Free Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode by Em Garner Page A

because this is food, and I want to hug each and every can of creamed corn.
    I can see the stairs leading to the backyard at the basement’s far end, and moving toward them, I let my fingers trail along the shelves, cataloging the contents while I imagine the look on Opal’s face when she sees it all. I’m notpaying attention to anything—just salivating over chocolate (real chocolate chips!)—when I come to the end of the shelving units and into a brighter part of the basement.
    The woman was pretty once. I know that because I’ve seen her on the key ring I have shoved in the pocket of my denim shorts. She hasn’t been pretty for a long time.
    A dirty quilt is bunched up next to her but provides no comfort, because she crouches directly on the concrete. Her hair has mostly fallen out, leaving big bald patches and wispy strands of some dull color I can’t name. She’s the color of snow and so thin, the knobs of her spine stick out. So do her shoulder blades and hip bones. She’s wearing only a threadbare sleeveless nightgown that does nothing to hide any bit of her.
    She’s also wearing a collar.
    The lights are steady green, which means it’s working and she’s calm. I stand staring, unable to speak. She rolls her eyes toward me. There’s no recognition in her gaze. Barely a flicker of interest. She shifts on the balls of her feet, and I can hear her body creak from where I stand. The woman rubs her fingers on the concrete in front of her, over and over. The tips of them are raw and bleeding, and on a few of them, I can see the bones.
    I want to tell her to stop it, but I can’t make myself say anything. I stand and stare, frozen, as she rubs and rubs. I want to cry. I want to run, but all I can do is stand there and watch her wear away the skin of her fingertips. She doesn’teven flinch. Blood spatters the floor, and I can see by the stains that this isn’t something new.
    Then she turns her face to me and grins. Most of her teeth are missing, and the ones that remain are gray or black or broken. Her tongue slides out to lick her cracked lips. Her eyes were dull before, but now they’re very blue and very bright. She makes a low, grinding noise from deep in her throat and rocks herself back and forth.
    She pushes herself to her feet.
    Because of how far into the basement I’ve come, she is now between me and the kitchen stairs. I don’t wait. I run toward the backyard stairs, pushing off the concrete like I’m defying gravity. Five steps, six, and I’m there, but I’ve forgotten something important.
    The doors are locked from the outside. The keys in my pocket might open the lock out there, but right now I’m pressed against the slanted metal doors, crouching on the top step. I see her shadow before I see her. Then her bare, dirty feet. Pale legs. The torn hem of her nightgown and her thighs, covered in bruises.
    Then she ducks, still grinning, to get inside the stairwell, and I can’t hold back the screams. They rise up and up, stealing my breath. From outside, Opal cries my name. She pounds on the metal doors, and the ringing is loud and fills my head. She’s pulling on the chains, but she can’t open them. Can’t get the doors open.
    I’m trapped.
    The woman tilts her head curiously and moves forward, teeth bared in that horrible grin. The bloody bones of her fingers stretch toward me. The lights on her collar glow steady green. She’s still making that awful noise, and I realize it’s … laughter?
    “Opal! Stop yelling and banging!”
    “Are you okay?”
    “I’m … I’m fine, I just got startled.… I’ll be out in a few minutes.…”
    Opal babbles something else while the puppy barks and scratches at the metal doors. The woman below me comes closer, no longer laughing. Drool gathers in a corner of her mouth and slips down her jaw. It drips.
    Oh, God, she stinks. Blood and body odor, the stench of rotten teeth. She wipes her bloody fingers on her nightgown, smearing it with