Ophelia

  Ophelia

  A Novel by Briana Rain

  Copyright © 2019 by Briana Rain

  Cover Design: Peter O’Connor at bespokebookcovers.com

  Book Editor: Ashley Conner at ashtheeditor@outlook.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to historical events, real people or places are purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations.

  For my Papa:

  I wish you could’ve read this

  Love you Popper.

  Prologue

  It's a funny thing when the world ends. It was exactly how I, how a whole bunch of us, thought it would. After reading all the books and the comics, after watching all the movies and TV shows, after obsessing about it for years as the human race, it happened. Exactly how we thought it would. Exactly like it played on screen. There were explosions… fires… screams…

  Things fell apart instantly.

  But what was different in real life, compared to the screens, was that we were prepared. To a degree, at least. We were all adjusted to the idea that something was going to happen. We all knew that zombies were a thing, and could potentially be made real. We knew, from movies, that if stuff started falling out of the sky in the summer and looked suspiciously like snow, it probably wasn't snow, but ash. We knew how to distinguish shady sounding fireworks from gunshots. We knew the basics.

  Or, at least, I knew.

  Chapter 1: Boom

  I used to hate not having a social life. Hate myself. Hate others. But the hate that stood out amongst all the hate bottled up in my typical teenage brain, was the hate for my English teacher, Mrs. Kirks. I was working on correcting an essay that I’d “failed” when I got the feeling that something was wrong.

  Technically, I wasn't supposed to be doing anything but greeting customers and working the register, but that couldn’t happen when the place was a ghost town, now could it? Oh, look, there goes tumbleweed across the parking lot. No, really. It's going, going… Gone. Great. There goes the most entertaining thing I'd seen in hours. Almost, but not quite beating our middle-aged manager, Marshall, sleepwalking out here in a drunken haze, reliving the glory days of Call of Duty before his ex had reclaimed her son's Xbox from his apartment.

  “Bang!” He shouted, complete with finger guns. He yelled out several more ‘bangs’ before stumbling back to the Laz-E-Boy he’d snuck into his “office”.

  Really, my essay was fine. I might even jump the gun here and say exceptional, but I didn't cite those stupid things right. I just didn’t put a period in the right place, and didn't have them in alphabetical order. Did that really justify failing me? Did it, Mrs. Kirks?

  I sighed, and thought about where she could shove those damn citations. But it wasn't worth getting worked up over, thought the girl getting worked up over it.

  Something wet hit the back of my neck. Disgusted, I slapped my hand up to wipe it off and whipped around, spotting the culprit immediately.

  Jamie.

  “What's wrong with you?” I spat at him, grabbing napkins from across the counter. Jamie, an annoying, stereotypical sixteen-year-old boy, just grinned and watched, obviously proud that he’d hit his target from ten feet away.

  Yeah, great shot Jamie. Way to go. Your parents must be so proud.

  The liquid slid through my fingers and started to roll down my back. The napkins replaced my hand so I could pull it away and inspect what was thrown at me this time.

  It looked like in his free time, the brilliant mind of Jamie, the ten-year-old, had combined all the sauces we served and flung them at me with a homemade plastic spoon catapult. Great. Just great. I was sticky.

  Gross.

  “Stand at the register and don't mess anything up.” I instructed sternly, pointing my finger and everything. I made my way to the bathrooms, while he stood in my place behind the register, texting his friends about what a genius he was. My hip hit the corner of this damn counter, like it always did. I winced at the pain, but still continued my mission to the bathroom.

  The girls bathroom was a mess, is a mess, and will forever be, you guessed it, a mess. The smell was horrible, and no matter how many times it was cleaned out, unrolled toilet paper always blanketed the floor like a fine Persian rug. Eck. I was half convinced that Jamie would sneak in here when I wasn’t looking and wreck the place.

  I waved my hands under the sensor, then jumped back and flinched when the water came out scalding.

  Ouch.

  I looked at my reflection, and was tempted to fix the stray hairs dribbling out from under the stupid, required paper hat, but didn’t, because my hands were sticky. And gross. My neck was also sticky and gross.

  Ew.

  I hate this.

  I quickly finished cleaning the gross and sticky off of my hands and wrists, but heard the bell signaling the arrival of an actual customer before I could start on my neck. And since Jamie couldn’t be trusted with anything, I had no choice but to go back out there.

  The bathrooms were right next to the counter and I had no trouble slamming my hip on the corner of it and getting to the register before the customer did. I ignored Jamie entirely, and how, instead of going back and getting ready to put together the order, he only stood a step away from me— annoyingly close.

  Ugh.

  I hated teenage boys.

  “Hello, and welcome to— to…”

  When I actually looked at the guy, I couldn't finish my sentence. He was just standing there, shoulders heaving, and panting. The guy was huge, I mean a freaking giant. I didn't think there were people this big outside of movies and stuff. Well over six feet, big-boned, and enough muscle to easily take on a bear, and not the Winnie type.

