Page 81 of Caution Tape

And a quick, anonymous tip that I’d heard screaming coming from the trainyard… with the way the bodies were rotting, the smell alone would lead them right to the container.

“It’s loose,” I mutter to the car. “It’s loose but it’ll work.”

“What’s loose?” someone croaks, and I jump, the steering wheel jerking sideways, making me fight to keep the car straight, while whirring my head around to see who spoke.

There’s no one in the car.

I keep my eye on the rearview mirror. Waiting.

Because a solitary auditory hallucination is one thing. An aberration in my reality. You can write it off. Ignore it. A sound wave bounced off the leather seats, echoed in an unusual way, fused with the ambient sounds of a car engine… and managed to produce a voice.

Fine. The great propaganda machine of telling myself I was alright could get to work.

So, what was that scratching sound?

In the back seat, like rats, the sound my own nails made when I ran them down my face, catching on the stubble after a few days of not shaving.

I clear my throat, eyeing the backseat.

There’s a long pause; long enough that I start to be relieved. It’s been a few days without a lot of sleep, and a lot of stress. Maybe I’m simply frayed at the ends and imagining things.

Scritch-scratch.

Scritch-scratch.

The scratching occurs with horrifying frequency as the fabric of the backseat bulges and pulses as something presses on it from the other side. A rat? A squirrel? I would’ve seen one when dumping Natalie in there.

A lowbrrrrras a gash opens in the fabric. I see a finger slip out, wriggling like a worm in the dirt. Then a second finger emerges. Followed by the rest of an entire human hand.

I recognize the nail polish. That shouldn’t matter, because there’s only one body in the trunk, but somehow seeing the pink nail polish reflecting streetlights as we drive under them made it tangible.

I rub my eyes.

The hand is gone.

I laugh, shakily, then fully twist in my seat, looking for the hole.

A singular blue eye gazes at me.

In a tone that sounds like I’m telling a child that they need to go back to bed, I say, “Natalie, sweetie, we killed you. You’re dead.”

There’s a great, hideous rummaging as she apparently turns herself over in the trunk, thudding her feet on the lid. I glance at the road, and then back at the horror show in the back seat.

Her tongue is sticking out of the fabric now.

“Look, Nolan,” she rasps, “I made a gloryhole, just for you. Do you like me now?”

“You were never that funny when you were alive, Natalie.” My tone is quiet and controlled. I’m proud of myself for that. My hands are gripping the steering wheel very tightly.

“Oh,” she pouts. “Why do you gotta be so mean?” She gags wetly, and I hear a glob of something smack as it splatters against the seat.

I shouldn’t look, but I do.

It isn’t blood, exactly. A thick, greenish-yellow liquid gleams in a puddle, quivering with each bump the car hits.

It smells faintly acidic.

Like orange juice.

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