by Amy Cross
Man, I forget sometimes that this forest can be very creepy.
I start pulling Richard again. His head's about to bang against the second rail, but there's really no way around that and -
Suddenly I hear another howl, but this one is much closer and seems to be coming from just a few hundred feet away. I stop and look around, trying not to panic, and after a moment my gaze falls once more upon the train tracks that are running off through the forest. I half expect to see a figure out there, either watching me or coming this way, but of course there's nothing, and I quickly tell myself that I'm letting my imagination run wild.
Of course, it doesn't help that I've heard all the weird stories about this line, but now's really not the time to start panicking.
Just as I'm about to start dragging Richard again, however, there's another banging sound and this time the rail beneath my right foot definitely starts vibrating. Somewhere far along the line – hopefully far along, anyway – someone or something is hitting the metal. The sound fills the cold night air all around me, and I don't dare move a muscle as the steady bangs go on and on.
Is someone fixing the rail?
That'd make sense, I guess.
Yeah, someone's fixing the rail and -
The sound stops as abruptly as it began, but I continue to look along the tracks for a few more seconds. Deep down, I think I'm scared that by looking away I might allow something nasty to come closer. Then again, I realize after a moment that by looking one way along the tracks I'm also keeping my back to the other direction. I look over my shoulder, and I still don't see anything, but I'm starting to notice this creeping sense of being watched.
“Don't worry, Richard,” I say out loud, perhaps to convince myself that I'm in control of the situation, “I'm just letting my head run crazy, that's all. Nothing to be worried about.”
I turn to start pulling him again, but then I freeze as I realize that – out of the corner of my eye – I can see a figure standing in the moonlit haze just a short way to the left along the tracks. I don't dare turn and look at the figure, not just yet, but with each and every passing second it seems to become clearer and more distinct as if it's slowly emerging from the darkness.
But it can't attack me if I don't look at it.
Somehow, I'm sure of that.
I don't know what force, exactly, is filling me with this certainty, but I know that I'm safe as long as I don't look at the creature.
Even though I can hear it breathing.
“Come on, Richard,” I stammer, my voice filled with fear as I grip his ankles again and start pulling him off the rails. “Let's go and -”
“Come on, Richard,” another voice says, sounding almost like my own but not quite. “Let's go and -”
I stop for a moment, but then I start pulling Richard again and this time I don't stop as we reach the treeline beyond the railway. I keep my gaze down, scared to look at the railroad in case the creature is still close enough.
“Don't worry, Richard,” I hear the voice saying, still sounding quite a lot like me but – mercifully – further off now, “I'm just letting my head run crazy, that's all. Nothing to be worried about.”
I grit my teeth as I drag Richard between the trees. Whereas earlier I was careful to make sure that his head didn't bump against anything too hard, since the railroad I've been trusting more to luck. Sure enough, his head thumps against an exposed tree root, but even this isn't enough to slow me down and I pull him deeper and deeper into the forest until finally my arms are burning from the effort. My hands give up and let go, and I let out a gasp as I stop and – before I can remind myself not to – look back toward the railroad.
There's no-one there.
Of course there's no-one there.
There never was.
I'm not going back to check, though. No way. My head is spinning and my heart is racing and I've broken out in a cold sweat, and all I can think is that I have to get Richard back to the bunker as fast as I can. After all, the spray could start wearing off soon and I've never given anyone a second dose within twenty-four hours. Actually, there's another reason too. I want to get started with the fun.
I still keep glancing in the direction of the railroad, though, even after it's long out of sight. Just in case. And I make a mental note to never go that way again, to always find another route through the forest.
Chapter Eight
Milly
Five years ago...
“Most people don't get to choose what they do in life,” Dad says, sounding even more out of breath as he hauls another piece of wood of the ground and starts carrying it toward the machine. “That's the problem with kids these days. They think they have this infinite choice.”
“Let me help,” I say, reaching over to take the wood from him.
“I'm fine,” he grunts, even though that's obviously not true.
I watch for a moment as he struggles toward the machine. The heat is really getting oppressive this morning, and both Dad and I have plenty of beads of sweat on our foreheads. Of course, Dad won't ever admit that he's finding this difficult, because that would mean showing weakness and I honestly think he'd rather die. Still, I feel sorry for him as he slams the wood down on the conveyer belt.
Immediately, the chipper switches off again, and the only sound is the blades and wheels spinning to a halt.
“Damn thing!” Dad snorts.
“Why does it keep doing that?” I ask. “It's as if it -”
Before I can finish, the machine miraculously starts working again, and the chunk of wood is delivered to its fate. Normally Dad turns and immediately starts heading back over to find more wood, but this time he stays where he is, leaning against the side of the machine as if he needs a little extra support.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
That was a mistake, because he immediately turns and starts coming over to join me, even though he's clearly not quite ready.
“You can take a rest, if you want,” I tell him, even though I know he'll never accept the offer. “Let me do it for a while.”
“Ha!” he says. “As if. You'd do it wrong.”
“Is that even possible?” I ask.
