Into Hell

by James Roy Daley

  Carrie wasn’t inside the gas station. It looked empty too.

  Stephenie noticed a framed painting on one of the walls; it was the image of a man and his two boys. All three subjects were standing by a tree on what appeared to be a beautiful summer day. The boys looked happy; the man looked proud.

  Beneath the painting was David Gayle. He was a good looking man with a clean looking haircut. He dressed stylishly, if not slightly feminine. He had a light-pink shirt with a crisp white collar.

  David’s eyes were closed. His bloodless face was locked into an expression of pain and his body had been chopped apart.

  Stephenie looked at the painting; then at David, then she looked away. She didn’t want to see another corpse, but it didn’t matter where she looked. The carnage seemed to be everywhere.

  A man named Lee Courtney was propped against a bathroom door. Blood splashed the booth next to him. And next to Lee there was a body, half in and half out of the ladies bathroom. Based on the shoes and the pantyhose, Stephenie figured the corpse to be female. And there was more. Of course there was more. The bloodshed was everywhere she was stupid enough to look. But Stephenie didn’t want to look; she had enough. In fact she had too much––much too much. She didn’t want to look at Lee or at the motionless legs. She didn’t want to look at Jennifer’s severed arm or at Craig’s wounded chest. She didn’t want to look at Angela and her smiling coffee mug, or Susan’s broken skull. She didn’t want to look at David in his nice pink shirt or the painting that was above him. She only wanted to get out of the restaurant, find Carrie, and get away from the apocalyptic nightmare she was currently standing in.

  Stephenie walked past Craig, towards the front door. She caught a glimpse of the nametag that said SUSAN and the little footprints in the blood. Her eyes shifted towards Susan’s head as if they had a mind of their own; she cursed herself for looking.

  Susan’s head, which was cracked open like an egg, looked different somehow. It took a second for Stephenie to realize that she couldn’t see the woman’s brain. Not now. At first it seemed like a blessing, but then, as she stepped outside, she realized something so fucked up her entire world slipped in and out of focus.

  Susan’s head was no longer twisted towards the doorway.

  It had been twisted towards Stephenie.

  5

  Outside, Stephenie was saying, “Carrie? Carrie? Where are you?” Her voice was louder now, more worried, more anxious. But she wasn’t thinking about her Carrie. She was thinking about Susan and the way she was laying. “Carrie?”

  She looked at the swing: still empty. Christina was gone.

  She walked towards the gas station, kicking rocks as she peeked through the window. There was nobody in the gas station aside from the attendant that Stephenie had been looking for earlier, and he was dead.

  Suddenly Stephenie Paige put a hand to her mouth like a megaphone and shouted: “CARRIE? WHERE ARE YOU, BABE? WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?”

  There was no answer, nothing. And when she looked to the road there wasn’t even a car she could wave down. Not one. Not a bus. Not even a friggin’ motorcycle. She was beginning to feel like the last person on earth, or like Will Smith in that stupid movie with the zombies, if that’s what they were. But oh Lord, she didn’t want to think about that. The last thing she needed to do was reminisce about films that gave her the heebie-jeebies. She walked into that particular hum-dinger thinking it might be fun and came out wondering why a guy as charming as Will Smith would be involved in such a thing. Maybe she was being a baby but Stephenie didn’t like anything scarier than Harry Potter.

  She walked towards her car feeling frustrated and upset. The passenger door was just the way Carrie left it: wide open.

  Carrie wasn’t in the car.

  And now Stephenie had no choice but to wonder: if Carrie wasn’t inside, and she wasn’t outside, where on God’s green earth could she be? This was getting stupid. Where the hell did her daughter go?

  An answer came surprisingly quick: around back.

  Carrie must have gone behind the restaurant for some reason––but why, oh why, would she do that?

  Gawd, Stephenie thought, behind the restaurant? Really?

  Finding Carrie behind the restaurant was a long shot, a very long shot. But long shots were the only shots left.

