Flesh

the room.

Shit, this isn’t a zombie walk, it’s Frankenstein.

Frankenstein’s the scientist, stupid, not the monster.

Yes, Roland.

She stopped strutting and changed her gait to a slow lurching stagger.

Perfect.

So where the fuck are you, Roland? If you’re too scared to scream, let’s at least have a few gasps or whimpers.

Are you crouched in a corner, wetting your pants?

Dana slowly turned around, searching for his huddled shape in the gray near the windows, trying to find him in the black areas.

He isn’t here, she decided. Even if I can’t see him, he for sure would’ve seen me by now. He would’ve done something—yelled or maybe run for it.

Dana turned toward the front of the restaurant, lowered her arms for a moment to smear the sweat rolling down her sides, then raised her arms again and shuffled forward.

Over to the left, the room branched out. Dana saw a vague shape that might be a bar.

He’s probably hiding behind it.

She took a few steps in that direction and a rush of excitement stopped her.

Roland’s sleeping bag.

Mummy bag.

One dark, puffy end of it was barely visible in the gloom from a front window.

I can’t see him, but he can see me. If he’s looking this way. If he’s awake.

For a few seconds, Dana couldn’t force herself to move. She stood there, shaking and breathless, feeling as if her legs might give out.

This’ll be good, she thought. This’ll get him. The shit-head’ll wish he’d never been born.

Go for it, she told herself.

She lurched toward the sleeping bag. Her legs felt like warm liquid, but they held her up. She let out a low moan.

That’ll get his attention.

When she stopped moaning, she heard him.

He was taking quick, short breaths.

Awake, all right.

She stood over him, no more than a yard away, peering down but still unable to see anything in the darkness. No, maybe that was a face—that oval blur. If so, Roland was sitting up.

Bending at the waist, she reached toward him.

A shriek blasted her ears.

Every muscle in Dana’s body seemed to jerk, snapping her upright, hurling her backward. She waved her arms, trying to stay up, then fell. The floor pounded her rump.

A light beam stung her eyes.

She shielded her eyes with a hand. “Take it out of my face.” The beam lowered. She pulled off the cap. The light was on her chest, moving from one breast to the other. It dropped, streaking down her belly and shining between her legs. She threw her knees together, blocking it. The light returned to her breasts. She covered them with one arm and used the other arm to brace herself up. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath.

“So,” she gasped, “did I scare you, or what?”

In answer, the light tipped downward. Roland was sitting on top of his mummy bag, his legs stretched out. The lap of his faded blue jeans was stained dark.

Dana grinned. “You wet your pants.”

“I wanta go,” Roland said in a shaky voice.

“Hell, you already went.”

“You won, okay? You won. Let me loose.” He turned his light toward a nearby card table with bottles on top. “The key’s up there.”

“Key?”

The beam moved again, this time to his left hand. It was cuffed to a metal rail near the bottom of the bar.

“Holy shit,” Dana muttered.

“My insurance. That’s how I knew I’d win.”

“You cuffed yourself?”

“Get the key, okay?”

So that was why Roland had insisted that she come in at dawn to get him—so she could unlock the handcuffs.

“Where are the Polaroids?” she asked.

“In my pack.”

“Give me the flashlight.”

Roland didn’t argue. He lowered it to the floor and pushed. It skidded toward her feet. Dana sat up, stretched forward, and grabbed it.

Getting to her knees, she shined the beam on Roland. His gaunt face, dead pale, looked even more cadaverous than usual. Squinting, he turned away from the glare.

She aimed the light at his crotch.

“Peed your fucking pants,” she said. “Did you really think I was a ghost?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Dana chuckled. Then she crawled to the pack, searched it, and found an envelope. Inside the envelope were the photographs. She flicked through them, counting. All ten were there. She set the envelope on the floor and took her camera from the pack.

“What’re you doing?” Roland asked.

“Just recording the moment for posterity.” Standing up, Dana faced him and clamped the flashlight between her thighs aiming it so the beam lit his wet jeans. She raised the camera to her eye. “Say ‘cheese.’” She took three shots, the flash bar blinking bright. “Now take off your pants.”

He shook his head.

“Want me to leave you here?”

With his one free hand, Roland opened his jeans and tugged them down to his knees.

“You don’t believe in underpants?”

Dana snapped three more shots, then gathered up the photos that had dropped to the floor. She tucked them inside the envelope and put the envelope and the camera into his pack. She put her stocking cap in with them, swung the pack up and slipped her arms through the straps.

She shined the beam on Roland, who had pulled up his pants and was zipping the fly. “Adios.”

“Unlock me,” he said, squinting into the light.

“Do you think I’m nuts?”

“I went along with it. You promised. Now come on.” He wasn’t pleading. He sounded calm.

Dana thought about it. She really wanted to leave him here. But that would mean coming back tomorrow or sending Jason over to set him free. Also, he would end up winning the bet. A hundred bucks down the toilet.

“I don’t care about the pictures,” he said. “You can keep them.”

“Mighty big of you. I’d like to see you just try to take ’em off me.”

“Then what’s the big deal? Get the key.”

“Maybe. Stay put while I get dressed.”

“Very funny.”

She left him there. With the aid of the flashlight, her return to the kitchen was easy. Her foot had left smudges of blood on the linoleum. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the mess she had stepped in.

Using the wool cap, she began to brush the flour off her body.