Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  Lyla crosses to the door and tests the handle. It swings open into darkness.

  For a moment we hover there, four girls at the mouth of the unknown. We’ve changed so much since that first night, when we were scared but at least a little bit excited about the prospect of a prize at the end of this. Now there’s not an ounce of excitement to be found between us. All that’s left is cold, uncomfortable determination.

  Together we step inside. The door closes behind us, making the pale glow of four cell phones the only light in the dark. The air is musty and close, like a basement full of damp cardboard boxes, and there’s a faint metallic scent in the air.

  “Is there a light switch somewhere?” Farrah asks, leaning closer to Hartley.

  “Welcome.”

  We shriek at the voice coming over the loudspeaker, and our bodies clash together. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. The Society is here. Somewhere in this building is the man with the ski mask. Maybe others too.

  “Congratulations!” the voice continues, low and guttural and obviously distorted with a voice changer. “You have all made it through to the semifinals of this game of thrills and dares. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

  Our harsh breathing fills the silence. We cling to one another with sweaty hands.

  “Give yourselves a round of applause,” the voice commands again.

  He can see us, I realize. A chill shudders through me. We break apart and clap lightly.

  “Good,” the voice says. “Now let’s begin. When the alarm sounds, one of you will follow the path until you reach the door marked Enter. You can take as long as you like to complete the task, but you won’t want to take too long. Trust me. When the alarm sounds again, it’s time for the next player to follow the path. Good luck, players. Oh, and girls?” There’s a long pause. “Behave.”

  We wait for further instructions, but they don’t come.

  “What the hell does that mean, You won’t want to take too long?” Farrah asks. Her voice sounds strange, nervous.

  “It means we’re going to have motivation,” Hartley says.

  There’s a thunk thunk thunk, and a panel of floor lights comes to life on the ground, slithering out into the bowels of the factory. The silhouette of snaking pipes and a high ceiling juts out from the dark. A low beeping blares through the loudspeakers.

  Lyla clears her throat. “So. Who’s going first?”

  “Too late.” We follow Farrah’s line of vision to find Hartley already marching down the path, disappearing into the pools of shadow.

  “What’s with her tonight?” Lyla asks.

  Farrah pretends to be looking for something in her purse, making a concerted effort not to meet my eyes.

  It’s…weird. I’d always thought Farrah was the definition of cool and confident. Now I see how much of that is an act, how deeply insecure and scared she really is.

  I turn in a small circle, peering into the dark. “Well, what now?”

  “Now we wait,” Lyla says.

  There’s a pause; then Farrah says, “I think we should look around. Maybe we can find who’s behind this.”

  “And then what?” Lyla asks. “Challenge them with our lip gloss? Who knows if these people have a weapon? Scratch that, they definitely have weapons after we went after that guy at the swamp. And I’m sure they’re not going to be too happy to know we’re out looking for them again. You heard what that guy said about behaving. He’s warning us. Besides, Hartley’s alone in there. What if they want to retaliate? What if they use her against us? Threaten to kill her or something if we step out of line?”

  The number of possible consequences is staggering. The Society has us exactly where they want us.

  “Okay, okay, you’re right,” Farrah says.

  “Let’s just…sit down and wait.” Lyla finds a spot against a wall and folds her legs underneath her. Farrah sits across from her, and I follow.

  Wind shudders against the windows. Metal clangs from somewhere deep inside the building. I wrap my arms around my knees, wondering what Hartley is facing. What’s waiting for us at the end of that path? Something better done fast. A maze in the dark? A fistfight until someone is KO’d? I shudder. Lyla’s probably right. There’s no use imagining what it’ll be. It could be anything.

  Farrah toys with a silver bracelet on her wrist, looking out into the menacing dark. I wonder if she got it as a reward for finishing the swamp dare or if it was a gift from Hartley.

  My tired brain grinds like cogs in a machine.

  I hadn’t thought about it before, but the gifts, the grand prize—it’s strange, in a way. It isn’t enough for the Society to threaten us with exposing our secrets—they ply us with the promise of rewards too. Threaten us with punishments. It seems so…desperate. They don’t trust themselves, their power over us.

