Last Ditch Effort, Inc -- Stand Alone, NC-17
Banner by AtfM
Title: Last Ditch Effort, Inc
Genre: Urban Fantasy, Origfic Femslash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4626
Challenges: For International Day of Femslash. Sparked by mea_kakau's urban fantasy challange.
Summary: Sarah's always hated prank calls. But when a new prankster starts predicting her death, she knows she must take matters into her own hands.
Notes: My mother always used to say that she could rest from work when she died. Well, it's a good thing that she doesn't live in this fic's universe. Sorry if the post is a bit late to make IDF -- I ended up spending the day with my dad, for his birthday.
((I'm waiting to hear back from my beta, so any mistakes made are mine. Feel free to kick me.))
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'Hello Sarah Nash. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in twenty-three days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
I was coming home from the bar, and the message didn't make much sense at the time. Hell, my shoes didn't make much sense, so it wasn't like I was in the higher realms of consciousness. Two bottles of tequila will do that to a girl.
I barely managed to mash the 'delete' button before falling into bed with my tabby, Tiger.
'Hello Sarah Nash. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in twenty-two days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
Summer holidays were the worst. School kids always had way too much time on their hands. I'd replayed the message three times, looking for traces of one of my friend's voices, and come up empty. None of them had such a feminine and chirpy tone. Most of my friends were butch with a capital “B” -- hell, I doubted most of them even knew how to chirp when they talked.
Which meant it was a local moron. I had no clue how the prankster had gotten my number - it was unlisted for a reason. Sure, that reason was a bad ex with her own ax to grind, but it was a reason all the same. Shrugging my shoulders, I deleted the message and went to grab my apron for work - yet another day at the local and glamorous Starbucks.
No use giving pranksters more attention than they deserved.
'Hello Sarah Nash. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in twenty days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
“No, seriously, what're you talking about?” Jodi stared blankly back at me, and Marsha mirrored the confusion in her raised eyebrow.
“This! The message! It's getting old now, guys. Seriously, cut it out.” I gestured wildly towards the small answering machine by my phone. I'd made sure everyone swung by my place on our way out to Diversions Bar, so that I could bitch out the culprits.
Marsha tossed Frankie a side-long glance, and then peered back at me. “Honey, are you okay? There's nothin' there but some empty air.” Her mane of poofy red hair made her look like a clown, and in my spite, I told her so.
It wasn't a pleasant night at the club, and I left early. When I got home I made sure to call Marsha and leave an equally obnoxious message. Something about the clown-police coming to assassinate bad friends. It ended up more pathetic and whiny than scary, but through my margarita-clouded mind, it seemed like I'd gotten my point across.
'Hello Sarah Nash. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in fifteen days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
“Ma'am, just because it happens on Dateline doesn't mean every blank message on your machine is the sound of a serial killer.” Brown bangs fell into the guys eyes as he tapped his desk in tune to a song that only he could hear. It was hard to tell if he'd even listened to the tape being played.
Sure, I could understand friends pretending that I was nuts, but cops? Way to earn your paycheck there, oinker. And fine, maybe I had seen tonight's Dateline about serial killer profilers - and sure, maybe I'd jumped a little when they'd talked about how Bundy had stalked his victims. That didn't make my fear any less real; I was being harassed.
“Can I talk to someone else? This freak's been calling every day, and it's starting to creep me out.” Maybe if I elaborated, this Dave fellow would get the hint. I even spoke really slow and evenly, like I did with cross customers. I tapped the stereo in front of us, which held the recording of the message that I'd made when I'd gotten home from work.
“Now, I'm sure you're just worried - if I were a young lady home alone every night, I might glance over my shoulder a bit, too. But I'll give you a piece of advice - reporting a fake crime is a misdemeanor.” The detective couldn't have been a bigger misogynistic pig.
Glaring, I grabbed my navy stereo off the jerk's messy desk, and stormed off. Oh, that department would be getting one hell of a complaint e-mail from me - as soon as I'd managed to lock all the doors and convince Marsha or someone else to stay the night with me. Just in case there were any Bundy wanna-be's lurking outside my front door.
Hey, a girl couldn't be too careful.
'Hello Sarah Nash. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in eleven days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
“I don't care if I have a contract,” I snarled at the representative on the phone. Ugh, I hated dealing with phone companies - especially when they outsourced my call to someone who thought the entire English language was made up of the words “contract,” “no,” and “sorry sir or madam.”
