Ready or Not (The Hide and Seek Trilogy Book 3)

by Mark Ayre

  No time to worry about that now.

  The sharpest blade missing, Betty took its successor. She seemed pleased with her choice.

  Mercury had her left hand on her blade, which might or might not be the possessed killing kind. Shifting to the right had exposed the cupboard into which Betty had shoved her.

  Smiling, Betty spoke again. She was no longer shouting; she was also further away. Mercury couldn’t hear a word.

  Instead of shrugging or asking Betty to repeat, Mercury dipped her right hand into the cupboard at her back, selected the first plate she could find, and tossed it.

  Her throwing arm was not what it might have been, pre-explosion. Didn’t matter. Her strength and aim took the plate spinning towards Betty’s face, forcing the possessed woman to raise a hand to knock it aside.

  A distraction.

  Despite the pain, Mercury sprung to her feet. As she climbed, she grabbed two more plates in one hand.

  Bloodied, broken face twisted in fury, Betty began to hiss something.

  Mercury threw the plates. With ease, Betty knocked them aside and Grabbed Mercury by the throat, lifting her from the ground. At the same time, Mercury raised her blade and shoved the pointy end towards Betty’s heart.

  Betty had lifted Mercury like a rag doll. She had risen too quickly; her aim was off. Rather than the heart, the blade pierced Betty’s throat.

  Gurgling, dropping her blade to reach for the one in her neck, Betty released Mercury.

  Having both expected and planned for this move, Mercury was already lifting her legs. As she fell, she kicked. As Betty took hold of the hilt of the blade in her throat, Mercury’s feet crashed into her chest, sending her spinning backwards, tumbling into the fridge.

  With a horrible thud, Mercury hit the floor. Knowing she had no time to be in too much pain to move, she rolled. She forced herself to her feet, grabbing the breakfast bar for support.

  Betty, on her back against the fridge, had two hands on the blade in her throat. Mercury took two steps forward and, as the possessed tried to prise the blade free, stamped on the hilt.

  Betty opened her mouth in a silent scream as the knife slid further into her neck. Perhaps it would decapitate her.

  Mercury didn’t wait to find out. Stepping past Betty, shambling, stumbling as she went, she made for the front door, which by now had fallen from its hinges and left a hole through which she could escape.

  Until she stepped outside, Mercury did not appreciate how oppressive the heat in the house had been. Breaking into the fresh air was like escaping from hell. It also bought her many aches and pains into sharp focus. Where she had been first punched, then kicked, her stomach howled.

  Ignoring her body's pleas for attention, Mercury dragged herself to the car. Anticipating that she might need to make a quick exit, she had left it unlocked, the key under the mat beneath the driver’s seat.

  Grabbing the keys, hoisting herself into the seat, Mercury stared through her home's open front door as she started the car. She wanted to get free. She wanted to escape with the belief that Betty was dead; that she had found the right blade and it had done its job despite not puncturing the heart.

  The car burst into life.

  Betty, also very much alive, appeared through the hole where had stood the front door.

  The knife was gone. It had almost completely severed Betty's neck. One hand the failed assassin used to hold in place her head; the other clutched the knife she had taken from Mercury’s kitchen block.

  The monster began to speak.

  Frustration overcame Mercury, fury hot on its heels.

  She roared, “I can’t hear you,” and slammed the accelerator.

  The car shot forward.

  Betty gaped.

  Then disappeared beneath the car as the car disappeared through the front of the house.

  Seven

  For the night ahead, Benny had bought Sammy a dress, presenting it as he would a gift. Benny often did buy Sammy gifts. He had always been a wonderful brother. This dress was not a present but a weapon in his plan.

  For Benny, Sam had tried it on. Even alone with her brother, she had felt exposed, embarrassed. Crossing the road, her cheeks burned, shame overcoming her as she arrived at the bar's entrance. The bouncer never looked above her neck as he said, "evening, love. In you go." Stunned, ashamed at her attire, Sam had her hand in her purse and hovered by the door. She was nineteen but looked younger. She had expected to be ID'd, though Benny had told her she would not be, looking as she did.

