by Brian Keene
“What’s up, Marcel?”
He shrugged. “Just making sure these will hold.”
“Dude, they’re okay. I told you, I’m the knot master. You keep messing with them, somebody on the other side is going to hear you.”
“I know.” But even as he said it, Marcel gave no indication of stopping. He tugged the bonds again. “Just want to be sure.”
“Marcel . . .”
“I can’t help it, kid. Leave me be.”
“My name’s Jack. Not kid.”
Releasing the bands, Marcel turned around and walked back to them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Guess I should have said something sooner. It’s just a little embarrassing is all—especially telling strangers.”
They stared at him, but it was Jack who finally spoke up, asking what they were all thinking.
“What is?”
Marcel sat down again. “I’ve got OCD—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That’s why I was fucking with the straps. You guys know what OCD is?”
They nodded.
“Of course you do,” he muttered. “Everybody does these days. People make jokes about it at work and on TV. Most people think that folks with OCD are crazy. But we’re not—and it ain’t funny. I hate being like this. Hate the fucking looks people give me.”
“So your OCD has to do with doors?” Angie asked.
Marcel nodded. “Yeah, something like that. Doors and appliances, mostly. I need to make sure the doors are locked and everything is turned off. That’s what I was doing when . . . well, when everything went to shit. I was sitting in my car, double-checking the headlights and stuff. The more stressed I am, the worse it is, and right now, I’m pretty fucking stressed. I’m scared and worried about my family and I’m sick of sitting in here freezing my ass off. But at the same time, I know it’s suicide to go back out there. So, my OCD kicked in and I was making sure the straps around the doors are secure. We know they are. Your knots will probably hold. But I’ve got to make sure anyway. I can’t help it. And it ain’t just doors, either. I have to count things—how many potato chips I eat out of the bag, how many steps I take, how many times the phone rings. And I can’t stand odd numbers. Like, if I’m reading a book, I can’t stop on an odd numbered page. If I walk somewhere, I have to end on an even numbered step. When I’m channel surfing, I skip past the odd-numbered channels. If I go out to eat and the check comes and it’s an odd number, I’ve got to tip enough to make it even.”
They stared at him, not speaking.
Marcel shrugged. “I guess you probably think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t,” Jack said. “Shit, man—we’ve all got our problems, you know? I’m on Prozac. People make fun of that, too.”
Marcel grinned. “Prozac? So am I. It’s the only thing that works for me. I tried Paxil, Luvox, Xanax, and Zoloft, but all they did was make me comatose. So now I’m on Prozac. It works better.”
“Not to be rude,” Angie said, “but if you’re checking the door even though you know it’s secured, then are you sure the medicine is working? Maybe you need a different dosage.”
“Yeah. Believe me, I’m sure it’s working. Like I said, my symptoms get worse when I’m stressed. So pardon me if I seem a little freaked out right now.”
Outside the door, somebody screamed—a long, unwavering howl that seemed to rise in pitch and intensity. Then it stopped.
“Fuck,” Jack whispered. “That sounded like some kind of animal. Are you guys sure it was other people that did these things?”
“You didn’t see them.” Angie burst into tears. “I’m not surprised they sound like animals.”
She lowered her head and sobbed. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound.
“Hey.” Marcel reached out a tentative hand and squeezed her shoulder. “If you’re worried you offended me with that medicine remark, don’t be.”
“No,” she sobbed. “It’s not that. I’m just scared. And depressed. Story of my life. I’ve got chronic depression. You guys aren’t the only two people on Prozac. That’s what I was here for, too.”
Marcel nodded. “Me, too. I ran out of meds yesterday, in fact. Haven’t taken any since yesterday morning. Come to think of it, that might be why my OCD symptoms are a little worse today. I was on my way in here to pick up my prescription.”
Angie wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
“That’s kind of weird,” Marcel continued. “Right? That all three of us would be taking Prozac?”
“Not really,” Jack said. “There are lots of people on Prozac these days, dude. The doctors prescribe it like candy.”
