Rae Dawn Chong: I read the instructions.
—Commando
HE FOUND the transformer, traced the power lines to the underside of the house. Slashing the wires was foolish; you wanted to be able to resume power quickly if need be, or cover your tracks. So he used a putty knife to strip away the layer of gray utility clay bunched around the cable, carefully placing the chunks in his jacket pocket. Soon the copper cables, insulated in layers of lead and rubber, were revealed, and he carefully disconnected them from the digital meter.
A few feet away, the HVAC unit, resting on a pad of concrete, shut down and spun out to a total stop.
“Power’s out. Hooking up the governor now.”
“Good.”
He screwed the loose wires into a small hard-plastic box that could be controlled by remote. Power was gone, but it could be back on line if needed.
Next up: security system, satellite dish, gas lines, water. All the things you took for granted until you pushed a button, flipped a switch, or turned a knob and nothing happened. And the security system? That was a joke because it depended on a battery, as well as a landline to notify the company. Disable both and they’d have no idea. Nope, nothing wrong here.
Hardie looked around the recording studio. It was hard to tell at first what was wrong—just that something suddenly felt wrong. He stood up, glanced down briefly, then up again. Maybe it was him. Maybe his brain was shutting down, his soul preparing to depart his body and simply shutting off all of his senses before it left.
No… the girl seemed to hear it, too. Her head snapped to the left, then the right. She touched her lips.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Hardie said. “Stay here.”
“Where the fuck are you going?”
Hardie ignored her, then started climbing the stairs, keenly aware of his heart pumping the blood that enabled his limbs to move. In his mind’s eye, he saw his heart working okay, just hanging in there… until a fat artery suddenly popped out of his heart, twisting and leaking like a severed garden hose, whipping around his chest and spraying his lungs with dark blood.
Knock that off, Hardie told himself. You’re going to think yourself into the grave.
As he wound his way back to the first floor, the cardboard action heroes seemed to raise a collective eyebrow.
Buddy, you have no idea what you’re getting into.
“Shut up,” Hardie muttered.
This house-sitter guy could still be one of Them.
Easy.
He didn’t act like it. But that would be just like them, wouldn’t it? All jokes and smiles and friendliness, all meant to put you at ease, help you relax, then, wham! You were done.
Just like her Good Samaritan on the 101. Walking up to her car, needle in hand, jabbing it into her arm when she was at her weakest—
Now “Charlie” here was turning his back on her. Probably on his way to the front door to let his buddies inside. The bastards had needles on the highway. What would it be this time?
Sorry, Chuck, she thought to herself. You may be telling the truth. You may be one of Them. Either way, I’m going to have to stop you.
Lane pulled herself up, using the edge of the kitchen counter. She had to move quickly. He was already halfway across the dining room.
The alarm had clued her in—snapped her out of a half sleep, actually. She’d set the alarm system for that very reason. While the intruder walked around, Lane got herself together. Listened. Waited. The intruder’s steps were methodical. Whoever was inside was clearly searching. She heard the faint creak and hum of the refrigerator door opening. The rattle of a doorknob. The opening of cabinet doors. Slowly. Carefully. Searching. Searching for her.
So when he made it to the second floor, the choice was simple. Him or me.
Now Lane limped up the staircase behind him. Damn it—he was almost at the front door. She hurled herself up after him, speed-hopping, resting her injured foot for a fraction of a microsecond before using her good foot to vault herself forward. If he opened that door, it was all over.
Hardie stepped into the vestibule, looking around for something out of place. All at once the silence was overwhelming. He was tempted to open the door to see if something had happened outside, like maybe the Rapture or Armageddon, but then a thought occurred to him. Hardie moved into the media room, then saw his reflection in the darkened flat-screen. After a few seconds he figured out what was missing: No digital time readouts on the components.
The girl appeared in the room, bloodied mic stand still in her hand. The fact that it was his blood vaguely bothered Hardie.
She leaned forward and whisper-yelled: “What are you doing?”
“The power’s out,” Hardie said.
“Oh God. So they know I’m in here. They saw you walk in, and they think I’m in here…”
“Uh, you are in here.”
“They didn’t know that before you showed the fuck up!”
“Please, for the love of God… who is they?”
But the girl was already starting to panic, looking around at the windows and doorways, as if expecting a heavily armed unit of commandos to come storming into the house, spraying mace grenades and bullets.
Hardie had to admit, it was all starting to feel seriously strange to him, too. The power just so happens to go out just after he got his dumb ass stabbed in the chest? None of the previous explanations his lizard brain had come up with seemed to fit now. If it was just the girl, that would be one thing. People on drugs cooked up some truly weird shit in their fevered brains. But this was no simple cocaine-fueled delusion. Hardie was living in it, too.
He went to the front door, and, as predicted, the digital security panel was still lit. These systems always run by backup battery. That way, if home invaders cut the power, you can still call for help.
The girl appeared behind him and took him by the wrist. Hardie flinched at her touch.
“Come back downstairs with me,” she said. “Please. I don’t want them seeing us through the windows.”
“Hold on. The security’s still working. There’s got to be a panic button or something on here.”
“No! Don’t you dare touch that!”
“Why not?”
“They could be anybody. What if they just put on a bunch of fake security team uniforms and come knocking? How would you be able to tell the difference between what’s real and what they want you to see?”
“Just curious—do you realize how little sense you’re making right now? Or is this the drugs talking?”
BEEP.
Hardie’s eyes flicked to the right.
The security display panel?
Dead.
“Security’s out, power’s out, everything.”
“Okay. O’Neal—the wasp nest on the door?”
“Mounted, loaded, and ready.”
“Okay, let’s get bags ready, A.D.”
“On it. How is your eye, by the way?”
“Focus on the task at hand.”
“Sorry—just asking.”
“Ask me when the production is over. Now go.”
By the time Hardie put it fully together—that, yeah, someone on the outside was fucking with them—the girl had already taken up a position in front of the heavy oak door, mic stand in hand. Her whole body trembled. She was wild-eyed. She pressed her free hand against the door, as if trying to sense what was on the other side through the power of touch.
Hardie took a step forward. “You need to let me through.”
She whisper-yelled at him: “No, I will not fucking let you through. Don’t you understand? That’s what they want! You open this door, and we’re both dead.”