Body Count 160

Lindsay sat up in bed gasping for breath, disoriented and scared. Morning light streamed through the curtains as she collected her scattered thoughts. She was sweating, but cold, very cold. She looked around nervously, afraid of what may be lurking in the shadows. Finally she got her breathing under control,  swung her legs out of bed and slipped her feet into her slippers. Grabbing her robe she padded into the kitchen and switched on the kettle before slumping into a chair at the kitchen table and resting her head in her hands. She thought about the night before. Did I really see those horrific burned figures in my bedroom? Was I dreaming? I’m losing it! 

The kettle boiled and she poured the steaming water over a tea bag in her favorite mug and left it to brew while she opened the fridge. Damn, no milk. I really don’t want to leave the house today. Drinking her tea black (it tasted bitter), she walked into the living room and opened the curtains. A white car was parked outside. The same car she’d seen more than once since the fire. Lindsay squinted against the sunlight, looking for passengers. Looking back at her, through the window, was the same solemn white face.

OK, I need to know who this is. She ran to the front door and opened it wide, just in time to see the car disappear from view. What the hell is the connection? She thought.

A Police car pulled onto the street. Great! 

Two police officers got out, one male and one female. They had serious expressions on their faces.

Now what? 

“We need you to get dressed and come to the station with us.”

“Am I being arrested?” Lindsay asked.

They ushered her into the house. Shutting the front door behind her, Lindsay turned to look at the grim-faced officers. “Why do I have to go to the station? I’ve told you everything I know already.”

“One hundred and sixty bodies have been recovered, you were the only survivor. We need to know what you saw, and why you left early.”

Lindsay felt numb, 160 bodies. God in a small town like this, that was a quarter of the youth population. She stumbled blindly into the bedroom and got dressed. In the behind her, she saw the fleeting image of a charred body. What the hell is happening to me?

“You’re over 18 and old enough to be interviewed alone, but is there anyone you’d like to call?” The female officer asked.

Lindsay shook her head, on television in situations like this, she’d ask for her lawyer! She seriously hoped she didn’t need one.

“No one!” she answered.

Police Car

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, a young girl in trouble. It’s the theme of all of my stories, most likely because I was always in trouble myself. If you’re enjoying this, and have read my previous short stories, check out my novel Dead of July, which is available to purchase from Amazon.

Dead of July by Sandra Thompson

 

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