by Paul Starkey
Nothing happened. She pushed the door inwards some more, pausing after another six centimetres. Still nothing. Light clearly blazed from within though, and she thought she heard something; breathing…
She let go of the handle and sidestepped across to where Tyrell stood. She leaned in close, noted he seemed to flush as her face drew close to his. Not the right time for bashfulness, John, she thought. “Ok,” she whispered. “Take position in front of the door, when I say so kick it open then duck back, over to the other side, I’ll go in low, spray the room if I see any sign of him, you follow up behind me, stay high though. Got it?”
He didn’t look sure, took an eternity to nod, and when he did the gesture only barely resembled a nod, but he knew that it had to be this way, she saw that in his eyes, she knew damn well there was no way he wanted the Uzi, even her tiny .380 seemed too powerful for him.
“Ok then.” No time for procrastination. “Now!”
And he surprised her by moving quickly, taking up position before kicking out with the sole of his right foot, despite his speed he was tentative though, seeming to pull the kick even as it connected with the door. It was enough though, the door flew inwards smoothly, and she went in fast, dropping to one knee, gun to her shoulder, ready to lay down a hail of death.
* * *
Ibex almost laughed, but he was too on edge, even given the ludicrousness of the situation. The figure holding a gun on him was Quintus Armstrong.
The mirror was full length, fixed to the wall, no doubt to allow anyone using the bath or shower to be disgusted at their own bodies whilst they were naked and at their most vulnerable.
He shook his head and aimed a wry smile at himself, then he lowered the gun, letting it hang limply by his side as he contemplated his next move. The window that’s right, he was going to try the window.
His head snapped towards the noise as he heard it, what sounded like a door being kicked open, a door not nearly far enough away. Whoever or whatever had done it, it was a safe bet they’d be moving in his direction, which meant he had to get out of here now, had to…
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, turned back to face the mirror; Nothing out of the ordinary, just the other Quintus.
Ibex frowned.
His reflection smiled.
Then his reflection lifted its gun…
* * *
The room was small, and looked empty, but Chalice wasn’t letting first impressions fool her. Not much to see; cold fireplace, lifeless candles on the mantle, aerial photo of this house—how ordinary, how normal, it looked— above the fireplace, single bed, a small bedside cabinet.
There was no wardrobe, so only one place to hide. She rose to her feet and stepped further inside, treading softly now, despite the fact that whoever was under the bed couldn’t help but know she was there. She kept her back to the fireplace, no threat from there, kept her focus on the bed, kept the muzzle of the Uzi directed towards the chintzy duvet cover that dangled over the side of the bed.
She sensed Tyrell join her. “Keep an eye on the door, John,” she whispered, heard him grunt in acknowledgment. Always best to be on the safe side.
Her back touched the mantle place and she stopped. She was vulnerable stood here she knew, but she still had the edge. The best a gunman under the bed could manage would be to shoot her in the ankles; painful, debilitating, maybe even fatal is she was ridiculously unlucky, but even if she went down she’d likely be able to empty the magazine through the bed. The furniture might stop or slow some of the rounds, but enough would get through, especially since she’d angled her aim to cut through the duvet that hung like a curtain over the edge of the mattress.
When she next spoke she no longer troubled to keep her voice down. She wanted him to hear. “Ok, Quintus. There’s nowhere to go, and you know if you try anything from under there you’re dead. I have no problem killing you, but you’re still some use alive, so you get one chance. Toss Tom’s gun out and crawl out of there after it and I’ll take you in alive. You might end up in Bellmarsh, or some supermax outside of Washington, but you’ll be alive.”
No response. She could still hear him though, still hear the low, ragged breathing. “What’s it you Americans say? Do the math, Ibex.”
“Maybe he’s not under there?”
She smiled, shook her head. “He’s under there,” she said. “And he’s about to die under there.” Screw this, why take chances. She hefted the gun.
