Step Closer

by Scott Cawthon

  He heard Pete heave into the toilet and Chuck stepped back and cringed. Pete was sick, he figured. Chuck’s lip curled a little. That’s what he deserves for trying to scare me yesterday. Then he let that thought go as Pete heaved again, stepping back and leaning against the wall to wait. Chuck knew Dad’s leaving had changed everyone. Pete was angry all the time. Mom kept searching for new things to make her happy. As for himself? He just tried to keep busy. He liked to hang out with his friends, he liked to play online video games, and he was pretty interested in puzzles.

  Yeah, middle school sucked, but going to school was just a part of life you had to get through. Every once in a while, he felt challenged by a project, then he’d complete it and get bored again until something else caught his interest. He got why Pete hated him half the time, because Mom made Pete watch over him so much. He tried not to be annoying. But everything that came out of his mouth seemed to annoy Pete. Maybe it was just like that with all brothers? Chuck didn’t know because he didn’t have another brother to compare to.

  The toilet flushed. A minute later, Pete swung open the door. A wave of serious stink wafted at Chuck and he waved a hand in front of his nose. Pete didn’t look so good. His face was so pale his freckles stood out like tiny bugs on his cheeks. His dark hair stuck up in different directions like he’d jammed his finger in a socket and shocked himself, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “Geez, Pete, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” Pete spat out. “Something didn’t agree with me. Probably something from that stupid Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza.”

  Chuck didn’t think so. “Do you want me to call Mom?”

  Pete shoved him aside. “No, I’m not a little baby like you, Chuck the Chump.”

  Chuck felt his shoulders stiffen. He hated that stupid nickname. “Whatever,” he mumbled. He slammed and locked the bathroom door behind him.

  Pete chugged an energy drink with triple caffeine while running to his bio class, but he still felt drained and exhausted. He’d had some pretty crazy dreams last night. He couldn’t remember much, only that there had been all this blood. It was everywhere, pouring all over him, down his face and over his chest and arms. When he’d jerked awake, his blankets were tangled around his body. He’d fallen to the floor trying to unwind the blankets just so he could rush to the bathroom to blow chunks.

  He shivered just thinking about it, but he rolled his shoulders and shoved that not-so-fun memory away. He probably should have stayed home, but calling his mom at work would have freaked her out and she’d be asking him a million questions. He’d decided just to get through the day somehow. He loped into his classroom five minutes after the bell.

  “Mr. Dinglewood, you are late,” droned Mr. Watson in a bored voice. “Note?”

  Pete snatched off his hat and shook his head in a negative. He took an empty stool at the workstation in the far back, next to a kid in a black leather jacket and purple hair. Pete zipped his hat into his pack and set it on the floor, then wiped some sweat off his forehead. He shifted awkwardly on the stool. Why couldn’t he seem to keep still?

  “As I was saying, class, we will be dissecting a frog today,” said Mr. Watson. “You have all been quizzed on the safety rules for the tools and procedure. You will work as a team with your partner to fill out the lab sheet. I expect you all to be mature young people. I know that will be hard for some of you, but there is no funny business here or you will fail. You do not want to fail. You have thirty minutes starting now.”

  When they both turned toward the dead frog sprawled out in front of them, Leather Jacket Guy leaned forward. “Dude … what’s the matter with you?”

  Pete shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Leather Jacket Guy gave him a yeah, right look and picked up a small scalpel.

  Ten minutes in, Pete yawned. His mouth was dry and his hand was starting to shake from the precise cutting.

  Leather Jacket Guy smirked. “Hey, check this out,” he said, and poked the frog in its eye with the scalpel. A weird liquid gushed out. “Sick, right?” Then he shoved the blade into the frog’s arm and sliced it off. He picked up the tiny hand and waved it at Pete.

  Pete shook his head. “I need a break.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll stop messing around.” He held out the little frog hand. “Here, let’s shake on it.”