“I'm sorry madam.” Well, at least the moron had gotten the gender right this time. Being called a man hadn't done shit for my temper. “If you cancel your contract there'll be a fee.”
“Fine! Bill me.” I tossed the phone across the room for extra emphasis. It was ridiculous - AT&T had a clause for customers who were being harassed and had taken police action. I was being pranked, and it wasn't my fault that the police had been jerks.
It didn't make sense that they'd still force me to pay to cancel my landline. Maybe the phone operator hadn't learned enough English yet to understand the word “die” in the stupid message I'd been forced to re-play.
Weird, considering how often the moron must get death threats from furious customers. Like me, for one.
Growling, I smashed the pale receiver into the wall until it was simply pulp in my hands. I worked as a barista - I didn't have the extra cash for the penalty. I was so busy turning my phone to pulp that I jumped a mile when Tiger skittered across the room to rub against my leg. Exhaling, I got up to feed him and toss the mashed phone into the trash.
At least it would be over now.
'Hello Sarah Nash. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in eight days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
Okay, phone sex hadn't been my brightest idea. But the girl had been cute when she'd proposed the idea to me at the local bar, and my cell phone still worked. “Oh, baby, I'm so wet for you right now. I can't help myself, I'm nibbling your clit while I suck it.” Yeah, I always sound pathetic when I'm talking about sex. But hell, Angie'd been too busy to come over, so a little fuck over the phone might tide me over for a few hours.
A moan echoed over the line, drawing pins along my spine. I was spread out on my bed, legs parted as far as I could get them. My fingers were slowly pumping in and out of me, two at a time. At her frantic little pants, I added a third finger to the mix. I was tight, and I needed to have something extra to add the little edge of pain I was looking for. It buzzed into my brain, clearing out any thoughts of being stupid, my nails scraping the edge of my cunt as I pumped.
“Fuck,” she breathed. It was a low, deep sound. “Fuck, I'm gonna cum all over your face, bitch.” I listened to her gasp and grunt and groan in the restroom of her office job. I pictured her sandy hair flipping into her face as she jerked against her hands, crying out without hesitation, her body jerking against the flimsy toilet that she most certainly would've fallen on. Her small boobs would be swinging in the air as she clawed at her cunt. “Slurp it like a little whore. Oh, fuck, just like that!”
Moaning, I let myself slip a final four fingers into myself, juggling the phone on my shoulder. I was so far gone, caught up in the budding tension in my stomach, the white-hot burn of a desire for more, and for it to come faster, that I didn't noticed when my phone began beeping in another call. I didn't notice when my shoulder hit the accept button, my other hand spanking my clit for being such a damned dirty girl.
The message operator cut me to the quick. The same chirpy voice, telling me I was going to die. If I hadn't been so damned close to the edge, I doubt I could've come at all that night. There was no way my cell phone was listed, I thought, curling on my bed in the afterglow and feeling the tension running through my legs.
I could barely stand to check the doors and windows.
'Hello Sarah Nash. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in five days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
I stared at the beige paper in my hands like I was looking at a monster. Peering into the bushes on either side of my rented house, I squeaked and ducked back inside. Sure, it was the middle of the day, but a girl couldn't be too careful. Besides, if they'd managed to get my address, this wasn't just some bored teen kid.
I'd thought that if I'd canceled my cell, than the whole thing would stop. I was wrong.
The letter shook in my hands. Curling on the couch, I hugged Tiger close and stared at the paper. There wasn't anything special about it. The handwriting was girly and looped, with little hearts above the “i”'s. It made me feel nauseous, imagining some stalker dotting their 'i' with a little heart while they envisioned ways to rip mine out.
“What do I do, Tiges?” He didn't really seem to care. Then again, Tiger's answer to everything was a swift bite to my fingers. “I can't just sit here and wait for this freak to come and kill me.”
Tiger squirmed out of my admittedly-tight grip, and pounced onto the letter on the coffee table. That was it! Leaning forward, I kissed Tiger and promised him an extra helping of food later that night.
It took me two tries, but I managed to piece together the envelope that I'd ripped apart. And sure enough, in the far left corner was a return address.
Last Ditch Effort, Inc.
122 44th Street, SE
Grand Rapids, MI
Grinning, I hopped away from my couch to dig through my kitchen and closet. I had to have some pepper spray somewhere. And hell, I might as well make a stake-out playlist, while I was at it. They always seemed so boring on tv.
