We were on the verge of complete exposure. Ice slid down my spine. Thoughts came in a panicked stampede, stumbling one over the other. They would come for the body, take tissue samples, snap pictures, and document it. It would be on the Internet within minutes. Once the body left Costco, there would be no way to contain it, and I would be irreversibly tied to it. I had fried the cameras and the hard drive, but my fingerprints were all over the place. The woman would identify me. I had blood and alien slime on my clothes. I had to take care of it here and now.
I had to hide the body.
Now.
"What the hell is this thing?"
"I have no idea, but you need to take care of that arm." I struggled to keep the shaking out of my voice. "It doesn't look sanitary."
"Isn't that the truth. It got you too. You think I should get the manager?" She looked at me.
I gripped the jug of bleach so tight it hurt. "Cleanup on aisle five." I smiled.
She giggled. I giggled back. It came out a little crazy. I sounded like a lunatic who just saw the full moon. I swallowed the giggle. "You go get the manager. I'll watch this, whatever this is."
"Okay. I'll be right back."
"Wait!"
She turned.
"Quietly," I said. "Old people and children."
She nodded and took off.
I sprinted to the corpse and dropped the bleach bottle onto the stalker.
It lay on a solid concrete slab. In a building that wasn't an inn.
Don't think about it. Just don't think about. Just because everyone says it can't be done doesn't mean jack.
The olive oil. I turned on my foot, ran down the aisle, grabbed the bottle, and dropped it onto the body. Cans dotted the aisle. I had to pick them up.
No time.
I crouched by the body, pressed my palms into the floor and concentrated. Why couldn't it have been wood? I could've wrenched individual boards up.
The magic streamed from me, pooling in the concrete like an invisible puddle.
Innkeepers had limits. Basic poltergeist was all most could hope for with a non-inn building. If you could mess with wires, you were way ahead of the pack.
Don't think about it. It's only impossible because nobody has done it before. I had no choice. I had to do it.
My skin went numb, but the inside of my arms hurt as if someone had hooked my veins and slowly began pulling them out of my body.
God, it hurt.
Don't think about it.
Just do it.
My body shook from the strain. The pain wrapped around my spine. I could barely breathe. It wasn't just pain, it was Pain with a capital P, the kind of agony that blocked out everything else.
The concrete was saturated. I could give no more.
I strained.
The pain lashed out like a white-hot whip across my back. A hair-thin crack slid across the aisle. The floor split.
That's right. That's exactly it.
The gap widened. The olive-oil bottle slid into it.
Just a little more. I clenched my teeth and pulled the inert concrete apart.
The body toppled into it.
Yes.
The world was growing dim. I wasn't passing out. I was just stuck in this horrible place between life and dying and it was made of hurt. I paused above the gap and for a second I thought I'd fall into it too.
Opening it wasn't enough. I had to close it. I pulled the concrete back. Come on. I might have as well have tried to push a semi out of the way. Come on.
My legs and arms shook. Slowly the concrete moved, inch by tiny inch. Come on.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't close it.
Yes, I could. It was my duty to close it. I would close it.
The pain wrapped around me like a scorching blanket.
The last inch of the gap disappeared. The concrete smoothed.
I couldn't get up. Oh no.
I grabbed the metal shelving, clung to it and pulled myself up. My head swam. I leaned onto my cart and pushed it. Got to go. Got to get out of the store. I forced myself to walk. My shoes must've sprouted needles, because walking hurt.
I turned behind the freezers and kept going. Through the gap I saw the dark-haired woman hurry across the floor, followed by a man in a black polo shirt and khakis. I'm sorry. You helped me, and because of me they will think you're crazy. If I ever had a chance, I would repay the favor.
I passed another aisle, wiped the handle of my cart with my shirt, and walked away from it. My shoulders were bleeding. I veered toward the tables with clothes and grabbed a dark sweatshirt. Slipping it on hurt. I kept the tag in plain view and headed for the checkout.
The shortest line had four people in it.
"Ma'am, I can help you over here!" A man. Average size. Dark hair. Costco tag.
I followed him and showed him the tag.
"Just the sweatshirt?" he asked.
I forced the word out of my mouth. "Yes."
"Your card."
I reached into my purse, fumbled with my wallet, pulled out the Costco card, scanned it, handed him a twenty, got a dollar in change, and then there was the door and I walked through it and out into the sun, car keys in hand.