“Yeah, but to have three people out of four on it? That just seems odd to me.”
“Four,” Sammi mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“Four people on Prozac. I take it, too.”
“You’re depressed?” Jack asked.
Sammi shook her head.
Marcel let go of Angie’s shoulder. “OCD?”
“No.” Sammi sighed, pausing before she spoke again. “Bulimia.”
“I knew it,” Jack said, then stopped, realizing he’d blurted it out. His mouth hung open. His cheeks reddened with shame.
“Knew what?” Sammi snapped.
“Just . . . well, some of the guys back in high school said that you were anorexic. That was why you were so skinny. Phil, too. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You should be sorry. And I’m not anorexic. I’m bulimic. There’s a difference between the two, you know. And I’m getting help. That’s why I’m on Prozac.”
“So . . . you throw up after you eat?” Now that the rumor had been confirmed, Jack was honestly curious.
“No. Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I’m an exercise bulimic. I used to binge—I mean, eat— and then I’d exercise my ass off. At first, I thought it was a healthy, competitive way to lose weight. I had lots of energy—like I’d just chugged a can of Red Bull. It felt good, you know? When the endorphin rush kicked in, I wasn’t depressed anymore. Didn’t feel bad about myself. And most importantly, I looked toned. But I wasn’t toned. I was just building muscle while I dehydrated myself to burn off the fat. My skin clung more closely to my muscles. People tried talking to me about it, but I wouldn’t listen. Finally, I got real sick. Passed out at a rave. My doctor prescribed Prozac to curb my desire to binge, since food is a form of comfort. I’ve been taking that and going to counseling for six weeks now.”
“Six weeks,” Jack said. “Must be nice. I’ve been on Prozac most of my life.”
“That’s dangerous,” Marcel warned.
“I know. But the doctor said if it’s working, then we should stick with it.”
“Maybe you’re better off,” Marcel admitted. “There is a crazy side effect when you stop taking it. At least there was for me. I got horrible vertigo—like someone just pulled the floor out from under me. It lasted for a couple weeks, totally at random. At least you didn’t have to go through that.”
“I started taking it when I was ten,” Jack said. “I didn’t want to at first. Thought it meant I was crazy or something. My Mom coaxed me, though. She used to call the pills ‘magic beans’. You know, like in Jack and the Beanstalk?”
The other nodded.
“She said my depression was like a big giant, and if I took my magic beans, then I’d have a way to defeat it. The doctor liked that. In fact, he liked it so much that I think he started using it on other kids, too. He told me to visualize the beanstalk as a line to recovery and wellness. My cure was waiting at the top of the beanstalk—a castle in the clouds. He was always spouting psychobabble bullshit like that. Weird old geezer. I don’t go to him anymore, but my new doctor has me on Prozac, too.”
Marcel chuckled, then broke into laughter. It echoed in the freezer, bouncing off the walls. The others stared at him in shock, dismayed by his bizarre reaction.
“Dude,” Jack whispered. “Stop it or they’ll hear you.”
S
till laughing, Marcel put his hands over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Asshole,” Sammi pouted. “You’re just as fucked up as we are. What gives you the right to laugh at Jack?”
Marcel paused, catching his breath. “I’m not laughing at him. Seriously.”
“Well, then what’s so funny?”
“Us.” He gestured at them. “We’re all on Prozac. We’re stigmatized by society because of it. Think about it. Everybody in town goes fucking insane, and the only four people left alive and apparently immune are people who all suffer from some form of mental illness. Everybody else used to think we were crazy. Suddenly, we ain’t so fucking crazy anymore. We’re the sane ones.”
Marcel giggled again. Angie smiled. After a moment, Sammi did, too. Both women began to laugh. Jack didn’t say anything. His expression was serious. After a moment, the others noticed.
“What’s wrong?” Angie asked. “Did you hear something?”
“No,” he whispered, “but I think I figured out why we’re still alive—why we’re immune to whatever made everyone else go nuts.”
“Why?”
He grinned. “The magic beans.”
All three of them stared at him.
