The door swings open again, wider than before. The clerk steps partially out of the darkness allowing Clarice to get a better view of the man. His head is bald, and his body is hunched over so he’s a good six inches shorter than he should be. Pale, pasty skin stretches tight over a thin frame, and his mouth hangs open. “You have mail?” he says, wiping away some drool.
“I do.”
“Important mail?” he asks. “Very important you say?”
Clarice nods. “Very.”
The clerk lunges forward with outstretched hands like a demented child lusting after his favorite toy, but Clarice jumps back before he can snatch her manila envelope from her grasp.
“Can’t leave without supplies,” she says. “Labels. More envelopes.”
The clerk growls and spins around twice in place. Clarice isn’t sure whether or not he’ll let her in, but she’s certain he’s contemplating that very question.
The clerk glances left, right, and then behind Clarice, apparently searching the shadows for others. When he seems convinced that Clarice is alone, he says, “Fine, fine. Must see how busy we are, yes? Must ask the others if we can help.”
The clerk steps back in the mailroom, swings the door wide, and ushers Clarice in. “Come, come,” he says. “Show them what you’ve brought.”
Clarice enters. The mailroom is as she remembers, stretching a good twenty feet in either direction and about half of that in depth. A pair of single-bulb lights hang from the ceiling, offering the barest of illumination. A half-dozen, flimsy, plastic desks are scattered around. Mail clerks sit at five of them, each one a runt of a man, bent over and twisted. Each one looks at Clarice with hunger in his eyes.
“She brings mail,” says the clerk who let her in. “Mail that’s important. Must go out, she says.”
A chair scrapes across the floor to her left, and Clarice whips around. One of the other clerks scoots out from behind his desk and scampers over. “What have you?” he asks.
“Forms from our VP,” Clarice answers, clutching her folder. “Evaluations for HR. Some check items for payroll.”
More chairs scrape in the darkness, and a moment later, Clarice is surrounded by all of them. They look at one another expectantly. One even steps forward only to be grabbed by the shoulders by two others and yanked back. Their panting echoes loudly in her ears. The sight of their open, drooling mouths makes her wish she hadn’t come.
“She taunts us,” says one.
“She wants the mail for herself,” says another.
Clarice shakes her head, and she spins in place, feeling like a deer trapped by wolves. “No, no,” she says. “I only want supplies.”
“Take, take, take,” says a third. “Our mailroom. Our rules.”
A hand grabs her arm and yanks her sideways. Clarice struggles to keep her balance and manages to do so until two more clerks pile on.
Clarice drops to her knees. At first, she protects her paper-stuffed envelope as best she can. Then, summoning the last bit of strength in her legs, she pushes herself up long enough to launch the envelope into the air.
It sails across the room, through the beam of light provided by one of the room’s bulbs and hits the floor in the darkness beyond. Immediately, the clerks race after it, grabbing, pulling, and snapping at one another. They pounce on the pack of papers, tear it apart, and stuff their mouths with the torn pages.
Clarice takes to her feet and backs away. For a span of several breaths, she can’t help but watch the feeding frenzy. Then her brain restarts and kicks her into gear. “No time to watch,” she whispers. “Have to go. Have to get what we came for.”
Clarice nods to herself and runs to the other end of the mailroom. There’s a small, winding hall here that leads her past several storage rooms. She skips the first four doors and enters the fifth with bated breath.
Without looking, Clarice reaches to her right and flips the switch on the wall. She’s only been here once, but she’ll never forget the layout. The room is tightly packed with boxes along the walls that are filled with reams of paper. At the far end stands a set of plastic shelves, bolted to the wall, and holding countless manila envelopes.
Clarice closes the door behind her. It shuts with a click and sends a shiver up her spine. The walls close in, and her breathing turns shallow and quick.
“We’re okay,” she whispers, trying to steady herself. “We’re okay. We’re okay. Just in and out.”
