Free Fire Spirit by Graham Masterton

of the room, he kicked the pizza box, which was obviously empty.
    Her telephone was fixed to the wall, in the kitchenette area. She wondered if she could reach it in time to dial 911, but she doubted it. She turned around and looked at her bookshelves, which were filled with romance novels and diet books, but also with books about travel in the Far East. She had left her floppy beige purse on top of them, and in the side-pocket of her purse lay her cellphone. But again she knew that she had almost no chance of crossing the room and taking it out before the man knocked her down a second time.
    â€˜I’m not saying it’s your fault,’ the man told her. He cleared his throat, and paused to get his breath back. ‘The problem is, it has to be fixed somehow, and so far as I know this is the only way.’
    â€˜I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ said Tilda. ‘ What has to be fixed?’
    â€˜The . . .’ the man began, but then he seemed to be lost for words, and all he could do was throw up his hands. ‘ Everything . Everything has to be fixed, that’s what.’
    â€˜Please, you won’t hurt me, will you?’ said Tilda.
    But at that moment there was a soft, quick knock at the door and two more men came into the apartment. Still sitting on the floor, Tilda humped herself away from them, toward the couch, and she couldn’t stop herself from letting out a muted squeal of fear. Both men were dressed in black sweatshirts and black pants, but one of them wore a mask that was totally expressionless, while the other wore a mask of scowling anger. The laughing man closed the door and locked it.
    â€˜You’re right,’ said the expressionless man. ‘She looks exactly like her. Gives you the willies, don’t it?’
    The scowling man came up to Tilda and hunkered down close to her. He took hold of her face in his hand and squodged her cheeks together. ‘How much do you weigh, sweetheart?’ he asked her. ‘Two-twenty? Two-thirty? More?’
    Tilda couldn’t speak. The scowling man said, ‘Never mind. You look the part, that’s all that matters. You’re a dead ringer.’
    The expressionless man came up close to her, too, and between the two of them they heaved her up from the floor. She clutched her bathrobe around her, and looked from one of the men to the other, trying to understand what they wanted from her.
    â€˜You have a boyfriend, Tilda?’ asked the laughing man.
    She shook her head. Her throat hurt and her eyes were filled with tears.
    â€˜That’s good. That makes it more authentic. She didn’t have no boyfriend neither. Well, she was such a tub of lard. Just like you.’
    â€˜Please don’t hurt me,’ Tilda whined. ‘Please, I’ll do anything.’
    â€˜Well, we know you will,’ said the laughing man. ‘But that don’t change nothing. Take off the robe.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You heard me, sweet cheeks. Take off the robe.’
    Tilda gripped the lapels of her bathrobe and crossed her arms tightly over her bosom. ‘I can’t.’
    â€˜No, Tilda. You don’t get it. You can take it off, and you will, and you’ll do it right now. We’re none too patient, none of us.’
    â€˜I can’t! I can’t! I’ve never—’
    The laughing man leaned over her, so that his white papier mâché nose was almost touching hers. ‘You’ve never what , darling?’
    Tilda was feeling faint, and she couldn’t stop herself from swaying. ‘I’ve never . . . showed myself. To a man.’
    The scowling man came up close to her, too. ‘You’ve never been naked in front of a man? Like, you’ve always turned the lights off?’
    Tilda closed her eyes. Please let this not be happening. Please.
    â€˜I’ve never been with a man. Ever.’
    â€˜Well, stick a feather up my ass