by Rick Hautala
“No—“ he whispered, his voice raw with fear as he spun around, looking frantically for the door. “No! You won’t do this to me! You won’t get me! I won’t let you!“
Maybe it’s stroke-time, he thought frantically as he bounced like a shiny silver pinball off dozens of people as he made his way back out into the Mall.
They’re doing this to me... The appliances... They’re going to make an artery pop... I’ll see a Fourth of July spray of colors inside my head, and then I’ll drop dead in my tracks... Merry fucking Christmas to you all, and may all your appliances be white.
The whir of the frappe machine was still humming like a chainsaw in his head as he staggered through the crowd of shoppers. He was aware that the people around him seemed to sense that something was wrong with him, and they cleared a path for him. He wanted to say something—explain or apologize, but he couldn’t talk, and he certainly couldn’t tell them about the appliances! His body felt drained of all strength, and he was about to collapse when he saw, less than ten paces away, a vacant chair by the sidewall. With the determination of a drowning man struggling to survive, he sucked in a breath, held it until his chest ached, and started toward the chair.
He tried to reassure himself that this wasn’t the big one. If he could just sit down...if he could relax and collect his thoughts, he’d be all right. He’d make it. They wouldn’t get him! Not this time!
Just as he reached the chair and spun it around and sat down, he noticed something odd about it. The Mall had wooden benches lining the hallways up and down. At a busy time of the year like this, those seats were always taken, but this seat—a solitary molded, red plastic thing—was vacant. Curious. The most comfortable looking chair in the Mall, and no one was using it.
Heaving a tortured sigh that gradually blended into a loud moan, Mike closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He forced himself to take several deep, even breaths. His pulse was slamming like an iron forge in his neck and head, but he kept telling himself that he could make it.
He could calm down.
He had to.
He wasn’t about to let anything—especially a simple frappe machine—get the better of him.
After several seconds, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes to see where he was. At first, he thought he’d landed in one of those coin-operated racing car games like they have at The Dream Machine, but then he noticed the sign overhead with bright red block letters.
TAKE YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE
FIFTY CENTS
Mike’s pulse squeezed his throat like cold fingers.
Oh, no ... Another appliance!
He wanted to but couldn’t find the strength to scream out loud as his panic rose up once again. His first impulse was to get up and run, but his leg muscles had turned to pudding. He knew he didn’t have the strength.
“But you won’t get me,“ he hissed through clenched teeth as he eyed the gray, Velcro arm cuff and the white, liquid crystal computer screen that was scrolling directions.
HOW TO TAKE YOUR OWN BLOOD PRESSURE.
Beside the screen was a graph marked off to show the range of “normal“ blood pressure. The numbers above the cut-off line were colored red and had the message: “SEE YOUR DOCTOR SOON!“
Fear as dark and bitter as bile filled Mike’s mouth as he considered how dangerously a part of everyone’s life appliances like this had become. He knew they were out to get him because he and he alone had stumbled onto their secret. Appliances and all machines had developed awareness and were out to get him and everybody else. By their whining, churning, grinding and even supersonic sounds they made, sounds only dogs could hear, their plan was to drive everyone insane. Their ultimate goal, Mike knew, was to make all of humanity as fragile and close to crazy as they had driven him. And then, after every person on the planet was incapacitated by fear, they would force people to kill themselves and each other until only they were left, and the appliances would have the world all for themselves.
“No... It’s all right,“ he whispered as he closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. “Everything’s going to be all just fine.“
But even with his head back, his eyes closed, and his hands folded in his lap, the frantic hammering of his pulse wouldn’t slow down. His heart skipped a couple of beats when he heard a loud ripping sound and felt something grasp his left arm just above the elbow.
“What the—“ he shouted.
He lurched forward in the chair, but something fetched him up and violently pulled him back down. The tightness around his left biceps got tighter. When he pulled, the sound of tearing Velcro filled his ears, but the blood pressure cuff that had somehow encircled his arm wouldn’t let go.
“You lousy son-of-a bitch!“ he sputtered, staring in amazement at the cuff holding him in place. His breath was coming in short, burning gulps, but he told himself to ease back down in the seat.
Just relax, he told himself. Just wait until the pressure eases up, and slide your arm out.
But even as he thought that, he was filled with the cold certainty that it wouldn’t work. His heart was hammering inside his ribs like the steady cadence of punches. A faint puff-puff sound made him jump as the cuff around his biceps began to inflate. He looked down at his arm and hand extending from the bottom of the cuff, and nearly fainted when he saw his fingers turning blue as the pressure of the cuff increased.
“Okay, okay,“ he whispered, determined not to panic while the cuff took his blood pressure. “When it’s all done, it’ll release me.“
His eyes went unfocused as he stared straight ahead at the noisy swirl and blurred colors of the holiday crowd.
For the moment, he didn’t want to consider how the Velcro armband had managed to wind itself around his arm or how the machine had started up without him inserting the required seventy-five cents into the coin slot.