But before she could fire she heard two shots ring out, and a sudden breeze waft over her. No, she realised as she turned, not two shots; one shot and a door slamming. The door to this room.
“No! Fuck no!” she seethed as she ran for the door, knocking Tyrell to one side even as he reached for the handle. He staggered against the wall as she grasped the handle, turned it, tugged. Nothing; where it had opened smoothly thirty seconds ago, now it was locked tight.
“Son of a bitch!” she let go of the door, turned and took two steps towards the bed. The Uzi was at her hip and she pulled the trigger, raking the gun left to right, blasting at least half the magazine through the quaint duvet cover. The room was small enough that the sound was deafening, and she saw Tyrell clasp his hands to his ears, saw him shrink back against the wall, drop into a crouch like a frightened child. She didn’t care, shifting her aim she emptied the rest of the magazine along the gap under the bed, fighting the urge to let out an exultant roar as she did so.
The bolt slammed noisily against an empty chamber, but then silence fell, although she still seemed to hear ghostly hailstones. The room was filled with acrid smoke now, but it was thin enough that she could still see the bed.
Despite how cathartic firing the gun had been, the noise, the hard thudding vibration against her body, she was still enraged, her blood still boiled, but she was professional enough to ditch the empty magazine and reload before she dropped to her knees.
She’d barely jacked back the bolt before she fired again, a calmer, more measured burst this time, half a dozen rounds left to right through the flimsy material the obscured the gap under the bed
Then she grabbed the edge of the duvet with her left hand and lifted it, wedging her right elbow against the floor so she could fire one handed, it would be awkward, but accurate enough.
There was a slim chance that Ibex’s bloodied, bullet riddled body would be the sight that awaited her, but she doubted this, knew instead that an animal—what had once been an animal at least—would be staring back at her, its fur unblemished, a very human amusement in its eyes.
There was no one, no thing, under the bed.
* * *
Ibex was awoken by thunder to find he was lying in a puddle of ice shards.
Except the thunder was gunfire, and the shards of ice were fragments of glass. The pain was real though, no illusion there, and he let out a whine as he tried to stir himself, he’d fallen onto glass, or else it had managed to slide under him, and he felt clothing tear, skin rupture, as he moved.
This pain was negligible compared to the cold fire throbbing where his left arm had been. He’d lost his sunglasses as he’d fell; now he turned his head and peered through teary eyes. His left arm was still there, but it might as well have been absent, because it hung limply, the fingers of his hand scraped against glass as he moved, and he saw blood begin to flow, he felt no pain though, the bullet that had ripped through his bicep had obviously rendered nerves and muscles there equally useless.
His jacket was sodden with his own blood. He wondered how much he’d lost, how much more he could lose and keep going. He needed a tourniquet, needed to take off his belt and tie it tightly around his arm above the wound.
He didn’t do this. Instead he looked around; let his right hand fumble carefully amidst the glass for the pistol. It was close by, but far enough away that he had to stretch for it, and he felt his dead arm drag along the floor as he did so.
The gun felt cold, and he frowned, held it to his nose. Not only did the meta
l lack warmth, there was no smell of cordite either. He looked to where the mirror had been, only a frame remained there now, and his mind—addled by pain and fear—tried desperately to reconcile what he thought had happened with reality. He thought he’d fired, thought he’d shot his own reflection, the bullet ricocheting back to hit him.
But his gun hadn’t fired. He’d been shot, there was no doubt of that, but he hadn’t been the shooter.
He needed to tie a tourniquet around his arm, needed to do it quickly.
Instead he pushed down with his right hand, levered himself into a sitting position then, with some effort given he had only one usable arm, he somehow managed to clamber to his feet.
The movement caused blood to pump, pain to throb. His legs faltered and he staggered towards the bath. He almost dropped the gun, almost let it tumble into the tub, so that he could reach out to grab for the lip of the bath.
