It didn’t happen.
Instead, Carrie screamed, “They cut off my fingers!”
“What?”
“They cut off my fingers, mommy! Please come save me! Please come and save me from Blair mommy! My fingers are all bleedy and Blair is coming back soon and I don’t want to see him again! I don’t want to see Blair anymore mommy!”
“Where are you baby? Where are you?”
“I’m at the farmhouse! Oh no, mommy! HE’S COMING! OH NO HE’S COMING! PLEASE DON’T! HE’S COMING AT ME––”
The line went dead.
Stephenie screamed, “NOOOOO!” But that didn’t change a thing.
She looked at the phone in her hand, the blood running out of her ankle and the flashlight sitting on the shelf. She looked at the bottles of water, the cases of cola and the hook-lock on the door. She needed to do something, but what? What do people do in situations like this?
When the hell are people in situations like this? Never! That’s when. Never!
What was going on? Why were those people murdered? Why on God’s green earth did the dead rise up and attack? And excuse me? What did Carrie just say? They cut off her fingers?! That wasn’t right! They cut off Carrie’s fingers?! Really?
This is a big bag of shit! Complete shit! Who would do such a thing to a child?
Stephenie hung up the phone and put her hands to her face.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get over to the farmhouse and save Carrie. Then we’ve got to get going. We can’t stay here. Staying here is suicide. This place is bad, so, so bad.”
There was a single BANG on the door and Stephenie jumped.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” She screamed.
She was losing it now, really losing it. It was easy to see. Her face was sticky and clammy and her eyes were completely glossed over. Her knees were shaking and her hands were trembling. She had sweat along her neck and spine.
There was another loud BANG at the door, followed by moaning, growling and scratching.
The dead had risen, and now they were bunched up on the other side of the door, trying to get inside, trying to get at her, trying to eat her mother-fucking brains like something straight from the script of some shitty horror movie––because that made sense! Oh mighty, mighty fuck-balls with brown sugar on top––that made total sense!
Shifting her weight, Stephenie felt a sharp pain knifing its way up her leg. She bit down on her lower lip and tried not to cry.
Okay, she thought. Enough is enough.
She needed a plan, which meant finding a weapon of some kind. But before she did that she needed to deal with priority number one: her ankle. She couldn’t go on like this; the pain in her ankle was too much. Pulling the pencil free was her main concern, and then what? Concealing the wound? Bingo! Concealing the wound.
Carrie would have to wait. It sucked, but it was true. Carrie needed to deal with the nightmare she was facing alone, with blood dripping from the places her fingers used to be.
Oh Gawd. This was bad. Everything was sooooo bad.
Stephenie put her back against the door and cringed. She lifted her wounded leg an inch off the ground and slid downward, along the smooth surface of the door until she was sitting on the floor. She removed her shirt. It was a thin, blue dress shirt. Now she was dressed in a wife-beater undershirt. Using her teeth, she tore a sleeve from the dress shirt. She dropped the shredded garment on the ground and carefully put her fingers on the pencil. The very act of touching the wood was enough to make her suck air through her teeth, wince, and shy away from her thoughts of bravery. But shying away from bravery meant what? Cracking a can of Pepsi and singing a tune? No, that wouldn’t do. Bravery or no bravery, she needed to deal with her ankle.
Knowing how much pain she was about to feel, she crunched the shirtsleeve into a ball and stuffed it in her mouth. Then, before she had a chance to over-think the situation, she grabbed the pencil and pulled.
4
Her teeth clamped down. The pain was enormous; like having your hand slammed in a car door, like having your fingernails pulled from your digits with heavy pliers.
A line of blood squirted across the small room and splashed the wall.
But here’s the bitch of it: the pencil wasn’t out. It didn’t want to come out; it was wedged inside her body really good.
Stephenie would have to try again.