  The thought isn’t as comforting as it should be. Desperation drives people to do crazy, unpredictable things. It turns people into monsters.

  “It’s going to be weird going to the ball after tonight,” Farrah says absently, looking out into the factory.

  “I know, right?” I agree.

  “Ball?” Lyla asks, fighting a yawn.

  “Just some charity thing we’re going to,” I explain.

  “Together? Well…that sounds fun!”

  I know she’s just trying to dispel the tension, but I can’t match her enthusiasm. Maybe tomorrow, but not right now.

  I check the time on my phone. Fifteen minutes since Hartley disappeared. I remember the Society’s words: You won’t want to take too long. How long is too long? What happens when you don’t finish quickly?

  I shake myself out. There’s no use worrying about it right now. My turn will come soon enough.

  My mind jumps back to Hartley and Farrah. It’s so…unexpected. I remember the way Hartley teased Farrah about kissing her in the car on the way to Six Flags, the way she brazenly stood around in her bra at the swamp despite Farrah’s protests, and it hits me that Hartley doesn’t want to hide their relationship. So what’s her big secret? What’s keeping her in this game other than the promise of money?

  I remember her bruised, scarred body and consider her daredevil attitude. Maybe she’s just glad to have the opportunity to not be at home.

  It’s all so twisted that my head starts to hurt.

  Something clatters inside the building, and we all sit up fast, looking around.

  “What was that?” Farrah asks.

  I cock my ear toward the dark, trying to hear past the rush of my heartbeat. But it doesn’t happen again, and after a tense minute we sag back into our former positions. Farrah rubs hard at her temples.

  I check the time on my phone again. Thirty-eight minutes. If Hartley took this long, just how long will it take the rest of us? I think of Mom at home, waking up early and checking in on me, finding I’m not there. Something squeezes deep in my belly.

  Lyla jerks suddenly.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, before I realize she’s just struggling to stay awake.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, then yawns and lets her head loll back again.

  I don’t know how she can be nodding off right now, but I’m deeply envious. I haven’t slept properly in days. Anxiety has me coiled so tightly that I’m wide awake and on edge almost all the time.

  Fifty-nine minutes.

  When an alarm blares, I jerk as if I’ve been shocked.

  “Finally!” Farrah says.

  Lyla rubs hard at her eyes. “Was that the alarm?” She pushes to her feet. “I want to go next. I can’t sit here anymore.”

  “Good luck,” I say.

  She gives me a tense smile, and then she’s off, following the lighted path.

  I settle against the wall, watching Farrah thumb through her phone. I could do the same thing, but I want to be completely alert in case something comes out of those shadows. Because someone is out there, somewhere.

  I jump when the alarm sounds, not expecting to hear it so soon. I check my watc
h. It’s only been ten minutes, if that.

  “Well, that’s a good sign.” Farrah rises to her feet. “I’ll go next.”

  And then I’m alone. I wrap my arms tightly around my knees, my veins skipping and buzzing with adrenaline. There’s so much energy rushing through my body I can hardly stand it, but I don’t dare move, as if danger won’t be able to find me so long as I keep very still.

  Time stretches out, every minute more painful than the last. I check my watch. Over half an hour. Soon it’ll be my turn. I’ll have to get up and walk into the building, face whatever is waiting for me. I blow out a slow breath.

  This whole setup must take more than one person. I try to remember if there were any cars parked outside, a bike, anything. Were there tire tracks leading in? It’s useless thinking about it—it’s not like someone sophisticated enough to run this game would do something as stupid as parking a car out front—but I have nothing else to think about anyway, nothing to do but sit here and be scared.

  I’m surprised when the alarm buzzes after forty-four minutes. What could the dare possibly be?

  I stand up, wiping the dirt off my pants. It occurs to me that the dirt would have been a major fear before, but I didn’t think twice about sitting on the dusty floor. Somehow things like that don’t seem so important anymore.

