A familiar voice from behind me speaks up, “The cafeteria, mostly.”
A quick peek around me reveals Harrow’s troublesome teenage trio: Patrick, Miguel and Marcus. Miguel and Marcus stand in the back of the room holding weapons, while Patrick stands on the opposite side, unarmed and by himself. He’s leaning casually against the wall, but his face is serious, and he stands up straight when his leader turns toward him. I make eye contact with Patrick, and although he offers a stony stare, he also gives me a slight shake of his head.
My little group shudders and scoots more tightly together as Bob’s face turns red, and he bellows, “The cafeteria! Where all the food is?! They better not be shooting people around all our food!”
Directing his attention toward two of his other male goons, Bob tells them to take the seven of us to the basement and begin cleaning up the mess. “We need to establish some order here and start preparing for the local police force; I didn’t make all this effort just to lose control to a bunch of hot heads!”
Suddenly, I’m hit with the memory that Emily and Eric’s parents always help in the cafeteria. Did they get out? Are they shot? Anxiety is beginning to cloud my mind, and I feel the overwhelming need to vomit.
I’m struggling to take deep breaths and calm my nerves when the two gunmen walk over and tell us to form a line. With pleading eyes, I look for help from one of the three faces I know.
“Sir?” says Patrick, stepping away from the wall. “I can oversee the cleanup. I’m familiar with the cafeteria.”
“No,” says Bob. “I want you close by, in case I have any questions.”
With a nod and a grunt of acceptance, Patrick takes a step backward and resumes his position against the wall.
Disappointment fills me. I can’t stand Patrick, but I’d take him any day, given the option of him or one of these goons.
With guns aimed at our backs, my little group is ushered down the hallway and into the elevator. No one speaks, and the slow ride is uneventful.
When the doors swish open, a sickeningly, sweet odor reaches my nose, and I take a step backward. Three people exit the elevator before I receive a shove from behind. Just as I step into the basement corridor, one of the younger girls in front of me releases a howl of misery and covers her eyes. I look in her direction and see three blood-soaked bodies on the ground.
Now, no one is moving.
Three new people, wearing torn, camo T-shirts and holding an assortment of weapons, step out of the cafeteria, and my gut clenches. Although they appear to be only slightly older than I, these young men have a crazed look in their eyes and sadistic smiles on their faces. The shortest one steps forward, kicks one of the cadavers in his path, and takes aim at my little group.
One of our guards from the elevator steps next to me and quickly asserts, “We’re here to help with the cleanup. Bob wants this area secure and prepared for the evening meal.”
“Oh, it’s definitely secure,” says the one with the raised rifle. “Ain’t no one able to prepare nothin’ though. I s’pose these young’uns can take care o’ that.”
My guard tries again, “Bob would like all of you upstairs. He wants patrols on every floor now, and he’d like to discuss his plans for this building.”
Using furtive body language and face signals, the camo-shirted trio communicate. The man still standing in the archway of the cafeteria moves slightly to his left. His eyelids droop halfway, and he sneers. “No,” is all he says. Then he raises a pistol and fires a bullet into the stomach of the guard beside me. The other guard from the elevator is dead before the first one hits the ground.
All seven of us captives are stunned in silence. My mouth is hanging open, and my eyes are about to pop out of my head. I’m so tense that my entire body is shaking uncontrollably.
“Into the cafeteria!” shouts the man in charge.
“Either get goin’, or join ‘em,” says one of the others.
With those magic words, we all rush across the hall and into the dining room. As soon as I enter the area, my self-preservation instincts cause me to stop, jump sideways, and slam my backside into the nearest wall. I’m frozen in disbelief, and my body begins to shake while my eyes scan the room.
This cannot be happening. I must be having a nightmare. Never in my life have I seen such carnage. No war-time documentary or Hollywood slasher film could come close to preparing me for this gory scene.
