‘Remember what Victoria said about it disappearing rapidly at the end?’
Megan didn’t hear. She was checking her numbers.
‘It keeps giving me the same answer,’ she said, sounding panicky. ‘How can that be right?’
‘Victoria’s math was better than yours,’ said Chrissie. ‘That’s how. Or you’re using that thing wrong.’
Megan sat beside Alex and stared at her phone.
Chrissie decided now was the right time.
'I want your phone, Megan.'
Megan looked up. 'Are you recording another message?'
'No. Maybe. I don't know. Just give it to me.'
Megan shrugged. 'Tell me when you decide.'
Chrissie rested the pistol on her knee, pointing it squarely at Megan's chest. 'I mean I'm taking your phone, Megan.'
Megan stared at the pistol. 'Are you serious? You're stealing my phone?'
'Give it to me.’
'You've had that gun for days. Why now?'
'Cut the act, Megan. Your team's been larger than mine from day one. I couldn't control you, Carl and Alex with just one pistol. But I can control you just fine.'
'Control me to do what?'
'Whatever I want.'
'Like a slave?'
Chrissie shrugged.
'And Alex?' asked Megan.
Chrissie smirked down at Alex. 'Two slaves are better than one.'
Megan looked bewildered.
No wonder her team are all dead, thought Chrissie. She didn't even see this coming. She's clueless.
Megan clasped her phone like a sacred religious artifact. 'I'll do whatever you want, Chrissie, but please let me keep my phone. It has my family photos on it. My whole life's on here.'
Megan looked pitiful, sitting there beside her broken friend, clasping her last link to home.
Chrissie sighed and lowered the pistol.
Megan sighed too, until she saw Chrissie press the pistol to Alex's forehead.
Chrissie counted down.
'Three...two...’
'NO — wait!' cried Megan, throwing the phone into Chrissie's lap. 'Take it! Take it!'
'Are you sure?' asked Chrissie.
'Please don't shoot him,' begged Megan. 'I'll do whatever you want.'
‘Give me your bag. Put both the icepicks in it. And the knife.’
Megan obeyed, handing Chrissie the bag.
Chrissie leaned against the wall and powered up the phone. 'Good girl. You've got work to do. Get started.'
'What work?' asked Megan.
‘Those bodies. They stink. Move them closer to the ice.’
‘By myself?’
‘Yes, you idiot, by yourself. I’m not going near that Chernobyl lock. Make sure it’s under the bodies.’
Megan got to her feet. ‘What if I get sick?’
Chrissie looked at Megan over the phone. ‘It’s better than getting shot. Ask Victoria if you don’t believe me.’
Megan looked down at Alex.
‘Get started already,’ barked Chrissie. ‘And after you move all the bodies, collect the artifacts from last night. If this junk can really save us, you better hurry up and figure it out.’
Megan obeyed, reluctantly.
Chrissie felt herself warming to the leadership role. Finally her natural skill set was in play.
Sweat ran down her arm.
And none too soon.
#
Chrissie scanned Megan's photos.
Her life looks as boring as bat shit. Nothing but sports and family. Swimming and hockey. It looks like her father was even her swim coach. No wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend.
Chrissie had already listened to everyone’s goodbye messages.
Lame.
Their messages were predictably pathetic. I love you and tell so-and-so that I love her and I'm sorry for this and that and blah, blah, blah.
The regular bullshit.
She'd listened to Megan's message twice. Megan had explained the traps and artifacts, and her theory that avoiding the former and understanding the latter would unlock their means to escape.
She believed it wholeheartedly.
Good. I hope she keeps on believing it.
Because Chrissie had a different idea.
The seed of the idea was planted when Glen died.
Chrissie thought she knew how to escape.
And it was easy.
The last person alive wins.
All she had to do was outlive everyone else in the chamber, and then she’d win.
The contest would be over.
I’m sure this is a contest. A contest for survival. The survival of the fittest.
