Museum Attack

by Jim Heskett

  No one said a word. Everyone huddled together under the statue. A vibrating, writhing organism of fear.

  Red sighed, eying the group. “Here’s how this is going to work. And I really hope I only have to tell you once this time. Sound good?”

  He turned on his ankles to check the reactions from the crowd. Most everyone nodded.

  “We’re going to split up, by gender.” He pointed to the gift shop. “Little girls over here.” Then, to the wall underneath the balcony. “Little boys over there.”

  Jasmine’s grip on Layne’s arm intensified. She leaned in and whispered, “what do we do?”

  “Whatever they say. For now.”

  Her eyes searched his face. Maybe she wanted a better solution, something out of an action movie. But what could he do, unarmed, outnumbered? Clearly, they had no problem shooting people.

  Whoever they were and whatever they wanted, this was not a group to play around with. Layne had seen it in Red’s face. He wasn’t stressed or anxious. Red was as calm as can be. He had all the signs of someone who would just as easily shoot you as talk to you, and he was running the show.

  Layne had dealt with plenty of men like him before. Head-on was a poor way to approach this situation.

  “I’ll figure something out,” Layne said, trying to soothe her. “But for now, we don’t have any other choice.”

  “You,” Red said, standing a few feet from Layne and Jasmine. “Big guy with the arm sleeves.”

  Layne stood up straight and looked Red in the eye.

  Red flicked his head at Jasmine. “You look like good Aryan stock, but you’re with this darkie?”

  Layne breathed, trying to keep his face even and calm. He didn’t want Red to see how the comment had irked him. Using a word like that was designed to get a reaction, and Layne didn’t want to prolong this discussion or draw too much attention to himself.

  “Yes. I’m with her.”

  Red sneered. “To the gift shop,” he said, and then snatched Jasmine by the arm and ripped her away from Layne.

  Her eyes pleaded with him.

  “Stop,” Layne said, fists balled at his sides. “Let her go.”

  He took a step forward even though he knew he shouldn’t have done it. But, before he could say anything else, Red whipped the butt of his M4 up, and Layne didn’t have enough time to pull away. It smacked him on the chin. The force knocked him back a step, and he collided with the wall. Felt a line of blood run down his neck. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his head.

  And as Red dragged Jasmine across the room, Layne knew if he tried to stop it from happening, she would die right here and now.

  4

  Underneath the balcony, Layne stood with about twenty other men. Across the room, Jasmine huddled close with twenty-five women, in front of the entrance to the gift shop.

  A slew of heavily armed men patrolled the room in lazy circles, assault rifles pointed at the ground. Their stone faces were set, making eye contact with no one.

  The only person who seemed anything other than a living statue was named Red. He wore his rifle on a sling, around his back. He was mostly chatting into a walkie-talkie, using his free hand to gesticulate. Barking orders at someone or something. Red had spoken to Layne in perfect English with no accent, but he was speaking in some other language into the walkie. Maybe German, but Layne couldn’t tell for sure.

  His chin ached. He’d found a tissue in his back pocket and used it to stem the bleeding from the cut, but it throbbed constantly. A reminder of his current powerlessness.

  Across the room, Jasmine made eye contact with him every few seconds. He couldn’t do anything other than stare back at her.

  Outside the main entrance, something caught his eye. Layne only saw a sliver of the outside world from his position. The Humvees were being unloaded, more men and more guns. In groups of twos, they were hauling the large pieces of metal from the top of the Humvees, setting them upright, against the vehicles. What the hell were those things?

  He could also see two men grappling with something large, pulling it out of the back of a vehicle. When they turned, he got a look. A grim frown darkened his face. It was a giant machine gun with a tripod, the kind of thing you expect to see in an enemy military nest in a video game. Two more men crossed into his vision, hauling another of the massive guns.

  They were planning to dig in. Planning for a siege.