  The kid chuckled as Pete pushed off the stool and headed for the classroom water fountain. He took a long couple of drinks. Dang, he was thirsty. And he was starving! His stomach decided to growl then, since he’d skipped breakfast trying to make it to school on time.

  He was heading back to his workstation when Mr. Watson stopped him. “Everything going well, Mr. Dinglewood?” he asked.

  Mr. Watson was shorter than him, with white hair and a white mustache. Glasses hung on the tip of his red nose, as if somehow he was looking down on Pete—even though that was physically impossible.

  “Yep, things are fine,” Pete blurted.

  Mr. Watson frowned. “Glad to hear it. Now, please return to your dissection lab. You of all people cannot afford to fail.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Pete muttered, whirling around.

  It all went downhill from there.

  Pete took a quick, long stride and his foot landed on his pack strap instead of landing securely on the floor. That was when he slipped, losing his footing, falling backward. He felt his toe connect with Leather Jacket Guy in a brutal way. The kid yelped, and Mr. Watson shouted something in reply.

  Pete landed on his back, his breath knocked out of him. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes he spotted the kid’s scalpel in the air. The small knife must have flown up on impact. But then, in disbelief, Pete saw the scalpel lose gravity and fall toward his face, the point of the tiny blade coming straight for his eye.

  Adrenaline spurted through his body. With the quick reflexes that came from years of playing football, Pete swatted the tool away like a deadly insect just as the blade was about to blind him. The scalpel hit the stand of the workstation and fell to the floor.

  “Holy …” Leather Jacket Guy hissed.

  “Dear Lord, Peter, are you all right?” said Mr. Watson, hovering over him like a frightened parent. “Don’t move, I’ll call the nurse. Class, stay seated! Nobody move! Emergency procedure, please! Out of the way!”

  The class ignored Mr. Watson and crowded around Pete as his chest rose up and down with heavy breaths. He didn’t think he’d hit his head, but he felt dizzy and kind of out of it. Not to mention mortified.

  Someone whispered, “Way to go, Dingleberry.”

  A couple of kids giggled. “Yeah, what a loser. Now we know why he was kicked off the football team.”

  Pete slowly sat up as his face flushed red. Dang, there was no doubt he should have stayed home.

  Somehow, Pete managed to get through the rest of the school day. The nurse had checked him out and given him an ice pack and sent him on his way. It was a relief when the final bell rang and he walked quickly around slow-moving kids, through the doors, and down the school’s front steps. When he checked his phone, he saw he had a new text from his mother. He rubbed a hand over his face.

  What now? Couldn’t he get through one day without her asking him to do something? Yeah, he loved his mom but now that she didn’t have his dad to help her, Pete was always on call. She better not ask him to take Chuck out again. He wouldn’t do it. He’d say “Nope, sorry, I’m sick.” He clicked on the text:

  Hi Pete, after school could you swing by the butcher and pick up my order of pork chops?

  He responded flatly: Fine.

  She responded: Thank you! (Heart emoji).

  Pete popped a wad of watermelon gum into his mouth and set off walking to the butcher shop, which was a couple of blocks out of his way. He wanted to get his license, and that was the plan six months ago, before the divorce, but now everyone seemed to have forgotten.

  He finally arrived at Barney’s But
cher Shop during a lull. No cars were parked in front, which was perfect, because he could get the order and get out fast. Pete pushed through the glass door, and no one was even behind the counter. Sale prices were posted on the glass and some old rock music was playing from the back.

  He walked to the display case of raw meats, scanning left, then right.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Yo, I got an order to pick up.”

  There wasn’t a bell to ring, so he stood around for another minute waiting for someone to help him. When no one came, he’d about had it. He knocked on the glass counter a couple of times. “Hellloooo!”

  Finally, he took matters into his own hands, walking behind the tall display case. “Hey, anyone here or what?”