Chrissie could shoot Alex and Megan right now, but she liked to spread her bets.
She flicked back to a previous photo of Megan.
In the photo, Megan stood in a women’s hockey uniform before a cabinet filled with sporting trophies. Most of the trophies were from swimming competitions. The impressive collection obviously belonged to a young woman used to winning.
I mustn’t underestimate her. She could still be right about the artifacts.
If Megan was right, Chrissie still needed her. But either way, Chrissie had the upper hand.
'What's taking you so long?' shouted Chrissie.
Megan staggered around the ice, exhausted from shifting the rotting corpses. She started to answer, but someone else spoke first.
'We're still alive then.'
Alex sat up.
'Alex!' cried Megan, rushing to kneel and hug him. 'Thank God you're awake.'
That's right, thought Chrissie, watching Megan embrace Alex. Keep him under your spell.
'What happened?' Alex asked.
Megan glanced at Chrissie. 'Chrissie saved us.’
Chrissie nodded. That's what I like to hear. Credit where it's due. Megan's starting to get with the program.
Alex glanced around. 'Is Victoria tied up? Someone should be watching her. She's psychotic!'
'She's not tied up,' said Megan. 'She's dead.'
Alex thought for a moment before pointing at Chrissie. 'You had a pistol, right? When I tackled Victoria I heard you shoot. I thought the bomb had exploded.'
Chrissie drew the pistol from her cargo pocket. 'Lucky I found this or we'd be ashes.'
‘It was Ericsson’s,' Megan explained.
Alex reached up and felt the belt encircling his head. 'Jesus — this belt isn't holding my brain in, is it? How many times did you shoot, Chrissie?'
'Just once.'
'It wasn't Chrissie,' said Megan. 'The wood fell on your head. How do you feel?'
'I’d rather have a headache than be dead.’
'Let me change your dressing,' said Megan.
'We thought you might be finished,' said Chrissie. ‘Brain dead.’
Megan shot Chrissie a nasty look. 'No, we didn't.'
Alex smiled awkwardly between the women. 'What's going on? You're both acting weird.'
Megan replied, 'Chrissie put the gun to your head and said that if I didn't give her my phone she would kill you.'
Chrissie watched Alex's reaction carefully.
His expression betrayed nothing. He sat quietly while Megan checked the wound, turned the thick dressing over and carefully replaced the belt.
When Megan finished, he looked up at Chrissie.
'Okay. Everything makes sense now. You're in charge. We do what you say. What's the plan?'
Chrissie smiled.
Alex knew how to land on his feet.
'I need you to open the jack-in-a-box, Alex.'
'But it might be trapped,' warned Megan.
'Or it might contain food,' countered Chrissie.
‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ declared Megan.
‘Yes, it does,’ said Alex. ‘We’re the guinea pigs. She’s going to sacrifice us to survive.’
'I've got Maddie depending on me,’ said Chrissie. ‘Neither of you have children. You can't understand. I don't have a choice.'
Alex lifted the jack-in-a-box. Megan's belt held the toy shut. He slipped off the belt.
The lid didn’t pop open.
Chrissie let out her breath. 'Now turn the handle.'
Megan shook her head. ‘Don’t, Alex.’
Alex nodded and hurled the box with all his strength. The box spun twice through the air before disintegrating against the far wall.
CRASH!
Springs and splinters and wood and tiny pieces of machinery flew everywhere.
Everyone flinched.
Neither trap nor food appeared. Jack lay like a crushed snail.
'What's next?' asked Alex defiantly. 'I can throw shit at walls all day.'
Chrissie's hand tightened on the pistol. 'What if that was food?'
'Then you'd be eating off the floor like a pig.'
He's testing me.
Chrissie pointed at the large leather sack, another unknown quantity. No one had dared even to move it.
'Megan, open that.'
Megan's mouth fell open. 'This is your plan?’
'Open it,' repeated Chrissie.
