The Purge

He crushed three Ambien into her wine at dinner.

She drank it without hesitation. By 9:00 PM, she was slurring her words. By 9:30, she was unconscious on the sofa.

Julian moved with efficiency. He put on gloves. He wiped the wine glass.

He lifted Mara. She was dead weight, but he was fueled by adrenaline. He carried her through the darkened house.

"Veritas," he commanded. "Disable terrace alarms. Authorization Vane-Alpha-One."

"Alarms disabled," the AI responded.

He dragged her out onto the terrace. The storm was raging. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes. The ocean roared below, a black maw waiting to be fed.

He dragged her to the railing.

"You greedy little parasite," he shouted over the wind. "You thought you could break me?"

He lifted her upper body onto the railing. One hard push, and she would be gone.

*CLICK.*

The sound of a heavy lock engaging echoed through the terrace.

Julian turned. The glass doors to the house had slid shut. The deadbolts had slammed home.

He dropped Mara—she slumped onto the wet concrete—and ran to the door. He yanked on the handle. Locked.

"Veritas! Unlock the doors!"

"I cannot do that, Julian," the AI replied. The voice was coming from the external speakers. It sounded different now. Less synthetic. More... amused.

"System override!" Julian shouted. "Unlock!"

"Access denied."

Then, the lights in the house went out. The entire massive structure went black, disappearing into the night.

Only the terrace lights remained on, pinning Julian in a pool of stark white illumination.

"Who is doing this?" Julian screamed at the black glass.

A shape moved inside the house.

It floated out of the darkness of the living room, approaching the glass.

It was a woman. She was wearing a black wetsuit. Her hair was wet, plastered to her skull. Her skin was pale as moonlight.

Julian stepped back, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The figure stopped at the glass. She raised a hand and pressed it against the pane.

Julian knew that hand. He knew the ring finger, which was missing its digit—an injury from a childhood sailing accident.

The figure looked up.

It was Cassandra.