by Andrew Mayne
He leaned back out of her reach. Red polished nails flew past his face.
Did he try to start the car and drive off with her on it? Could he even drive with her trying to rip his face off through the windshield?
He fumbled his keys from his pocket and shoved them into the ignition from the passenger side. He tried to pull the car from park to reverse so he could throw her free. Fuck. He forgot he needed to press on the brake pedal to do that.
Mitchell tried to reach under her arm as it swung through the hole like an angry snake looking for something to strike.
His left hand felt a pedal. He pushed it. The engine revved up. Damn it! He pushed the other pedal as his right hand tried to pull the shifter.
Crack!
Mitchell looked up as pieces of glass began to rain down him.
The parking officer was trying to squeeze her round body through the opening she’d just made larger.
Her right shoulder and head were coming through the glass.
Mitchell pulled himself back into the passenger side.
The stout woman tried pushing through as her left hand pounded on the outside of the windshield. It was a mess of cracking glass and bloody handprints. Her eyes kept staring at him, never looking away.
Crack!
The window blew apart and showered small pieces of broken safety glass everywhere. She placed a hand on the window frame and pulled her body toward Mitchell.
His right hand found the door handle and pulled on it. Mitchell fell out of the car and to the ground.
The woman climbed all the way into the car. On impulse, he slammed the door shut and kicked it closed.
Still on all fours, he crawled backward over the grass to the sidewalk.
The woman slammed her face against the passenger window and let out a scream. Bloodshot eyes tore into him. She began beating on the window with bloody fists as she pounded her head into the glass.
Her face was crisscrossed with lacerations. More blood was visible than skin.
Mitchell knew he couldn’t stay there. He was certain she was either going to break through the glass or just open the goddamned door when she calmed down for a second.
Did parking officers carry guns, he wondered?
He looked to his left and then to his right. Somewhere out there Rachel and Rick were still trying to hunt for him.
The woman in his car started kicking at the window.
Fearful of getting cornered by Rachel, Rick or the parking officer, Mitchell got to his feet and started running toward a more populated part of town. Maybe someone could tell him why people were acting so crazy.
He ran down the street and crossed several intersections without looking. He ran up another street to put him out of the line of sight of the parking woman. As he bolted through another intersection, a car honked at him.
That normal human reaction made him feel slightly better.
When he got to a safe place, he could call the police and try to find out what was going on. How come four out of the last seven people he talked to in the last 24 hours tried to kill him? He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t have any secrets. What the fuck?
A mile away from his car he started to slow down his pace. He needed a place to think and sort things out before he called the police. He had no idea what to tell them.
Every time he tried to think about what happened, he felt disconnected, like he was watching someone else’s bad dream. Rachel’s face was something out of a nightmare. Nothing made sense. He did the only thing he could -- keep moving forward.
Up ahead he saw the mall where he would sometimes go hang out while Rachel was at work. He picked up his pace and hurried there. He knew he’d feel safer in someplace public, somewhere people could help him if Rachel, Rick or the parking woman came after him.
Mitchell jogged past the half-full parking lot and went through the sliding glass doors. Safety in numbers, he thought.
8
Mitchell headed straight from the entrance and toward the food court. Under the skylight, surrounded by a dozen fast-food places, he knew he would feel less alone, less vulnerable.
This was where he went when Rachel told him it was over and he didn’t have any friends to talk to. The mall was where he went for a sense of normal.
He walked briskly past the shops and kiosks. The smell of orange chicken and french fries told him he was getting closer.
He pulled out his iPhone and sat down at a table on the outskirts of the food court.
A few tables away, a woman knocked over her drink as she tried to reach across the table to feed her baby in its highchair. She got up to get some napkins to clean the mess.
He looked at the lines of people forming at the counters during their lunch break. Hunger began to overtake all his other instincts as his stomach let out a growl. He ignored it and stared at his locked phone screen. He’d removed the photo of Rachel after she’d broken up with him.
He tried to swipe the unlock, but his finger was still shaking from the adrenaline and anxiety. He tried again and unlocked it. He pressed the phone icon and began typing 911 into the keypad.
His finger paused over the “call” button.
How would he explain what was happening to the calm voice on the other side?
He wouldn’t tell them about the girl the night before. That would only complicate things. Should he tell them that Rick was trying to kill him and leave out Rachel entirely? His story sounded better that way.
What should he say about the meter maid? His stomach turned into a knot when he realized the woman he had just run from was effectively the police.
“Fuck. I’m a fugitive from the police.” The words slipped off his tongue as the severity of it all went beyond the immediate implications of people trying to kill him.
Had he broken any laws in trying to get away? How fucked up would that be?
He heard another faint growl. He looked at his stomach. It didn’t feel hungry at that point. He heard the growl again. It was coming from off to the side.
Mitchell looked toward the direction the sound was coming from. The baby in its highchair was staring at him. Its mouth was wide open, revealing little teeth in pinks gums. The child’s tiny bloodshot eyes were locked on Mitchell. It let out another growl as it creased its forehead and squinted its eyes.
