Dead End >> c.h au

Chapter Seven

        Michael hadn’t seen the flickering light in what felt like hours. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. Minutes? Days?

                Ashton was still wailing every now and then to a Sally that wasn’t there. Michael tried his best to ignore it. He sat completely still with his back pressed against a wall. He kept his eyes open, desperate to see the light again.

                “Do you think this is hell?” Michael croaked. Ashton fell silent but didn’t answer. “Do you think this whole hotel is just the pit?”

                Ashton took a deep, laboured sigh. “I’d rather be in hell. At least Scooter would be there.” He barely whispered it, but Michael heard him. Ashton let out a half-hearted chuckle.

                “Luke died in my fucking arms, Ash,” Michael sobbed. “That was my biggest fear; having someone I love die in my arms. This has got to be hell. I can’t imagine anything getting any worse.”

                At that moment, a sickening cackle rang through the room. It was akin to that of the wicked witch of the west, but somehow more bone-chilling; more real.

                “Is that a challenge?” a voice whispered in Michael’s ear. Michael jumped in fear and fell to his side. He whipped his head around, unable to calm down. He couldn’t recognize the voice. He cried harder than he ever had before.

                Suddenly, the lights came on. Michael squeezed his eyes shut reflexively. The light burned through his eyelids. After so long in the dark he didn’t think he would want the lights to be turned off, but here he was. Ashton yelped somewhere next to him.

                A gust of air blew through Michael’s hair back and he forced his eyes open. He looked around and saw he had been seated at an antique dining set in a grand dining room. Ashton was in a chair across the table. There were several platters covered with silver domes placed along the surface in front of them.

                Ashton looked at Michael and barely recognized him. His cheeks were stained by the endless tear flow and his eyes were red and puffy. His hair was plastered to his forehead with nervous sweat and he was shaking anxiously. Ashton felt like crying again.

                “What’s going on?” Ashton whimpered.

                Before Michael could answer, the two boys felt hot breath spill down their necks. Ashton flinched in shock at the same time his ears were filled with an eerie, hushed voice. “Eat up.”

                The shackles on Ashton’s arms fell away and his hands started moving without his permission. He instantly knew that this was what had happened to Calum earlier that night. Or perhaps it was days ago. Ashton didn’t know, he couldn’t know.

                Michael’s arms were moving as well. Michael watched as his limbs reached forward and grasped a sterling silver fork between his fingers. The silver covers were lifted from the platters and revealed something that caused a scream to tear its way out of both of the boys’ chest. Michael’s suspicions were confirmed; they were most definitely in hell.

                Before them, on the oak dining table, sat immaculately kept silverware that served as podiums for several vital human organs. Ashton knew immediately who they had once belonged to. A heart was cooked and seasoned, garnished like a breast of chicken. Kidneys were fileted and presented expertly. Intestines were pressed into sausages and draped amidst the other meat. Michael felt vomit piling up in his throat.