Her words fail to comfort her, and Clarice knows she won’t last long. It’s only a matter of time before the clerks find her, or worse, her nightmares.
“Go!” she orders. Clarice darts across the room and scales the shelves. They’re thin, and if she hadn’t seen someone else scale them before, she might not have believed how deceptively strong they were.
It takes her only a moment to reach the top. With the side of her head pressed against the ceiling, she leans over the top shelf as much and pushes aside stacks of papers until she sees a small air duct. The vent that covers it is barely bigger than her hand, and no air is flowing from it. As quickly as she can, she pulls the cover off and sets it to the side.
Clarice reaches into the duct and feels around. It doesn’t take long for her to find what she’s looking for. The tips of her fingers brush against a small handle, and she immediately grabs it. She then lowers herself to the ground with an old knife in hand before wiping away her tears.
Clarice inspects the weapon. The blade is less than three inches, and the steel it’s made from is worn and pitted. The brass hilt is dusty, and the staghorn handle offers a good grip.
She turns the knife over and becomes drawn in by the reflection of light on the blade. She stares at it for God knows how long, and the only thing that brings her out of her self-induced hypnotic trance is the glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye.
Clarice snaps her head up in time to see a male, tall, muscular, and with a strong jaw and strong hands enter the room. He’s dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved polo that are torn and stained several times over. His brown leather shoes are cracked, and the soles are starting to split.
“Nick?” she says, backing up.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” he says, stepping toward her with one hand up. “I won’t let them get you.”
His dark eyes are filled with compassion, but Clarice knows that look. She knows the lie. “Please, don’t,” she whimpers.
Nick shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
In an instant he’s upon her, and the two crash to the ground. Clarice fights for all she’s worth. She struggles, punches, kicks, and bites, but she can’t get out from under him. With a good sixty pounds of extra muscle on his side, Clarice hasn’t a chance.
“It’ll be over soon,” he says, straddling her waist and wrestling the knife from her hand.
Clarice manages to get her hands on his wrist and stops the knife the moment he tries to cut her with it. But her stay on the attack is only temporary. Nick leans forward, putting all of his weight behind the handle, and the blade inches closer to her face with every passing breath.
“Stop!” she screams. In one last bit of defiance, she kicks the shelves next to her.
One of the shelves drops, and box after box of paper comes sliding off.
Clarice throws her hands up in front of her face and screams again. She thrashes about, taking hit after hit of heavy box. When it’s over, she curls in a fetal position and whimpers softly.
Eventually, she peeks over her arm. The knife lies a few feet away, partially buried. For minutes, Clarice remains motionless, her eye fixated on the handle of the blade.
“Just memories, Clarice,” she tells herself. “He’s gone now. You know he is. Take the knife, Clarice. Take it and run before they find you.”
A few more minutes pass before Clarice obeys. Stiffly, she pushes herself up and notices her already aching arms have started to bruise. But Clarice doesn’t let such minor injuries delay her. She scoops up the knife, stuffs
it into one of her pockets, and heads out the door.
When she gets back to the mailroom, the clerks are fighting over the last remnants of her offering. They bite and claw at each other as much as the papers in their hands, and not one takes notice of Clarice, nor her quick exit.
It’s best they don’t, she tells herself. For when they no longer have documents to devour, there’s no telling what else they might feast on. Stories have always run rampant through the office about the black hole that is interoffice mail. Much goes in, and almost nothing comes out.
As she heads back to Toby, she wonders what he’ll do once the cutting starts. She wonders if she can make him understand.
He’ll have to, really. He has no choice.
Chapter Seven
It’s a sunny morning at the zoo, and an open condiment packet sails through the air. Ketchup trails behind, promising to stain anything it touches without prejudice. The packet arcs into the tiger pit and splatters the ground near the zookeeper. Red globs hit his shoe, but he doesn’t notice. No doubt he’s more concerned with the three Bengal tigers nearby than he is about random encounters with flying tomato paste.
