the mortis Read Online Free PDF Page B

after that, and it feels awkward, at least to Park.  Lee stays silent, gripping his hand tightly.
    “Is this the class?” Park asks.
    The man finishes wiping his hands and tosses the dish rag onto a countertop.  The rag falls heavily, slopping down as though soaked through.
    “Sure is,” the man says.
    At that point, Park feels Lee let go of his hand.
    “Where’s the teacher?” she asks.
    “ You’re looking at him.”
    She stares at the man. 
    “So you’re an expert in Mirasai cooking,” she says.
    The man nods.  “I cook Mirasai better than anyone ever has,” he says.
     
     
    There ’s something off about the man, but Park can’t quite put a finger on it.  Maybe it’s how pale he is, or maybe it’s his wide eyes.  Hard to say.  The feeling is similar to when you pass someone who looks familiar, but you can’t place their face, can’t pull their name from memory.  It’s like that.  For some reason, the entire thing seems slightly amusing all of the sudden—this man in his little apron—and Park almost laughs but stops himself.  It feels as though there might be something off about him as well, something wrong with his own mind, but he can’t quite put a finger on that either.
    Park notices that Lee has separated from him.  She seems to be touring the kitchen, surveying everything.  The utensils, the sinks.  She glances at the man periodically, as though verifying that he hasn ’t moved. 
    “ So, when do we start?” Park asks.
    The man shrugs.  “I’ve already started the demo,” he says.  “The recipes are at each workstation.  Just jump right in.”  The man points to a workstation, and Park notices that the man’s hand is stained red.
    “ We can go at our own pace?” Park asks.  The idea is exciting to him; he’s not sure why. 
    The man looks pleased.  “I think you’re going to be great,” he says.
    Park smiles at that.  He wanders to a workstation and begins unfolding a black apron.
    “Park.” 
    It ’s his wife’s voice.  She’s saying his name sharply, which is never a good thing.
    Park looks, and he sees Lee standing next to an oven.  The interior light is on.  She looks terrified.
    “We should go,” she says.
    Seeing her expression—her terror—brings him back.  Giving him focus.  Yes.  Of course we should go.  We need to.  In fact, the moment we saw this man, we should have turned around and walked out the door.  We should already be gone.
    Park drops the apron, letting it fall, but before he can make another move, he sees the man reach into a front pocket of his apron, pulling out a stainless-steel kitchen mallet, the kind with a grid of metal points, used for meat tenderizing.  The man lowers it to his side.
     
     
    Park immediately runs—h e runs to Lee, and together they bolt out the door.  Throwing themselves into open space.  Behind them, Park can hear the man in pursuit. 
    They plunge into the trees.  No plan, no design.  As they scramble through the foliage, Park can hear the man calling out to them.  He is trying to hail them, for God ’s sake.  Trying to flag them down, as though they’d mistakenly left an article behind in class and he’d run across it, the single item that would make them whole again.  I can help you, the man keeps saying.  I can fix this.  Let me help you.  His voice sounds completely sincere, as though he really does want to help them with something, as though he genuinely believes that he is holding the correct tool for the job.
     
     
    Together Park and Lee run until they can ’t hear the man, and then they keep running—maybe twenty straight minutes of running.  Half of that time was probably spent going in circles; everything in the woods looks almost the same.  Eventually Lee slows them down—she is the leader, the guide, for their escape—and they walk, pausing periodically to listen.  They don’t hear anything save the sound of the ocean rolling in.
    Lee stops and crouches