Red Eye

Part Three

Someone uploaded footage of another attack. 

I'd been monitoring Youtube, refreshing the page to see if anything new might pop up. Stupid WiFi kept cutting out so I had to wait for the whole video to load before I could properly play it. When I was finally able to watch the damn thing, I could feel the remnants of the strawberry cake-pop I had eaten earlier nearly force their way up my throat. 

The video starts off with a blissful teen wandering around a shopping mall, the camera panning here and there as they walk past store after store. Loft, American Eagle, Victoria's Secret. If I hadn't known what I was about to witness, I would have thought this was just another "day in the life" post for social media.

Fast-forwarding a bit, the camera hovers over a freshly made salad. From the looks of it, something Sweetgreen would make- a generous helping of kale and baby spinach, apple slices, roasted almonds, blue cheese crumbles, and a light drizzle of Caesar dressing.

My stomach growls at the sight.

Gently placing the camera on the table, overlooking the rest of the food court, the person on the other side happily munches away. Just another day at the mall. The calm before the storm. 

Out of nowhere, a high-pitched scream can be heard in the distance and the table shakes violently from the sudden shock. Scrambling to grab the camera, the person pans from side to side, visible looks of concern and panic evident on people's faces.

More screams can be heard and people begin to hastily grab their shopping bags, parents pull their children in close, security guards on alert place their hands on their gun holsters. Something isn't right. Again, the camera pans back and forth. I can hear the person's heavy breathing through my laptop speakers. Poor thing is frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

A loud noise, like shuffling of feet can be heard. The squeaking of sneakers against tile. It's growing louder and louder, like a herd of gazelle running. And then they come. A huge swarm of people round the corner, completely terror-stricken, their eyes wide, mouths agape. They run in different directions, all seeking a way out. Some trample over each other, stepping on hands, tripping over feet. "Run!" they all scream, "Run for your lives!"

Some heed the call and join the swarm while others stay frozen in place, wondering what there is to run from. The ignorance of people, the curiosity that so often gets them killed. I try to search the crowd, trying to spot a reason for the panic though I already know what's coming. I press my face close to the screen, squinting my eyes to see if I can find them. And then I see it.

There's three of them.

One huge, beefy guy. Bald, wearing a grey hoodie, dark jeans and beat-up sneakers. Older man. He looks like a sports guy. Someone you'd sit back on the couch with and guzzle a few beers. A father, maybe? Coach of a little league team?

Then there's a woman. Roughly late thirties, early forties. Platinum blond with dark roots. Her purse idly hangs off her slumped shoulder. She's wearing those pink flip-flops they give you after getting a pedicure, causing her to waddle back and forth.

Between them is a young man, probably just shy of 20. Punk dude, neon mohawk, face bedazzled with piercings, neck tattoo. Looks like he just stepped off his shift at Spencer's, a name-tag dangling from his Guns N' Roses t-shirt says "Aaron."

They're all covered in blood, posed like a sadistic family from a slasher film franchise. Spittle drips from the older man's mouth like he's got rabies. The woman is growling, clenching her fists. The punk just stands there, silent. Unblinking, they all stare wide-eyed. Red-eyed.

Like a wild pack of dogs set free, they take off. Running, sprinting, full-on hauling ass toward the crowd. The punk is the fastest, his black Converse nearly floating off the ground as he makes his way through the group of screaming people, shoving them to the ground, stomping their heads into a bloody pulp. The woman lets out an ear-piercing rage scream before running toward a group of terrified young girls. Pushing them to the ground, she then pounces on them like a jungle cat and uses her nails, like talons, to claw into them, tearing chucks of their flesh. 

The older man, slow on his feet, hobbles over to a security guard who opens fire. Bullet after bullet pierces the man's pudgy flesh but not a single one appears to have any effect. Out of options, the guard tries to pull his baton but the second he looks away, the man is on him, hands winding their way around the guard's neck. I close my eyes and hear that same sickening snap, reminded of the pony-tailed barista. When I open my eyes, the guard has collapsed on the ground, face lolled to one side. The man hovers over him, his head tilted to the side. Is he even aware of what he's done? Or has he submitted to the rage?

A sudden gasp of air from the speakers jolts me and I'm reminded that I've been watching this horror unfold from the perspective of the one behind the camera. And they've suddenly been spotted.

The man quickly glances in the direction of the camera, looking right down the lens. I hear a muffled "shit" as the camera slowly begins to move backward. The man just continues to stare and a flashback of my encounter begins to replay itself in my mind.

That wide-eyed look, like a deer caught in the headlights. A mixture of different emotions swirling around in that red sea- confusion, anger, panic, sadness- the last lingering signs of humanity that have now been spoiled by the overwhelming animalistic urge to kill. 

The man grunts and puffs out his chest.

"Please... please...." the voice on the other end of the camera whimpers.

The man moves closer, deliberate in his movements.

I can hear the person begin to cry; the dry-heaving, the gasps for air, the low whine that starts in the back of your throat that turns into full-fledged moaning and sobbing.

I know what's about to happen and yet I can't stop myself from watching. How utterly sick is that?! I know they're about to get torn limb from limb, have their skull bashed in. I know they're about to die and yet I can't tear my eyes away from the screen, I can't coerce my hand to click out of the browser. I have to watch, I have to bear witness to what is about to happen. I had almost shared this fate but I escaped. Is this my punishment for surviving?

In a flash, the man leaps at the camera, a deafening scream erupts through the speakers, launching me backward, my head bouncing off the wall behind me. The video momentarily stays frozen, an image of the man's stained teeth and blood-shot eyes filling the screen before becoming static and turning black.

The image will haunt me every time I close my eyes.

A reminder of what lurks outside. A reminder of what could kill me. 

A reminder of what I could become.