“It's not funny anymore!”
“I think we've established it's not a prank,” Maggie's cool voice flitted out into the consuming darkness. She moved her hand in small circles on Kelly's shoulder as Kelly soaked Maggie's dress with tears, her breath coming out in hot puffs against Maggie's solid frame, her whole body wracked with the force of her sobs. Even as the darkness seeped and started to weigh heavy on all of them, Kelly's incessant cries grew ever louder, grating almost. It was the only sound they heard through that darkness. Fear was building between the group and the half corpse in pieces at their feet.
Brad shifted on his feet, fight or flight rearing up in his clenched fists. He glared in the direction of Maggie and Kelly. “God, shut up!”
Kelly sobbed a new wave of tears as if on cue, as if to annoy him.
“Just--” Maggie interjected.
“Just WHAT!? It's fucking annoying.” Brad jumped in the direction of the sobs, causing them both to stumble backwards, rendering Kelly silent for a moment—her faculties otherwise engaged with the need to stay upright and orient herself in the blackness.
“Shouldn't we, like, call the cops?” Pathik spoke up, swallowing the question as soon as he'd asked it.
Silence.
A hiccuping whimper.
Then the sudden, immense realization that danger hovered just above the set where guts and gore had been seconds ago smashed into their reality, like bricks, like freight trains.
And then everyone spoke at once.
“Someone's got to turn on the lights.”
“What was his name?”
“Brad, you go, you know where they are.”
“What!? Fuck, you go, I'm not dying.”
“I—I don't know.”
“Guys!”
“SOMEONE'S GOT TO TURN ON THE LIGHTS!?”
“will you shut the fuck up, what if there's...like more of them”
“I don't remember.”
“More of who?”
“the fucking murderers you fucking ditz”
The sudden bright light of a iPhone screen illuminated the underside of Pat's chin. His thumb rested on the home button and he stared into the lock screen, pass-code forgotten for a moment before he punched it in and Brad's hand flew up to knock the phone out of his hand.
“Hey!”
“We can't call the fucking cops.”
“PLEASE!”
“shut uuuuup”
Pat knelt down to reach for his phone, suddenly very aware of their proximity to a corpse for Christ's sake! Gingerly, he ran his finger-tips against the cold warehouse floor, first right next to his feet, then venturing out further in the slightest of increments. Kelly and Brad continued battling for attention: his ragged whispers and expletives trying to shut up everyone around him and her steadily rising fear begging for lights and that false sense of safety. Just because you could see the horror in front of you didn't make it any more tolerable. Pat sighed in relief when his fingers bumped into the warm and dry plastic case and he picked it up. The screen lit up again—not cracked, perfectly sound.
“Brad's right, Pat,” Levi stepped forward, closer to the glow of the iPhone.
“No he's not,” Pathik opened the call screen.
“What are you going to say to the cops?”
Pat hesitated, then, “That a dismembered body fell from the god damn sky.”
“They won't believe us.”
“Maybe they won't believe you Brad, this is your dad's warehouse after all.”
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying, does your dad have a habit of keeping bloody bodies in his rafters?”
Brad reached for the phone again, and Pat wrenched it back, smacking into Levi who stood closer to him than he had realized.
“Fuck you, Brad.”
“Don't!”
The clattering of the door opening into the warehouse from the front office rang through the building and subsequently slammed back shut, rattling the door handle and the frame and the Plexiglas window beside it. Kelly lifted her head from Maggie's chest, Maggie's hand stilled on her back and her nails dug faint semi-circles into the skin of her bare shoulder. Everyone looked up in the direction of the sound—not daring to breathe.
Out of the darkness, a full and carefree voice sounded.
“Hello? God, it's dark in here. Anybody home?”
Three Weeks Earlier
Brad, Levi, Pathik, and Maggie sat in a booth at Osaka-Ya, the only yakiniku restaurant in the west burbs. It was mid-afternoon and the restaurant was mostly empty. In the far corner, an old man—Japanese American—sat by himself, slowly raising a spoon of a spicy Korean soup up to his mouth every so often, mostly just fighting to stay awake through the lazy evening lull. Other than him and the staff, the group was alone.
The restaurant was a throwback to a time and place none of them ever really understood. It was full of borrowed things. The memorabilia on the wall told stories of celebrity wrestlers, boxers, and gamblers who had supposedly visited over the years—all real photos, but full of stories that were really about some other owner at some other restaurant. There were various faded green and blue colored photos taped to different surfaces showcasing plates of raw meat. Overall the color of the place was a rusty, Seventies kind of orange and brown. The light fixtures over each table hung low and emitted yellow lighting that did nothing to improve the look of the food when it was served. The booths were short and you could bang heads with the people at the table behind you easily enough if you weren't paying attention. Each table was fitted with a grill in the center and a giant switch under the edge to turn it on and off—the effect was mildly prehistoric: a feeling of rawness and primal need burning like the flames dancing up through blackened grates.
