by Lee Chambers
With the momentum, Aaron leapt across the gap between tiles. He was short, and his chest slammed into the edge. Damnit. His nails scratched for a good grip, his legs dangling.
Like a pair of jeans on a breezy clothes line, he looked down at his flapping limbs.
Hands slipping. Need to throw a knee up, and pull hard. Some diversion he turned out to be. Aaron was meant to throw Tremblay a bone to distract him. Instead he'd thrown him the whole three-course meal! Unless he could just get some leverage. Energy was in short supply at this point. Gravity was stronger than his will, it seemed. He didn't need Tremblay to yank on his ankle, he already felt like weights were tied to his toes.
Then, it got worse. Aaron winced and wailed. The heavy echo of the baseball bat hitting his thigh followed by a shooting pain.
Suddenly, a burst of panic coursed through him, animating his legs into a wild thrashing motion, kicking anything within reach, and creating some distance. Then the bat rammed into his ribs. He was a pinata up there, taking hit after hit.
The sound of the bat being tossed to the ground was unnerving. Tremblay didn't need it anymore. Aaron felt the large paws around his calves, tugging at him.
Half in, half out of the ceiling, Aaron struggled to hang on. Yet, the splintering ceiling tile had the final say in the matter, when it broke into a large section–with Aaron still attached.
A crumbling mass of tile and Aaron collapsed onto the desk. Aaron felt like something soft broke the fall–it was Tremblay, and Aaron was right on top of him.
thirty three
Easing the ladder over the edge of the hole, Amanda slowly extended the frame and then lowered it safely to touch the library floor. Back in this damn library, she thought, looking around at the mess. It was like a never-ending hell and you were caught in quicksand, which kept bringing you back to where you started.
Amanda stepped down and found her footing on the ground. Shaky. Too much time crawling in enclosed spaces. Her knees were shot from all the scraping around. She hobbled on her cut foot to the library doors and effortlessly pushed them open.
A Glock was pointed right at her face. Amanda released a silent scream; her voice was battered, too. Nothing left even for a real fright.
The hand behind the gun was trembling. Carl took aim before he realized it was Amanda.
“Carl…” Amanda stammered, finding it hard to say the words.
She looked down at his shirt, which was half-unbuttoned, revealing his trusty Kevlar vest. Carl slowly lowered the gun, fighting every instinct to keep it raised and shoot anything that moves.
They stepped back inside the library, Amanda wrapping her arms around him and crying. Carl was still sore and quick to push Amanda to arm's length. He rubbed the spot where Tremblay shot him. Felt like his ribs were cracked, it was so bruised.
Amanda sniffed back more tears. “I thought you were…”
“Lucky for me he can't shoot worth a shit with that Colt,” Carl said with the gallantry of a Clint Eastwood cowboy after surviving a showdown at high noon.
Tenderly stepping closer, entering Carl's space, Amanda placed her hand on his chest, touching the empty circle–the bullet hole in Carl's shirt. Such a tiny hole, and yet it could've caused so much carnage if not for the vest's protection.
“It is over your heart,” she noted.
Carl was too distracted to pick up on any romantic or karmic connotations of a shot to the heart. He looked past her weepy face and directly to the mess behind her. “Where is he?”
“He's chasing Aaron. You have to go after him, Carl.”
Carl swallowed deeply as he realized it, too.
thirty four
Tremblay might've cushioned the fall, but he wouldn't want to be a mattress forever. Aaron rolled off, debris sprinkled all over them.
The sleeping giant started to awake, only winded from taking the full brunt of the ceiling collapse, and the weight of a young man tumbling out of the air.
No time to stop and stare, Aaron bolted out of the office and down the corridor. He patted himself as he ran, checking for cuts and broken bones. Thank God, Tremblay was standing where he was. Otherwise, Aaron would be concussed and counting fingers.
Then, he heard the sounds of ceiling tiles cracking on the floor, brushed off of Tremblay as he bristled through the door. The footsteps were loud and stomping, getting faster. Well, as fast as you could be in the condition of the two injured parties.
