Knowing that there were other people in the building, and that they were all at risk while Brice was still moving. Mr. Briggs grabbed the phone and pushed the button connecting Raymond’s office to the reception office. Just as he was about to hang up on the sixth unanswered ring, a flustered female voice came on. “Hello?”
Not recognizing the voice as either Jennifer, or Samantha, Mr. Briggs questioned, “Who is this?”
“Rhonda Foust,” Mrs. Foust answered. Just behind her, he could hear multiple panicked voices.
Realizing that this was the teacher from the tour, Mr. Briggs tried to sound as if nothing was wrong. “Rhonda, is Samantha nearby?”
He heard the phone exchange hands as Samantha came on, “Yes the doors are locked.” She paused for a moment before continuing into the line, “Mr. Briggs, where are you?”
“I’m in Mr. Taylors office. Do you have all of the students with you?”
“Yes...,” Samantha replied hesitantly. He heard her pull the receiver away and ask Mrs. Foust if all of her students were accounted for. The teacher responds with, “No, Arlo, Violet and Hunter are missing.”
Mr. Briggs questioned, “Where are they?”
“She thinks they headed down to the embalming room. Aren’t they with you?”
“No,” Mr. Briggs replied, knowing that if the kids were down here they were either in the holding room, or the crematorium.
“I can go down and get them,” Samantha said, worried that he was upset that they had slipped from the group while under her watch.
“No!” Mr. Briggs said a little too loudly into the phone.
Hearing his grandfather’s voice, Brice lifted his blood-soaked face from the hole he had made of Ashley’s neck. Bits of skin dangled between his teeth as he chewed. The voice had come from across the room. And a voice meant warm flesh, not the cooling body that he had been gnawing on.
Realizing that he had spoken harshly, Mr. Briggs cleared his throat and spoke in a reassuring tone. “No, I will find them. You all just stay upstairs. Make sure that all of the doors are locked, and call 911.”
“We tried, but all we are getting is a busy signal.”
“Then call the police station directly. Make sure you keep all of the students with you.”
“Yes sir, I will sir.” Samantha said, as Mr. Briggs hung up the phone.
The office door rattled hard as Brice tried to beat his way through to get to the warm flesh on the other side.
The need to find something to protect himself rose. Looking around the cramp office, Mr. Briggs saw nothing of use on top of the file cabinets, except for a picture of Raymond’s wife in a 5”x6” wooden frame, and a small planter containing a dying plant with waxy looking leaves.
Opening the drawers to the desk. He hoped to find a pair of scissors, or maybe a stash of surgical tools. But there was nothing. He could use the phone; it was heavy enough. But if he needed to make a call, it wouldn’t help if it was broken. Then Mr. Briggs noticed next to the desk lamp lay a foot-long gold nameplate mounted in a block of varnished wood cut into a tri-angle.
Picking up the nameplate, he figured it weighed less than half a pound. With enough force it could be used to knock Brice unconscious. Then again, he had thought that he had accomplished that goal earlier by smashing his head into the floor. Whatever his grandson was on, it was clear that it had amped him up. So, he would have to be extra vigilant that Brice was rendered unconscious and secured, before he could find the missing students.
Taking hold of the edge of desk, Mr. Briggs paused for a moment as the door rattled against Brice’s fists. Steeling himself, he pushed the desk away just enough to allow the door to be opened a few inches.
He knew that the next few seconds were going to be critical. Even though the thought of injuring his grandson hung tight in his chest. He had to be prepared for the fight of his life and take out his grandson without hesitation.
Taking hold of the knob, Mr. Briggs turned it. With all of his weight against the door, it banged hard against the desk. Shoving it a few inches further into the room.
Hands caked in Ashley’s blood shot through the gap reaching for his grandfather’s throat. Taking a step back, Mr. Briggs avoided Brice’s clawing fingers by mere inches.
Looking right into his eyes. Mr. Briggs didn’t see his grandson anymore. Behind the clouded pupils was an animal.
