More Bedtime Stories for the Apocalypse

by Joel Arnold

  She jumped inside, slammed the door shut and slid the latch in place.

  Occupied.

  Just in time. He pounded on the door, letting loose a string of obscenities.

  Brenda turned in a circle in the cramped quarters, her heart trying to flee her chest. “Go away!” she shouted, realizing the futility of the words after they’d left her mouth. Did she really think he’d shrug and say, Okie-dokie?

  He pounded and pulled at the door. The tiny building rattled and shook.

  Brenda prayed for the latch to hold – there was no place for her to get a good grip on it – and she was surprised when it did hold. She sat on the toilet seat lid and watched the latch closely. “Go away!” she yelled.

  The pounding stopped.

  Brenda looked up, watching the door. There was the scrape, scrape, scrape of feet on gravel, as if he was pacing back and forth right outside the door.

  What was happening? What did he want? She could see the knife so clearly in her mind, the serrations like teeth, ready to bite into her flesh. Was he planning to rape her? Kill her? Both? Christ.

  His footsteps stopped. His shadow darkened the glow of the door. He said in a calm tone, “Come out now and I’ll make it easy on you. Okay? I won’t make you suffer like the others.”

  The others? Oh, God.

  She remembered the red-headed woman. Was she nearby? Maybe she was calling for help at this very moment. Please, please, please let it be so.

  “Come on, it’ll be quick.”

  What did he want? Why her? “Go away,” Brenda pleaded. She struck the door with the palm of her hand. Waited. Listened. Heard footsteps on gravel pacing back and forth. I have to outwait him, she thought. Eventually someone will come along. Someone with a cell phone. What dummy wouldn’t have a cell phone on them? Just a dumb, jogging dummy who’s trying to stay in shape for her wedding.

  She’d need to warn them somehow. The guy waiting next to the Biffy Palace has a knife! Call the cops! Hopefully, they wouldn’t get close enough to the bastard to get stabbed.

  Why didn’t I stay home with Mark? He’d been right. Way too hot, way, way too hot to be jogging.

  In the meantime, she’d wait.

  As long as she had to.

  I’m not going to die in a Biffy Palace for Christ sake.

  If she had to wait for the end of the world, she’d do it. Until then, this outhouse – this damn Biffy Palace – was occupied.

  There was graffiti on the walls. Phone numbers, epithets, a squirting phallus, an eye with the words Repent, for the End is Near. Most was written or drawn in marker, but not the eye – that was carved into the fiberglass wall, etched above the toilet paper dispenser with a sharp instrument. And what detail! There was a glint in the eye, the beginning of a tear forming in the corner. The letters below it were written in calligraphy. The time and skill it must have taken to do all that…the patience.

  Insane patience, Brenda thought. She shivered at the image. Beautiful, but those words...

  The End is Near.

  Wait, Brenda thought. I should carve my name in the wall. The date, time of day. Clues, in case this guy... In case…

  And if she carved clues in the fiberglass, that guy, that madman wouldn’t be able to erase it. He could disfigure the writing with his knife, but it would take time, and maybe if she left clues in a few spots, an obvious spot for the killer to see, and then one not so obvious for the cops to find...

  Okay, what to write with? Car key! She pulled her Honda key from her pocket and examined it. Normally, she’d have her entire set of keys; house key, car keys for both the Honda and her fiancé’s Escape, the key to her parents’ house, the key to her office building. But when jogging, all those keys became uncomfortable pressing against her thigh through the thin material of her jogging shorts. She always pared down to the essential Honda key, the rest of the keys waiting for her in the vehicle’s glove box.

  She hoped that using the key to carve into the Biffy Palace walls wouldn’t render it useless. It would suck to race to her car only to find the key no longer worked in the ignition. But she had to take that chance.

  Holding the key tightly, she pressed the tip against the hard shell of plastic and began to scratch. It was harder than she’d anticipated. She pressed harder, scratched faster. There. Slowly, but surely, it was working.

  BRENDA, she scratched.

  Sweat dripped from her face, her neck, adding to the large, growing stain on her tank top.

  CHAPMAN.