  A dry little voice inside Stephenie’s head spoke. The voice was new, sounded like an old lady’s voice, a witch’s voice. The tenor was raspy and the tone was borderline insulting. The voice said: ‘Round back? That’s not the only place to look. You know where she’s at––oh yes ya do. Don’t ‘tend ya don’t know. Carrie was goin’ to the baffroom, ‘member? ‘Member how much she needed to use it? She needed to go pee-pee very bad like. And that’s where she at: ‘side the baffroom. She’s not ‘round back dearie; so don’t waste ya time lookin’. She’s inside… inside the killin’ box. Prolly cryin’ and screamin’ and wantin’ her momma real bad like. She’s prolly––

  Enough, Stephenie thought.

  If Carrie was inside the bathroom Stephenie would have heard her screaming, right? Unless she was… Don’t think it. Don’t even think it for a minute.

  DEAD.

  Carrie’s not dead. She’s not dead because whoever did this is long gone.

  Stephenie looked at the restaurant. Her choices seemed simple: look inside the restaurant again or look around back.

  “I don’t want to go inside,” she whispered. And with that, it was decided. Her left foot moved forward. Her right foot came next, following along like it didn’t know what else to do. She was walking, but really––where was she going? Inside or out?

  Inside, she thought. She’s inside the bathroom. Oh fucking, fuck, fuck––Carrie’s inside the fucking bathroom.

  As she moved towards the door she thought about the waitress named Susan. Did her head move?

  No, of course not. That was impossible.

  Stephenie felt goosebumps cultivating her arms. She put a hand to her brow and squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t going inside the restaurant. No way. Not yet. She was going to look behind the building first. If Carrie was missing after she took a quick walk around back, well then, she’d go inside, check the bathroom out. And after that––

  And after that, what? What’s next? Phone the police?

  Yes. That was good, very good. She’d phone the police after she looked in the bathroom. Maybe even before. Getting the police here was just what this situation called for. But how long would it take for them to arrive? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Either way, it was too long.

  Stephenie walked to the right side of the restaurant, knowing her daughter wouldn’t be there.

  But she might be, and better safe than sorry, right? Right.

  Then I’ll call the police.

  There was a huge empty field, and when Stephenie looked across it she saw a big white farmhouse and an old wooden barn. She didn’t see any animals, but there might have been a few. She wasn’t exactly looking for animals. She was just looking.

  She turned the corner and walked along the side of the restaurant. She walked past a stack of firewood, approached a door and glanced inside.

  From her perspective, she could see into the restaurant from an entirely new angle. Her eyes swept across several bodies and landed on Alan Mezzo, husband to Angela Mezzo, father to Mark Mezzo. He was dead, of course. Looked like he had been chopped a few times with an axe. His face was gone, replaced with gore. The blood surrounding him was shiny and crimson.

  Stephenie kept walking.

  She walked past a pile of bricks and a hose that had been rolled in a coil. She stepped over an abandoned hubcap that lost its shine but gained an inch of green tinged water. Passing that, she turned the corner. Now she was behind the restaurant and there wasn’t much to see. There was a field and a forest. No Carrie, and no reason to believe Carrie had come this way. She walked on. A mouse scurried along the wall. A cricket jumped beneath her feet. After stepping around some type of air venti
lation box, she turned the corner again.

  Now she was on the parking lot side of the building: still no Carrie.

  She could see six cars and a yellow school bus. Leaning against the bus was a woman named Karen Peel. Like the others, she was dead. Her hands were covered in blood. Her jaw had been smashed apart grotesquely. Multiple teeth were missing. Her eyes were open and staring at the sky.

  Stephenie shouted, “CARRIE!”

  Nothing.

  She turned the corner. Once again she was in front of the gas station, and this time she decided to go in. Why not? The gas station was the only place she hadn’t looked.

  ‘Cept the baffroom, that haunting voice from inside her mind was quick to point out. You hafta check da baffroom. Don’t forget to lookin there!

  “No,” she found herself whispering. “I don’t want to go in there.”

