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  COLD DEAD HANDS

  A novella by Jeff Strand

  Cold Dead Hands copyright 2018 by Jeff Strand

  Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansenArt.com

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  Hardcover limited edition coming from Cemetery Dance Publications.

  For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

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  ONE

  "Get in! Get in!"

  Barry pulled the freezer door shut. Since he was the one whose arm had been slashed up, it would've been nice if somebody else took the initiative to close the damn door, but he'd gripe about that later.

  "Is everybody okay?" a woman asked. She was dressed for an evening out on the town, not for a morning of grocery shopping. Probably still wearing last night's attire. Though she was quite a bit overweight, she'd sprinted into the back area faster than any of them.

  "Yeah, I'm fine," said Barry, as a drop of his blood hit the steel floor and immediately began to freeze.

  "We're okay," said a man in his forties, standing with a woman who Barry assumed was his wife. They were huddled closely together, probably less because of the temperature and more because they'd almost just been killed.

  Another man in his forties, who wore a SpongeBob SquarePants tee shirt, walked deeper into the freezer, looking closely at the shelves. There wasn't much further he could go; this definitely could not be described as "spacious." Fifteen or sixteen feet long at the most, and maybe twelve feet across. The shelves that lined the walls took up half of the space.

  "Sir?" the dressed-up woman asked.

  "Huh?"

  "Are you okay?"

  The man glanced back at her and nodded.

  Somebody began pounding on the other side of the walk-in freezer door.

  "Don't open it!" said the woman who was huddling with her husband.

  Somebody else outside joined in the frantic pounding.

  "It could be one of them," said the guy in the SpongeBob shirt.

  "It's not," said Barry. He wasn't one to put his own life at risk to save others, but he also didn't want people out there screaming and giving away their hiding spot.

  He opened the door. Five more people shoved their way into the freezer. Crap.

  Without peeking out to see if there were more, Barry pulled the door closed. Seriously, his arm was dripping all over the place, why the hell was he on freezer door duty?

  "Lock it!" one of the new people said.

  "You can't lock it," said Barry.

  "Why not?"

  "Why would a freezer lock from the inside? Drag over one of the shelves!"

  No, wait. The door opened the wrong way. A shelf wouldn't do any good. Feeling stupid, Barry picked up a broom that was leaning against one of the shelves and wedged it through the utility handle above the door release, hoping that would be good enough to keep the door shut. It was far from an impenetrable fortress, but if they were lucky, getting in here would require enough effort that the psychos outside wouldn't bother.

  "Yes, that's right," said a sobbing young woman into her cell phone. "We've locked ourselves in the walk-in freezer. Please, send somebody quickly!"

  They had cell phone reception in here? That was a pleasant surprise.

  With the door barricaded, almost everybody took out their own cell phones. Barry looked at his arm. The broken bottle had gotten him bad—stitches for sure—but nothing was gushing. He wouldn't bleed to death before this was resolved.

  So, there was him, the married couple, the well-dressed lady, and the weirdo in the SpongeBob shirt, now joined by a freaked out looking guy in his early twenties who was wearing pants that were way too big for him (though at least they were pulled up properly). There was also the young woman who'd called 911, an elderly black man, a woman who Barry could tell just from looking at her was either a cop or military, and...damn, a little kid. Maybe six years old. He was in the corner, crying, and since nobody was consoling him, he must've been separated from his parents.

  "Let's compare notes," said Barry. "What's happening out there?"

  "Didn't you see?" asked the married guy. "They came in and just started killing people!"

  Barry shook his head. "They started attacking people. I didn't see anybody die. Did anybody else see something different?"

  Nobody answered.

  Barry pointed to his arm. "One of them slashed me with a broken bottle. It's a pretty damn inefficient way to do a grocery store mass killing. Maybe they aren't actually trying to murder anybody."

  "They are," said the woman who'd called 911, still sobbing. "One of them shot an arrow at my head. He was definitely trying to kill me."

  "Are you sure he didn't miss on purpose?"

  She shrugged and wiped her nose on her wrist. "Maybe. But it came like two inches from my head while I was running. Unless he's a circus performer, he was shooting to kill."

  "I didn't see anyone die," said the old black man, "but I promise you, those folks aren't out there trying to cause superficial injuries. Did you see the one who was swinging an axe?"

  "No," Barry admitted.

  "They're trying to kill us. Why they're doing it with crossbows, axes, and broken bottles instead of guns and explosives, I couldn't tell you, but those boys most assuredly want us dead."

  Barry sighed. "Okay. Well, they're not going to get in here. Not before the cops take them out."

  "I agree," said the old man. "It's not comfortable in here, but it's safe."

  "Unless we freeze to death," said the guy in the SpongeBob shirt.

  "We're not going to freeze to death," said Barry. "This will all be over before that's even close to being a concern. Don't say things like that when there's a little kid in here. What's the matter with you?"

  "Somebody needed to say it."

  "No, they didn't. It was a dumb-ass thing to say, and right now we don't need anybody being a dumb-ass. Stick to the things we should be scared of and don't create new problems. If nothing else, I'm sure we can adjust the temperature from the inside."

