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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
MEGAN
Chapter One
Megan nearly gagged.
The smell was revolting.
Oh, my God. It smells like someone died in here.
Covering her nose, she checked three cubicles before she found one with any toilet paper. She wiped the seat twice.
She had to rush. She’d only signed up two customers this morning. She was way behind her minimum quota of ten customers per day.
Her phone beeped loudly. It echoed around the bathroom.
Why does it always do that when I’m on the toilet?
At least it wasn’t a call.
A little calendar reminder popped up:
‘Dad’s birthday in 4 days!’
Her father was turning forty-five this year.
If I sign up three more customers today, at least I can buy his iPad.
Protecting her fingers with more toilet paper, she flushed and escaped the graffiti-covered cubicle.
I’m not washing my hands with those revolting faucets.
Instead, she used the last squirt of hand sanitizer from her bag. She just began exterminating germs when—
CRASH!
—a cleaner’s cart ram raided the toilet door.
Mops, buckets and colorful bottles bounced on the cart like startled passengers. The cart barely fit through the door.
About time, thought Megan, offering a quick smile. The cleaner wore a big white mask, so Megan couldn't see if she returned the smile.
Masks should be standard issue in here.
As much as she wanted to escape the filthy bathroom, she needed to use the mirror.
No make-up. No tattoos. No perfume. No bright hair. No slouching. No facial piercings, blah, blah, blah....
She was supposed to appear attractive, fresh-faced, trustworthy and wholesome. In Megan’s case, that meant wearing her blond hair back in a high ponytail and smiling a lot. The only real difference to her normal routine was the makeup. Her Dad said she looked ‘lovely’ without makeup, but she snuck it on for work anyway.
Today she wore her skinny-leg jeans, bright orange Nike sneakers and a slim fit, powder-blue woolen pullover. She wasn't supposed to cover her employer’s T-shirt logo, but she wasn't shivering in the mall’s air conditioning all day for any cause.
Okay. Back to work, Megan. Dad’s iPad isn’t going to buy itself.
The cleaner pulled down her paper mask.
'You're a Greenpeace girl, right?'
She had a strong accent.
'Not Greenpeace today,’ replied Megan. ‘It's still a great cause.’
Megan watched the gray-haired cleaner pull on latex gloves.
She slapped her gloves together, making little powder swirls. 'We need people like you to save the world.'
Oh, no, Megan realized. A leech!
A leech right here in the bathroom!
Leeches lived to complain about everything wrong with the world. They used charity collectors like Megan to vent their frustrations. Megan needed to escape before the woman latched on securely.
I'm getting out of here. If I don’t escape this place I’ll puke, and then she’ll really have something to clean up.
'Thank you,' replied Megan. 'But I just sign up the monthly donations. I'd better get back to work. I can see you’ve got your hands full in here.’
The cart’s giant bin looked almost empty.
No wonder this place is such a pigsty.
The cleaner waved at the door. 'You're wasting your time out there. They're all dead. It's too late for them. They’re all as dead as yesterday's bacon.'
Megan's internal alarms went off. Everybody’s dead? Okay, that's a really weird thing to say. And why did she block the door with her cart? How am I supposed to get out?
Megan pointed at the door, calculating the fastest route past this weirdo to the exit.
'Sorry to be a pain,' she began, 'but I need to reach the door.'
The cleaner shook her head. 'Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear me? They’re all dead out there. All of them. Listen, can you hear anyone out there? You're only safe in here with me.'
Oh, she’s mentally handicapped, realized Megan, forcing a gentle smile.
Megan had mistaken the thick way she spoke as an accent.
Probably dementia. I should have realized earlier. Shopping Centers sometimes employed 'special needs' people to support the community.
Megan was all for that, but not when they trapped her in a filthy bathroom. Where was this one's handler?
Probably waiting outside the door, too afraid of the smell.
'Ah, hello?' Megan called toward the door. 'I think we need some help in here!'
Megan smiled at the woman, showing everything was fine. She didn't want this one to start shrieking or banging her head against anything.
The woman raised an eyebrow at Megan. Her eyes looked as cold, dark and vacant as a shark’s.
Megan tested the weight of her handbag. Why isn't this woman's support worker intervening? This is ridiculous. They should keep an eye on these people. Disabled or not, I'm swinging this bag at her head if she comes at me.
Megan pointed at the door and spoke slowly and clearly. 'I have to get out. My friend is waiting.'
The woman answered just as clearly, mimicking Megan’s tone. 'Your friend is dead with the rest of them. I saw her die. She’s lying on the floor out there.'
She's not handicapped at all! She speaks just fine.
