Three † Dead Girl Walking

"Your death is overdue," Mr. Michaels recited as he reached for Kat. "Hell is waiting for you, Katalina Donovan."

Kat couldn't be more perplexed, but she also couldn't be more pressured. Because of this, sharp instincts she didn't know she possessed had taken over her body. Instead of screaming (which was her go-to response to dangerous situations), she grabbed her rock-hard pillow, smacked Mr. Michaels across the face with it, and lobbed it at his crotch for triple damage.

For such simple actions, the effects were quite complex. And instantaneous.

Mr. Michaels, upon direct and personal contact with the stiff-ass pillow, snapped back into his senses. Again he froze in a robotic manner, but his expression was going from bewildered to suspicious to stunned. He stared at his outstretched hands, then at Kat. "Why am I standing? Why are you moving away from me? Why does my. . . ?"

A wince suddenly crumpled his features. Perhaps he finally felt the crotch shot.

She didn't know whether or not to be happy about that. She couldn't answer his questions, and thankfully she didn't have to. The nurse had just barged in with a thunderous frown. "What's the problem here?"

She was addressing the question at Kat in particular, but Kat barely heard it. Her mind was reeling.

The way Mr. Michaels had monotonously chanted, turned his threats into a messed-up Kumbaya, mentioned Hell and her death . . . It was odd, to say the least. She could just tell that he hadn't meant it, that it hadn't been a product of his own thinking. The words didn't sound like they'd come from his own head. It seemed like someone—or something—was feeding the statements to him.

But how could that be?

Kat's thoughts immediately landed on the gorgeous man in a cloak, the bubonic plague doctor-slash-supermodel. His face loomed in her mind's eye. In a swift moment, she found herself connecting him to every mishap that had occurred so far. Thankfully, her logic reined in her thoughts. She wasn't even certain that the man truly existed. For all she knew, this morning's weird scenarios were all just figments of her imagination.

But no. She'd seen and felt things today that none of her reasoning could explain away. She had no idea what had happened, what was happening, and what could happen, but one thing was for sure: she wouldn't stick around to find out.

She needed to get out of here. Now.

Kat stumbled out of the bed, dragging her IV pole and startling Mr. Michaels. The nurse actually yelped and let out a small shriek, which attracted Kat's scattered attention.

"I have to go," Kat told her breathlessly. "I have to leave. I don't have to stay here overnight, right?"

"Yes, miss, you don't have to, but you have to rest," she began to say in imperious tones. Then she saw that Kat was trying to pluck off the thin hose protruding from her arm. "Miss! Don't do that—"

"Yeah, just relax," Mr. Michaels interrupted, half placating and half desperate, trying to hold Kat by the shoulders.

"No!" Kat dodged and practically forced her arm into the nurse's hands. "Do this for me. Please!"

Her raised voice was enough to rouse the nurse into action, but even as she managed to get the needle off Kat's arm, her face was still scrunched up in doubt. "Miss, I really don't think—"

"Where are my things?"

The nurse lifted a shaking finger and pointed at the gap in the curtain. "I could get them for you."

With that, she set off outside. Kat followed her, and trailing behind her was Mr. Michaels, this time awfully confused. He kept muttering questions to Kat, none of which she properly heard, much less answered. The moment the nurse gave her the bag of her possessions and the sheet of paper for her to sign, she forgot everything else. In a speed that would do The Flash proud, she scribbled the necessary information and bolted towards the exit.

I have to go, Kat repeated to herself like a mantra as she bursted into the main lobby of the hospital. People were roaming around, some in wheelchairs, some on their feet examining papers, some in blue scrubs. She wasn't familiar with the place, and she wasn't in the mood to check either. Hospitals were places she liked to avoid, and now she was given another good reason to avoid this one.

So she continued to dodge, swerve, and run, following both people and signs to lead her out of this dump.

After what seemed like an eternity, Kat finally launched herself out into the early noon. The summer sun was almost at the peak of the cloudless sky. The light drilled right into her eyes as she made her way across the hospital's wide front area. The air was like sandpaper rubbing against her skin. Sweat was starting to form in places she didn't know perspired, but she didn't dare slow down.

As she fast-walked across the concrete lawn, Kat extracted the contents of the bag. The first thing she touched was her wallet, which she pocketed without checking if all the contents were present. Second was her phone, which showed her fifteen percent battery life, twenty emails from different people in the company, texts from what looked like her entire contacts list, and ten missed calls from Lissy, one of her closest friends from college and colleague at Beaufort Farlowe.