  The main elevator opened to Layne’s right. Five or six civilians stepped out, holding themselves, crying, shaking. An armed guard escorted them out and then separated the hostages by gender and pushed them to their assigned stations. Two minutes later, another elevator full of museum patrons arrived.

  Why were they gathering everyone in the lobby? None of the invaders had made any mention of their plans yet. Red was too busy coordinating things on his walkie. Strolling around, leering at people, instilling terror.

  Three more elevators full of people arrived. There were now approximately a hundred hostages in the lobby. Many of them shrunk into themselves, trying to become small. Some glared at the invaders, contained rage in their eyes. Layne sincerely hoped none of them would be stupid enough to try anything. As well-armed and ruthless as these people were, any bold move would equal a death sentence.

  “What are you going to do with us?” a woman asked, holding onto the doorframe of the gift shop like she might fly away if she let go.

  Red raised his hands, gesturing at the surrounding statues. “This is an art museum, right? We’re going to make art here. Seemed to me that our intent was obvious.”

  The woman winced, staring at him.

  Red sighed. “Clearly, I can see you don’t understand. But that’s okay. Everything will make sense in another… five minutes or so, when we get started. Until then, please sit tight and be good little boys and girls. There’s no reason this has to be complicated.”

  One man, a burly guy with a tank top and tattoos on his neck, stepped away from the group, toward the invaders. Fury on his face.

  “Sit down, you idiot,” Layne muttered through clenched teeth.

  With fists balled and teeth gritted, the burly guy walked straight toward one of the armed men. His eyes were brimming with fire, his shoulders back and his jaw set.

  He raised a fist and opened his mouth to speak, but the armed guard spun around and reacted quickly. He jabbed the nose of his M4 into the man’s face. The big guy stumbled back. He leaned over and spit out a tooth along with a healthy amount of blood mixed in with spit. Hands on the floor, panting.

  “Stay down,” Layne hissed, not loud enough for the guards to hear. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention.

  But the burly guy did not stay down. He straightened up. Took another step forward, again raising his head high.

  The guard hoisted his rifle. The man didn’t stop. Glowering, the guard pressed the trigger on his M4, a single shot. A bullet entered the man’s chest, and he staggered but did not go to the ground.

  The invader shot him again, this time in the head. The burly man dropped to his knees and then fell flat on his face. Blood made a circle on the back of his tank top where the bullet had exited his body. The man didn’t move.

  The entire room erupted in hysterics. Screaming, crying, shouting at the invaders. Everyone stayed put, though, so the armed men shot no one else.

  Why weren’t they killing everyone already? Why were they bothering to keep all these hostages alive? Layne studied the faces of those present, trying to pick out a politician or some other figure important enough for these men to set up such an elaborate plot. He didn’t see anyone.

  Red pointed his rifle at the ceiling and popped off a few controlled shots. The blasts quieted the room. He spat at the dead man on the floor and said, “this is what happens when you think you can be a hero. Everyone stay put, and you won’t have to die like a dog in this room.”

  Layne made eye contact with Jasmine. The terror on her face gripped him like an icy hand. He had to take
action. He couldn’t stand here while these men did whatever they wanted.

  She mouthed something to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. Her mouth was jittery, hard to read. He pressed his lips together and held her gaze for a few seconds until she returned to staring at the floor.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Layne noticed a curiosity, nearby on the wall. A crease running along the surface, about three feet tall and three feet wide. At the top of the lip made by the crease a small handle jutted out, like a cabinet pull. In small, stenciled text below that handle: garbage.

  Bingo.

  Layne shuffled over, so he was standing in front of it. He reached behind him and grasped the handle, then gave it a slight tug to see if it would screech when he tried to open it. The thing made no sound. He angled his head to spy the opening. It opened into a metal-walled hole, like a mail chute at the post office. It would be a tight squeeze, but he could fit through.

  Maybe.

  “What the hell are you doing?” whispered a man to Layne’s left. His eyes were wide, his gaze insistent. “You’re going to get us all killed.”