'Look,' said Megan angrily. 'Just move that stupid cart! What you're saying isn't funny. Just do your job and leave me alone. This place is a pigsty.'
'Exactly,' said the woman, pointing at the dirty floor. 'Look how people act when no one is watching. They treat the world like a public toilet. We shouldn’t need people like you, but we do. I’m afraid you’re our last chance.’
Where is everybody? wondered Megan. Why isn’t anyone using this toilet? I wish someone would just come in.
The crazy woman kept ranting, but Megan wasn’t listening.
To hell with this. I'll climb over that cart if I have to. I'm getting away from this crazy bitch!
Megan pulled out her phone, trying one last tactic before she risked physical contact with this nut job.
'Do you like your job?’ Megan threatened. ‘Because I'm calling your boss right now. You will lose your job. Got it? Understand?'
The woman glared at Megan like a demented schoolmistress, but flipped open the bin lid and shoved the cart away from the door. She sprayed disinfectant on her dirty cleaning rag and began cleaning the hand drier.
That shut her up.
Megan was halfway to the door when the woman attacked her.
The woman sprayed disinfectant straight into Megan's eyes.
Oh, my God! She sprayed me! It's burning!
<
br /> Megan jerked back, horrified, shrieking in surprise and instant intense pain.
But then it got worse.
Blinded, Megan felt the cleaner shoving the dirty cleaning rag in her face.
She's trying to kill me!
Megan punched out, feeling her fist hit the woman's face. She windmilled both her arms, feeling her fists thumping down onto the woman's head and shoulders.
It didn't work.
She’s not letting go!
Megan tried tearing the rag from her face, but it felt glued to her skin. And now Megan's arms felt weak.
The demented cleaner seemed to be waiting for this moment.
She suddenly pushed Megan backward.
Megan's tailbone struck the cart as the rag extinguished her ability to stand. She felt her body collapsing, but instead of falling down, she tumbled backward!
The woman was tipping her backward into the bin!
Megan's blurry world spun 180 degrees before her face plowed into filthy trash. The last thing she remembered was someone folding her legs into the bin.
Chapter Two
Megan felt acid burning her face.
Oh, God — my eyes!
She came fully alert, frantically rubbing her eyes.
A shape dashed toward her.
The cleaner!
‘Get away!’ shrieked Megan, covering her face and rolling away.
‘I’m trying to help you,’ hissed the woman. ‘You need to get up. If you lie still you’ll freeze.’
This wasn’t the cleaner. Megan uncovered her face.
Up close this new woman looked less blurry.
Less blurry and more frightened.
Large puffs of breath mingled between them as the woman helped Megan sit up.
This woman looked nothing like the demented cleaner. Maybe thirty-five, she had brown, straight hair and a face like a model.
She looked important.
Her Prada business skirt and jacket looked better suited to a boardroom meeting than crouching terrified beside Megan.
'Where am I?' Megan demanded, grabbing the woman’s arm. 'It’s freezing in here! Where are we?’
‘I’m Chrissie,’ said the woman. ‘What happened to your eyes?’
‘The cleaner sprayed me!’ cried Megan. ‘She’s crazy! Where are we? Is this the hospital?’
Megan’s eyesight was improving, but nothing looked familiar. The ceiling here had fluorescent lights like a hospital, but they were covered in security mesh like inside a prison.
This isn’t a hospital. This is bad. I’m in a bad place.
Still holding her arm, Megan felt the woman’s entire body shudder. The steam on her breath made her resemble a machine starting up.
'Just listen,’ she said. ‘We've been abducted. All of us. We're all going to die if—’
She broke off, listening. Megan heard other voices, panicking voices, close and terrified.
Abducted? thought Megan. The cleaner abducted me. What does she want? Where the hell am I?
'Stay here,' the woman, Chrissie, instructed. ‘I’ll come back and get you.’
‘Wait!’ Megan snatched her arm, terrified she might never come back. They seemed to be in a room for storing something huge. Something that needed to be kept freezing cold.
'What's this thing?' Megan pointed.
'Ice,' hissed Chrissie, jerking her arm from Megan's grasp.
Megan realized she’d been gripping Chrissie with all her strength.
Chrissie tried to stand, slipped on her Gucci heels, caught her balance on the wall and then rushed around the ‘ice’.
Ice? thought Megan, looking up and up and up. An iceberg?
She rose unsteadily and wiped her eyes.
The walls are steel. So is the floor. I’m inside some kind of giant freezer.
She studied the ice and shivered.
It’s a giant dome made of ice. They’re storing things in there.
Dark shapes riddled the ice.
Megan peered closer.