  "Maybe."

  "Look at my arm. I'm in worse shape than you. When I start to worry that we're going to die in here, then you can worry, too. Until then, all we need to do is stay calm and keep that door closed. The police will be here soon. Let them do their jobs."

  "It's all over social media already," said the married woman, looking at her phone.

  "What are they saying?"

  "Unconfirmed reports of an attack at Sav-Lotz. Authorities on the scene. Three or four assailants. Hostages."

  "Us?"

  The married woman swiped at her screen a couple of times. "I don't think so. I think they mean other people. We're not hostages; we're just hiding."

  "Are they terrorists?" asked her husband.

  "Nobody knows the definition of 'terrorist' anymore," said the old man.

  "I wasn't asking you."

  "And I wasn't answering for her. Just making an observation."

  "Police are already here," said the married woman. "And somebody uploaded a video of a woman getting hit in the leg with a claw hammer."

  "Jesus," said Barry.

  "Probably most of what's being shared right now isn't accurate, but it s
ounds like maybe a dozen people got out safely. There are a few hostages inside, including a woman who's eight months pregnant. No gunshots fired."

  "Are any of them even carrying guns?"

  "I don't know."

  "Okay, well, the two I saw were both white guys," said Barry. "Twenty, twenty-one, around that age. I saw the guy with the crossbow from a few aisles away, and I didn't see if he was carrying anything else. The guy who got me with the broken bottle was wearing a belt that had a bunch of stuff dangling from it. I definitely saw a hunting knife."

  The crying young woman who'd called 911 said, "The one with the crossbow also had a belt like that."

  "So did the axe man," said the old man. "I didn't see any gun holster."

  "All right," said Barry, "so we've got the guy with the axe, the guy with the crossbow, the guy with the broken bottle, and the guy with the hammer."

  "No," said the married woman. "The one with the crossbow is the same one who used the hammer."

  "Good, maybe there are only three of them. Did anybody see one we haven't mentioned yet?"

  Nobody had.

  "Worst case scenario, we have to keep three men from pulling open the door. And there are what, nine, ten of us?"

  "Ten," said the old man.

  "We're totally safe. They were too stupid to bring firearms, and the whole front of the store is one big window. They'll be dead in twenty minutes." Barry, of course, pulled this timeframe out of his ass, but he felt confident that they were in no real danger.

  The crying young woman looked at her cell phone and gasped.

  "What's wrong?" asked the well-dressed woman. She'd gone over and put her arm around the little boy's shoulder.

  "I thought my husband and daughter got out! I saw them at the exit! He'd taken her to look at the coloring books, so they were on the other side of the store from me, but I saw them right there at the exit! They're supposed to be safe!"

  "They're not?" Barry asked.

  "I texted my husband not to worry, that I was someplace secure, and he texted back 'Cind.'"

  "What's Cind?"

  "My daughter's name is Cindy. Why didn't he send me the full message? What happened to them?"

  "Call him."

  "I tried. He didn't answer."

  "Look, uh, what's your name?"

  "Vanessa."

  "Look, Vanessa," said Barry, "people send incomplete text messages all the time. You can't read anything into it. If you saw them at the exit, then they got out, I promise you."

  Vanessa vigorously shook her head. "No, something's wrong."

  "It's chaos out there. This is nothing to worry about."

  "You have to let me out."

  "Absolutely not. That's not safe for you or anybody else. I don't know your husband, but no way in hell does he want you to go out there with those three maniacs. Right now the psychos probably don't even know that they've got an extra ten people hiding in a freezer. If we open the door, that could change."

  "But—"

  "We're not going to let you get hurt. Your kid needs a mom."

  "Okay, you're right, I'm sorry, you're right." Vanessa wiped some tears from her eyes, switched the strap of her small purse to the other shoulder, and texted a reply to her husband. Barry hoped that she wasn't specifically telling him that she was in the walk-in freezer, but for Barry to say, "Hey, let's keep this little hiding spot to ourselves, okay?" would imply that he thought her husband was one of the hostages. Having Vanessa go completely hysterical in these tight quarters was a much larger risk than a psycho seeing a text message on her husband's phone.

  Anyway, if the attackers searched the grocery store, the freezer was an obvious hiding spot. No big secret.

  No way was Vanessa the only one close to the breaking point. They were lucky this freezer wasn't filled with ten screaming, blubbering, batshit insane people. It was important to keep things light. Keep people chatting. Get to know each other.

  "I truly believe that this will be resolved quickly," Barry told everyone. "But you never know, we might be in here a while. I'd like to know who everybody is. My name is Barry."

  Nobody said, "Hi, Barry!"

  "Then we've got Vanessa, of course." Barry pointed to the well-dressed woman. "And you are?"

  "Dana."

  "Hello, Dana. Who's that with you?"

  The little kid turned away.

  "He told me his name was Pete," said Dana.

