The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins Page 7

  Our desks are arranged in small squares, segmented by conjoining desks. I share mine with Mary and Danielle. The fourth desk is stacked with trays for filing various paperwork. Since Danielle is off today with some sort of flu, it leaves just Mary and me to hold down the fort.

  She nods frantically and laughs. “He was totally beating one off in there.”

  “Ewww, gross out!” I giggle. I look toward his now closed door, and watch his shutters flick down so no one can see in, and I grimace. “Better get going, huh?” I stand and straighten my skirt, fixing my blouse so that it doesn’t come down as low.

  “Max?”

  I look back at Mary and force a smile. “I’ll be totally okay, don’t worry.”

  The thing is, the air conditioning hasn’t been working the past six weeks. We’re on the top of a twelve-story building and as such, are slowly roasting to death up here. There’s a fine line between appropriate dress and slutty, and I normally manage appropriate—just about—but with the heat, it was hard not to look slutty.

  I pick up my legal pad and Parker pen and take the walk of shame to his office—shame because every woman in this place knows what he’s like, and what I’m in for. Each face holds a small smile of sympathy and some relief. There’s only one bitchy smirk, which I try to ignore: Helena. Deep down I know she sympathizes, but she’s always been jealous of me—like it’s my fault that I was graced with an hourglass body and pouty lips. It’s like high school all over again, with the dirty looks and always trying to get me in trouble. The only difference is that this time we’re not fighting over boyfriends. She’s happily married and I’m more than happy with my long-term girlfriend Constance.

  I smile as I pass Helena’s desk, always determined to be polite and kind no matter what. Mamma always told me that they’ve won if they made you lower yourself to their standards. And I refuse to lower myself to her standards.

  I knock on Mr. Slewson’s door gently, pressing my pad nervously against my chest as I wait for him to reply. I know that I’ll be here for a minute or two. That’s just another one of his tricks: he likes to show his importance by keeping people waiting at his door for him.

  That, or like Mary said—he’s beating off in there.

  A minute goes by and I knock again.

  Two minutes, and I clear my throat loudly to remind him that I’m still waiting out here.

  Three minutes, and I turn to go back to my desk when I finally hear his deep voice tell me to come in.

  I roll my eyes, force a smile, and push open the door. “Hi, Mr. Slewson.”

  His cheeks look flushed, even with the small fan behind his desk throwing semi-cool air over him. “Please, take a seat, Max.” He gestures to the chair in front of his large oak desk and leans forward as his gray eyes follow me across the room.

  I sit and cross my legs, resting my pad on my lap. I pull out my pen and click it on, and look up with a smile. “Ready, sir.”

  He watches me for a second, running a hand through his hair. The air is stale in here, stale and sweaty with an underlying scent of something I don’t want to think about. I look back up when he doesn’t speak, and watch as his mouth twists up into a slow smile.

  “You’re ready, huh?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.” I smile again patiently.

  “I bet your boyfriend loves you being ready, huh?”

  I swallow slowly. “Excuse me, sir?” I frown, heat spreading across my neck.

  The air has stilled around us, despite the fan still shuffling his papers every now and then as the oscillating head continues to turn from left to right and from right to left. My lashes feel heavy. Damn store didn’t have my usual brand and so I had opted for a cheaper pair, but I’m regretting it now in this sticky office.

  “I like it when you call me sir.” His mouth quirks up in a sleazeball smile that makes me want to gag. I have no idea what to say to that, or where to look for that matter; it’s all getting far too uncomfortable for my liking.

  Mr. Slewson suddenly barks out a deep laugh, making me jump and let out a little squeal. He stands and comes around his desk, adjusting his pants as he does, and I grimace as Mary’s words once again ring in my mind. He leans backwards against the oak desk, his butt perched at the edge, and he crosses his arms, all the while continuing to watch me with a smirk. I hadn’t realized that my chair was so close to the desk, and now with him standing there, his crotch is eye level with me. I lean back as far as possible but try to act natural about it.

