The Chosen

feet around the corner of the service line. I made it! she celebrated. Another ten seconds and I’m out!

Kyle stood in the room-service entrance, arms crossed. He grinned. He’d redonned his jeans, one foot proverbially tapping as he waited for her. He began to whistle some truck-stop tune.

“How the FUCK!” Vera screamed.

Kyle shrugged. “There’s another elevator at the other end of the hall.”

“You motherFUCKER!”

“Hey, women have called me worse things, that’s for sure.”

Vera backed up inadvertantly, nudging the pantry door.

The door locked behind her.

Now there was only one way out: through Kyle.

“They’re devils, Vera,” Kyle said, and took a step. “They’re demons. They’re our brethern of our lord’s earth—”

More bits and pieces of the book reassembled in her mind. But all she could think about actively was one thing: getting past Kyle. And there was only one feasible way to do that.

I’ll have to kill him.

It was with a surprising confidence that the thought occurred to her. She scampered down along the aluminum-topped service line, past the ovens, ranges, and fryers, and stopped at the cutlery rack.

By now, Kyle’s chuckle was all too familiar. “You can’t kill me, Vera. Not like that. I’m not quite like you, you know? I’m not from around here.” Then he laughed again, as if amused at her antics. His bald head shined like a chrome trailer hitch in the harsh fluorescent glare. Hairless, she thought, scrabbling toward the knives. The book said Magwyth and his acolytes were hairless. At the same time her hand slid a Sheffield #11 fileting knife out of its rack holder. She turned quickly. The exquisitely sharp knifepoint flashed like a finely cut diamond.

Kyle took a few more steps toward her, unafraid. “Don’t do this, Vera,” he pleaded. “I mean, I know we never really got along, but I always did like you. I’d hate to see something shitty happen.”

“Fuck you, you evil, bald mother fucker I—”

“Talk about a woman’s wrath, moly holy—” Kyle paused, squinting, then shook his head. “Or is it holy moly? Shit, you’d think after all this time, I’d get my quips right.”

Spittle flew as Vera screamed, “If you take just one more step so help me I’m gonna cut your bald head right off I swear to God!”

“Not much point in swearing to God here,” Kyle suggested. Then he took another step. “It’s funny how women always blow their lids, or flip their tops…or is it flip their lids? Whatever. But why don’t you listen to reason before you going running around like a head without its chicken? Why don’t you join us? You’ll live forever, like me, like all of us. And let me tell you something—it is a trip to live forever.”

Live forever, huh? Vera thought. You’re not gonna live another five seconds, you pompous dickbrain.

And with that conclusion, Vera lunged forward, both hands firm about the Sheffield’s polished wood handle. The 440 carbon-steel blade sunk at once into the pit of Kyle’s sternum, and the sick grisly sound was music to Vera’s ears.