  Then there was his face. Twisted, like someone had physically stuck their hand in his face and rotated it counterclockwise, molding a snarl and twitchy eyes with a dash of the crazies to top it all off. And his eye… The right one looked like it was primarily made up of blood. I knew it had something to do with the vessels and that it happened to people sometimes… but it was terrifying thrown into the mix with everything else.

  I glanced at Jamie for backup, but he was frozen, staring at the nonspeaking, jacked-up guy who hadn’t moved since I got here, and was staring at empty space next to the ice cream machine. A string of spit that had pooled up in his mouth started dripping out.

  I glanced again, careful to move only my eyes and nothing else, and saw that Jamie still had his phone in his hand, which rested on top of the counter. The screen was on and unlocked, with multiple texts and pictures popping up in the conversation. I silently thanked God, and anyone else out there who was listening, that his phone was on silent, and not vibrating with every new message.

  The longer the guy stood there, breathing heavier than an asthmatic after a triathlon, the more scared I got. It looked like it would be him against us, while the guy who was actually in charge was passed out drunk in the back, oblivious to the events unfolding just a closed door away.

  I saw Jamie's thumb move slowly over the touchscreen. Problem is, crazy guy saw it, too. It happened weirdly slow, like most bad things that happen to people. Not play by play slow, but just a tad slower than normal.

  The guy snapped his head towards us, as if he’d just now registered us, and lunged impossibly far for a human. Jamie grabbed for my arm at the same moment I rammed my shoulder into him, trying to get both of us away from the guy. He belly flopped onto the counter, clawing at the spot where I was just standing, scrambling, and kicking his legs towards us. I shoved Jamie and his wooden legs ahead of me as we ran away, stumbling.

  Someone screamed, but
I couldn't tell if it was me, Jamie, or the lunatic currently, literally, foaming at the mouth.

  The crazy guy was running full speed at us, but, from what it sounded like, not in a straight line. Like a really angry, really discombobulated bull in a metal china shop, with some hot grease thrown in the mix.

  I ducked into the supply room, grabbed Jamie's shirt, and hauled him in with me. I heard something rip as I threw him in the stuffed, small room, then pivoted to slam the door shut. I had almost completed that task, when the guy jammed his hand between the closing door and the metal door frame like his life depended on it. Without hesitation, I pulled on the doorknob with all my weight, but it wouldn't close with those bloody, meaty sausage links blocking it. I struggled and yanked on the door, too afraid to take a hand off of the doorknob to poke his fingers away. He roared and shrieked and screamed, no coherent English words coming from his mouth, but instead animal-like sounds I didn't think humans were capable of making. A wooden stick came into my view, and stabbed at the fingers until they disappeared through the other side, and the crack vanished.

  Before it did, though, I caught a glimpse of the man's face.

  And both eyes were red.

  Chapter 2: Break

  When I locked the door and turned around, Jamie was holding a mop.

  We were both out of breath.

  “Thanks for getting me in here…” The sixteen year old reluctantly acknowledged, “I practically ran right past this room.”

  I nodded, but didn't— couldn't— speak. My face felt like it was on fire and my head pounded, either from my heartbeat or from my brain swelling and getting ready to explode. And right now, I wasn’t too sure which one was more probable.

  “We should get Marshall.” Jamie gripped the mop firmly, more likely out of fear rather than bravery. Like he was the man, so he was going to make the decisions.

  I laughed.

  “Marshall? Marshall? Our manager who's passed out drunk right now? The alcoholic who can't remember where he works half the time? You’re going to rely on him to save us from this guy when you can't even rely on him to remember your name? Yeah. Yeah, great plan, Jamie.” I laughed again, bending over, trying to catch my breath, which refused to be caught.

  “Well what's your plan then, huh?” The sarcasm was strong with this one.

  He angrily shoved the mop into my hands, sat in the corner, next to the Windex, and put his hands up to his temples. The guy still banged on the door. Continuously.

  “Call the cops.”

  Bang!

  “Call them, and—“

  Bang!

  “Wait that guy out. We—“

  Bang!

  “Just have to—“

  Bang!

  “Just wait it out—“

  Bang!

  Yeah, it definitely was not my heartbeat, my head was definitely about to explode. Gross.

  Bang!

  “I… I don't have my phone. I…” Jamie winced as the guy slammed his entire body into the door yet again, causing the Windex to shake on its shelf. “I dropped it when that guy came over the counter.”

  He looked like a deer in headlights as he confessed the worst confession I'd ever heard in my entire life. I mean, I wasn't a priest or anything, so I hadn’t heard many, but this was still very, very bad.

  “Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? You are literally never seen without your phone and now, now you don't have it?! Oh my god…”

  The crazy man was using his fists and his legs now, treating us to a chaotic symphony of booms, leaving the Windex permanently shivering on its shelf.

  Jamie stood up and adjusted the sleeve of his uniform, which explained the ripping sound from when I saved his life and hauled him in here.

  “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He started by shouting at me, but ended with screaming at the crazy guy behind the door.

  The banging stopped.

  He turned to me, wide eyed.

  I shared the same expression. Honestly, I’d rather have him attempting to break the door down than the silence.

  Then the banging came back, accompanied by the tip of a knife piercing the wood.