'I'll open it,' offered Alex, stepping forward.
‘Don’t move,' ordered Chrissie. 'You had your chance.'
'Wait,' said Megan.
Chrissie raised the pistol and shrieked, ‘JUST OPEN THE FUCKING BAG!’
Megan scuttled over to the bag. She knelt before it, fumbling with the drawstring.
This will teach Alex to fuck with me. If Megan dies it's his fault.
'Faster!' yelled Chrissie.
'I'm trying! It's knotted!'
Chrissie threw the knife at Megan’s feet.
Megan cut the drawstring.
'Slide back the knife,' instructed Chrissie. 'Stand back, Alex. This could be messy.'
Megan slid back the knife, closed her eyes, and then opened the bag.
Nothing happened.
She didn't start choking or convulsing or screaming.
So far so good.
'Put your hand in.'
'Fuck that!' swore Alex. 'That's just evil, Chrissie. Let's just push it over with the umbrella.’
Chrissie leveled the pistol at Alex. 'Megan, put your fucking hand in there before I shoot Alex in the stomach.'
Megan thrust her hand into the bag.
She drew out a fist of gray powder.
'What is that?' asked Alex. 'Old flour?'
Megan studied the powder. 'Maybe. It's just dust now.'
'Put it back,’ said Alex.
'Don't move,' ordered Chrissie.
Megan kept perfectly still. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Taste it.’
Megan screwed up her face.
‘I’ll taste it,’ offered Alex.
Chrissie waved him forward.
Alex knelt beside Megan and took a pinch of her powder. He smelled it.
'This isn't flour,' he said. 'It's another technological development.'
'Is it edible?' asked Chrissie.
‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ replied Alex. ‘It’s cement.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Chrissie hated withdrawal.
She'd barely slept last night.
When was my last full cigarette?
She remembered. It was in the car with Maddie.
Maddie had been coughing again that morning.
Fake coughing again.
'That still smells, Mommy.'
Chrissie had lowered the driver-side window enough to blow the smoke out the window. 'Better?'
'Not really.'
What does she want me to do? Put my head in traffic?
'Mommy, my buckle isn't done up.'
'Mine isn't either, see? We're not going far.'
'Is Daddy picking me up today?'
Not this crap again.
Chrissie didn't answer so Maddie tried another angle.
'Daddy says that smoking gives you yellow teeth.'
Chrissie inhaled deeply on the last of her cigarette and then flicked the butt out the window. 'Smoking doesn't give you yellow teeth, Maddie. Being poor gives you yellow teeth.'
'But Nana's not poor and her teeth are yellow.'
'And does Nana smoke?'
'No.'
'Well, there you go. Smoking doesn't make your teeth yellow.'
Chrissie stopped in the 'No Parking Zone'. In her opinion, a rule not enforced was merely a suggestion. The Day Care Center couldn't write her a parking ticket.
'Ready, Maddie?'
As usual, Maddie was making the process as frustrating as possible.
'What are you doing back there?'
'I can't find the bracelet Daddy sent me.'
Chrissie had resolved not to shout at Maddie in public anymore. Instead, she hissed. 'Hurry up, for God's sake. I'm going to be late.'
'But I need it.'
'You don't need it. They have other toys. Now get out before I get angry.'
Chrissie rubbed her shoulder, pressing down on the fresh nicotine patch. Is this thing even working?
'Wait, Mom. Just wait a second. I really need it.'
You're not going to find it, because I took it.
Maddie's voice sounded close to tears again.
'Maddie, we talked about this. Nobody likes a cry-baby. I'll find your bracelet tonight. Now hurry up.'
Maddie climbed out reluctantly, still looking over her shoulder, dragging her oversized backpack.
Chrissie wasted another five minutes with the frustrating daycare staff. Didn't they realize some people had real jobs?
Her clock showed 6:20 am back in the car.
She put her foot down, risking another speeding ticket.
What the hell? A detour?
