Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  Whoever has entered the store, they’ve made their way past the stacks and tables of books at the front to the counter here in the middle. They’re standing right in front of me, but still I keep my eyes on the computer, reading the email now for a fifth time.

  I think maybe the person might get the hint, wander away, but they stay right where they are in front of the counter.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, not bothering to hide my irritation.

  The person doesn’t speak right away. A lengthy second or two passes, and then a deep masculine voice says, “I wanted to apologize.”

  I blink but keep my focus on the monitor. “Apologize about what?”

  “Yesterday, when I pushed you off the platform, that was supposed to be the end of it. The train would run you over and kill you instantly.”

  My eyes shift slowly, from the monitor to the man standing on the other side of the counter. He’s dressed like a businessman—charcoal gray suit, striped tie, black shiny shoes. He even carries a briefcase in one hand.

  The only thing that doesn’t quite go with the getup is the gun in his other hand.

  “It would have been quick and relatively painless. But now this, well”—he shrugs—“I’m afraid this will hurt quite a bit.”

  sixteen

  They had walked only two blocks, neither one speaking, when Ashley abruptly stopped, turned, and started back the way they had come.

  “Where are you going?” Jeff asked, keeping pace beside her.

  “I want to talk to him again.”

  He stepped in front of her. “Ashley, you can’t.”

  She went to step around him and he matched her movement, keeping her in place.

  “Jeff, get out of my way.”

  “You’ve already done enough to that poor guy.”

  “I think he was lying.”

  “What?”

  “About the email. I was watching his eyes. I think the email did come through.”

  She tried to move past him again. This time he took hold of her arm, gently held her in place.

  “Even if it did, he’s not going to show you. Especially if you barge back in there. He’ll shut down more than he already has.”

  Ashley mulled this over, playing the different possibilities, the different outcomes. They were down in the Village, only a few blocks away from her place, in fact. Maybe she should just call it a day. Part ways with Jeff and head back to her apartment and veg out on the couch with Rex. Try to stay away from the wine in the cabinet. Try to ignore all the different places she had Percocet hidden.

  “You should go,” she told him. “Head back to the office, go home, whatever. I appreciate the help, but obviously this has been a waste of time.”

  He stepped back, releasing his gentle grip from her arm. “No, it was ... interesting. Definitely a different way to mix up the day.”

  She smiled but said nothing, though her intentions must have been clearly written on her face.

  “Don’t,” Jeff said again.

  “You don’t have to go with me. Like I told you, head back to the office.”

  “I think I should stick around to be a witness for your insanity plea.”

  “I just want to talk to him for another minute, that’s all. Ask a few more questions, then I’ll be out of his hair.”

  Now it was Jeff’s turn to mull it over, his lips tight again as he considered the different possibilities, the different outcomes. Finally he sighed. “Two minutes, that’s it.”

  Ashley smiled and started past him. “Got it.”

  “I mean it,” he said, following her. “No more than two minutes.”

  “Yes, two minutes. I promise.”

  seventeen

  Now that the man has got my full attention, he smiles. He takes a few steps back, sets the briefcase down, places the gun on one of the tables, picks up a book, and begins flipping through it.

  “You really enjoy working here?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Seems rather stuffy. Doesn’t mold grow around all this paper?”

  Again, I don’t speak.

  He sets the book aside, reaches into his pocket, extracts a silver lighter. He pops the top open with his thumb, uses the thumb to flick the flint. Sparks ignite first, then a small flame.

  “Tell me, have you ever imagined what it would be like to die in a fire?”

  I glance once more at the computer screen, at my sister’s suicide email. “She didn’t really do it, did she?”

  The man holds the lighter up to his face, staring at the quivering flame. “Your question assumes I know who she is, and what it is supposed to be. But, taking a stab in the dark, I’m guessing you mean your sister, and whether or not she shot her family before stepping off the roof of her building. Am I correct?”

  I don’t answer.

  The man smiles again. “You may think your silence shows you’re tough, or some such ridiculousness, but we both know I’m right. The truth is, John, you were supposed to die first. Fortunately for you, you were given an extra day of life. Tell me, how did you use those extra twenty-four hours?”

