trouble.
Lunging forward, the woman strikes the table and her knees buckle. Pounding the steel surface with her hands, she claws it to stay upright. Her nails break, leaving streaks of blood along its surface.
I step to the left, and she responds by moving in the same direction, blocking my escape route to the dining room.
I glance at the service window connecting the two rooms, and know that I have to take my chance with it. I lunge to the right going around the table. The woman follows my movement, just a second behind.
Grabbing the counter, I jump up on it and move for the window. The woman comes on. Screaming, she grabs for me and tries to take another bite out of whatever flesh she can grab.
Swinging back with the mallet, I strike her along the temple. The heavy metal head of the tenderizer connects with a wet thud as her mandible cracks. Her skin splits open like ripe fruit. She falls, bouncing her head off the counter, and collapses on the floor.
I pause for a moment, thinking that I had killed her. But as soon as she hits the floor, blood gushing from the ragged tear across her jaw, she starts for me again. My mind screams for me to run, and run I do. Pushing my way through the window, I send a stack of plates crashing to the floor.
Striking the soda fountain with my knee, I knock a spigot free and carbonated water and syrup spurt everywhere.
Not waiting, I jump the front counter by the register and dash for the door. As I move through the door into the lobby, I can hear the woman screaming in the kitchen. Her voice cut off as the door closes behind me, shutting me in silence.
Turning, I see her stumble into the dining room, striking at everything within reach. Not wanting to be the continuing focus of her wrath. I step to the side of the door, hiding behind a large fern. I know that she needs an ambulance, but I have no way of calling them. My phone is under a table, fifteen feet away.
I race across the marble tiled lobby, and grab the dentist's office door—locked. I look through the glass for anyone inside, but I see no movement. The only light on inside is just above the reception desk.
A chair strikes the café door. I turn to see the woman holding a chair by its leg. Repeatedly she swings the chair at the door, sending fractures radiating up the glass. I know she can just pull the door open, but her anger shows her determination to hurt something.
Desperate for a plan, I run back across the lobby to the dry cleaners. Throwing the door open, I’m hit with the sound of Japanese music, and steam coming from the presses in the backroom. I look towards the counter and see a woman leaning out of the drive-thru window.
“Miss,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Call 911. A woman’s injured over at Bella’s.”
The woman does not respond. She is leaning too far to hear me. She must be talking to someone who has not pulled their car close enough to the window.
“Miss,” I say louder.
Not waiting for her response, I reach over the counter and look for a phone. There is no landline, or cell phone, anywhere in the jumble of customer orders and receipts.
Stepping to the left, I move around the service counter to get the woman’s attention. Hoping she has a phone in her pocket, I reach out and place a hand on her striped, black-and-purple shirt and say, “Miss,” hoping not to scare her.
She does not jump in surprise at my touch. Instead she slides toward the floor. The upper portion of her shoulders, arms and head are gone, leaving a ragged bloody hole of shredded flesh and bone. She hits the floor with a splat, blood spurting across my feet and jeans as her dead body twists on the floor.
Jumping back, I bruise my hip on the counter. Unable to take my eyes off of the horrid mess, I stumble towards the backroom where mobile racks of pressed clothes hang in clear plastic bags.
I push my way through the clothes, and run past large running washers. I know there is a back door leading to the
Lunging forward, the woman strikes the table and her knees buckle. Pounding the steel surface with her hands, she claws it to stay upright. Her nails break, leaving streaks of blood along its surface.
I step to the left, and she responds by moving in the same direction, blocking my escape route to the dining room.
I glance at the service window connecting the two rooms, and know that I have to take my chance with it. I lunge to the right going around the table. The woman follows my movement, just a second behind.
Grabbing the counter, I jump up on it and move for the window. The woman comes on. Screaming, she grabs for me and tries to take another bite out of whatever flesh she can grab.
Swinging back with the mallet, I strike her along the temple. The heavy metal head of the tenderizer connects with a wet thud as her mandible cracks. Her skin splits open like ripe fruit. She falls, bouncing her head off the counter, and collapses on the floor.
I pause for a moment, thinking that I had killed her. But as soon as she hits the floor, blood gushing from the ragged tear across her jaw, she starts for me again. My mind screams for me to run, and run I do. Pushing my way through the window, I send a stack of plates crashing to the floor.
Striking the soda fountain with my knee, I knock a spigot free and carbonated water and syrup spurt everywhere.
Not waiting, I jump the front counter by the register and dash for the door. As I move through the door into the lobby, I can hear the woman screaming in the kitchen. Her voice cut off as the door closes behind me, shutting me in silence.
Turning, I see her stumble into the dining room, striking at everything within reach. Not wanting to be the continuing focus of her wrath. I step to the side of the door, hiding behind a large fern. I know that she needs an ambulance, but I have no way of calling them. My phone is under a table, fifteen feet away.
I race across the marble tiled lobby, and grab the dentist's office door—locked. I look through the glass for anyone inside, but I see no movement. The only light on inside is just above the reception desk.
A chair strikes the café door. I turn to see the woman holding a chair by its leg. Repeatedly she swings the chair at the door, sending fractures radiating up the glass. I know she can just pull the door open, but her anger shows her determination to hurt something.
Desperate for a plan, I run back across the lobby to the dry cleaners. Throwing the door open, I’m hit with the sound of Japanese music, and steam coming from the presses in the backroom. I look towards the counter and see a woman leaning out of the drive-thru window.
“Miss,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Call 911. A woman’s injured over at Bella’s.”
The woman does not respond. She is leaning too far to hear me. She must be talking to someone who has not pulled their car close enough to the window.
“Miss,” I say louder.
Not waiting for her response, I reach over the counter and look for a phone. There is no landline, or cell phone, anywhere in the jumble of customer orders and receipts.
Stepping to the left, I move around the service counter to get the woman’s attention. Hoping she has a phone in her pocket, I reach out and place a hand on her striped, black-and-purple shirt and say, “Miss,” hoping not to scare her.
She does not jump in surprise at my touch. Instead she slides toward the floor. The upper portion of her shoulders, arms and head are gone, leaving a ragged bloody hole of shredded flesh and bone. She hits the floor with a splat, blood spurting across my feet and jeans as her dead body twists on the floor.
Jumping back, I bruise my hip on the counter. Unable to take my eyes off of the horrid mess, I stumble towards the backroom where mobile racks of pressed clothes hang in clear plastic bags.
I push my way through the clothes, and run past large running washers. I know there is a back door leading to the
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