Against the Clock

Copyright 2023 Crystal Lake Publishing Join the Crystal Lake community today on our newsletter and Patreon! Download our latest catalog here. All Rights Reserved Cover art: Ben Baldwin—http://www.benbaldwin.co.uk Layout: Lori Michelle—www.theauthorsalley.com Edits and Proofs by: Paula Limbaugh, Joseph VanBuren, and Robyn Goss This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. SEPTIC Mark Allan Gunnells I’M GOING TO die here. Carl Morrison huddled on the floor with his back against the wall, wedged between the sink and the toilet. The pain in his abdomen was intense, but his body must have been acclimating to it, because he no longer felt like he was going to vomit. He raised a hand, surprised and scared by how much effort that required, and swiped at his dripping face. Sweat poured from him in rivulets, soaking his hair as if he’d just stepped out of the shower, and tears streaked down his cheeks. He had never thought of himself as a crier, but then he’d never been in this much pain in his life. Not even last year when he sprained his ankle. “Please God,” he said, even though he considered himself even less a prayer than a crier. No atheists in foxholes, he’d heard, and apparently that held true for cramped bathrooms with busted locks. “If you’re there and not just some imaginary friend, don’t let me die like this. I know I can be an ass sometimes, but I’m not a bad person. And my mother is practically a saint. It would devastate her if she lost me. It’s not like I’m asking for a miracle, for water into wine, or the raising of the dead. Just please get me—” Carl’s words morphed into a strangled scream as the pain flared even more sharply, like a poker buried deep in his gut. He fell forward onto his hands and knees and crawled slowly toward the door, pushing aside the ceramic pieces from the broken toilet tank lid. Luckily it wasn’t far or he might not have made it. Though he had tried this several times already, he reached up with a trembling hand and twisted the knob as if testing to see if his prayer had born fruit. Nothing. The knob turned, but the door would not open. He fell on his side then rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of the string of events that had to align to land him in this situation. Not just one or two unfortunate coincidences, but a domino effect of things going wrong to leave him trapped and dying here. Almost as if by some design. It was enough to make one believe in God, but not the benevolent Grandfather type he’d learned about in Sunday School as a child. But instead, some evil prick who delighted in torturing His creations. The choices were few. Either God never existed, He was dead, or He had orchestrated all of this for His own entertainment. Carl supposed it didn’t matter because it all resulted in the same end. He was going to die here. *** December 17, 1988 The flat tire was the first thing to go wrong. Carl was already running late, which was out of character. Unlike most sixteen-year-olds, he valued promptness as more precious than gold. In fact, he typically arrived wherever he was going anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour early. Even school. His mother called it a “Carl trademark.” And yet today of all days, he found himself lagging. He blamed the fact that he didn’t feel well, a slight stomachache that throbbed around his belly button. He considered telling his mother but knew that would result in being told to stay home, and Carl did not want to miss the Christmas parade. Others might have found it silly or shallow, but being in the parade with the rest of the Rockford High cheerleaders was important to him. He was the only male member of the squad and wanted to represent. So he did what he’d done when he twisted his ankle during the big game against Jefferson High last year—he kept his mouth shut and pushed through the pain. Another Carl trademark. He moved slowly, but he still moved and that was the important thing. At 8:25, a full ten minutes later than he had intended to leave, he yelled a goodbye to his mother and walked out the front door, dressed in his purple and yellow cheerleading outfit, with his purple letterman’s jacket to protect him from the December cold. His backpack was slung across one shoulder, containing everything he’d need to spend the night at his friend Danny’s house. His mother still insisted on calling it a “sleepover” despite Carl telling her repeatedly that sleepovers were for ten-year-olds. His mother’s car was parked at the curb, Carl’s Mustang SVO in the driveway. He’d already unlocked the driver’s side door and tossed his backpack inside before noticing that the front driver’s side tire was flat. Not just low but “flat as a flitter” as his Grandma Burgess used to say no matter how many times people told her “flitter” wasn’t a word. The rim was resting on the cement of the driveway. Carl cursed and kicked at the offending tire, causing a deeper stab of pain in his abdomen. After a glance at his watch, he retreated to the front door, let himself in, and yelled, “Mom! Come quick!”