The road crew was still setting up. If Maddie hadn't slowed me down, I'd have beaten this.
She lowered her window. 'Hey look, I need to go through? My daughter's sick. It's critical.'
The moronic face under the hardhat answered on autopilot. 'Sorry. Gas leak. You have to detour.'
'Just gas? I'll keep my windows up.'
The man glanced over Chrissie's car. 'Your windows won't stop this kind of gas. If you—’
Chrissie cut him off by closing her window.
She had no time for his drivel. She turned into the detour and tapped her GPS impatiently.
'Come on, come on. Which way?'
Her GPS didn't update. It wasn't even tracking her. Just fucking perfect. No coverage. She would blast somebody over the phone about this later.
Now she had to interpret the cryptic detour signs like a tourist. She looked in the mirror. Another car detoured behind her. At least she wasn't the only one following the yellow brick road.
The detour cut through the industrial precinct. Gray warehouses crammed together either side of the street.
This can't be the right way.
It wasn't.
The street came to a dead-end. Nothing moved but a small yellow forklift.
'Shit!' Chrissie smacked her palms against the steering wheel.
Did I miss a turn?
She checked her mirror. The other car stopped behind her. They were lost too. The stupid road workers had messed up the detour signs!
She flipped open her mobile phone, dialed, and looked in her mirror. The driver behind her climbed from his car.
Stay in your car, idiot. I don't want to talk to you. I'm obviously lost too.
Her phone gave her the 'out of network coverage' message.
She snapped shut her phone as the man tapped her window. Yes, Pal. We've both been led to a dead-end. There's nothing to talk about, so why don't you just get in your car and leave me alone.
She rolled down the window enough to say, 'Looks like we've been railroaded into the boondocks, huh? I'm going to just make my own way out of here. Good luck.'
The man didn't answer.
He held up a photograph.
He studied the photograph and then studied her.
Chrissie shut the window.
Creepy. I'm getting out of here.
She put the car in drive, took off the handbrake, and hit the gas.
CRUNCH!
She didn't go forward.
She went up.
The entire car jolted under her. She was being lifted upward.
The forklift.
The yellow forklift was lifting her car off the road! Before she could even panic she was eye-level with the man at her door. He pressed the photo to her window.
It's me. It's a picture of me. Oh, my God, he's got a gun!
Chrissie looked again.
It wasn't a gun.
A drill?
He pushed the thick drill-bit against her window.
Brrrrrrrrrrrr
Transparent shavings spun away from the drill-bit.
He'd drill through in seconds!
She hit the horn and held it on, hoping to attract help.
Crack!
The drill bit punctured her window, stabbing toward her face. Chrissie scrambled into the passenger seat.
Thump
The man dropped the drill onto her car roof.
He pushed a plastic tube through the hole. With an ear-piercing HISSSSSSSSSS, white gas blasted from the tube.
Gas! They're gassing me! She held her breath, but she'd already inhaled some. The gas tasted like hair spray.
I have to get out.
Her car only had two doors. The man blocked the driver's door, the forklift blocked the other.
The trunk! She could escape through the trunk.
Gas now filled the car. She groped blindly beside the seat. She found two levers. Which opened the trunk? She yanked up both and then crawled between the seats.
She never reached the trunk.
It felt like time travel.
Like the time she’d needed ankle surgery under general anesthetic. She experienced no sensation of passing time. Just one second in a gas-filled car and the next in an ice-filled chamber.
She hadn't told the others about her abduction.
She didn't want to answer their questions: 'Why did you stop the car? Why didn't you just circle back and keep on driving? Why didn't you hear the forklift approaching?’
She didn’t tell them because all those questions had the same answer: 'Because I was late for work.'
#
Frustrated, Chrissie dropped the Rubik’s cube back on the calendar.
Stupid thing. I bet there's a scrambled Rubik’s cube under every serial killer's bed.
MELT: A Psychological Thriller Page 23