  She tore off lengths of toilet paper, mopped herself off, and dropped the wet paper into the toilet.

  952-555-6390.

  Her hands and wrists were sore, but she wasn’t finished.

  Where else? She crouched on one knee and scratched her name and number close to the floor. Her sports bra and tank top felt like a hot, wet sponge. Sweat dripped in her eyes and ears. Jesus, was it hot! And that scent, that cloying scent of vanilla. Only it wasn’t really vanilla, was it? No, it was some sort of faux vanilla. And that smell barely touched the odor of chemicals and crap coming from the toilet. She reached for another handful of toilet paper, her nose passing within inches of the toilet lid. That shit and chemical smell combined with the faux vanilla…

  She gagged.

  She needed air, fresh air, otherwise she’d pass out. She stood and leaned her forehead against the wall. The vents near the ceiling weren’t helping at all. She stepped onto the toilet and steadied herself with her hands, pressing against opposite walls. She put her face up to one of the vents and took a deep breath.

  The air was too still outside.

  She’d never thought of herself as claustrophobic before, but here within the protective walls of the Biffy Palace, she found herself longing for wide open spaces, not tiny coffin-like crates made of thick green fiberglass. And it felt like a coffin, a puke-green coffin, and she had to open the door. Just an inch. Just enough to stick her nose out and take a deep breath of non-vanilla, non-crapchemicalsweatfilled air.

  Besides, she hadn’t heard a thing outside. Not for quite a while. How long had she been in here?

  She stepped quietly off the toilet and listened. No, nothing, unless you counted her increasingly panicked breathing.

  She turned the lock on the Biffy Palace door. Pushed it open a crack.

  If Brenda had been standing an inch more to the left, the knife blade would’ve sliced clean through her carotid artery as it sprang through the crack in the door. Instead it merely nicked the side of her neck.

  Brenda yanked the door closed on the retreating knife as the killer on the other side tried forcing it back open. Brenda held fast, trying to close the door tight enough to engage the lock, but with the knife held between door and frame, she had no luck. Plus the man on the other side was strong.

  God oh God oh God.

  “Open the door!”

  Oh God oh God.

  “C’mon! Open the damn door!”

  Maybe that would actually work, Brenda thought. Open the door! She silently counted to three and then shoved outward as hard as she could.

  The killer grunted with surprise as he fell backward onto the gravel.

  It was all the time Brenda needed to pull the door shut and turn the lock in place.

  “It’s occupied, fucker!” Brenda screamed.

  She heard him scramble in the gravel, heard his footsteps retreat from the Biffy Palace.

  Brenda breathed hard. Sweat poured off her in rivers. But she decided then and there that she could take the faux-vanilla scent, the chemically treated smell of shit, the feeling of walls closing in on her. She decided that if today was her day to die, it wouldn’t be the goddamn Biffy Palace that did her in.

  She waited. Listened. She’d gotten a brief, but better look at the man. After a few minutes she dropped to one knee again and started scratching in the wall.

  KILLER – rest – CAUCASION – rest – BLACK HAIR – rest – BIRTHMARK ON – rest, mop sweat off face and neck – FOREA
RM.

  What else?

  That was enough for now. She got up, stretched as best as she could, pulled down her pants and sat on the toilet. At least here she didn’t have to hold anything in.

  Half an hour later, she still hadn’t heard anything. She grabbed the last of the toilet paper and wiped the sweat from her brow, nose, neck and armpits. She peeled off her tank top, leaving her drenched sports bra in place.

  Was it safe, yet?

  She was about to stand up on the toilet seat again, this time to try and look out through the vents, but just as she placed one foot up, she heard footsteps.

  Were they footsteps? Or was it just the sound of squirrels scurrying in the gravel? She wished the killer would call out to her again. Say something.

  She waited. Waited. Imagined Mark in there with her, holding her, heat and claustrophobia be damned! No, wait, she imagined Mark outside, sneaking up on the killer, overtaking him, rescuing her…

  The rattling of the door handle snapped her to attention.

  She almost said something, but couldn’t get the words out. Her throat had grown dry. Occupied, occupied, occupied, she thought to herself frantically, wishing the killer (cause it had to be the killer, right?) got the hint and moved on.

