by James Tow
me, “And who might you be then, eh?”
“I’m Gabriel Reed,” I responded and tilted my head toward Paul, “and this is my brother, Paul.” I guess I shouldn’t have told him that. His face became wide-eyed and contorted with a hint of confusion. He snapped his head back and forth between Paul and me. He must have done this at least fifteen times.
Eventually he looked at the soldier, whose gun was in my cheek, and nodded. I saw it coming from a mile away—the soldier brought the butt of the rifle around, aiming for my face. I blocked it with my left forearm. Unfortunately for me, the soldier to his right was just as quick. The last thing I saw was another rifle butt zeroing in on my face. I’ve been hit in the head too many times lately—it’s not healthy. So much for relaxation.
7. Allies
I opened my eyes. It was quiet and black. My arms were behind me, tied together at the wrists. My legs, ankles and thighs, were bound to the by, what felt like rope. Every time I took in a breath, fabric sucked into my mouth. Luckily, I could breathe through it. I could hear wheezing in front of me and steady breathing to my right—old man Barnes and Paul. I try to move my legs, but it’s no use. There’s no slack. I try to rock myself and the chair—it moves with every lunge. Morons these days don’t know how to efficiently tie a prisoner. The wheezing man groaned and shuffled. He got closer, grabbing the cloth at the top of my head and pulling it off.
“Don’t try anything,” he managed to say.
I opened my eyes, it was quiet and bright. My eyes burned as they adjusted. The four white painted walls were covered with mirrors. The ceiling was white with a popcorn texture, and a long wooden door was facing me. Our weapons were spread across the table in front of us. My blade was within reaching range. On the other side of the table Barnes was moving back to his chair—moving slower than a snail with bad knees. Paul was looking me through wide, tired eyes. About twenty years later, Barnes finally sat down.
“Your story was believable, until you claimed you were the Reed brothers,” Barnes told us through a smile.
“Why is that?” I ask. I really shouldn’t have because I know his answer will only anger me more.
I was right when he started laughing his strained laugh. I’m surprised I didn’t see dust particles floating from his mouth.
He slouched in his chair and said, “The great Reed brothers have toppled over The Army in every imaginable way. They’ve killed leaders, sabotaged bases, and escaped the impossible…”
“Hey, do you think you can give me a change of clothes? I’m really tired of wearing these ragged things, and they’re starting to smell funny,” I interrupted him. His breathing got heavier as he glared at me through his scruffy eyebrows, “And you expect me to believe that you idiots are the Reed brothers? A couple of kids?”
He relaxed back into his slouch, “But fortunately for you, we’re checking-in with the St. Andrews crew for your story.”
Finally, he said something I liked. It hit Paul’s ears as music as he slouched in relief.
Sure but subtle, Barnes’s head fell back on his shoulders—he’s now staring at the ceiling. His body is limp and his eyes are lifeless.
I laughed.
Paul looked at me, “Do you mind sharing?”
I nodded my head toward the corpse of Woodrow Barnes, “I guess it was his time,” I said snickering. I started rocking forward, reaching for my blade with my chin.
“Holy shit,” Paul said—staring at Barnes’ body.
“Holy shit is right,” I said. I continued rocking back and forth, getting closer with each reach, “It’s probably as holy as the very shit Jesus Christ took after his resurrection. That would be dubbed The Shit.” I barely touch the handle and it slides inches toward me. I would be able to grab it next lunge. “Or, it’s as holy as the shit Virgin Mary took while giving birth to Jesus,” I mused. I paused and looked at Paul, “Maybe that’s considered The Shit,” I shrugged, “who knows.”
I reached one last time for the blade, clamping my chin down on the handle, reeling it in. I bit down on the handle, utilizing the sharp blade, to quickly cut the ropes binding my legs to the chair. When I’m done with my legs I drop the blade back on the table so I can grab it with my hands. Once I manage this, I shuffle over to Paul and carefully cut the rope around his wrists. Paul then takes the blade from me and goes to work on the rest of the binds.
I stop and ponder out loud, “I wonder why they never mention Bible figures using the bathroom. Did they even need to relieve themselves? And if so, where? Mind boggling, isn’t it?”