Kat's fingers ached to respond to all of these, but this wasn't the perfect time. What she must do was to find a ride and—

There was a man standing behind her.

Even in the car window's reflection, there was no mistaking it. The man in a cloak. The bubonic plague supermodel. He wasn't wearing his mask and he was standing in the open, so it wasn't like he was still hiding himself. Still, though, none of the people walking towards the hospital paid him any mind.

So maybe this meant he wasn't real?

Yes. Kat seized on the idea. There would be no other explanation as to why she was the only one who could see him.

But why was she still frozen in her tracks?

As if sensing her internal battle, the man slowly pivoted in his spot to face her. Strands of his pale blond hair fluttered in the feeble wind. Their eyes met through the reflection of the window, and just like that moment after the accident, his expression turned from neutral to intrigued. And something seemed to have clicked in his brain, because he was now walking smoothly towards her.

Kat didn't wait for him to reach her. She sprinted away like her butt was on fire.

Fortunately, the magical disappearance of her hangover allowed her to move painlessly. Unfortunately, her body still wasn't made for running. By the time she reached the sidewalk, her lungs were already squeezed tight with the effort of keeping up with her limited capacities.

Nevertheless, Kat's determination to leave allowed her to tough it out. Even before she reached a stop, she started to wave her arms back and forth to attract the attention of the people driving—or inching—along the crowded streets. And thank God a cab stopped in response. The driver, a young Hispanic man with a bit of an afro, grinned at her as she all but dove into the backseat.

"Meridian Apartments," Kat panted, "Town Center Drive."

The guy didn't seem to hear her; there was some reggae music blasting in the car.

"Meridian Apartments, Town Center Drive," Kat very nearly yelled, casting a wary look through the window as the car whirred to life. She wanted to tell the driver to kindly step on it, but it wasn't necessary. The driver did that himself, and then they were off, cruising away from the hospital and the horrors that lingered in its premises.

Speaking of such horrors, the man was standing right at the spot where Kat had hailed the cab, completely motionless.

As the car zoomed along the road, the image of him got smaller and smaller. Kat's heart didn't quite stop thundering, but she was slowly getting reassured. The man could glare at her all he wanted, but he couldn't follow her. It wasn't like he could sprout wings and track her down.

Or at least Kat hoped he couldn't do that.

Who was he, anyway? the question thrummed in her head. Was it possible that he was from her imagination?

Well, she did have a wild mind; it was what made her an asset in Beaufort Farlowe's creative department. But what if the man had something to do with Mr. Michaels's weird episode?

What if the man was here because her death was overdue and Hell was waiting for her?

"No," Kat snapped at herself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

"Huh?" The driver turned to her for a second. "What did you say?"

The driver had switched off his trippy music, but apparently he still had a bit of trouble hearing things. Kat wanted to dismiss his question, but she found that she was quite unable to. Instead she blurted out, "Do you believe in . . . Hell?"

For some reason, this made him laugh. "Hell? Like, the burning pit with the evil souls kind of place?"

"Yeah." She tried to match his chirpy tone. "Eternal damnation, punishment, and all that jazz. Do you believe in it?"

"Do you ask strangers these questions all the time?" he asked, amused. When she shrugged, he grinned again. "Well, I've been raised a Catholic, so I guess I could say I believe in it. But I don't think it's exactly how it's been described, you know? I think it's different for all those who belong in it."

"Uh-huh." She kept her expression neutral. "Like special punishments for special kinds of crimes, then?"

"Exactly." The driver was clearly having the time of his life. "For example, a murderer could be killed over and over. A thief could have his body parts stolen or something. A business high-roller could have wads of money shoved up his ass."

"Very creative," she mumbled.

"Very well-deserved too!" he enthused. "There's still no way of knowing if the place is real, but I certainly hope it is. My Tia Angelina—she belongs there. I'd pay money to see her tossed inside. She's a restless bitch."

With that interesting statement he let out a booming laugh, and she forced herself to join.

People actually hoped for Hell to be real? How terrible. Not only that, apparently they also hoped for actual people to be tossed inside. Kat didn't have a clue about how Tia Angelina treated this driver, but she was sure that Tia Angelina couldn't possibly deserve a spot in Hell. Nobody did, if Hell was indeed horrible. . . .

But she was already thinking back on her life, trying to find moments that could warrant a good tossing in Hell or insertion of money into the butt.

Well, if Kat was to be honest, she would admit that she was . . . unexciting. There was nothing that could qualify her for such drastic punishment. Sure, she wasn't exactly a saint, but it wasn't like she did questionable stuff to amp up her career, which was pretty much the entirety of her life. To her clients, she was always eighty percent honest. That's the maximum limit anyone in her (former) position could aspire for, anyway. 

