The Cold Beneath by Tonia Brown Page B

I thought I heard words. The longer I stood there listening, the more snatches of phrases came through the din of shrieks.
    I heard, “Pain!”
    I heard, “Help!”
    But above all else I heard, “Cold! So cold!”
    “Do you hear that?” I asked.
    Before Albert could answer my inquiry, a series of loud bangs started, punctuating the shouts. I snapped my attention to the source of the thumps, and watched in horror as the door to the cooling unit shook in its frame. The phrases, the shrieks, the thumping all clicked into a perfect picture in my mind.
    “There!” I shouted as I pointed to the larder. “Dear God! Someone is trapped inside.”
    The larder door was a weighty affair that bore a dual-handled system, both inside and out. It was a safety measure designed to keep the very thing happening from happening. During normal operational hours, the cooler was accessible from both sides; if it swung shut while someone was inside, he could escape with ease. But at this time of night, the thing was kept locked to discourage anyone sneaking the much-needed food for personal consumption. Yet there was someone inside, behind the lock, jostling the handle, beating on the door, screaming for his life.
    Albert was much further ahead of the situation, racing across the room and unlocking the door with his master key before I even had time to react. He then pulled the door open, for it swung outward rather than in, and the screams increased tenfold as their owner burst forth into the kitchen. The man, for I was correct in my assumption, fell to his knees before me, just outside the larder door, as if exhausted from his efforts to escape. I could scarcely believe my own eyes as he lifted his face to meet mine.
    Kneeling on his naked knees was the very same man whose passing we had mourned just that morning. It was Morrow who lifted his pale face to me. Morrow who parted his blue lips. Morrow who began to shriek again as if he were still locked inside the cooler. In the direct presence of his shouting, I found the sound most unbearable. I cowered, backing away as I placed my hands over my ears in a weak attempt to block the sound surging from the once-dead man’s lips.
    “Benjamin!” Albert demanded over the yelling.
    At the name, or perhaps just the sound of Albert’s voice, the cook fell quiet and turned his attention to the first mate.
    What happened next I shall do my best to relate, though I am still unsure how much of it I remember and what parts I imagined. Since this first encounter, I have been careful to catalogue, in my mind’s eye, the truth of things, so I could relate them to someone, anyone, at a later date. But there will be no later date for me. Just this record and my fondest wish that it is never discovered.
    Morrow leapt from his position of supplication, springing across the room with blinding speed and landing square on Albert. The pair toppled to the floor, with Morrow straddling his prey, scrambling and clawing at the bald first mate, meaning him harm. A deep snarling rose from the pair, as did the distinct and chilling sound of snapping teeth.
    By all that is holy, the nearly naked man was trying his best to land a bite on Albert’s tender flesh!
    Albert struggled to dodge his attacker’s onslaught. He wrestled with the blue-tinged body, rolling around, fighting the skinny man for purchase, and if it had been under any other circumstances, the whole affair would have seemed amusing. It became apparent that Albert was being gentle with the old man, trying to fight him with soft blows, open-handed nudges instead of striking with balled fists. Morrow, however, wasn’t toying around and cared little for Albert’s health. The old man snarled as he finally met his mark, sinking his teeth deep into Albert’s shoulder.
    At this act, Albert found his voice and began shouting at once for help. It was almost a full ten seconds before anyone moved to lend him a hand; we were just that shocked at what we