Chapter 10

Sunday, December 14, 7:15 p.m.

Rebecca’s dinner consisted of a garden salad, a chicken pot pie, and a bag of Lays Potato Chips. She drank both a Diet Coke and a bottle of Gatorade with dinner. The house was battened down, with every light on upstairs and downstairs. She had the sense tonight to close the curtains and blinds, at least. Her left wrist ached dully from the exertion she’d subjected it to during the day, and her right wrist ached, as well. Rather than don the additional hard brace from CVS Pharmacy, however, she’d wrapped one of her mom’s Ace bandages around the elastic brace. She’d discovered it in Mom’s bathroom, one of 3 inside a Ziplock bag, still in their original packaging. One each for she, Mom, and Dad. Mom always thought ahead.

At 4:15 p.m., Rebecca had climbed through the empty widow frame at Raintree Firearms and carried the bag of supplies to her car. Sundown was less than an hour away, and Rebecca had no desire to be outdoors again after dark. Swapping the Toyota for the Dodge Ram could wait until morning. (It would shock her to know that the aged Corolla was the last vehicle she’d ever drive.) The carry bag contained a cleaning kit, extra oil and cloths, boxes of ammo and two spare magazines. She had almost pulled away from the curb when she remembered Dad’s Remington. “You lame-o bitch,” she grumbled, climbing out to retrieve it.

The drive home was uneventful if chilling. Rebecca couldn’t acclimate to the emptiness. Could she really be alone? What about the phone call yesterday morning? What happened to all the people that had vanished? Would they come back? Would the bridges? How about other forms of life, like dogs and cats and birds and insects and fish and microbes? As they had since Friday night, these questions and more kept tumbling inside her head like clothes in a dryer. More like rocks in a tumble dryer, she thought sourly.

At the Marathon station at Hal Greer, she slowed and eyed the silver Dodge Ram, but then continued to Holderby Road, cognizant of the failing daylight. The Toyota’s dashboard clock read 4:45 p.m.; less than half an hour remained before vampires came out to play. Or was that zombies, she wondered. Either answer put her right at the top of the Endangered Species List.

Arriving home, she had pulled into the spot normally occupied by her precious Teddy and killed the engine. Depressed and morose, she had taken two trips to get everything into the house.

Done with dinner at 7:45 p.m., Rebecca washed her plate and utensils and set them atop a dishtowel on the counter to dry. Her mom looked upon this habit with disfavor, believing that everything had a place, and those places should be properly occupied, but oh, well.

In the living room, she snatched up the remote and turned on the TV. CNN still broadcast a view of the big empty newsroom in Atlanta, with the same news tickertape running across the screen’s bottom. The same was true of Fox News and MSNBC. The 3 local stations were all off the air this evening, however; so too most of the cable channels she tried. TNT and TMC were exceptions, and both broadcast classic movies: Fast and Furious, and Groundhog Day, respectively. HBO displayed a message promising whatever the problem was would be fixed momentarily. Shaking her head, she returned to Groundhog Day and dropped the remote on the end table. It served as background noise.

Why was power still on after two full days? It had to fail soon, which meant that her first stop in the morning after switching vehicles had to be Home Depot or 84 Lumber for a portable generator. Both stores were this side of the river: 84 Lumber in West Pea Ridge; Home Depot just north of Barboursville. Not that she had any idea what size generator was best, or what they ran off besides gasoline. But since no mad rush had occurred Friday night, she’d have a goodly selection to choose from, she thought. The problem was, how to get it into the Dodge Ram’s truck bed? Muscle it aboard? Would it fit inside the Toyota’s miniature trunk?

Laughing, she dropped into her dad’s recliner, removed the splint, and massaged her left wrist. It felt both stiff, and limp as an overcooked noodle. The swelling was worse than it had been earlier, too; she needed to down a couple ibuprofen to reduce the inflammation. In her right wrist, as well, as it had displayed marked swelling when she’d checked it earlier.

Aware of an unpleasant odor, she sniffed her left armpit, and then her right, sighing. She’d worn the red and blue flannel shirt and black cords since 11 o’clock yesterday morning, and had slept in them, to boot. She ought to shower now, while she had the chance, before the electricity quit. But thinking about power made her consider something else: she had never checked online, to see if anyone posted anything on Facebook, Snapchat, or Instagram since 9:24 p.m. Friday night. “Well, fuck,” She muttered, sitting upright. What was the matter with her? Where was her phone?

