The Great Below

The Doctor - Part 2

Octavia tried to get comfortable on the cot, but the room was an icebox and the blanket felt like steel wool. The doctor had switched off the lights, leaving a single panel of fluorescent bulbs humming over the desk in the corner. She was exhausted, but reluctant to let her eyes close in a strange new bed.

"Hey," Alex whispered. He was half in, half out of the doors. "Are you okay staying here?"

"Are there options?" Octavia pulled herself up on one elbow, eyes wide against the dark.

He crossed the length of the Infirmary before taking a knee next to her cot. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but...you could sleep in my room."

She wasn't sure what face she made – any expression that late at night would have been sleepy and reflexive – but it was honest enough, because he rushed to explain.

"I mean, there are a lot of guys down here that would be surprised to see a woman. I don't want any more trouble. You would have the bed, of course, and I could sleep on the floor. No one would bother you."

For a kidnapper, he was awfully accommodating. She slid her elbow out from underneath her and returned to lying on her side. "If I can't leave, then this will do," she said.

Alex glanced up at the corner with the emergency lights, and that was when she noticed the camera mounted there. "Good night," he replied. He leaned forward as he got to his feet and his jacket tilted open, revealing the grip of his handgun. It wasn't the odd, long-barreled gun she had seen in the van. It looked compact, with a stubby black handle. She saw it for a brief moment and then he was standing. "We can make other arrangements in the morning."

She nodded, though he might not have seen it, and buried her face between the taught skin of the cot and her blanket until she'd blotted out the light. Octavia listened to him return to the hallway, where he paced its length a few times. He seemed to settle outside the door.

It wasn't safe, but when she let her eyelids slide shut, sleep rushed up to greet her.

#

Like all relationships, there had been a first date. Octavia didn't know what it was until later; most people don't know if a first date will blossom into love or if it will die unexpectedly like a fish on land, gills and mouth spread wide, gasping.

There had been a restaurant – Clara's. It anchored the center of an unimpressive strip mall, pushed away from the street. Even in her memory it was a fading, brick-covered rectangle. She asked herself if this was a good idea, letting a customer from the health food store where she cashiered part-time take her out to dinner, but seeing their romantic locale sandwiched between a chiropractor's office and a nail salon made clear that it wasn't.

"Victor," she began, and she was looking at the toes of her black satin flats instead of his face because she didn't want to witness the disappointment there. "I'm not sure—"

"I know what you're thinking." He parked his pickup truck in front of a long panel of tinted windows, where the outlines of other couples sat at their tables, eating. "It doesn't look like much from here, but the food is amazing." His soft accent made each word sound more important than it was.

Some of her anxiety dissipated. After all, he had put on a white dress shirt and Cool Water and he was new, exciting. It didn't hurt that she could see the shape of his biceps through the crisply-ironed sleeves, hinting at the strength hidden there.

"And, obviously," he said, "we could get our nails done after dinner."

"One-stop shopping," she replied, and smiled.

Octavia remembered the interior as a sea of white linen tablecloths and fabric napkins and candles. There had been sweet white wine and hot, crusty bread with olive oil. She had to divide each new edible obstacle into lady-like bites because sitting so close and facing him without a three-foot deep store counter between them was intense. And while she was aware of her nervousness – if she looked down at her hand, it didn't quite hold still – Victor seemed perfectly at ease. If only she could harness that confidence.

"I'm glad you didn't back out," he said. The hand he used to refresh her wine glass was steady.

"Me too."

"I have to ask," Victor said. "What made you say yes?"

This part was important. She remembered smiling here, and blushing. Before she answered him, he was going to compliment her dress, and the heat in his eyes was going to arouse her. Despite all of the food and the wine, she was going to hear in his voice that he wanted her and, for that night at least, she was going to want him too. Octavia looked down at her dress, ready for the comment to come.

But her hands were on fire.

For a moment she was dumbfounded: she watched the fire dance from her fingertips and wondered if she had somehow touched the tiny votive on their table. Then the pain surged. She doubled over, groaning, as her hands gripped the tablecloth. It caught, spreading in every direction at once.

Octavia grabbed for her water glass, but it was gone. Soon there were no dishes at all, no more cloth napkins, and the fire had spread to consume tables all around them.

She reached out to catch the sleeve of Victor's well-pressed shirt and that caught fire too, engulfing his whole body. Octavia tried to grab the tablecloth and smother it, but there wasn't much left. It pulled apart like loose cotton between her fingers. Victor had dropped wordlessly to the floor of the restaurant, whose specifics continued to melt away, where he writhed and struggled, the fight slowly going out of him.

She shouldn't have touched him. She shouldn't even be on this date.

The mouth on what used to be Victor's face started to scream.