The playlist pumped out from a single speaker at the far end of the place, near the old man's usual table, an alternating mix of some kind of Fifties Hawaiian Folk and Glam Metal. Except no one knew what that meant and could never place it. The waitresses wore knee-length black dresses with Peter Pan collars and big white buttons down the front—lacking only an apron to complete the maid aesthetic. There was very little staff on at the regular rush times, and fewer still after three in the afternoon. The owner was never around regardless and today there was only Kelly Redman and Tracey Lamki.
“You should open those top three buttons, get a better tip,” Linh Nguyen, Kelly's girlfriend, sat at the manager's desk with her feet up atop a stack of Health Department audit reports. She scrolled through Instagram while she spoke, never taking her eyes off of the steady stream of #gothic fashion pouring through her fingers.
Kelly rolled her eyes. She leaned against the door-frame of the manager's office with her hands stuffed into the front pockets of her uniform. From here she could see into the kitchen where Tracey sat on an overturned five-gallon bucket and teased at the split ends of her fried, bleached-blond hair, chewing loudly on a piece of bubble gum. She could also see out into the seating and eye the table of the four twenty-somethings who had only ordered one plate of meat so far and barely a pitcher of beer to split between them. No offense to Tracey, sweet girl, but Kelly usually took responsibility on these shifts—for everything.
“Fuck their tip,” Kelly floated back, her eyes pulling away from the corner of the booth and focusing on Linh's muddied Converse sneakers. She might have been scrolling through the vampire tags but Linh was all All-American Sport. Black Converse, bought vintage; slim light-blue jeans; an Adidas hoodie. Her long black hair was pulled into a pony tail with a thin elastic headband holding back the strategically placed pulled out edges. She might have just come from the track, except, instead, she woke up at one p.m. and sauntered over to spend the afternoon with Kelly.
Linh smirked, still not looking up from her feed. “I'm just saying,” Linh spoke into her screen. Kelly pushed off of the door-frame with a last look at Tracey and walked into the office and up to the manager's desk. She sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, looking at Linh with feigned interest. “No one pays attention to their waitress past the drink order unless they can see her tits.”
Kelly huffed and Linh turned to face her, smile breaking across her features.
“Oh well, in that case,” Kelly said sarcastically and leaned in. Linh pushed her phone across the surface of the desk, focusing on Kelly.
“Just a couple buttons,” Linh flicked open the top of Kelly's collar and leaned in, her hand trailing down Kelly's arm before lightly resting on her thigh.
“Do you practice that move?” Kelly's voice was sarcastic but she leaned into Linh's touch.
“It's not a move.”
“Right.”
“I'm making a point.”
“Mmhmm.”
“It's a good point, though, you have to admit.”
“Tits sell everything.”
“Exactly.”
Kelly rolled her eyes again and pushed off of the desk. Linh chuckled as she picked up her phone, opening up Facebook and ignoring the spam of messages from Eric Hansen. She pulled the Facebook messenger bubble off the screen with disdain.
“When you gonna be done with this place anyway?
“Gotta close, you can leave if you want.” Kelly stood in the doorway looking out into the seating area as she buttoned up the top buttons of her uniform again, hiding her chest. Linh watched her this time with a genuine smile. That's my girl.
Brad took another bite of grilled meat, so slathered in the Korean barbecue that it dripped down the side of his mouth. Levi had papers spread out in front of him: a large calendar with various dates highlighted and schedules penciled in, several pages of script, a crumpled piece with a few phone numbers and a line of dialogue scribbled in the corner and then crossed out with different colored pen. He ignored much of what happened at the table and occasionally took a drink of his beer or asked a question to the group.
“Are we gonna hold auditions?” Brad swallowed as he spoke.
“More importantly,” Maggie interjected, “are we going to have a budget?”
Levi nodded, staring into the words on his script, lost in them.
“I mean, don't you have like family money?” Maggie nudged Brad in the side. She sat across from Levi, tucked in the corner, and was closed in by Brad in the booth.
“Fuck no.” Brad shoved in another slice of meat.
“You mean you didn't collect your allowance from Debra when we picked you up? Or was that money for groceries?” Pathik looked dryly across at Brad, his voice full of contempt. Under the table he gripped Levi's thigh, just above the knee for a second before releasing pressure and resuming a gentle caress between his thumb and forefinger. He couldn't understand why Levi was even friends with this douche.
“My dad's letting us use the warehouse, he won't bankroll the whole thing.”
“Right, because you have to work for it.”
“Whatever.”
“How about start of next month?” Levi spoke up, his attention shifted to the calendar. “Seems to be free for everyone.”
“For what?”
“Shooting,” Levi leaned slightly into Pat and smiled up at Brad and Maggie. Excitement overwhelmed every fiber of his skinny frame. In college they had worked on projects: he and Brad and Maggie had made at least six short films together already in class, but this was their first serious film—the first film that would matter.
