Red Eye

It’s the end of the world and I’m trapped at Starbucks. I’m living a basic bitch’s wet dream right now. All I wanted to do was find a quiet spot to work on my novel but now I’m trying to survive a war against godknowswhat with decorative cake-pops and whip-cream. But then again, no better source of inspiration than to be directly in the middle of a world-wide disaster. Am I right?

Why couldn’t I have found refuge in Whole Foods or CVS? No, I had to come here, to this place where everyone looks at you weird if you don’t use their fancy language to order a fucking small black coffee. Their sizing sounds like they tried to combine every European language into an indecipherable dialect.

I don’t know how to use any of their machines, seems like you need a fucking PHD in engineering just to plug some of them in, so I’ve basically been keeping myself awake by drinking cold-brew from the tap and eating those freeze-dried strawberries they put in the refreshers. Rummaging through the break-room, I managed to find what looks like a makeshift emergency kit ( a pill bottle of what looks like a trail-mix of Adderall, Ibuprofun, and possibly Tic-Tacs, gauze pads held together with a rubber band, several lone band-aids and a random tampon) and a jammed stapler in case I need to defend myself.

Thankfully I came prepared and brought both my phone and laptop charger with me but the WiFi has been cutting in and out since this all started. I’ve been trying to keep myself updated with everything that’s going on but there’s not really much to go on. All of the news channels have cut out and social media is mostly made up of videos of attacks or people desperate to make contact with friends and family.

Fuck, I’ve been rambling and haven’t even begun to explain what happened in the first place. Apologies. I have a tendency to start stories without giving them a proper introduction.

This all started a couple weeks ago. No one is really sure what happened exactly. People just started getting sick. Upset stomach, nausea, muscle weakness. Some thought it was pneumonia, only this was happening in the middle of summer. Then people thought it was localized cases of food poisoning. Some bad meat products sold at grocery stores that people were cooking and eating during barbeques and pool parties. Everyone thought it would blow over in maybe a month or two.

Then the symptoms got worse. Whatever this was, whatever this is... It started to change people. They started getting burns on their skin, like shingles on steroids. Then severe, even violent mood-swings, reports of people attacking themselves and each other. Each victim shared something in common- crazed, bloodshot red eyes.

That’s when people started panicking. Claiming this was some kind of super-virus, a terrorist attack, a government experiment gone wrong. Now, I wouldn’t call myself a conspiracy theorist by any means, but it was hard to deny what was going on out there and any answer, no matter how fucked up it sounded, seemed plausible.

When it hit my town, we didn’t know until it was too late. It just started like any other day, everything was calm, nothing felt out of the ordinary. It was my day off so I decided to come to Starbucks, order a croissant, and start-up the laptop to work on my novel. It was a slow day, not too many customers- a couple college students here, a stressed out mom juggling her whiney kids there. It was easy for me to get lost in the white-noise of it all, the gentle hum of the machines, the low murmurs of conversation, the soothing jazz playing through the speakers.

Then in an instant, everything changed.

Some guy wandered in, limping his way into the small line that had formed at the counter. He looked disheveled, clothes torn up, hood over his face. We had all just assumed he was a homeless guy who wanted to use the bathroom. Happens a lot, no need to be concerned. Once it was his turn, the over-enthusiastic pony-tailed barista had asked the usual “What can I get you today?” and all hell broke loose.

She let out a blood-curdling scream as the man’s arm reached forward, his hand latching itself around her neck and squeezing hard until we heard a sickening pop. People started screaming, fumbling on their phones to call 911 or to record it for social media.

Throwing her aside like a rag-doll, the man turned his attention to those closest around him and started attacking. During the mad chaos of it all, his hood fell from his face to reveal a horrifying sight- the red eyes.

At first I froze, I had no idea what to do. Everyone was running around me, trying to flee for their lives. Others huddled into the nearest corner, reducing themselves to crying masses trying to find comfort in the fetal position. My fight or flight response was delayed, the loading screen in my mind was stuck, refusing to move beyond that 98% progress.

Then his eyes fell on me, looked straight at me, right through me. There was nothing but rage behind them. A flash of a memory bubbled up in my mind, a childhood bully running toward me in the hallway, tackling me to the ground, laughing with each punch. I felt that same sense of dread now, that anticipation of the worst yet to come, that anxious pit at the bottom of my stomach. A sudden surge of adrenaline demanded that I run away, haul ass and get out of there but my feet stood frozen. Those bloodshot eyes continued to stare at me, a low guttural growl escaped the man’s chapped lips. A warning or a dare, I wasn’t sure.

I felt myself slowly get up from my chair, cautious with every movement as I carefully slipped by backpack onto my shoulders. The man followed each movement with his eyes, studying me. Hesitantly, I reached out for my laptop, fingers poised to shut it closed. A defiant grunt made every hair on my body stand on edge. This was it. He was ready to make his move. Was I?

Ever so slowly, I pressed the top cover down. With every inch it grew closer to the keyboard, my heart began pounding harder and harder. I knew I had to think of what to do next. There was no way I would make it to the front door to escape. If I leapt over the counter, it would only be a matter of time before he would trap me in a corner. From where I had been sitting, the bathroom would be the easiest place to hide, the passcode lock would ensure he wouldn’t be able to get in... hopefully.

The cover was halfway down. Now or never, fight or flight. Run away or get my neck snapped like that poor girl. I took a deep breath. The man just continued to stare. If this wasn’t a life and death situation, I could have looked into those eyes forever, gotten lost in that violent scarlet sea. I pressed the screen down, heard it click.

A fury-filled roar, a war cry burst its way through the man and he came at me. With one hand clinging to my backpack strap, the other with a death-grip on my laptop, I ran. Sprinting toward the bathroom, I furiously typed in the code and swung open the door. Throwing everything to the ground, I shut the door closed. Dragging the trash bin, the metal screeching against the floor, I wedged it as best I could underneath the door handle. Gathering my stuff, I hid inside the handicap stall, locking the door behind me (not that it would do any good should the rage monster bust through the bathroom door) and waited for what felt like centuries for the pounding and screaming outside to stop.