Eight-year-old Katie, on the other hand, with her nose cresting over the railing above, watches intently. A moment passes, and disappointment crosses the young girl’s freckled face. She lowers herself to the sidewalk and stuffs her hands into the pockets of her bright blue windbreaker. She spends a moment rummaging around them before pulling forth a second pack of ketchup. Grinning, Katie bites a corner off, thereby arming yet another condiment grenade.
Toby watches the spectacle for a few moments, unsure why everything has a surreal nature to it or how he even got here, but he doesn’t dwell such things long. He realizes he needs to play parent. “Give me that,” Toby says, snatching it from her. “Are you trying to get us thrown out?”
Katie glares at her father with her green eyes. Though he’s easily two feet taller than she is, she’s unfazed by his scolding. “No, Daddy,” she says, turning back to the tiger pit. She pulls herself up on the railing so her head crests over once again. “I’m trying to make the man more tasty.”
“More tasty?” Toby echoes, unsure if he had heard correctly or whether or not he wants her to explain if he had.
“Yes, Daddy,” she replies. She then points her finger at the sunbathing felines below. “I’m hoping they’ll eat him if I do.”
“Katie!” says Toby, tussling her brown hair. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” she says, pulling back. “They should eat everyone here.”
Toby raises an eyebrow. Clearly, his carnage loving princess hadn’t thought her wishes through. “You want them to eat us as well?”
Katie lets go of the metal railing and drops down from her tiptoes. “Yes,” she says, but after a moment’s thought, she amends her statement. “Well, maybe only bite you, Daddy.”
“That’s not very nice,” Toby says, forcing a chuckle and extending an open hand to his little princess. “Why would you want something like that to happen? We’re their friends.”
Katie narrows her eyes, closes her lips tight, and plants her hands on her hips. “Daddy,” she says. “We’re not animal friends.”
Toby reaches down, takes her by the wrist, and leads her down the red brick path. “Of course we are,” he says. “You say it all the time.”
“It’s not nice to lock them up.”
“It’s dangerous in the wild, sweetie,” Toby says, hoping it will placate her. “There’s not a lot of tigers left in the world. We need to keep some in a zoo so we can always enjoy them. And that’s a good thing.”
“The only thing a zoo is good for is stripping an animal of its natural life for our selfish desires.”
Toby stops in his tracks and stares at the diminutive stranger at his side. “Where on Earth did you hear that?”
“Mr. Tundley says it all the time,” Katie replies. “He says locking animals up is mean, and anyone that comes to the zoo is just as bad as those that lock them up.”
“Mr. Tundley is wrong,” says Toby who is now annoyed at the third-grade teacher. “I promise the tigers like it here. All the animals do.”
“Like how you said Collin liked it when I locked him in the tool shed overnight?”
“No,” Toby says. His little girl’s ability to argue dazzles him, and thoughts of her future in law school flash by. “It’s not like that at all. Your little brother was scared and could have been hurt. The animals here are safe. They get free food and water, and they don’t have to worry about getting sick or injured. It’s much better for them, I promise. And even if it’s a little smaller than what they’re used to, I’m sure they’re still happy.”
“They are not!” she says, small fists clenched at her side. “They want to run free and be with their family!”
Toby sighs and decides perhaps a new exhibit will be a good distraction. “Why don’t we go see the marsupials?” he offers. “You like kangaroos. They have possums too. Maybe we’ll see them play dead.”
“Play dead?”
“Yes, it’s what they do to trick predators.”
“I know, Daddy,” she says. “Did you ever think maybe they want to die? Maybe they’d rather be dead than be in your smelly zoo?”
“I promise they’re fine,” says Toby, wary of his little princess’s growing anger. The redness in her face and the biting of her lip are telltale signs she’s about to pop. “You really think people want to hurt them? Now come on, let’s go find Mommy.”
Katie pulls her hand away and stomps down the path, her leather boots clomping loudly as she goes. “You’re a mean daddy!”