  “Tactical retreat,” Layne said. “Cover me.”

  “What?”

  “Stand in front of me.”

  The guy shook his head, terrified. His jaw bounced back and forth, his teeth grinding.

  No help there. Layne glanced down at the tattoos on his arms, specifically at the light and dark cherubs mirroring each other on both forearms.

  He waited a few seconds for the nearest invader to stroll on by, then he gazed at Jasmine across the room. He nodded at her once, then opened the garbage chute and dove through it.

  5

  Jasmine Kendrick watched Layne slip through the hole in the wall and disappear into nothingness. She gasped. One second, holding her gaze, giving her a distraction from the surreal situation inside this building. The next second, he wasn’t there. Evaporated.

  Where in the world had he gone?

  Standing in front of the gift shop with the other women, she had a hard time hearing her own thoughts over the sobs and wails of her fellow hostages. Took every ounce of her strength not to join them, but she knew better than to let panic overtake her in this situation. If she intended to find a way out of this, she needed to be strong. To keep a level head.

  The one named Red circled the room, giving whispered orders to the other assholes guarding them. About ten of them altogether in the lobby right now, although some were coming and leaving by the elevators and via the stairs. Hard to get a full count.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Red said. “We’re going to further divide into groups. For you women: everyone who considers themselves to be ‘white,’ please stand on the right side of the gift shop entrance. The rest of you,” his eyes landed on Jasmine, and he gave her a little grin. “You stand on the left side.”

  What kind of bullshit was this? Some ethnic cleansing?

  At first, no one moved. Glances flicked around the room, checking the expressions of the other hostages. Feet were frozen in place.

  Red’s shoulders slumped. “Come on, people, we’ve been over this. Do it now. Move!”

  His words spurred everyone to action. With a low murmur of conversation, the clusters of hostages separated, shuffled their feet, and began to establish the ethnic segments.

  Jasmine scooted over a few feet, joined by one other African-American woman and a little old Asian lady, who had to be at least seventy years old. She was shaking, holding her hand over her mouth. Jasmine put an arm around the lady, who didn’t even seem to notice. Her head pointed at the floor, a little bun of gray hair on top of her head jiggling as the woman seethed.

  “And you men, same thing for you. Whites along the wall over there, and the rest along the wall over here. Let’s pick up the pace, people. We don’t have all day.”

  The men separated into their groups as Red wandered around, checking the demographics of his hostages. He walked with his hands clasped behind him, nodding sternly at the various sections. He was like a school principal, patrolling, checking to make sure no skirts were more than two inches above the knee.

  Red cleared his throat. “And now, for the real treat. Show of hands… who here is Jewish?”

  At first, no one did anything. Blank stares all around, except for the ones who tried to hide behind other hostages.

  Then, a man with round glasses and curly black hair raised a hand.

  Red smiled and gave a single clap. “Thank you for your honesty, but I know you’re not the only one.” Red then waved him forward. The man with glasses plodded, head down, and then joined Red.

  Red dropped a hand on the man’s shoulder, clenching it and pulling him close like an old friend, but with a little too much force. Hugging, side by side, like they were posing for a selfie in front of this wicker statue of a Samurai warrior.

  Red then drew his pistol and pointed it at the Jewish man’s head. Everyone gasped but stayed rooted in their assigned spots.

  “Now, I know there are more Jews in this room. Believe me, I can tell. Here’s what we’re going to do. Everyone of the Jewish persuasion will step forward and join me in the center of the room right this instant, or I will put a bullet in my new friend here. Blow his brains all over this stupid furniture art.”

  Red leaned down and whispered into the guy’s ear, and the guy whispered something back. “Ethan!” Red said. “His name is Ethan. Who here is willing to sentence Ethan to die because you’re too much of a coward to come forward?”

