I heard the voice again. This time it was louder. Clearer. It sounded just like Alyssa, but that couldn’t be.
“Pete, they’re coming…”
“Alyssa?”
There was no response. I turned around and faced forward in my seat, intent on parking the forklift back in the cul-de-sac. Instead, I jerked in surprise when I saw Ritchie coming out of the shower room. He and the others hadn’t been able to break my blockade in the power plant, so while I’d been busy taking care of Mike, Ritchie had shimmied up the incinerator chute, just as I’d done earlier.
Ritchie’s eyes widened when he saw me. He glanced at Clyde, still sitting slumped over with his back against the wall, and then he turned back to me and Mike. For a moment, I thought he might charge me, and perhaps try to jump up into the cab the same way I’d done with Mike. He must have panicked, however, because instead of doing that or retreating to the restrooms, he darted the rest of the way out into the hall and ran towards the blast door. I stomped the accelerator and sped after him. As I passed by the shower room, I saw a second figure fleeing into the restroom. The door swung shut before I could determine who it was.
Ritchie reached the blast door, looked over his shoulder at me, and then shouted something. I couldn’t hear him over the forklift’s engine, but I could still hear Alyssa. She was urging me on. Then Ritchie did something completely unexpected—he grabbed the wheel that opened the blast door.
“Oh, shit.”
Weakened by hunger, Ritchie strained to turn the wheel.
“Ritchie,” I shouted, “what the hell are you doing? You’ll let them in!”
Nodding, he strained harder. His limbs shook from the exertion, but despite his efforts, the door didn’t budge. Ritchie shot a hurried, panicked glance back at me, and then wiped his hands on his pants and tried again.
I hurriedly worked the controls. The forks could be tilted up and down and side to side, so that they’d fit under different sized skids. They were also tapered so that they were narrower near the front. I raised them, drawing the forks close together so that there was no gap between them, forming a giant spear of sorts. Gunning the engine, I aimed them at Ritchie. Instead of running, he redoubled his efforts. He was still trying to turn the wheel when I rammed into him. The forks punched through his chest and hit the steel blast door behind him. The noise was incredible. It was like standing inside a bell tower. My ears rang. The force of the impact threw me from the seat, slamming me against the wire mesh of the roll cage. My mouth filled with blood. I relished the taste.
The crash stalled the forklift. I fumbled with the controls again, trying to restart the engine so that I could raise the forks higher, but the forklift wouldn’t start. Ritchie was still alive, but just barely. As I watched, he reached behind him, clawing at the forks with his bloody hands. He couldn’t quite reach them. I climbed down from the cab as his head drooped onto his chest. I felt for a pulse and found none.
“Are you dead?”
I slapped his head and then flicked his ear with my thumb and middle finger. Ritchie didn’t respond.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess you are. What the hell were you thinking? We can’t open the door. If we could, none of this would be happening.”
I hurried over to Clyde and knelt beside his still form. Then I put my fingers to his throat and checked his pulse, as well. I couldn’t find one, and his skin was cool to the touch. He’d bled out, dying while I was occupied with the others. Humming the bass line from Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, I stood up and strolled toward the restroom. I began to sing aloud. My voice echoed off the walls. Giggling, I spun around and did a quick moonwalk. Then I knocked on the bathroom door.
“Housekeeping. I’m here to scrub the toilet. Anybody home?”
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The bathroom was empty. I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the stall. I saw no feet but there was a shadow on the floor around the toilet. As I watched, the shadow moved. Grinning, I stood up again.
“Hello?”
I waited for a few seconds more and then I made a big show of walking towards the door. I stepped hard so that my footfalls would be heard. I opened the door and let it slam close. Then I stood still and waited.
Inside the stall, someone whimpered. I held my breath, resisting the urge to charge. I heard sounds of movement. Slowly, the stall door opened. The Chinese guy walked out, saw me, and screamed.
“Howdy.” I winked at him.
“Duì bù qǐ,” he cried. “Duì bù qǐ. Duì bù qǐ…”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He flung his hands up in front of his face and cringed. “Bù, bùyào shā wǒ. Du ìb ùqǐ!”
I took a tentative step toward him. The Chinese guy began to weep. A dark stain appeared on the front of his pants and the restroom filled with the sharp stench of piss.
“Dude, you could have at least used the urinal!”
“Bù, bùyào shā wǒ,” he wept. “Duì bù qǐ. Bù, bùyào shā wǒ…”
My head began to hurt. His sobs were like knives stabbing into my brain. My temples throbbed. The pain made it hard to hear Alyssa. I strode across the floor. The Chinese guy tried to run past me, but I grabbed his arm and swung him around. He crashed into the mirror over the sink, shattering the glass. Jagged shards clattered off the porcelain and onto the floor. Before he could recover, I twisted his arm behind him and shoved him against the wall. With my other hand, I reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Twisting it in my fist, I slammed his face into the broken mirror. The Chinese guy shrieked.
“Nǐ húndàn!”
“Shut up.”
His screams turned guttural and frantic.
“Shut up.” I slammed his face into the glass again and again, punctuating each blow with another command. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
I spun him away from the mirror and threw him to the floor. Silver fragments jutted from his forehead and cheeks, and his lips were swollen and bleeding. Groaning, he tried to roll away, but I kicked him in the side of the head. He started to cry out again, but I stepped on his throat. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open. I stared down at him, impassive.
“You brought this on yourself. You may not speak the language, but you knew what the hell was going on.”
I put all my weight—what little of it was left after weeks with no food—on his throat, and stood there until he was dead. Slowly, I became aware of a loud breathing in the restroom with me. I listened to the panting sound, and then realized that it was me. I stared at the broken mirror. A few cracked shards dangled in the upper left corner and I could see my reflection in them. I felt a momentary surge of shock. It was quite a sight. I was a mess.
“Pete…”
“Alyssa?” I glanced around the restroom, but it was empty. “Where are you?”
“I’m here. I’m right here.”
“Where?”
“Come find me, Pete. Catch me if you can…”
“Alyssa!”
The restroom began to spin. It was hard to breathe. My chest, limbs and head felt heavy. There was a rushing sound in my ears, as if a wall of water was bearing down on me. Dark spots floated in front of my eyes, and suddenly, it was unbearably hot. Sweat poured down my face. My hands and feet tingled. Then the rushing sound changed into a constant, steady ringing. I felt extremely weak and sleepy. The ringing grew louder.