Aaron felt his legs creaking and jarring with every hobbling movement, after receiving a pounding from Tremblay's bat. Meanwhile, Tremblay had taken a few knocks himself–Amanda's crack to his shin with the crowbar remained excruciating every time he placed weight on his leg. But, both had too much to lose if either stood still to lick their wounds.
Regardless, the ongoing chase had a molasses-like quality to it; as if caught in slow-motion. Yet, despite the lack of speed, Aaron chanced to look back and could already see Tremblay gaining on him, with the baseball bat wielded in his hand, and an intermittent grimace following every other step.
Aaron shuddered as he continued to run in a skip-hop, but nerves were about to get the better of him. He couldn't keep up with this pace. Soon he was gonna get caught. OK, any second now.
The broken glass---seemingly sprinkled like sparkling ice across the floor outside the cafeteria. Aaron skated over it, and lost his footing this time. One hand went down to steady himself, getting sliced with a shard. “Oww… shit!”
He pulled the blood-stained piece of glass from his palm and dropped it, leaving it behind in his dust. He didn't even notice the small trail of red droplets, following his every step. Had to keep going. Find a way out.
Aaron looked towards the door of the school's theatre and slowed from a broken trot to a walk. The poster pinned to the wall seemed to be watching him–his own eyes staring back at him. 'Hamlet'. Aaron was photographed in a period costume holding a sword, like a true Shakespearean thespian. To die or not to die -- that is the question.
With no other options, Aaron shouldered the door and ventured inside. A backstage emergency light was the only illumination in the cavernous auditorium. Aaron wandered towards it, down the aisle between rows and rows of seating.
His eyes were fixed on the stage. His stage. He was meant to be performing up there. All eyes were on him.
He scanned the several pieces of Hamlet scenery, dotted around the stage, in mid-construction practically ready for opening night. If ever there was going to be an opening night.
Aaron hopped up onto the stage, moving past a giant cardboard strawberry, and then bumping into a huge wooden cloud, beside a rack of costumes, props and an old toolbox.
It was eerie up there–with the emergency lights glowing across the stage. He was alone. No other actors. No directors. No audience. Just him.
But it wouldn't be for long. Tremblay easily picked up Aaron's trail of blood, leading from the broken glass by the canteen, neatly spaced every two feet or so, all the way to the theatre.
The door was slightly ajar. Tremblay squeezed the handle of the baseball bat and stepped into the theatre, his pupils slowly adjusting to the low light. His mind was racing. If the rest of the night was anything to go by, this kid wouldn't go down without a fight. There might still be some scrap left in him, so Tremblay promised himself that he'd strike first and strike hard.
Too late, the sword blade sliced across Tremblay's cheek! Aaron had dealt the first blow, jumping from the shadows. Tremblay caught off guard, howled, dropping the bat to clutch his face.
Aaron followed up with a nick to the back of Tremblay's leg, effortlessly swinging the sword through the air. Tremblay buckled down to one knee. With no mercy, Aaron dived in for a cut to the gut, but Tremblay opened his hands and fearlessly grabbed the edges of the sword, pulling it from Aaron's grasp.
Holding it up, with bloody hands, Tremblay's expression was grim. “You're dead, kid.”
“You won't get away with this,” Aaron sputtered, retreating
backwards.
Tremblay lifted himself up, with a sneer and the sword. “I already am.”
thirty five
Dead. Done. Doomed. It was curtains for Aaron. He thought it was ironic that he would die on the stage–something that he'd worried about doing for months. That was, die because his acting was so bad. Not because he was run through with his own sword. How's that for a Shakespearean tragedy?
Nevertheless, tempting fate, Aaron clambered onto the stage, not taking his eyes away from Tremblay and the glistening weapon. Aaron backed up, brushing past the strawberry cut-out, as Tremblay stepped onto the stage to join him.
“How are you going to explain all the bodies? All the evidence?” Aaron spat at Tremblay. His words were the only hurdles between himself and that sword, but he used them effectively, like a dying man's last words.
“I don't have to…” Tremblay retorted, as Aaron frowned, genuinely puzzled. “You see, Officer Carl Edward Smith had been planning to rob the bank for months. And it really was a flawless plan, too… I mean to set it all up, watch it go down, then as he was investigating the very crime itself, eliminate all the evidence that leads directly to him and walk away with the money–scot free.”