  “Where did he get a knife?” Jamie screamed, jumping back so far, that he knocked the Windex off of the shelf.

  Oh my god.

  “Jamie… I don't know if you've noticed… but we work in a kitchen!” If being trapped in a small supply closet by a crazy man with a knife who most definitely wanted to kill me didn't make me lose it, then Jamie’s stupidity would.

  How do people even get into these kinds of situations? I didn't even know that these things could even happen, to like, real people. Okay. Okay, this was happening, and no one was coming to help. No one. Okay.

  Something that I learned from a movie a while back, that has actually been helpful, was when you're in sticky spot, you need to look at what's happening. There's a crazy guy trying to kill us. We're trapped in here. What needs to be done? We need to get out of here. How can we make this happen?

  No holes in the wall, the floor, or the ceiling. No vents or windows.

  The only exit was currently being used as a cutting board by someone dead set on killing us. I looked from the door, to my mop, to the door, and back to my mop. My hands tightened around the chipped handle, not for fear, but for bravery.

  Well, there was maybe some fear. Just a bit. Okay, maybe two bits.

  “Okay Jamie… I have an idea.” I went over to the cleaner shelf that once housed the Windex, along with other cans that had generic names and did generic stuff. I grabbed an aerosol can that looked particularly interesting and tossed it to him. He caught it, and I explained my stupid Hail Mary.

  “Okay, listen,” I said, “The only thing I can think of is running. That guy's huge. We can't fight him, so we have to get past him as quickly as we can. I'll take the mop, shove him back as much as I can. Hopefully with the surprise on our side, we can get him back a few steps. You'll blind him with whatever that is, and then we book it and never look back.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy, but when you're presented with a situation that was crazy, crazy was just what you had to be. You had to be crazier than whatever crazy you were dealing with, which was just plain crazy, if you'd ask me.

  Jamie looked from the can in his hand, to me, to the can, and back at me. He shook his head, but somehow, thankfully, agreed to go with me on this. I think what sold him were the chunks of wood falling to the ground from the door, and the volume of the snarling of the soon-to-be murderer, both rapidly increasing. Unless this guy wasn’t a soon-to-be murderer and already a murderer. That's a gross thought.

  “Do you think it's drugs?” He nodded his head towards the door, placing his hand on the knob as I braced myself.

  “Probably.” I answered.

  But who cared, really. All that mattered was that he was trying to take my life, which was like, totally not cool. I was barely eighteen. I only had a couple months left of my senior year, and there was no freaking way I did all of that work just to die before graduation. No way, José.

  Yeah, this was completely not cool.

  “One…” My hands tightened on the mop and I silently thanked God that Jamie had enough sense to whisper instead of counting down at normal volume and handing over our gift of surprise too early.

  “Two…” He painfully slowly unlocked the lock so that it made no noise.

  “Three!” He raised his voice to a shout, and shoved the door open as the loony yanked his knife from the door. The momentum of that, plus the door swinging out, plus my mop, made the guy stumble back farther than I could have ever hoped for. Jamie was shouting and targeting the eyes and the mouth with the aerosol can. Then I dropped the mop, like an idiot, and ran.

  Like I said, when particularly bad things happen, your mind tends to slow down just a bit. So, I guess when the really bad stuff happened, it'll slow down just a bit more. Two bits. Bit times bit. Bit squared?

  Either way, when I looked b
ack and saw the soon-to-be murderer holding Jamie in the air and becoming a murderer, I was sure that I would never forget it. In that second, time wasn't even a concept. Another thing that I was sure that I would never forget was the sickening crack that echoed for miles when the murderer popped Jamie’s head open on the edge of one of the counters.

  And the sixteen-year-old would forever remain: a sixteen-year-old.

  Chapter 3: Buzz

  “Mom, wake up.”

  In her drowsy, half-asleep state, she swatted my hands away, effectively delaying me from shaking her fully awake.

  “Mom, wake up right now! Mom— piccolo!”

  Her eyes sprung open and she sat up, fully awake and alert. Piccolo was our family's version of 911. It said, this is an emergency and should not be taken lightly, so drop everything that you're doing and focus on this.

  I think it has only been used about seven or eight times, including right now. It wasn't just something you went around saying, like, oh, I forgot to grab the cereal at the store! Piccolo!

  It was used to sort out regular emergencies, like running out of gas on the way home from work (which has only happened twice), from the real ones, like a house fire consuming every material thing you own, value, and love, and would gladly consume you as well (which only happened once).

  “What's going on?” The hysterical tears of your child were also not something to be taken lightly.

  “We need to get to the basement.” I pulled her arm to get her out of bed, and tossed her some wrinkled clothes from her floor. Whether they were clean or dirty was unknown, and of no concern right now. At least to me.

  We had to move.

  “O. O, tell me what's wrong. Ophelia, stop!” I whipped around, and stared fiercely into her eyes,

  “Piccolo.”

  I was freaking out. For the first time in my life, my hands shook. I couldn't breathe right, and felt like that man, or whatever it was, was standing on my chest. There was too much to explain, and too much going on. It was all too much. Too much.