Not machinery.
Laughter.
Bright. Unafraid.Wrongin exactly the right way. My heart leaps into my throat.
It echoes from deeper in the facility, followed by the sound of someone running – not fleeing.
Playing.
I stop cold.
That sound hits me like a punch to the chest.
“That’s her,” I breathe.
And then I’m moving – fast, silent, heart slamming – toward the sound of a woman who is very clearly not dead.
LOSING YOUR TOUCH OLD MAN
Like You Mean It - Steven Rodriguez
Kookaburra
It’s funny how loud laughter sounds when everyone else is already dead. I quickly got used to the quiet and now the intruding footsteps sound like gunshots. A smarter woman would run. When everything around me is dead, ghosts shouldn’t make noise. But I never claimed to be smart.Just fucking amazing.
The steps break off, heading in different directions and I pause, holding my breath, eager to see what’s coming around the corner.
Friend or foe? Either will be fun I guess.
I freeze whenheappears, my delighted grin stretching from ear to ear the only movement in the corridor as we stare at one another.
His twinkling eyes narrow on me and I light up.
It’s on.
Run,he mouths.
I spin and take off running, delighted by the thrill of the chase.
Finally.
I’ve missed this.
I hit the corner hard, boots skidding just enough to feel reckless, just enough to make it fun. The corridor opens into a wider service hall, lights flickering overhead like they’re complicit. I don’t slow down. I want him hungry. I want him calculating.
Behind me, there’s no sound at first – and that’s how I know I’m being hunted.
Hatchet never wastes noise.
My lungs burn as I take the stairs two at a time, laughter bubbling up and out of me before I can stop it. It echoes, bright and unhinged, and I know he hears it. Knows exactly what it means. I’m not scared. I’m inviting him to come get me.
I vault a railing, land hard, roll, pop back up. The whole place smells like metal and ozone, but under it there’s him – clean, sharp, restrained to the point of violence. I glance back just in time to see him round the corner, broad shoulders filling the space, dark clothes moving like they’re part of him instead of something he put on.
His eyes lock on mine.
God. There it is.
He doesn’t run – not at first. He stalks, measured and inevitable, like he knows the end is already written and he’s just enjoying the punctuation. I sprint anyway, heart hammering, nerves singing, every instinct screamingalive alive alive.
