Redhouse VI
Lydia bulled through the exit door and the notion of rifling for her keys withered. Every single tire of the ten or so cars she could see was flat. The all-seeing eye within her knew that every tire on every vehicle would be flat. Such was the method of her stalker. At the thought, she spun around and pushed the exit door closed, dragging a pair of carts in front of it.
There were bodies dotting the parking lot. A pair trampled in flight. A man who had wrestled with the killer. A mother and a young girl splayed into the back of an SUV. As she rounded the entry portico near her car, she almost tripped over the legs of a young worker, impaled by a length of pipe.
The heat of the day and the nausea threatened her and she scurried to her car, now rifling for the keys. They appeared with miraculous ease and she threw herself into the car, locking the doors behind her. Lydia had seen the movies. She sidled up in the seat to better reach her phone and looked into the back of her car, envisioning the fight for her life which would ensue.
The backseat was empty. She turned and ignited the car, slipping the seatbelt into place with eyes ping-ponging between the mirrors. Never drive on a flat. You’ll damage the rim. That was the rule. Lydia was pretty sure that the rulebook didn’t account for knife wielding killers, and she grated metal against gravel as she backed out of her spot. She skidded to a stop and waited. This was where the maniac would erupt from nowhere and fling himself onto the car.
Dead silence ruled the greenhouse parking lot. There was no sign of her pursuer. She held her phone up at windshield height and dialed 911. In the moments she waited for the connection, she slowly began rolling forward and aiming for the exit. As she recounted the turn of events to the emergency operator, she watched the greenhouse roll away behind her in a spray of screeching gravel and dust.