Toby shakes his head and starts after her. A chilly wind blows from behind and causes goosebumps to raise on his arms. Maybe the zoo wasn’t the best idea after all. Maybe, he adds, he should have brought a jacket as well instead of just wearing the short sleeved polo shirt he had put on. A few paces into his chase, something stings the back of his neck. His vision wobbles and fades. At some point, Toby realizes he’s fallen over, and he can taste blood in his mouth.
Toby tries to get to his feet, but the best he can manage is to roll over onto his back. People hover over him, silhouettes against a white, blown-out sky. Their words are muted in his ears. The last thing he’s aware of is small hands patting his face and the sound of his daughter crying nearby.
Toby jolts awake.
A dark, feminine form slips under the covers next to him, and the mattress shifts. Her body warms his, and he slides a hand across her waist, drawing her close.
“Am I glad to see you,” he says with a relaxed puff of air. His eyes close, and he nuzzles into her neck with a sigh. “Talk about some messed up dreams.”
“Bad ones?”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m sorry, Toby.” Her body moves and her voice is barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”
For a half second, Toby wonders why his bride sounds so despondent. But then he realizes two things. One, it’s not his bride, Nikki, who’s talking to him, and two, her apology wasn’t directed at his dream state.
His eyes open wide. Clarice looms over him, and he catches the glint of a small knife in her right hand.
“What the hell?” he spits out, but it doesn’t stop the knife.
It dives through the air like a raptor after prey. Toby rolls off the bed, and the blade impales his pillow an instant later. As he hits the floor and comes to his feet, the side of his face feels warm and wet.
Toby leaps to the side and not a second too soon. The knife point sticks into the wall where his head was moments ago. Before Clarice can free the weapon, Toby charges and rams her with his shoulder. Clarice loses her grip on the weapon and smashes into the wall. As she slides to the floor, dazed, Toby grabs her by the neck. “You think you’re going to kill me?”
“No,” Clarice says, shaking her head and holding up a feeble hand to stop his assault.
Toby growls. There’s no mercy for one
who sought to take his life, sought to make his bride a widow and his princess and son fatherless. He leans into her, pinning her against the wall and readies a fist for the coup de grâce. As he does, her tear-filled eyes meet his and she whispers, “I don’t want to die.”
Toby freezes. He can’t bring himself to kill someone so helpless, foe or not. Disgusted, Toby throws her to the ground. “Come near me again and I’ll break your goddamn neck.”
“It’s not what you think,” she says between coughs and choked sobs.
Toby ignores her and bolts out of the apartment in only his boxers. He stops, however, the moment he steps into the hall. At least a half-dozen vending machines line the walls on either side, and even though he was puking his guts out when he first came by, he’s certain that the two water coolers at either end of the hall are new additions as well.
“Toby! Wait!”
The call from whence he came spurs Toby forward. He runs down the hall and hammers the elevator button.
Seconds tick by, and the elevator never arrives. Frustrated, impatient, and not wanting Clarice to make a sudden appearance, Toby runs into the nearby stairwell. He races downward, taking two—sometimes one leap—to reach landing after landing. His first instinct is to head to the ground floor where the lobby doors lead to the outside, but then he realizes nothing’s changed. The doors will still be locked and streaking through the lobby in his boxers will certainly draw more attention his way. He needs a place to think.
Without any other ideas, Toby leaves the stairs once he hits the fourth-floor landing. He slows his sprint to a trot and stops when he sees a plethora of new vending machines that line the walls.
Twenty yards away, one of Mr. Squid’s relatives lugs a full duffle bag down the hall. He stops, whips out a plate-shaped device, and presses its center with the tip of a tentacle. A three-foot section of the wall disappears and reveals a tiny alcove. In that area sits a bar stool, a flat-screen TV, and something that looks like a prop ray-gun from a 50s flick seen on Mystery Science Theater 3000.
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