----
I don't know what I was expecting, but the five-story building in front of me definitely wasn't it. Okay, fine, I know what I was expecting - some creepy abandoned warehouse with a single, black Cadillac parked in the corner farthest from the street lamp. It would've explained why the closest address MapQuest could give me had been three blocks away.
But this wasn't even close to abandoned.
I hesitated for only a second before I pulled into the packed parking lot, needing to circle twice around to find a space big enough to fit my 80's Mercedes. Frowning, I switched off Alanis Morisette and peered at the vehicles around me. “Love Wins,” and “God is Green,” bumper stickers jumped out at me - not exactly the type that a convention of serial killers would plaster over their SUVs.
Still, I grabbed the kitchen knife from the seat next to me and shoved it into my jean's pocket. The pepper spray was in my hoodie's main pocket, within easy grip as I stormed up the well-kept garden entrance. Their sign, “Last Ditch Effort, Inc - Doing Business Since 1750” had its own little border of petunias. Their scent made me nauseous.
There was a spot for card-swiping by the main door, and a buzzer beside it. A metal plaque informed me that I'd have to announce myself and purpose for being there before I'd be let in. Sure, let the serial killers know that their prey was sitting on their doorstep.
Still, it was better than sitting at home and waiting to get stabbed in my sleep. Five days, that would've been a Saturday - the same day we were having my sister's birthday party. With that thought in mind, and my fingers clenched around the pepper spray, I pressed the button. “It's Sarah Nash. I'm here about the messages I've been getting.”
It was only a matter of seconds before the door clicked. A blonde woman opened it, smiling in such an annoyingly-wide way that I knew, instantly, that she had to be the one making the calls. Nobody else was that perky. Her chirpy voice let me know I was right. “Sarah, it's good to see you! Come on in!”
I had to talk myself out of pepper spraying her right then and there - especially when the door clicked back in place behind me. Jumpy, me? Nah. The blonde had her hair back in a small bun, and had pretty brown eyes. For a serial killer. “I'm Cynthia.”
“Uh-huh.” Well, at least my stalker had a name. She was leading me down a maze of hallways that I doubted I'd remember when I had to run back out. After killing her, of course. Unless she got me first. The potted plants in the paintings on the walls all looked the same. “So why've you been stalking me?”
Cynthia turned back to look at me as we entered what looked like a huge office space. I was wondering when I'd see another person - there were too many cars in the lot for people not to hear me, when I inevitably screamed. There were at least one hundred cubicles in the wide area, each with the classically dull, beige walls. The sound of phones and monotonous voices pounded my ears. “Why don't we chat in my office?”
I didn't have a chance to argue - Cynthia's cool grip was already on my wrist and dragging me along. We passed several men and women in suits that matched Cynthia's navy blue skirt-suit outfit. Practical for a killer - blood wouldn't show as easily on something that was already dark. Scents of hamburger and lavender wafted against me as I stumbled along. I didn't even have the energy left to resist as the occasional person looked up and nodded at us as we passed.
I was stumbling into a quaint little office before I could think of a logical reason for why I shouldn't be there. Not that murderers dealt in logic, really. “Take a seat,” Cynthia offered.
I knew I shouldn't, but the maroon leather chair looked comfortable, and my knees weren't going to hold me for much longer. I collapsed and peered at Cynthia as she seated herself in her swinging desk chair. Her office had it's own plaid carpets, a gnome by the doorway, and a few small atmosphere lamps. There was even a small fountain on its own table in the corner, the water trickling over the fake rocks with a disturbingly inappropriate sense of serenity. “The death threats?”
Cynthia's pale and attractive forehead squinched up for a second, before she burst into laughter. I didn't see anything particularly funny, but she was very beautiful when she laughed. I'd never been one for femmes, but she made a skirt look delectable - easier access for rug munching. If, you know, she hadn't been a killer. “Death threats?” She laughed again, a trilling, birdlike sound.
I crossed my arms indignantly. “It's not funny.”
“Oh, my, of course not.” Cynthia didn't look like she was sorry. “It's just - we're not threatening you!”
“Then what exactly are you doing?”
Cynthia shook her head, small curls slipping down around her face. Her long, thin fingers brushed them away. “We're warning you.”
My blood ran cold, and my hands slid back to my pepper-spray faster than I would've thought I could possibly move. “Huh?” It was the only semi-intelligent thing I could chortle out.
