by Stanley Gray
Chapter 8
They were exposed.
He gripped the shotgun.
The shadows seemed to be dangerous fencers. They danced and feinted, each movement menacing and dark. The silence seemed to hold stilettos, threatening to cut one’s throat at even the subtlest hint of a sound. The trio walked down the hallway. Led by Delilah, Tom walked backwards, guarding their rear. He held the gun up and pointed outwards, his finger shaking and sweaty as it dangled near the trigger guard.
The door loomed a few feet ahead. Tom could feel a cool draft of air filtering in.
The eerie silence seemed to hold a dominant reign on the building’s interior. No shots had been fired for some time. If anyone living besides them remained in the building, they were doing their best to blend in with the many human-like statues scattered throughout the place. It bothered Tom that the gallery was not crawling with police by now. It’d been… it’d felt like a while. It might not have been. He couldn’t look at his watch, though the urge to do so gnawed at him.
Tom realized, perhaps more so than ever, that he could never rely on the police to protect him. That epiphany brutalized him. It tore at the tattered remains of his sanity and humanity.
If the police couldn’t, or wouldn’t, protect him, did that mean he needed to protect himself?
Tom shuddered at the thought.
Turning his head at a sound, he saw that Delilah was telling them to stop. She was at the door. A large metal thing, it had a glowing sign above it that said exit in red letters. A silver bar crossed the middle of the portal. Delilah gingerly placed one ebony hand on that bar. She held up one hand and put up three fingers. She lowered one digit. Then another. Then she breathed in heavily, exhaled, and pushed the door open.
A shrill alarm shrieked. The clarion call pierced the near-sacred veil of silence that had descended on the scene of carnage.
The three of them darted forward. Tom no longer pointed the gun backwards. His only thought was to escape.
They emerged into an alleyway. The stench of garbage assaulted Tom’s nostrils.
The cool air felt good.
Delilah turned and began sprinting down the alleyway. Mike and Tom followed, trying to keep up. “Don’t run in a straight line.” he said, the words coming out jagged and in between breaths. Tom pushed his legs, ignoring the flashes of pain and the burning sensation that begged him to stop. His lungs seemed to be boiling.
Something whizzed past him. A shot rang through the air.
Tom turned, though he did not stop moving, and saw the faint outlines of a silhouette standing in the doorway they’d just used to vacate the premises.
Focusing his attention back on the alley ahead of him, he saw cars driving back and forth and the brilliant, neon lights of shops. Delilah rounded a corner. Tom pushed himself. He sped up.
Tom hugged Delilah. And he felt pleasantly surprised when she hugged him back. Patting Mike on the back. The gay man knelt, his head hovering between his knees, hyperventilating. “You’ll be okay, man. We’re safe now.” Tom said.
They all huddled, their backs pressed against the jagged edges of the tall brick residential building, their breathing rapid. Mike began to laugh. Tom followed suit. Delilah just looked at them like they were crazy.
Tom pulled his phone out, and again dialed 9-1-1. “Yes. There has been a shooting at the Mayhew Gallery. No, no. I’m fine. I escaped the building. No, no, I think there might still be people in there, though.” he said. He hung up without waiting for more. It was the same woman who’d notified whoever the shooter was as to the location he’d given on the previous call.
He blinked. “What the hell? Could someone hack the 9-1-1 system?” he wondered aloud.
“What? What the hell are you talkin’ ‘bout, Tom?” Delilah asked. “And you better hide that shotgun.” she said.
Tom looked down. He felt tired. The moon conspired with the clouds in night sky above. “How?” he asked, and chuckled. He pushed the gun over to Delilah. It made a scraping sound on the sidewalk pavement. “I gave the operator the line about the bathroom, remember? And then there were shots by the bathroom shortly thereafter. Coincidence? I doubt it. So, then, either a legitimate emergency dispatcher told the shooter to go to the bathrooms, which is really fucking scary to ponder, or…maybe the system was hacked. I mean, maybe someone could just reroute the calls, somehow?” Tom thought aloud.