“Prozac,” he explained. “Remember? I said my Mom used to call them magic beans?”
“Yeah,” Sammi said. “What about it.”
“It’s the one thing we all have in common. We all took Prozac today.”
“I didn’t,” Marcel reminded him. “I’d run out.”
“Yeah, but you still take it regularly. We all do. And I bet there were other people out there who were on it, too. Think about it. Was everybody crazy?”
“I saw a little boy,” Sammi said, her voice trembling. “He asked me to help him, but before I could . . .” She trailed off, unable to finish.
“I saw people, too,” Angie confirmed. “They seemed fine—scared, like me.”
Marcel nodded. “Same here.”
“I bet they were like us,” Jack said. “Bet they were on Prozac.”
“You don’t know that,” Angie said. “There are too many variables. Dosage. Type. Things like that.”
Jack shrugged. “I’m on pills. What about the rest of you?”
“Pills,” Angie said.
“Liquid.” Sammi shivered. “But it can’t be the Prozac. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes about as much sense as everybody else suddenly turning into homicidal fucking maniacs. Didn’t you ever have Mrs. Repasky’s biology class?”
“No.” Sammi shook her head. “I had Mr. Jackson. He’s gross. He was always biting his fingernails and then spitting them all over the floor while he talked.”
“Yeah, I never liked him.”
“Me either.”
“Mrs. Repasky,” Jack said, “told us about how diseases change over time. With each generation, some new and terrible disease pops up. The Black Death, leprosy, cholera, cancer, Aids. That flu strain that killed all those people after World War One. All of these illnesses came out of nowhere, with no warning, and infected millions. So what if mental illnesses suddenly started doing the same thing? What if they mutated?”
Angie snorted. “You’re saying that all those people were infected by some bizarre new psychosis?”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “And we’re immune to it because of the Prozac.”
Sammi shook her head. “Is that even possible?”
“Shit.” Jack shrugged. “How the hell do I know? I’m just a stock boy.”
THREE
“I hope my family is okay.” Sammi’s nose had turned from red to white, and tiny ice crystals clung to her eyelashes. “I promised my little sister I’d help her with her homework tonight. She’s in eighth grade.”
Without warning, she started to cry again.
“Try not to think about it,” Marcel said. “Ain’t nothing we can do for them right now.”
Angie frowned. “That’s pretty cold, don’t you think?”
“No,” Marcel said. “It’s not cold. Just practical. I got people at home, too. And I know they’d want me to stay alive.”
“Cold . . .” Sammi sniffled. “It’s so cold in here.”
The others nodded in agreement. Jack stood up, stretched his stiff arms and legs, and crept to the door. He put his ear close to the frigid metal and listened.
“Hear anything?” Marcel asked.
“No. Nothing. It’s quiet. Seriously, guys—it’s been a while since we heard anything. Maybe they’re all gone—or dead.”
“Maybe,” Marcel said, “or could be it’s just a trap. Maybe they’re waiting right outside the door.”
“Well,” Angie whispered, “we can’t stay in here much longer. That’s for sure. We’ll get frostbite, not to mention there’s no food or water—unless you count that frozen stuff. And pretty soon, I’m going to have to go to the bathroom.”
Marcel pointed to the corner. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out. We won’t look.”
“No thanks. I can hold it a little while longer.”
“I’m staying put,” Marcel said. “You guys will too, if you’re smart.”
Jack returned to the group and hunkered down on his haunches. “Screw that. I’m not starving to death inside a grocery store freezer. I’d rather take my chances out there.”
“Same here,” Sammi said. “I want to see my family. I want my Mom.”
“One step at a time,” Jack told her. “First we have to get out of this freezer.”
Marcel sighed. “Oh fuck me running. I’m not going to be able to talk you guys out of this, am I?”
“No,” Jack said, “but we won’t blame you if you want to stay behind. We’ll send help, soon as we find some. I promise.”
Angie pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open, checking the time. “It should be dark outside. If we’re going to try it, now is the time.”
