Andrew Lenahan's Death, Part II

Andrew Lenahan's Deader

or

"Hate on an Elevator" 

short fiction

by Andrew Lenahan

            “Chet…” the voice continued.  It was a strange voice, not distinctly male or female, but not like Michael Jackson either.  It was now quite obviously coming from the metal grating which Chet was sitting near.

            “What?” Chet answered, not really sure what to say.

            “Come to me, Chet.” the ghostly voice wailed.

            “Where are you, anyway?”

            “Open the grate, Chet.  There’s a ladder inside.”

            “Why should I listen to you?”  Chet was quite used to obeying orders, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he trusted the voice.

            “I have something for you, Chet.  Something you want.”

            “Is it one of those Thigh-Master exercise things?  Because if it is, I already have one.”

            “No, Chet.  I have something even better for you.  Frequent flyer miles.”

            Chet was a sucker for frequent flyer miles.  In fact, if you ever want to capture Chet yourself, just make a giant mouse trap and put some frequent flyer certificates where the bait should go, and sure enough he’ll be there by the next morning.

            By this point, Chet had made up his mind to listen to the voice.  He lifted up the grating, which surprisingly (and conveniently) wasn’t even screwed down.  He saw a dusty-looking ladder attached to the side of what looked to be some sort of vertical ventilation shaft, but he couldn’t see the bottom.  “I don’t want to touch that ladder,” Chet whined, “I’ll get all dirty.”

            “Jeez, don’t be such a wimp.” The voice taunted.

            Chet sighed deeply.  Sure enough, a few seconds later he was climbing down the ladder into the darkness below.  After a few minutes he reached the bottom and let go of the final rung.  It was too dark to really see anything, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around.  The surface under him felt like grass or very thick carpet.  “Where’s my frequent flyer miles?” he called into the darkness.

            No one answered.

Just when he was about to climb back up, there was a *DING!* sound and Chet could just make out the shape of a door sliding open a few feet in front of him.  It was even darker inside, and Chet had never liked darkness very much, except for the fact that it kept away extreme brightness which can cause blindness.  Seeing no other choice, he stepped inside.  The door slammed shut again and a rather dim light allowed him to see where he was.  It looked like the inside of any of the elevators in the building, but this one was different somehow.  He found it rather troubling that it happened to be “different” in the sense that the walls oozed warm blood and the floor was strewn with decaying flesh and bone, not “different” in the sense that there was new wallpaper or anything like that.  Chet gasped as he felt movement at his feet.  The corpses on the floor were coming alive, like extras in a zombie movie waking up from a nap.  Just in case that was it, Chet decided to ask the four ghastly creatures who were now fully standing on their moldy and probably stinky feet.  “Pardon me,” Chet began,” I don’t suppose there’s a zombie movie going on somewhere?”

They didn’t answer.

“Do you have my frequent flyer miles?”

The corpse standing nearest to the door sneered and looked at Chet with a cold dead eye.  “There’s room for one more…”

            “One more what?” replied Chet.

            “Nevermind.” Said the zombie-like creature, shaking its dry and withered head.

            “You mean like one more person on the elevator?” said Chet thoughtfully, “There’s actually room for several more.  Besides, isn’t it rather pointless to tell me there’s room for more when I’m already on?  What, did you think I’d get off and get on again?”

            “Look, just drop it.”  At this point it is worth noting that when the zombies talked they used a rather drawn-out manner of speaking, so “look” is pronounced “looooook” and so forth.  Apparently this was done to be more “spooky” even if only in a rather Scooby-Doo sort of way.  In any case, Chet was sure that undead creatures didn’t talk like that all the time, as it must really get on one’s nerves after awhile.  The zombie grinned unpleasantly and asked, “What’s your floor, Chet?”

            “Umm, floor thirty-seven, please.”