She tugged the wood back and forth, trying desperately to jerk it free. The pencil was stubborn. It didn’t want to come free. Her face turned pale and her eyes widened. Goosebumps cropped across her arms and legs in patters and blotches; sweat rolled down her forehead. She could hear her bones grinding and cartilage cracking. The pain was blazing hot now––searing, scalding. It was way beyond any sensation she had prepared herself for.
But she hadn’t prepared herself for anything. She stuffed a rag in her mouth and grabbed the wood before she had a chance to think. The result? There was juice bubbling from the hole in her ankle and blood on the wall. Her skin had turned pale and her eyes were the size of hockey pucks. Plus the wooden pencil was still in there.
It wasn’t coming out!
Stephenie screamed into the shirtsleeve rag while biting it as hard as she was able. She looked at her hand through blurry eyes, surprised to find her fingers working diligently. The hand seemed foreign now, like it didn’t belong to Stephenie any longer. Had it become its own boss, busy with its own agenda? Apparently so. As Stephenie swayed back and forth, screaming and biting back the pain as drool dribbled from her lips, she began asking the hand to stop, if only in her mind.
Please stop, she thought. Oh please, please stop.
But the hand didn’t listen. Once her hand stopped pulling, the pencil would be in there for good. It was now or never. The hand seemed to know it, which meant Stephenie was to endure the agony.
She closed her eyes, wishing her mind would be somewhere else, anywhere else. She needed to escape reality, mind over matter, right? And maybe she could do it. Maybe if she tried really, really hard she could pretend she was somewhere else, somewhere better, somewhere new––at least for now, until the misery had ended.
A vision came, and that was good. Anything was better than suffering through wood and graphite grinding against cartilage and bone.
Whatever the vision might be, she’d take it.
Her vision––
Stephenie’s could see herself lying on a table. Her arms and legs were tied down, her head was wedged into a large vice; she could feel it pressing against her skull. Her lips were pulled apart with barbed chicken wire, exposing her teeth. And although she couldn’t move her head she could move her eyes and she could see a man standing beside her. He had a slim nose, greasy black hair, and was dressed in a white coat. Looked like a doctor. He had a hammer in his right hand, but it was small, just a toy, really. No good on a construction site but okay for driving a nail into drywall.
He said, “This is going to hurt.”
Stephenie couldn’t say anything, not while her lips were pulled apart and her teeth were exposed. So she tried to struggle; she tried to move. Unfortunately she couldn’t. Her body was secure.
The man tapped her teeth with the hammer. Tap. Tap. Tap. He stroked his chin and then he tapped harder. TAP. TAP. TAP. Teeth didn’t break, so he hit them hard. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. One tooth cracked, which made the man smile. Enjoying himself, he put some muscle into it. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. His smile became a grin, then: CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. A chunk of tooth broke free. He hit her harder still, with his grin becoming a sickle. He pounded the little hammer (which was just a toy, really, hardly useful at all) with all his might. The tool started missing the mark. He smashed her in the gums and lips; he hit her in the chin and in the eye. Blood splashed. Teeth broke into pieces of jagged wreckage. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. Drops of red speckled his white coat. Her lips were becoming chopped sausage; her gums, chewed steak. The man laughed and screamed. It was too much,
much too much. She began choking. Tooth splinters and bone fragments filled her throat like chunky stew.
Stephenie wanted the man in her fantasy to stop, just like she wanted her hand to stop pulling at that fucking pencil. But the pencil was stubborn. It was really wedged in there good and apparently that was okay because her fingers were stubborn too; they just wouldn’t quit. There was blood pouring out of her foot now. It was running into her shoe and all over the floor. Her fingers were red, her hand was red and her leg was shaking. Her face had turned white and her ankle was swelling, getting larger by the moment. The pain was scorching. It seemed to never end, only get worse.
Please stop, her mind screamed. And the man with the white coat did, he really did. He stopped what he was doing and lifted her from the table like a baby. He walked her towards an open window and before she had a chance to thank the man for easing his insane surgical procedure he tossed her outside, never saying a word.
