by Alan Spencer
The cold kept their movements at bay in the freezer, but even after covered in ice and then thawed out, the pieces miraculously regained life.
“The doors are locked, and you can’t escape,” Hayden hissed, clutching onto the woman's severed head. “It's because you know where you’re going, isn't it? You things get smarter. You forget. I will always be better than you."
He paused at the glint of metal between the tuffs of red hair behind each ear.
Screws.
“Not more of those.”
Hayden fished out the screwdriver from his back pocket and began removing them. The woman had bolted her skull together; it wasn’t the shape of a normal skull, but instead a large oval. Broken pieces of rocks and steel were added to secure the brain. He’d bashed many of them over the head with a crowbar, and only inflicted minimal damage. Hayden didn’t have a gun, so he didn’t know how well the layers of bones stood up against the punishment of a bullet.
Richard spoke to him.
It’s essential you remove the brains immediately, or otherwise, they’re one of the first things to go bad. The melanin sheath dries up, and ruins the tender meat underneath.
And shave the head, Hayden. Hair is a nuisance. Nobody wants hair in their food.
“No time, Richard—I’m sorry.”
I’m very disappointed in you. I expect good things of you. I always have.
Hayden wiped the tears from his eyes and sniffled. “If you were here, you’d know—you’d know what it’s like to work with decayed meats. I have to use brutish tactics to secure my food. I’m not in civilization anymore; I don’t know where the hell I am, Richard. Be patient with me. Please."
The last screw Hayden removed issued a loud hermetic pop upon removal. The skull cap unhinged and broke in two halves. The grand unveiling of prized meat. He was amazed at the freshness of the brains. The color, the sheen of the melanin sheath, the blood, the smell, the deep grooves between each cranial ridge, it was as if from a living source.
“Nothing rotten about this meat. It’ll make a good soup. Enough tomato powder and garlic." He kissed his fingers. "It'll be perfect.”
Finished cooking his meal, Hayden seated himself in the nicer region of the restaurant. This was the back area with no windows, and the door to the room was draped with red silk sheets to ensure privacy. He faced a wall with a mock painting of Sandro Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Venus’s body was naked and proud as her red hair flowed about her shoulders. The rest of the original painting was replaced with a garden stocked with ripe tomatoes hanging plump from the vines.
It was that moment he praised the force greater than him—whether it be God, or the justice system; he wasn’t sure who to address the thank you card to—for putting him here. This was the only place he could be himself. That kind of happiness was impossible to find in society.
There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Richard’s voice beamed. God, the law, and your parents don’t know what makes you happy. Only you do, Hayden. The way you eat with me, I know it brings you so much joy. The process, you like that too. Blood doesn’t scare you, screams don’t scare you, bodies don’t scare you. Nothing scares you.
There was something different in these bodies, Hayden had learned. The flesh tasted odd. The seasoning covered it up, but the twang in the aftertaste remained. The blood was the same, but the muscle and skin, it didn’t taste natural. It was rotting in parts, but he’d tasted expired meat before, at the price of losing his bowels for weeks. The difference was that inside the perimeter the expired meat didn’t make him sick. Their meat wasn’t poisonous, no matter how putrid or rotten it had turned. He couldn’t determine why this was, and as long as it stayed that way, he could care less.
Hayden placed a burgundy table napkin across his lap. His plate was stocked with six ribs—each nine inches long—and on the side, a soup of boiled brains in a blood and tomato bisque. He missed having access to fresh vegetables. He would've added a garden salad to the mix.
Richard made small talk in Hayden's head. My doctor once told me there are four rules to a healthy life. Exercise four times a week, sleep eight hours a day, drink a glass of wine to flush out the toxins in the body with dinner, and eat only what you can find from outdoors—no processed foods. Hey, I followed my doctor’s orders. Eating people is nature's way.
The moans from outside disturbed Hayden from his meal, and tonight, the dead people were louder than usual.
Someone was out there.
