Die Again Tomorrow by Kira Peikoff Page B

organism, rising and walking everywhere in tandem.
    â€œWho is it?” she called.
    â€œMike,” came a man’s voice. “I work for the landlord.”
    She unlocked the bottom and top locks and opened the door. The sensation of light beyond her eyelids was all she could detect—no shadows or forms.
    â€œHello, ma’am,” the man said in a polite voice. Sounded young, in his twenties, though she couldn’t be sure. “I came to check the batteries on your smoke detector and carbon monoxide alarm. Florida law says we gotta check it once a year.”
    â€œOh! Of course, come on in. It’s—” She hesitated, realizing she had no idea where the alarm was. She hadn’t thought of it when she rented the apartment the year before; it had a balcony overlooking the beach in Key West, and just smelling the salt air was enough to sell her on the place, no questions asked. Thanks to her life settlement payout, she could afford to live out her days in such luxury.
    She felt a swish of air as the man marched past her into the apartment.
    â€œRight over here,” he said kindly. His voice came from the kitchen area, about fourteen steps away. “Directly above your dining room table.”
    â€œYou’re a dear. Do you need a stepladder?”
    â€œNah, I’m good. I can reach it if I just climb up on this chair here . . . all right, hang on, it’s gonna make a loud beep when I check it.”
    Ruth knelt to cup her hands over Autumn’s ears. The dog whimpered anyway when the shrill note pierced the room.
    Then she heard the man’s feet hop to the floor and walk back through the kitchen, toward her. He paused to cough—a dry, noisy hack. What she couldn’t see was that he was turning on the burners of her gas range.
    His footsteps resumed.
    â€œAll done,” he said, heading past her. “You have a good night now.”
    â€œThanks very much.” She wondered if she should tip him, but he was already opening the front door.
    She closed it behind him and locked the locks.
    Within an hour, she began to feel sleepy, though it was only 8:30 P.M . She changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. Autumn curled up next to her so their backs were touching.
    She knew something was wrong before she could articulate the thought. Compelled beyond her control, she felt the need to gasp for air. She sucked in each breath with rising desperation, despite telling herself that there was plenty of air in the room. It was probably one of those panic attacks that used to sneak up on her after her husband died.
    She rolled over to spoon Autumn. Her heart was beating frantically. The dog lay beside her, oblivious. She buried her face in its soft furry neck and stroked its chest. But her symptoms only escalated.
    If she turned her head an inch, a tidal wave of dizziness smacked her. She thought of trying to reach for her phone, three steps away on her dresser, but knew she would fall over first. The balance she depended on was gone.
    Autumn was trained for emergencies. She knew how to press a special large button on the landline that went straight to the police. It was time. Ruth shook her.
    The dog remained motionless.
    â€œAutumn,” she choked out. “Go call 911. Nine-one-one!”
    The dizziness was unbearable, accompanied now by a paralyzing nausea. But what was wrong with the dog?
    She shoved her ear against Autumn’s chest. There was a heartbeat, but it was faint. Very faint.
    â€œNo,” she whispered. “Oh God, no.”
    That’s when she realized: it was something in the air. A tasteless, odorless poison seeping into their lungs. She needed to get them outside, onto the balcony, as fast as possible. The idea of going alone never crossed her mind.
    She squeezed her arms around all seventy-five pounds of Autumn and hauled her toward the edge of the bed. The dog barely budged.
    After a minute she realized the task would be