“Boy, you have some stories to tell me. But, for now, we should probably get out of here.” Delilah said.
“Thanks, you guys.” Mike said.
They both looked at him. They’d almost forgotten he was there. “You’re part of the team, bro.” Tom said. He reached out a hand. After a few moments, Mike registered what was happening, and he smacked his hand against Tom’s, giving him a tentative high-five.
“Where are we?” Tom asked. He turned around in a full 360. He looked up and around. Across the street was an all-hours pizza parlor that advertised $1.50 slices. Next to the small restaurant was a Mexican eatery with the lights off. A few people loitered in front of the harsh lights cast by a convenience store, which was located at the end of the street. A few hundred feet from the Mayhew gallery, and nothing gave an immediate, overt sign that a thousand people had barely survived sudden death just down the street.
Sirens finally blared through the night. Tom watched the crowd at the Circle K. He always took a keen interest in people. One of his favorite past times was studying groups of people. As soon as they registered the sound of the police sirens, they flocked back inside. The street became quiet.
“I don’t really want to answer any police questions at the moment. Let’s go.” Tom said. They began walking. Tom looked at his watch. It had only been roughly two hours, since he’d first arrived at the event. It felt like considerably longer. His mind and body felt fatigued. He wanted to take a shower, then to fall into a deep slumber. The sheath of dreams would protect his mind from straying to far.
“My car is around the other way.” Tom said.
“Oh. I think I’m actually parked down this way.” Mike chimed in, his voice hoarse. He lagged behind the other two, his gaze directed towards his feet. His shoulders were hunched up, and he appeared scared.
Tom paused. He waited for the other man to catch up to him. “You alright, bud?” he asked, tenderly placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. He looked towards Mike’s stubbly face, trying to get him to look up and into his eyes. He worried about the artist. “It’s okay if you want to talk about it.” Tom said.
“Yeah, but maybe now is not the best time or place. Especially if you want to avoid police questioning. Which I also do. It’s been a bitch of a day, and the last thing I want to do is sit in a stuffy station waiting to be asked the same questions the thirty-second time. For fuck’s sake, they’d probably arrest me for being black at a crime scene.” Delilah said. C’mon, guys. My car is up here.” she said after pausing to take a breath.
Tom shrugged. He patted Mike again on the shoulder, then turned to follow the woman’s orders. He began to wonder about her, as he watched the gentle sway of her hips from behind. He felt himself growing aroused, despite the circumstances. He almost chuckled out loud at himself, but prevented the mirth from escaping at the last minute. More sirens added their robotic voices to the macabre chorus. Lights began to turn on in the apartment building, and people began to open windows and peer outside. Tom reflected on the irony that the sirens woke them up, but not the hundred or so gunshots.
Delilah drove a beat-up green Subaru station wagon. She patted her pockets and searched for her keys, grunting with triumph when she finally managed to find them. “They’re probably going to be setting up some sort of perimeter soon.” she said. She unlocked the driver’s door and opened it. “The car is a mess, so you might have t move some stuff around.” she said. A sleeping bag sat upright in the back seat, along with what appeared to be a tall standing lamp without a shade. Steeping closer, Tom peered in one of the windows. He smiled.
The car’s interior was, indeed, a mess. To put it mildly.
“Rock paper scissors to sit in front?” Tom asked, turning to Mike. This elicited a welcome smile from the painter, though he still refused to look up at Tom.
“Hurry the fuck up!” Delilah said, now seated in the car, the engine running.
They proceeded to paly a quick game anyway, despite the fierce admonition from their driver. Tom groaned. He’d made a fist, playing rock, while Mike had used a flat hand to score the victory. “Sorry, man. You can have the front seat if you want it.” Mike said, his voice so low, Tom almost had to lean forward to hear it.
“Nah. That’s okay. You won. Go ahead.” Tom said.
“Hurry up!” Delilah yelled again.
Tom pushed aside a few dozen fast food wrappers and a ripped carboard beer container and sat down. Within seconds of the doors being shut, the car had accelerated, and they were off. “’Seatbelts.” Delilah said.