“Well, that's what we do here. Last Ditch warns people, as soon as we find out they're going to die.” Cynthia gestured around her. “That way, the doomed can enjoy their last few days of life.”
“And --” I had to swallow again, against my suddenly leaden tongue. “How do you know when people are going to die?”
“Oh, we all know that. It happens as soon as you die - you can anticipate other people's deaths. It's what the top floor of execs does all day. Sit around and focus their minds, trying to figure out who's next.” She jerked her head towards the ceiling, for emphasis.
Yep. Definitely a crazy killer. “Uhm, yeah. I have to go now.”
I started to rise, and Cynthia's whole face shifted down. “No, don't go.” Her eyes widened and she blinked rapidly. “This always happens!”
I tried not to care that she was upset -- to back out slowly -- but it didn't seem to work. My legs didn't seem to work. Instead, I sat there, transfixed, watching the psychopath wibble. “Nobody ever believes me. I mean, you'd think you guys would understand when nobody else seems to see us, nobody else c-can hear us, but no. Andrew never has this problem, I-I swear I always get the difficult ones.” She peered up at me between sniffles. “Would you like some extra proof?”
My tongue had stopped working. This was it. She was going to stab me now. My hands wouldn't listen to me, wouldn't yank out the pepper-spray.
But Cynthia wasn't reaching for me. She was clawing at her own face, back by her hairline. It seemed she'd purchased a hold, because she stopped struggling. A second later she was ripping her face back, exposing maggots, rotting flesh, and the heavy scent of nausea.
This had to be a dream, a bad, bad dream. Her previously creamy skin hung to the side, eyes peering out of sockets that looked more decayed than the corpses on television. I couldn't help it - I was vomiting right there, the acid burning my throat.
And as I tossed chunks, all I could think was that it would be the perfect time for that freak to stab me, or eat me, or whatever it was that it wanted to do.
I barely noticed when Cynthia patted her face back into place, and scurried over with a box of tissues to try to help. She was babbling apologies. “Please, don't be scared. We just want to help. It's no big deal, really. Please stop puking, those are important papers.”
Oh, yeah, like that was going to happen.
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I don't know how I managed to stop sobbing and puking, but I did. Maybe I'd just run out of fluids. But I was back to sitting besides Cynthia, this time in a different office - hers was being mopped by a janitor - as if the dead cared all-too much about scents.
“So, you're dead,” I repeated. Cynthia had given me her sweater, and despite the fact that I knew it'd been around dead shoulders, I'd taken it. I just couldn't seem to warm up.
“Yep. Melanoma got me in 1992.”
“And I'm going to- to die.”
“Yep.”
“In five days.”
“Yep.” She placed her hand on my jean-clad knee. It was cold, but she rubbed circles into my skin. It almost seemed reassuring. If the damned chill would let up, that was.
“How?” I stared at her face, and reached out to smooth a corner of skin that was still hanging in the wind. She felt surprisingly soft and lifelike, for a moving corpse. “Kind of important, don't you think?”
Cynthia shook her head, her curls brushing my face in the small distance. “Sorry, we don't know that. We just know that it's going to happen, and when.”
Shivering, I stared at the magenta carpet. “Some warning service you guys are.”
“Hey, I know.” Cynthia's face lit up suddenly, like a Christmas tree or one of her mood lamps. “When you die, you can stick with me. We have an opening, and everything. It'll only be entry-level, but it's still a job.”
She smiled as if she'd just thought of the world. “Huh?”
“Well, when you die, you have to go through all sorts of test and job placements. Some people get to be workers in heaven, some go to hell, and some just wander around getting weaker and weaker until they end up haunting some castle or something. But if we gave you a job here, you wouldn't have to worry.”
I felt sick again, and told her so. To Cynthia's credit, she managed to move before I vomited all over her co-worker's floor.
'Hey Sarah, it's me, Cindy. Have you thought about my offer? You're down to three days. Enjoy your remaining life, and call me back if you change your mind. 555-9730. Bye!'
Getting a will made is a lot harder than people on tv make it seem. There are all sorts of forms to fill out, and people that need to witness it. It didn't help that I'm only twenty-three, and so everyone that I talked to kept giving me a strange glance. Sure, they all talked about how it was best to be prepared, but apparently, none of the local lawyers actually meant it. They were more concerned with how they were getting paid.
In that respect, Visa really is an amazing company. Especially when death was going to strike me before the interest could even think about accumulating.
