Pizza Delivery

by Robert Kent

  She might not have made any noise, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He dragged her behind the shelves and held her still.

  A second light flooded in through the cellar’s opening, not a moonbeam, but the beam of a flashlight.

  It swept up and down the cellar and all along the back wall. The flashlight’s beam hit the shelves and splintered into light fragments, illuminating the cellar wall just above Brock’s head.

  He clenched his eyes shut and wished the man away.

  Oh God, this is it. In a minute, that light will find me, maybe it's already happened and he’s just toying with me. He’ll see who’s hiding down here in his cellar and he’ll come down the stairs and that’ll be that.

  Brock opened his eyes and saw the beam’s light was still positioned directly over his head. And then the light moved on, searching the far right corner of the cellar.

  In his arms, Maggie squirmed. He could feel her heart beating fast and her breath coming in tiny, choked gasps, but she made no attempt to cry out or break free of his grip.

  Beside her, the pizza box lay open on its side and the few remaining pieces of pizza had tumbled out onto the cellar floor. He could still smell the faint aroma of pepperoni and cheese and wondered if the man in the doorway could smell it too.

  Of course he could. How could he not?

  In a moment, he'd smell the pizza or he'd see them, if he hadn't already, and either way it amounted to the same thing: he was going to come down here.

  Brock looked around. The shelves in front of him were filled with cans.

  In the corner, barely visible, even in all the new light, was a stack of cardboard boxes. Propped up against the wall was what looked like a volleyball net wrapped around two metal poles. Against another wall, two old mattresses leaned against one another.

  He needed a weapon, but down here there wasn't so much as a baseball bat or a golf club.

  The silhouette in the doorway shifted.

  A new beam of moonlight shown down and fell upon a second set of shelves to Brock’s left, and when it did, Brock saw that on the bottom shelf was a tackle box.

  On top of the tackle box was a long covered object, and he thought he knew what it was. On his weekends of visitation, his father had occasionally taken him fishing and when they gutted the fish they'd used a long curved knife to remove its scales and cut out its insides.

  The long object on the top of the tackle box was enclosed in a leather sheath, but Brock felt certain that once he removed the sheath, he would uncover a long, curved knife. It was not as handy as a gun might've been, but if he could cut out the insides of a fish with such a knife, he could probably cut out the insides of a crazy asshole.

  Of course, Brock knew he didn’t have a chance in hell. A fishing knife was all good and well, but Mr. Crazy Asshole was carrying an axe, and that could reach a lot farther and cut a lot faster.

  Not to mention, he was crazy. In a fight, that would probably be an advantage.

  He couldn't reach the knife without moving and he wouldn’t move until he had to.

  If Mr. Crazy Asshole came down those steps, Brock wasn’t going to wait until he started chopping. He'd shove Maggie off his lap and grab the knife.

  If he could do it real quiet like, maybe he could bury it in Mr. Crazy Asshole before he knew Brock was down here. Probably not, but having a plan was better than sitting here helpless and waiting to die.

  When Mr. Crazy Asshole came thumping down the cellar steps, there wasn’t going to be any talking. Brock wasn’t going to be able to reason with him and Mr. Crazy Asshole wasn’t going to be convinced to put the axe down.

  And you know what? I almost want you to come down here. I want to see the look on your face when I shove that knife into you.

  Every muscle was tense and hard. He was almost ready to shove Maggie aside and grab the knife now.

  And then an amazing thing happened.

  The beam of the flashlight swept the cellar one last time, then the silhouette in the doorway vanished. He didn't close the door and he never spoke a word, he just walked away and let the full brightness of the moon fill the cellar.

  It’s a trick. It’s got to be. Crazy assholes don’t just walk away.

  “Is he gone?” Maggie whispered.

  “Shhhh,” Brock hissed.

  13

  THERE WERE WOODS BEHIND THE house, Brock remembered. He’d seen them when he’d first come into the backyard, chuckling at the lame music and taking in the sights, wandering into the middle of a real-life horror movie carrying a pizza, just a happy-go-lucky-dumb-fuck.