“Thanks, now I really have to take a leak,” said Paul. Well, at least I know he’s real. When I cut the last bit of the rope around his leg, he gets to his feet and reaches for the weapons on the table.
“Just take the pistol. Discretion is key right now. We don’t have a clue where we’re at, and it helps to not draw attention.” I tell him and he grabs the Colt pistol from the table.
“What about you?” he asks with concern. I hold the blade up to answer his question, “and I don’t plan on using it. These people are ‘good guys,’ no need for me to kill them. Are we still at King’s Cross?”
“No, but I’m not sure where we are. They put a bag over my head.”
“They’re cautious. I’ll give em’ that.” I think out loud. “I’m not sure where we are, but I assume we have to head south to get to Gatwick. And fast.”
We head for the door when Paul asks if we can stop by a bathroom.
“It hurts dude.”
“As soon as we find one.” I slowly open the wooden door—nobody in sight. We proceeded down the carpeted hall, checking every door along the way. This building was nothing special—plain white walls, blue carpet that looked scratchy to the touch, and a stale smell in the air. We slowly made our way to the end of the hall which was a pair of wooden doors. A gust of musty air smacks us in the face when we open the doors. The room was enormous. It looked like an old conference room of some sort, but they transformed it into a locker room. Lockers stood back to back, stretching across the width of the room. Paul and I remained still, staring down one of the aisles of lockers. The opposite wall was approximately sixty yards away while the perpendicular walls were about thirty. Other than the impressive size of the room it was still bland.
I pointed to the right. “Check that side.”
“The only thing I’m looking for is a bathroom,” he says. I march down the left side of the room, checking down each aisle I pass. Nothing. I look behind me, but Paul isn’t in sight. I sprint as fast as I can back to Paul’s side. I make it to the last aisle and, again, I get nothing. Panic quickly spreads.
“Check this out,” Paul said from behind me. Startled, I quickly turn around and Paul is down a short hall, half-way through a door, waving me to follow. Relieved, I follow him into the small room.
I was expecting a bathroom, but got something totally different. The wall facing me was a pegged wall, covered with assault rifles, pistols, and shotguns. The weapons were hovering above a large metal work bench with various attachments and gear lying on top. To my right is a large wooden desk with a computer. Five large lockers completely cover the wall to my left.
“Holy shit,” I said.
“Holy shit is right,” Paul replies.
Paul moves to examine the weapons and I move to the lockers. Luckily, the locks on the handles are unlocked. I take the lock off the middle locker and swing the door open. More relief washed over me as I now stare at shelves of various shirts. I quickly open the other lockers to see what I was hoping for. The first locker contained some kind of specialized girdle made out of sponge material giving it extra padding—there were also socks, and belts. The second locker held cargo pants. The fourth held hats, glasses, and gloves where the fifth contained combat boots. I take off the annoying tactical vest and the filthy inmate pants to change into my new selection of clothes. Firstly grabbing the essentials—extra padded girdle, black socks, and tactical belt. I slipped into a pair of black cargo p
ants and a long sleeve black shirt. The shirt was perfect—it hugged my body comfortably, yet it was long enough to tuck-in.
As I explored through the fourth locker, I saw a pile of different colored fabrics on the bottom shelf. I grabbed an olive/black colored one and examined it to realize I was holding a desert scarf. I guess this faction did some traveling. I wore it around my neck. I put on a pair of boots, tied them tight, and examined myself. Now I look professional, and it feels good. I start jumping up, waving my arms around, moving in numerous ways, testing the new material.
Paul turns around, from his preoccupation, and examines me. “Oh thank God,” he said and moved toward the lockers.
“The girdle feels damn good,” I tell him. I walk to the wall to examine the weapons and see a large olive duffle bag. I grab the bag and throw it to Paul. “Throw some spare clothes in there.”
“How about a couple of parachutes?” he asked with a grin while holding up the pair.
“What the hell are we going to need parachutes for?” I asked.
“Remember in The Boondock Saints when the one brother wanted to bring rope?” he said with a smile, still holding the parachutes.
“Whatever man,” I said. I was too concentrated on grabbing what we needed and getting the hell out.
The pegged wall housed G36 and M4 assault rifles, W1200 Winchester shotguns, MP5 sub-machine guns, M1911 pistols, and
