I was," she said as if it didn't matter to her much. Her head was resting on her shoulder, a pose that might have been coquettish in a woman many decades younger. "My neck was broken. The paramedics kept me alive for a while, but eventually, my heart gave out."
The car was changing. Before Steffa's wide eyes, the front end crumpled inward. The windshield imploded in a shower of shards.
There were other people on the street, and while some were glancing at Steffa in evident concern, no one seemed aware of the walking dead man beside her, or the car that was destroying itself in a sort of soundless slow motion. How must she look to them? Standing here, gaping at nothing, she must seem like a lunatic.
"The car rolled down a hill," Virginia said. She was speaking in a soft, uninflected tone, but to Steffa it seemed to echo with the memory of terrified screams.
The car did not tumble down the street, but its sides and roof punched in as if struck by bounders and trees. The rest of the windows shattered in an almost graceful cascade of tinted glass.
"Chelsea and I were trapped. She was so hurt, Stephanie, and so frightened."
"Leave me alone," whispered Steffa.
"You must help her."
"Don't you ever give up?" It burst from her in a near-shriek. "You're dead, dead!"
"She needs you."
"You ruined my life and you still think you can control me, even after you're gone. Why should I do anything for you?"
"Not for me," Virginia said. "There is nothing you, or anyone else, can do for me now. It's for Chelsea."
"No, it isn't. It's you. It's always been about what you want, what you think is best, what you can force people to do."
Steffa turned from the car, aware that by now everyone on the sidewalk had stopped at a cautious distance to watch her seeming hysterical outburst.
She closed her eyes tight, blotting out everything. She pressed the heels of her hands against the sides of her head, hard, as if she could force her mind back to reality.
"Think of how our families are suffering, Stephanie." Virginia's voice had lost some of its strength. "Think how this hurts them."
"Maybe it's time you all learned what it feels like to be hurt."
"You would let Chelsea die to hurt Chet and Marjorie? Will that heal your wounded pride?"
Steffa's breath hissed in and out through clenched teeth. "Go away, Virginia. You're dead. It's over. You lose."
When she got no reply, she lowered her hands and opened her eyes.
The sidewalk was full of people staring at her like she was a lunatic, but the car was gone.
She had won. She had finally beaten that stubborn old woman, and shown them that they could no longer push her around. She had won.
###
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About the Author
Christine Morgan divides her writing time among many genres, from horror to historical, from superheroes to smut, anything in between and combinations thereof. She's a wife, a mom, a future crazy-cat-lady and a longtime gamer, who enjoys British television, cheesy action/disaster movies, cooking and crafts.
Her stories have appeared in several publications, including: The Book of All Flesh, The Book of Final Flesh, The Best of All Flesh, History is Dead, The World is Dead, Strange Stories of Sand and Sea, Fear of the Unknown, Hell Hath No Fury, Dreaded Pall, Path of the Bold, Cthulhu Sex Magazine and its best-of volume Horror Between the Sheets, Closet Desire IV, and Leather, Lace and Lust.
She's also a contributor to The Horror Fiction Review, a former member of the HWA, a regular at local conventions, and an ambitious self-publisher (six fantasy novels, four horror novels, six children's fantasy books, and two roleplaying supplements). Her work has appeared in Pyramid Magazine, GURPS Villains, been nominated for Origins Awards, and given Honorable Mention in two volumes of Year's Best Fantasy and Horror.
Her suspense thriller, The Widows Walk, was recently released from Lachesis Publishing, and her horror novel, The Horned Ones, is due out from Belfire in 2012.She's currently delving into steampunk, making progress on an urban paranormal series, and on a bloodthirsty Viking kick.
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