“Conroy. Conroy, stop,” I say.
I pull his body to me and I sink to the ground, cradling him. He seems to shrink into himself as he curls into my lap and I whisper soft sounds to him. I run my hands through his closely trimmed blonde hair, rocking him, as he uses my shoulder to hide from this horror-forming reality. His pajamas still hold the scent of the home we once shared in what seems a lifetime ago. His hair smells of flower-scented shampoo and it is a welcoming scent. It is a safe scent. It makes him seem that much more fragile and precious in my arms.
We both sink into emotional cocoons as we grieve the morning, completely forgetting what is a mere hallway away in our grief. Neither of us is speaking to the other. Small vocal sounds are all that is left of my vocabulary.
In my mind, I see Ashley fall over and over again in various rates of speeds before me. Her hair floats down behind her with its golden hues of beauty. I see Lilly lying still, soft, white and broken. Their eyes each look to me with anger and then panic, knowing I will let them die a million times as their deaths replay in my mind. Carol’s picture smiles up at me even as her own red blood slowly swallows her frozen face.
A small room of my heart knows I have killed them. I have killed each one of them in my own way. It was either by my own hand or by my lack of actions. Hot tears burn my face as they soak Conroy’s head like a baptismal of damnation. I cannot keep him safe, but I have to keep him safe. Ashley’s replay starts again, and I lock the room of my heart.
It is such a soft sound that at first it goes unnoticed. The slight sliding of a shoe along the tiles. The soft whisper of clothing. It is the irregular pattern of a shadow projecting on the floor that makes me aware of it. I nudge Conroy to move, keeping my eyes on the growing shadow to the right of us.
He crawls backwards off my lap, keeping one hand locked in mine. His eyes are wide with trembling foreboding as he pulls me from the hall. He is as lost as I, but he is counting on me to get him out of this. He may want to take a note of those who also shared those same feelings only a few spans of time ago.
A small tennis shoe-clad foot comes into view as we peer out from our hiding spot in a doorway. Slender legs wearing a flower-patterned dress walk into view. She is no more than six with her dark blue flowered dress and its cropped jean jacket to fight against the first stirring of fall mornings. Her strawberry red ringlets are held in two pigtails by white bow-tied ribbons. Each step she takes causes them to sway on either side of her freckle-covered face. She is the very definition of youth’s perfection and I hear myself exhale the breath I did not know I was holding before I remember what forms of perfection are lurking in these halls.
She lures Conroy into the same feelings and hopes of safety with her familiarity. He steps out from our doorway before I can stop him.
“Margaret?” he gently calls out to her.
Margaret freezes mid-step. Her little foot held but a moment above the ground as a deer freezes when sensing something has altered its surroundings. Conroy takes another step from me. Her foot lands softly back into its former placement with ringlets swaying. Conroy still slips further away.
“Conroy!” I hiss, still peering from the doorway.
He looks to me as she looks to us. He does not see what is staring at him. He does not see that same small tennis shoe turn towards us. Nor does he see the side of her that has been kept a secret from us. How lucky am I that I am the one to see it first?
Her right side is caked with gore, giving her the appearance of having been dipped down in a thick pool of a substance now dried and clinging to her. She is an almost perfect illusion of good versus evil side-by-side before me. Each side of her face is wearing the same hate filling hunger.
That same hunger spurs her on faster when she sees Conroy, but her right leg is dragging as it refuses to help in the journey towards us. It acts as a last-minute miracle of salvation, slowing her down. She makes no noise to alarm Conroy of the danger creeping towards him. She is a perfect killer in a child-wrapped package. I rush off the floor and lift his body into my arms, staring her down. I do not look back when I turn, running with my own precious child-wrapped package clinging tight to me.
My boots threaten to slide out from under me again and I know our combined weight was never meant for these spiked heels. Nor are my lungs made for all of this running from the many nights of working in a smoke-filled bar. I am the cliché horror movie chick in very inappropriate shoes running for my life. All I need now is a bright colored sweater, and a run through the woods, to make the whole sad scene complete. Maybe Conroy and I will plan a camping trip when this is all over.
I know I will not be able to keep this pace up and turn into the first set of open double metal doors I see. Rows of white tables sit in various formations in the constant purple and teal color combinations of the building. I know if we survive this neither of us will ever be able to stand pastels again. One seven-year-old emo coming right up!
Chapter 9
The room is still as I stand in its entrance clutching Conroy. A TV flashes static from its angled location in the high back corner. Empty trays sit perching on a shelf waiting to be of use. Two evenly spaced registers sit void of cashiers. I cannot see past the swinging doors of the kitchen and I have learned that silence does not always mean empty. I am debating the choices laid before me as the sound stirs down the hall behind us. Limping Margaret has finally caught up with us, and by the level of sounds, she is not alone. Nor is her new army happy with our escape.