Mitchell slid his iPhone back into his pocket and watched. The baby began to rock in its highchair, letting out its animal groan. It gnashed its teeth and rocked harder. It let out a shrill scream.
Mitchell was afraid the child was going to tip over. Instinct told him to go help it. Other instincts, more primal than his protective mammal ones, told him to stay clear.
The child rocked the highchair so hard it slid a few inches across the tile floor. The baby reached out a hand and clawed at the air. It clawed again and tried to grab Mitchell from twenty feet away.
Mitchell jerked back in his seat, as if the baby was going to reach across the distance.
Pearl-sized teeth tore at the air as snot and spit began to run down the baby’s face and spill on its coveralls.
It rocked its chair another few inches toward Mitchell. It began to pull at the restraints and struggled to get free without looking away.
Mitchell remained motionless as though his inactivity would make him invisible.
The child looked at him and growled.
Mitchell slid his chair away from the table.
In that moment, his worst fear was that if he ran or walked away the child would tip over. Then everyone would see the child sprawled out and crying on the ground as Mitchell tried to get away.
The child rocked the chair back and bumped the table behind it. If it got much more momentum, it was going to go over.
Frozen in panic, Mitchell didn’t know what to do. His social instincts told him to stay to make sure the baby didn’t hurt itself. The hatred in the child’s eyes as it continued to stare him down told him he had to run.
The baby was getting more frustrated.
It hissed at Mitchell and then let out a scream that rang throughout the food court.
The mother, who was getting napkins in front of a Chick-fil-A, looked at her baby. The entire food court looked toward the child.
Its tiny hand reached out again, clawing the air, reaching toward Mitchell.
The mother traced the path with her eyes to where the baby was reaching. Its small claw-like hand was pointing directly toward Mitchell as it convulsed and shook trying to throw the whole highchair over. The mother started running.
Mitchell slid his chair back. His mind raced for an explanation. The baby rocked and snarled. The woman knocked over another woman as she threaded through the tables toward her child.
She changed direction. He felt his blood drain as he realized the woman wasn’t running to her child. She was running straight toward Mitchell.
The entire food court’s attention began to shift from the furious infant and toward the mother. People dressed in slacks and skirts, ties and blouses, with little keycard IDs attached to their clothes began to ignore what they were doing and look at the scene.
Cashiers looked away from their registers. Chefs looked up from hot tables.
They looked at the mother and the angry baby. Then looked straight at Mitchell.
Mitchell could hear trays and drinks hit the floor. He looked away from the mother to the crowd.
All eyes were directly on him. Red eyes.
First the mother, who was seconds away, screamed out. Then a tall black man in a tracksuit shrieked. Then a hundred more screams let out as the entire food court let loose like a pack of wild apes in a fury.
In a wave-like motion, the crowd went from a standing position to a full sprint as they started running toward Mitchell.
9
With hate in her bloodshot eyes, the mother ran past her baby, knocking the table and sending the highchair on its side. The baby screamed and then tried to claw at the tiles to pull itself toward Mitchell.
She was just a few yards away.
Mitchell looked at the chair in front of him. He gave it a swift kick, sending it skidding across the floor and into the woman. She ran right into it. The momentum knocked her legs out from under her and she went sprawling to the ground face first.
Mitchell could hear the sound of people knocking chairs and tables over to get to him. He leaped to his feet and spotted three people getting close on his left. The nearest was a teenage boy in a Burger King uniform.
Without looking, Mitchell grabbed the chair he had been sitting in and flung it at the young man. He hurled it at his face. The young man held out his hands to swat it away.
The chair bounced off his shoulder and hit a snarling teenage girl in the bridge of her nose.
On Mitchell’s right, a crowd of a dozen people had abandoned their places in front of the Panda Express and were only two tables away. He looked over his shoulder at the narrow exit from the food court to the main atrium. Rows of tables and chairs lined the center. An old man and three blue-haired women had abandoned their bagels and coffee and were running toward Mitchell.
He looked back at the rest of the food court and decided his best chance was to go through the old people.
He ran into the old man as he tried to block Mitchell. Withered hands covered in liver spots reached out and tried to pull at him. The old man let out a yell and gnashed at Mitchell with a mouth full of dentures. Mitchell pushed the man in the chest, sending him into the women.
Desperate to gain some time, Mitchell started scattering the chairs and flipping the tables into the crowd as they surged into the narrow passage. Mitchell ran into the atrium and ducked as a woman pushing a stroller ran toward him.
Three women came out of Lord & Taylor at the other end of the atrium to see what the commotion was. Their faces changed and they started screaming. Three sets of manicured hands reached out to claw at Mitchell as he got closer.
Mitchell’s feet skidded across the floor as he came to a stop when he realized that exit was going to be blocked. The crowd from the food court was starting to make it through the overturned tables and chairs and spill into the atrium.
