Read Online Allison Hewitt Is Trapped by Madeleine Roux - Free Book Online
Authors: Madeleine Roux
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and vomiting over the staircase. I can’t help it, it’s worse, so much worse than the other things, the walking, unliving things. You can feel him trapped in there, the silent scream, the wide-open mouth begging for life.
“We have to get him out of there,” Ted says. I agree and my esteem for Ted grows a little more as he and I carefully pick up the body, me the feet and Ted the shoulders. We’re not sure where to take it, but we settle on the opposite end of the hall, in a quiet corner by a closet door. He’s heavy in our arms, even without his blood, and I can’t keep my eyes off the raw, red ribbon sewn across his neck. After putting him in the corner we go back in the apartment and find a clean sheet in the man’s linen closet, one of the few things that hasn’t been taken. We put it over him and watch the white speckled fabric settle over his body, shrouding him like a martyr at peace.
I think about the red stains in the first apartment, the ones on the carpet. I wonder where the bodies are.
There isn’t anything to say, so we silently go to the last door, the closed one. It’s locked so I take the knob off with the ax. The windows in the living room are open a little and a murmuring breeze rolls in. It’s chilly here too and again, I’m thankful. There’s another body here, an old, frail woman with hands covered in brown age spots, the skin so ancient it’s stretched across her bones like parchment. She looks happy, okay, sitting on her overstuffed couch with closed eyes and a wan smile. I wonder if she had a heart attack, if she saw the commotion outside, staggered over to the couch and simply died. She’s easier to carry, but so light and fragile I’m worried we’ll crush her into dust. We put her beside the man and cover her too.
Phil keeps a lookout from the door, his baseball bat and gleaming club at the ready.
When we go back in her apartment we find everything where it should be: the china, silverware, pots and pans and towels and bed linens. Everything is very clean but there’s a faint smell of dust, as if all her possessions were old, from a different time. I pick up a piece of junk mail on the front desk. Ms. Jane Weathers. I go into her kitchen and it’s painted bright green. There are a few plants on the windowsill, but they’ve begun to shrivel up and wilt.
When I open up the cupboards beneath her sink I have to keep myself from laughing. I’m trying not to chuckle, I really am, but it’s just too damn much. The apartment could be a model for emergency survival. Poor Ms. Weathers was undoubtedly a product of the “duck and cover,” fallout-shelter-in-your-backyard era. It shows. Ted finds two generators in her coat closet and an ancient AM/FM portable radio with numbers on the knobs that are probably legible from outer space. In the cupboards I find all the canned crap that languishes in the very back of your pantry—green beans, baked beans, peaches, instant mashed potatoes.
“Well, looks like we’re going go be living it up Leave It to Beaver style,” I say, holding up a can of creamed corn for Phil to inspect. I can’t remember the last time I ate any of these things, but they all sound better than Cheetos. The apartment is perfect: clean, spacious and well-stocked. I don’t know if we can all fit, or if we should. There are other apartments, but I can’t stop thinking about the bloodstains on the carpet … That apartment is the most logical choice. It has the handy fire escape. We could put a rug over the stains, we could do something …
“Incoming!”
Phil is shouting, and in the doorway he’s whacking away at the shuffling creatures trying to get in. I see a decrepit arm with three fingers reaching in for him and reach the door in time to lop it off. Ted is there, the fire extinguisher puffing away, screaming past my ear. I take a brown paper bag and fill it with canned items and a can opener and rejoin the boys, who have cleared a path back to the
“We have to get him out of there,” Ted says. I agree and my esteem for Ted grows a little more as he and I carefully pick up the body, me the feet and Ted the shoulders. We’re not sure where to take it, but we settle on the opposite end of the hall, in a quiet corner by a closet door. He’s heavy in our arms, even without his blood, and I can’t keep my eyes off the raw, red ribbon sewn across his neck. After putting him in the corner we go back in the apartment and find a clean sheet in the man’s linen closet, one of the few things that hasn’t been taken. We put it over him and watch the white speckled fabric settle over his body, shrouding him like a martyr at peace.
I think about the red stains in the first apartment, the ones on the carpet. I wonder where the bodies are.
There isn’t anything to say, so we silently go to the last door, the closed one. It’s locked so I take the knob off with the ax. The windows in the living room are open a little and a murmuring breeze rolls in. It’s chilly here too and again, I’m thankful. There’s another body here, an old, frail woman with hands covered in brown age spots, the skin so ancient it’s stretched across her bones like parchment. She looks happy, okay, sitting on her overstuffed couch with closed eyes and a wan smile. I wonder if she had a heart attack, if she saw the commotion outside, staggered over to the couch and simply died. She’s easier to carry, but so light and fragile I’m worried we’ll crush her into dust. We put her beside the man and cover her too.
Phil keeps a lookout from the door, his baseball bat and gleaming club at the ready.
When we go back in her apartment we find everything where it should be: the china, silverware, pots and pans and towels and bed linens. Everything is very clean but there’s a faint smell of dust, as if all her possessions were old, from a different time. I pick up a piece of junk mail on the front desk. Ms. Jane Weathers. I go into her kitchen and it’s painted bright green. There are a few plants on the windowsill, but they’ve begun to shrivel up and wilt.
When I open up the cupboards beneath her sink I have to keep myself from laughing. I’m trying not to chuckle, I really am, but it’s just too damn much. The apartment could be a model for emergency survival. Poor Ms. Weathers was undoubtedly a product of the “duck and cover,” fallout-shelter-in-your-backyard era. It shows. Ted finds two generators in her coat closet and an ancient AM/FM portable radio with numbers on the knobs that are probably legible from outer space. In the cupboards I find all the canned crap that languishes in the very back of your pantry—green beans, baked beans, peaches, instant mashed potatoes.
“Well, looks like we’re going go be living it up Leave It to Beaver style,” I say, holding up a can of creamed corn for Phil to inspect. I can’t remember the last time I ate any of these things, but they all sound better than Cheetos. The apartment is perfect: clean, spacious and well-stocked. I don’t know if we can all fit, or if we should. There are other apartments, but I can’t stop thinking about the bloodstains on the carpet … That apartment is the most logical choice. It has the handy fire escape. We could put a rug over the stains, we could do something …
“Incoming!”
Phil is shouting, and in the doorway he’s whacking away at the shuffling creatures trying to get in. I see a decrepit arm with three fingers reaching in for him and reach the door in time to lop it off. Ted is there, the fire extinguisher puffing away, screaming past my ear. I take a brown paper bag and fill it with canned items and a can opener and rejoin the boys, who have cleared a path back to the
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