I washed my hands and took a moment to appraise myself in the mirror. Crisp white shirt, fitted pants, with a tasteful gray blazer. Another night of semi-formal dining with the latest online dating match, and all the usual repetitive questions about each other’s lives. I tried without success to put on a winning smile, but it looked forced and unnatural.
Forty years old, and yet you still never get a second date.
My wallowing was loudly interrupted by the restroom door bursting open, and a young waiter frantically running to the closest stall. The sounds of dry heaving followed the second the stall door shut behind him.
Well, I guess I could be having a worse night.
Just as quickly as he entered, the pale-faced teen emerged from the stall and stumbled over to the sink, desperately trying to wash a yellow stain from the collar of his uniform shirt.
“They should have club soda at the bar,” I said, feeling bad for the underpaid, overworked server. I glanced over at him, his name tag read ‘Martin’.
“I don’t feel like drinking anything right now,” Martin replied without glancing up from his furious scrubbing.
“It helps to wash out stains.”
He turned and stared at me blankly, and then with a sudden look of panic, he sprinted back to the toilet.
I grimaced and said, “Alright Martin, I’ll go and grab a cup of soda, just wait here.”
I turned to leave when the sound of a gunshot froze me in my tracks. After a second of silence that seemed to stretch on for an hour, there was an explosion of screams as the diners rushed to escape the unfolding nightmare. I could hear a stampede of footsteps, and then three more gunshots rang out. When the shooting stopped, the whole restaurant became eerily quiet. I could feel my heart racing, and it took all my willpower to keep from panicking. The stall swung open, and Martin stared at me, the color had drained out of his face even further leaving only an ashen gray.
“What do we do?” he whispered breathlessly.
For a moment, I just stared at him with a blank face. After a few seconds of shocked silence, the fight or flight response kicked in, and my conscious mind started to adapt to the situation.
“Alright, call 911, but stay as quiet as possible, hopefully, they didn’t see us come in here,” I forced the whisper through my teeth, trying to believe it myself.
With the mad dash that the waiter made to get in here, there was little chance in my mind that the shooter was unaware of our presence. I stalked forward slowly, trying to press my ear as close to the crack under the door as possible. I could faintly hear a shuffling, slow movement like someone was being dragged across the suave carpeted floors. I shuddered when my mind conjured images of death and mayhem on the other side of the door.
The waiter slipped into the furthest stall from the door, and I could hear him mumbling something into his phone. Help was on the way, but I needed to make sure we were alive when they arrived. I searched the confined room frantically, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon, or even better a way to jam the door. I had just pulled the lid off a toilet tank to use as a bludgeon when I heard more gunfire, and the sound was closer this time. I dropped my improvised weapon, and sprinted to the door, pushing my body weight into it to wedge it shut.
I was just in time because a few seconds later I felt a tremendous force slam into the door. I felt my feet slipping on the tiled floor. There was the sound of someone frantically pounding on the door, and I could feel myself being overpowered.
“Please open the door!” a hoarse yell came from the other side.
“Help me keep this shut!” I called out to Martin who just emerged from the stall, after hearing the commotion. He ran over and together; we were able to keep whoever was on the other side at bay. The pounding on the other side grew more rapid, keeping pace with the beating of my heart.
“Just let me in!” the yell sounding more like a scream, “It’s getting closer!”
Me and the kid shared a confused look.
He whispered to me, “Do you think this guy is actually the killer?”
When the explosive sound of gunshots burst on the other side of the door, we had our answer. Survival instinct kicked into full gear, and we pressed with all our strength against the door. Two more shots were fired, and then the man on the other side of the door let out a guttural shriek. What followed that is a sound I had never heard before, and never want to hear again. Under the sound of the frantic screams of pain, I could hear a nauseating ripping sound. Like the sound of someone tearing into a fresh cut of steak with their bare hands. His screaming dropped to a rasping gasp and then went silent with a sickening crunch.
I felt my blood turn to ice, as I felt a warm sticky liquid seep underneath the door behind me. We stared at each other in silence, my abject horror reflected clearly on the young man’s face. I could hear something shuffling around outside in the hallway, but it didn’t sound like the man from earlier. It was that slow-dragging sound I heard before. My mind raced with gruesome images, trying to depict the ghastly scene that I was separated from by just inches of thin wood.
After what felt like a lifetime, but was closer to five minutes, we heard the relieving sound of police sirens outside. What followed was a cacophony of explosions, no doubt fired from the rifles of the cops dispatching whatever that thing was. When the voice over the loudspeaker told us to exit, we did so with our hands held high over our heads and were greeted by the once lively bar and grill, now reduced to a bloody battlefield. The body of the man who had tried to get into the bathroom was slumped against the wall a few feet away, a dark pool gathering underneath him. His neck was twisted to an unnatural angle, and he still clenched the gun in his right hand like a vice grip, despite the gaping wound in his chest. I could see the tacky wallpaper behind him through the spot where his heart should have been. I tried not to look at the other bodies as we walked out, but they looked to be in a similar state.
When we got outside, I could see a group of men dressed in black tactical gear loading a body bag into an unmarked van and racing away into the night. They took me in for questioning, and the rest of the night was spent in a cramped interview room answering the same questions repeatedly.
“Where were you when the shooting started?” the gray-haired detective would ask, and each time I would respond the same.
“I was in the bathroom the whole time, we both were.”
“Did you notice any unusual sounds after the shooting stopped, did you hear anyone say anything?” he said with a calculating stare.
I told him all about the screams, the desperate pleas for help, and the disgusting sounds of flesh tearing apart. I thought it was strange, but he kept asking if I heard anyone else speak, aside from the gunman. When they seemed satisfied that I hadn’t seen the fighting, or heard anything they didn’t already know about, they let me go, with strict orders not to tell anyone about this as it was a federal investigation.
That was six months ago, and I haven’t seen anything on the news or heard any follow-up on the hell we endured. I’m not normally paranoid, but I know I am being followed. Outside my home, my job, and even the grocery store there are dark vans that just sit there idling, with grim-faced men watching from inside. People died, and they are trying to cover it up. I’m posting this anonymously, to see if any other survivors are out there, anyone who saw what the hell did this. I know there were other survivors, there were only five bodies, not counting the one the black ops team spirited away. It was a packed restaurant, someone else must have escaped.
So if this story sounds familiar, please contact me. I need to know what happened. I’m trying to keep the details as vague as possible, but they will probably find out what I posted here soon. Hopefully, this doesn’t get removed before you can see it.