More Bedtime Stories for the Apocalypse (11 page)

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
– FOREARM.

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.