Unquiet Dreams by K. A. Laity Page B

man, she couldn't really wish him dead. Suffering maybe, but not dead.
    Back in her cubicle, Margaret's fingers tapped a quick staccato beat as she brainstormed. She almost had it, but for the key. Light, it had to be light, but what to do with it? Something had been on the tip of her brain when Dave lumbered in—or had his presence suggested it? Wait, that was it! On "Wild World of Animals" the other night, there was that documentary on wild boar hunting, how the dogs had flushed the pig out and run it into the hole the hunters had dug. She could do that, she could.
    Margaret waited until every one on her floor had gone home—or off to McSorley's for a beer, it was Friday after all—and for once was happy that this floor was almost all temps and folks like her who had few ambitions to rise above their current positions. As a rule, no one on six worked late. Go up two, three floors, and you'd see lights on past ten, even on Friday. Lots of enterprising people putting in face time, trying to get ahead, to feed their ambitions. But not here, which made things a little easier tonight. After running a quick check of the floor—no one, and the housecleaning staff wouldn't get to this floor before nine if they stuck to the schedule—Margaret lugged her lamp and a nine-outlet power strip to the break room. Using the flashlight to clear the way, she positioned the lamp on the edge of the sink and plugged it into the strip which was switched off. She made several trips, bringing lamps from other desks, trying to fix their exact locations in her mind so no one would notice Monday morning—if it worked, if. In about twenty minutes she had eight more lamps trained on the shadowy floor of the cubbyhole. Just one more thing needed.
    Margaret walked over to the fridge, opened the door and scanned the contents. Nope, nope, nope—bingo! The communal coffee can would be perfect. She grabbed it and began shuffling through the detritus on top of the big Frigidaire. Ah, here, a simple brown paper bag. She snapped off the plastic lid and dumped the coffee into the bag. If she had to explain anything—well, she could think of something; people were always needing coffee cans for something. It wouldn't be the first time one disappeared.
    Shielding her left hand within the safety of the flashlight's beam, Margaret set the can down in what she hoped was an appealing position. Taking a deep breath, she put her foot down between the can and the wall (but closer to the can), trying to tempt the void from its hiding place. Seconds passed; a minute—nothing happened. Then stealthily the shade oozed silkily across the floor and onto her foot. Margaret shivered once, convulsively, then leaned over to switch on the power strip. The corner was flooded with light, and she felt the thing's alarm, flattening around her foot, trying to soak up what little shadow there was, panicking when Margaret withdrew her foot. She could swear—almost—that she heard a kind of high-pitched keening, barely audible, maybe only in her mind. And the next moment the void jumped into the can, curling in on itself away from the glare.
    Margaret scooped up the can and a charge—electric, yes, but something more—went through her hands. But she could not resist the urge. Margaret looked into the depths of the can and met cold hate. It swirled angry, frightened, caught. Black folding into black, it radiated darkness and rage. And hunger, an all-consuming hunger—it roiled and turned on itself and Margaret could feel the heat and hate as if shimmering from its surface, the surface which was something more than black—a vacuum, a void, not so much a presence as an absence, a gaping need that wanted to draw her in, that threatened even now to jump and consume her. With a sob Margaret thrust the can directly under the nearest light and then the shriek was real, long, mouthless yet audible, pain and rage and despair more eloquent