The Risen: Dawning (5 page)

T
he room is still as I stand in its entrance clutching Conroy. A TV flashes static from its angled location in the high back corner. Empty trays sit perching on a shelf waiting to be of use. Three evenly spaced registers sit void of cashiers. I cannot see past the swinging doors of the kitchen, and I have learned that silence does not always mean empty. I am debating the choices laid before me as the sound stirs down the hall behind us. Limping Margaret has finally caught up with us, and by the level of sounds, she is not alone. Nor is her new army happy with our escape.

I ease him to the floor holding a finger to my lips. Slowly I close the doors and motion for him to walk ahead of me to the kitchen. There is no place to hide in this large room designed with that fact in mind. It is made for easy viewing from all angles. This room was designed to keep the twisted things we are running from safe and comfortable. For a moment, it feels as if we have run straight into a trap of their design. A room they have spent hours of their short spanned lives in already wraps its arms around us in what I know to be our final meeting.

We pass through the kitchen’s swinging doors as the cafeteria’s doors mirror the act. I peer through the small round windows in our set of doors as the small bodies assemble in small groups. They seem to lose animation without our discovery. Wind-up dolls whose gears are losing tension with each movement, they slip back into a dream-like state and I allow myself to think we are safe.

They fall back into their unearthly game of follow the leader in small pockets of groups. Even in this new state, cliques form of common styles. I watch this all before me as if I am a documentary voice-over relaying the sights before me to Conroy huddled on the floor.

“What are they doing?” He whispers in a voice that still holds his tender toddler years within it.

“Walking in circles.” They move in impossibly slow formations. Each step seems more exaggerated than the last.

“Why?” His curiosity overshadows his fear for a moment of genuine interest.

“Triangles are harder to do in a group formation.” I have no better answer to give. The smirk he wears loosens the tension that has been surrounding us all day. Of all my siblings, Conroy has always been the closest to my own personality. It is something that always irks our parents. My encouragement of it also holds no amusement for them.

The behavior before me makes me wonder if they truly are mindless. To seek out the familiarity around each other there must be some form of working mind behind those blank stares. Is there some keeping of logic or is there only the basic behavior still stored? Did Margaret, now falling in with other girls of her stature, answer to her name or just the sound of Conroy calling out to her? Fifty small children wander before me each wearing their own version of crimson patterns and I am not brave enough to step out to find any answers from them.

How can children cause such extreme feelings in those around them? By basic biology, we are programmed to keep such treasures safe. We cherish each moment of milestones shared with them in photos and stories retold time and again. We will lay down our own lives to keep them safe. We will lay down the lives of those that do not. Painters choose them as subjects for angelic art in gossamer white gowns and wind blown hair. Imagining these before me in white only adds a new layer of horror. White gowns dipped, drenched, and painted with crimson floating behind their slow movements.

No, these children before me are not the aspects of the Heavens. They inspire no comfort or cherishment. What they may have once been is slipping away from them and a new version is slipping in. This version is spine chilling.

Those same sweet mouths that only moments ago kissed their loved ones goodbye now seek to bite and consume. Small hands that once clasped together in friendships to play circle-spinning games now tear and destroy those around them in unison with the same glee. Eyes that once danced with the joys of life now stare with muted awareness of only what lies directly ahead of them. Youth’s softness that once gifted them with calming beauty now has turned her gift into a disarming weapon. That very illusion can cost us our lives.

We have been able to run up until this point but the highlighted exit sign and its coveted path lies straight through them. They roam the room in misshapen circles. There is no safe passage between their miniature self-made carousels for us to sneak through. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

A sharp tone chimes its high-pitched signal three times throughout the building. Conroy is so startled in his already fragile state that he screams even as I drop to cover his mouth with my hands. Our eyes lock in the narrow space between us, sharing the panic over his response. Easing upright, I keep my back to the door so our eyes can hold the emotions we are sharing. We are too afraid of the damage words can wield. Two porthole styled windows with their plastic-like glass urge me to peer through; a double dare style of knowledge. I have had enough dare for one day so I choose the truth even if I have always preferred spin the bottle of party style games.

The door sways slightly as if from a pressure vacuum release. It is so slight, at first I wonder if my eyes are deceiving me, if it was not for the fact that Conroy is now standing and staring at the door, too. We both cannot have imagined it. The door answers with a slightly wider swing, startling us both. A small hand wiggles its fingers into the gap caused by the movement, catching the door. We stare at the fingers with body freezing dread. They hold the door open, drumming slightly as if pondering what to do next. Pink tipped nails shine with a natural gleam on those perfect porcelain extensions and we both stare transfixed. The chime comes again and all the hesitation has been resolved by the scream behind me.

Conroy is still screaming when the door is shoved open with great force by a small five-year-old boy. Following close behind him is a parade of macabre visions. For the first time I am glancing around the smaller room. Steel ovens gleam from one wall in their pristine stations. Many steel shelves cradle various shapes and sizes of cooking pans throughout, creating a metallic peek-a-boo maze. Magnetic strips hold sharp and blunt cooking instruments securely against the walls. All encompassed within the same pastel shades as the rest of the building. It is what my eyes land on against the back wall that causes my heart to rejoice in our backwards retreat from the horde before us.