The overhead lights flicker and show a once pristine white floor that’s now a smear of bodies and blood. Crimson splatter covers the side walls and furniture. A mixture of dead hospital personnel and family visitors lie clumped at the checkout line. A riddled corpse slumps across the salad bar, and numerous others litter the tables and floor.
I watch as the young male prisoner crosses the room, kneels down, and lifts the limp hand of a prone occupant. “Mom?” he whimpers, “Mom?”
Strong emotions replace his need for words, and when the young man lifts his head, I can read the hate written all over his face. His eyes slant, and his nostrils flare as he turns his head toward the smaller of our new guards. When he slowly stands, his back arches, and his fists clench and turn white. With his first slow step toward the murderous brute, his lip curls, and he releases a deep huff.
The object of the young captive’s hatred keeps eye contact and snarls, “Not happenin’ dude.”
I want to look away, but my eyes are glued to the scene. As if in slow motion, the guard lifts his gun, takes aim, and shoots a bullet into the center of the young man’s head, right between his eyebrows. The hatred never leaves the boy’s face, and I silently watch as he falls to the ground beside his mother, and dies.
Suddenly, the scene switches from slow motion into fast forward, as several of the girls in my group begin screaming and running. I’m still plastered to the wall and can do nothing but stare, as the spectacle turns into a sick, slap-stick comedy of errors.
One after another, the young ladies race around the room. The blood on the floor is still wet, and as soon as a foot touches the liquid, each girl is sent skidding and sliding. One teenager, who fell and is now covered from head to toe in the deep red mess, begins screaming, while another on the other side of the room is crying hysterically.
My captors stomp off in opposite directions, and I notice that I’m alone in the back of the room. Breathing through my mouth, as my eyes slowly pan across the cafeteria, I realize that an escape opportunity is present. Thinking about only myself, I slip around the corner and sprint toward the stairwell.
I yank open the door and ascend the steps two at a time. My breathing is rapid and my body is tense, but I can feel freedom nearby. As soon as I reach the first-floor exit, I grab the knob and turn swiftly. I pull the door open, jump out of the stairwell, and body slam into a stout female holding a gun. She’s momentarily unbalanced and falls to the ground.
“Crap!” I curse, as I fall backward into the doorway and struggle to reclaim my footing.
Before the woman can stand, I turn, and once again begin climbing the stairs toward the upper floors. I reach the next landing and hear someone racing behind me. Quickly opening the door, I use a split second to check for other guards, and then take off for a place to hide.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Crouching beside a rack holding white lab coats, I hear my pursuer enter the room. My breathing hitches up a notch, and I have to concentrate to keep from whimpering. I try to slow my breaths, but I’m shaking so badly that I barely can think straight.
The attack comes from my left. Like a cornered animal, I strike out with my claws and make contact with skin. A female voice utters profanities and grabs for me.
I turn around and stumble into a movable table holding a defibrillator. Reaching out to steady myself, I accidentally turn the power knob to the machine, and a loud tone sounds throughout the room. Again, she reaches for me, and I release a small squeal, as I run to the other side of the table.
I can see her now. She’s so close that I
notice a ketchup stain on her shirt and dark roots sprouting from her bottle-blonde hair. She’s breathing heavily and advancing quickly. Instinct and fear drive me to lift the paddles from the electronic device.
The woman gives a mean laugh and snidely remarks, “The machine doesn’t work if it isn’t charged.” Lunging forward, she grabs for me. I jerk my arms upward and slam the paddles into her chest in an effort to push her away.
I can feel the jolt of electricity as it passes into her body. Both of us respond with wide-eyed amazement. My arms shake, and my elbows lock. Wisps of smoke begin to form where the paddles connect with her shirt, and her eyes roll upward in her head. I grit my teeth, let go of the paddles, and watch as her body falls to the ground. Not waiting to see if she stirs, I jump over her and begin to sprint.
Once out of the room, I run left toward the main hallway. I see a silhouette off to my right, and I steal into the nearest room. This must be one of the pharmaceutical stations, for I see syringes and small bottles within a glass cabinet. I turn and have to swallow my scream when I nearly fall over a body on the ground. A backward glance through the open doorway shows no one in the hall, so I cautiously step out of the room and begin to inch my way to where I think there might be an exit.