  Brock supposed Mr. Crazy Asshole might've gone off into the woods in search of them. Might've.

  It was always possible Mr. Crazy Asshole had done himself in, but Brock no longer held out much hope of that.

  He’d be out there someplace, looking for them just as quiet as could be; Mr. Sneaky Fox on the prowl, searching with his flashlight in one hand and keeping his big, long-handled surprise clutched behind his back with the other.

  Brock hadn't moved since the flashlight withdrew. His eyes were fixed on the open cellar door, only occasionally flitting toward the sheathed knife on top of the tackle box, as though to assure himself it was still there.

  The silhouette in the moonlight hadn't reappeared, but Brock knew that sooner or later, it would. Mr. Crazy Asshole might check the woods and maybe the house, but sooner or later he’d think to himself, what the hell, let’s give that cellar another look.

  Maggie was still sitting in his lap and his right leg was beginning to fall asleep. He'd taken his hand from her mouth awhile ago and she hadn't made a sound since they’d last seen her wacky pop.

  She’d laid her head against his chest and under different circumstances, he might've thought she'd fallen asleep, were it not for the steady pounding of her heart, which he could feel through her back.

  They couldn’t stay here, but where was there to go? He wished he had his phone, not that it would do him much good with the battery dead. He supposed they could use the phone in the house, but if he went in there he’d be as crazy as Mr. Crazy Asshole himself.

  “Maggie?” He spoke in barely a whisper.

  “Yes?” She was also whispering.

  “Can you get up?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Maggie, you have to get up.”

  She pulled her head from his chest and was slow in getting to her feet. “Are we going somewhere?”

  Brock nodded and now there was enough light for her to see him nod.

  “Where?”

  “Do you know what’s on the other side of the woods behind your house?”

  Maggie considered and shook her head.

  “Can you run?”

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “You have to run.” He spoke firmly, but he didn't chance raising his voice. “You see the stairs over there?”

  Maggie turned to look at the stairs leading up out of the cellar and nodded.

  “When I tell you to, we have to run up those stairs and into the woods as fast as we can. And we can’t make any noise when we do. Do you understand?”

  Again, she nodded to show she understood and he thought she did. But he wanted to be sure.

  “When I say to, what are you going to do?”

  “Run.”

  “Where?”

  “To the woods.”

  “And are you going to make any noise?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “Good girl.”

  He took the knife from the top of the tackle box, felt for the clasp, undid it, then removed its sheath. Its handle had finger holes in it like brass knuckles, though the handle itself was made of hard plastic.

  The knife's curved blade was maybe four inches. Parts of it shown white with reflected moonlight, but other parts of the blade were encrusted in a flaky film he guessed had once been fish.

  He rubbed the tip of his finger along the edge of the blade and found it plenty sharp. He stuck the fin
gers of his right hand though the holes in its handle.

  “Are you ready, Maggie?”

  She shook her head.

  He stood and did his best not to appear frightened for the girl’s sake, but his heart was racing. Sweat ran down his face and the back of his neck. The knuckles of his right hand, which were wrapped though the grip of the fishing knife, were a stark white. “Get ready.”

  I don’t want to do this. Don’t make me do this. Let’s stay here. He might not come back. Let’s stay here.

  “On your mark.”

  What if Mr. Crazy Asshole had seen them? What then? What if he was standing to the side of the door, just waiting for them to show themselves, like Mr. Fox waiting outside the hole of a warren?

  “Get set—”

  Oh well. Too late for that sort of thinking now.

  “Go!”

  14

  THE MOMENT THEY WERE OUT of the cellar, Brock knew they'd made a mistake. But Maggie was running and so was he, two frightened bunnies fleeing across Watership Down.

  There came an ungodly sound; a high wailing, like an opera singer singing without tune.

  Brock turned and his heart stopped.