  The rattling stopped. Brenda held her breath, listening. There was someone out there, and the silhouette of whoever it was turned the door a darker shade of forest green. Yes, occupied, Brenda thought. Can’t you see the little red sign on the door handle? Occupido, fucker!

  She listened. Pulled in a long, slow breath, quiet as death, and exhaled just as long, slow and quiet. There was a subtle grinding of gravel – shoes sliding across the surface. One step away, two steps. Then – the door handle rattled again, more urgent this time.

  Then a voice. “Hey! Is someone in there?” A fist pounded on the door, and Brenda felt as if the fist pounded straight onto her chest.

  “Come on lady,” came the voice. “My daughter needs to pee!” Then – “Hey, are you okay in there?”

  Brenda let out her breath in relief. “Y-yes,” she managed. “I’m okay,”

  “Well, my little girl here really needs to pee.”

  Brenda reached for the door, but paused. “Let me hear her,” she said.

  “What?” the man’s voice was agitated.

  Was it the same voice she’d heard before? The killer’s voice? But this man – his voice wasn’t nearly as enraged as the killer’s had been.

  “What do you mean?” the man asked.

  “Can’t your daughter say something?”

  “Come on, lady, she’s gotta go. Bad!”

  Brenda studied the silhouette. It was distorted, too distorted to tell if there really were two people out there, father and daughter. She leaned her head against the door, listening, sweat dripping off nose, chin, and neck.

  More pounding on the door. “Come on, lady!”

  “Make your daughter say something,” Brenda pleaded. She wanted to be sure. She changed tactics. “There’s a killer out there,” she said.

  “What?”

  “A killer! I saw him. Call 911. Get the police. Just get out of here!”

  “There’s no one out here, lady. Just me and my daughter, and she’s gonna mess her pants if – ”

  “I need to hear her voice! Do you understand?”

  “Come on, you’re making her cry. You sick – where do you get off scaring a kid?”

  “There’s a killer out there!”

  “Open up the damn door!” His voice softened. “It’s okay, honey. There’s no killer here. Can’t you just go in the grass? Come on, sweety.”

  Damn it, damn it, damn it. Brenda relented. “Okay, okay,” she said. She turned the door handle. Pushed the door open a crack. Saw the back of a man leaning over, hovering over his daughter, his body blocking Brenda’s view.

  “Come on, honey, she’s coming out now. Stop crying, okay?”

  “Here,” Brenda said. “I’m coming out, okay? The bathroom’s all yours. Okay?”

  She pushed the door all the way open. The man spun around.

  Of course there was no little girl, no daughter. Brenda only saw a flash of steel, one big nasty hunting knife, and there was blood on it, and for a fraction of a second she saw a bit of flesh hanging off the serrated edge. He lunged at her.

  But not fast enough.

  Brenda dove back into the Biffy Palace, back to her sanctuary just in time, slamming the door shut as the knife’s tip collided with the hardened forest green fiberglass.

  “Fuck!” the killer cried. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  At least the brief burst of fresh air diluted the smell of vanilla, the smell of chemicals and feces. Brenda wondered if she’d ever get that scent out of her nose. If I survive. It seemed like the smell was embedded deep up her nostrils, clinging to her nasal cavity, and if she could reach up inside her nose and claw that smell out – if I survive – she wouldn’t hesitate.

  The man – the killer – stopped yelling. Brenda could almost feel him collecting himself, plotting, thinking. Okay, you gotta think, Brenda thought. He knows I’m in here. I should’ve stayed silent.

  There was her key. The hand sanitizer dispenser. Okay, okay. The toilet seat cover, the toilet paper dispenser. Possible weapons? She wiggled the plastic seat from side to side. Can I yank it off? Maybe use it as a shield, and the sanitizer dispenser could be a clubbing device. Or my key – if I could just fend off the first thrust of his knife with the toilet seat lid, then I could drive my key into one of his eyes.

  He’s not going to just let me go, is he? she thought.