In the kitchen, she snatched her iPhone off the counter, yanked out the plug and tapped the Facebook app, watching it boot and go to her home page. She took in a sharp intake of breath seeing posts dated as recently as 10 minutes ago, but her excitement quickly ebbed when it became clear that no one she knew had posted anything since Friday night. Everything since then originated from companies with a presence on Facebook.

The same proved true of Snapchat, Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest. The last post by a live human friend occurred at 9:19 p.m. and concerned her. She stared drop-jawed at an Instagram posting by Amy: “Becca and Aaron been up in the loft half an hour now, yo; looks like Aaron getting lucky, and my girl finally getin tagged? Go Becca! LOL!”

“You effing bitch!” She laughed, disgusted, and appalled. How could her friend do that to her? It was so fucking Amy!

“I didn’t get tagged!” she responded, still laughing and fuming. “I’m a fucking virgin! The last one on earth, dammit! Or at least in West Virginia, I am! I have a twin in Tennessee, somewhere, though. Another virginal lass who’ll never get laid now! At least not by any boy, LOL! Come find me in Huntington, honey, and we’ll bone each other with—”

Snorting, she hit send and then plugged her phone back in to charge and broke out another Diet Coke.

-------//-------

At 10:37 p.m., Rebecca stepped from the tub, grabbed a towel off the counter and dried her hair. She’d soaked in the tub for an entire hour, relaxing for the first time in 2 days, so grateful that the Powers That Be had seen fit to allow electricity to continue flowing. Before jumping in the tub, she had gone room to room, searching out windows for any sign of coming immolation. She hadn’t spotted even a hint of fire. She had whispered a reverential Thank You for that, also. She got none of this, at all. Not one little quirk.

Putting on sweats and an Adidas sweatshirt, she returned to the bathroom and brushed her teeth, gargled twice with mouthwash, and then blow-dried her hair. She was exhausted but had no desire to lay down and attempt sleep. She was too wired for that. How wired she’d become became apparent realizing that she’d paced alongside her bed for 10 minutes without knowing. What had her wired was the incident on the river today.

“How can that be?” she muttered to the floor. “I jumped 100’ from where I was in the water to the top of the boat ramp. It was, like instantaneous, you know? I didn’t paddle my way over because I’d thrown the paddle away, and it was the only one I had in the boat.” Her hands and arms were dry, and she’d had nothing in the packages that might offer protection while she paddled over. Besides, she’d spotted no wetness on the ramp made by the kayak had she dragged it up from the water’s edge. She’d looked carefully, utterly confused.

“I teleported to the ramp,” she muttered. “Or someone teleported me. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

She burst out laughing. “Makes sense? Makes sense, Rebecca?” She laughed so hard she shook. “Nothing in this fucking place makes any sense!”

Enraged, she threw back her head and screamed. Amy had wrecked her car on the way home from the party and she lay in a ditch somewhere, bleeding away her life. She was strapped to a gurney with massive head trauma. Someone had spiked her drink with acid, and this was all an LSD hallucination. Any option was better than a vanished population and fucking teleportation.

She laughed hoarsely. “Teleportation! Right, Rebecca, come on!”

Taking a deep breath, she returned downstairs. Leaving her iPhone plugged in this time, she poked Amy’s contact and stood tapping her toes. Following 7 rings, the call went to voicemail, and she left a message.

“I’m not mad about the post. I’d kiss you for making it if I could only find out where you went. Call just as soon as you can, Amy.”

She dropped the phone on the counter and rubbed her forehead. How had she gotten from the water, 100’ offshore, onto the boat ramp? “What does it matter?” she muttered. “It happened. Get over it, Becca.”

What if it’s controllable, she thought.

Her head snapped up. “What?” she blurted, blinking rapidly. Controllable? “That’s insane!” she objected strenuously. “God did that! He saved me from dying today!”

But what if he hadn’t? Or what if he had, by imbuing her with the gift of teleportation? She laughed again. “That is nuts, Rebecca. It’s not even funny!”

Showing how nuts it was, she kicked the trash basket across the kitchen barefoot, stubbing her big toe. She laughed, rubbing it with her ankle crossed over her right knee. “This is stupid!” she hollered, laughing. “You can’t teleport!”

She grabbed her cell phone off the counter, returned upstairs and stared though her open window blinds, not seeing the steadily burning lights across the street.