“We’ve been in here that long?” Jack was surprised.
Angie nodded.
“You know what they say,” Marcel muttered. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
Jack smiled. “Does that mean you changed your mind? You coming with us?”
“I was outvoted, wasn’t I? Either way, you guys are gonna open that door. I’m not staying here by myself. There’s safety in numbers. Besides, my head hurts. Think I’m probably dehydrated, so I need to find some water, at the very least. Either that, or start licking the ice off those boxes over there.”
They fell silent. Sammi, Angie and Marcel stared at Jack, waiting for him to make a decision. It was not lost on him that somehow, he’d become their leader. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
“We need weapons, just in case they are waiting for us.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a box cutter. “Look around. What do we have?”
They searched the freezer, hunting through the shelves, racks and drawers, and looking under pallets. Marcel found a jagged length of wood from a broken skid. A nail jutted from the end. He swung the board through the air, testing it.
“That’ll work for me.”
Sammi found an old mop and broke the handle over her knee, creating a makeshift spear. She winced in pain, and rubbed her knee. Although he didn’t say it out loud, Jack was impressed. Sure, Sammi had muscles from her particular type of bulimia, but he was surprised she had enough strength to snap the handle. Maybe her fear was giving her extra power.
Then he noticed that she was also rubbing her wrist.
“You okay?”
She nodded, grimacing. “Yeah. Jeremy almost broke my wrist earlier. It’s just a little sore.”
Angie grabbed a pack of frozen steaks.
“What are you gonna do with those?” Sammi asked.
Angie smacked the steaks against her thigh with a loud whack. She grinned. “Knock somebody out until I find something better.”
Sammi returned the smile. “That’s pretty kick ass.
“I thought so, too.”
Jack extended the blade of his box-cutter. The dim overhead bulb glinted off the razor’s edge. He took a deep breath and shuddered.
“I hope I don’t have to use this. I’ve never . . . cut anybody before.”
“Maybe they’re gone,” Sammi said. “It’s pretty quiet out there now.”
Nodding, Jack looked at each of them. They nodded back in return.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s do it.”
“You guys sure about this?” Marcel whispered. “Maybe we should wait?”
Jack frowned. “I thought you were coming with us?”
“I am. But I’ve never been more fucking scared in my life. Just stalling I guess.”
“We’re all scared,” Angie said. “But if we wait any longer, we’ll freeze to death. Let’s get it over with, before we lose our nerve.”
They surrounded the door, weapons at the ready. Their breath clouded the air. Working as quietly as he could, Jack sliced through the strapping bands and shrink-wrap . Then, with one last glance at the others, he opened the door. It swung slowly outward. Jack’s breath caught in his chest. He shielded his eyes with his free hand. Behind him, the others did the same. The lights were still on in the stockroom, and they were temporarily blinded by the brightness.
Sammi sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
Their eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Angie gasped, dropping her steak. It thumped on the floor. Marcel retched. Turning away, Sammi put her hand over her mouth and nose. Jack stepped out into the wreckage and tried to be brave. His left shoe squelched on something—a kidney, a liver, a spleen—he wasn’t sure what. Some kind of internal organ. That much he could confirm. When he picked up his foot, there was a tread mark in the remains.
The stockroom had been ransacked. Blood-spattered boxes and cartons were ripped open. Some of the containers had been emptied of their original contents and were now filled with gore. Cases of canned goods had been dumped out on the floor. A stack of skids had fallen over. Arms and legs stuck out from beneath the wooden pallets. Blood pooled around an upended pallet jack. The lower half of a naked torso lay on the floor. Innards stretched away from the body like fleeing snakes. A dead man hung from a forklift, the prongs impaling his limp corpse. Severed hands, limbs, fingers and heads lay everywhere, along with unidentifiable scraps of human tissue—cuts of meat that mirrored the choices in the butcher’s showcase up front. The room was silent, except for the incessant buzzing of flies. It stank—blood, shit, slaughter. The unpainted concrete walls were red. So was the floor. Blood had even splattered across the ceiling.