  To the side of the house stood Mr. Crazy Asshole, eyes wide and unblinking, bloodstained flannel shirt and blood-splattered beard clearly visible in the moonlight, axe raised high, mouth stretched open wide like a snake’s jaw unhinged for prey, that god awful wailing rising from his throat.

  Brock ran toward the woods and did not look back again.

  Maggie, whose legs were much shorter than his, began to lag behind.

  He slowed only slightly to scoop her up, and then he was running with a terrified child in his arms. Maggie cried out in fright as he lifted her and continued to scream, her own cry drowning out the sound of the other so that Brock couldn't hear how close her father might be.

  The woods ahead were dense and dark. He spied a large opening between two trees and charged into it.

  The ground was covered with dead branches, leaves, and rocks. He dodged a stump and kept his feet high to avoid the overgrown grass. He wove in and out between trees. The thick leaves overhead blocked most of the moonlight and he strained to see the many hazards in the dark.

  Maggie continued screaming, her high-pitched yell hurting his ears. And then, just above her shrieks, he heard the yell of Mr. Crazy Asshole. Not a prolonged wailing like before, but a short cry of alarm.

  Brock chanced a look over his shoulder and saw he'd tripped and sprawled head first across the forest floor. Brock didn't slow.

  Please God, let him have fallen on his axe.

  No such luck. Mr. Crazy Asshole’s axe was on the ground a safe distance ahead of him. Brock watched in quick glances as he got to his feet.

  Brock turned back toward the path in front of him and saw that he was about to crash into a large tree. He veered to the left and felt his foot catch on a protruding root. Before he could even try to regain his balance, he was tumbling forward.

  Maggie flew out of his hands and was thrown to the ground, landing hard in a pile of brush and skidding on her side to a stop like an airplane landing with its wheels up.

  He felt a sharp stab of pain in his left arm and then his face slammed against the trunk of a tree.

  15

  “MAGGIE! GIRL, WHERE YOU AT?"

  Brock looked up.

  Five or six feet away from him, her face bruised and cut, Maggie looked up as well.

  “Maggie?”

  Brock’s face was puffy and soar. He felt a warm liquid stream at the corner of his mouth. His left arm was also bleeding.

  The fishing knife was still clutched tightly in his right hand and when he'd fallen, he'd slid its blade across his left forearm. The cut didn’t feel deep, but it was bleeding quite a lot and it stung.

  Brock ignored this pain in favor of the voice calling out from somewhere behind them.

  “Maggie? Maggie! Maaaggiieee!”

  Maggie appeared to be in better shape than Brock, but she had leaves in her hair and a large purple bruise standing out against her right cheek. There were tears streaming her face.

  She sat up and bit her lip. She looked to Brock like a deer that's detected danger and can't decide whether to freeze or run.

  Brock felt a great swell of pity for her.

  “Come on out now, Maggie! It’s alright! Come on out.”

  The voice was close. Brock knew he should be running, should, in fact, already be on his feet, but he stayed where he was, crouched low to the ground and—he hoped—out of sight.

  “You can come back to the house now, baby. Everything’s all right. Mommy and Daddy were fighting, but that’s done now. We’re not gonna fight no more, I promise. So come on girl. Come on out, now!”

  Brock held his breath. Mr. Crazy Asshole was sounding closer with each word.

  “Come on now girl, this is getting silly!”

  Brock shuddered. Mr. Crazy Asshole sounded reasonable now. He sounded almost sane, like a worried father searching for his little girl rather than a murdering-son-of-a-bitch with an axe.

  “Maggie, I’m sorry if I scared you. I was just mad, that’s all. You know how mad Daddy gets sometimes. You know how mad Mommy can make Daddy. But I’m better now. But I’m scared ‘cause I don’t know where you are.

  “Mr. Pizza-man? I’m sorry if I scared you too, you just came at a bad time, that’s all. I wasn't expecting you. If Maggie’s with you, tell her it’s okay. Please? Just tell her it’s okay to come out. I’m worried about her.”