They’re bodies! It’s full of dead human bodies!
She spun away, horrified, imagining herself inside. After a few moments she wasn’t so sure of what she saw.
Were they really bodies? Some of them looked too small. I have to know for sure.
She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked from shape to shape.
She couldn’t tell.
She shuddered. Oh please, God. Please don’t let them be storing dead people in here. Please don’t let that happen to me. Please let me get out of here alive.
Something smelled bad.
She sniffed her sleeve.
It’s me. I smell like the cleaner’s filthy bin.
'It's been a full day,' said a new voice.
Megan spun, praying it wasn’t the demented cleaner.
Instead she found a woman abducted from the cover of a gardening magazine. In her late fifties, this new woman wore a loose floral dress under a long gray cardigan. Over the cardigan she wore a green and white striped gardening apron. She shuffled from one foot to the other in a pair of white rubber gardening shoes. Her short hair was completely gray. The deeply set lines in her face were used to frowning, not smiling.
'It's been about twenty-four hours since they took us,’ the woman said, rubbing her large-knuckled hands together.
Most of her fingers didn’t look straight.
She must have arthritis, thought Megan.
Megan stepped toward her, but grabbed the wall for balance. My legs are numb. It’s arctic in here!
'I'm Victoria,' offered the woman, reaching out to help Megan.
‘I’m all right,’ said Megan, finding her balance.
Victoria pulled her cardigan collar tightly around her neck. ‘You’re shivering, girl. You need to keep moving. If you don’t move you’ll freeze.’
Megan began shuffling on the spot like Victoria.
'Were you abducted too, Victoria?'
'Yes,' Victoria answered, frowning at the ice. 'Those awful men wearing those dreadful masks. Did your men wear masks?'
Megan tried to wrap her arms even more tightly around herself. 'No. I was abducted by a woman. A cleaner. She wore a mask, but I saw her face.'
Victoria nodded. ‘Mine wore those old gasmasks. It was horrible. But it's done with now. We just have to see what they want. It can’t be long now. Keep moving, Megan. Don’t stop.’
Megan started shuffling again. ‘Wait, how do you know my name?'
Victoria shot a hand out from under her armpit. 'It’s on your tag. Chrissie checked your tag.’
‘What tag?’
Victoria nodded at Megan's chest. 'They tagged us. All of us. Like cattle.'
Megan checked. Something felt hard through her pullover.
‘It’s on a chain,’ explained Victoria.
Megan checked under her collar. She's right. And here’s the tag.
The short necklace barely allowed her to glimpse the tag. All she could read was the word EXIT and four numbers.
3202
It's too short. I'll have to take it off to read the rest.
Her shaking fingers searched the chain's length twice. She couldn't find the clasp. She tried pulling it over her head.
It’s too small.
'I can't take it off,' Megan said. ‘My fingers are too cold.’
Victoria displayed her own tag. 'None of us can. We're supposed to leave them on.'
'Show me.'
Victoria leaned closer.
Megan read:
NAME: STANLEY, VICTORIA
DOB:04/18/57
EXIT:7036
'What does EXIT mean?'
'I don't know,' answered Victoria. 'All our numbers are different.’
‘Why are they even tagging us?’ asked Megan.
‘We don’t know,’ said Victoria.
On the tag’s flip side were three words:
DO NOT REMOVE
Megan tilted her head back. 'What’s mine say?'
V
ictoria squinted. ‘It says your name is Megan Somerset and you were born on the ninth of April, 1995. It says ‘do not remove’ on the back, like mine.’
Victoria tucked her own tag away. 'We can’t take them off anyway. Carl nearly scalped himself trying.'
'Who's Carl?’
'The big fellow. A postman. I’ll get him.’
Victoria pointed behind Megan. 'Is that your bag?’
Megan glanced back. My bag! How did I miss that?
She crouched over it. What kind of an abductor returns their victim's handbag?
She rummaged through her bag, searching, searching...
Got it! My iPhone!
Had they overlooked her phone? Could they be that inept?
Her phone said it was Tuesday, 11:08 am.
I’ve really lost an entire day.
She frowned over the screen.
No signal.
She tried dialing anyway.
Stupid fingers. Stop shaking.
She could barely hold the phone steady. She dialed her Dad’s number first.
Nothing.
She moved the phone around, praying for even a single bar of signal.
Nothing.
She kicked the wall. Maybe the signal can’t penetrate these walls. I’d better save the battery.
She turned off her phone and hid it under her shirt. The phone felt like ice against her skin.
Gosh — that’s cold!
She heard footsteps, two sets, and then a cough.
MELT: A Psychological Thriller Page 1