“You young people need to accept that fate just deal a bad hand sometimes,” he says, wiping more sweat from his brow as he stops for a moment. “You were born in Sobolton, Milly. Let that sink in for a moment. Sobolton. You're not gonna end up as some great star somewhere, you're not gonna crawl out of here. You were born in Sobolton, and you're gonna live your life in Sobolton. That's just how it's gonna be. If it's so easy to leave and make it big somewhere else, why do you think the rest of us are all still here?” He sighs. “Or do you think you're smarter than everyone else?”
“No,” I reply, “but I never said I want to be a great star, just -”
“It's so hot here,” he continues, wiping his brow again as he wanders past me. “What's up with the weather today?”
“I told you the sky was looking strange,” I remind him, as I look up toward the tops of the trees. “It's a weird color, and the air just feels... odd, somehow.”
“Oh, cut out that airy-fairy crap,” he says, as he leans against a tree at the edge of the clearing. “It's just a hot day, that's all. Hot days happen sometimes, you know, and they always have. And don't you even think about claiming that it's because of the climate or anything like that, because I won't have that talk. What you have to understand, young lady, is that sometimes you have to do your job regardless of how bad you feel. Sometimes you just have to push on through.”
I still don't quite understand the point that he's trying to make, but this doesn't feel like the right moment to start questioning him. Instead, I pick up another chunk of wood and carry it to the machine. I'm feeling exhausted already, so I can only imagine that Dad feels much worse. As I put the wood on the conveyor belt, however, the chipper wobbles slightly and momentarily cuts out again.
“Are you sure the ground's quite firm under this th
ing?” I ask. “It's almost as if -”
The motor starts up again, drowning my voice out, and I watch as the wood is carried inexorably toward its fate. As the grinding sound gets louder, I wander around the side of the machine, just in time to see chippings fly out from the other end. There's a fairly large pile of dust-like wood pieces on the forest floor, and a moment later I turn and put my hand on the side of the machine's casing. For a few seconds, I try to absorb the sheer power of this monumental thing that seems to be able to chew up and spit anything out, turning all before it into dust. There's something strange in my chest, a sensation that's unfamiliar, and it takes a moment before I realize exactly what I'm feeling.
Respect.
I have a huge amount of respect for this machine.
“Come on!” Dad splutters, as he carries a particularly large piece of wood toward the conveyor belt. “Get back to work! That's another problem with your generation, you're always slowing down.”
I step over to help him.
“Not that!” he gasps. “I'm fine! Get on with things!”
Sighing, I turn and head over to where several chunks of wood are on the ground. I desperately want to help Dad but, if he still won't let me, I guess there's no point forcing the matter. He'd only end up getting angry and -
“Fuck!” he yells.
I turn, just in time to see that in putting the latest piece of wood on the belt, he's somehow managed to hook his jacket to a splinter on the side. My eyes widen with horror as I see Dad's feet lift off the ground, and he's quickly fed straight toward the spinning blades.
“Milly!” he screams. “Help me!”
Chapter Nine
Milly
Tonight...
The electric light buzzes for a moment as Richard finally begins to stir. He's tied to the chair with thick ropes that allow him to slump forward, and I watch as his head twitches. After almost an hour, he must be feeling pretty groggy, and I don't want to hurry him just yet. Past experience has taught me that the spray can leave people in quite a confused state, and that's before you factor in the headache.
Sure enough, after another minute or so he lets out a long, low groan.
I could say something at this point, but I actually enjoy the anticipation. It's only midnight, which means we have hours and hours of fun still ahead of us. No matter how many times I do this, I never seem to lose that sense of joy. I mean, sure, maybe one day the enjoyment will wear off, but then I'll just switch and find some other way to pass the time. Right now, I feel as if my ribs are being tied together and pulled tight, and I swear I'm almost salivating at the thought that I'm about to start another of my fun nights. Added to this, I just get the feeling that Richard's going to be particularly entertaining, so in the long run it should pay to tease this opening part out for a while longer.
Not too long, though.
I'm almost squirming in my seat, and I've put the weirdness in the forest to the back of my mind. I was probably just jumpy and easily influenced, that's all.
After a few more minutes, he starts to raise his head. Not all the way, but enough to indicate that he's properly coming around. I watch intently, savoring every detail, and slowly he turns and looks over toward the far end of the room. I imagine he has a lot of questions right now. His mind must be flooding with thoughts, and I find myself wondering whether he's going to be a screamer, a pleader or a plotter. The screamers always start yelling for help pretty fast, and the pleaders just get straight to the begging part. The plotters, meanwhile, try to figure out a smart way to escape. Some people combine two of those roles, and some even do all three. It's fun to guess who'll do what, however, and as Richard raises his head a little more and finally looks straight at me, I make my secret bet.
He's going to be a plotter.
“Hello,” I say with a practised smile. “Nice of you to wake up.”
His eyes look a little bloodshot, but that's quite normal. He stares at me as if he's not quite compos mentis, and then he turns and looks around the room some more. It's as if he's soaking in his surroundings.