The atrium opened up into two wings. Mitchell ran toward the closest one.
A woman selling scented candles at a kiosk came at Mitchell. He jumped out of the way and hit a clothes display in a Banana Republic. Two sales girls came screaming at him from inside.
Mitchell regained his balance and ran down the mall. He felt a hand touch his backpack as someone got close. Up ahead he could see a shoe store with shoe racks in front.
As he passed it, he pulled on the racks, toppling them to the ground. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the two Banana Republic girls fall over it. Behind them was the surge of people from the food court.
The first few dozen people tripped over the girls and the racks and fell to the floor on top of them. The mob in back just pushed their way through or trampled them underfoot. It was a horrific pileup as waves of people kept coming through. Those that fell were just treated like an obstacle by the people behind them.
There was an exit coming up ahead of Mitchell that led to a service corridor. If he could make it in there, the narrow hallway should slow the crowd down. He prepared to make a quick turn into the alcove and through the doors.
He was thirty feet away from the alcove when two mall cops came running out. One of them was talking into a radio. He locked eyes on Mitchell and held the radio overhead like a club. The other mall cop followed suit and the two of them ran to intercept him.
Mitchell dodged to his left and ran around a toy kiosk. He elbowed the middle-aged woman as she got out of her chair to attack him. She fell back into the chair and continued going head over heels.
He moved through a rest area and jumped over a couch to the other side of the mall. One of the mall cops tripped on the toy kiosk woman and tumbled. The other was still right behind Mitchell.
Sales people and customers had begun to step into the center of the mall as the commotion got louder and the crowd’s howling screams grew closer. Two young men and a girl walked out of a Hollister, looked at Mitchell and charged in his direction. They formed a wall as they closed in on him.
Looking for the weakest link, Mitchell ran straight into the girl and pushed her in the chest. Pink-colored nails tried to scratch out his eyes as she fell backward. He kept moving. From behind he heard two thuds as the young men ran head on into the crowd and their bodies fell to the floor. Mitchell could hear a sickening crack as a leg or an arm was broken.
Directly in front of him was a large department store. The front looked clear of people. Maybe he could make it in there and lose some of the crowd in the clothes racks. He pumped his arms and kept pushing himself to keep going. Occasionally he’d feel a hand grab at his backpack and then fear would kick in and he would find a little more speed.
He was dying to turn around to see how big the crowd was and how close, but he didn’t dare lose a millisecond of advantage. The sound of pounding footsteps, kiosks being toppled and wailing as people screamed at him told him enough to just keep running.
The only thing helping him was the fact that due to the law of averages, the people who could run faster than him were somewhere back in the mass of people. If they were able to break free, god help him. All it would take would be someone to grab one ankle or just loop one arm through his damn backpack and he would trip and fall to the ground. The last thing he would ever see would be a tidal wave of people falling on top of him, tearing him to shreds with their hands and teeth.
Thank god he jogged. Thank god he’d lost that 30 pounds last year. Mitchell knew he’d have been fucked if he hadn’t been in reasonably OK shape. He’d be dead.
The entrance to the store was deserted. He ran through it and tried to pull over a rack of coats when he moved by. Only one fell to the floor. In front of him was a perfume counter. A woman behind it with too much plastic surgery and makeup looked up at Mitchell and then leaped onto the counter l
ike a cat.
The glass countertop broke as the woman jumped into the air and tried to claw at his throat. He was already moving to the right to go around the perfume counter. She overshot and fell into a display of men’s cologne, sending hundreds of boxes into an avalanche on the floor.
Mitchell looked to his left and spotted the escalator. He skidded around the corner and ran up it. It was going down. Fuck!
Wait, this is good, he realized. Mitchell knew the secret to going the wrong way was to run up it in large steps and to not stop. It took him a half-dozen strides and he was at the top. He turned around for the first time since he left the food court.
“Holy shit!” he shouted as he saw the mob.
It wasn’t a few dozen people. It was hundreds of people all trying to surge onto the escalator. Two or three would try to step onto it and then get tripped up by the people in back of them. Those people would then try to step over the people in front of them. Other people were trying to climb over on the side rails. Fingers and hair got caught between the collapsing metal stairs, trapping them.
Mitchell watched in horror as a man in thick glasses pulled away a stump of a hand and tried to use it to climb over another person whose face was shoved between the railing and the escalator.
As much of a cluster-fuck of human carnage as it was, the sheer body count of people was adding up, and they were making progress. Mitchell pulled a display rack of glassware in front of the escalator and shoved it down onto the crowd. He watched wineglasses and brandy snifters rain down on people before the shelving collapsed in the middle of the escalator. That was when he realized the up escalator across from him was going to be bringing a deluge of people as soon as they worked their way around.
He could see people running around the bottom of the up escalator to join the mob. He had seconds to do something. From behind he felt a hand reach out at his throat and start to strangle him. Mitchell jerked his head back and bashed in his assailant’s nose. He turned to see a saleswoman topple into a rack of wallets.