Self-preservation instinct takes over, and I run. I’m at a full tilt, grabbing at the walls and careening around corners. Escape is my only thought. With eyes beginning to glaze from shock, I scurry past rooms filled with dead patients and around bullet-riddled bodies that scatter the halls.
The emergency lighting flashes, and my increasing fear sends a full dose of adrenalin to my muscles. I may have been a poor athlete in school, but right now, I would rival top world champions. After pouring on the speed, I forget to slow before I round the next corner, and my forehead slams into something hard.
I fall to the ground, clutching my head, and moaning. I’m rolling back and forth, and my eyes are squeezed shut. I open them briefly and see a mirror image of myself a few feet away. A girl has her arms wrapped around her head and is talking very low and rapidly, “Oh, oh,…oh, oh, oh my head…oh my head, my head.”
I know that voice. I know that hair. “Emily?” I whisper, “Is that you?”
“Mya? Oh Mya, I think you cracked open my head.” Her hands begin skimming the ground around her. “My glasses,” she says, “I need my glasses.”
“They’re right behind you,” I say, while crawling toward her. Once she can see again, I try to pull her to her feet. “We have to get out of here. They’re killing everyone.”
“I know,” she utters very softly. “They shot those two women before I could get out; I hid in the bathroom cabinet until they left. You can’t go back that way. They’ve got it all blocked off, and people with guns are stationed by the stairwell doors.”
I can feel my terror surging, and I begin to look around in all directions. “We’ve got to move. Can you walk? Do you know another way out?”
“If we can get over to the north wing, there’s a fire escape in the hall, somewhere in the middle.”
She stands up, loses her balance, and falls against the wall. “I feel really sick Mya. You got me good.”
“I’m sorry. Really sorry. When we get out of here, I’ll make it up to you.”
Helping her stand, I squint down the hall in search of a pathway to the other wing. Emily’s leaning heavily on me, and as I shift her weight, two large men round the corner from the direction she had come.
“Lookie this, Joe,” says the fat one with greasy skin and acne. “It’s a couple of little presents waitin’ just for me.”
I try to pull us toward the wall, but Emily sneers and lunges forward.
“Go to hell,” she says, and punctuates her demand with an offensive hand signal.
Without hesitation, Grease Boy pulls out a pistol and fires a round into her. I’m living a repeat of the cafeteria scene. This time, I scream at the sound of the gun and throw my hands up to cover my head. My ears are ringing, and I can’t hear anything.
A dark smear coats the wall beside me as Eric’s sister leans backward for support and slowly collapses onto the ground. Twisting to look into Emily’s eyes, I bend and press my hands firmly against her side in an effort to stop the blood flow. Warm, red liquid seeps all over my fingers, just as her head spasms backward against the white tiled wall.
“No!” I cry. “Emily! EMILY!”
Tears begin to blur my vision. “Please Emily,” I beg. “Stay with me. Stay with me!”
Grabbing her arms, I pull her body close. “Please,” I whisper frantically in her ear. “Please don’t leave me.”
I’m terrified when her head falls backward, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision. Through glasses that are now askew, her dying eyes gaze motionlessly at the flickering ceiling lights.
With a frightened whimper, I watch in dismay as her life ends, and my nightmare alters into a new realm of horror.
◌◌◌
Now frozen in fear, I offer no resistance when the homicidal brute yanks me to my feet and begins to pull me into an empty patient room. He shoves me toward the bed, and I slide against the clean sheets. With a snide grin, he turns toward his buddy and boasts that he’ll meet him in half an hour.
My captor shuts the door with a loud click and turns to look at me. “You’re a pretty, little thing, aren’t you?”
My eyes are huge as I stare at him and begin to beg. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. Please…just let me go.”