Spit flew from Brice’s mouth as he tried to push his head through the gap. The desk shifted, grinding against the unwaxed tiled floor.
Knowing that he didn’t have long until Brice pushed his way into the room. Mr. Briggs grabbed Brice’s right wrist. With all of his might, he pulled the young man down. Caught between the door and the jamb, Brice’s head connected with the doorlatch. The metal latch dug into his jaw. Ripping upward, until it was stopped by his upper molars.
Mr. Briggs thrust the nameplate forward. One solid strike entered Brice’s eye socket. Gel squirted, as the wood bit deep. Breaking through the thin bone that protected his brain from the world outside. Shards of bone shot backwards piercing his brain.
Slamming the palm of his hand against the butt end of the nameplate. He drove it in further. Turning brain matter to pulp. Synapses stopped firing.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Mr. Briggs pushed the desk out of the way. The door opened and Brice dropped to the floor. The nameplate hit the tiles first, driving it the rest of the way through his brain. Stopping only when it struck the back of his skull.
Stepping over his grandson, Mr. Briggs saw that the embalming room was awash in blood. Streaks of drying red marred the walls. While blood dripped from Ashley’s arm to the floor. Bloody shoe prints stretched from the exit to the table to the office.
The salesman was a ragged piece of chewed meat. His grey suit was soaked to a deep red. And Mr. Briggs wasn’t sure if Ashley’s head was still connected to his body. Brice had chewed all the way down to bone.
Mr. Briggs started for the exit, needing to get to the students before anything happened to them. Three steps across the embalming room, the sound of surging power came from the florescent lights overhead. They flared for a moment, and then went dark.
A few seconds ticked by before the emergency lights mounted near the stairwell came on. Sending long shafts of light down the hall.
Stepping to the door, Mr. Briggs looked through the small window into the hall. Not seeing any movement, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Steps echoing loudly, he made his way down the hall. He could see the streaks of blood on the walls where Brice had dragged himself along.
Coming to the elevator, Mr. Briggs saw a long rubbery looking hose caught in the door tracks. Looking closer, he realized that it was not a hose, but a length of intestine. Alarm rose as he stepped across the hall and looked through the window set in the door of the holding room.
Darkness sat on the other side. If the students had been here. It was clear that they had fled when the lights went out. Moving further down the hall, Mr. Briggs turned into the short hall leading to the crematorium.
The glow of the emergency lights dimmed as he stepped to the thick metal door. Not hearing any sound coming from the other side of the door, he grabbed the knob and tried to turn it.
The knob wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, he struck the door with the side of his fist directly below a black plastic placard with the word, Crematorium, engraved on it. He pressed close to the door and said, “Hello…Kids…This is Mr. Briggs.”
No response came. But Mr. Briggs knew that the door only locked from the inside. So, somebody had to be in there.
Knocking harder, he raised his voice sternly, “Open the door!”
Faintly, a female voice came through. “Is it safe?”
Resting his forehead against the white painted surface. Mr. Briggs replied, “For now it is.”
As he waited for the door to be unlocked. He could faintly hear the rooms occupants arguing over leaving the safety of the room.
“Let’s go!” Mr.
Briggs demanded, striking the door hard. Making the girl jump and let out a curt scream.
The lock clicked and the door opened just a crack. Violet’s round, tear streaked, face peered at him.
“Hello,” Mr. Briggs said, “we need to get moving.”
From behind Violet, the sharp light from a cellphone shot through the crack, blinding Mr. Briggs momentarily.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Briggs said, blinking his eyes to get the spots out.
“You sure it’s safe?” Violet asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Briggs answered, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We need to get upstairs.”
Holding the cellphone, a blocked shaped boy pushed Violet out of the way. Acting as a shield, he tried his best to look tough as he opened the door.
“Come on,” Mr. Briggs urged, as he took a step back.
“Is she gone?” Violet asked, as the boy shined the light down the short hall.
“What? Who?” Mr. Briggs asked.
“The old lady who attacked Hunter,” The blocked shaped boy who Mr. Briggs realized had to be Arlo.