  “You wanted me to take notes for you, about the last contract I typed up.” I look away from his sly grin, feeling the blush spread further up my neck to my cheeks. His eyes rove toward my heavy chest, and I feel embarrassment flare even more.

  “I bet you keep your boyfriend happy, don’t you, Max?” His tongue slips across his lips, his nostrils flaring. I don’t know if he’s trying to be seductive or not, but it’s not attractive. “Yeah, I bet you’re a real man-eater, aren’t you?” he chuckles.

  “Mr. Slewson.” I clear my throat again, embarrassed and unsure why I’m going to tell him the next thing, but hoping that the small truth will make him back off a little. “I, umm, I like to think I keep my girlfriend very happy.” I smile shyly, waiting for the penny to drop.

  I’ve never kept it a secret that I’m gay, and I’ve never been embarrassed about it, but it’s also not something I feel the need to openly talk about. Why would I? But the minute the words leave my mouth, I know that it was a huge mistake mentioning my sexuality to him, and I want a hole to open up beneath my chair and swallow me up.

  “You’re a rug-muncher?” He claps his hands together and barks out another laugh. “So, you only float the lady boat, huh?” He grins and looks away for a moment, his thoughts no doubt going somewhere disturbing. He finally looks back to me, adjusting his pants again. “So have you ever been with a man?” He narrows his eyes and leans down to me. “I mean, have you ever thought that maybe you’ve never met the right man?” He grins and leans further forward, breathing heavily in my face and making me want to gag when I smell the onions he’s had for lunch.

  “Sir?” I squeak out.

  He stands and walks behind me, his trademark move.

  I grimace.

  “You know, if you do ever want to try out some prime meat from the butchers’ counter instead of something from the fishmongers, I’m a willing participant.”

  His hand touches the back of my neck and I stand abruptly, bumping his mouth against my shoulder in an angry clash of teeth as I do.

  “Motherf…” he yells out.

  I turn around quickly, watching as he clasps a palm across his mouth. “Ohmygod, ohmygod! Mr. Slewson, I’m so sorry.” I grab some tissues from the box on his desk and hand the wad to him to dab the blood dripping from his mouth.

  “I think you chipped a toof! I bet you did that on murpose,” he slurs with a scowl. “Fucking dyke.”

  I didn’t do it on purpose, but I really wish I had, and I fight to stop the smile spreading across my face. “No, sir, no, it was an accident. You just made me jump,”

  You pervert.

  He scowls harder, but is interrupted from speaking when a scream sounds out from the hallway. He turns to look at the doorway, turning back to me with a frown.

  “Damn women, always so temperamental.” He looks at the tissue in his hand. “Get me some fucking ice,” he slurs, and heads back around to his chair.

  “Yes, sir, yes of course.”

  “And see what the hell’s going on out there.” He pulls out a mirror from his desk, opens his mouth wide, and begins to examine the inside to check the damage.

  I grab my pad from the floor and scurry out of the office, clicking his door shut behind me with a heavy sigh. I head back to my desk, throwing my pad on top, and frown as I look over at Mary’s desk and see all her things tipped over. If there’s one thing about Mary it’s that she’s a neat freak.

  Glancing around me, I finally notice the disarray of the entire o
ffice, and the distinct lack of people. I walk away from my desk and toward the break room, seeing that the door is shut, and it’s never shut. Damn door creaks louder than anything, so it’s always wedged open.

  Except now.

  I frown hard at it and then stop myself: frowns give you wrinkles. My hand presses down gently on the handle and I push the door inwards slowly, the creak almost deafening in the quiet of the office. I peer around the door, gasping as twenty sets of wide eyes stare back at me from behind the upturned desk where we normally eat our lunch.

  “Everything K?” I ask as I look them all over with a cautious smile.

  Two.

  “Have they gone?” Eleanor whispers to me, staying behind the table with everyone else.

  I look behind me, back into the open-plan office. “Have who gone?” A chill runs across my arms, and I wish for the second time today that I would have worn something that showed less flesh.

  Eleanor comes around the table, her brown eyes fearful. “Those…things.”

