The Siren - 2

In the dream, Sandie was weightless. She had dreamed that sort of thing before, though, and understood that it would not last. When she dreamed that she was floating, it was only a matter of time before she dreamed that she fell.

It was an odd sensation, floating there in the dream. She could hear the world – cars and a dog and the rumble of a jet passing overhead – but there was nothing to see. She tried to raise her hand in front of her face, but she had no hand, either.

I'm a Presence, she decided. A Presence floating in space. That was comforting, because a Presence could not fall. She listened to the sound of the highway.

damaged?

It was not so much a voice as a thought, less of a word than an impulse, sort of like Sandie imagined binary code might feel to a computer. She tried to shake her head, figure out whether it was her ears or her brain that had received the message. But she had no ears, and it did not feel like she had a brain, either, and as she thought about it, she became more and more certain that she had not heard anything but an idea... whatever that meant.

sorry did not intend will attempt help. listen? tiny mind inside tiny head so quiet in here much feeling. come back now if able some difficulty will try compensate. stand by.

Then she was moving. It was not very fast, and a sense of extreme effort from somewhere nearby struck her as amazingly inefficient, but she was moving, and the sound of the highway was fading. There was a quiet scraping and squishing, like something gelatinous being dragged over rocks.

I think I'm inside the zombie.

?

Never mind. God, what if it ate me? Am I zombie guts? This had better frigging not be Purgatory, or I am never spending money on a scapular ever again…

explain?

Nothing, sorry. I guess internal monologue is sort of hard to censor. So are you my like my shoulder angel or something?

don't know maybe.

That's not helpful.

The other presence radiated perplexity but did not have a better answer. The slow dragging continued. Then there was a thump.

Another thump, and violent swearing, and then the world was tangible again, and Mike was hoisting her onto the couch. He smelled like apple cider, but there was also the smell of burnt electronics and liquefied flesh, and the last of those was probably the best explanation for the squeezing sensation around Sandie's stomach. Her shirt was wet, and the ceiling was white, and nothing else made very much sense.

"Sandie. Shit, come on, girl. Come on, baby," – he patted her cheek – "That's it, eyes open. No, don't throw up. How many fingers?"

"Piss off."

"Close enough. Don't move, there's an ambulance coming. What did he hit you with?"

"E minor, I think."

"I don't get it."

"Me neither."

Mike got her a glass of water. She asked for coffee, but he firmly refused. There were cops and paramedics, and no one was particularly impressed. There were a few handprints, but they were gooey and yielded no clues. There were a few bruises, but nothing that could have knocked someone out. There was nothing missing, either, so they could rule out insurance fraud. Sandie received reassurance and a sheet of heavy plastic to tape over the broken window. Mike got a bucket and a brush and went to work on the back porch while a can of soup reconstituted on the stove.

"So you think it was real, huh?"

Sandie popped open a root beer with a shrug. "That's what I saw. It was amazing, Mike. I mean, this thing just shattered the window like an opera singer with a wine glass. And it was dead. Like seriously dead. Like I've seen hamburgers more lively than this thing, and it wanted in."

Mike did not need words to express his skepticism. It came through just fine in the way his scrubbing brush paused between strokes.

"No, I know. I know I'm traumatized or something, and it's probably all in my head, but they asked me what I remembered, and that's what I remember. Anyway, I called you before I passed out, so everybody knows that there was something there, whether it was a prank or whatever."

"Must have been a good one. I sure wish I got here before the bastard got away. I could have beat him up for you. How come you didn't? Beat him up, I mean. You're tough, you could have kicked his face in or something."

"Maybe he gassed me or something. Or had a friend already in the house. Anyway, I remember the glass breaking, and that's it. I must have been out before he even got inside."

"He didn't get inside, unless he put plastic down first. There's none of this crap on your carpet."

"At least there's that. I didn't really want to have it steamed."

Mike dropped the brush into the bucket and grimaced at his hands; his fingernails were crusted with grime. Sandie got the door for him and led the way back inside.

"You didn't have to do that," she said. "I would have gotten to it eventually."

"By which you mean you would have let the neighborhood raccoons deal with it."

"Pretty much."

Mike sighed and made as if to brush his hair out of his eyes, remembering at the last moment that he was dramatically unclean. He made for the kitchen instead and shouted over the tap.

"You should come stay with me tonight. You can call a glazier tomorrow, but you shouldn't be staying here with that hole sitting there. Anyone could just walk in."

"Yeah, and then one of your old ladies sees me leaving, and the whole parish flips out. I'll get myself a hotel room, or something."

"Forgive me, I forgot about your collar fetish." He winked as he rolled his sleeves back down. "But seriously, I think you should have someone with you. Moral support, y'know."

"Nah, I'm tough. If the place has a coffee maker and cable, I'll be fine. Might have to call in sick tomorrow, though. Man, Mike, you should have seen that thing. If I'd gotten pictures, I'd be all over the news. It was tabloid-worthy."

She sank into a chair and pulled her knees up to her chest, balancing her can of root beer between her bare feet. The pressure on her stomach was lightening, and the morning's bagel seemed very far away.

"If you've got time," she said, "I sort of feel like going out for lunch."

They split a fajita plate at Tia Gloria's Chinexican Grill. Mike went back to the rectory, and Sandie bunked up with an overnight bag at a cheap motel. A boyfriend would be good, she thought – one who was not a priest. A five-dollar bottle of wine would be even better. She hiked across the street to the convenience store and picked up a six-pack instead, then hiked back and flicked on a documentary about real-life encounters with angels. It was saccharine and ridiculous, and that was just what she needed.

Connie called just as the pasty woman with breast enhancements was recounting her near-death experience with a dark highway and an unexpected cow.

"Coño," she said with a pop of her gum. "Girl, where you at? I'm gonna take you to get your nails done. Like hell I'm gonna let you sit there and get all freaky about this."

Sandie sighed and crunched the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she slipped her blue jeans back on. Girl talk was the last thing she wanted, but she had to admit that her nails were looking pretty crappy. She gave the address and put her third can of beer back in the fridge. She clicked the television back off, but the people in the next room must have had the volume turned way up, because she could have sworn she heard a word through the wall.

gone?