            “This elevator doesn’t stop there, Chet.” With this the creature stepped aside to reveal the panel of elevator buttons, which looked the same as usual except every button was labeled “13”.  “This elevator only stops at floor thirteen!”  He then cackled as though he’d just made the funniest joke in the entire world, ever. 

Chet didn’t move or react.

The zombie tried again.  “See, all the numbers are labeled ‘13’.  Get it?  It’s scary.  Come on, please… it took awhile to do.  I had to change them all myself, you know.  Say something.”

Chet paused a moment as if thinking it out.  “Well, I’m sure it took a lot of work, but what’s scary about it?”

The creature was getting rather upset at this point.  “Look, it’s number thirteen, right.  It’s unlucky, you know?  Like the superstition.”

Chet’s eyebrows curled as in deep concentration.  “Yeah, I guess I see what you’re trying to do here, but unlucky isn’t always scary.  You know, like how spilling salt is supposed to be bad luck, but that doesn’t mean you run and hide when you see a salt shaker.”

“He’s right, you know!” squealed another zombie with a higher voice than the first one.

“Yeah,” said another fatter zombie.  “I told ‘im, didn’t I?  I said, you’re wasting your time changing the elevator buttons.  That’s what I said to him, plain as the nose that used to be on my face.  Waste of time.  I told ‘im.”

“It’s common sense, really.” Replied the high-voiced zombie, puffing a cigarette. “I mean, he’s just seen four zombies.  He’s not gonna get all worked up over a mislabeled button after a shock like that, is he?”

The first zombie was furious.  “Look, people.  They didn’t make me leader for nothing, did they then?  I know how to scare people, and I don’t need any comments from the bloody peanut gallery!  I’ve been scaring people since before you were even embalmed!”

“Well well well,” taunted the high-voiced zombie, “If you’re so bloody good at it, how come I made Zombie-Of-The-Month last June?”

“Well I suppose it’s easy,” the leader zombie roared, “when you sleep with your supervisor!”

“That’s IT!” she slapped the leader zombie so hard his nose fell completely off his face.  “You can’t bloody well prove it!” she screeched, bursting into tears.

“Oh, nice.  Not again.” Said the fat zombie, rolling his remaining eye.

Chet was getting visibly annoyed.  “Look, I think we’re going a little beside the point here.  I’m sorry that I made fun of your elevator buttons.  They’re really quite nice.”

“Scary?”

“Oh, sure,” said Chet with an uneasy smile. “But there’s one thing wrong.  I’ve worked here for years, and I don’t think there is a thirteenth floor.”

“Really, Chet?” said the lead zombie with a flourish, “There IS a thirteenth floor, but IT’S MOSTLY USED FOR STORAGE!”  Then he finished with his cackle thing again.

There was complete silence.

The fat zombie was the first to speak.  “Um… are you SURE that’s the proper line?”

The lead zombie stopped smiling.  “Well I think so, or something like that, anyway.”  He slapped his dusty forehead.  “Jeez, don’t tell me it’s not scary enough for His Majesty again.”

Chet piped up.  “No!  It was really scary, I was just not saying anything because I was so shocked.  I mean, by the thing you said about storage space.”

“Okay,” said the main zombie, still visibly annoyed, “Can you try to rate it on a scariness scale of one to ten?”

“Okay, is a lower number like 1 better than a higher number like 10?”

“No, a ‘1’ is something that isn’t even a tiny bit scary in any way at all, like a cute fuzzy kitten.”

“Or the Scream movies!” quipped the fat zombie.

Chet thought a moment.  “Umm, I’d give it a ‘4’.  That isn’t too bad, but it still leaves some room for improvement.”

The lead zombie sighed.  “This is going nowhere.  I’m giving you the Lever Of Doom!”

“Oh really,” said Chet, curious, “What is the Lever Of…”

            The main zombie grabbed a red lever near the button panel and pulled it.  There was a sharp metallic * TWANG * as if the elevator cables had been severed.

            As luck would have it, they were.

            “…Doooooooom…”

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