“Were you in the military or something?” Tom asked. He clicked his seatbelt in and watched the back of her head. He experienced a momentary twinge of sadness at the realization that the night was about to end. Would he ever see this woman again? He hoped so.
She grunted. Cast a look back at him from the rearview mirror. She smirked. “Is it that obvious?” she asked. She chuckled. “Yes, I was in the military. Just the Air Force, though.” she said.
“Though? That sounds…pretty bad ass.” Tom said. A tingling sensation sped through him and he shivered. “Is there some sort of…I don’t know, rivalry? I mean, the Air Force is pretty frickin’ important, right?” he asked. He couldn’t quite believe he was hitting on her. Or, was he? It had been so long since he’d done anything like that. His work had consumed him for so long. And... Tom looked out the window, vaguely disturbed. He wondered if maybe the chaos of the last few days had rubbed off on him. Turned him into something…different. Forced him from his comfort zone, perhaps.
Delilah tilted her head back and laughed. “You know, I may end up liking you. What do you do…what was your name? Tom, right?” she asked. She shook her head. “Boy, this really has been a day.” she remarked.
They sped through a red light. Tom almost said something, but he caught her look in the mirror and closed his mouth. “Yeah. Tom. Delilah, right?” he asked. He laughed when he saw her raise an eyebrow. “I’m a reporter. Just moved in to town. For the Gazette.” he said.
“Oh. Ya’ll got the fancy new office downtown or something?” she asked.
Mike started snoring. Tom looked ahead and smiled. Poor guy, he thought. “Mike must have had a day, too, huh?” he asked, consciously making an effort to lower his voice so as not to disturb the man. They turned, and Tom leaned against the door a little so that he wouldn’t be jolted too hard. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Just trying to get away from there. You know? I was thinking maybe we’d go grab something to eat. Maybe try to check the news? Hey, you are the news.” She chuckled at her own wit. “How about that? Say, hey, what made you spout all that nonsense back there? You said you had some sort o’ story?” she asked.
“Ummm…well…”
“Don’t you worry about me or Mike here, honey. I got… oh, half a tank o’ gas left, and this thing don’t look pretty, but she sure gets some mean gas mileage. So, we have plenty of time.” she said. There was a palpable pause, and Delilah looked back again in the rearview mirror. “If you want to tell it, that is.” she said.
Tom sat back with a sigh, his head lightly bouncing against the seat. He wasn’t even sure where to begin. “You might need more than half a tank.” he said. He turned his head and looked out the window at the world as it sped by. He laughed. It was a low, cynical laugh that offered a glimpse into his corrupted psyche. The interior of the old station wagon was hushed and still, taut with expectant anticipation. “I can give you the short or the long version.” he said.
“Considering the circumstances, let’s go ahead and go with the short version.” Delilah said. She wore a tense smile on her face.
They stopped at a red light. Dilapidated warehouses dominated the landscape. A crane rose into the night sky in the distance. The solitary working street lamp on the corner cast its jaundiced glow over a wall filled with graffiti. Empty beer bottles decorated the bare pavement and greasy fast food wrappers skittered across the ground, assisted by the gentle desert breeze. The only other car inhabiting the desolate stretch of street that meandered through the heart of a remnant living nightmare was a cop car.
Delilah gripped the wheel. Her knuckles turned a different shade, almost purpleish, she held the faux leather so tightly. A thick muscle corded in her neck, snaking up into her black hair. The light turned green. She fixed her stare straight ahead and pressed her foot gently down on the gas, the car slowly jolting into drive. They glided past the police vehicle. Time to seem to stand still as they waited, their collective breaths held. The cop car cruised past without pausing.
“Whoa.” Delilah said. She started to giggle. She turned and looked at Tom. “This is probably the craziest night of my life.” she said.
Shrieking, Tom pointed forward. He turned pale. His heart thumped against his chest.
Delilah pivoted just in time. She’d been careening towards an unlit lamp post. She turned the wheel and narrowly avoided crashing.
