. Whatever had come down from Black Water Mountain had not killed her, and she did not intend to give it a second chance.
She found the Coach’s Corner, and it was in much the same condition as the other store. The difference here was the bodies inside. Some seven or eight corpses lay twisted and broken throughout the small shop; they were shot, cleaved, or smashed in some sickening way. Overhead, some football game played out over a hidden radio as if nothing had gone wrong the night before. She held her stomach as she found shoes and left the shop quickly.
In the street again, she was shocked at how revolting the town had become. Even in the hazy gray light from the overcast sky, she could tell it had aged decades in a night, rust and corrosion taking its toll on the metal things, while the wooden ones looked weathered and dry. The streets were crowded with broken glass and trash, loose papers and tatters of clothing all amongst the randomly felled corpses.
From the darkness of her mind, Shakespeare recited, “Something wicked this way comes,” in an author like voice, to which she said, “This way came is more like it.” The sound of her own voice frightened her, broke through the silence of the streets and disturbed the death of it all.
She allowed her feet to pick a direction; she had to find her car even if she could not recall what it looked like, the make or model or even the color. However, they chose to lead her to the right and around the side of the boutique. As she reached the corner of the building, she found a purse there, splayed across the sidewalk, trampled and blood-spattered.
She squatted down next to it, and withdrew a dark faux calfskin wallet. Inside, she found a license with her picture on it. The face was pretty, petite, and lacking the damage it bore now. Just underneath her picture was the name Shannon Clemens. The name sparked like an empty lighter, a flash without a flame. Irritation drove a wedge through her; it was infuriating she could not remember who she was.
Still, she collected what she could of her things and continued. Subconsciously, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it before she even realized that she smoked. It would not have mattered if she did or not; the cigarette tasted good and brought calm to her nerves. She drew deeply again, had a sudden urge for Scotch, and continued on her way around the corner of the building.
The parking lot was empty. Not a single car was there, not even in ruin. What she found were six empty spots and a fifteen-foot tall chain link fence, bluish gray fog oozing through the diamond shaped holes. Far in the distance, she heard what she was sure was a single gunshot, and her nerves began to fray once more. She returned to the street, made another right, and continued into the deepening fog. Shannon hoped there was a gun store nearby, some place where she could pick up a weapon or something to protect herself; she had suddenly resolved not to become a victim again.
The fog was wet, cold, and heavy and allowed for only a few yards of visibility. It put her on edge even more, and she drew deeply on the cigarette again. No matter how hard she thought on it, she could not reason how she came to be in a place like this, in a situation like this. The only sign of life she had encountered was a gun shot from far off, a sign of not only life but the dealing of death as well.
In only a few shops, she found a sporting goods store with rifles visible on the back wall. She stepped over the broken glass and around the heavy camouflage coats. The counter had been smashed, but it still held a number of handguns. They were large and unyielding and Shannon had no idea what it was she was looking for. She knew it had to be small enough to fit her hand but have a big enough bullet; this was something her brother had taught her after her first break-in.
Her brother, she could almost remember his face, but the image eluded her. She could remember his voice, soft and drawn into a Southern twang. Aggravation began to rise in her again, and she wrestled it back down. She found a gun that fit her hand; according to the black plastic case, it was a Glock model 27, .40 S&W. She had no idea what all this meant, but the gun was small enough to fit her hand and the barrel was large enough to fit her index finger.
She found a clip and shoved it into her pocket and sought out the ammunition. The store seemed over- stocked with .40 S&W boxes, so she picked up one and dumped it into her pants pocket. It was a lot of weight, so she dumped another in the other pocket to even it out. She then used a third box to fill both clips and struggled for some time before being able to draw the slide back and bring a round into the chamber. Now she was ready.
Shannon stepped through the door and paused a moment. She had no idea which direction to go, completely unfamiliar with a town she knew she lived in. It was unsettling to say the least. She raged against the curtain in her mind, struggled to push it out of the way. Finally, she turned right, giving the fight over as lost. She continued down the street in slow fashion, unsure what was about to come screaming out of the fog and fearing it.
The sidewalk had begun to crumble in many places, giving way to the rapid aging affecting the entire town. She slowed even further to keep from falling over the refuse. With all the want of being free of this town but forced to go slow, anxiousness and urgency began to build in her alongside the irritation of not knowing herself.
“Hey! You, miss?” a voice called from the edge of the fog.
A man in a long coat came into view, and Shannon stopped, more out of fear than interest.
“Miss, are you alright?” the man asked as he started to approach her in a nervous, quick manor.
“Stop!” Shannon shouted.
The man slowed to an even pace. “What? Are you hurt or something? Did you hear the news?”
The man seemed in control of himself, not a raving lunatic like those from the night before. His question about the news interested her, but still she was nervous as all get out. “What news? Can’t you tell me from there?”
“No, but its wonderful news. But first, are you hurt?”
“Uh, no, not too bad. What’s the news?” She found the grip of the pistol in her jacket pocket and pointed it in his direction without pulling it free.
“Well, I tell ya, it is great news!” He stopped just in front of her looking like a computer nerd gone crazed weekend flasher. “He is coming! Are you ready for him?”
“Who is ‘him’?”
“Captain Black!” he shouted happily.
“Who is Captain Black? Is he a police officer?”
“No, silly, he is quite like Santa. He brings presents to all the good children!”
Shannon felt a chill run down her spine.
“Have you been a bad girl?”
“Mister, I think it’s time you leave,” Shannon said while taking a step back.
“You haven’t taken a life yet, have you?”
“What?” she shouted. “Are you crazy?”
“No, really! He rewards those that kill for him! Honest!”
“Get the fuck away from me!” she screamed.
The man’s face went from joyous rapture to a hurt, sunken look of rejection. “Okay, that’s fine. One more can only help, I guess,” he replied as he drew a long fillet knife from under his long trench coat. “Shame since you’re so pretty and all.”
“Get the fuck away from me!” she screamed again. Somewhere over her shoulder, she heard someone yelling, which fed the disjointed terror building inside her. The man approached her and she squeezed the first bullet