Aaron pointed an accusing finger. “You're going to blame this all on Carl? That's rich.”
“About five million dollars rich,” Tremblay said, a line of blood trickling down his cheek from the scratch Aaron inflicted on him.
Aaron was running out of stage, as he moved past the cloud-shaped structure, noticing the rack of props out of the corner of his eye. “You don't have to do this.”
“Oh, but I do.” Tremblay slashed the air to get a feel for the sword. It felt good.
“I'll bring you to the money.”
“I don't care anymore,” Tremblay said with a brazen shake of his head. “There's still half of it out at the campsite somewhere.”
Aaron suddenly tensed. His bargaining chip had evaporated right in front of him. Tremblay didn't need him. Not alive anyway. It would be daylight soon, and Tremblay was tying up loose ends. And, Aaron was as loose as they come.
A slicing flash was coming Aaron's way, and he quickly ducked down behind the giant cloud and put his hand on another sword. Swinging around, just in time to fend off Tremblay's powerful jab; there was a tremendous clash of metal on metal.
Meanwhile, Carl and Amanda made their way to the main doors. Carl retrieved his handcuff key and unlocked the manacles holding the door posts sealed. One tiny key solved all those major headaches with a single twist. He pushed open a door for Amanda. “I'll be out as soon as I…”
Amanda interrupted him with a look that said much more than her question: “But, what if…?”
“You know what to do 'if,'” Carl said firmly, staring fixedly into her eyes.
With a final teary glance, she exited the building. Carl waited a second, checked the ammo clip of his Glock, and went searching for the only two people left in the school. It was doubtful that he would've ever guessed what they were doing at this exact moment.
thirty six
After the Colts and shotguns, now it was all coming down to a sword fight–an old-fashioned duel.
Tremblay made a thrust, Aaron parried. Tremblay slashed wildly, Aaron blocked it with ease. His basic training was paying off. Tremblay kicked Aaron's leg. Aaron faltered a step, though able to dodge a swipe, he was still open–enough to allow Tremblay to easily slice his upper thigh!
His jeans were shredded, and not in a fashionable way, and then the red puncturing of his skin was evidence of Tremblay's perfect cut. Aaron cried out, but didn't let it paralyze him. He kept battling on, retaliating with an upward blow, which Tremblay barely deflected.
Tremblay grunted, he was stronger and gaining the upper hand. Now with their swords' connected in mid-air, Tremblay could maneuver this party wherever he wanted. Aaron's eyes widened as Tremblay forced him backwards into the giant strawberry; knocking it and Aaron over…
Aaron and the two-dimensional shape clattered flat onto the stage, but Aaron was quick to curl his body into a roll and get out of the line of fire. The roll worked, giving way for less surface area for Tremblay to stab at. A few hacks and slashes, narrowly missed him. And then the edge of the stage appeared soon enough, sending Aaron off into the darkness below.
Tremblay hesitated for a second, before leaping after Aaron–but, it was too late when he realized that he should have looked first. Aaron popped up from the inky shadows, holding his sword in front of him; rigid and strong. His heels dug into the theatre's carpeting, ready for the dead weight of a full grown man on the end of his blade.
With the whites of his eyes shining iridescently in fear of the impending impaling, Tremblay veered to the right, tilting his body at the last second to avoid his fate–still, Aaron's sword pierced into his stomach. Got him.
The flesh was tough, but the sword was sharp enough with Tremblay's velocity to penetrate–sending him into a high-pitched squeal like a stuck pig. Despite his efforts, Aaron couldn't stop the rest of Tremblay's hefty body from pile-driving into him. Simultaneously, bashing the sword and Aaron in different directions, both falling to rest on the ground.
Aaron looked to his left. His sword lying out of reach behind Tremblay's lifeless corpse. But, he had to be sure. He wouldn't trust this animal that'd escaped a cage and now seemed docile, suffering from an apparently fatal wound.
Clambering to his feet and limping in the direction of the sword, Aaron carefully stepped over Tremblay and edged towards the sword. But, before he could pick it up, Aaron heard a shuffle. He shuddered and clocked his head around to Tremblay–who was alive and scraping himself along, blood spilling from the gash in his gut!