  What else could she do? She listened. Heard the man’s shoes on the gravel. Walking this way and that. The glow in the Biffy Palace grew muted.

  The sun’s going down, she realized. How long have I been in here?

  She glanced down into the toilet. Wished it led to a series of tunnels. If she could get down there, then maybe she could escape. But no – this was a modern outhouse, a goddamn Biffy Palace! She’d seen the trucks rolling down the highway. Biffy Palace! We’re Number 1 at Dealing with Number 2! They had big hoses that sucked the waste right out from the large storage containers nestled beneath the toilets. That’s how they did it nowadays. No mere big hole (complete with escape tunnels!) dug into the ground. Besides, who was she kidding? She couldn’t fit through that toilet hole even if she wanted to. At best, she’d get stuck at the hips, and then what good could she do?

  Okay. Think.

  Toilet seat lid shield. Honda key. Open the door expecting the lunge. Side-step it and block with the shield, then ram the key home. Bury it deep into his eye socket.

  The car key was thick and long. Who cared if she couldn’t start the car as long as the killer was incapacitated?

  So – drive the key into his eye, then take away his knife, and then –

  – and then do what you have to do.

  She realized the crunch of shoes on gravel had stopped. She listened. She couldn’t hear anything. The light from the outside continued to dim. Get the toilet seat lid off. She lifted it open and kicked out at it with her right foot. It merely bent back an inch until it touched the back wall. Simply kicking it off wouldn’t work.

  She listened some more.

  Nothing.

  She kneeled onto the floor and examined the lid’s hinge, trying her best to ignore the smells wafting from below. She no longer tried to stem the flow of sweat pouring off of her. She was, however, very thirsty. She knew she was in serious need of water, but for now she had to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Okay, a hinge. A hinge. She didn’t see any screws to unscrew. Just…a plastic hinge.

  She grit her teeth and grabbed both sides of the lid. She yanked it from side to side. Let loose, you bastard! She stood and leaned over it, trying to twist it. Come on, come on. She grunted. Not giving. She positioned herself to one side and put both hands on the opposite side of the lid and pulled it toward her hard. Yank, yank.

  There!
Something gave. It started to loosen.

  Yank, yank, yank.

  Damn it. She paused to catch her breath, and then pulled again. Yank. Finally! It came free. She sat down on the horse-shoe shaped toilet seat, panting. The sunlight was quickly fading.

  She needed to rest. Her arms ached. Cramps wracked her body. There wasn’t enough room to properly stretch. Why won’t he just go away?

  There was the sudden sound of liquid splattering against the wall. She sat up straight, listening. Is he peeing? Sounded like it. The killer began to walk around the outhouse, pissing against the walls. For a brief moment, she wondered if he was marking his territory.

  But, no. It wasn’t pee. Above the smell of faux vanilla and chemicals and shit, she smelled lighter fluid.

  Lighter fluid. Is he going to burn me alive? Inside the Biffy Palace? And her message, her painstakingly carved message – both messages – were going to simply melt away.

  He wants me to come running out. That’s what he’s expecting.

  Sure enough, she heard the strike of a lighter, followed by the whoosh of igniting lighter fluid. She watched the flickering glow from the flames grow outside the outhouse. Noxious, black smoke crept through the vents in thickening tendrils. Brenda began to blink as the fumes brought stinging tears to her eyes.

  She had to act. Act fast before the smoke overcame her. She clutched her key between her index and middle fingers and held the toilet seat lid over her head.

  She felt light-headed. No time for prayer. No time for one last reflection over her life. It’s now or never.

  I’m a goddamn warrior princess, she thought as she undid the latch and kicked the door open. She let out a war cry and ducked as a knife flashed above her head. She blindly struck out with her key and felt it strike flesh.

  “Bitch!” the killer screamed.

  Bull’s-eye.

  She ran and felt the knife’s blade catch her shoulder. She spun and swung the toilet lid hard at the killer’s hand. Another bull’s-eye and the knife flew through the air. The killer reached out for her, his cheek bleeding from the slash of her key. She swung the toilet lid again, this time connecting with the side of his face. She kicked out her leg and tripped him. He stumbled and fell to his knees.