Free For I Could Lift My Finger and Black Out the Sun by Keith Soares

Bobby nodded.
     
    “Geez, I hope not,” I said. “That’s gross.” Those dogs licked me, for God’s sake.
     
    “Then where is he?” Bobby asked, pointing toward Walter’s empty bay.
     
    “He’s gotta be dead, so I don’t know how he could’ve just walked away,” I mused. How does a dead body move? For a moment, I thought of Walter Ivory reanimating, walking himself away as a zombie. I laughed at myself. Everyone knew zombies were hyped-up pop-fiction bullshit. The dogs seemed the most logical option. What else could have gotten to him inside the building?
     
    Bobby hesitated. “What if he’s not dead?” he asked, quietly.
     
    “Come on, you saw it — he slashed his own throat!” I couldn’t believe he was alive, even if he had the same powers Bobby and I did.
     
    Bobby squared his shoulders. “I’m going over to take a closer look,” he announced.
     
    “Are you nuts ?” But Bobby was already striding down the hall. I hurried to catch up, still protesting, but not too seriously. I wanted to know what the hell was going on, too.
     
    After searching through the open bay, Bobby was convinced. “He’s definitely not here. And look.” He pointed at the rough floor around us.
     
    A large splash of blood had seeped into the cement. I gagged. “Jesus, that’s disgusting.”
     
    “If the dogs dragged him away, the blood would show which way he went. But there’s nothing.” Bobby was right. Dam n .
     
    At that moment, heavy hands grabbed Bobby and me by the backs of our shirt collars. We both let out a startled shout.
     
    “What’re you two doing here?” That voice. Walter Ivory . He was alive.
     
    I craned my neck to get a glimpse of his face, and up close I could see the ragged skin of his neck. It was healed, but not just once. There were many scars, knitted and intersecting. Walter must have slashed his throat countless times. We only got to see the first. Or the most recent. Who knew how long he’d been playing this sick game.
     
    Suddenly Walter gave a pained expression as his body shuddered violently. “You…!” he said, staring at us in a strange way, like he recognized us, maybe even was afraid of us. He winced, twisting his head like he was hearing some painfully loud noise, then nodded to himself. “I know what to do.” Oh goody. A psychopath had taken a keen interest in us. That sounded like it would turn out well.
     
    He began to pull us in the direction of the elevator. Oh God, he’s gonna turn us in , I thought. We dragged our feet and pleaded, but he kept a firm grip on our shirts and forced us to move along. As we went, Walter found a roll of packing tape and snatched it up.
     
    We were pushed into the elevator as Bobby pleaded with him. “Come on, mister, don’t turn us in! We were just looking around! We’ll leave and we won’t come back, promise!” Walter looked at Bobby with a strangely quizzical expression, and punched a button on the elevator. The doors clanged together and we started to move.
     
    Upward.
     
    He had hit the button marked “R.” We were going to the roof.
     
    As the elevator lurched along, we were trapped with him, so he let go of our collars for a minute. Then Walter peeled sections of packing tape and wrapped them around our wrists.
     
    In moments, the elevator doors opened noisily onto the roof. I blinked at the bright, merciless sun as Walter grabbed us each by an arm and dragged us out of the elevator. The roof was surrounded by a low brick wall, and Walter was headed toward the far side. Other than to throw us over the edge, I could think of no reason for him to bring us there. In the middle of the flat roof, I noticed Mr. Gerald’s forklift parked to one side. Pods dotted the surface like an obstacle course.
     
    Walter practically slammed us into the half wall, near a section of metal pipe poking up from the roof. Probably some kind of ventilation. I had to slide the last foot to avoid flailing and falling over the wall.