  You can do this, Hope. It’s just one more dare.

  My footsteps echo softly as I follow the lights into the factory, passing blackened doorways, frozen conveyor belts, and stalled machinery. I don’t know if it’s the dark or the fact that it’s the first dare I’m doing without the other girls nearby, but my nerves are stretched tight and ready to snap and a cold sweat glues my shirt to my back. I start imagining things jumping out at me from the dark, and a whimper escapes me. I shake my head to get rid of the thought.

  The other girls did this. I can do it too.

  When the lights trip up a narrow, creaky staircase to a hallway full of dirt-encrusted windows full of moonlight, I almost collapse with relief. But before long the path dips back into utter darkness. Something drips slowly in the shadows, and I almost wish I’d never seen the light at all. Then I see it: a red Enter sign, like the ones they have at cheap diners, flashing and buzzing quietly above a steel door. I wipe my hands on my pants and step forward, gripping the handle in my damp palm. I push.

  The door sucks open, and cold air mists around me. I blink against the sudden light, goose bumps flashing up my arms. When my vision clears, I see animal carcasses hanging from hooks along one of the frost-crusted walls, an empty stainless-steel cart pushed against another. My breath puffs in front of me. It’s some sort of walk-in freezer.

  Snow crunches under my shoes as I step into the room. It has to be twenty degrees below in here. I wrap my arms around myself.

  There’s a soft thump behind me, and I whirl around, my heart thudding behind my ears. It was just the door closing. I laugh to myself. Don’t be such a baby, Hope.

  But when I turn around, there’s a body crawling toward me.

  I scream and scrabble into the dead meat, then scream again and wheel for the door. But there’s no handle on the inside. Panic spikes in my system. I flatten myself against the wall and prepare to fight, when I realize who it is. Farrah. Her lashes are covered in frost, and her skin is tinged a sickly gray-blue. I rush toward her.

  “Farrah!”

  “C-c-can’t f-f-figure it out,” she stutters.

  “Figure what out?”

  She nods beyond me, the movement so sluggish that I shudder.

  A keypad sits over a door on the other side of the room. The words “Enter Code” flash across the small screen. It’s some sort of riddle. We have to figure it out to get the door open.

  “They w-won’t let me out,” she says, answering my thoughts.

  I’ve been hoping for a challenge that relies on the mind, but now that it’s here, my spine is stiff with tension. I can’t fail. Farrah hasn’t been in here an hour, and she’s hypothermic. I don’t want to think about what another hour will do to her. To us.

  “You have to get up,” I tell her. I’m freezing in my pants and T-shirt, and all she has on is a floaty dress. “You need to keep moving to stay warm.”

  “I c-can’t move.”

  I bite my lip and test the door handle. Locked. I type 1-2-3-4 into the keypad. A red light flashes before the main screen is restored. I type 4-3-2-1. Red light.

  I turn back to the room, hugging my frigid arms around myself.

  The answer must be here.

  There’s a clipboard hanging from a wall. I cross to it and scan the single sheet of paper. It’s some sort of spreadsheet with nine empty blocks. There’s an equation at the top of the sheet: 3−4+9=X. I quickly do the math: 8. Too short for the keypad code. Still, I run to the door and type it in. The screen waits for me to enter the three additional numbers, then beeps three times and goes back to the main screen. I try typing 8-8-8-8, then the individual numbers 3-4-9. Red light. I try it backward. Red light. Dammit. The equation means something. It has to. But what?

  There’s a rumbling noise overhead.

  “Not again.” Farrah groans as air puffs out of the vents. My neck and shoulders tighten against the cold, and a violent shiver racks my body.

  You don’t want to use all your time.

  It all makes sense now. The room gets colder the longer you take. It’s our motivation.

  I turn to the stainless-steel cart. It’s not completely empty. On it I find a single box of chicken strips and a tin of Folgers coffee with a handful of stale grinds inside. There’s a calendar bolted near the top right corner of the wall behind the cart with the date February 9 circled in red pen. I flip through the rest of the calendar, my fingers already stiff and clumsy with cold. No other dates are circled. I run back to the keypad and type 9-9-9-9. Red light. February is the second month of the year. I try 0-2-0-9. Nothing. 0-9-0-2. Red light. I hit the keypad. Of course it wouldn’t be this easy. I turn to the cart.

