Anything Can Be Dangerous (29 page)

She pushed on the glass. The door
opened, the bells sang and out she went.

She was outside.

Yes. Outside. Outside was good. The
clean air and the open sky eased the claustrophobic feeling that
had clutched her so tightly a moment before. She put both hands on
her knees and breathed hard, like she had gone running. Her throat
felt dry now, the sweat on her neck gave her a little
chill.

This was bad, so very bad.

She stood up army straight and looked
over her right shoulder. The swing was empty. Christina was gone.
She looked over her left shoulder. Nothing.

The reality of the moment came rushing
in, hitting her with enough power to knock her right out of her
shoes.

Where is Carrie? Where’s my
daughter?

At first she didn’t know what to do,
what to think. The car was empty. The parking lot was empty. So
what did that leave?

It left the restaurant; that’s what it
left. It left that fucking slaughterhouse, the gore-zone, the
abattoir. And she didn’t want to go in there. She didn’t even want
to
think
about going in
there.

Stephenie stumbled away from the
restaurant like she had one too many at the local pub, more anxious
now than anything else. She said, “Carrie? Carrie where are
you?”

There was no answer.

“
Carrie?”

Nothing.

Carrie was in the restaurant. She had
to be. There was nowhere else to hide unless she, she––what?
Wandered onto the highway? Sprouted wings and flew away?
Disappeared into black-hole void like a spacecraft from a science
fiction story?

She was inside. Goddamn it, she had to
be inside somewhere.

Maybe she’s
dead.

Stephenie spun around quickly, holding
a hand at her chest.

Don’t think this way, she
thought. Don’t think she’s dead, not even for a minute. My daughter
isn’t dead, just misplaced. Whoever’s responsible for this mess is
long gone, which means there’s no danger here. None. So don’t start
thinking Carrie is in trouble; it’ll only make matters
worse.

She eyed the door.

The door looked the way you’d expect
an old restaurant door to look: big and grimy with a large glass
window. The bottom half had little splotches of dirt and mud
clinging to the chipped paint. The glass was tinted dark and nearly
impossible to see through. Behind the glass, a thin, dirty curtain
hung from a cheap gold colored rod. The curtain needed to be
cleaned. The rod needed to have its screws tightened, otherwise it
would likely fall from the door before the season’s end.

Stephenie stepped towards the building
and wrapped her fingers around the door handle. The handle felt
like trucker sweat and french-fry grease. She tightened her grip;
then taking a deep, stabilizing breath, she pulled the door open.
Bells rang. The carnage became visible before she even stepped
inside.

“
Carrie?” She
whispered.

The door closed behind her. The room
was awful; it was also very quiet. But there was something, a sound
of some kind. She wasn’t sure what the sound was but it was there,
no louder than the buzz of an electric heater. It didn’t sound like
a heater though. She didn’t know what it sounded like. Scratching?
Was that it? Did it sound like something scratching the
wall?

“
Carrie? Are you here?
Hello? Anybody? Is anybody… alive?”

No response.

Stephenie’s eyes found Angela again,
but she didn’t want to look at the woman because Angela did one
thing very, very well: she made Stephenie nervous––beyond nervous,
actually. She made Stephenie feel like she was ready to die of
anxiety. So she looked away, looked towards a dead body that was
slumped against the counter, because
that
was better.
Sure it
was.

The corpse had a name: Craig Smyth. He
was twenty-one, dressed in a nice white shirt. His hands were on
his chest. His legs were curled towards his body, suggesting that
he recoiled from something terrible in his last moment of life.
There was a large wound near Craig’s heart; it separated his ribs
and caused a giant puddle on the floor around him. His white shirt
was drenched in red.

Stephenie turned away. She said,
“Carrie? Are you––”

A wet hand slapped the floor, shocking
the silence of the room. Stephenie flinched. Her words got caught
in her throat as her head snapped towards the corpse once again.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to see but she felt like
screaming.

Craig’s arm had shifted; his hand had
fallen from his chest. Now it was lying on the floor, surrounded in
blood.

“
Don’t freak out,” she
whispered, allowing a little moan to escape. But Stephenie knew she
might freak out. Oh yes. Freaking out was right around the bend and
becoming more appealing all the time.

She heard the sound again:
scratch, scratch.

It came from behind the counter. Yes,
she was sure of it now.

She moved past Craig, trying not to
look at him. And as she rounded the counter’s corner she noticed
the countertop had a big hack mark in it, like someone had slammed
an axe into it. There was blood around this spot, but that wasn’t
really surprising; there was blood everywhere. She moved ahead.
Another corpse came into view. It sat on the floor near the stove,
leaning against a cupboard door that was missing a hinge. It was
another waitress: Jennifer Boyle. The young woman’s open eyes
stared at nothing. Her legs were spread wide, creating a V,
exposing her skimpy pink underwear, exposing her flesh. Her left
arm had been severed near the elbow. Now it sat in a dark red
puddle at her side that was easily a quarter of an inch thick. The
open hand faced the ceiling like an overturned spider. Blood
dribbled from her stump.

Stephenie looked at Jennifer; she
looked at the severed arm. She was about to turn away when she
heard that sound again:
scratch,
scratch.
It sounded like, like… like what, a rat
dragging its claws against a door? Maybe. She didn’t know. But
there was a door beside the corpse, and that’s where the sound was
coming from.

What was in there, a staff bathroom?
Closet? Storage room?

“
Carrie?”

