Redlisted (2 page)

I slump down into
a pile of leaves at the base of a dead tree. A large part of me is
scared to stop moving, but I’m exhausted and it hurts to
breathe and I’m not making any progress anyway.

I push down into
the leaves. The pile seems to be deep enough for me to bury myself in
if I curl up tight. The musty odor of the leaves fills my nostrils as
I crush them under my body weight. I cover myself as best I can, and
then I wait.

Hours pass. From
time to time I can feel the legs of insects as they march across my
bare skin. I force myself to remain still and awake, to watch for
prey.

What on earth
happened to me? The longer I think about it, the more confused I
become. I remember those few minutes before I got shot—waking
up, heading downstairs, and then bang. But everything before that is
a blur. I don’t remember what I was doing in Atlanta. I don’t
remember anything about this Mirabel. I don’t even remember my
name.

Come on. Think
back. What happened before that evening?

I don’t
know.

A branch snaps. I
inhale sharply, looking up.

I see a deer. A
young one, with spots still on its coat. It’s probably too big
for me to kill it, but I can’t wait any longer. I have to try.

Hold
still, little deer,
I plead silently as I rise to my feet, leaves rustling around me.

The deer spots me
right away, but it remains frozen in place.

That’s
it. Don’t move.
I inch closer.

It locks eyes with
me, watching my advance, but it still doesn’t move.

As if in a dream,
I walk on tiptoe to stand by the deer’s side, all the while
willing it to keep still, and all the while it obeys. I can hear its
heart beating faster and faster as I draw my weapon towards its neck.
I put the point of the knife to its throat, then press down, then
press down hard, harder than I ever thought I’d need to until
blood starts to flow, and then I place my lips against its fur,
swallowing eagerly.

Yes—no—

After just a
mouthful I realize that the deer’s blood is no more satiating
than the cold tomato soup. It’s like water—like foul,
hot, sticky, salty water.

I pull my face
away from the deer’s neck and spit the blood out. The deer
breaks out of its trance and bolts into the trees. My legs lose the
last of their strength and buckle underneath me.

I sleep, and I
dream.

{Adam
Fletcher}

I woke up with
blood in my eyes, blood on my tongue, naked, lying prone on cold
marble. Alone.

I scrubbed at my
eyes, stood, and tried to gain my bearings. I was at the center of a
room so large the walls receded into shadow, invisible. The moon cast
a dim spotlight through a domed window in the ceiling; everything
else was pitch black.

As my eyes began
to adjust to the darkness, windows emerged along one half of the
room, and in front of them a table. On its top, in its center, was a
wine glass full of a deep red fluid. As I approached the bank of
windows, my reflection grew clearer, all angles and hollows, hovering
like a ghost among the dim silhouettes of the trees outside. The skin
on my throat was rubbed raw, and in the crook of my right elbow were
tracks left from a needle.

I brought the rim
of the wine glass to my nose, recoiled. Blood. It smelled stale,
salty.

A door creaked
open above and behind me. A man emerged from the shadows of a balcony
overhead and walked forward to stand along the railing. I looked up,
squinting, but I couldn’t make out his face.

“Adam
Fletcher.” He spoke with an accent I couldn’t place.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I felt anticipation
emanating from him in waves—anticipation and something like
hope.

I placed the glass
back on the table. “Who are you?” My voice was hoarse. It
made me sound afraid, which I wasn’t.

“My name is
Julian Radcliffe. Your anxiety is normal, Dr. Fletcher, but rest
assured, you are quite safe here.”

“Where are
we?”

“We are at
my home. Your new home. One of my estates, near Savannah, Georgia.
You are now my ward, and the youngest scion of Mnemosyne. You have
been initiated into the oldest of the sanguine houses. It is a great
honor.”

“What the
hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve
resurrected you from the dead,” he said.

“That’s
ridiculous.”

He shrugged.

I brought the
first two fingers of my right hand to my neck. My pulse point was
still.

“That’s
ridiculous,” I repeated.

“I hope to
make this transition as painless as possible for you,” Julian
said. “My assistant will be in shortly with some of your
things.”

He lingered by the
balcony, staring down at me. I imagined he was waiting for me to
speak, but I had nothing to say. After a long moment, he nodded,
turned, and retreated into the darkness.

As I waited, my
vision slowly returned. Walls materialized opposite the windows,
along with three doors. After several minutes I heard a knock on the
door to my left.

“Dr.
Fletcher?” A female voice. “I’m going to hand you
some clothing so you can get dressed.”

I didn’t
respond.

“I’m
opening the door now...”

It opened and
closed behind me. I turned to find a neatly-folded stack of garments.
A pair of glasses sat at their center, a pair of dress shoes rested
beneath them. I picked up the glasses, put them on. They were mine.
All of it was mine, I discovered as I dressed myself.

“May I come
in?” the girl asked as I finished buttoning up my shirt.

I didn’t
respond.

A young woman
opened the door and peered into the room. She approached me slowly,
her posture stiff, then stopped several paces from me. The moonlight
reflected off the waves of her black hair.

