David Lapage, Jr. has written several short stories and quite a few school papers. He has never been published and looks forward to the day he is. While not writing something he enjoys watching movies, tinkering in the garage, and geocaching. He is a huge fan of Local H and enjoys reading. He lives in Illinois with his wife and two cats.
You can find more of his work HERE.
THE ROOKIES LAST NIGHT
by
David Lapage, Jr.
“You sure I can’t drive,” asked Mike.
“You know the rule” answered Booker. “Rookies can’t drive on their first night”.
Mike so wanted to drive the ambulance. He had driven some during training, but this was his first night on the job and he was excited to get behind the wheel. He was amped up as they drove through the city, emergency lights flashing, on the way to his second call as a paramedic. The rule was not official, just something this department lived by, so he would just have to deal with it and hope that he could drive tomorrow.
His parents were so proud that their boy had become a paramedic. They just wished it wasn’t on the night shift. He had explained that it paid more and had a current opening so he could start immediately, but they still wished he could be home at night. They thought the graveyard shift was too dangerous. His first call had been an old lady who tripped down a stair. Not stairs. One stair. She had sprained her ankle. Now at 2 a.m., they were headed to a call about a sick little girl. Real dangerous mom and dad.
They pulled up to the house and Booker called their arrival to dispatch. Mike grabbed the jump bag and headed for the front door with Booker close behind.
It was a ranch-style house. Blue vinyl siding and a flower bed in front, both had seen better days. A garden gnome sat on the stoep to the right of the door. The gnome was wearing a Packers cheesehead hat and this made Booker groan with disgust.
The door opened just as Mike was about to knock and a middle-aged woman with blond hair anxiously waved them in.
“She’s in the back bedroom” desperation in her voice. She led them down a hall as she spoke. “I heard some strange noises in her room and when I checked in on her she wouldn’t wake up or move”.
The woman stopped before an open door. Mike noticed her reluctance to go into the room and squeezed past her. He was in a bedroom. A ceiling light illuminated the room. The walls were painted pink like insulation and a string of Christmas lights were hung along one. Posters of Olivia Rodrigo, Madison Beer and, ironically enough, P!nk decorated the walls. There was a dresser, end table, and bed in the room. A sewing table was against one wall. A small sewing machine sat on it along with an open box of thread, needles, and scraps of fabric. A pair of scissors lay on the table. All other floor space seemed to be taken up by stuffed animals or clothes.
A small girl lay on the bed. Her eyes were closed. She had long blond hair that haloed her head and shoulders. She was dressed in a white nightgown with roses on it. A blanket covered her from the chest down and her arms rested at her sides. Mike immediately thought of those old pictures of dead family members displayed in their homes before funeral parlors became the norm. Except this girl was not dead. Mike could see the soft rise and fall of her chest.
Booker remained in the hallway asking the woman some questions. Mike overheard that the girl was 11. He approached the bed and put down the jump bag. After opening the bag and putting gloves on, he began an assessment. He lifted the girl’s wrist to take her pulse. Her skin was warm, which surprised him because the room was so cold. He could see her breath as she exhaled. Was the room this cold a minute ago? He turned to ask the woman if the A.C. was on when the bedroom door slammed shut.
Mike could hear Booker grab the doorknob and start pushing against the door.
“It won’t open” yelled Booker.
Mike walked back to the door and tried to open it. It would not budge. It didn’t even jiggle in the frame. With his back to the girl, he pulled harder on the door. The door must be stuck.
As he looked at the door perplexed, he heard a low growl behind him. It reminded him of his uncle’s pit bull Max when Mike had tried to take its chew rope away. It was a sound that came from deep in the throat and it gave Mike goose flesh.
He turned. The little girl was sitting up in the bed. Her eyes were open, but all white, like they were rolled back in her head. Small cuts were on her face and arms and as Mike looked another appeared on her left cheek. As if a razor was slicing her, but there was none. Her thin lips peeled back in a grin that showed too many teeth and a forked tongue slipped out like a snake tasting the air.
Mike fell back against the door. He could hear Booker shouting and pounding on it. He let out a small moan as he watched the girl’s arms stretch towards him. He thought he heard bones snapping as they reached beyond what should have been natural.
“Oh my god” whimpered Mike as he cowered against the door.
The girl cocked her head like a confused puppy.
“God?” She spoke, her voice old and insect-like. “God has discarded you”.
Booker and the woman heard Mike scream from the other side of the door. Booker called for police backup and continued to pound on the door. The woman was crying and hysterical.
After a few minutes, the noise stopped in the bedroom. Booker tried the knob and it turned. He pushed the door open, and it swung in freely. Booker was thinking about what he saw, three months later, when he pulled the trigger and emptied his skull of brain.
The End