“Attacked? Where?” Mr. Briggs asked.
“In the room down the hall,” Arlo said. “She came out of the cooler and killed Hunter.”
Stepping back to the long hall, Mr. Briggs looked towards the holding room. “A lady came out of the cooler?”
“Yeah, all crazy like,” Arlo said.
“She killed Hunter,” Violet added, unsuccessfully holding back the tears that had been welling in her eyes for the last half hour.
As Mr. Briggs took a step toward the holding room, Arlo and Violet both stopped at the corner. “Mister, there was someone else in the hall. He chased us in here.”
Not knowing if they were talking about Brice. Mr. Briggs said, “Well, he’s gone now. Let’s get you to your classmates.”
Leading the teens down the hall, Mr. Briggs pushed the up button on the elevator.
“Elevator won’t work, powers out.” Arlo said hugging the wall even though streaks of blood lay just a fraction of an inch from his head.
“Backup generator,” Mr. Briggs replied. “In my line of work, I can’t deal with spoilage. So, everything has got to work.”
“Spoilage?” Violet said, as the elevator door slid open.
“Come on,” Mr. Briggs said, waving them inside.
“Can’t we use the stairs instead?” Violet asked, not wanting to be trapped in the metal box in case it suddenly stopped working.
“No,” Mr. Briggs replied, not wanting them to see all the blood in the stairwell.
The sound of metal scrapping against unwaxed tile ripped down the hall. As the door started to close, Mr. Briggs put a hand against it, making it retract. The sound came again. This time shorter, as if whatever was being pushed against the floor came to an abrupt stop.
“Head upstairs,” Mr. Briggs ordered.
“Wait,” Violet said, taking a step towards Mr. Briggs. Arlo grabbed her wrist stopping her as the door began to close.
Mr. Briggs stood there for a moment listening to the elevator as it started for the first floor. The emergency lights by the stairs flickered, dimming slightly. He knew it wouldn’t be long until they finally went out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Looking both ways down the hall, Mr. Briggs knew that the sound couldn’t have come from either the crematorium or the embalming room. They were too far away, and the metal scrapping had been close by. So that only left one other place, the holding room.
Crossing the hall, he peered through the window. The room was too dark to see anything. Then the inner turmoil of what he had to do next, rose. He didn’t want to go into the room. But Hunter was in there. If he had been attacked, there still could be a chance that he was alive. That also meant that his attacker could still be in there as well.
Hesitantly, Mr. Briggs laid a hand on the door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open. A cold wave hit him from the cooler. The stainless-steel table that usually sat in the center of the room was now two feet closer to the door. A white glow from the emergency lights shinned over his shoulder revealing splashes of red across the tables shinning metal surface.
Knowing that as long as the cooler door was open, the generator would run out of power faster. He crossed to the cooler to close the door. Making it to the end of the table, he caught sight of a pair of blue jeaned legs ending in high topped sneakers laying on the floor.
Just below the sound of the hard-running blower inside the cooler. Mr. Briggs heard a hand land on the table. Looking back, he saw a thin hand, caked with bits of blood and hair.
An overly wet gurgle rose as a grey-haired woman slowly appeared from the darkness on the other side of the table. The hair on the left side of her head was matted flat by a wash of blood that dripped down her face. Her once crisp blue flower print dress was a wet black sack that clung to her frame from the vast amount of Hunter’s blood that coated her.
Looking at him through clouded eyes. Her nostrils flared as her brow furrowed. Growling, her lips pulled back revealing teeth with bits of Hunter’s skin caught between them.
Lunging across the table, she clawed the air. Jerking back, Mr. Briggs avoided her ragged nails. With a wet sucking sound, the hard soles of Mr. Briggs shoes came free of the thin film of sticky blood that had flowed around the legs of the table from Hunter’s cooling body.
He back peddled out of the room. The door swung shut, blocking his view of the old lady slid sideways off the table, striking the hard tiles face first. The rest of her body followed. Stiff joints did not bend correctly as all the pressure of the fall went onto her neck. Vertebrae popped, forcing her head back at a ninety-degree angle.