“Come here you little bastard!” Tremblay lashed out with his words, and his madly flailing arms, still clinging to his own sword.
Dodging the swings, Aaron stepped onto the nearest seat, just as the seat next to him ripped open, foam billowing out. Then the following swipe was right on target, smacking the broad side of the sword against the backs of both Aaron's legs–buckling him backwards into the welcoming arms of his nemesis.
Tremblay swept up his prize, taking a clump of Aaron's hair into his fist. His hot, foul breath was inches from Aaron's ear. “How'd you like that?!”
“Ow, ow, ow… “ Aaron grumbled, feeling his hair being tugged back to the stage.
This wasn't how he planned it. This wasn't what he wanted. But, this wasn't like in rehearsals. This was real life. And this script was about to get a new ending, written by Tremblay–the sword was mightier than the pen, in this case.
Feeling any speck of hope drifting out of his grasp, Aaron suddenly fought back from the brink of giving up. He put his hand down and grabbed Tremblay's Achilles' heel–his bleeding gut–and squeezed the wet mess of intestines and muscle.
It was literally a gut-wrenching twist. Tremblay didn't know whether to scream, cry or die. He immediately dropped Aaron's hair and turned pale from the sheer agony.
Seizing the momentary lapse, Aaron didn't waste a single second. He broke away from Tremblay, raced for the stage, jumped up, and beat a path towards the cloud scenery.
However, the torturous pain in his abdomen only enraged Tremblay and he poured every ounce of his anger into a mad dash after Aaron, following him onto the stage, charging at him.
Then, the two found themselves evenly matched again, with Aaron grabbing another sword off the props pile in the nick of time. “You still want to play, huh?” Tremblay growled through gnashed teeth.
Aaron only looked guiltily at his sword and then back at Tremblay. Filled with fury, and the fearlessness of a man losing blood, Tremblay lashed out–his sword hitting Aaron's leg wound from before, opening it even wider. Aaron gasped. Then he saw Tremblay swing down on his left arm–another vicious cut.
In a daze, suddenly losing blood himself, Aaron staggered in a half-circle. Tremblay mirrored his prey, side-stepping around Aaron, sensing a victory in the maki
ng.
Limping meekly, Aaron looked broken and ready for his death knell. Tremblay was all too happy to ring that bell.
When suddenly Aaron tossed his sword at Tremblay's sword hand. A last feeble attempt to chop Tremblay's wrist, or so Tremblay presumed, dropping his own sword in a heartbeat and deftly catching Aaron's thrown sword.
“What do you call that move?” Tremblay scoffed, as Aaron bent down to retrieve Tremblay's dropped weapon, re-arming himself. “Swapsies?”
A spark appeared in Aaron's eyes. The tables had turned again, only Tremblay didn't know it yet. Aaron launched himself at Tremblay who raised the sword in his hand, connecting with the sword now in Aaron's hand–one was a 'replica', a fake, nothing more than a prop. Torn to pieces by the real sword–which was now in Aaron's hand.
Tremblay looked down at the wiggling blade, protruding from his chest, piercing all the way through to the cloud behind him. He was pinned to the set-piece.
“Game over,” Aaron said, staggering away from Tremblay who was grinning eerily. Bloody bubbles formed at his mouth. Before slumping dead, hanging from the cloud.
thirty seven
Aaron turned around, hearing the click of the Glock–Carl had entered the theatre, hearing the uproar, and was ready to fire. “Wait! Don't shoot!” Aaron cried out, raising his hands.
Carl's eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then attempted to process the scene in front of him. “Holy shit,” he murmured.
“That's what I say,” Aaron nodded, walking up the aisle, approaching Carl.
“Let's get out of here,” Carl said, lowering his Glock.
“Did Amanda get out okay?”
“Yeah, she's out in the car.”
Carl opened the theatre doors, wincing at the pain of his own wounds, before seeing Aaron's cuts in a new light and raising an eyebrow.
“I can't believe all this happened just for that stupid money,” Aaron muttered under his breath.