'Hey Sarah, it's me, Cindy. I'm starting to get worried about you. You're down to one day. Enjoy your remaining life, and please, call me. 555-9730. '
Calling Cynthia meant several things. That I believed her, that I was okay with dying, and that I was willing to work in a corporate sphere for the rest of eternity. I'd had to rent Office Space and watch it twice with Tiger before I'd managed to do the deed.
For her part, Cindy'd seemed thrilled. “You'll love it here, just wait!”
As if I had any choice. Sighing, I trudged home from the local payphone. Collapsing on my couch, I kissed Tiger and popped on the first season of The Office. Might as well prepare myself for a lifetime of sluggishness.
Sure, I knew that camping out in my home wasn't the way to solve my fears. I knew I'd regret it, once I died. But it meant that I could laugh at Steve Carell. If that isn't the epitome of living, than I never really understood life, anyways.
'Hey Sarah! Today's the big day. Be brave - it doesn't hurt as much as it seems, I promise. And I'll be waiting for you - I talked to God and everything, you're all set to start as soon as you kick the bucket. Not that anyone's kicked a bucket when they died since the 1960's. I'm just so excited! Oh well. Have a great last few hours!
Love, Cindy.'
The letter was damp - despite knowing Cindy, I didn't see much point in having my phone hooked back up for the two whole days I'd be alive. Frowning, I peered out from my enclosed porch at the torrents of rain - yep, this whole thing was definitely beginning to feel like a horror novel.
Or maybe a romance. If, you know, Cynthia weren't dead, and I weren't dying. Was I dying? I didn't even know - I'd tried to call my doctor, but with no health insurance and no believable reason for needing to be seen (yeah, try explaining zombies to your nurse sometime), I wouldn't have gotten seen until two weeks after my death date. Expiration date? I wasn't sure I wanted to ponder the intricacies.
Either way, I took a few deep breaths of the last watery air I would feel while alive - did zombies smell things besides their own decay - and stepped out into the water. It was my sister's birthday, after all, and Heather wouldn't let me miss it even though I was dying. Not that she believed me.
I didn't want to drive myself - I barely passed my driving test, for Pete's sake - but the idea of Heather coming all the way over, and possibly getting killed alongside me in some freak accident was even worse. So I'd decided I'd just be extra-careful - drive extra-slow, pay attention to people around me, the whole nine yards. I even kept an eye on the annoying driver in the dark Volkswagen who seemed to be going the same direction I was. Every now-and-then the driver would honk at me, but I tried not to get startled - it was best to keep my eyes on the road.
I should've known better - there was a railroad crossing only blocks from my house, where the kids always set off the alarms. I should've waited, but with the rain and the others zooming around, I hadn't given it a second thought. Even the Volkswagen had finally decided to go around me. Lucky bastards made it just-in-time.
Dying wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be, once I got over the initial spasms of feeling my flesh being pierced by all kinds of flames and metals. In fact, it was almost down-right tolerable - because there was a familiar face perched in the wreckage beside me.
“Hey there,” Cynthia said. She was carrying a navy blue umbrella, and wore a pastel pink overcoat. Strange, the things I started to notice, once I'd died. “Honestly, I'm so glad this whole thing is over. Tailing you all day isn't as easy as it would sound.” She gestured behind her and I had a sudden vision of pink peeping out from the Slug Bug.
I tried to ask for some help, but my crushed larynx and collapsed lungs made it sound more like 'sinjaxh.' But she seemed to understand. Reaching down, she hefted me up with surprising strength, and dragged me backwards until I was able to look down at my crushed body. She even held me while my newfound body puked at the sight of my old one.
When I was done, she grinned. “C'mon, we've got to get your papers through, or you'll end up back in the unemployment system.”
'Hello Abdul Mahutni. This is Last Ditch Effort, Inc. and we're calling to inform you that you are going to die in twenty-three days. Enjoy your remaining life.'
I put the phone down with small sigh. Maybe the guy would figure things out before I did. Maybe he wouldn't care. It didn't matter much to me.
Peering over, I saw Cynthia smile and wave from her newly-carpeted office. She was pretty, after-all. Grinning, I glanced down at my desk and made a note to myself to ask her what she was doing for dinner that night. I'd heard there was a new restaurant opening up on the edge of Purgatory Avenue that had an all-you-can-eat buffet of brains - and while I didn't usually go for the femme type, Cindy was good looking, and she had saved me from years at the temp agency.
Just because I was dead didn't mean I couldn't have a life, right?
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