And it wasn't like she was a totally terrible person. Disorganized? Maybe. Smart? Of course. Ambitious? Definitely. A bit bland? Everyone said so. So what, though? She paid her dues and never hurt anyone. Even when some of her staff fucked up, she didn't give them the sack like the others would have done. Despite having lived in Las Vegas until high school, she'd never done drugs. Never would, too.

Okay, there was this one time where she looked up porn at work, but surely that wouldn't be the ticket to a suck-tastic afterlife?

If such a thing existed, of course.

Big fat chance, Kat tried to scoff. But there was a nagging feeling in her gut that prevented her from giving up on the subject. As the cab navigated the criss-crossing roads, she found herself thinking deep.

The afterlife, if it were real, would be exactly that: a life after death, not endless punishment, Kat reasoned. Maybe it meant drifting along as a ghost. Maybe it meant being truly alive again, only in another form.

Yes, reincarnation. That had to be it. Imagine being reincarnated as a flower. Or better yet, a dog. And by then she wouldn't have to lift a finger to feed herself. She'd just make cute faces for master and kibble would be on its way.

Or maybe afterlife meant belonging in a single place where all the people go when they pass away.

That was her favorite theory so far. Heaven. God and the angels didn't have to be included in it, though. Just people. And a home. She would see her parents again, and this time she wouldn't have to worry about saying goodbye. . . .

Right. All these philosophical crap was bringing the pain back. The last thing she wanted was to start weeping in the cab, especially when it was already slowing down in front of the complex.

Kat extracted her wallet from her pocket, and a few wad-up hundred dollar bills fell on the dusty car floor. Feeling generous, she gave one of the bills to the cab driver and told him to keep the change.

The driver eyed it dubiously. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, straightening the rest in her wallet. "Of course."

"Thank you." The guy beamed. "It's generous of you."

That remark made Kat smile as she stepped out of the cab. Another proof why she wouldn't go to Hell even if it existed.

With that comforting thought she entered the Meridian Apartments complex. The wide lawn was covered in vivid green grass, slowly baking under the sun. Bottle trees stood stall with the two brown-hued buildings, bordering the walls in intervals. Even though the afternoon was scorching, no one was cooling down in the large rectangular pool. No one was even occupying the beach chairs arranged around it.

How odd, Kat thought. But actually, the absence of people was kind of a blessing. Nobody was present to witness her gross state, and so the journey to the second floor was quite enjoyable. But when she arrived at apartment B3, the unit her father had bought, her heart began to sink. The key, which she just took out from the depths of her wallet, seemed to grow cold in her palms.

How many years was it been since she'd seen this place? Nine? Ten? She didn't really know. The moment she'd found out she'd gotten accepted at University of Southern California, she'd packed her bags and moved in a heartbeat, leaving her father alone in this place. This was where he'd lived until he'd passed away seven years ago.

His things were still here, and so were hers. Unless they'd been mugged. That was a Vegas classic.

The thought of her Britney Spears CDs lying in her room and collecting dust almost sent her into a fit of giggles. What stopped her was the realization that she would never be as happy as she had been as a dumb teenager. Come to think of it, even though she was homeschooled until sixth grade and had to attend a private school, high school was the peak of her life. And apartment B3 was the witness to all of that.

Kat exhaled sharply. There was no point trying to delay the moment. Sooner or later she would have to go in.

The lock made a crisp, clicking noise as she inserted the key and turned it. She could almost feel the memories pressing from behind the door, waiting to be set free. Gritting her teeth for courage, she yanked the door open and stepped inside.

The Art Deco-print rug that her father had loved caught her feet like a friendly, dusty flat cat. The orange curtains, which were last changed God knows when, were drawn over the square windows, casting an almost neon glow in the nearly-bare living room. The old bulky TV, Kat's breakfast company as a child, was still sitting atop its wooden shelf, along with the china animals that her father had adored and her mother had despised. Even the brown sofa set remained, although Kat couldn't remember them being arranged quite so . . . haphazardly.

But actually, it was only one couch that was drawn far apart from the others. It was set by the window, facing the dirty curtains.

Also, was that an outline of a head, peeking from behind the backrest?

Kat's entire body clenched with fear. That couldn't be real. She crossed the living room in a few long strides, heading towards the rogue couch.

And her breathing nearly stopped when she saw that someone was truly sitting on it.

"Katalina Donovan," the bubonic plague supermodel declared. "I have been waiting for you."