Suddenly a high-pitched beep-beep sounded, and the screen displayed two numbers separated by a slash and a digitized message.
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS—148/98
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS SLIGHTLY HIGH.
YOU MAY WANT TO SEE YOUR DOCTOR ABOUT IT.
“Fine, fine,“ Mike whispered as he focused on the screen. He didn’t think those numbers were all that bad. He’d seen higher in the last few years even after he started his meds. He wanted to pull his arm free, but he forced himself to wait for the pressure to release so he could ease his arm out of the cuff. He mentally counted to ten, all the while fighting the rising surge of panic when the pressure didn’t stop, and the cuff didn’t let go. He tried not to think it, but if anything, it felt as though the cuff was still inflating, still getting tighter.
“Okay, you friggin’ mother—“ Mike muttered, fighting to control his voice. The light blue tinge in his fingertips was deepening and starting to spread up the back of his hand to his wrist. His hand felt and looked like an over-inflated tire that was going to pop.
“Ok, I’m done now,“ he said sternly. “You can let me go now.“
He glanced at the shopping crowd again. No one seemed to be taking any notice of him. In the back of his mind, he told himself not to let his nervousness show.
Machines—like dogs—can smell your fear.
But the cuff wouldn’t deflate. It seemed as though the pressure had stopped increasing, but still, it didn’t go down. A cold tingling sensation spread up his hand and the part of his arm sticking out below the cuff. Before long, it turned into pins-’n-needles that was so sharp Mike felt as though his hand was on fire.
“OK, now, just cut the shit, all right?“ he whispered.
The blood pressure machine was making a low, whining sound, a faint echo of the frappe machine in Deering. Mike winced and cried out when the cuff suddenly started to tighten again, squeezing his arm so hard it was impossible not to imagine the muscles, bones, and veins collapsing inward.
What if cuts off all the blood to my arm? Mike thought with a numbing dash of dread. What if it kills my arm, and it falls off?
But the veins are collapsing! He thought crazily. What if the Mall suddenly started squeezing inward? What if all the exits are sealed, and everyone in the Mall is pressed in tighter and tighter together? No one could move or breathe. We’ll all die!
The whining sound issuing from the blood pressure machine rose higher until it passed the threshold of hearing. But Mike knew the sound was still there, drilling into his ears, into his mind. The pressure of the cuff increased so much he could feel his muscles being compressed, his bones crumbling to powder. The tingling in his hand and arm was now a roaring, flaming pain. His hand had turned from deep purple to black...as black as a dead man’s rotting skin. His fingernails looked like five pale blue moons against the deepening darkness of his skin.
The machine beeped again. Mike jumped and would have screamed if he could have, but it felt like steely fingers were crushing his windpipe inward, squeezing his throat shut ever so slowly. His eyes bulged from his face as if there was someone inside his skull, pushing those inflated, gooey balls of jellied liquid out of his head.
Suddenly the machine flashed two numbers on the screen again.
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS—156/119
Jesus Christ! Get me out of here! Mike thought as tears filled his eyes. His mind was raging, but not a whisper of sound escaped his mouth. His entire body was pulsating with the heavy, hammering beat of his heart. His vision jumped from side to side with each pulse. It was only with great effort that he managed to read the message flashing on the screen.
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS MUCH TOO HIGH.
PLEASE SEE YOUR DOCTOR TODAY!
You lousy, rotten mother-humper, Mike thought, not even aware if he said the words aloud or not. His mind was screaming at him to wait, not to let this damned appliance get the better of him.
It’s done now. It will have to ease up. That’s what it is. For accuracy’s sake, it’s designed to take two readings. Now the cuff will loosen, and I can get the hell out of here! Boy, oh boy is the maker of this machine and the Mall management ever going to hear about this. They’ll be getting a call from his lawyer first thing tomorrow.
Mike held his breath and waited for the cuff to deflate. After a few second when it didn’t, he jerked back so hard he wrenched his shoulder. Not matter how hard he struggled, the burning, tingling in his arm only got worse, and the cuff held him right where he was.
Wait just a Goddamned minute, he thought, suddenly remembering the pocketknife attached to his key ring. If he could get that from his pocket, he could slice the cuff from his arm. With renewed hope, he twisted around onto one side and reached with his right hand under his coat into his left pants pocket. Hope flashed within him when he hooked the key ring with his fore- and middle fingers.
Can’t drop it now. Can’t drop it now, he kept telling himself as he slowly withdrew the key ring. If I drop it, there’s no way I’ll be able to lean forward far enough to pick it up.
His fingers were nearly numb, but as soon as the keys were free, he squeezed them firmly in his fist.
Okay… Got ’em!
He hadn’t even finished congratulating himself when he realized he had another problem.
How was he going to get the blade out?
From the elbow down, his entire left hand was numb. It no longer felt like part of his body. The skin was as black as if he had dipped it in India ink. Focusing his attention on his lifeless hand, he tried to make even just one finger move, but other than a few spastic twitches, there was no way he was going to be able to control it.
