“Emergency services, what’s the nature of your call?” My voice was a practiced monotone, a shield against the chaos that often erupted on the other end of the line. Another Friday night, another stream of mundane crises and the occasional genuine horror. You learn to stay detached.
“It’s… it’s about the delivery.” A woman’s voice, thin and reedy, laced with a tremor that instantly set off alarms. Not a prank. This wasn't the usual "my pizza's late" complaint.
“Ma’am, this is an emergency line. Can you state your emergency clearly?” I typed, bringing up a new incident log, mentally bracing for a domestic dispute. That breathy, terrified tone usually meant one thing.
A Pizza Gone Horribly Wrong
“No, no, not him. Not anymore. It’s… the pizza. We just wanted a simple pepperoni. It was a new place, online, a special offer. Too good to be true, really. Six dollars and sixty-six cents for an extra-large. We should have known.” Her voice was rambling now, almost delirious. “When we opened it… it wasn’t… it wasn’t right. It was looking at us.”
My brow furrowed. Looking at them? Was she under the influence? Head trauma? “Ma’am, are you injured? Do you require medical assistance?” I needed a clear answer.
A strangled sound came through the line, a wet, choking gasp. Then a thud, as if the phone had been dropped. A moment of chilling silence, then a raw, guttural scream tore through the speaker – a sound that scraped against the very core of my being. It wasn't pain; it was pure, unadulterated terror, the kind that rips from the soul.
Officer Down: The Unthinkable Emerges
“Unit 7-Alpha, expedite to 14 Maple Drive, immediate entry required! Caller screaming, possible violent domestic, subject still inside!” I barked into my mic, my own composure cracking. This was beyond anything I’d heard.
Through the phone, still live, I heard the crash of a door being forced open, the shouts of the officers. “Police! Clear the house!”
Then, the unmistakable crack of gunfire. Three rapid shots.
“Shots fired! Officer down!” A male voice, distorted by static and sheer panic, screamed into the radio, and simultaneously, through the open phone line.
My blood ran cold. “Officer! What is your status? Who is with you?” My voice was tight, strained.
It's Eating Him!
“It’s… it’s not working! The rounds… they’re doing nothing!” The officer’s voice was hoarse, ragged. “It’s… it’s growing! Oh God, it’s eating him! It has a mouth! How does it have a mouth?!”
I slammed my fist on the desk. “Officer! Report! What are you seeing?!”
“It’s… it’s like a pizza, but it’s… it’s the size of a dining table! It’s… it’s covered in… teeth! And it’s looking at me! It doesn’t have eyes, but it’s looking at me!” The officer’s screams became a choked gurgle, followed by a sickening, wet tearing sound, the crunch of bone, the disgusting slurping of flesh.
The line went dead.
My hand hovered over the emergency broadcast button, my mind reeling. A pizza the size of a table. Teeth. Eating. My training, my detachment, my entire understanding of reality shattered.
“All units! All available units! Code Red to 14 Maple Drive! Armed and dangerous! Repeat, armed and dangerous! Requesting immediate tactical support and hazmat! Send everything we’ve got!”
The room around me blurred. The other dispatchers stared, their faces pale. I knew what I had heard. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the emergency wasn’t about a domestic dispute. It was about an order that had gone terrifyingly, impossibly wrong. And it was still hungry.