Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

she stared. Her dark red lipstick contrasted with her ivory teeth.

He blinked and they looked away. The little girl whined. On the television, George Costanza tried to explain the difference between coffee and coffee.

The automatic door whisked open behind him. Karen reappeared with a large bag and handed it to him. “Everything should fit,” she said.

He checked the inhabitants of the waiting room one more time, then looked in the bag. It held a new dress shirt, some generic-looking sneakers, and a pullover fleece with the hospital logo on it. He unwrapped the shirt and pulled out the first few pins. “Where did you get all this?”

“The hospital gift shop.”

He saw the tag on the shirt wrapper and tried not to flinch at the gift shop prices. “How much do I owe you?”

She shook her head and brushed the question away with a wave of her hand.

He pulled the cardboard out from under the collar and unbuttoned the shirt. It was stiff and had sharp creases in the fabric, but it fit fine. He rolled his shoulders. “How’d you know my size?”

“I have been a runway model for twelve years,” she said. “I can size someone on sight.” She glanced at him as he buttoned up the shirt. “It is even simpler when they are not wearing clothes.”

“I’ve got pants on,” he said. He leaned against the door frame and pulled one of the shoes on. The sneaker had thick Velcro straps instead of laces. It was a perfect fit. He tugged the other one on.

“We should go,” said Karen. “Now.”

He looked up. The waiting room inhabitants were all staring again. A half dozen of them had climbed to their feet. The sound of chattering teeth echoed in the large room. They staggered toward George and Karen. The little girl was at the front of the small crowd.

Karen led him out the door and across the parking lot. He paused to stuff the bag and packing material in a trash can and then took a few quick steps to catch up with her. “It would be best if we did not separate,” she said. She held up her keys and a sports car a few yards away chirped. “Whatever these hallucinations are, it is clear they are more difficult for you to process alone.”

“Why do you say that?”

She looked at him. “Did you not say you had a meeting with the President?”

He tugged the fleece over his head. “Yeah, but that really happened.” A spike pushed its way into his head as he spoke.

Her mouth flattened again. It wasn’t much more than a line at this point.

“It did,” he insisted. The spike in his head grew long barbs that pushed in every direction. He could feel them against the back of his eyes, his sinuses, scratching the inside of his skull. He ignored them.

Then he paused. “How did my car get here?”

Karen stood by a Tesla Roadster. It was a convertible, low to the ground and glossy black. It looked fast. “I beg your pardon?”

George pointed at the Hyundai. It was a few spaces down from the Tesla. “That’s my car,” he said. “Did you get someone to bring it here or something?”

She shook her head.

He walked over to it. He glanced at the back and recognized his license plate and the parking sticker from work. His battered Payless sneakers sat in the space behind the passenger seat.

The door was unlocked. He lowered himself into the seat. The ignition was empty. He glanced at the dish under the gear shift and saw the small collection of coins. He looked in the glove compartment and checked the CD holder strapped onto the sunscreen. “What do you think the chances are someone stole my car, didn’t take anything, and ended up at the same hospital?”

“Unlikely.” Karen studied the Hyundai. She placed a hand on the hood. “Is it possible you drove yourself here?”

He shook his head. “Up until about twenty minutes ago I thought I’d been shot and was going to die. I’m pretty sure I was deep in shock.”

“People have driven vehicles under similar situations.”

He got out and walked around to look at her over the hood. “So where are my car keys?”

She looked back at the hospital. “If you were in shock, it is not hard to believe you could have dropped your keys somewhere between your car and the entrance.”

He shook his head. “I was brought in by an ambulance crew.” He got out of the car. “I’ll have to come back and get it later.”

The engine started. It revved twice, hard enough to make the chassis tremble. The headlights lit up a nearby shrub and a section of cinder-block wall as they flickered on and off.

George and Karen exchanged a glance. “Are we seeing things?” he asked.

“Perhaps. I believe your car is attempting to communicate in Morse code.”

“What?”

She gestured at the shrub. The headlights blinked in a series of long and short flashes. George watched for a moment before he saw the pattern.

“Is that an SOS?”

“The pattern it is repeating is OSO,” said Karen, “which is why I said ‘attempting.’ It is a common mistake for those who do not know Morse code.”

The engine growled and the pattern of flashes changed. The radio switched on and shouted some talk radio at them. Outside the car, with the engine running, it was just distorted squawks.

“Do you think it’s going to turn into a giant robot?”

“Doubtful,” Karen said, “but I am becoming more open to what I would normally consider foolish ideas. I believe we should contact Madelyn Sorensen. I would like to hear more of her insights into this other world we are glimpsing.”

“That could be a little difficult,” said George. “She’s probably in a jail cell right now.”

“Why?”

“She’s the one who shot me.”

Karen shook her head. “As of one hour ago no arrests had been made and no suspects named. Your next-door neighbor across the hall heard gunfire and called the police. She claimed she did not see