Stay Awake Stay Alive

Stay Awake, Stay Alive

I’ve been awake now for 48 hours and I know I won’t be able to stay this way for much longer. Who wants to die at 31—I know I don’t, but I’ll have to sleep sometime. Maybe the end will be painless, however judging by what I’ve observed, it will be anything but. This all started innocently enough.

What I thought was the crown jewel of my life at this point is this penthouse on the 22^nd floor of a newly renovated high-rise. The neighborhood had been run down but, because of gentrification, it’s now a great place to call home. Some might say the price was over the top, but it’s hard to put a price on a view like this. A 360-degree glass-walled panorama of the ocean on one side and cityscape on the other. The view convinced me to purchase this place, and it’s the view that may cause my demise.

I first witnessed the ghoulish scene a couple of weeks ago. My neighbors had thrown me a welcome to the building party, which ended just before midnight. Reflecting on the night’s events, I believe they meant it to last a little past midnight; however, having had a long day and faced with a full schedule tomorrow, I left earlier than expected. Reveling in my phenomenal view one last time before bed, my attention came to rest on the rooftop directly across the street. A chain-link fence surrounded the structure, a 12-floor former office building. There were refuse chutes running from several windows on various floors and one leading down from the roof. They all ended up in a large trash compactor.

I was about to turn away when the rooftop access door banged open briefly, flooding the doorway with an eerie blue/green light. A spindly appendaged creature with a head resembling an enlarged emoji struggled through the doorway. It was alternately pulling, then pushing a wheelchair. Riding in the chair was the head and torso of Ms. Alexander, a neighbor I had met recently. She was missing both arms and both legs. The thing wheeled her to the chute and tipped her into it; then returned to the doorway with the empty chair. Before closing the door, it looked up in my direction, shook its head in a disapproving manner, and retreated into the building.

The evening’s drinks and hors d’oeuvres rushed from my stomach to the toilet bowl as I tried to make sense of what I had just witnessed. Torn between calling the police and trying not to sound like a stoner on a bad acid trip, and going to bed, I chose the bed. The next morning, still shaken by the evening’s events, I rode the elevator to the basement garage. It made one stop before mine and Ms. Alexander stepped in. We smiled, exchanged pleasantries, and went our separate ways. Her speech seemed a little stilted, and I noticed an odd hitch in her gait as she walked away, but not knowing the lady well, I ignored it. I never saw her again.

Several uneventful days passed before I was once again the unwilling spectator to ghastly events on the rooftop across the street. They made three trips with the wheelchair and three more of my neighbors rode the chute to oblivion. I decided to investigate further before calling the police. Target shooting has always been a hobby of mine, which is why I own a 9mm Berretta semi-automatic pistol. Feeling a little foolish strapping it on, I kept reminding myself that whatever these things might be; they were dangerous, and I needed to protect myself.

The gate through the perimeter fence was unlocked, so I let myself in. The air had a faint odor of putrefied flesh and the light was dim but adequate. Proceeding cautiously, my senses on full alert, I entered a stairway leading to the second floor. Approximately halfway to the top, something the size of a large dog descended onto the steps just below me, brandishing a club in each claw. Without hesitation, I withdrew my weapon and placed two rounds directly into its emoji head. A voice from the landing above cut through the echo of the shots.

“It’s regrettable that you did that. There are so few of us left on the planet that even the loss of one is a tragedy.”

“What did you think I was going to do, let him club me to death?”

“Unfortunately, Human, we don’t possess the physical strength to do you much harm. Our strengths are in other areas, primarily telekinetic and shape-shifting. I see you’ve just realized I’m speaking to you directly into your mind. If you don’t like my “emoji head” maybe you’d prefer this face.”

The creature’s head turned cloudy, then the face of a neighbor appeared.

“We have been on earth since the beginning, but as food sources have become extinct and new sources of nutrition harder to find, our numbers have dwindled. Our colony is all that’s left. Over the last fifty years, we’ve discovered that human limbs are compatible with our metabolism. We only need one more donor to fill our stores for the next 100 years. This task needs to be completed before the next hibernation period, which starts in a few days. We’ve chosen you.”

