The Chosen

The other woman next to Donna looked unconscious or dead. Her breasts joggled frenetically as a similar consort copulated. And beyond the bed she still could see the band of primeval spectators, gorging themselves on mysterious food as their intent eyes watched on. Their faces looked like noxious masks of pulpy gray paraffin, sinuous muscles and tendons flexing beneath tight clay-colored skin. Their jaws worked obviously, munching hunks of food. Some of them sported preposterously large erections with veins stout as bloodsuckers. And some of them had what could only be horns jutting from their malformed foreheads.

One of them stood up as the thing that strangled Donna retreated.

They’re…taking turns, Vera deduced.

“Come on in, Vera,” Kyle repeated the offer. “We’ve got lots of great grub here, stuff like you’ve never seen or tasted. They’re delicacies, Vera. Ambrosia. You can probably guess where the recipes come from.”

Vera felt as though every joint and every muscle in her body had melted together, akin to welded metal.

“We’ve got a great steamed tripe—you know, chopped bowel, served with a wonderful remoulade sauce. Fantastic belly filets baked with my famous cashew crust and basil cream.” Kyle, seriously enthusiastic, turned with a silver service tray in hand. “And if all that’s a bit too rich for ya, try our crispy spring rolls. Of course, we don’t wrap them in rice paper, we wrap them in skin. You’ll also want to try our special of the day…” Another silver plate was offered. “Kyle’s famous cherry-pepper and sesame brain puree. Great on baked toast points brushed with duck fat.”

It was a kaleidoscopic madness that churned in Vera’s head. She thought she might collapse, or throw up, or simply die.

Kyle chuckled, and ate one of the topped toast points. It crunched in his mouth. “Bet you can’t guess where we get the brains.”

The hellish paralysis broke. Vera moved away from the entry, prepared to turn, to leave, to run away as fast as she could—

“Hey, Vera! See anyone you recognize?”

Indeed she did, in that final glimpse. Kyle had raised two objects in the feeble light—two heads.

And despite the missing skullcaps, through which the brains had obviously been evacuated, Vera easily recognized the faces on the severed heads. The accountant, Mr. Terrence Taylor. And Lawrence Mulligan, chief of the Waynesville Police Department.

Vera ran back down the hall, her cheeks bloated from disgust. And Kyle’s raucous voice followed after her like a trailing banner:

“You’re wasting your time, Vera! You’ll never get out of here! You’ll never get away…”

««—»»

I’ll get away, you asshole, Vera determined. The elevator opened immediately. She jumped in, punched the UP button, and the doors quickly thunked closed. At once she was rising. Come on, come on! The lift felt so slow now. All she had to do was get to the atrium and she could flee. She’d run down to the main road, and she’d keep running till she could flag a motorist. She wouldn’t waste time going back to her room for her shoes or car keys. It wouldn’t take the elevator long to go back down to that hellhole, admit Kyle, and bring him up after her—

Seconds seemed like grueling minutes.

Her heart was racing.

Then:

Thunk!

The doors opened. She dashed out, scrambled through the pantry, then skidded on her bare