How had she gotten ashore? Glancing about uncertainty, she moved to a point midway between her bed and closet, wondering if she’d lost her mind. How much crazier was the idea of teleportation than vanished partygoers, motorists, schoolmates, and family members, though? Let’s not forget crashing aircraft without resulting firestorms. Not that she’d witnessed a crash, or the aftermath. You just had to assume.

With a deeply dissatisfied shake of her head, she said: “Considering that I really did teleport to shore today...” She ground her right toes into the beige nap. “I should be able to do it here in my bedroom, too. If it’s controllable. If it’s something I can do on my own. Can I do it on my own? Or was it strictly a panic reaction today? Tell me the story here, Gizmodo.”

Selecting a swatch of carpeting beside her open closet door, she concentrated intently on the spot, muttering, “It’ll never work. Go do something constructive, like making a sandwich or plotting which store to go to tomorrow, Rebecca.” Then, “Go!” she ordered unconvincingly, and of course, nothing happened.

“OK. Fuck this!” Rather than stomp away, however, Rebecca closed her eyes, visualized the spot of carpeting ahead, and took a deep breath. Reasoning that her eyes were probably closed during the jump ashore, she peeked at the spot one last time, drew another deep breath, and thought: Go, Rebecca!

She went.

-------//-------

Squealing, Rebecca opened her eyes and exhilaration-danced in place. “No way!” she screamed, laughing as she whirled; the square of carpet by her bed was empty of its former occupant. “No way!” she crowed again. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

She made another 360-degree spin, gulped loudly, and tried to slow her racing heart. “Joseph Effing Peabody Morton!” she coughed. “Did that just happen? Did I just teleport myself?”

She experienced the disconnect any rational person would, doing the impossible, eyed the vacated spot of carpet and said: “This is just crazy, you know! Crazy, crazy.” Then, purposely gluing her eyes to the spot, she ordered her newly activated jump-mechanism to fire, to displace her 6’ laterally across her bedroom floor. Accompanied by a now-familiar, slight feeling of nausea, Rebecca reacted with bubbling laughter. “This is so cool!”

Limping to her desk, she pulled out the chair and sat, rubbing her left ankle. She hadn’t realized how hard she’d kicked the trashcan downstairs. Massaging the bones, she glanced uneasily out her bedroom window. Excitement over this newfound ability became tempered by confusion and dismay. Had something like this happened to the girl in Tennessee, who, for a reason she couldn’t explain, Rebecca knew wasn’t in Tennessee anymore. She also knew that something traumatic had happened to the girl before the Friday Night Event, something she hadn’t come to grips with yet. If she ever would. Technically, her counterpart was not strictly a virgin anymore, either. She sighed, wondering how she knew this.

She went to the window and glanced out. Far down Wiltshire, a big black SUV had overrun the curb, missed the tree in the front yard somehow, and rammed the house, just below the big bay window. Cupping her hands to the glass, she eyed the vehicle, more specifically the lights on the side of the wrap-around taillight fixture. Damned if that wasn’t heated exhaust coming from the SUV’s tailpipe, she thought. The engine remained running, 50 hours post-event. “That’s just crazy,” she muttered. “He must have the world’s biggest gas tank.” Probably just filled up at Clark’s, she thought.

Without considering, Rebecca studied a patch of illuminated pavement beneath a streetlight close to the house, closed her eyes, and willed herself to the street. An immediate drop in ambient temperature sent a shiver down her spine. What was she thinking? She had no fucking shoes on! Teeth starting to chatter, she headed toward the wrecked car.

The Expedition proved empty. A glance inside told Rebecca the driver was alone at the time of The Event, or the passenger had eschewed use of the seatbelt. The big bay window had suffered little damage; two smaller side windows were cracked; a third had shattered in place, remaining intact inside the frame. The entire assembly sagged, however, balanced precariously over the black hood. A wide, jagged crack separated the window casement from the brickwork above. Not smart to be this close, she thought, backing away.

Curling her toes and clamping her arms over her chest, she climbed the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell. “Hello?” she hollered, pounding the door. “Anybody home?” She was as alone here as she would be on Mars, she thought. Returning to the sidewalk, she jumped back to the warmth and security of her bedroom and went to bed.