I ease him to the floor holding a finger to my lips. Slowly, I close the metal doors and motion for him to walk ahead of me to the kitchen. There is no place to hide in this large room designed with that fact in mind. It is made for easy viewing by teachers from all angles. This room was designed to keep the twisted things we are running from safe and comfortable. For a moment, it feels as if we have run straight into a trap of their design. A room they have already spent hours of their short lives in wraps its arms around us in what I know to be our final meeting.
We pass through the kitchen’s swinging doors as the cafeteria’s doors mirror the act. I peer through the small round windows in our set of doors as the small bodies assemble in small groups. They seem to lose animation without our discovery to be found. Like wind-up dolls whose gears are losing tension with each movement, they slip back into a dream-like state and I allow myself to think we are safe.
They fall back into their unearthly game of “Follow The Leader” in small pockets of groups. Even in this new state, cliques form in common styles. I watch this all before me as if I am a documentary voice-over relaying the sights before me to Conroy huddled on the floor.
“What are they doing?” he whispers, in a voice that still holds his tender toddler years within it.
“Walking in circles,” I say watching them move in impossibly slow formations. Each of their steps seem more exaggerated than the last.
“Why?” His curiosity overshadows his fear for a moment of genuine interest.
“Triangles are harder to do in a group formation,” I offer.
I have no better answer to give him. The smirk he wears loosens the tension that has been surrounding us all day. Of all my siblings, Conroy has always been the closest to my own personality. It’s something that has always irked our parents. My encouragement of it also held no amusement for them. Add in them catching him sitting on Lawless’ black Harley and their minds blew over our antics.
The behavior before me makes me wonder if the children are truly mindless. To seek out the familiarity around each other there must be some form of working mind behind those blank stares. Is there some keeping of logic or is there only the basic behavior still stored? Did Margaret, now falling in with other girls of her stature, answer to her name or just the sound of Conroy calling out to her? Fifty small children wander before me each wearing their own version of crimson patterns and I am not brave enough to step out to find any answers from them.
As I stand here watchin
g them, I wonder how can children cause such extreme feelings in those around them? By basic bi- ology, we are programmed to keep such treasures safe. We cherish each moment of milestones shared with them in photos and stories retold time and again. We will lay down our own lives to keep them safe. We will lay down the lives of those who do not. Those same sweet mouths that only moments ago kissed their parent's goodbye now seek to bite and consume. Small hands that once clasped together in friendships to gleefully play circle-spinning games now tear and destroy those around them in unison. Eyes that once danced with the joys of life now stare with muted awareness of only what lies directly ahead of them. Youth’s softness that once gifted them with calming beauty now has turned her gift into a disarming weapon. That very illusion can cost us our lives. Until this point, we have been able to run, but the highlighted exit sign and its coveted path lies straight through them. They roam the room in misshapen circles. There is no safe passage between their miniature self-made carousels for us to sneak through. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
A sharp tone chimes its high-pitched signal three times through- out the building. Conroy is so startled in his already fragile state that he screams even as I drop to cover his mouth with my hands. Our eyes lock in the narrow space between us, sharing the panic over his response.
Easing upright, I keep my back to the door so our eyes can hold the emotions we are sharing. We are too afraid of the damage words can wield. Two porthole styled windows with their plastic-like glass urge me to peer through with a double dare style of knowledge. I have had enough dare for one day, so I choose the truth even if I have always preferred spin the bottle styled party games.
The door sways slightly as if from a pressure vacuum release. It is so slight at first, I wonder if my eyes are deceiving me. If it was not for the fact that Conroy is now standing also and staring at the door too, I might have been able to convince myself they have, but we both cannot have imagined it.
The door answers with a slightly wider swing, startling us both. A small hand wiggles its fingers into the gap caused by the movement, catching the door. We stare at the fingers with body-freezing dread. They hold the door open, drumming slightly as if pondering what to do next. Pink tipped nails shine with a natural gleam on those porcelain extensions and we both stare transfixed. The chime comes again, and all the hesitation has been resolved by the repeat of a scream behind me.
Conroy is still screaming when the door is shoved open with great force by a small five-year-old boy. Following close behind him is a parade of macabre visions.
For the first time I am glancing around the smaller room. Steel ovens gleam from one wall in their pristine stations. Many steel shelves cradle the various shapes and sizes of cooking pans throughout, creating a metallic peek-a-boo maze. Magnetic strips hold sharp and blunt cooking instruments securely against the walls. All encompassed within the same pastel shades as the rest of the building. It is what my eyes land on against the back wall that causes my heart to rejoice in our backwards retreat from the horde before us.
From ceiling to floor stand the doors to the staff’s closet. It is shining at us like armor from knights of old. The handles were designed to be too tall for small hands to reach them. Magnetic pictures of smiling happy days gone by showcasing two women are scattered on the doors. Their smiles encourage my resolve.
Conroy will be safe in there while I distract the horrific animations before us, allowing him to reach the exit first. It makes perfect sense in my mind. I can even see the plan put into play before me like a movie with each glorious step to take. Too bad things are never as brilliant when released from the secure planning of our minds as they seem to be when in storage.