  As she waited, the bouncer once more stared at her legs, her breasts. Finally, her face.

  "Something up, darling?"

  Glancing across the street, she saw her brother through the windscreen. Intense and steely, his eyes never left her. When she looked his way, he lifted a hand, gestured her inside.

  The bouncer caught Sam's look and glanced to the van.

  "You alright?"

  "Fine," she muttered, and walked inside.

  The tipsy and the drunk crowded the place, their myriad competing conversations creating over the quiet music an unpleasant din. Since her youth, Sam had been studious. After her parents died, Benny had encouraged Sam to double down on her studies. There had been little time for friends or socialising, but that was okay. Benny, too, was a loner. They had each other. Though she had the grades, though she would have liked to go, she could not leave Benny to attend university after he had for so long stood by her.

  She couldn't let him down.

  From the door, she went to the bar. She had no interest in a drink but was following her brother's instructions. Having found a space between two loitering groups, she turned from the bartenders and surveyed the tables. Only three held solo occupants. Immediately, she pinpointed the man in who Benny was interested.

  "Hey, beautiful, can I get you a drink?"

  "Huh?"

  A lanky guy, four or five years older, leaned like a wilting plant over Sam, leering. If she didn't move, he would to drool into the cleavage at which he was staring. With a mumbled apology, though she had done nothing wrong, she pushed past him, rushed across the bar, and into the bathroom.

  At the sinks, two women whispered. When they noted Sam, they fell silent and stared until she had disappeared into a stall and locked the door, as though the cubical was soundproofed and their conversation therefore once again safe.

  Closing the toilet seat, Sam sat and brought her hand to her mouth. The moment her nail touched her teeth, she flinched. After her parents died, Sam had developed a problem with nail-biting. Benny warned her it was a nasty habit. He helped her stop. Withdrawing her nail from her mouth, she stroked her temple and flinched again.

  Her brother loved her. So much he had sacrificed to keep her safe, and how did she repay him? She was ungrateful. She struggled to follow simple instructions as quickly as Benny would like. He had to be hard on her. She wasn't as good at making sacrifices as him.

  She did not want to reenter the bar and carry out her brother's plan. The thought made her nervous to the point of throwing up. Taking deep breaths, she fought the urge. She didn't want the girls on the other side of the stall to hear her retching.

  It did not matter what she wanted. Her brother had not wanted to stay home and surrender any chances he had of making something of himself to look after his kid sister. For everything he had done for her, it was time to do something from him.

  A couple of minutes later, the whispering girls left the bathroom. As soon as they had gone, Sam abandoned her stall and crossed to the bathroom mirror. Where she had been crying, she did not look her best. Though she was not a big makeup wearer, she withdrew a few choice items from her clutch bag and did the best she could to fix her appearance.

  Once done, she looked presentable. All her life boys and men had told her she was beautiful, or sexy, or fit. The way they stared indicated she had a certain allure. Never had she been able to see it. Her mother had been beautiful. At best, Sam was average. Benny had wa
rned her not to let her looks go to her head, but that would never be a problem.

  Taking another deep breath, she packed away her makeup and straightened her back. She thought once more of everything Benny had done for her, and how he reacted when she let him down. She returned to the bar.

  Eight

  The building shook, trembled, shuddered, but did not fall. Trey toppled into the wall. The ground beneath his feet creaked but did not collapse. Seconds after the initial blast, all was quiet, still.

  Then the fire alarm went off.

  If not for Trey, Amira might already have left the building. They would not be trapped, wondering if the whole block was about to collapse.

  From the fire escape, the infected leaned through the window, still smiling. He was unarmed. Moving into the hall from her flat, Amira drew her gun and pushed past Trey.

  The infected did not move. Already smashed, the glass pane would offer no protection. Amira aimed, preparing to blow away the grinning madman.

