Public Enemy Zero

8

Mitchell headed straight from the entrance and toward the food court. Under the skylight, surrounded by a dozen fast-food places, he knew he would feel less alone, less vulnerable.

This was where he went when Rachel told him it was over and he didn’t have any friends to talk to. The mall was where he went for a sense of normal.

He walked briskly past the shops and kiosks. The smell of orange chicken and french fries told him he was getting closer.

He pulled out his iPhone and sat down at a table on the outskirts of the food court.

A few tables away, a woman knocked over her drink as she tried to reach across the table to feed her baby in its highchair. She got up to get some napkins to clean the mess.

He looked at the lines of people forming at the counters during their lunch break. Hunger began to overtake all his other instincts as his stomach let out a growl. He ignored it and stared at his locked phone screen. He’d removed the photo of Rachel after she’d broken up with him.

He tried to swipe the unlock, but his finger was still shaking from the adrenaline and anxiety. He tried again and unlocked it. He pressed the phone icon and began typing 911 into the keypad.

His finger paused over the “call” button.

How would he explain what was happening to the calm voice on the other side?

He wouldn’t tell them about the girl the night before. That would only complicate things. Should he tell them that Rick was trying to kill him and leave out Rachel entirely? His story sounded better that way.

What should he say about the meter maid? His stomach turned into a knot when he realized the woman he had just run from was effectively the police.

“Fuck. I’m a fugitive from the police.” The words slipped off his tongue as the severity of it all went beyond the immediate implications of people trying to kill him.

Had he broken any laws in trying to get away? How fucked up would that be?

He heard another faint growl. He looked at his stomach. It didn’t feel hungry at that point. He heard the growl again. It was coming from off to the side.

Mitchell looked toward the direction the sound was coming from. The baby in its highchair was staring at him. Its mouth was wide open, revealing little teeth in pinks gums. The child’s tiny bloodshot eyes were locked on Mitchell. It let out another growl as it creased its forehead and squinted its eyes.

Mitchell slid his iPhone back into his pocket and watched. The baby began to rock in its highchair, letting out its animal groan. It gnashed its teeth and rocked harder. It let out a shrill scream.

Mitchell was afraid the child was going to tip over. Instinct told him to go help it. Other instincts, more primal than his protective mammal ones, told him to stay clear.

The child rocked the highchair so hard it slid a few inches across the tile floor. The baby reached out a hand and clawed at the air. It clawed again and tried to grab Mitchell from twenty feet away.

Mitchell jerked back in his seat, as if the baby was going to reach across the distance.

Pearl-sized teeth tore at the air as snot and spit began to run down the baby’s face and spill on its coveralls.

It rocked its chair another few inches toward Mitchell. It began to pull at the restraints and struggled to get free without looking away.

Mitchell remained motionless as though his inactivity would make him invisible.

The child looked at him and growled.

Mitchell slid his chair away from the table.

In that moment, his worst fear was that if he ran or walked away the child would tip over. Then everyone would see the child sprawled out and crying on the ground as Mitchell tried to get away.

The child rocked the chair back and bumped the table behind it. If it got much more momentum, it was going to go over.

Frozen in panic, Mitchell didn’t know what to do. His social instincts told him to stay to make sure the baby didn’t hurt itself. The hatred in the child’s eyes as it continued to stare him down told him he had to run.

The baby was getting more frustrated. It hissed at Mitchell and then let out a scream that rang throughout the food court.

The mother, who was getting napkins in front of a Chick-fil-A, looked at her baby. The entire food court looked toward the child.

Its tiny hand reached out again, clawing the air, reaching toward Mitchell.

The mother traced the path with her eyes to where the baby was reaching. Its small claw-like hand was pointing directly toward Mitchell as it convulsed and shook trying to throw the whole highchair over. The mother started running.

Mitchell slid his chair back. His mind raced for an explanation. The baby rocked and snarled. The woman knocked over another woman as she threaded through the tables toward her child.

She changed direction. He felt his blood drain as he realized the woman wasn’t running to her child. She was running straight toward Mitchell.

The entire food court’s attention began to shift from the furious infant and toward the mother. People dressed in slacks and skirts, ties and blouses, with little keycard IDs attached to their clothes began to ignore what they were doing and look at the scene.

Cashiers looked away from their registers. Chefs looked up from hot tables.

They looked at the mother and the angry baby. Then looked straight at Mitchell.

Mitchell could hear trays and drinks hit the floor. He looked away from the mother to the crowd.

All eyes were directly on him. Red eyes.

First the mother, who was seconds away, screamed out. Then a tall black man in a tracksuit shrieked. Then a hundred more screams let out as the entire food court let loose like a pack of wild apes in a fury.

In a wave-like motion, the crowd went from a standing position to a full sprint as they started running toward Mitchell.