Chapter 10
The same boy who entered the room first is leading the monstrous army. He is keeping the same advancing speed to match ours as we retreat from them. It’s making the rest of the youths fall in step behind him like soldiers. The perfect dance of predator and prey choreographed when the world was still more beast than beauty is playing out as they match our every step with their own.
I can feel Conroy’s trembling body as he fights against his adrenaline’s urge to run. I can see through the shelves the long train of death-clad children wrapping around the path. Their eyes follow my every move with the same interest as a predator’s holds their prey. They are waiting on us to spark that needed animation for their frenzy and I do not know what is more chilling, the overpowering possibility of the monstrosity they are capable of or their calculated stares.
I tug on Conroy’s hand to pull his attention away from the boy ahead of us. The boy’s eyes follow up to me also. His hand twitches in an unspoken dare between us as his face still keeps its blank frame. He is watching. He is waiting. I know one motion from him, and the nightmare will begin for us. One wrong motion will result into a devastating crescendo effect of what I have already started.
Never removing my eyes from the new pair upon me, I motion with my head to the metal safety closet behind us. I am not so hopeful as to think that if we just stop, they will too. Inserting him into the closet will have to be a well-planed dance and with- out interruption to signal any change in the children. Conroy shakes his head with a frantic motion and the eyes swing back to him in unison. Their steps falter as a few presses against the ranks with quickening steps and my breath catches at the moment’s confusion.
They are growing restless with the sight of us before them. I have thought until now that they were toying with us, but to them we are the ones refusing to play the game. Do they need our fear, our response of fight or flight to engage their motives? The amount of crimson coloring layered over their clothes shows hints at being well versed in their methods of attack. If it is not the lack of knowledge holding their actions at bay, then what is the missing ingredient? Are they so well fed already from their morning’s mayhem that their crippling evil is discouraged from surfacing? Has it really been, all this time, a perverse game of “Follow the Leader”? Is this leader just not destructively motivated, or is he just more calculated, waiting for the perfect self-twist of footing to bring us down? My mind is filling with more questions than an over paid Hollywood elite interviewer holding a golden god in her grasp for an hour. The only difference between her and me is if she asks the wrong question the god will just storm out. If I make a wrong move, the devils before us will just storm me.
The closet is within our reach. The gleaming handles reflect the light with a warm glow, forming an almost beacon effect in the dark depths of our situation. Many nights Aimes and I have danced on the bar tables, planning our spins and twists to the time of the tempo vibrating from the live band, but never has the risk been so great before as this dance is now. At most, we may have slipped off the edge with a mistimed step, not been torn apart like a piñata by small hands seeking hidden sweets.
Stepping between the boy and my last Angel, I take the first dance step and it brings me closer to the boy than my body wants to be. My stomach recoils from the various scents rolling forward from the horde. Scents I have never been subjected to before, but something deep and primal within me knows them. My mind has become a mantra of calming chants to keep my adrenaline at bay. I know we should be running. I know the basic rule of all horror facts is never to hide. You get the hell out, but what do you do when hell is between you and the way out?
My hand grasps the handle and sending a silent prayer up to anything or anyone who might be listening, I firmly push down, releasing the latch. Conroy begins to struggle against my attempts to guide him inside. He fights and tries to slide away from the same arms he was grappling with to stay close to before. His agitated state excites the monsters before us. Glazed eyes begin to gain focus as his struggles start to become vocal. The small room starts to vibrate with the force of his repeated screaming of, “No! Not in there!”
The words echo off surfaces as he screams them rapidly, each time giving more animation and speed to the sea of creatures before us. I prepare to shov
e him into the space, timing the movement with the anticipation of myself having to run when he is safe. I never planned for what was going to happen next. How could I? Plans, like thoughts, often have the highest regrets. Once both of them are started, there is no turning back and we can never see where they will lead us until it is too late.
Something from inside the closet steals his body from me with such force I stumble with it. The door slams shut, sealing him inside, but it does not close upon the sounds of his screams. The small bodies before me begin to beat upon the door following their new nature. Arms reach high at unnatural lengths to reach the handles, ignoring any discomfort it must be causing them as shoulders begin to pop. Layer after layer of death-covered small bodies begin to beat and scratch the doors being encouraged by the screams beyond it. They have forgotten me for the moment, and I stare in confusion at what has just happened as I listen to him scream my name in a melody of his pain, fear and begging for my help. My body runs cold with the realization of what I have done, and I too begin to scream. The two women are not just on the door. The two women are inside, and they now have Conroy. Margaret, with her demonic tinted pigtails, is the first to turn to me. Her body language switches back to predator as she moves. Her head cocks slightly back to see up the length of me from her height and those eyes are now bright with eagerness. She separates from the herd a few dragging steps at a time, following me backwards, further away from her best friends forever.
I am no longer filled with fear as my ears are filling with his screams. I do not see this thing inching upon me as an innocent child anymore. The illusion is shattering with the growling from the depths of her throat and crimson half-mask she wears. Her small hands curl into claw-like formations and she reaches for me. We both no longer see the other as human, but we both now see ourselves as predators.
Dawning (The Risen Series Book 1) Page 5