  A door at the end of the corridor burst open—a plump couple in pyjamas, carrying a few belongings, bundled into the hall.

  The woman cried, “What’s going on? Is this a drill? What was that blast?”

  Turning, she saw Amira, saw the gun, and screamed.

  “Get out of the way,” called Amira. The couple was blocking the window.

  Trey trembled. Bat still in hand, he approached Amira, touched her arm.

  “You’re scaring them.”

  “Don’t care.” To the couple, she said, “Move now.”

  Two more doors, these behind Trey and Amira, opened. Hurried footsteps accompanied agitated conversation into the hall.

  “Amira,” said the plump women. “What are you doing?”

  The fire alarm stopped. Everyone stilled. All was silent.

  From behind Amira and Trey, someone called, “Does this mean we can go back to bed?”

  The plump woman asked again, of Amira, “What are you doing?”

  Amira still had not lowered her gun. Trey didn’t dare touch her again but was determined not to be a spare part.

  “Everyone needs to get out,” he said.

  “Why?” said a man. “Who are you anyway?”

  Someone else said, “Can you smell burning?”

  Trey had not smelled burning. At the woman’s words, there it was: like a campfire in the distance. Amira and the plump couple seemed to get it at the same time. The woman who had been questioning Amira whimpered. “Oh, my God.”

  Between Amira and the fire escape were a single lift and a door into the stairwell. As the fire alarm had sounded, the lift was out of action. The exit from the stairwell opened, three men entered. One carried a shotgun, the other two baseball bats.

  Amira looked relieved to have somewhere appropriate to point her gun.

  “Building’s on fire,” said the shotgun carrier. “Everyone except you two,” he pointed at Amira and Trey, “out.”

  Amira stepped forward, towards the stairwell and their adversaries. Smiling, Shotgun raised his weapon. Rather than level it at Amira, he pointed it down the hall towards one of her neighbours.

  “Lower your weapon, stay where you are,” he said.

  “Don’t think so.”

  He sighed. “Don’t be stupid. I’m offering a simple deal. Stay where you are, lower your weapon, and no one else gets hurt. You make things difficult; I start killing.”

  “Not if I kill you first,” said Amira.

  “Not only that,” said Shotgun, unperturbed. “My allies, downstairs, will slaughter anyone who attempts to leave the building. When the fire brigade and police arrive, we will shoot anyone who leaves their vehicles. As long as you stay up here, with me, people live. You try to leave, or attack, they die. So, what are you going to do?”

  Amira held her gun, still aimed at Shotgun’s head. Her mouth twitched, her body trembled. She did not like taking orders from those closest to her. Hated it from her enemies.

  “You’re wasting time,” said Shotgun. “Building’s getting hotter. Drop your gun, or I will start firing.”

  The corridor did seem to be getting hotter. Whether this was due to rising flames or the placebo of Shotgun’s words, Trey could not tell. Possibly, it was a combination of the two.

  “Amira,” he said. “Come on.”

  “I can take him,” she said. “I can kill all three and get us downstairs. I can get us out.”

  “People will die,” said Trey.

  “We might,” said Amira, “if we do as they say.”

  “You have five seconds,” said Shotgun.

  Amira continued to twitch. Appeared frozen. Within, a battle raged. She thought her purpose was to survive, to defeat Heidi. She had convinced herself this mattered more than anything. The smart play might well be to let a couple of her neighbours die to ensure she lived to continue her war.

  Trey had promised himself he would be brave. Had not realised the test would come in this form.

  “Time’s up,” said Shotgun.

  Trey reached out, grabbed Amira’s gun, and tossed it up the hall. One of the baseball bat wielders rushed to collect.

  “Everybody leave,” said Trey. “Now.”

  Amira’s eyes were on him, were burning. He could not bear to look at her.

  Shotgun lowered his weapon. Stepped aside as the plump couple rushed past him to the stairwell. Two more couples and a family of three brushed past Trey and Amira and hurried out.

  Five flats had emptied. One door remained closed. Trey could only hope they were away.

