Mississippi DEAD (11 page)

Reaching the first floor, the elevator comes to a gentle stop with a light bump. Just before the doors open, the bell dings again signaling our arrival. I step out of the car onto clean white marble tiles with streaks of black running through them, and find the lobby deserted.

I walk across the long lobby, past well-maintained three-foot ferns and leafy plants placed at strategic places to give a comforting feeling.

Four businesses occupy the first floor. Bella’s, a small eight table coffee shop, offering sandwiches, gourmet coffee and pastries at prices that would make the normal Chicagoan choke. The food is good, and they seem to make a living from it, especially in the tourist season when the Navy Pier is at full swing. Tourists always need a spot to rest their weary feet, and Bella’s has an inviting atmosphere that draws them in.

Next door is Chang’s Dry Cleaners and Alterations, open seven days a week, six till six, no questions asked and prompt service. Oddly, no one named Chang works in, or owns, the business.

Across the lobby, two offices house the practices of a gynecologist and a dentist. Beneath all of this is a parking garage that rents stalls by the month at five hundred dollars a pop.

Pulling the glass door open to Bella’s, I’m not greeted with the usual, “Hi, Robin. Your usual today?” from Debbie Foil, the cafes owner, always at her place beside the register. She’s not there, nor
are any customers. The place is as deserted as the lobby. No music plays in the background; no sizzle of something cooking from the kitchen. Worse, no smell of fresh brewed coffee is in the air.

Thinking that I might be too early, I pull out my phone and see a blank screen. I forgot to turn it on when I got up. I turned it off late Friday night when I crawled onto the couch, not wanting to be disturbed.

“Hello?” I call out. Nothing comes back in return.

I let the door close behind me and glance out the long window dominating the far wall. Two cars sit at the intersection, waiting at a red light, but no foot traffic passes by on the sidewalk.

Scratching my head, I find it strange that I had woken up before any foot traffic started. I never get up early enough to beat the crowds.

Walking to the counter, I lean forward and look toward the open doorway leading to the kitchen.

“Debbie, you here?” I ask; again no response.

Behind me I hear the sharp ring of the bell signaling that the street side door has opened. At first I don’t turn around. If customers are coming in, then I’m not too early. Whoever just entered stumbles against a table, knocking a chair over. I can hear that their steps are unbalanced as they kick the chair. That brings my attention around.

Turning, I see a woman leaning over the fallen chair, wearing a light brown leather bombers jacket, and jeans with holes in the knees. The long brown hair covering her face almost touches the floor.

“Are you alright?” I ask, taking a step towards her.

A growl rumbles across the room, making me stop in my tracks, and forget that I wanted coffee.

What happened next seems in slow motion. The woman lifts her head to reveal a pale face, covered with perspiration. Through the strands of hair, I can see deep scratches running in furrows down her cheeks, one reaching through her right eye, splitting it into two dripping
gelatinous globs. Blood trails from each gouge, and drips in bloody ribbons from her nose, mouth and chin. Seeing no other wounds, I figure that this woman has just been violently mugged.

Through broken teeth, some hanging loosely, some missing completely, the woman screams at me.

“Lady, you need me to call the police?” I stammer, unsure of what exactly to do.

I move back to the counter where I had left my phone. Pressing the button on the side of the phone, it springs to life. The woman stares at me, weaving back and forth, as if she might fall.

“Sit down,” I say as I press the phone icon.

As I tap in 911, the woman screams again. In pain, she twists her head, her gaze never leaving me. Then in a lurch, she charges towards me. Frozen in place, I watch as she takes two stiff-legged steps and then bounces her hip hard off of a table. She stumbles on the accompanying chair, and falls, sprawling on the floor.

Her scream is cut short as she smacks, face down, on Debbie’s tiled floor. I hear the wet crunch as her nose shatters.

Putting the phone to my ear, I listen to the ring on the other end. I take a tentative step towards the woman. Part of me wants to help, but the other part says to stay away. She is distraught by the attack and ready to strike out at anyone near.

The line connects and a recorded female voice comes on stating,
‘All lines are currently busy. Please wait for the next available operator.’

As I hit the disconnect icon, the injured woman’s hand shoots out, and grabs hold of my ankle. Caught off guard, I drop my phone where it clatters to the ground.

Raising her head, the woman pulls herself forward. Mouth open, she tries to take a bite out of me. Broken teeth smash down on the leg of my jeans as I pull my ankle from her grip, losing my sandal in the process.

“What the
fu…,” I yell, grabbing the nearest chair for balance.

The woman reaches for me again, bloody spittle flying from her injured mouth as she growls.

In any other situation I would think that she is reaching for help. But her snapping jaws, the puddle of blood, and broken teeth flowing from her mouth, tell me to run. I pull a chair between us, and hold it in place as she smacks at it with her hands.

I try to reassure her. “You need to calm down, lady. Stay there and I’ll call the police.”

By the dazed look in her remaining good eye, I can tell that she does not understand. I look for my phone, and don’t see it anywhere.

“Stay!” I demand, and move as quickly as I can for the counter.

Moving around the counter, I grab the landline phone next to the register. Hitting the talk button on the handset, I put it to my ear.  All I get is dead air. I hit the on-button a few more times—nothing.

“Debbie,” I yell over my shoulder, hoping she's in the kitchen.

I look at the woman, and see her struggling to get up.

“Stay there. I’ll get help,” I say, sure she doesn’t hear me over the grunts of pain that flow from her.

I dash into the kitchen to see no one. Halfway down the room, a stainless steel sink sits full of sudsy water, so I know Debbie, or one of her girls, must be here.

“Debbie!” I call, moving along the steel prep table that stretches through the center of the room.

