The Dead King - Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Page 0,3

be scared of.

I finished up the last of my forms in forty-eight minutes and hit submit just as the generator kicked off.

“Shit!” I slapped my hand on the keyboard. Who knew if the files had uploaded in time? There was no way to check until morning, when Gilly would refill the generators with the fuel truck outside. Rosie and I weren’t allowed to handle the diesel. Company policy. Couldn’t blame them. No one needed another disaster on their hands.

Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow sweep across the dark room.

Oh God. What was that?

With shaking hands, I felt my way across my desk. There was a flashlight on the wall by the coffee machine, but all I wanted was to grab my purse and get the hell out of there. My imagination was making me see things.

Not real. Not real. I found the desk drawer handle, pulled, and reached inside for my purse. My keys were in the front pocket.

I quickly fumbled my way to the exit and stepped outside into the raging storm, locking the deadbolt with my key, using only my sense of touch. The wind began gusting, spraying my face with stinging rain. They said it might—might—sprinkle today. This was no fucking sprinkle.

I carefully made my way down the short flight of stairs, holding onto the railing for dear life. All I needed was to find my way around the trailer and hit the unlock button on my rental, which was parked out back. The headlights would come on and guide me the rest of the way.

Squinting, I glided my free hand against the wet textured wall of the trailer’s exterior while the rain pelted me. A bolt of lightning exploded in the sky, and I yelped. For one brief moment, everything around me lit up and came to life. Piles of construction debris seemed to move, the angular shadows dancing in a choppy motion. The puddles on the muddy ground flashed and swirled with the wind. The fallen crane, off in the distance, looked like it was bending with the wind.

Jesus. I was knee deep in a horror flick. Don’t think about the dead guy. Don’t think about the dead guy. Fuck. I’m thinking about the dead guy.

I picked up my pace, my hands extended while I prayed my feet wouldn’t land in one of the deep mud puddles. The makeshift lot was normally used for broken-down equipment waiting to be picked up and repaired. Not a smooth patch of ground to be found.

I successfully reached the corner of the trailer. Then the next.

“Thank you.” I didn’t know whom I was thanking, but my thumping heart didn’t care. The fine hairs on my arms didn’t give a fuck either. They were so stiff they felt like tiny cactus needles.

I hit the car’s remote, and my headlights came on. Sweet relief washed over me.

I got to the white sedan and pulled the driver’s side door handle. Nightmare averted. All I needed was to get dry, eat a granola bar—the only food I had back at the motel—and crawl into bed. Everything would be fine.

“Hey, Jebby. Watcha doin’ here sor late, huh?” said a raspy voice.

I froze, knowing exactly who it was. Randall. And given how he was slurring, I assumed he was drunk.

I slid behind the wheel and jerked the handle, but Randall wedged his construction boot inside before I could close it.

“Where you goin’, baby?” He yanked the door from my wet, slippery hand. Before I could utter a word, he had one of my long wet braids.

I clawed at his hand, screaming as he dragged me from the car and threw me onto the mud.

“I know what you like, Dorothy,” he slurred.

My eyes wide with terror, I watched as he started reaching for the fly of his dirty wet jeans, all the while chuckling.

I flipped onto my hands and knees in the mud and got into a sprinter’s crouch, but the moment I lunged to run, he had my hair again.

I flew backward, landing with a thud on a sharp rock right in the middle of my back. I knew it hurt. I knew I was injured. But that’s the thing about adrenaline, it shields you from feeling pain.

Randall jumped on me, straddling my torso.

“Get off me. Get off!” I screamed, trying to push him away.

“That’s what I’m doing, Dorothy.”

The interior of my car gave off more than enough light to see Randall’s snaggletoothed grin as the rain dribbled down his