“My name is
Aya,” she said. “I’m Master Radcliffe’s
assistant. He’s asked me to provide you with anything you might
need.”

“Can I use
the phone?”

“Who do you
wish to call?”

“What
difference does it make?”

“It’s
not that, it’s just... I’m afraid you can’t call
your fiancée. Assuming that’s who you had in mind.”

“Why not?”

“Well...”

I felt a shudder
of nauseous unease. An image of a wrecked car flashed into my mind’s
eye.

“Dr.
Fletcher, she’s...”

Dead.

I closed my eyes,
shook my head. I told myself to stop being morbid. “Why can’t
I call her?”

“Oh God.
Okay. Dr. Fletcher, I’m so sorry, but...” She opened and
closed her mouth several times. More faceless images: a wreck, a
hospital room, a morgue.

“She’s
dead, isn’t she.”

“God, I’m
so sorry. She died in a car crash. It was about a week ago. You were
in the ICU for a little while, in a coma, but then you also, well,
you died.”

I removed my
glasses and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw
stars. I started to laugh.

“Dr.
Fletcher?”

“This is a
morbid fucking dream.”

“Well... no,
it isn’t, I’m afraid. It isn’t a dream at all,”
she said. “I wish that it was.”

I laughed again,
almost a cough, and then my chest went still. No breath, no
heartbeat.

“I’m
terribly sorry, Dr. Fletcher.”

I pulled out one
of the chairs from the dining table and sat down.

“I know this
situation must seem suspicious—perhaps even malicious—but
we’re trying to help you,” she said. “Both Master
Radcliffe and I.”

I closed my eyes.
I could feel her watching me, could hear her waiting for me to move
or speak.

“Whatever,”
I said. “I want my phone call anyway.”

“A-all
right. Well, there’s a phone in your suite. I can show you
there if you’d like.”

I stood up and
gave her a tense, insincere smile. “Sure. That sounds great.”

I followed Aya
down a narrow flight of stairs and through a series of dark-walled
corridors to a suite of rooms in the basement. She left me in a small
sitting room outfitted with two velvet-upholstered couches, a lounge
and a fireplace.

My eyes drifted to
a trio of diplomas hanging over the mantle. All three were mine, all
in their original frames. The bookcases next to the fireplace were
filled with familiar texts, their dust jackets removed. I picked up a
textbook at random, opened it, and found my own handwritten notes in
the margins. Stricken with the strangeness of its presence, I barely
managed to shelve it without dropping it on my foot.

I wandered out of
the sitting room, crossed through an open door and found an office.
My own work computer sat on a desk next to a framed photo of myself
and my fiancée. Beside the photo was a rotary phone. I brought
the receiver to my ear and heard a dial tone. I stared at the
picture, my jaw tightening.

My fingers moved
on their own as I dialed the number to our apartment. The phone rang
three times before my fiancée’s mother picked up on the
other end. I introduced myself and asked to speak with Alison. She
hung up.

I dialed the
number a second time, waited three more rings, introduced myself
again and told her we must have been cut off. She started to cry. She
asked me what kind of a person would do this, what kind of person
would call her with such a sick prank, and she hung up again.

I called a third
time. Five rings before the answering machine picked up. A message
informed me of Alison and Adam’s passing and told me where and
when I could attend the funeral.

I hung up.

A grey-green
bruise glared up at me from the crook of my right elbow. I prodded
the tiny wound at its center, the mark I’d noticed in my
reflection before. The needle must have been a large gauge, which
meant it was most likely from a medical IV, not something
recreational. It fit the story, which I didn’t like.

I pressed down on
it hard. Pain shot through my wrist. Was that normal for a dream? Was
any of this normal for a dream? All of it was absurd, certainly, but
it was also persistent, the setting tangible and detailed. Could my
own mind really manufacture something like this?

I walked back
through the sitting room, through the door on the opposite wall, and
into a bedroom filled with unfamiliar furniture, all in matching dark
wooden tones: an imposing four-poster bed attended by two bedside
tables, a wardrobe, a writing table and a vanity. I presumed the
wardrobe was full of my own clothing, but I didn’t have the
stomach to check.

I slumped down
onto the crimson duvet cover and rolled onto my back. I closed my
eyes. Maybe I could fall asleep in this world, and wake up back in my
normal life, alive, back in Baltimore with Alison.

Maybe.

{Anonymous}

When I open my
eyes the forest is dark. Faint patches of moonlight filter through
the fluttering canopy, casting irregular, shifting shadows. The air
has gotten colder. I sit up, look around, try to gain my bearings,
but I can’t tell which direction I came from. The hunger is
stronger now, and so is the pain in my chest, and I’m alone out
here, wherever here is. No—not completely alone: the low calls
of owls echo through the air. I have no way of protecting myself from
whatever stalks these backwoods at night, nothing but the knife, and
I don’t know where it went.

I draw my knees to
my chest, keep still, and wait.

My mind returns to
my dream. I was Adam—the same Adam from the cabin, the man who
might have kidnapped me. I recognized myself—I mean, I
recognized him—in his reflection.