-------//-------

Monday, December 15, 2014, 8:36 a.m. Starting awake, Rebecca sat bolt upright and glanced around the room. She coughed loudly and twisted to see the alarm clock, her heart rate and respiration both elevated. It was 8:36 a.m. She had slept 8 hours, not an instant of it restful.

It was overcast, having rained; her window was misted with droplets. “Fuck,” she muttered, plopping back onto the pillows.

It rained? Focusing more intently on the window, perplexed at the thought of rain in December with temperatures below freezing—they were last night, anyway--she threw off the comforter and sat up. She flexed her neck muscles, stretched, and listened to vertebrae pop and her tendons groan. “How can it be raining, for Christ’s sake?” she muttered.

She grabbed her iPhone off the nightstand and activated the weather app. Precipitation, sometimes heavy, was forecast the entire day; the present temperature in Huntington was 72 degrees. Which made no sense at all. Not when the app had claimed that temps would remain below 50 all week long. Nothing about a warm front moving in, pushing temperatures into the 70’s. Just more of this crazy bullshit!

Her ankle hurt worse this morning, probably a result of the barometer drop. Dad always complained about the barometer dropping when it rained, aggravating his rheumatic joints. Grumbling, she hopped one-footed to the window and gazed out. She was in her underwear, but she’d welcome a Peeping Tom this morning. She might even give the bugger a seductive wiggle, the best she could manage one-footed, anyway.

Every tree in sight bore late fall foliage (admittedly dull with the determined rainfall), making Rebecca’s eyes bulge and her jaw drop. “What the...?” she croaked. It was October, again?

She raised the phone and jabbed the side button with her thumb. The date on the lock-screen read December 15, making her repeatedly shift her gaze from the screen to the impossible autumn tableau outside. Seeking reassurance of where she stood, Rebecca glanced disconcertedly at her bedroom, confirming that it was hers. “Come on,” she whispered shakily.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her mouth. “This shit has to stop,” she rasped. “I am sick of this craziness. I need a drink.” It was amazing that she hadn’t yet raided her dad’s Heineken. Yet.

Aggravated, and feeling idiotic, Rebecca carefully circled to her desk, and lowered onto the swivel chair and rubbed her left ankle. Not bad now, but it could be, she thought. Two additional Ace bandages were in Mom’s bathroom, and the last thing she wanted was to worsen the pain through inattention. She got up and hobbled out her bedroom door.

What limits came with this new ability of hers? Did she still have it this morning? Being in Amy’s bedroom Friday night before heading for the party ... did that qualify as a possible jump-to point? How far could she jump? Under what restrictions? Was prior physical presence in a location required? That seemed a logical assumption, all things considered. Could she jump to the moon? Laughing, she thought: That would solve all your problems, Rebecca.

Ankle wrapped, she donned jeans and a T-shirt and crossed back to her bedroom window. She rotated the thumb-latch and raised the lower section to smell the outside air. According to her iPhone, the temperature had crept up 2 degrees. The air was warm and moisture-laden, redolent of fall. A light breeze from the south rustled leaves that had fallen, been raked, and collected more than a month ago. Bizarre compounding bizarre, she thought.

The black Expedition remained embedded in the wrecked house, although she could only see the front end due to the intervening trees. Cocking an ear, she listened for the running engine, but couldn’t detect it at this distance, if it still ran; she made out no sign of exhaust but didn’t expect to. What she did hear were heat-pumps—one shut off within a second of another kicking on—and the deep thrum of a transformer atop the pole across the street. She closed the window, and then opened it again. Enjoy it while you can, she thought.

Did this ability pertain only to her? Could she, for instance, teleport an object--say her swivel chair or her unmade bed--onto the street below? She laughed, imagining what a disaster that might prove.

Eyeing a manhole cover in the street below, she closed one eye and ordered the iPhone on her palm to the street. The iPhone stayed put. She attempted the same action, targeting her nightstand this time, then her lumpy pillow, the top of her dresser, and finally, the palm of her right hand. She gasped at the unexpected, palm-to-palm transfer.

“Well, uh, that sorta makes sense, huh?” She laughed, shaking her head.

She rolled the swivel chair to the room’s center, dropped onto it, and placed the phone in her lap. Gripping the seat tightly on the sides and eyeing the square of carpet before her closet, she tucked her tender left ankle behind the support pole, held her breath and closed her eyes. Go, she thought, envisioning the spot. Slight nausea confirmed that she had made the jump, swivel chair and all. Laughing, she slapped her thigh. “This is so cool!”