  “T-t-tried that,” Farrah says.

  I ignore her and think. There are so few items in here, all three racks empty save for the tin of coffee and box of meat, that it feels pointed. I pick up the tin of coffee and spin it around. The only numbers anywhere are the expiration date: November 2019. It seems like a long shot, but I type all variations of 11-19 into the keypad. Nothing. I rub my numb fingers together for warmth and turn my attention to the box of meat. Someone’s written TO BE DELIVERED MARCH 5TH across the top of the box in thick black marker. I try every combination of 3 and 5 too. Nothing.

  I’m doing it wrong. I know it. I’m thinking small when I need to be thinking big. It’s not meant to be impossible. The answer is probably right in front of me.

  The air vents open, hissing out more cold air. It bites into my windburned skin with razor-sharp teeth. I can no longer feel my legs.

  “Farrah?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Farrah?” I move in painful slow motion, my muscles reacting sluggishly to my commands, and fall to my knees to take her pulse. It thumps lightly under my frigid fingers. She’s alive.

  “Farrah, you have to get up and move.”

  I try to pull her up, but her stiff body has contracted into a freezing ball. She’s going to die. And then I’m going to die. I can’t let that happen. Not now, not like this.

  I leave her and bang on the door.

  “Open the door!” I scream. “Help! Farrah needs help! We quit! Open the door!”

  No one comes.

  “Goddammit!” My teeth chatter uncontrollably. Breath freezes in my lungs like a hunk of ice.

  I face the cart again, beating back my crippling desperation. It’s not going to help me crack this code.

  Hartley figured it out. Lyla did it in less than ten minutes. It isn’t impossible. I need to stop panicking and think.

  The cart. The equation. The spreadsheet. The coffee, the meat, the spreadsheet. The cart.

  Something clicks. I step back
until my back touches the wall. The cart. The goddamn cart. Three horizontal racks, separated by two vertical supports. Nine blocks. It’s the exact same shape as the spreadsheet on the clipboard.

  Nine blocks. 3−4+9=X.

  A tin of coffee on the bottom, rightmost side of the rack—if I’m counting each square from left to right, top to bottom, it’s the ninth square. A box of meat on the middle rack all the way to the left: the fourth square. A calendar in the top right corner. The third square. The location of the only items on the rack match the numbers in the equation. My fingers struggle to bend as I grip the pen attached to the clipboard.

  The date circled on the calendar, 02-09, minus the delivery date on the box of meat, 03-05, plus the expiration date on the coffee, 11-19. I scribble the math on the bottom of the spreadsheet, then turn to Farrah. She’s in the exact same position on the ground; she doesn’t shiver anymore, and I know it’s not a good sign. They may punish her for cheating if I take her out with me, but there isn’t any other option. I can’t leave her here.

  “Get up, Farrah.” I kneel down and stabilize her arm under my shoulder, then grunt as I shift my weight to haul her up. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Tears slip from the corners of my eyes and freeze solid on my cheeks. My breaths come in shallow, wrenching gasps. Farrah moans as I trip-stumble her frozen body toward the door.

  This better work.

  I take a deep, frigid breath and punch the code. 1-0-2-3. A green light flashes. I sob with relief as I twist the handle. The door slides open, and warm air trickles inside.

  We did it.

  I did it.

  We escaped.

  I stabilize her on my shoulder as we tumble out of the room into the plant.

  “Oh, thank God!” Lyla rushes up but stops short when she sees Farrah. Her hands come up around her mouth. “What happened?” she asks as the freezer door thumps closed.

  “She couldn’t figure out the code,” I explain. “Sh-she got trapped in there.” It’s strange, but now that I’m out of there, I feel the cold more than ever.

  “They wouldn’t let her out?” Lyla asks.