Club Dead

hadn’t had any blood in a week. As that thought passed through my mind, I suddenly felt cold.
    Cold all over.
    Bill would be hungry. Really, really hungry. Crazy hungry.
    And here I was—fast food.
    Would he know who I was? Would he realize it was me, in time to stop?
    It hurt even worse to think that he might not care enough anymore—care enough about me—to stop. He might just keep sucking and sucking, until I was drained dry. After all, he’d had an affair with Lorena. He’d seen me kill her, right in front of his eyes. Granted, she’d betrayed and tortured him, and that should have doused his ardor, right there. But aren’t relationships crazy anyway?
    Even my grandmother would have said, “Oh, shit .”
    Okay. I had stay calm. I had to breathe shallow and slow to save air. And I had to rearrange our bodies, so I could be more comfortable. I was relieved this was the biggest trunk I’d ever seen, because that made such a maneuver possible. Bill was limp—well, he was dead, of course. So I could sort of shove him without worrying too much about the consequences. The trunk was cold, too, and I tried to unwrap Bill a little bit so I could share the blanket.
    The trunk was also quite dark. I could write the car designer a letter, and let him know I could vouch for its light-tightness, if that was how you’d put it. If I got out of here alive, that is. I felt the shape of the two bottles of blood. Maybe Bill would be content with that?
    Suddenly, I remembered an article I’d read in a news magazine while I was waiting in the dentist’s office. It was about a woman who’d been taken hostage and forced into the trunk of her own car, and she’d been campaigning ever since to have inside latches installed in trunks so any captive could release herself. I wondered if she’d influenced the people who made Lincolns. I felt all around the trunk, at least the parts I could reach, and I did feel a latch release, maybe; there was a place where wires were sticking into the trunk. But whatever handle they’d been attached to had been clipped off.
    I tried pulling, I tried yanking to the left or right. Damn it, this just wasn’t right. I almost went nuts, there in that trunk. The means of escape was in there with me, and I couldn’t make it work. My fingertips went over and over the wires, but to no purpose.
    The mechanism had been disabled.
    I tried real hard to figure out how that could have happened. I am ashamed to confess, I wondered if somehow Eric knew I’d be shut in the trunk, and this was his way of saying, “That’s what you get for preferring Bill.” But I just couldn’t believe that. Eric sure had some big blank moral blind spots, but I didn’t think he’d do that to me. After all, he hadn’t reached his stated goal of having me, which was the nicest way I could put it to myself.
    Since I had nothing else to do but think, which didn’t take up extra oxygen, as far as I knew, I considered the car’s previous owner. It occurred to me that Eric’s friend had pointed out a car that would be easy to steal; a car belonging to someone who was sure to be out late at night, someone who could afford a fine car, someone whose trunk would hold the litter of cigarette papers, powder, and Baggies.
    Eric had liberated the Lincoln from a drug dealer, I was willing to bet. And that drug dealer had disabled the inner trunk release for reasons I didn’t even want to think about too closely.
    Oh, give me a break, I thought indignantly. (It was easy just then to forget the many breaks I’d had during the day.) Unless I got a final break, and got out of this trunk before Bill awoke, none of the others would exactly count.
    It was a Sunday, and very close to Christmas, so the garage was silent. Maybe some people had gone home for the holidays, and the legislators had gone home to their constituency, and the other people were busy doing . . . Christmas, Sunday stuff. I heard one car leave while I lay there, and then I heard voices after a time; two people getting off the elevator. I screamed, and banged on the trunk lid, but the sound was swallowed up in the starting of a big engine. I quieted immediately, frightened of using more air than I could afford.
    I’ll tell you, time spent in the nearly pitch-black dark, in a confined space, waiting for something to happen—that’s pretty awful time. I didn’t have a watch on; I would have had to have one with those hands that light up, anyway. I never fell