Chapter 7: Jumped
The heat hadn’t broken. It had seeped into everything, into the pastel blue siding of the Hendricks’ house, into the glued-down welcome mat, into the very air inside. The scent was the first thing Mark noticed when he pulled into the driveway. Not the usual evening smells of microwave dinners or freshly cut grass, but that cloying, sugary smell. With the metallic tang. It was coming from his house.
He found them in the living room, the TV blaring a nonsensical game show. His wife, Carol, was on the floor, her back against the sofa. Their daughter, Chloe, was sprawled in the armchair. They were both giggling, a low, continuous sound like water draining.
Between them sat an open, one-pound tin of supermarket-brand vanilla frosting. It was half-empty. They weren’t using spoons. Their hands were covered in it, up to the wrists, and they were eating it by the glob, fingers digging in and shoving fistfuls into their mouths. White streaks coated their chins, their cheeks, the fronts of their shirts. Chloe had a smudge of it in her hair.
Mark stared, his briefcase dangling from his hand. “What the hell is this?”
Their giggling hitched, synchronized. They looked at him, their eyes glassy and wide. Carol smiled, a big, white-flecked grin. “Hi, honey! We got a treat.”
“It’s from the place,” Chloe slurred, licking her palm with a long, deliberate swipe of her tongue. “The good place.”
Mark dropped his briefcase. It thumped on the carpet. “Pepper’s? That pink nightmare across town? I told you to stay away from there. I read the news online. People are acting… off.”
“We’re not off,” Carol chirped, her voice too high. “We’re on. We’re so on. It’s just frosting, Mark. Don’t be a dad.”
“Don’t be a dad? I am a dad!” He pointed a shaking finger at the tin. “Look at yourselves! You’ve had that shit on your faces for three days straight. You smell like a candy store exploded. You’re acting like… like you’re drugged.”
Chloe giggled again, a sharp, bark-like sound. “Maybe you need some, Dad. You’re all tense. Your face is all red and scrunchy. Like a butt.”
“Chloe!” Mark roared.
Carol just nodded, digging another handful out. “She’s not wrong. You should try it. It makes the buzzing stop.”
“What buzzing? There’s no buzzing!” Mark’s voice cracked. He strode forward and kicked the frosting tin. It spun, slopping white goo onto the beige carpet. “Enough! This is insane. You are both banned. Do you hear me? Banned from that fucking bakery. No more. I’ll cancel your cards. I’ll… I’ll change the locks if I have to.”
The giggling stopped.
The room went quiet, save for the manic cheer of the game show host. Carol and Chloe looked at each other. A silent communication passed between them, swift and total. Their sugary, vacant expressions didn’t change, but something in the set of their shoulders did. They turned their heads back to Mark, slowly, in unison.
Carol stood up. Frosting dripped from her fingers onto the carpet. “You kicked the treat, Mark.”
“You’re being a noisy, noisy man,” Chloe said, uncoiling herself from the chair. She was taller than her mother, lankier, but she moved with a new, unsettling fluidity.
“You don’t tell us no,” Carol whispered, her head tilting. “Pepper says ‘no’ is a mean, small word.”
A cold spear of fear, sharp and clean, went through Mark’s anger. He took a step back. “Carol. Knock it off. You’re scaring me.”
“Good,” they said together.
They moved.
It wasn’t a rush. It was a deliberate, closing-in. Mark raised his hands. “Stop it! Right now!”
Carol reached him first. She didn’t ball a fist. She just swiped her frosting-coated hand across his mouth, grinding the gritty sweetness into his lips. He sputtered, pushing her away. But Chloe was behind him. She wrapped her arms around his chest, her grip shockingly strong, pinning his arms. She smelled of vanilla and copper.
“Get off!” he yelled, the sound muffled by the paste in his mouth.
Carol slammed her palm over his nose and mouth, frosting clogging his nostrils. He couldn’t breathe. He bucked, eyes bulging. Chloe hooked a foot behind his ankle and yanked. He crashed down, the back of his head cracking against the leg of the coffee table. Stars burst in his vision.
Then they were on him. Not with the rage he’d expected, but with a chilling, methodical glee. They used their hands, their elbows, their knees. Carol sat on his chest, her weight immense, and began slapping his face—not hard enough to break anything, but sharp, stinging smacks that snapped his head side to side. Slap. Slap. Slap. Chloe kicked his legs, his ribs, each impact a dull thud against the roaring in his ears.
“Bad dog!” Carol sang with each slap. “Bad, noisy dog!”
“He kicked the treat!” Chloe chanted, driving her heel into his thigh. “Kick the treat, get the feet!”
He tried to fight, to roll, to throw them off, but there was a terrifying unity to their movements. They anticipated his struggles, countering them with effortless, giggling coordination. It was like being dismantled by cheerful machines. A final, vicious punch from Chloe—her knuckles sharp—landed on his temple. The world narrowed to a tunneling pinprick of light, then went fuzzy and gray.
When the gray receded, the weight was gone. He lay on the carpet, every breath a fire in his ribs. One eye was swelling shut. He tasted blood and frosting. He managed to turn his head.
They were back by the sofa. They had righted the frosting tin. They were eating again, but differently now. They had their hands behind their backs. They were leaning over the tin, face-first, like animals at a trough. He heard the wet, slobbering sounds as they lapped and gulped.
Carol lifted her head, her face a mask of gleaming white. She made a sound. A short, sharp yip.
Chloe lifted her head and yipped back, frosting strings swinging from her chin. They broke into giggles again, the sound now rough, guttural.
“You got more on your nose, you pig,” Chloe snorted, her words thick.
“You’re one to talk, cow. Your whole face is in it.”
Another series of yips, barks, interspersed with the wet, chewing sounds and breathless, hysterical laughter. They nuzzled back into the tin.
Mark watched, trembling, from the floor. He tried to speak, to call for help, but only a wet, pained whimper came out. They didn’t even look at him. The game show audience on the TV roared with applause, a perfect, mocking soundtrack to the two women in his living room, barking and feasting, their eyes blank and bright under the living room lights.