  Brock looked back and saw that, to his horror, Maggie was standing. She was still crying, but her face had changed.

  She didn’t look frightened anymore. She looked hopeful.

  “Get down!” Brock whispered.

  Maggie shook her head. “It’s okay,” she said, not bothering to whisper. “I think he’s okay now.”

  “Get down!”

  “Maggie? Is that you? Where you at?”

  Brock turned and found he could see Mr. Crazy Asshole through the trees. He was walking calmly, axe at his side, swinging gently as though he'd been out chopping wood rather than chasing his daughter.

  “I’m here, Daddy!” Maggie was shouting now.

  “Where?”

  “Over here!”

  “I can’t see you girl. Come on out where I can see you.”

  Maggie began to move.

  Brock reached for her. “Don’t!”

  She was too far away for him to grab her without moving. She hurried past Brock and aside from his outstretched arm, he made no effort to stop her. He let her walk on by and out into the clearing.

  “Daddy!” Maggie ran toward her father.

  Brock sat on his knees watching as she met him on the path, desperately wanting to look away, but finding he could move neither his head nor his eyes.

  “Daddy!”

  Mr. Crazy Asshole spread his arms wide and Maggie ran towards him, her own arms open wide in anticipation of embrace. She reached her father, hugging him, and he wrapped an arm around her, holding her tightly.

  Then he lifted his right arm and, gripping the handle of the axe just below its head, wedged the pointed end of the blade into her back.

  Maggie cried out in pain and surprise.

  Mr. Crazy Asshole ripped the blade up and out of her back, then threw her to the ground.

  His little girl screamed.

  He lifted the axe high above his head with both arms and brought it down.

  And again.

  And again.

  The last thing Maggie saw in this world was the face of her father, and then she went to join her mother, her sister, and her little brother.

  16

  HE WAS MR. RABBIT AND he was running, running, running though the woods, frightened and alone.

  Mr. Fox was behind him. He was distracted for now, but he wouldn't stay that way.

  Brock’s heart pounded in his ears. His mouth was open wide and still he couldn't catch a breath.<
br />
  He ran out of the woods, into the backyard, and around the side of the house.

  If I can just get to my car, I can get out of here. It will drive, I know it will. Maybe not well, but it will drive.

  He ran to the front of the house and was overjoyed to see headlights, not the Celebrity’s headlights, but those of an approaching truck on the road in front of the house.

  Brock found a last reserve of speed and sprinted to the road just as the truck was passing the driveway of 2675 200 W.

  “Help! Help me!” he shouted, waving his arms and charging at the truck. “Please! Help me!”

  The truck’s passenger side window was open and through it Brock could see the truck’s driver staring at him, regarding him with clear apprehension. The truck picked up speed.

  “No, please!” Brock cried.

  The truck sped away from him and hurried on until it was nothing more than vanishing taillights around a bend in the road.

  “No! No, God! Help me!”

  Brock dropped his arms and turned back toward the Celebrity. It was in terrible shape, but it would drive, he knew it would. It had to.

  He ran to the Celebrity, yanked open the door, and slid behind the wheel. The keys were still dangling from the ignition. He shifted the fishing knife still clutched in his right hand to free his first two fingers and turned them.

  The engine sputtered, but did not turn.

  “Oh no, you piece of shit, not now. Not fucking now!”

  Brock turned the keys again. Still, the engine did not start.

  “Fuck you, start!"

  Nothing.

  "Start, you bitch, start!”

  He looked up and saw Mr. Crazy Asshole strolling around the side of the house and into the front yard. His axe was slung back over his shoulder, just a lumberjack returning from a hard day’s work—a hard day of thirsty work.

  He was walking, not hurried in the least, crossing the lawn as though he had all the time in the world and for all Brock knew, he did if his piece-of-shit car didn’t start.

  “GOD PLEASE!”

  Brock turned the keys and pressed down the accelerator. The Celebrity’s engine sputtered to life.