Chris Jones
Chris Jones had been awake for two days straight. He presently sought a place to sleep safely. The delivery rooms within the hospital were ransacked. There were no supplies or food. He discovered an employee’s lounge. Chris searched the refrigerator. He found a can of fruit cocktail, a bottle of expired milk, and a pizza that that had spread black mold. In the freezer he discovered a carton of ice cream with a two-inch crust of ice. He ate it despite the way the ice cream tasted.
But hunger was second on his list of priorities.
He needed a syringe.
The day those people drove him to this unknown facility from Pelican Bay, Chris had enough heroine on him to shoot up twice, and after two days of being here, he had one precious hit left.
He moved drugs into Pelican Bay by food trucks. Wardens, guards, prisoners, even cafeteria workers, served as his outside help. Heroine, cocaine, cigarettes, porno magazines, alcohol, he was in control of what came in and out of Pelican Bay. And that’s why he was shipped out. Guards were high on marijuana. Prisoners were mellow, and able to forget their confinement. It defeated the purpose of being a prisoner. It was his personal trump to the system. Chris always enjoyed a good fuck you.
Chris had been chased into the hospital by three of the dead persons. One had an axe, the other carried a chain in each hand, and the last, was swinging a wooden plank. He somehow escaped them, turning enough corners, running up so many stairs, and hiding and sneaking about the halls without making a sound. Chris had bypassed another creature on the second floor. She was easy to evade because she used a pair of crutches to compensate for her left leg that was severed from the knee down. The problem, she'd cried out to him: “SHHRRRAAAAAAACCKKKKK!!!”
Her shrieks had urged others from their hiding places. Dozens were after him now. Once he reached the third floor, he locked the entrance and exit doors. Chris hid in the nearby supply closet, barricading the door with a metal shelf stocked with cleaning supplies. Standing hunkered down with a knife he claimed from a toolbox earlier, he listened for them.
Minutes later, Chris heard the elevator ding.
He didn't realize the elevator still worked here.
They were on their way up.
Chris removed the top of his prison smock, because it was drenched through in sweat. He rested against the far wall and pondered what could be his final moments.
Nothing happened for minutes.
An hour.
He drifted asleep.
Disoriented, drawn from a deep slumber, something dusted him from the ceiling. Fully awake after the jolt, the ceiling caved in. The light panel shattered and sprayed him with bits of plastic and rolls of insulation. Chris didn't have a chance to fight back. Both of his hands were pinned to the wall by knives. When he budged, jolts of electric agony triggered nerve endings. He was truly stuck.
Eyes wide open and quivering, Chris scrutinized his attacker. He was a man in baggy overalls a size too big. They were obviously not his original clothing. His face was sunken at the mouth. No mandible, jaw, or teeth, the inside of his mouth was a gaping black hole with a fat tongue.
The dead man studied him for a few more seconds before he removed a paint chipper from his belt. No warning, no indication, Chris was punched in the mouth with the tool. The creature was now sawing, stabbing, carving, and gouging deeper and deeper. The process was excruciating. Chris mewled and spat crimson and slush, thrashing to escape. The knives stuck through his wrists refused to release him. The blood loss paralyzed
him, and all he could do was watch the figure remove the shelf that blocked the door.
Oh God no!
Dozens more of them suddenly smashed through the door. They raised planks of woods, crowbars, bricks, and chunks of broken concrete. Many others were armed with scissors, the blades snipping and shredding at the air in practice for carving human flesh. Scalpels gleamed in putrescent hands. Electric bone saws whirred like a dentist's drill. Gooseflesh rocked his body. Chris howled in God-awful terror. He begged them to kill him now, to finish him quick. Before they were upon him, the original attacker stared him down, grinning crudely with a new jaw and set of teeth. Chris's teeth!
Boyd's Memories
Karen met Boyd between the double-paned Plexiglas booth and regarded him with heavy, doleful eyes. Raising two kids and dealing with the turmoil of losing her husband had aged her prematurely. The strawberry blonde hair was giving to strands of gray. She wore a thin smile when their eyes met. It was labored, but genuine.