His legs stabilised before he needed to do this, and he banged against the enamel wall, remained standing. Somehow he turned around, winced as he saw large droplets of his own blood splatter the white tiled floor.
He ignored them. Ignored the pain, ignored his need for a tourniquet, ignored the fact he was dying, focused his entire will on one thing.
The door.
* * *
Downstairs Thomas Cheung sat; alone, shaking from shock and pain, wondering how long he could stay conscious, wondering if he’d ever see Nancy again. The Beretta was in his lap, but he no longer had the strength to lift it.
From above he heard gunfire echoing through the very fabric of the house, automatic weapons fire. Logic said that this was Chalice taking care of business; that he was safe, but logic was in short supply in this house.
It didn’t matter in the final analysis, whatever was happening upstairs he was powerless to intercede; all he could do was wait, and hope…
Chapter Fifty one
Nothing under the bed but ragged bullet holes in the carpet and dust thrown up by their impacts. Chalice let the duvet drop but continued to stare at the same spot, wondering what to do next, wondering what would happen next.
“Look!”
She didn’t move, didn’t stir when Tyrell spoke. Had she finally reached the end of her tether? She’d been fighting to stay focused, letting adrenaline keep her going; at least until she finished off Ibex, saved Tom, but now, finally, she was no longer sure she cared.
Silently she wondered how long she would have to wait there on her knees before the house contrived to kill her.
And then hands took hold of her shoulders, hauled her to her feet. She let them do this, she didn’t even have the strength left to fight for a quiet death it seemed. And then she was turning, spinning on the spot until she faced an old man.
She should recognise him, she knew, he looked familiar and yet…
He was shouting, but she could hear no words, the fugue that had settled upon her just a few seconds ago seemed to be growing denser, and now it wasn’t just sound that seemed muted, there was darkness at the periphery of her vision, gloom closing in from all sides like the effect of some kind of insanely speeded up cataracts.
All be over soon, a voice soothed in her head. She smiled; her mother’s voice.
Then a sharp pain, and suddenly the darkness receded, suddenly she could hear again, suddenly she felt her cheek sting.
“…get out of here. Look. Look!”
“Did you just hit me?” she said, even as hand gently touched her face, she almost felt warmth, but perhaps this was illusion caused by the blush she felt there.
He suddenly looked terrified, and she saw his gaze drop to the gun that hung loosely from her shoulder. He’d still had one hand on her shoulder, but he took it away now, took a step back.
“Sorry,” he whispered. There he was again, the chided schoolboy, and she smiled, realising he was still relying on her, and so was Tom downstairs, so—potentially—was Felix.
And then there was Quintus Armstrong as well, and now she remembered her promise. Whatever else happened, the American was going first into that long good night.
“It’s ok,” she said. Tentatively she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It’s just you looked…” he shrugged. “I don’t know, dazed, like you were somewhere else.”
She took a deep breath. “I think I nearly was.”
He winced, lifted a hand to limply gesture towards her face. Then he apologised again.
She chuckled softy. “I think I needed the slap, but if you apologise one more time I will have to shoot you.”
He flushed.
“Now what were you trying to tell me?”
“The wall,” he said. “It’s the wall.” And he turned to look over his shoulder
She followed his gaze, over to the wall; the picture, the mantle, the candles and the fireplace. And then she laughed, let out a roaring guffaw that made him shrink back again.
“Am I going to have to slap you again?” he asked nervously.
She shook her head, unable to stop chortling for several seconds. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, “It’s just…it’s just funny.” Her words were punctuated by little gasps for air as she struggled to breathe, talk and laugh all at the same time.
He frowned. “Funny?”
“Yeah, funny.” She stepped by him and walked over to the fireplace. Thick viscous fluid was dripping down the walls, oozing its way over the aerial photograph leaving several distinct trails, as if a gaggle of slow moving slugs were racing towards the floor.