  She opened the door and stepped inside the gas station.

  The attendant was lying on the floor, dressed in blue overalls. He had dark hair and dark skin. His head had been split open and a giant amount of fluid had leaked onto the cheap linoleum tiles. One of his eyeballs looked like it had popped, and the juices had leaked across his face. It looked a little bit like apple flavored Jell-O.

  Sitting on the counter was another rotary phone.

  Stephenie lifted it up and listened.

  It was dead. Of course it was dead. Everything was dead. The whole fucking world was dead and at this point, who the hell cared? Not Stephenie. She just wanted to find her daughter and get the fuck out of dodge.

  Stephenie stepped outside and approached her car with fast, seemingly angry steps. She slammed Carrie’s door shut and screamed––really, really, screamed: “CARRIE!! WHERE ARE YOU!! WHERE ARE YOU CARRIE?! WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO?!”

  Nothing.

  “ANSWER ME!”

  Again, nothing.

  She stormed to her side of the car and whipped her door open. She sat down in the driver’s seat, reached into the backseat, and snagged her purse. She unbuckled the buckle, unzipped the zipper and yanked it open. She started rooting around, looking for her phone in a frenzy. It wasn’t in there, but it had to be in there. She brought her phone everywhere.

  “Come on,” she bitched. “Where the fuck are you? Where the fuck is my fuck, fuck, fuckin’ phone?”

  It was gone. It just wasn’t there. No matter how much she looked she couldn’t find it. It must have been––

  “Attached to my fucking charger,” she barked. “FUCK!”

  She dug through her purse some more and suddenly she had it: her phone. It wasn’t connected to her charger. It was right where she left it, inside her purse. She looked at the screen and the battery was full.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Stay calm.”

  She dialed 911 and put the phone to her ear.

  Nothing.

  She dialed 911 and put the phone to her ear.

  Nothing.

  She dialed 911 and put the phone to her ear.

  Still nothing. It wasn’t working. The fucking phone wasn’t working––but why? There was no reason in the world for the phone to be out of order. Not one.

  “SHIT!”

  Furious, she threw the phone into the car’s backseat, lifted her purse up and squeezed it like she was trying to extract juice from it. She tossed it into the backseat carelessly. It bounced onto its side and a handful of change fell out of it, along with a lighter, a couple of business cards, and a pair of sunglasses. She was mad now––mad at the asshole that killed the people in the restaurant, mad at Carrie for disappearing, and most of all, she was mad at herself for being in such a dreadful position. This was awful! How did this happen?

  Stephenie had enough.

  It was time to change the situation, time to think outside the box.

  She grabbed the keys dangling in the ignition, started the motor and slammed the car into drive. A moment later she had her foot on the gas pedal, the tires were spinning and the car was racing along the empty highway, chasing its own headlights. Her vision blurred, her chest began quivering and all at once she started to cry.

  6

  Whacha doing? The voice inside her mind asked, sounding angry and bitchy and not in the least bit amused. You gonna drive away? Really? You gonna leave ya daughter back at the rest’rant? Have ya no heart? No soul? She needs ya! Don’t ya get it? Your daughter needs ya, dearie, now––more than ever. Didn’t ya see the blood, the carnage, da bodies on the floor? What do ya think happened to those people? Do you think they’s asleepin’? Is that it? Somebody went into King’s Diner and chopped ‘em apart! You hafta go back! You hafta find your daughter, babe!

  “I CAN’T,” Stephenie screamed, thinking: don’t call me babe. That’s my word, you fucking witch. “SHE’S NOT BACK THERE!”

  For a moment everything seemed quiet. But it wasn’t. She could hear the road beneath the tires and the wind coming through the open window. Her breath was coming out loud and labored. The radio was playing a song she didn’t recognize, or enjoy. It sounded like pop-punk garbage, a song about life as teenager, written by a middle-aged songwriter.

  There were no cars in front of her, none behind. She turned off the radio, making things a little better. She squeezed the steering wheel like she was trying to kill it; then she glanced at the passenger’s seat.