Now Stephenie was falling.
She was falling and falling, and when she held her hands in front of her eyes she saw the strangest thing: they weren’t her hands at all. They were somebody else’s hands, a man’s hands––Hal’s hands.
Hal’s hands were held out in front of her and the wind was pressing against her body so hard that when she opened her mouth she felt like she was drowning. Air was rushing in, her lungs were expanding to the point of agony and nothing was coming out. She was drowning in nitrogen and oxygen instead of hydrogen and oxygen but that didn’t make the experience much different. She was trying to breathe and couldn’t do it. Perhaps it was because she was terrified. Perhaps it was because she knew that nobody tumbles off an extra tall building and lives to tell the tale. Or maybe it was the fact that she had a chunk of pencil rammed into her ankle and she couldn’t pull it free.
The ground grew nearer. People that looked like raisins became the size of plums. The matchstick sidewalk grew as wide as a ruler and as the seconds rolled past it only got bigger. Now she could see the fence. Oh boy, it was coming right at her.
Her body started turning, rolling forward. Hair danced and clothing fluttered. Feet kicked and arms waved. She wasn’t going to land on her feet, but she was going to land on the fence; there was no escaping it.
Plum-sized people became the size of pumpkins; several watched and screamed. A boy Carrie’s age slapped his fingers over his eyes and started to bawl. A lady dressed in blue jeans and a white bikini top wrapped her arms around her head like it was a baby.
Stephenie hit the fence.
Skin, organs and muscle were demolished. The pelvic bone and vertebrae destroyed. One body became two separate pieces and with that, she heard Hal’s voice inside her head, clearer than it had ever been.
He said, “Why did you send me to work today, Stephenie? Why? Were you mad because I talked to my old girlfriend? Is that why you sent me off to be killed, because I sat down for a cup of coffee with a girl I hadn’t seen in eight years? Is that the reason I’m being ripped in half by this industrial-strength portable fence, because you’re jealous about a coffee and a conversation? That’s not fair Stephenie! It’s not fair and you know it! And you know what else Stephenie? I wanted to stay home and you made me go! You made me, Stephenie! You forced me out the door with your thoughts and your words and that terrible streak of cruelty you unleash at random. Why are you like that? Why are you so selfish and uncaring? How can you be the nicest girl I’ve ever known one day, and queen of the bitches another? Why do you love me and hate me at the same time? This accident isn’t my fault; it’s your fault. Everything is your fault Stephenie! IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”
Now Stephenie was screaming. She was screaming like she wasn’t capable of doing anything else. And…
POP!
Just like that, the man with the hammer was gone; the falling was over.
The pencil had come free.
5
There was a period of time that drifted by, and ‘drifted’ would likely be the best word to use. Once the pencil slid from her body, the intensity of the moment dropped significantly. The storm had passed. Of course, she was still stepping into the heart of the storm, all things considered, but she didn’t know that.
She rested. Mentally and physically, she rested. Not for long, and not enough, but that’s what she did. And when her thoughts cleared as much as they were able, she remembered the swarm on the far side of the door.
Zombies. Was that really the situation? Really?
No offence, she thought, but how impossible is this?
She allowed her thoughts to drift, just like the time. Blood drained from her body. She faded in and out of consciousness, trying to find a Zen moment, a moment of peace and tranquility, a little taste of serenity, because once she opened that door… yikes. It was bad news on top of bad news.
Her ankle throbbed.
She ignored it the best she could, and listened.
She heard scratching, knocking, growling and moaning.
Carrie.
She thought about Carrie and her missing fingers. How many were missing anyhow? Two? Five? Eight? Had they been cut off with a knife? With scissors? Hedge clippers? Were they cut off at the knuckle, near the fingertip? Or were they snipped somewhere near the center of the bone? One hand or both? Did she lose toes? Was she losing toes now? Assuming a man was responsible, what did he look like? Was he big, small? Was he enjoying himself? Did he sexually abuse her too?
