Spliced: A Story of Rapture

Chapter Ten

A half-hour later, Lillian stood in the kitchen, a glass of red wine in one trembling hand, a cigarette in the other. She leaned against the counter, too nervous to sit, too exhausted to stand. She watched the second hand on the clock tick its way to midnight. It was so close now, the new year. Lillian sighed and took a long drag from her cigarette. She was afraid to go back in the bedroom to confront the bodies of Roland and the woman, who she had come to realize upon inspecting the contents of her purse, was named Betty. They were dead–had to be dead–for no person could lose that much blood and live, surely.

Lillian was realizing as she stood there that she felt squeamish about the idea of moving their bodies. She had had a plan: Load them up into the bathysphere and then dispose of them through the chute that Roland used for bringing in specimens. In the chaos of New Year’s Eve, nobody would know any better. And if they were eventually found and not eaten by sharks, they’d be written off as lost victims of Fontaine and his “goons.” It was a decent plan, but Lillian just couldn’t stand the thought of hefting up the bodies, getting all wet and sticky with blood. It seemed like a great inconvenience. She wished Roland were here to help, then realized how ridiculous that wish was. Paralyzed, Lillian went back to sipping her wine.

It was fifteen minutes to midnight and Lillian was pouring herself another glass of wine when she heard the crash. It sounded like a glass breaking on the floor in the bedroom. She froze in fear, ceased breathing so that she could hear better. She strained, but all was quiet. Maybe she’d imagined the crash. Maybe it was not coming from the bedroom but in fact had issued from another nearby apartment. That had been the case numerous other times. The walls weren’t exactly soundproof. Lillian finally let in a big inhale and began pouring her wine again. This time, a thump sounded, then another one, so close and distracting that Lillian, ears perked and mouth hanging open dumbly, missed the glass and poured the rest of the wine all over the counter.

“Shit!” she whispered as the wine began drip dripping off the counter and onto her stockinged feet. She stepped back, not watching where she was going, but instead eyes wide and staring at the doorway to the hall. What if one of the pair was still alive?

The thumping continued, rhythmically, and it seemed like it was getting closer. Lillian backed up to the farthest corner of the kitchen, opened a drawer and fumbled around inside for something she could use as a weapon in the event that she came face to face with an angry and disfigured Roland. What she pulled out was the Radar Range cooking gun. Frantically, as the thumps were getting closer now, Lillian flipped the switch and powered the infernal device on, then turned the knob all the way to the right. If she was going to fry the bastard, she’d better at least do a complete job of it. She felt physically ill at the thought of him surviving the beating she’d given him. It was an even worse thought to contemplate what he would look like if he were to live through a radar gun attack. The gun whirred quietly in Lillian’s hand as she stood there in the kitchen, breath coming in short, scared gasps, heart beating like a freight train. The thumping came closer, and closer, and closer. And then it stopped, and there was silence.

Lillian wasn’t sure what to think. Had she imagined the whole thing? Was she losing her mind? She crossed the kitchen slowly, fearfully, Radar Range in hand and ready to fire. Her feet left red wine footprints on the linoleum as she crept closer to the doorway to the hall. Her ears perked almost painfully, but could detect no sound but the ticking clock, ticking its way merrily to midnight.

She rounded the corner into the dark hallway, finger on the trigger, and looked around. Nothing. No one. Lillian sighed, then lowered the gun to her side. Her heart was still pounding, but there was nothing there. She stood there then, in the hallway, and just as she was about to turn around and go back into the kitchen, she spotted one of the framed photos of she and Roland that hung on the wall. It had always been there, but like a piece of furniture, it was always just there. She hadn’t noticed it in years, until just now.