  Once the innocents had cleared the corridor, Trey forced himself to look at Amira.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Amira didn’t bother to reply. She turned towards the trio of infected in the corridor, two of whom were now armed with guns, and the fourth who remained on the fire escape.

  “What now?” She asked. “Heidi want us to suffer? Are you going to stand guard to ensure Trey and I burn? Will you die with us just to satisfy your sick master?”

  “You’ll die tonight,” said Shotgun. “But you won’t burn.”

  He raised the gun, pointed it at Amira’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

  Nine

  A crashing as at least part of the roof collapsed. Mercury ducked, throwing her hands above her head, as plasterboard, beams and tiles rained onto the car, denting the roof, smashing the back window,

  The dents became like stalagmites, hanging from above, one an inch from Mercury's hand. The car groaned, but the roof did not collapse. Mercury lived to fight another minute.

  Breathing heavily, she rested her head on the steering wheel. The car had either squashed or tossed Betty across the room. Neither scenario would have spelt her end. Any second she might find the strength to stand and to come again; to finish her task.

  Mercury didn't care about that. She closed her eyes. Could have fallen asleep. Wanted to.

  As sleep tried to claim her, she saw Amira. Realised Betty had been waiting. Heidi's forces had spied Mercury entering town and had prepared.

  The scout that marked their entry might have followed them until they split. Betty had come for Mercury. Who might have lay in wait for Amira?

  Amira could look after herself. But If she had already tossed aside any threat, she would have rushed to Mercury. Her absence suggested she remained in danger.

  Fighting exhaustion and pain, Mercury opened her eyes, grabbed the wheel, and forced herself up, pressing her back into the seat. Ahead, she could see nothing but dust and the wreckage of what had once been her beautiful home. There was no sign of movement. Nor of Betty.

  Though she was anxious to reach Amira, Mercury hesitated. The wall where had hung Dom's favourite picture drew her eye. The explosion and fall might not have destroyed the photo. Mercury wanted to abandon the car and find it.

  Couldn't.

  Time was not on her side. Worse, it might not be on Amira's. Wiping tears with the back of a dirty, bloodied hand, Mercury started the engine.
Afraid at any second the remainder of the bungalow might fall upon her, she threw the car into reverse and hit the gas.

  The car kicked into gear but, at first, went nowhere. The wheels spun. The roof groaned as the debris pushed for entry. Praying she would not have to climb out and flee on foot, Mercury slammed the pedal. If this didn't work, If she had to abandon the car, she would do something stupid. She would attempt to reclaim the photo. A surefire way to get crushed by the falling remains of her home or stabbed by the psychotic Betty.

  Though her ankle began to strain, she kept her foot to the floor.

  The seconds ticked by. It seemed nothing was going to happen.

  Across the flat, someone moved.

  The car shot backwards into the night, shaking off the wreckage of Mercury's home as a dog shakes off water after a dip in the lake.

  She cried in relief, then hit the driveway's perimeter wall and lurched forward, almost smacking her head on the steering wheel. Before going again, she took a precious few seconds to buckle her seatbelt.

  In the house; no further signs of movement. Betty could appear at any moment. Though Mercury was in a car and Betty's body had been battered and bruised, she did not fancy her chances if the possessed attacked.

  Despite this, she paused. In another lifetime, she had visited this village for a job interview. A big-city girl, she didn’t expect to be interested. Impressed by her potential new boss and the proposed role, Mercury had driven away half convinced. On her way out of the picturesque village, she had spotted a for sale sign. On a whim, she had turned her car from the road and travelled up a gravel path. At its end, she had found herself facing a bungalow. This bungalow. It was love at first sight.

  The purchase had been quick, and in this home, she had built a life. In this home, she had begun to shake free of her hermit lifestyle. Dom had moved in; on many evenings she and Amira had sat and drank and talked and laughed. Though it had not always been evident, life here had been perfect.

  A crack rent through the building. A beam collapsed into the living room. The right exterior wall collapsed.