  The photo album was lying open. The photograph of Carrie sitting on a swing with Stephenie standing beside her was easy to see. Within the image, Carrie’s mouth was wide-open and she was having the time of her life. Stephenie also seemed happy. But her facsimile showed a controlled type of happy, a thoughtful kind of happy. Not like Carrie; she was damn near busting at the seams.

  Stephenie pulled her eyes away from the photograph.

  Carrie’s Coke can was sitting in its cup holder, half empty. The straw had little drops of Coke still clinging to its side.

  A moment passed. She kept driving.

  The voice inside her head returned. It didn’t sound angry now. It didn’t sound upset or disappointed either. It sounded like a hillbilly psychiatrist, trying to untangle the jumbled clutter inside a client’s mind.

  It said, Carrie’s not out here ya know. She might not be in the parkin’ lot and she might not be behind the rest’rant, but she could be inside the rest’rant. You know that. I know you know that.

  There was a pause; it didn’t last long.

  She said she needed da baffroom and for whatever reason, ya didn’t look. Now, I’m not lecturin’. I’m just sayin’. You need to go back and look for ya daughter, Stephenie. You don’t have a choice. How do ya think Carrie is goin’ feel when she steps outta the baffroom and finds ya missing. She’ll never forgive ya. Not ever. When she’s your age she’ll understand what you did and curse ya fer it forever. Leaving ya daughter ‘lone in a place like that? Come now dearie. You’re a smarter woman than that. You’re a better person than that too. Come now, babe. Stop the car and turn ‘round. Go find ya daughter.

  Stephenie didn’t say anything.

  Time passed.

  The voice returned, harder this time. Less caring. Ya gonna run out of gas.

  Stephenie looked at the gas gauge. Empty. It was empty. How much farther until the next station, thirty miles? Fifty miles? If the car died, what would she do? Kick the tires, and then what? Walk towards the restaurant? Goddamn it, that’s exactly what she’d do. She’s start walking towards that fucking restaurant. It wasn’t fair. The entire situation wasn’t fair.

  Stephenie squished her lips together, hit the brake, and pulled the car to the side of the road. Slowly, she turned herself around. The Jesus portrait swayed back and forth.

  The time to return had come.

  Lord above, help her; it was time to look in the bathroom.

  * * *

  The drive seemed shorter somehow, like she returned to the restaurant within seconds. She parked the car carelessly; headlights pointed at the restaurant. And when she shut the car down the sky above was dark.


  The car door was flung open and out stepped Stephenie. Her shoulders were slumped; her expression was grave. She slammed the door hard, like she was trying to make a point. After she stuffed her car keys into her pocket, she walked towards the restaurant. Somehow, it loomed. She didn’t want to go inside. Seeing those bodies again was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. But here she was, reaching for the door like someone who couldn’t get enough of a bad situation.

  She stopped; turned around.

  Cupping both hands in front of her mouth she tried her luck again, believing in her heart it was pointless. “CARRIE! CARRIE! CAN YOU HEAR ME? ARE YOU THERE? ANSWER ME, BABE! ANSWER ME!”

  Nothing.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Now I know.”

  For a moment she looked at the bungalow on the other side of the road. There was a light on inside.

  Another option, she thought.

  Then she turned towards the restaurant, put her hand on the handle and opened the door. Bells chimed like Christmas.

  7

  Stephenie stepped inside; the door closed behind her. For a moment she wondered if she was in the right place. The answer was yes; of course she was in the right place. But things were different now. The tables and chairs were in different places, the walls looked dirtier, the light seemed dimmer.

  She looked down.

  Susan was still there; she hadn’t moved.

  Oh yes she did, yes she did––she moved her head; remember? She moved it just a little bit before you went for a drive. So don’t pretend things are the same when they’re not. She moved. You better believe she moved. She moved and that’s bad fucking news for you because dead people aren’t supposed to move. They’re supposed to stay right where they are and not move a fucking muscle. Look at her! Look, and tell me––what do you see?