  On the other side of the case was a long butcher table with watery, red liquid on it. The overpowering scent of meat and blood made his guts swish around again. The gum in his mouth turned sour. He put a hand to his stomach as if to ease it. I will not blow chunks. I will not blow chunks, he thought. He looked around to distract himself, but all he saw were pictures of butchered animals. When he craned his head in another direction, he was surrounded by rows of lethal-looking knives and cleavers hanging above his head. A new wave of dizziness washed over him. He set his hand out for balance on the butcher table, felt the watery liquid on his fingertips, and broke out in a cold sweat.

  Wham.

  A huge meat cleaver slammed down into the wood, barely missing his wrist. Pete shot backward, protecting his hand against his chest, knocking into the display case with his pack. He gazed at the meat cleaver embedded in the wood. The handle vibrated in the air as if the force had been incredibly strong. His gaze whipped up toward the hanging tools.

  One empty hook was swaying slowly. The meat cleaver had fallen from the hook. Fallen? He didn’t think something could fall so forcefully on its own, but what else could have happened?

  “Hey, what are you doing back here?” A stocky, older man wearing a bloody apron waddled into the area, wiping his hands with a towel. “Employees only. Can’t you read the signs?”

  Pete pointed to the cleaver stuck in the butcher table. “I-I—”

  “Ah, nah. You can’t be playing with my knives. You trying to get me in trouble, kid? Health department will have my license.”

  “I-I …”

  “Spit it out. What’s the matter?”

  “I didn’t touch anything. It-it just fell.”

  The old man narrowed his eyes. “No way these knives fall from those hooks, kid. If that were the case, I’d be missing a lot more fingers than the ones I already cut off.” The old man raised his left hand to show a missing pinky and a ring finger with its top lopped off. The skin looked smooth on the two oddly shaped finger stumps.

  When Pete started to shake, the man laughed. “Scared? Never seen someone with missing fingers before? Well, keep your fingers and hands away from sharp objects, kid, and you should be just fine. Maybe.” He cracked up again.

  Pete swallowed hard. “Just here … to pick up an order for … Dinglewood.”

  The butcher waved a hand toward the back room. “Yeah, got that in the fridge. Chops, right? I’ll be right with you.”

  Pete whipped open the front door to his house and slammed it as soon as he’d stormed through. He tossed his pack on the floor and strode to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge, threw the chops in, and grabbed a soda. He shut the door with his hip and chugged the whole can. The cola soothed his throat and the sweetness calmed him a little.

  What a freaky day.

  He took off his cap and ran his hand over his head. He just needed to eat, rest, and forget about everything else. No more crazy dreams, or weird kids with scalpels, and definitely no more butcher shops. His mom was going to have to pick up the meat herself from now on. He glanced out the kitchen window when he heard the backyard gate creak open. Chuck pushed his bike in and leaned it on the side of the house before coming through the side door.

  Pete felt his irritation bubble up. “Are you crazy?” he asked Chuck. “If Mom finds out you biked to school—”

  “Someone hogged the bathroom this morning and I was late for the bus.”

  “—And I didn’t pick you up, I’m busted.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Yeah right! You always snitch.”

  Chuck rolled his eyes. “I didn’t tell her about you forcing me into the maintenance room, did I?”

  “Not yet. But I saw how you wanted to tell her last night at dinner. You thought you were real funny.”

  Chuck held up his hands in exasperation. “Well, I didn’t! That has to count for something.”

  Pete shrugged. “Still, you can’t be trusted.”

  “Fine, I should just tell her to get you busted!! How ’bout that?”

  “See? You are a snitch!”

  “Shut up, you are!”

  “You shut up, you little twerp!”

  Chuck gave in. “Whatever, jerkwad,” he muttered. He grabbed a loaf of bread from the bread box, then the peanut butter from the pantry, then the jelly from the fridge. He pulled a butter knife from the drawer and started to make himself a sandwich.

  When he saw Pete eyeing his sandwich, he lifted his eyebrows. “What? You want one?”