Knowing she’d done a shit job of it the first time, Rebecca unwound and carefully rewrapped her ankle with the Ace bandage. It appalled her the pain she inflicted upon herself through stupidity. Dad always said that clumsiness would be the death of her, but she thought that temper was probably closer to the truth. She stood and tested the ankle. Good enough, she decided.

Donning her red Chucks, she murmured wordlessly about Amy’s bedroom and closed her eyes. It frightened her, jumping to a location other than her own bedroom, or one not visible from her bedroom window. What if something went wrong? Something did, boomeranging her back home.

“Ohhh,” she moaned, head spinning. Staggering to the bed, she sat down and breathed through her mouth, fighting vertigo. She had a distinct sense of having teleported to Amy’s bedroom, only to bounce back again, impacting an ephemeral rubber wall. Was something in the way, she wondered, blocking her arrival? Maybe Mrs. Willets rearranged the furniture in their absence, or something. Maybe her chair sat in the way. Visualizing the hallway outside Amy’s bedroom door, she tried again, and this time succeeded. “Thank God!” she exclaimed, bracing against the doorframe for support. She immediately grew paranoid, a housebreaker, once again.

“Amy! Mrs. Willets? Mr. Willets? It’s Rebecca! I’m upstairs outside Amy’s bedroom! Have you seen Amy? Sean or Constance? Are you home?”

Ready to squeal at an answer, Rebecca listened intently, discerning only the sough of air through the floor vents. A motorized hum she took for a refrigerator compressor sounded downstairs, while a sound she couldn’t immediately identify, proved to be Sean’s Xbox game console, humming softly down the hall.

An open clothes hamper occupied her jump spot in Amy’s bedroom. Mrs. Willets had dragged the hamper from the walk-in closet Friday night and placed it squarely in the middle of the floor. Amy was a hideous slob.

Rebecca moved cautiously down the hallway past Constance’s and Sean’s bedrooms. Amy’s 9-year-old sister’s bedroom door was closed, a colorful sign threatening extinction to intruders. Sean’s bedroom door stood open. His widescreen TV bore the Halo logo; a controller sat on the floor before his swivel chair. Sean was 14. They gleefully exchanged middle fingers whenever they passed in the hallway at school.

A landing halfway down the stairs proved a convenient observation point. She gazed uneasily about the living room and dining area, muttering, “Come on. You’re in no more danger here than you are at home, idiot. Shit, or get off the pot.”

That’s when the power failed.

-------//-------

It proved to be mid-December, again. Gazing out her bedroom window, Rebecca spotted bare limbs and an overcast threatening snow, rather than rain. She cast a glance down Wiltshire, whispering “I bid you ado” to fall.

The power failure had nearly made her pee her pants. It had lasted a mere 10 seconds, but it was the first interruption she’d seen since Friday night, and it did her stress level no good at all. She’d immediately jumped back to her bedroom.

Truth was, she might fall over soon from low blood sugar. It was 11:15 a.m., and she hadn’t been to the kitchen for anything to eat. What the eff was wrong with her? Visualizing a square of linoleum in the kitchen, she jumped downstairs and headed for the refrigerator. “You clumsy fucking bimbo,” she muttered, limping.

She grabbed a ham and egg scramble from the freezer, punched holes in the film with her thumbnail, and threw it into the microwave. While it heated, she crossed to the kitchen window and looked out.

“I’m coming for you,” she promised. “If I can jump to Amy’s house, then I can sure as hell jump that fucking river and—”

The microwave bell dinged, and just as she turned her head in response, the power died again. Alarmed, she eyed the kitchen light, waiting for it to stuttered back to life. It didn’t, and never would again.

-------//-------

“Take it easy,” she muttered. “Relax, Rebecca. We don’t know anything yet.” She removed the heated tray from the microwave and set it atop the counter.

Would it come back? She thought not, not this time, which filled her with nauseating dread. She began to tremble uncontrollably, fighting off panic. Forget Teddy, she thought, bleakly: we need to swap the Toyota for the Dodge Ram right now and get to Home Depot. She must get a generator online before tonight, fucked-up ankle or not. But a bigger problem presented itself.