“Works for me. Gonna need to start set up a couple of days before. Gotta get the cash to start up. I mean we need electrical, cameras; what's this warehouse like anyway?” Maggie rattled off her questions and then chugged the beer in front of her.
“We like, need an actress,” Brad eyed the last few pieces of meat that lay sizzling on the grill. He had eaten most of the plate already.
“Yeah, but,” Levi started, and Pat interrupted quickly,
“The first of the month gonna work for you or not?”
“Chill bro. It'll work.”
Levi smiled at the group and then looked down at his script, tucking the pages back into order with slow and deliberate purpose.
“How's everything?” Kelly stood over the table, hip cocked, and forced a smile.
“Great!” Levi squeaked.
“Can I get you anything else? Another pitcher?”
“How's everything with you, sweetheart?”
“Come on, Brad, don't be that guy,” Maggie said and flashed an apologetic glance up at the waitress.
Kelly turned towards Brad, her smile widening, “Oh sweetheart, everything's just fine.”
Brad's gaze drifted down the large white buttons in the center of her dress. Maggie rolled her eyes and leaned forward, “I think we're ready for the check.”
Kelly nodded, her eyes never leaving Brad, as she pulled a notepad from the side pocket of her dress and ripped off the top page. She set the check down in front of Brad and winked.
“Sure thing sweetheart, take your time,” and with a swing of her hips, turned to the back office.
“Alright, bro, let's go,” Pathik held his hand outstretched before Brad.
“What?”
Pat rolled his eyes and his arm was pushed back as Levi reached for the bill and pulled his card out of his wallet.
“A tip, come on guys.”
Maggie and Brad and Levi and Pat each dropped a handful of dollars on the table. Pat scooted out first and Levi scrambled out behind him, bill and card in one hand, the rest of his papers in a clear plastic folder tucked into a knapsack with the top flap open and the contents bared for all to see—mostly a mess of papers; smeared with ink, some of them crumpled, all covered with words.
Brad let Maggie out and she followed Pat and Levi to the register. Brad slowly pulled on a faux leather jacket and looked around him, his eyes meeting the old man in the corner. The old man looked grimly at Brad, a spoonful of soup hovering between the bowl and his mouth.
“What?” And with a final look around him, Brad scooped up the bills on the table and deposited them in his jacket pocket.
Kelly dropped her shoulder bag down at the top of the stairs before she started down them. She flicked on the switch at the bottom of the stairs, illuminating the small half-finished basement with clean, white light. She did a quick sweep of the space, and, satisfied that all was as she left it, she kicked off her Mary Janes and entered the room.
It was a closed-in space, not much larger than a dorm room. The majority of the basement was unfinished behind the makeshift walls she had put up of draped tarps and shower curtains. On one end there was a large cork board hanging from the ceiling with various pictures of men on it, some crossed out with red marker, some circled many times over, some stabbed repeatedly with darts. To the right of the stairs there was a long folding table—like ones used at event centers—set up like a shelf to hold various sized boxes. And behind the stairs was a desk with an older desktop computer that ran Windows XP, a printer, and a notepad with a messily scrawled grocery list on it.
Kelly hesitated at the table before moving onto the desk. Her gaze lingered over each and every box and she reached out once or twice to feel the wood grains beneath her finger-tips or to lift a lid and peer inside. Looking at each box gave her a small joy. She liked to see them lined up neatly, always where she put them, always in order. The first boxes were less ornate than the more recent ones, just hastily constructed simple containers, but they did what she needed them to do. She stopped over the last one in line, the newest box. It was a dark cherry wood with an intricate floral design on the top of the lid. Inside it was lined with velvet of a deep burgundy color. When she opened it, with the dark wood and the red of the velvet, it almost took a moment to register what was inside, but she knew.
It was her trophy.
Kelly turned and sat at the desk, pulling one leg up underneath her, the other swinging mindlessly against the cold floor, her stocking gathering dust and bits. She pulled her cellphone out of the side pocket of the restaurant uniform, typing in her pass-code and opening up her gallery. She had about five faraway pictures to choose from. She looked over each one with mounting disgust. Finally, she pulled out a USB cord from her drawer and hooked up the phone to the desktop, opening the files and dragging out the picture she wanted. She deleted them from the cellphone's folder and unplugged it, shoving it back into her pocket.
Kelly opened up the picture on her desktop and stared at his face. He looked like all the other up on that cork board: smug and confident, almost orange from all the tanning, but unmistakably horrible. He radiated bullshit. She clicked print. As the printer squeaked out the picture Kelly got up and walked over to the cork board, pulling down a picture and tossing it to the side. Eric Hansen could wait.
The picture spit out of the printer and she grabbed it, pulling out a tack from the board and shoving the picture into place with a sneer. He had a mouth half full of Korean barbecue and a dopey smile plastered on his face.
“Fuck you, Brad.”
To be continued...here
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