  Pete hesitated. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, make your own.”

  Pete held a hand to his stomach, debating if he could handle it.

  “You still sick or something?” Chuck wanted to know.

  He shrugged. “Just an off day.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  Pete snapped, “Don’t worry about it. None of your business.” No freaking way would he tell anyone else about the embarrassing incident in bio class and the flying cleavers. Especially not his twerp brother who would run and tell Mom and freak her out.

  “Fine.” Chuck finished making the sandwich and slid it across the counter toward Pete. A peace offering?

  Pete lifted his eyebrows in surprise as Chuck began making another.

  “You know Mom filled out that organ donor paperwork for us,” Chuck said, like it was casual conversation.

  Pete’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”

  Chuck nodded, flashing his braces, looking almost pleased. “She said you’d come around to the idea eventually.”

  “But I told her not to!”

  “Since when does Mom ever listen to what we want?” Chuck took a bite of his sandwich and kept talking with his mouth full. “It’s not a big deal, anyway. You’re dead when they take your organs. Your life or soul or whatever is gone. What do I care? Why do you even care so much?”

  Pete didn’t even know where to start. Here he was, trying to save his body parts all day long, and his mom was trying to give them away! “It’s—it’s just a stupid idea!”

  Chuck gave him a curious look. “Wait. You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  “No, shut up!”

  “I looked it up. You want to know how they cut into you and take your organs? It’s so cool! They split you open, like in a ‘Y’ incision, then your guts are all hanging out. Then they remove everything piece by piece.” He made a face, with his eyes rolled back and his tongue hanging out. “Your intestines are super long, right? So they just pull them out like a long rope of link sausage.” Chuck made a motion with his hands like he was pulling out a long piece of rope from his stomach.

  “I said to shut up!” Pete grabbed the sandwich and fled to his room.

  The next morning, Pete sipped from his triple caffeine energy drink as he walked to school. The sun was out, which improved the walk a lot. Today had to be better than yesterday, he figured. Last night he had weird dreams again, but luckily the details drifted away as soon as he woke up. And there hadn’t been any spewing his guts into the toilet, so that was a score.

  He’d barely spoken to his mom last night or this morning. Why had she signed him up as a donor when he’d told her not to? He didn’t even want to eat the pork chops he’d picked up last nig
ht; all they did was remind him that he’d nearly lost his hand.

  When he passed a construction site, he paused a moment. He looked across the street and decided against crossing with all the busy traffic—instead, he’d go right under the scaffolding. Pete scanned the boards above him, making sure there weren’t any weird tools that could fall on his head. He heard motorized saws and drills sounding from inside the site but nothing coming from the scaffolding. When he figured he was safe, he relaxed a little.

  Just in case, he walked cautiously under the boards, with quick glances above him. One thing he’d learned recently was that he couldn’t be too careful. As he neared the end of the scaffolding, he took a breath of relief.

  Piece of cake.

  From inside the site, he heard a funny buzz and then a harsh clank. The hairs on Pete’s arms stood up.

  “What the hell—watch out!” someone shouted.

  Pete spotted something moving fast in his peripheral vision. His head turned in time to see a circular buzz saw blade flying in his direction, reminding him of a flying Frisbee with sharp teeth.

  His jaw went slack. His adrenaline spiked. He dove backward as the round blade flew through the air toward him. He held up his hand in defense, like maybe he could catch it, then he realized that was the worst thing to do and tried to pull his hand out of the path of the flying blade. He thought he was home free when he felt it slice into his flesh just above his wrist, followed by a sharp stinging.

  He crashed to the ground, his drink pouring over him. Air gushed out of his lungs. His eyes were wide as he lifted his arm, watching in shock as blood poured down his skin.

  “Oh man, kid! Someone call 911!” A construction worker rushed to his side, grabbing on to his helmet as if not sure what to do with his hands. “Let me get a clean rag. Just don’t move!” The worker ran off, and other people started to gather around.