to the ring on the other end. I take a tentative step towards the woman. Part of me wants to help, but the other part says to stay away. She is distraught by the attack and ready to strike out at anyone near.
The line connects and a recorded female voice comes on stating, ‘All lines are currently busy. Please wait for the next available operator.’
As I hit the disconnect icon, the injured woman’s hand shoots out, and grabs hold of my ankle. Caught off guard, I drop my phone where it clatters to the ground.
Raising her head, the woman pulls herself forward. Mouth open, she tries to take a bite out of me. Broken teeth smash down on the leg of my jeans as I pull my ankle from her grip, losing my sandal in the process.
“What the fu…,” I yell, grabbing the nearest chair for balance.
The woman reaches for me again, bloody spittle flying from her injured mouth as she growls.
In any other situation I would think that she is reaching for help. But her snapping jaws, the puddle of blood, and broken teeth flowing from her mouth, tell me to run. I pull a chair between us, and hold it in place as she smacks at it with her hands.
I try to reassure her. “You need to calm down, lady. Stay there and I’ll call the police.”
By the dazed look in her remaining good eye, I can tell that she does not understand. I look for my phone, and don’t see it anywhere.
“Stay!” I demand, and move as quickly as I can for the counter.
Moving around the counter, I grab the landline phone next to the register. Hitting the talk button on the handset, I put it to my ear. All I get is dead air. I hit the on-button a few more times—nothing.
“Debbie,” I yell over my shoulder, hoping she's in the kitchen.
I look at the woman, and see her struggling to get up.
“Stay there. I’ll get help,” I say, sure she doesn’t hear me over the grunts of pain that flow from her.
I dash into the kitchen to see no one. Halfway down the room, a stainless steel sink sits full of sudsy water, so I know Debbie, or one of her girls, must be here.
“Debbie!” I call, moving along the steel prep table that stretches through the center of the room.
A smeared streak of red on the floor wraps around the farthest table leg. Cautiously I step forward. A cold chill races up my spine. Could Debbie have been mugged by the same person as the lady in the dining room? Or was it a burglary gone wrong and I just happened to walk in on it?
“Debbie?”
Stepping around the end of the table, I see that the red streak reaches towards the large squat stainless-steel refrigerator against the far wall. A bloody hand print stands out on the lower half of the door. Other than that, there is nothing, as if whoever had been injured got up, and walked off.
From behind, I hear utensils spill from a plastic tray, striking the floor in a loud crash. Spinning around, I see the injured woman standing in the doorway. Breathing heavily, a mixture of blood, and drool, drips from her open mouth. Her tongue seems to taste the air between the few ragged teeth she has left.
As she takes a step forward, her shoes slip on the scattered silverware. Her only good eye stares at me hungrily.
“Miss, you need to sit down. You're hurt.” I lift a hand, palm out, trying to calm her.
Her head cocks sideways at a sharp angle, reminding me of a cocker spaniel not understanding what she was being told to do.
My brain screams to grab something for protection. If Debbie had been mugged, the bad guys could still be near. And this lady, as well as being injured, is really pissed and willing to take it out on anyone nearby—which just happens to be me.
On my left, near the fridge, lay a long stainless steel counter with pots, pans, baking sheets and a meat tenderizer. Grabbing the heavy mallet, I shake it at the woman.
“Miss, you need to sit down,” I say with a stern voice. But as a portion of the woman’s injured eye slides down her cheek, I know that I'm in
The line connects and a recorded female voice comes on stating, ‘All lines are currently busy. Please wait for the next available operator.’
As I hit the disconnect icon, the injured woman’s hand shoots out, and grabs hold of my ankle. Caught off guard, I drop my phone where it clatters to the ground.
Raising her head, the woman pulls herself forward. Mouth open, she tries to take a bite out of me. Broken teeth smash down on the leg of my jeans as I pull my ankle from her grip, losing my sandal in the process.
“What the fu…,” I yell, grabbing the nearest chair for balance.
The woman reaches for me again, bloody spittle flying from her injured mouth as she growls.
In any other situation I would think that she is reaching for help. But her snapping jaws, the puddle of blood, and broken teeth flowing from her mouth, tell me to run. I pull a chair between us, and hold it in place as she smacks at it with her hands.
I try to reassure her. “You need to calm down, lady. Stay there and I’ll call the police.”
By the dazed look in her remaining good eye, I can tell that she does not understand. I look for my phone, and don’t see it anywhere.
“Stay!” I demand, and move as quickly as I can for the counter.
Moving around the counter, I grab the landline phone next to the register. Hitting the talk button on the handset, I put it to my ear. All I get is dead air. I hit the on-button a few more times—nothing.
“Debbie,” I yell over my shoulder, hoping she's in the kitchen.
I look at the woman, and see her struggling to get up.
“Stay there. I’ll get help,” I say, sure she doesn’t hear me over the grunts of pain that flow from her.
I dash into the kitchen to see no one. Halfway down the room, a stainless steel sink sits full of sudsy water, so I know Debbie, or one of her girls, must be here.
“Debbie!” I call, moving along the steel prep table that stretches through the center of the room.
A smeared streak of red on the floor wraps around the farthest table leg. Cautiously I step forward. A cold chill races up my spine. Could Debbie have been mugged by the same person as the lady in the dining room? Or was it a burglary gone wrong and I just happened to walk in on it?
“Debbie?”
Stepping around the end of the table, I see that the red streak reaches towards the large squat stainless-steel refrigerator against the far wall. A bloody hand print stands out on the lower half of the door. Other than that, there is nothing, as if whoever had been injured got up, and walked off.
From behind, I hear utensils spill from a plastic tray, striking the floor in a loud crash. Spinning around, I see the injured woman standing in the doorway. Breathing heavily, a mixture of blood, and drool, drips from her open mouth. Her tongue seems to taste the air between the few ragged teeth she has left.
As she takes a step forward, her shoes slip on the scattered silverware. Her only good eye stares at me hungrily.
“Miss, you need to sit down. You're hurt.” I lift a hand, palm out, trying to calm her.
Her head cocks sideways at a sharp angle, reminding me of a cocker spaniel not understanding what she was being told to do.
My brain screams to grab something for protection. If Debbie had been mugged, the bad guys could still be near. And this lady, as well as being injured, is really pissed and willing to take it out on anyone nearby—which just happens to be me.
On my left, near the fridge, lay a long stainless steel counter with pots, pans, baking sheets and a meat tenderizer. Grabbing the heavy mallet, I shake it at the woman.
“Miss, you need to sit down,” I say with a stern voice. But as a portion of the woman’s injured eye slides down her cheek, I know that I'm in
Similar Books