  Jasmine wanted to speak up. To tell them not to move because she had a strong notion that being non-white or non-Christian wasn’t going to end well for anyone who fit those criteria. But what could she do? The corpse of the man who’d approached Red was still on the floor, still spreading a puddle of blood in a circle around it. She had no power. None of them did.

  One by one, others came forward and crossed the room. About a dozen of them, eyes down, hands hanging limply at their sides.

  “Excellent!” Red said, looking at his new sub-group of hostages. “Let’s start getting these people up to the fourth floor.”

  6

  Layne tumbled down the slim metal chute, banging against the walls as he fell. His descent lasted about two seconds and ended in a dumpster filled with muck and slime. His body submerged, and he couldn’t see at first.

  At least the muck and slime was relatively soft.

  Layne opened his eyes, knee deep in napkins, paper plates, and mountains of discarded food. He pushed himself until his head was out in the open air.

  “Ugh,” he said as his nostrils absorbed the full aroma. He quickly shut his mouth. His chest hiccuped a few times, trying to retch.

  Of all the disgusting and reprehensible places Layne Parrish had found himself, he couldn’t ever remember diving in a dumpster before. Not even on one of his undercover jaunts in the shadier cities in the world.

  He reached to the lip of the dumpster and yanked himself up as debris poured off him like water. Grimy hands grasped hold of the metal ridge of the dumpster and pulled his torso up to the rim. He slid over the side, his legs swinging, and thunked onto the cold tile below. His eyes fluttered a few times before he could see again.

  This room was maybe twenty by twenty, with tile walls to complement the floor. Exposed piping, cleaning equipment, and shelves stacked high with boxes of dry goods. Fluorescent lights above cast everything in a yellow hue.

  Time to calibrate.

  Layne snatched a milk crate and turned it over to make a chair. He slumped onto it, back aching. His knees and elbows had bumped all the way down the chute. He inhaled a few times to clear his head and get his bearings. Layne worked his jaw around a few rotations to test the damage Red’s rifle stock had done to his chin.

  With his arms together, the two cherub tattoos were next to each other. He then addressed the tattoos.

  “Here’s the situation as I know it: upstairs, we have about a dozen of these people. Those are the ones
I could see, but there might be more. They’re heavily armed and have taken about a hundred hostages inside one of the museum buildings. They blew up the other two buildings, probably as a distraction so they could bring their Humvees into the courtyard. For some reason, they’ve locked down the museum and separated the hostages by gender. I’m alone in the museum basement, with no weapons and no plan.”

  The tattoos gave no response. And while Layne felt he had a strong grasp of the situation, that didn’t set his mind at ease.

  Either way, he had to move.

  When he stood, the aching in his back had abated a little. He bounced on his feet a few times, swung his arms back and forth. He hadn’t stretched yet today.

  Then, he explored the room. He couldn’t find a door to the outside, but the far side of the room contained a door that led into a kitchen. He scoured the cabinets and drawers for blades, scissors, or maybe a meat tenderizer, and located some meager steak knives along a magnetic strip on the far side of a fridge. Steak knife versus assault rifles wasn’t much of a fair fight. A fire ax or sledgehammer would've been better, but he would have to make do.

  Without a sheath to stick it in, he shoved the blade in his belt loop. That could be a problem in tight spaces, but it was the best he had.

  “Next time I go to an art museum,” he whispered to the room, “I’m bringing a gun.”

  A set of stairs led up from the kitchen. He leaned into them, listening. Heard only the usual hum of the building.

  With the knife out, he ascended the stairs, his tennis shoes soft and light. The stairwell was dark and unpainted; employee access. Layne stopped on the first floor, hovering outside a door. No way to know where this door opened to. He might find a cluster of armed soldiers on the other side.

  Before he left this spot, he practiced drawing the knife from his belt a few times. The serrated blade felt awkward in his hands, and he almost slashed his hip on the first attempt, trying to take it out quickly. He felt scattered and unfocused. This was not a good time to defend himself against a superior force.