I can’t stop thinking about how this feels so wrong, Karen had said the last time they met between the Plexiglas. I feel like I’m a part of a big scandal. You shouldn’t be behind bars. Your co-workers keep saying the same thing, and your lawyer keeps saying we can appeal—and we did—but beyond that, we’re stuck. I would do anything to have you back home. You saved our lives. Why can’t they understand that you were trying to apprehend Samuel, not kill him? It was an accident. A fucking accident.
Boyd wasn't sure what to say to his wife now. He was relieved when Karen spoke up.
“Paula Barr says she’s going to help me start a website, and I’ve started collecting signatures. We can petition your appeal faster through the courts. Joey, he’s raising money to get you a better lawyer. Your old partner said he’ll find a fancy suit to take you all the way to the Supreme Court, if that’s what it takes.”
“Joey,” Boyd sighed. “He’s a good man. Let’s hope they don’t forget about me the longer I’m collecting dust in here. They may bury me under the system and forget about me. I may never get out of here."
“Don’t talk like that." Karen placed her palm against the Plexiglas barrier. “I’m not leaving you, and I’m not quitting until you’re free. I love you. This is wrong. You’re not a killer. You're not what they say."
Boyd changed subjects, wishing to talk about life outside these walls. “How are the kids doing?”
The outrage in her eyes from talking about websites, and petitions, and lawyers vanished. “They miss you.”
That’s all she could say. Karen didn’t want to paint a picture of Shannon and Mindy without a father. And Karen had mentioned how it felt like when she had to constantly defend Boyd at church, at work, and to her friends that aimed to tarnish Boyd's character, because they believed the news, and the media's spin on his story.
“You won’t stay unhappy for me,” Boyd insisted, “if things don’t go my way. I mean, if I don't get my appeal. I’m looking at you, and I can tell you’re sad. You can’t handle years of this. No one can. I want you to be happy.”
“I’m happy trying to save you,” she said, adamantly refusing to follow into his line of thinking. “You can’t get rid of me.”
“That’s good to hear. Because I’d miss you. You and the kids are the only things that keep me going.”
“Then keep going,” Karen said. “That’s all we can do for now. Keep on going.”
Hiding Out
Boyd kept low to the carpeted floor and counted forty bodies lurch throughout the street. He calmed himself down by picturing his wife. Karen's voice and her face, everything about her instilled comfort, even in this terrible situation.
Among the corpses stalking outside, some could mimic genuine life, if it weren’t for the graft lines across their faces, and their rigor mortis gait. Others were less convincing, the deteriorated bodies being near skeletons. They used car bumpers and wooden planks for crutches. Their points of flexion were fastened together by rope and human tissue. The rotting lot were primitive warriors.
Boyd couldn’t stand to watch them any longer.
He studied the room he was hiding in. The rows of books surrounding him, Boyd realized it was a library. It was strange how the place wasn’t in shambles, other than the blockades at the entrances. The single window he had crawled through was the only place unprotected.
He searched between the long rows of shelves and checked for his safety. There were no puddles of blood, torn clothing, or remains. It didn’t smell fecund, like outside.
He was careful opening the double doors ahead of him. Crossing the threshold, Boyd edged down the steps observing no other signs of blood or an attack. Boyd searched the next level below. This floor was dedicated to audio-related items: books on tape, music, and an entire section of computers sectioned off by cubicles. He checked the men’s and women’s restroom, and when both turned up empty, he stayed in the men’s restroom—strange for him to feel the need to respect the privacy of the women’s bathroom, he thought—and tested the sinks. The water worked, and he washed his face with the pink lavender scented soap from the dispenser. His brown hair was tussled and in greasy strands above his eyes. He badly needed a shave. His green eyes were bloodshot and irritated. Everything about his face was weighed down by fatigue.
Thirsty, he lapped water from the sink.