Stopping against the wall, Mr. Briggs heard the old lady’s spine snap like a dry branch.
With a ding, the elevator arrived back to the basement. As its door began to slide open. The old lady burst through the door to the holding room. Moving faster than her broken body should have been able to. She threw herself across the hall, connecting with Mr. Briggs in a flurry of fists and teeth. Her blood-soaked dress adhered to his suit like a wet blanket. Hunter’s blood, as well as the old lady’s, splashed up into Mr. Brigg’s face.
Taken off guard, Mr. Briggs stumbled along the wall as he tried to push her away.
Stepping halfway out of the elevator, Arlo exclaimed, “HOLY SHIT!” As Violet let out a muffled yelp as she clamped a hand across her mouth.
On a loose neck, the old lady had no control on where her head would land. But that did not deter her from trying to sink her teeth into Mr. Briggs shoulder. Jaws snapping, she got a mouthful of lapel and began to chew on the cloth.
Stepping forward, Violet lashed out. The toe of her sneaker made contact with the old lady’s forehead. Violently snapping her head to the side where it bounced off the floor with a wet thud.
“Get her off me!” Mr. Briggs said, pushing against the old woman’s shoulders.
Unwilling to touch the old lady with her hands. Violet kicked at her again. As the door to the elevator began to shut. Arlo hip checked it back open.
“Stop,” Arlo said, as the heel of Violet’s sneaker connected with the old lady’s face for the third time.
Violet moved out of the way as Arlo grabbed a handful of the old lady’s hair and pried her off Mr. Briggs. Her eyes shifted from the funeral director to the teen. Teeth snapping, she tried to bite at him as the bones in her neck shifted making her head flop to the side.
“Oh God!” Arlo said, as Mr. Briggs planted a foot against the old lady’s hip.
With all his might, he forced the old lady off. Arlo let go as she collapsed. The back of her head hit the tiles, expelling a plume of blood. Mr. Briggs struggled to rise and head for the elevator. But the old lady wasn’t finished, as she slowly began to crawl towards them as the elevator doors slid closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“What the hell was wrong with her?” Violet said, her voice showing the fear and nervous energy that
flowed through her.
“She’s mad,” Mr. Briggs said, as the elevator started to rise to the first floor.
Arlo cut back with, “No, she’s dead.”
“Dead?” Mr. Briggs responded. In the back of his mind he knew that the boy was right. But his rational mind would not let him except it.
“Her neck was broken,” Arlo said, flatly.
“Were not in a movie,” Violet said, as the elevator reached the first floor and the front door opened, revealing a dimly lit hallway.
“If only we were that lucky,” Arlo said, as they came out of the elevator and were greeted by a wall of sound as their classmates, gathered around the door to the receptionist office, turned and rushed their way.
“My God, Mr. Briggs,” Samantha said, running out of the office. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Mr. Briggs replied. Seeing the frightened looks on the students faces. He looked down at his blood splattered suit and realized the horrendous state he was in. “I’m not injured,” he continued, reaffirming his condition as much to himself as to everyone else. “We need to call the police.”
As he walked towards the reception office, Samantha replied, “They’re not answering.”
“We’re on our own,” one of the boys said.
Entering the office, Mr. Briggs made a beeline for Samantha’s desk. Taking the phone off the hook, he punched the button for an outside line and pressed 911. Putting the receiver to his ear, he was met by a busy signal. Cursing under his breath, he slammed the phone down so hard it cracked the plastic housing.
“Told you,” the boy said from the doorway.
Turning on his heels, Mr. Briggs gave the boy a hard stare. Catching the gaze, he stepped back into the hall to join his friends who had gathered around Arlo and Violet.
“Are the front doors locked?” Mr. Briggs asked Samantha, as she took the boys place in the doorway.
“Yes,” she replied. “Mr. Briggs what’s going on?”
Chicago Undead (Books 3-4): Encounters Page 9