He waggles his finger and licks his lower lip. “Not before we have a little fun. I need a little fun. It’s been a long day, and I’m feelin’ a little restless.”
I start to cry when he sets his gun down on the over-bed table and begins to unfasten his belt.
“So you’re a crier?” he sneers. “I’d ruther less theatrics, but you know the old saying: beggars can’t be choosers.”
I’m unable to stop myself from cringing when he pulls his shirt from his pants. He reaches for the top button and beings to sing. “Da, dum, daa,” he intones and moves his hips to the right. He’s singing the melody from some striptease performance and slowly opening his shirt to me.
He’s enjoying his little show and laughs as he reaches for his fly buttons. “We’re gonna dance, sugar. The oldest dance known.”
My lips curl in silent disgust, and he wags his index finger back and forth in response. “Don’t try my patience, girl. We’re gonna dance, and you’re gonna like it.”
Tears stream down my face and cling to my chin. I shake my head very slightly, but I can’t get my mouth to work. I’m like a guppy pulled from the water and trying to understand why I can’t breathe.
My captor walks up to the bed and places his left hand beside my knee. Then he reaches his right hand up to my face and touches my chin. With slight pressure, he turns my head directly toward him.
Sunlight from the nearby window bounces off the room’s white walls and creates an eerie pattern of shadows. My tightly-stiffened arms tingle with goose bumps as cool air from the overhead vent softly stirs my hair.
Foul breath stings my nose when he commands, “You’re gonna be a good girl, aren’t you.”
He leans in, bringing his fat, slimy lips toward me, and my right arm pulls free of the bed linens. I lean back slightly and in one swift motion, using all my strength, I push both hands against his chest.
A surge of electricity flows from my arms into his body. There are no paddles in my hands, and both he and I are confused at first.
Like the woman earlier, shock shows on his face, and his eyes dilate. A fitful trembling begins to course through his body, and when I look at my hands, I see small sparks of energy arcing from them. Visible plumes of smoke float up from his chest, and the putrid odor of burning flesh fills my nose.
The force between us keeps the man standing upright and glued to my hands. His teeth are clinched, and his head is moving up and down in small spasms. When his eyes roll upward in their sockets, I break from my
stupor and silently gasp. I give a strong, forward push and our connection is broken.
Grease Boy falls to the floor.
Instead of running, I squat down beside my attacker and look at him. His shirt is burned where my hands touched, and beneath the blackened clothing, I see charred skin. Moving the shirt aside reveals hand-shaped marks on his chest, and a silver necklace melted along his collarbone.
I shudder at the view and look at my hands. “What the…?”
I’m dumbfounded and don’t understand what just happened. I’m not holding any shock paddles, and yet this man is definitely electrocuted.
“Things just keep getting worse and worse,” I mumble.
A noise down the hallway brings me back to my senses, and I remember that I have more pressing matters to deal with at this moment: Emily is dead, and I need to get out of here.
Like a mouse in a maze, I pass from hall to hall until I locate an emergency fire escape leading to the parking lot. I push on the door, and the alarm sounds. Grabbing hold of the hand rails, I practically fly down the steps; and as soon as my feet hit the ground, I take off running.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A muffler from a passing car startles me, and I sprint into a nearby backyard that’s suffered only minimal fire damage. After creeping around to the side of the house, I lean against the cracked exterior wall. Tilting my head skyward, I close my eyes and take several shuddering breaths. Exhaustion overpowers my muscles, and my legs gently fold, until I’m sitting on the bare ground.
Now that I’ve stop running, my brain kicks into hyperdrive. The memory of Emily’s final moments repeats again and again, until my misery becomes a physical pain.
Why did she have to die? Why did he have to shoot her? Why didn’t he shoot me too?
Tears slip beneath my lowered lids. To the silence that surrounds me, I plead in a broken whisper, “Help me. Please. Someone. Anyone.”
Hugging my knees tightly to my chest, I drop my head. The horror of the hospital overwhelms me, and heartbreaking sobs wrack my body.
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