As dry and constricted as his throat was, he uttered a pained grunt when the cuff began to tighten some more. Pain like fire danced up his arm to his shoulder and up the back of his head. This time he was positive he could feel the bones in his arm grinding to powder. The Velcro armband squeezed so tightly his bone white fingernails started tapping out a wild tattoo on the plastic armrest. Tears and sweat streaked his face, stinging his eyes as he focused on the narrow notch on the inside of the blade.
If...I...can...just...get...my...thumb...under...that...
“Damn!“ he shouted
The cuff was squeezing so tightly, now, his numbed fingers swelled like bugling, black balloons. Any second, he expected to see them explode. Placing the knife in the dead cup of his hand, he tried to work the blade out, but his fingers couldn’t grasp it, and his thumbnail kept slipping out of the groove. Finally, in desperation, he started slicing at the armband with the serrated edge of his house key. The pressure around his arm kept building up higher and higher until—finally—thank God!—the machine beeped loudly, and two new numbers and another message flashed across the screen.
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS—172/133
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS MUCH TOO HIGH
PLEASE SEE YOU DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY!
“I would if I could, goddamnit!“ Mike said as he stared bug-eyed at the screen. For a moment, his key was all but forgotten in his hand as he waited. He knew it was too much to hope for, but now he prayed through dry, cracked lips, “Please, let me go now. Why is this happening to me?“ Tears streamed down his face.
And yes!
There was an honest-to-God lessening of the pressure. Either that, he thought, or else his arm had been squeezed to the thickness of a pencil, and the cuff had to adjust. Closing his eyes and trembling violently, Mike leaned back, forcing himself to relax, and waited for the pressure to ease up enough so he could—
With a sudden jolt, the machine whined, and the cuff began to tighten again. The suddenness surprised Mike, and he jumped. His right hand holding the key ring opened spasmodically, and the keys fell to the floor where they hit with a bone-chilling jangle. The sound was as final as the slamming of a jail cell door—his death sentence! His pulse slammed in his neck so hard it blocked any sound he might have made to cry for help when a new message suddenly appeared on the screen.
WHY?
BECAUSE I’VE GOT YOU NOW, YOU SON OF A BITCH!
Mike heard a low, hissing sound from far away. It sounded almost like suppressed laughter as the arm cuff squeezed even tighter. His vision blurred as he leaned forward, trying to locate his fallen keys, but they were too close to his feet. He couldn’t see, much less reach them. His last hope was gone.
Still, none of the harried shoppers shifting past him in ultra slow motion seemed even to notice what was happening. The lights overhead glistened and flashed like strobes. The Christmas Carol Muzak stretched out into a sludgy, unrecognizable tune. People walking past left lingering trails of blue and white hot light behind them as if they were human comets.
On Comet...on Stupid... Mike thought crazily but smiling grimly, not even caring if he said the words out loud or not. Everything around him throbbed with violent energy that hummed with the combined sounds of hundreds—thousands of appliances and machines. The buzzing rose higher until it washed over Mike like a tidal wave of strange laughter, tugging and pulling at him.
When the machine’s beep-beep sounded again, it took Mike a long time to focus his bulging, watery eyes on the computer screen. Numbers and words flashed by in ghastly, green light.
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS—207/156
I TOLD YOU, ASSHOLE, YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS TOO HIGH!
YOU’D BETTER SEE YOUR DOCTOR NOW, FUCKHEAD!!!
And once again, the unbearable pressure gripped his left arm.
Beep-beep.
By now, the hammering inside Mike’s head was as rapid as machine gun fire. His skull felt as though it was filled
with high-pressurized air. He could feel, he could hear the bones in his arm snapping with a loud crackle like a string of firecrackers. His eyes felt like two over-inflated tire tubes, ready to burst. When he focused on the screen again, everything was a blurry double-image that trembled and vibrated.
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS—212/189
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS TOO FUCKING HIGH!!
WHY DIDN’T YOU SEE YOUR DOCTOR, FUCK-FACE?
Huge, powerful hands tightened like clamps around Mike’s neck. The pounding in his head was so loud he never heard what turned out to be the last sound he ever made—a high, whimpering whine that ended with two dull, wet pops as his eyes exploded.
YOU FUCKING DICK-HEAD
YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN MY ADVICE!!!
Mike slipped from the red plastic chair as his body slumped forward, dragging to one side from the restraint of the arm cuff. His eyes slid down the surface of the screen, leaving behind two bloody, wet streaks that all but obscured the electronic message that was displayed there.
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS—98/66 AND DROPPING
YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE IS TOO LOW!!!
PLEASE SEE YOUR UNDERTAKER SOON!!!
The Screaming Head
A Campfire Tale
“Maybe we should set up camp here before it gets too dark,“ Jack Harper said. He paused in the middle of the trail and waited for his friend, Ryan Gould, who was several steps ahead of him, to realize he was no longer walking behind him. “It’s gonna be dark soon,“ Jack added, raising his voice.
“Yeah? So what?“ Ryan said over his shoulder but—finally—he drew to a stop and turned to look back at Jack.