  "Good to meet you, Pete. You're being braver than the rest of us, believe me." Barry pointed to the married couple. "And you?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Anderson," said the man.

  "No first names?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Anderson is fine."

  "Suit yourself." Barry supposed that they didn't want to associate too closely with the unwashed masses in the walk-in freezer at Sav-Lotz. Or they were trying to seem mysterious. Or they were just dicks.

  "I'm Trevor," said the old man, without being asked. "I'm seventy years old and I've had a long, full life. When God is ready to call me home, I'll be waiting. But I know for sure that God doesn't want me to die at the hands of an axe-wielding hoodlum. We're going to be all right."

  "Thanks, Trevor," said Barry, smiling. He pointed to the last of the four women, a lady in the unfortunate clothing choice of shorts and a tee shirt. She was extremely attractive but not dressed or made up to accentuate that beauty. It wasn't as if she had bulging muscles or anything, but Barry was relatively certain that, if the occasion arose, she could kick his ass.

  "Minnie," she said.

  "Hi, Minnie."

  "Before you say it, yes, like the mouse."

  "I would never have said that. I try not to say things about people's names that they've heard a million times."

  "I appreciate that, Barry."

  "Are you a cop?"

  She looked surprised. "No. Why?"

  "You carry yourself like one. Military?"

  "Yes."

  "Marines?"

  "Nope."

  "Army?"

  "Nope."

  "Air Force?"

  "Guessed it in three."

  "Currently active?"

  "Yes. On leave. I should be at the beach and not in a freezer."

  "Well, if the bad guys pull the door open, we'll make sure you're right up front to give them a nasty surprise," Barry joked.

  "That's where I plan to be," Minnie said. Barry didn't think she was joking.

  The guy in the SpongeBob shirt had a "please don't call on me, teacher" expression on his face, but Barry couldn't just ignore him. "You're next."

  "I'm Syllabus."

  "Syllabus?"

  "That's right."

  Barry wanted to make a comment, but he felt that he should give Syllabus the same name respect he'd given to Minnie. "Nice to meet you, Syllabus. Wish it were under better circumstances."

  That left the freaked out looking guy. He was sweating profusely, even though they were in a freezer, and he was twitching. He had a definite "junkie needing a fix" vibe, but Barry would give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he was simply terrified like the rest of them. In the unlikely event that he was a junkie, and he went berserk as junkies sometimes did when a freezer door separated them from their precious drugs, Barry was confident that they could subdue him with very little effort.

  It would actually be kind of funny, in retrospect, if they were locked in here with a twitching junkie. One more problem they didn't need. "Hey," he said, "are there any pregnant women in here about to give birth that we should know about?"

  Dana scowled at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Oh, shit, no, that's not at all what I was saying. It was a joke. This would be a terrible time for somebody to go into labor, so I was joking about it. Just trying to keep us all from wallowing in misery. I apologize."

  "Apology accepted," said Dana. He couldn't tell if she was sincere or not.

  "A pregnant woman is one of the hostages outside," said Syllabus. "So your comment was ev
en less funny."

  "Sorry." Oh well. Barry had gone several minutes without putting his foot in his mouth. At least he didn't do it in front of a client.

  "You're the last one," he said to the hopefully-not-a-junkie guy.

  "Why are you trying to make friends with everyone?"

  "I'm not. I'm doing basic introductions. There's nothing we can do right now but wait, so I'm trying to keep us occupied during a stressful time."

  "Well, we don't need somebody to entertain us."

  "If I wanted to entertain you, I'd start crooning. I have a lovely singing voice. I'm sorry that you don't think it's important to know the names of the people you're trapped in here with, but it seems like a no-brainer to me."

  "Fine. I'm Chad. Kids used to call me Hanging Chad and I thought they meant that I looked like I should be a hangman."

  "Thank you, Chad," said Barry. "I'm good with names, so we've got Vanessa, Dana, Pete, Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson, Trevor, Minnie, Syllabus, and Chad. Any mistakes?"

  "No, sir," said Trevor. "I hope there's not a quiz for the rest of us."

  "Any news on how things are going outside?"

  "A lot of it's contradictory," said Mrs. Anderson. "One report says that they came in with machine guns. I'm still seeing stuff about hostages."

  "Me too," said Vanessa.

  "I don't suppose there's anything online saying that their brains have been splattered against the wall?" asked Barry.

  "Sadly, no," said Mrs. Anderson.

  "I don't see a temperature control," said Syllabus. "It must be on the outside. Even if it was in here and we could adjust it to seventy-two degrees, it would take forever to get the temperature up to a reasonable level."

  "We're not going to be in here forever," said Barry.

  "And our oxygen supply is limited."

  "We're not setting up camp in here, for God's sake. We're waiting out a dangerous situation. If we felt like we were going to suffocate, we'd open the damn door and let some air in. We don't need your doom and gloom."

  "It's realism, not doom and gloom."

  "No, it's scaring people about things that we shouldn't be worrying about yet. How about this? I volunteer you to figure out a solution to our temperature and oxygen problem. Report back when you've solved it. How does that sound?"