The gun had become a burden; the strap dug into her shoulder so she removed it and rested the Uzi on the mantle, making sure the fluid wasn’t likely to drip onto it. “I mean, come on, walls that drip blood? I expected better than that old cliché.” And suddenly she felt better, stronger, happier than she’d felt…well than she’d felt in a long time. If the house was resorting to this it meant they had a chance, after all it might have been scarier earlier, but right now blood running down the walls was no threat.
She allowed herself another, smaller chuckle. Then she took a deep breath, and frowned. She sniffed the air, and her brow furrowed further.
Still it took Tyrell’s words to force her brain to make the connection between what she was seeing and what she was smelling.
“It isn’t blood.”
And he was right, it wasn’t blood, it was petrol. And now her eyes widened as they focused on the candles. Even as she turned, even as she opened her mouth to shout the warning, the lights went out, and the instant that they did, the two candles burst into life. Such tiny flames, but all that was needed.
Darkness lasted but a moment. She had her back to the fireplace by the time the petrol ignited, so she didn’t see the flames, aside from flickering shadows cast on the walls before her, but the room was illuminated once more, and she felt the heat searing into her back, the backs of her legs, was her hair starting to singe?
Ahead of her Tyrell was struggling with the door. She knew it was useless. The heat was growing hotter, the room growing brighter. There wasn’t much smoke yet, but it wouldn’t be far behind. Smoke was the real killer in a fire, she knew, and in such an enclosed space asphyxiation wouldn’t be long in coming. Still she kept moving, throwing herself across the old man’s back, protecting him from the flames. Buying him a few more seconds of life; suddenly that seemed the most important thing in the world, and she was just sorry she wouldn’t get the same privilege.
Behind her the world exploded.
Chapter Fifty two
He’d turned to run for the door even before the lights went out, amazed that he hadn’t let out the yelp of fear that’d begun to rise in his throat the moment his addled brain realised petrol plus candles equalled a horrible death.
Even in the dark he knew where the door handle was, his fingers touching cold metal in the darkness before the blackness was banished by the flames. It was hopeless, he knew, and it was no surprise that though the
handle turned, the door wouldn’t move forwards. There were tears in his eyes, though whether from the heat and infant smoke, or fear, he didn’t know.
And then Chalice was behind him, smothering his body with her own. It wasn’t a rescue mission, he knew, she just didn’t want either of them to die alone. His fingers let go of the handle, he reached up to touch her fingers as they rested over his shoulder, a tiny moment of intimacy before they died. Not alone, at the end, not alone.
But they were going to die, he smelt fabric burn, noxious fumes begin to fill the room. Then a drumroll of tiny explosions as the heat reached the Uzi, cooking the bullets inside the magazine. He felt something whiz past his head, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door, the coolness of the wood a momentary distraction from the rising heat.
Something thudded into the back of him, or her, the jolt seemed to flow through both their bodies, as if their skeletons were one. If the fire got hot enough this might not be too farfetched an outcome.
No last minute rescue, no one to pull their arses out of the fire.
His eyes sprang open, he wrenched his fingers away from hers. The room was filled with noise, cracks and snaps as metal and wood splintered and warped. Still he thought he heard her say “No!” No, don’t let go of me, don’t leave me.
He ignored her; pushed back with all his might, hoped to hell she’d keep hold of him. He’d been pushing the door, but now he remembered, it opened inwards. His fingers curled around the handle once more, turned it, and then this time pulled.
For a moment nothing happened, then the door moved towards him. He struggled back further. It wasn’t easy, she fought him all the way and he didn’t blame her for it, with each inch back the heat intensified, but it was the only way.
A nagging thought at the back of his mind warned of backdraft, but what choice was there. He could only hope that the blaze wasn’t quite hot enough; the oxygen inside the room not quite depleted; and suddenly the door was open enough that they could stagger through. Where he had pushed her, now he pulled, taking her hand once more to ensure he took her with him as he fell out into the corridor.