I bolted down the stairs, through the gate, and back to my home. In my mind, I kept hearing his words, “You are in control now, but as soon as you sleep, your mind is ours to command. You will return to us.”

This all occurred 48 hours ago and I haven’t slept since then. Its voice is constantly in my mind, begging, cajoling, commanding me to sleep, but I continue to resist. It’s a battle of wills and I shall prevail.

Part 2

I had no idea a person can stay awake this long. I know I’ve never done it before. It’s been over 48 hours since this sinister voice took up residence in my head. The beast that’s speaking isn’t even in the same building I’m in. His pod, its term for the community of creatures that have taken up residence in the building next to mine, call themselves The Originals. According to their leader, the species predates man by over twenty thousand years. People haven’t always been their primary source of food, but as the planet transformed, they adapted.

My tormentor’s talkativeness has allowed me to learn a lot about these creatures. I’m not sure what frightens me more, that they can speak to my mind directly from theirs, or that they can change their shape at will. Having the ability to shapeshift gives them an enormous advantage over humans. One minute, the being might look like a neighbor, and the next time you see it, you would think you’re looking at a chair or a dog. It’s very disconcerting not being able to trust your own eyes.

Tenacity appears to be a strong characteristic of theirs. Nothing is stopping them from hunting another person to fill their food locker, but they remain focused on me. Maybe they’re worried I might report them to the authorities. Just imagine that phone call.

“Hello FBI, I want to report shape-shifting telekinetic creatures that are killing humans for their arms and legs. I’m sending you their location, but you won’t be able to see them because they’ll look like furniture or maybe a rat.”

I suppose being locked away in a mental hospital would protect me, but it’s not how I want to spend the rest of my life. No, this is a problem I have to take care of on my own.

Is it hot in here or is my excessive fatigue giving me hot flashes? I have the air conditioning turned as low as it will go, so it must be my lack of sleep taking control. In the meantime, the creature’s voice continues to drone on in my head. What else can I do to stay awake? My old CD player sits idly on a shelf, which gives me an idea. If it worked for the CIA when they flushed out Panama’s Noriega, maybe it will work for me. I insert a Metallica CD and crank up the volume.

The droning voice suddenly lets loose with a blood-curdling scream of pain and goes silent. Smiling, I mute the sound and call out.

“Hey dipshit, you still there?”

“What was that horrible noise?” the creature answered in a quivering voice.

“You have a problem with Heavy Metal? So, you’re not only shapeshifters, you’re music critics too?”

“That noise causes us great pain.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re trying to kill me for food and I should be concerned about your sensitive little ears, I think not.” I reached over and cranked up the sound. More shrieks of pain followed, then once again, silence.

“I have a proposition for you. If you want me, you’ll need to come get me here at my home. I’ve barricaded the front door, so you’ll need to transform into a bird and fly to the balcony. It’s that or more metal.”

“We’ll be there shortly in our natural form.”

They say the best defense is a good offense which in this situation starts with a home-field advantage. I know there are only two ways into my penthouse, up the elevator, and through the door, or fly onto the balcony like a bird. If they use the door, I have no idea how many will come or how big they will be. As birds, even eagle size, I stand a fighting chance. My weapon of choice for this encounter is an antique Samari sword that I purchased while on a trip to Japan. I still had my pistol, but I didn’t want to scare the neighborhood with the sound of gunfire.

What came to rest on the balcony railing was as bizarre as this whole situation has been. Five gargoyles stared through the glass at me. They were as grotesque as any that I have seen sculpted into building facades. One, their leader, I presumed, cocked his head similar to a bird, and spoke telepathically.

“Now you see us for what we truly are. For centuries, your artists have used our likeness to adorn your buildings. Humans have fantasized that we were angels or devils but had no idea we were real. Now you know the truth. Unfortunately, that knowledge dies with you tonight.”

“I think you’re wrong, ugly bird!”

I pushed the slider open and hit the remote for the CD, which immediately blasted more Metallica. The gargoyles cringed in pain, giving me the advantage I was looking for. In a matter so seconds, five severed heads rolled across my patio floor, the bodies careening off the building to the street below. As I watched in disbelief, the heads slowly crumbled into piles of dust. I slid the door closed and turned off the music.

It was time for bed.