From ceiling to floor stand the doors to the staff’s closet, shining at us like armor from knights of old. The handles were designed to be too tall for small hands to reach them. Magnetic pictures of smiling happy days gone by are scattered on the doors. They encourage my resolve. Conroy will be safe in there while I distract the horrific animations before us, allowing him to reach the exit. It makes perfect sense in my mind. I can even see the plan put into play before me with each glorious step to take. Too bad things never are as brilliant when released from the secure planning of our minds as they seem to be when in storage.

T
he monstrous army is being led by the same boy that entered the room first. He is keeping the same advancing speed as we are retreating. It is making the rest of the youths fall in step behind him. The perfect dance of predator and prey choreographed when the world was still more beast than beauty. They match our every step with their own. I can feel Conroy’s trembling body as he fights against his adrenaline’s urge to run. I can see through the shelves the long train of death-clad children wrapping around the path. Their eyes follow my every move with the same interest as a predator’s holds their prey. They are waiting on us to spark that needed animation for their frenzy and I do not know what is more chilling, the overpouring possibility of monstrosity they are capable of or their calculated stares.

I tug on Conroy’s hand to pull his attention away from the boy ahead of us. The boy’s eyes follow up to me also. His hand twitching in an unspoken dare between us as his face still keeps its blank passage. He is watching. He is waiting. I know one motion from him and the nightmare will begin for us. Our dance will become a crescendo finale.

Never removing my eyes from the new pair upon me, I motion with my head to the metal safety behind us. I am not so hopeful as to think that if we just stop they will, too. Inserting him into the closet will have to be a well-planed dance and without interruption to signal any change in the children. Conroy shakes his head with a frantic motion and the eyes swing back to him in unison. Their steps falter as a few press against the ranks with quickening steps and my breath catches at the moment’s confusion.

They are growing restless with the sight of us before them. I have thought until now that they were toying with us, but to them we are the ones refusing to play the game. Do they need our fear, our response of fight or flight to engage their motives? The amount of crimson coloring layered over their clothes shows hints at being well versed in their methods of attack. If it is not the lack of knowledge holding their actions at bay then what is the missing ingredient? Are they so well fed already from their morning’s mayhem that their crippling evil is discouraged from surfacing? Has it really been, all this time, a perverse game of “Follow the Leader”? Is this Leader just not destructively motivated, or is he just more calculated, waiting for that perfect self-twist of footing to bring us down? My mind is filling with more questions than an over paid Hollywood elite interviewer holding a golden god in her grasp for an hour. The only difference between her and me is if she asks the wrong question the god will just storm out. The devils before us will just storm me.

The closet is within our reach. The gleaming handles reflect the light with a warm glow, forming an almost beacon effect in the dark depths of our situation. Many nights Aimes and I have danced on the bar tables, planning our spins and twists to the time of the tempo vibrating from the live band, but never has the risk been so great before as this dance is now. At most we may have slipped off the edge with a mistimed step, not been torn apart like a piñata by small hands seeking hidden sweets.

Stepping between the boy and my last Angel, I take the first dance step and it brings me closer to the boy than my body wants to be. My stomach recoils from the various scents rolling forward from the horde. Scents that I may of have never been subjected to before, but something deep and primal within me knows them. My mind has become a mantra of calming chants to keep my adrenaline at bay. I know we should be running. I know the basic rule of all horror facts is never to hide. You get the hell out. But what do you do when Hell is between you and the way out?

My hand grasps the handle, and sending a silent prayer up to anything that may be listening to me, I firmly push down, releasing the latch. Conroy begins to struggle against my attempts to guide him inside. He fights and tries to slide away from the same arms he was grappling with to stay close to before. His agitated state excites the monsters before us. Glazed eyes begin to gain focus as his struggles start to become vocal. The small room starts to vibrate with the force of his screaming, “No! Not in there!” The words echo off surfaces as he screams them rapidly, each time giving more animation and speed to the sea of creatures before us. I prepare to shove him into the space, timing the movement with the anticipation of myself having to run when he is safe. I never planned for what was going to happen next. How could I? Plans, like thoughts, often have the highest regrets. Once both of them are started, there is no turning back and we can never see where they will lead us until it is too late.

Something from inside the closet steals his body from me with such force I stumble with it. The door slams shut, sealing him inside, but it does not close upon the sounds of his screams. The small bodies before me begin to beat upon the door following their new nature. Arms reach high at unnatural lengths to reach the handles, ignoring any discomfort it must be causing them. Layer after layer of death-covered small bodies begin to beat and scratch the doors being encouraged by the screams beyond it. They have forgotten me for the moment, I stare in confusion at what has just happened and I stand listening to him scream my name in a melody of his pain, fear, and begging for my help. My body runs cold with the realization of what I have done and I too begin to scream.

Margaret, with her demonic tinted pigtails, is the first to turn to me. Her body language switches back to predator as she moves. Her head cocks slightly back to see up the length of me from her height and those eyes are now bright with eagerness. She separates from the herd a few dragging steps at a time, following me backwards, further away from her best friends forever.