A smeared streak of red on the floor wraps around the farthest table leg. Cautiously I step forward. A cold chill races up my spine. Could Debbie have been mugged by the same person as the lady in the dining room? Or was it a burglary gone wrong and I just happened to walk in on it?

“Debbie?”

Stepping around the end of the table, I see that the red streak reaches towards the large squat stainless-steel refrigerator against the far wall. A bloody hand print stands out on the lower half of the door. Other than that, there is nothing, as if whoever had been injured got up, and walked off.

From behind, I hear utensils spill from a plastic tray, striking the floor in a loud crash. Spinning around, I see the injured woman standing in the doorway. Breathing heavily, a mixture of blood, and drool, drips from her open mouth. Her tongue seems to taste the air between the few ragged teeth she has left.

As she takes a step forward, her shoes slip on the scattered silverware. Her only good eye stares at me hungrily.

“Miss, you need to sit down. You're hurt.” I lift a hand, palm out, trying to calm her.

Her head cocks sideways at a sharp angle, reminding me of a cocker spaniel not understanding what she was being told to do.

My brain screams to grab something for protection. If Debbie had been mugged, the bad guys could still be near. And this lady, as well as being injured, is really pissed and willing to take it out on anyone nearby—which just happens to be me.

On my left, near the fridge, lay a long stainless steel counter with pots, pans, baking sheets and a meat tenderizer. Grabbing the heavy mallet, I shake it at the woman.

“Miss, you need to sit down,” I say with a stern voice. But as a portion of the woman’s injured eye slides down her cheek, I know that I'm in trouble.

Lunging forward, the woman strikes the table and her knees buckle. Pounding the steel surface with her hands, she claws it to stay upright. Her nails break, leaving streaks of blood along its surface.

I step to the left, and she responds by moving in the same direction, blocking my escape route to the dining room.

I glance at the service window connecting the two rooms, and know that I have to take my chance with it. I lunge to the right going around the table. The woman follows my movement, just a second behind.

Grabbing the counter, I jump up on it and move for the window. The woman comes on. Screaming, she grabs for me and tries to take another bite out of whatever flesh she can grab.

Swinging back with the mallet, I strike her along the temple. The heavy metal head of the tenderizer connects with a wet thud as her mandible cracks. Her skin splits open like ripe fruit. She falls, bouncing her head off the counter, and collapses on the floor.

I pause for a moment, thinking that I had killed her. But as soon as she hits the floor, blood gushing from the ragged tear across her jaw, she starts for me again. My mind screams for me to run, and run I do. Pushing my way through the window, I send a stack of plates crashing to the floor.

Striking the soda fountain with my knee, I knock a spigot free and carbonated water and syrup spurt everywhere.

Not waiting, I jump the front counter by the register and dash for the door. As I move through the door into the lobby, I can hear the woman screaming in the kitchen. Her voice cut off as the door closes behind me, shutting me in silence.

Turning, I see her stumble into the dining room, striking at everything within reach. Not wanting to be the continuing focus of her wrath. I step to the side of the door, hiding behind a large fern. I know that she needs an ambulance, but I have no way of calling them. My phone is under a table, fifteen feet away.

I race across the marble tiled lobby, and grab the dentist's office door—locked. I look
through the glass for anyone inside, but I see no movement. The only light on inside is just above the reception desk.

A chair strikes the café door. I turn to see the woman holding a chair by its leg. Repeatedly she swings the chair at the door, sending fractures radiating up the glass. I know she can just pull the door open, but her anger shows her determination to hurt something.

Desperate for a plan, I run back across the lobby to the dry cleaners. Throwing the door open, I’m hit with the sound of Japanese music, and steam coming from the presses in the backroom. I look towards the counter and see a woman leaning out of the drive-thru window.

“Miss,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Call 911. A woman’s injured over at Bella’s.”

The woman does not respond. She is leaning too far to hear me. She must be talking to someone who has not pulled their car close enough to the window.

“Miss,” I say louder.

Not waiting for her response, I reach over the counter and look for a phone. There is no landline, or cell phone, anywhere in the jumble of customer orders and receipts.

Stepping to the left, I move around the service counter to get the woman’s attention. Hoping she has a phone in her pocket, I reach out and place a hand on her striped, black-and-purple shirt and say, “Miss,” hoping not to scare her.

She does not jump in surprise at my touch. Instead she slides toward the floor. The upper portion of her shoulders, arms and head are gone, leaving a ragged bloody hole of shredded flesh and bone. She hits the floor with a splat, blood spurting across my feet and jeans as her dead body twists on the floor.

Jumping back, I bruise my hip on the counter. Unable to take my eyes off of the horrid mess, I stumble towards the backroom where mobile racks of pressed clothes hang in clear plastic bags.

I push my way through the clothes, and run past large running washers. I know there is a back door leading to the building's stairwell and down to the parking garage.

I hit the lever to the exit and the alarm goes off. As I step out onto the stairwell, the door slams shut behind me with a solid
metal
Thunk
- cutting the shrill alarm's sound in half. Stopping, I find myself locked in darkness. Usually florescent tubes placed high on the wall light the stairwell. But now the lights are as dead as the woman behind me.

“Crap!” My voice echoes up the concrete steps.

I could make my way up to the eleventh floor and my apartment; probably stumble as I grope for the steps, and possibly fall to my death. Or I could go down one level to the parking garage. That way if I did fall in the darkness, I wouldn’t get hurt too badly. Anyway the hearse is parked in my stall, and there is a mobile phone inside. Or once in the garage, I could take the elevator up to my apartment.

I decide to go down. Placing my hand on the iron railing, I reach my other hand for the wall. I can barely touch both at the same time. Using my toes, I feel for each step, and make my way down. As I move, each step gets easier and easier, and when I reach the garage level. I effortlessly find the door.