Post-Apocalyptic Barbie

1

This was not how Mark had planned on spending Prom Night.

In a hotel room, sure. But on top of the bed—not under it. And seeing Karla Simmons naked had been on the list—oh, yes, that had definitely been on the list.

But she wasn't supposed to be dead and clawing at the bathroom door.

The soft whale-song moan she'd been singing since he'd locked her in there an hour ago flooded the room. The constant scritchscritch of her nails against the smooth wooden veneer of the door acted as a strange sort of metronome, and a chill raced down his spine.

To think, he'd been about to—

With that thing—

She'd almost—

Mark brought a hand to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to shake the image from his brain. God.

It was almost too much to think about, though he couldn't seem to help it.

What if she'd—?

No. No use playing the What If game. Mark pressed his forehead to the carpet and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

It didn't happen, he consoled himself. It didn't happen.

He waited there, under the bed, listening, terrified to move. He heard the doorknob rattle and he slowly raised his head, eyes wide. The door was still closed. Mark let out a sigh of relief.

His eyes wandered over to the smashed glass vase by the mini-fridge, a good three feet away from him. The sharp, jagged pieces seemed to wink at him in the dim light of the hotel room. Tempting. Very tempting.

But Mark couldn't force himself to move. What if—

Scrrrrrritch.

His eyes slowly slid back toward the bathroom door. The knob rattled again and Mark sucked in a deep breath, heart like a hummingbird in his chest.

Would she figure out how to open the door?

Scritchscritch.

Or was Karla as stupid dead as she was alive? He could only hope she was still a blonde at cold-unbeating heart.

A low, ghost-like wail escaped from the bathroom and Mark whimpered. Dammit. Stop being such a baby and just—

There was a loud thud, as if Karla had thrown herself against the door. Mark tried to swallow and suddenly realized how dry his mouth was.

The broken lamp smiled at him from across the room.

Just do it.

He pulled himself forward, wriggling out from under the bed like a caterpillar breaking forth from its cocoon, and scrambled across the floor toward the shards. He'd barely got his hand around the biggest one—a pocketknife sized piece—when he heard the door fly open, slapping the adjacent wall with a loud thwap!

The room fell deathly quiet, and all Mark could hear was his pounding heart—a roar in his ears.

He slowly rose to his feet, trying to ignore the hesitant sound of shuffling behind him, heavy breathing from the thing creeping up on him.

He spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet, and came face to face with—

A crowbar.

He didn't have time to think. His body acted on pure instinct. He lunged back, dodging the attack. Or—more accurately—trying to.