  I smile at her. “Sweetie, are you okay?” I reach a hand out to touch her shoulder, but pull back when I see the blood on it. “What happened to you? Should I go get someone from first aid for you?” My eyes look to everyone else in the room, finally noticing their panicked expressions. “What’s going on? This isn’t some sort of prank, is it? Like Ashton Kutcher isn’t going to jump out on me or anything, because it’s not funny. I hate scary movies. My girlfriend is always pulling this sort of thing on me, and I don’t like it one bit.” I let my words trail off as I frantically look around the room for hidden cameras.

  A high-pitched scream pierces the air, and Eleanor rushes forward and shoulder barges me out the way. Her hands slam the door shut, the long, drawn-out creaking from the hinges seeming even more ominous now. She grabs my hand and we back away from the door.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper, my heartbeat becoming frantic.

  “Shhhh!” Eleanor hushes me quietly and takes another step back from the door as a shadow falls underneath it.

  The air stills, and I hear a collective intake of breath as we all stare raptly at the shadow. I want to open the door, to tell them all to stop doing this now because I don’t like it one bit, but I don’t. Instead I cling onto Eleanor’s hand as if my life depended upon it, and I stay as still as I can, all the while watching the shadows along with everyone else.

  Minutes pass, and the shadow of whoever was outside the door leaves. I expect everyone to laugh and to start to chatter noisily like normal, probably bitch about Eleanor for scaring the heck out of us, but no. No one says anything. No one moves. No one speaks, and there is definitely no one laughing.

  I turn to face them all, taking in their fearful expressions.

  “Come on, girls. This is silly. Tell me what’s going on.” When no one answers me, I turn to Eleanor. “Come on, what’s going on? I don’t think this is funny now.”

  Her eyes are brimming with tears, her chin trembling, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “This is ridiculous. I have to get some ice for Mr. Slewson,” I pout.

  I step toward the door, but can’t make the second step. My heart continues to beat its uneven rhythm, and I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and finally take another step forward.

  “Don’t open the door,” whispers someone from behind me, but I don’t know who it is. “Please don’t open the door.”

  I’ve listened to these women talk for years, I know every one of their little speech quirks—the sounds of their voices, their accents, what they sound like angry because of pervy Mr. Slewson, or sad after a break up—and yet, I don’t recognize this voice. Because this voice is laced with fear, and I’ve never heard any of their voices filled with fear before.

  My chin trembles even though I try to contain it, and regardless of the fear-filled voice I take another small step forward. Whatever is out there, it can’t be that bad, surely. My hand touches the handle, and I glance over my shoulder with a small smile.

  “Look, ladies. I don’t know what’s got you girls all in a tiz, but if we can face Mr. Perv on a daily basis, we can handle this…problem.” I choose my words carefully. “I’m sure whatever you saw is not as bad as you think it is. It’s that thing that you hear about, like sheep mentality or whatever. You’ve just all freaked yourselves out or whatever. Now come on, chins up, let’s face this together.”

  They murmur between themselves, the fear finally dissipating from the room, and slowly they creep forward themselves, still unsure, but looking more confused than petrified now. I nod and smile at them, finally feeling confident again as I face the door, turn the handle, and open it up.

  The creak is loud and echoes around the empty office, I square my shoulders instead of flinching like I want to. My eyes cast over the threshold. Apart from the drone of the computers in the background, which we don’t normally hear because of all the chatter, everything seems perfectly normal. Well, apart from the fact that we’re all huddled in the lunchroom together, of course.

  I turn back to face the girls. “See, it’s all K, nothing to worry about.” I smile and straighten out my skirt, only flinching when Eleanor begins to scream so loud I want to shake her. “Eleanor!” I gasp.

  A hand grabs the back of my blouse and I hear its distinctive tearing sound as I pull out of the grasp and turn around to face a horror like I’ve never seen before. Worse than when my brother dressed up like Freddy Kruger and hid in my closet on my sixth birthday. And worse than when I saw a cat get run over, making its little kitty cat insides tumble out all over the blacktop. And way worse than when my girlfriend Constance chopped her pinky finger off with a knife and lost it in the mixed green salad she was prepping for our dinner.