Where do you go from here, big guy? All alone in this place, and you have to capture one man, and you have a pretty good idea he’s across the street. It’s almost nighttime, what are you waiting for?
Boyd picked up the Glock that was pointing nozzle-down in the sink. He listened and heard no movement outside the bathroom. It wasn’t safe to assume any corner was clear, and it was best not to stay in one place for too long. The library lights were on. Military or government, they were using electricity. He wondered if he’d find a phone eventually. The way the conversation earlier ended at the police station, there would be no outgoing lines. It was useless to waste the time and search.
He was back to the beginning of the dilemma.
Capture Hayden Grubaugh.
They’re not going to let you go. You'd be a fool to believe any of their promises.
But you have a bargaining tool. Hayden can be your hostage. It has to get you something. At least more answers.
Tonight, pursuing the cannibal wasn’t as simple as locating him. Hayden was aggressive with the authorities upon his arrest. He remembered Hayden’s apartment being reminiscent to Jeffrey Dahmer’s. Hayden stored human parts in the freezer, with dead bodies sealed up in blue plastic barrels. Hayden had disposed of many of his bodies by transporting them to rental storage units and keeping them in plastic bags sealed air-tight and housed within the barrels.
He remembered talking to one of the crime scene techs, a Rick Abrams, who reported to Boyd that upon searching Hayden's apartment, there were two severed heads sitting in the kitchen sink thawing out and a bathtub full of removed innards that Hayden was stuffing into black garbage bags for eventual disposal.
And according to the phone conversation Boyd had earlier, the authorities happened upon more of Hayden’s murders. Considering the cannibal had lived this long among the fiends in the town, Hayden was capable of putting up a fight. It wouldn't be an easy task apprehending him in any capacity.
Boyd arrived on the first floor. He studied the entrance of the library. The check-out desk was unoccupied, but behind the returned books shelf, the wall paper was painted in dried blood.
No bodies.
Boyd entered a section dedicated to microfilm. He walked between tables and high-standing metal shelves and caught a shadow skirt down a back hallway.
“Who’s there? Hey—wait!”
He peeked around the edge of the shelf at a hall with three offices. The doors were closed, and the window's peering into the rooms had their blinds drawn. And in one door’s window, the blinds swung back and forth. Someone had entered the room in a hurry.
“I’m not one of those things,” Boyd
insisted, praying another human being was in here with him. “I swear it. I’m alive. I'm talking to you, aren't I? I'm not one of them."
Boyd tried the door, and the knob didn’t turn.
If someone’s in there, they’re not going to let you inside.
Before he could knock or call out again, the door was thrown open.
Khuuuuuuuuuuuk!
Blinded, and slipping backwards and crashing to the floor, he was covered in something wet and cold. The Glock slipped from his hands. Boyd wiped his face clean. He cleared his eyes in time to catch a woman clutching a fire extinguisher.
She was about to level it over his head.
Boyd covered his head with his hands. “STOP!”
The woman’s mouth opened in shock. An apology formed in her eyes. Boyd picked up the gun, and before he could say a word, she pulled him into the office, and she closed the door, locking it.
She spoke in a hushed whisper, “Did they see you?”
Boyd kept cleaning the mess from his face with his shirt. “No…no, they didn’t. They sure as hell tried to get me, though.”
He studied the woman now that his eyes were clear. Her brunette hair was drawn back into a rough ponytail. She wore a gray button-up shirt, the sleeves and fabric dirtied. Her red skirt was in taters, as if stretched and pulled. She was in good physical shape, though hearty, carrying an extra twenty pounds. An unkempt odor exuded from her, but it came from him too. It was a combination of fear and sweat.
“Thank God there’s someone else living in this place,” she said, giving him the same once-over. “My name’s Cindy Piper, what’s yours?”
“Boyd Broman. It used to be Detective Broman.”
Relief washed over her ragged features. Her eyes brightened. “You’re here to take me away, aren’t you? Away from this place, I mean. Thank God for you. Oh thank God.”