“See what I mean?” she said, eyes wide, nearly hyperventilating.
Chapter 9
“They are corrupt.” Tom said.
He looked at the frayed fabric on the slanted ceiling of the car. A pink glob sat in one corner. “Did you know there is gum or something up there on your roof?” he asked idly.
Delilah looked back, though she was careful to not allow her gaze to linger too long this time. “Yeah, probably. My niece and nephew sometimes ride in the car with me.” she said. “When I have them.” she added, the latter sentence coming out in a lower, doleful tone.
“Oh? That sounds fun. I’ve never really been around kids.” Tom said.
“So, why are they corrupt?” Delilah asked.
They traveled through a brightly lit, commercial side of town now. Darkness reigned, so not many people were out, except at the edges of the parks. A few stragglers and night shift workers could be seen with their heads down in some of the diners, but most of the stores and restaurants were closed. A bank sign said that it was 65 degrees.
“Isn’t that a loaded question?” Tom said. They both laughed. Mike still snored softly, slumped in the front passenger seat.
“Basically, what happened was, I found out that a number of editors and producers, et cetera were working with some really bad people to sell more newspapers.” Tom said.
“What kind of ‘really bad people?’” Delilah asked.
Tom hesitated. He looked out the window. He felt tired. His stomach grumbled. “Serial killers and terrorists, mostly.” he said.
The car stopped so abruptly, the tires screeched. Tom was jolted forward. He almost hit his head on the back of the seat in front of him. “What the hell?” he exclaimed.
Mike echoed his sentiments, moving his head back and forth and flexing his wrist. Mike yawned and looked around. A glistening glob of saliva sat on his chin, and he self-consciously wiped at it when he noticed Tom’s stare. “What the fuck?” he asked.
“Welcome to the land of the living. Your friend here was just telling me some crazy shit. Let’s go eat. I’m hungry. And I probably need to charge my phone.” Delilah said.
They emerged into the cool-ish night. The gentle breeze that tickled his skin felt good. Tom could hardly believe that not long ago, he’d been cornered, cooped up in an active shooting scenario at an art gallery. Now he was wandering around town with two very unlikely strangers, possibly to avoid any lengthy police questioning. Tom still hadn’t really allowed himself time to try and process all of what had happened. Especially the part with the 9-1-1 call.
He stayed behind, watching his two companions as they entered a small dine
r that advertised fresh, REAL milkshakes. The décor inside looked like the place hadn’t remodeled since the 50’s. Red checkered Formica tabletops and gleaming black-and-white tile floors. Tom could even see a few retro paintings of classic cars. Tom pulled out his phone. He called Johnson Slayton.
It took almost five minutes and numerous rings for someone to finally answer. It sounded as if the man had been asleep. Johnson coughed into the phone, and Tom had to pull his ear away. “Hello? This better be fuckin’ good.” was how he answered.
If the man hadn’t raped him, Tom probably would have laughed. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was calling, but he knew he probably should. Given the reality that he had been on the scene of a deadly shooting, he could potentially turn this into an important scoop that could expedite his upward momentum and get him the fuck out of dodge.
“Hi, sir. This is Tom Martinez, from Arts. I was at the Mayhew Gallery,”
“What the fuck do I care about the Mayhew Gallery? Am I your fuckin’ boss, sissy boy? No. No, I’m not your fucking boss. If you don’t have a damned good reason for waking me up, sissy boy, you can kiss any chances of your shit career goodbye.” Johnson said.
Tom looked towards the diner. Delilah waved to him, encouraging him silently to go in and join them. He almost did it. He almost suicided his entire dream and hung up. But he gritted his teeth and plowed ahead. “Sir, the reason I’m calling is, there was a mass shooting there, at the gallery. I was there when it happened. I’m sure this will be a big story. I was wondering,”
Again Johnson interrupted. “Hot damn. I didn’t think they’d do it. I mean, I guess we should take those threats credibly. And you made it out alive?” Johnson asked.