  A man stands before me—if you can still call him that. Tall, dark, and wearing a business suit, and if that were the entire image there would be nothing to worry about. I mean, that’s the image of an ideal man, apparently. But he isn’t the ideal man. Both his cheeks have been torn away so much that I can see the tendons inside his face working as he snaps at me. One eye is dangling uselessly from its socket, swinging against his cheek as if trying to look down my top and stare at my breasts. Some men never change.

  With his one good eye he manages to get a fix on me, and growling like a rabid dog, he steps forward, reaching for me with bloody and gnarled hands. I duck underneath his arms with a squeal and dive out into the hallway, almost tripping on the carpet. Without stopping, I begin to run down the hallway to the fire exit, with piercing screams erupting behind me.

  I’m thinking of my own safety—my own life, because this is not how I envisioned my death to be. It was supposed to be beautifully tragic—glamorous almost—not ugly and bloody. I stop, leaning back against the wall as the screams echo along the length of the hall to me. My chin trembles as I struggle to comprehend what the hell that thing was. The screams grow more panicked, rising in pitch until I think my eardrums are going to burst. I put my hands over my ears to block out the sound, but it doesn’t work, and tears begin to fall from my eyes and trail down my cheeks.

  The fire extinguisher is in front of me, dusty and unused against the far wall, glaring at me like a beacon of hope. I grab it, yank it from its place, and turn back to go and help my friends. The man-thing has pounced upon one of my co-workers—Tonya, I think her name is, from accounting. He’s holding her against the floor while he buries his face into the crook of her neck as if he’s trying to seduce her, but he’s not. The blood spurting out from her is throat is a dead giveaway of his lack of amour for her. I step forward and raise the extinguisher high above my head. I may not be the strongest girl in the world, but all the yoga and Pilates I do gives me great core strength and my arms are toned as hell—totally knew it would be worth it one day. I can’t wait to tell Constance that it wasn’t a total waste of time.

  “Get off her, you jerk!” I yell and slam the extinguisher down on his back; not wanting to go for the head and get arrested for murde
r.

  He falls forward, the sound of broken bones issuing out much louder than I would have expected. But it doesn’t stop him, not even a little bit. Instead, he looks back over his shoulder at me, snarls with his bloodied mouth, snaps his broken teeth and pushes himself up from the floor. The broken bones in his back make him stand at an odd angle, but it doesn’t stop him from coming forward. He doesn’t even seem like he’s in any pain.

  I want to scream—a loud, shrill, high-pitched pathetically girly scream that would break glass and eardrums alike—but I don’t. Instead I swallow down my childlike fright and try to think of what to do. The fire extinguisher drops heavily from my limp fingers and I take a step back as he takes another clumsy step forward, his hands reaching for me in a robotic yet perverted kind of way. An image of Mr. Slewson flashes in my mind, and with a firm nod of my head to ground myself in the moment and not get lost in my own panic, I turn tail and run, making sure that this evil man-thing is following.

  I know where I’m going as I run, and I know I should probably feel bad about it, but I don’t. Mr. Slewson can deal with this problem. After all, he’s the boss.

  Me? I don’t get paid nearly enough.

  Three.

  I run in my little black kitten heels, constantly tripping in them. They were bought specifically to look cute with my office wear, not for running from monsters! I check over my shoulder again to make sure that he’s still following me; he is, leaving a trail of blood behind him like we’re in some crazy horror movie. Jeez, I guess we are.

  I pass my desk, only now really taking in the devastation of my small booth and wondering how I missed this previously. I glance around the office as I run, noticing overturned chairs, blood smeared across desks, and all the once neatly stacked paperwork is upturned onto the floor. Over by Caroline’s desk is another one of these weird cannibal men. I shiver and give a loud wolf whistle to get the second man…thing’s attention. He looks up from whatever he was doing and begins to stumble toward me. I’m both relieved and horrified that he’s following me, because blood trails down his chin like he’s spilled a Bloody Mary cocktail down himself.