“Stop thinking about it,” she whispered. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Having a child abducted and abused was a mother’s worst nightmare.
She was awake. Oh God, she was awake.
The moment of tranquility had passed. And yes, her ankle hurt, but it was time to stand up and take it. Time to ignore the pain, if possible.
The rag that had been stuffed into her mouth was lying on her lap. She held it in front of her. The rag was too small to be useful so she tossed it aside. She lifted her shirt off the floor and tore another strip free. This strip was longer than the first. She tied it around her ankle in an attempt to stop the bleeding but by the time she hauled herself to her feet the rag was drenched with blood.
Standing made her dizzy; she hoped it would pass.
She looked at the doorknob, looked at the door. Beads of sweat gleamed on her forehead. Looking at the hook-lock, she wondered what would happen once she unlatched it.
Things were about to get bad, real bad.
She put a small amount of weight on her wounded leg and felt the pain ignite her nerves like fire. Was she ready? The question almost caused a smile. No, she most certainly was not ready; she could barely stand. Did her physical dilemma matter? No, probably not. She had to do what she had to do.
She put a hand against the door and slowly unhooked the lock. Then she put that same hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath, wondering how to open the door––fast or slow?
Fast, she decided. Yes, fast. Fast was the way to go. Do it like a band-aid, one quick pull and it’s over.
Stephenie nodded, confirming the idea to herself.
But it wouldn’t be over, that was the problem. Once she opened the door things would just be getting starting.
She told herself it didn’t matter. She told herself to be brave. She was going to open the door quickly and be done with it. Carrie needed her.
On the count of three, she thought. One. Two. Three!
She didn’t open the door––of course not. Opening the door was suicide and she knew it. How many of those things were out there? Twenty? Thirty? And what about her ankle? That bitch in the restaurant stabbed her pretty damn good. Did she really think she could fight a room filled with zombies now?
The odds were clearly stacked against her.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
Then she opened the door.
6
Stephenie only opened the door an inch and peeked through the opening. She didn’t see any zombies, so she opened the door a little wider.
J
ennifer was sitting on the floor with her arm lying beside her. The arm didn’t look pale; it looked shriveled white, excluding the smudges of bright red blood.
Stephenie closed the door quietly, re-evaluating the situation.
They’re not swarming the door, she thought. So now what?
Go back to the original plan. Do it quick, swing the door open and make a run for it. But run where, to the farmhouse to save Carrie? How?
Assuming she was able to scoot past a couple dozen brain-eating zombies…
Stephenie’s thoughts hit a snag.
Brain-eating? Who said anything about brain-eating? Where am I getting this stuff? First it was: THE ICY FINGERS OF DEATH, and now this?
Get it together Steph. Please.
Stephenie put a hand to her temple and exhaled a deep breath. “Where was I?” she whispered. “Oh yeah. Saving Carrie. Do it fast, do it now. Right now. Just go, don’t think about it; go. They’re chopping off her fingers.”
With a grimace and a moan, Stephenie threw open the door.
Jennifer looked up, groaning. She lifted her arm off the floor and squeezed it. Blood dribbled from its end.
Stephenie stepped past Jen’s legs, wincing as she put pressure on her ankle, wondering what her next move would be.
Craig stood at the end of the counter, blocking her path. He lifted a hand; blood bubbled from his chest.
Stephenie stumbled, moving sideways, almost like a crab. She opened both of her hands and pushed zombie-Craig as hard as she was able.
Craig went tumbling back with his arms pinwheeling and his mouth open. He fumbled into an oversized plant, pushing over a chair as he fell down.
Using the countertop as leverage, Stephenie continued on. The agony in her ankle was bringing a fresh batch of tears to her eyes but she didn’t let that stop her from trying to escape. This was her moment. As the saying goes: it was now or never.
Into Hell Page 8