I am no longer filled with fear as my ears are filling with his screams. I do not see this thing inching upon me as an innocent child anymore. The illusion is shattering with the growling from the depths of its throat and crimson half mask it wears. Its small hands curl into claw like formations and reach for me. We both no longer see each other as human, but we both now see ourselves as predators.

I have only so many options left to me now. My anger slips over any fear as easily as slipping into a warm coat. My anger is incited by the screams of my name from a little boy that is drowning in pain and pleading for me to save him. A little boy that they have taken from me for their own delights just as they took Ashley. I am desperate. I may not be their Mother, but they are mine. They are mine to protect. They are mine to keep. They are mine, also, to so brutally fail. The danger before me does not matter anymore. The only option left to me now is getting through these demonic dolls to reach him and Margaret does not seem to understand that she is the first in my path.

The solid wall of the stoves behind me stops my steps short. I am not so brave as to turn my back to her. I glance over my shoulders for any type of weapon, keeping her in my sight. I look to find anything that I can use against her. I feel around to find some clue to our survival. I remember, rather than see, the magnetic strip over the stoves and begin to slap the wall for its location.

I know the moment my palm lands upon a solid handle as the eyes before me glance past me for the first time since turning around. Her face melts down to pure animal at my discovery. She drags herself at a faster pace towards me. Her sounds signal some unspoken event with her classmates. Pairs of arms retreat from their abuse on the door, falling limp and still at their sides. My eyes glance from the child behind me to the children beyond her and back. The finale is cued.

The knife slides off the strip with ease. The scraping sound it causes serves as its own battle cry, making their heads turn towards me with awareness of my actions. Margaret’s lips pull back to expose small white teeth in a snarl that should be impossible for such a face to wear. I am conflicted with the fact that these are children before me and that my child is beyond them. I asphyxiate with the doubt and uncertainty of how to do the next horrible act. Despair washes over me, and I know what I must do. These children must die so that my child may live.

The dam breaks inside me. I scream my first sob and bring down the knife upon pigtail swaying Margaret. The blade slides into her at the tender juncture of her neck and shoulder. It does not cause her to flinch in the least. She does not even stagger with the blow but instead uses my closeness to latch onto my arm. Her head turns to sink those tiny white teeth into my exposed flesh and I kick her, using the stove as my brace. Her small body falls upon the ground with her eyes never leaving me; her target. Dark blood pours from the wound at her neck and yet she still stands up angry and ready to try for my death again.

I stare at the delicate white flowers discoloring from my attack on the blue dress when she comes for another attack. There is no form of recognition on her face to the state of her body and the shoebox is opening inside me with a fragment of a key. They are not real. Some freak form of is animation left, but they are not human anymore. Even as her tiny heart pumps itself out of her body, she feels no pain or panic over it. I stand crying from the clues presenting themselves to me and end the little form before me.

Her death is simple. She feels no panic. She holds no pleading cries. Just the simple fact of is and was. My mind settles into a state of numbness as her classmates begin to run at me in waves of their mayhem. I climb up upon the stoves to keep me safe from them rushing me as my Ashley was, and with no remorse, I take aim at each little body until there is no longer anything to aim at. They finally lay still before me. They are a pile of holocaust imagery formed of small, delicate, still bodies. I can no longer tell if the blood they wear is theirs or anothers as shades blend upon them. I am certain any moment swift judgment will reign down upon me for such a sin.

The room is finally silent. The stoves no longer hold their pristine glaze. The once shining tiled floor is now a slippery mess of dark fluids. It takes me a moment to understand what is missing. To understand what I should still be hearing. This realization spurs me into action and coats me with desperation. I ease past the pile of corpses, fearing any movement or twitch, but everything lies horribly still around me.

“Conroy?”

What should only be a few steps before me turns into miles to reach the dented and marked door.

“Conroy?” I whisper against it, pleading for him to answer me.

My hands are slick with their blood. They slide along the handle before making enough traction to allow me to open the door. There are ghosts waiting for me inside these doors. They cause a haunting that shall never be exorcised from my mind with any level of prayers or holy water. The ghosts whisper to me what is beyond the door before I fully open it, with sounds and smells that seep out to greet me.

I have come to know them like well-hated friends. They spare me from the vision of torn blue cowboys trying to escape on horses spread before me by tearing hands and chewing mouths. Sightless blue eyes that will be staring beyond to a world I cannot see. Like a coward, I slide down the door, refusing to open it any further. My last fragile one is beyond my help now. He no longer screams for me or from pain. He is deep in sacrificed dreams and hopes. I let the door slip shut on my failure.

We told them monsters are not real. They are only in your minds. There is nothing to fear in the dark. There are no monsters in the closets. They are only in stories. They only live in books. They only seem real in the movies. They are fictional. They cannot hurt you.

Their final moments were realized by our lies. Monsters are now real and there is very much to fear from them. I have failed my Angels. One after another, I was there and could not save them. I tremble with the weight of that truth. Grief pours from me in silent screams as I rest against his tomb.