She jerked erect and whipped her head about. Was that a vehicle she heard, driving up Wiltshire from the direction of the Marathon station. Experiencing real panic now, she gasped, and catapulted upstairs to her bedroom, without even thinking. Running to her desk, she tore the Glock from the shoulder holster, chambered a round, staring fearfully at the window. Finger held safely outside the trigger guard, she crept to the window and looked out. Parked at the curb was a silver Tesla sedan.

“Holy fuck!” she croaked, staring at the car. Was it a man, a woman, the girl from Tennessee?

She teleported back to the kitchen and then to the window beside the front door. She hung back, eying the Tesla from the safety of the foyer. After a moment, the driver’s side door opened and a woman with short blonde hair stepped out and looked directly at the front door. She wore a red and blue flannel shirt with black cords and boots. Why did she look so damned familiar?

Another vehicle, approaching from Oakwood Road rather than 18th Street drew the woman’s attention away from the house. She stood with an arm atop the driver’s side window, eying the approaching car as though expecting it. Gathering her courage, Rebecca deactivated the alarm, unfastened the safety chain, and opened the front door.

The white Jeep Cherokee with Tennessee plates towed a bright yellow trailer covered by tarps. Behind the wheel sat a cute teen with shoulder-length, blonde hair. She braked hard and stared wide-eyed at Rebecca a moment, and then shifted her gaze to the woman beside the car. Hello, she mouthed uncertainly. The woman smiled, beckoned with her left hand, and then watched the girl slowly pull to the curb before the Burnham’s house and kill the engine. The trailer protruded a good distance into the road, but the Tesla could fit past, should the need arise. Climbing out, she left the door ajar and walked slowly toward the woman, smiling shyly, stiff with anxiety, arms crossed over her chest. She wore sweats and a sweatshirt, with a holstered Glock at her waist. Rebecca clearly saw her blackened eyes and swollen nose. She looked ready to fall asleep on her feet. She also looked crazily familiar.

The woman said something in a voice too low for Rebecca to hear. Surprised by her words, the nervous girl halted and responded questioningly, asking what Rebecca heard as: “Do I know you?”

The woman smiled and shrugged. In the same low voice, she questioned the girl about the gun on her hip.

The girl laughed cautiously and said: “Do you know why we’re here? What happened to everybody?”

The woman shook her head, spoke softly again and then turned to face a dazed and confused Rebecca.

“I have someone I think you’d like to see!” she called out. Leaning in, she spoke to a person on the passenger’s side of the car that Rebecca hadn’t seen from her vantage point atop the stoop. Fidgeting uneasily, lower lip caught between her teeth, the girl in the street stared at the person through the windshield; she also seemed to have been unaware of their presence. A moment later, the passenger’s side door opened, and someone started to climb out. Rebecca unconsciously took a step backward, clutching herself tighter. She reminded herself not to accidentally discharge the Glock clutched in her left hand. “Easy,” she muttered. And then gasped, as the 4th member of their little survivor’s party proved to be none other than Gunther Tripp.

Jessica 10

Monday, December 15, 1:45 a.m. Something catastrophic had occurred Friday night at 9:24 p.m. A tear in the fabric of space-time, maybe an inter-dimensional fracture that eliminated all life on earth other than she and the girl on the phone. Jessica supposed a fracture might also explain the appearance of spring 4 months early Saturday morning; certainly, no major shipping channel or canal existed in her world between Richmond and Staunton, VA. Stephen Hawking and other physicists pushed the theory of the multi-verse, crazy as that always sounded to Jessica, so maybe it was real.

The suppression of fire and Marilyn in the Valley was something else, though. Especially considering that Jesse had started a fire at will, as demonstrated so dangerously at the overlook Sunday morning. (It occurred to her just how vital a consideration that was, once the power finally failed, plunging her into darkness with no means of keeping warm.) Why did gas burn in the Cherokee’s engine, anyway, and in all those wrecked vehicles that had run their tanks dry? Power plants burned fuel oil and coal to generate electricity—something kept power flowing through the lines to this hotel room. So, who or what decided on combustibility? What entity besides God or Satan could handle manipulation like that, anyway?

“No one,” she confirmed in a low voice. “Only God or the devil.” She swished water around while she thought. “Why would either care about me or single me out, though?” She laughed harshly. “I know you’d take pleasure in torturing me, Satan. You’d earn a hi-five from old Beelzebub, wouldn’t you, an old slap on the backaroonie?” She wondered if Beelzebub was the name of a demon, or just another name for Satan. In neither case, was it good.