“We're in a bunker in the forest,” I explain, hoping that he understands. “There are a few of them. I found this one a few years ago and fixed it up. We're about fifteen feet underground. The bunkers were built for wildlife monitoring, although all of that stopped a long time ago. I know, it doesn't quite make sense, but then again I've never really understood the vagaries of government funding. All you really need to accept, at this stage, is that the bunkers exist and this one is mine. Well, I'm squatting in it, anyway. I've borrowed it for the foreseeable future.”
He looks at me again, and his eyes look a little teary. The spray took a full ten seconds to knock him out, so I guess it's not that surprising that it's taking him longer to come around.
“So this isn't how you expected the night to turn out, is it?” I continue. “I mean, how could it be? No-one in their right mind would expect a party to lead to this. Well, except me, because I'm the one who planned it all, but you get the idea. By any standards, this is a real turn up for the books.”
“Wha...” he murmurs sluggishly.
“Wha?” I reply, mimicking him. “Is that the best you can manage right now?”
He closes his eyes for a moment. When he re-opens them, he seems a little more lucid, although I can tell that he's still struggling to understand exactly what's happening.
“Let me show you something funny,” I say, getting to my feet and heading over to the far side of the room. I have to duck to avoid bumping my head on the large pipe that runs across the ceiling.
Leaning around to the side of the large cabinet, I start sorting through the various boards that I've been storing here. At first I'm not entirely sure which of them to show to Richard first, since I know that they can be a little shocking for the uninitiated, but eventually I pull out the board that I was working on just a few weeks ago. Holding it up, I take a moment to make sure that it's in good order, and I blow some dust from a few of the samples, and then – while taking care to keep the main side turned away – I head back over to the chair.
“This is one of my favorites,” I explain as I sit down, still keeping the board turned away from him. “The others are good, but this one just works better somehow.”
I look down at the samples. Some of them are starting to smell, and I make a mental note to really get on with the job of finding some kind of fixative or preservative.
“Okay, are you ready?” I ask, grinning at Richard and seeing the confused expression on his face. “Don't react immediately, okay? Take a few seconds to really understand the beauty of the whole thing. I bet you've never seen anything like it. Here we go.”
I wait a few seconds longer, just for effect, and then I turn the board so that he can see the fifteen – yes, fifteen! - human mouths that are pinned in place.
“Ta-da!” I exclaim. “I call it my mouth-board!”
Richard's eyes open wider than ever, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. Pleased with his reaction, I peer around and look at the mouths. Each is held in place with three or four large silver pins, which pierce the skin around the edges. I've been careful to not pin the lips themselves, which naturally hang slightly open.
“I cut them off once they're dead,” I explain. “I try to get as much of the lips as possible. My favorites are the ones that still have a little stubble on them.”
I wait, but Richard hasn't said anything yet. I think maybe he's really struggling to take all of this in, so I reach around and point at one set of lips near the bottom of the board.
“This is one of the hairiest,” I point out, “and the funny thing is, it actually came from a woman. Can you believe that? Well, I'm sure you can, it's not that weird, but I still like the little bristles.” I run a fingertip against the thin patch of dark hairs, and a shiver runs up my spine as I feel the hairs poking against my skin. “Now,” I continue, “what you have to realize is that this is a work in progress. My ultimate aim
is to have the entire board covered, until you can't see the board at all. At least, not from the front. At the same time, I don't want to obscure any of the individual mouths, because I think that would be disrespectful. I guess I still have a lot of thinking to do.”
“This isn't real,” Richard stammers.
“Huh?”
“What is this?” he continues, still staring in utter shock at the board. “What are you doing? Where are we? Why are you showing me these things?”
“I'm showing you my collection,” I reply. “Come on, try to keep up a little. This is the mouth-board, but I have lots of other boards too. Pretty much anything you can think of, anything that can be cut off and saved, I -”
“Help!” he screams, and he starts pulling hard on the chair in a desperate attempt to force it free from the bolts that hold it to the floor. “Somebody help me!”
“No-one can hear you,” I reply calmly, still holding the board up for him to see. Honestly, his lack of appreciation is a little irritating. “I've sound-proofed the bunker. I mean, I'm not a professional, so someone standing right outside would be able to hear you, but... We're in the middle of the forest, no-one's going to be right outside. You really ought to focus on just trying to enjoy my hospitality.”
“Help me!” he yells, so loud that I worry he might hurt his throat. “Help!”
“Why don't you focus on looking at my stuff?” I ask.
“You're insane!” he shouts, glaring at me. “Let me out of here right now!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you're here now.”
“Untie these ropes!”
“You've already asked me to do that once,” I point out. “It's highly unlikely that I'd have changed my mind in the ten seconds since then. You -”
“Help me!” he shouts again. “Anybody!”
Sighing, I set the mouth-board down and get to my feet. As Richard continues to yell at the top of his voice, I head to the desk and calmly start preparing the gag. I'd hoped that I wouldn't have to use this tonight, but I've never been the world's greatest judge of character. I adjust the straps so that they're approximately the right size, and then I make my way around behind Richard's chair.