She walked along the path behind the
counter, past a pair of coffee makers, towards Jennifer and the
door. She could smell greasy food. She could smell coffee as well.
There was heat coming from a stove so Stephenie took a moment to
turn the elements off. It seemed like the right thing to do. She
placed a foot between Jennifer’s open legs and put a hand on the
doorknob. In contrast to the hot stove, the knob felt cold. She
turned it quickly and pulled, disregarding the fact that she hated
rats. In her books, rats were disgusting.

The door opened, hitting Jennifer in
the leg.

Stephenie pulled harder, causing
Jennifer’s right leg to slide towards her left. The sound of dead
skin dragging across the floor was enough to make her stomach
churn.

Want to keep reading?

Check out the rest of the story
here:

JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL

* * *

Preview of:

PAUL KANE’S - PAIN
CAGES

Ask someone to describe
pain…

And they might say, the feeling they
get when they stub their toe on a table, or accidentally hit their
thumb with a hammer when they’re banging a nail into the wall. Pain
can be more than merely physical, of course: it can hurt when a
marriage breaks up or a loved one dies. That’s even harder to put
into words.

But these are all just shadows, echoes
of something much greater.

Pain,
true
pain is impossible to describe, no matter
how hard anyone tries. It can rip apart a person’s soul, leaving
them a shell of what they once were. And if it is hard to endure,
it is certainly much harder to watch.

For some.

This story is about pain, in all its
forms. We enter this world screaming and crying as we fight to take
our first breath––being struck on the back to rouse us into
consciousness. Most of us leave this world the same way: with a
jolt. If we’re lucky it will be quick, if we’re not…

This story is about pain.

True
pain.

One

The piercing screams wake
me.

Not straight away, but slowly. They
sound as if they’re coming from a million miles away. The closer to
consciousness I draw, though, the louder they are, like someone
turned up the volume on a stereo: surround sound, sub woofers, the
works. Then that I realize they’re not part of some strange dream,
but coming from the real world.

From somewhere nearby.

I open my eyes, or at least I try to.
I never would have thought it could be so difficult; the amount of
times I’ve taken this simple action for granted. But now… Actually,
I can’t tell whether they’re open or shut because it’s still so
dark and I can’t really feel my eyelids. My guts are doing
somersaults; I feel like I need to be sick.

And all the time the screaming
continues.

My face––my whole body––is pressed up
against a hard, solid surface. I’m lying on a smooth but cold
floor, curled up like a cat in front of a fireplace, though nowhere
near as contented. I try to lift my head. I thought it was
difficult to open my eyes, but this is something else entirely.
Jesus, it hurts––a shockwave traveling right down the length of my
neck and spine. Instinctively I try to clutch at my back, but I
can’t move my hand either.
Must have been
one hell of a bender last night
. And the screaming?
Had to be a TV somewhere, someone watching a really loud horror
film with no thought for anyone else. Wait, had
I
turned it on after managing to get back home in
God alone knows what state?

This is the weirdest hangover ever. I
have some of the symptoms––head feels like it’s caving in, aching
all over, stomach churning… But my tongue doesn’t feel like
someone’s been rubbing it with sandpaper; I’m not thirsty from
dehydration. Maybe someone slipped something into my
glass?

Maybe you took something
voluntarily. Wouldn’t be the first time.

There’s movement to my left and my
head whips sideways. I immediately regret it as stars dance across
my field of vision. I still can’t see anything, even after the
universe of stars fade. Now I realize some sick son of a bitch has
put a blindfold over my eyes.

More movement, this time to the right.
I try to lift my hands to pull down the material, but again they
won’t budge, neither of them. My fingertips brush against metal and
now I know why. It’s not because of any fucking hangover: I’m
handcuffed. My fingers explore further and find a chain attached to
the cuffs. The manacles?

When I hear the screams again, the
terror racked up a notch, it dawns on me that I’m in a whole world
of trouble. Maybe my groggy condition made me slow on the uptake, I
don’t know, or perhaps I just couldn’t acknowledge the shouts of
agony as real. But they are; there’s no doubting that now. And I’m
definitely suffering from the after-effects of drugs, just not in
the way I thought. Drugs designed to knock me out rather than get
me high.

More movement, this time a swishing
sound in front of and behind me at the same time. How is that
possible? My heart’s pumping fast, breathing coming in heavy gasps.
I try to say something but all that comes out are a series of odd
grunts.

“
Sshh,” whispers a voice;
can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman, but they’re close. “Keep
quiet, and stay still!”

The advice seems sound, but I’ve never
been one for taking any kind of orders. I pull at the chains
holding my hands in front of me. Now I realize my feet are shackled
too.

“
Do as he says,” comes
another hushed voice, this one definitely a woman, “or you’re going
to get yourself killed.”

“
And us with him,” spits
the first person.

Killed? What the fuck? So many
questions: where am I? Who are these people talking to me? Why can
I feel heat on my face? Smell something burning? No… cooking. Like
roasting meat on a barbeque.

Struggling again, I scrape my face
against the floor, trying to pull down the blindfold. The screams
reach fever pitch, mixed with pleas for help. The cloying smell is
in my nose, down my throat; I gag.

I nose at the ground like a horse
eating hay, and the blindfold slips a fraction. I can see a little
through my right eye; there isn’t a lot of light, but I see metal
bars in front of me, all around me. A glimpse of the cages on
either side: a man, no more than forty, cowering in the corner of
his. A woman––the one who’d told me I’d get myself killed––is
transfixed by something right in front of her, tears tracking down
her cheeks.