The Grid Read Free

of the AC clattered to a stop as the lights went dark. The air in the restaurant seemed to get instantly warmer—or perhaps that was my imagination.
    Jerry looked at the manager standing by the cash register. “Y’all forget to pay the electric bill?”
    The manager pointed outside. “Lights are off at the place next door, too.”
    Jerry and I looked where the man indicated.
    The sign over the convenience store was dark. The neon beer advertisements in the windows were out as well.
    “They got backup generators at the prison, don’t they?” Jerry looked at me.
    “Hope so.” I stood. “Wish me luck. I’m gonna go arrest a fellow law officer.”

- CHAPTER THREE -
    Sarah shakes her head, swallows several times. She desperately wants the ringing in her ears to stop.
    The motel room is still dark. What vision she gained after the lights went out has been destroyed by the muzzle flash from the Python, which has also done a number on her hearing.
    She can still use her nose, though. And what she smells—the copper tang of blood, an ammonia stench of urine—tells her she better get moving.
    The Python is in one hand. Her jeans are around her thighs. Her bra is torn, shirt buttonless.
    Panties. Dear God, where are her panties? She remembers them being ripped from her body like they were made of so much paper.
    She pats the carpet with her free hand, searching by touch.
    Squish.
    A puddle of liquid against her palm. Warm and thick, like syrup.
    The smell of blood grows stronger.
    She tries to quell the nausea but can’t. She leans to one side, vomits, stomach heaving, bile dangling from her lips.
    Tears fill her eyes, run down her cheeks.
    The weeping makes her angrier than anything that has occurred in the crappy motel room. SarahSmiles does not cry. Ever.
    A few seconds go by. The ringing in her ears lessens slightly.
    Then, the desk light comes back on, and the AC begins to rumble.
    Sarah blinks, looks around the room.
    Rocky is on his back a few feet away, dead, a bloody hole in the middle of his shirt where his sternum is. His bladder has opened. There’s a damp spot on the floor, separate and distinct from the blood.
    One of his ears has an imprint of Sarah’s teeth, where she bit down before shoving him off and retrieving the Python. He’d been pressing against her throat with one hand while the other tried to get her jeans off so he could—
    Dear God. This animal almost raped her.
    Another wave of nausea ripples through her stomach. Her teeth chatter, skin clammy.
    How long has the electricity been off? Five minutes? Ten?
    She finds her panties. They are unwearable, of course, resting by her purse. Both items are under the desk, the top of which contains Rocky’s drugs and pistol.
    Blood coats her hand from the puddle by the dead man’s body. Blood that is tainted by cocaine and who knows what else. She stares at her palm, imagining the diseases burrowing under her skin.
    She struggles to her feet, starts to walk to the bathroom. The jeans trip her. She falls to her knees, head banging against the wall.
    Groggy. Double vision. Wig askew. Tears dripping on the carpet. Hysteria slithering its way up her spine.
    Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
    Outside the door. Soft, then loud. Then soft again. A person running down the hall.
    How long before somebody comes to investigate the sound of a gunshot? She tells herself it will take a while to pinpoint this particular room, especially with the confusion of the power outage.
    She gets up again, pulls her jeans on her hips, staggers into the bathroom. There, she yanks off the wig, turns on the hot water in the sink, and scrubs her hands.
    The porcelain grows red from the blood, droplets staining the counter as well—a forensic clusterfuck, especially when combined with the mess in the bedroom.
    Sarah looks at herself in the mirror. She’s wearing a blouse with no buttons and a ripped bra dangling off one shoulder. Her ribs on the right side throb; a bruise is