  “Did you jack my wheels?”

  “Not me personally, no. But yes, that was us.”

  “Who’s us?”

  The man ignores my question. “You surprised us, by the way. We figured you would take a taxi. We had one on standby just in case. But then you headed to the train station. We had to follow you down there, then make the split second decision of giving you that extra push when you got close enough to the platform. Obviously, the push was timed a little too early.”

  “Did you steal my package, too?”

  Another smile. “That really fucked with your head, didn’t it? Got you in trouble with your boss, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “They lost the account.”

  The man shakes his head slowly, making a tsking noise with a tongue. “Such a pity, and yet I don’t care.”

  He picks up another book off the table, holds it above the flame. He walks over to the closest bookshelf and sets the burning book on the bottom shelf. Within seconds, the fire begins to spread.

  Turning back, he says, “Now, John, I’m going to give you a choice. We can either do this the hard way or the easy way. I normally don’t like saying that, because it sounds too Hollywood, but quite honestly, this is how it’s going to work.”

  He picks up the briefcase, sets it on the table, unsnaps the locks, and opens the top.

  I can’t see everything he has inside that briefcase, not from where I’m standing, but I recognize the syringe he holds up immediately. He takes a small vial from the briefcase, inserts the syringe into the top, pulls back on the stopper until he’s extracted nearly half the bottle. He taps the syringe before pushing the stopper a bit, just enough to spritz out some of the clear fluid.

  “This is a heavy sedative. It will knock you out. It will stop your heart. It will be just like you’re going to sleep, completely painless. By the time the fire gets to you, you won’t feel a thing.”

  Speaking of the fire, the flames have spread quickly. The entire shelf has gone up, and now the fire is working down the line. A heavy cloud of smoke has started to spread across the ceiling. Better late than never, one of the smoke alarms goes off, followed by another, then another.

  “So what do you want to do here, John, the easy way or the hard way?”

  “What’s the easy way?”

  He steps forward, places the syringe on the counter. “I stand here, keep my gun aimed at you, while you inject yourself.”

  “And the hard way?”

  “You refuse to inject yourself, so I make you very uncomfortable before I inject you. As you can see, the end result is the same.”

  Behind him, the flames grow even hungrier. The smoke becomes thicker. The fourth and final smoke alarm goes off, joining the frantic chorus. I think of all the years this bookstore has been in business. I think of all the rare books here, all the thousands and thousands of dollars. I think of Jim,
how this is his store and life, and I think of Kyle, how this is the only job he has to support himself and his dying wife, and I look the man straight in the eye and say two words.

  “Fuck you.”

  The man laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Shaking his head, he says, “All right then, the hard way it is.”

  He starts to raise his gun at me but pauses almost immediately. Something changes in his face. His brow furrows slightly. He turns his head toward the front of the store, and I can see a tiny earpiece snuggled in his ear.

  “Shit,” he mutters, and swings the gun toward the door, just as through the window feet appear coming down the steps.

  In seconds the bell will jingle, and whatever hapless customer coming to peruse the rare and used books will be killed by this madman.

  I can’t let that happen.

  I won’t let that happen.

  And so that’s why I grab the thick book of Aztec and Mayan culture on the counter in front of me and fling it at the man’s head.

  eighteen

  Jeff headed down first. The reason, Ashley thought, was so he could hold the door for her—always a gentleman, that Jeff—but before he even reached for the doorknob, he paused and turned back to her, his expression incredulous.

  “The place is on fire.”

  Before she could speak, a gunshot sounded out inside the store.

  Glass shattered.

  Ashley screamed.

  Jeff’s eyes went wide, yelling at her to hurry back up the stairs. He started to take a step forward and then his body jerked, his neck snapped back, blood erupted everywhere.

  Still screaming, Ashley started back up the steps. It wasn’t easy in her heels, and in her panic, she slipped and fell. She managed to grab the railing at the last moment, but already her knee scraped against the step, drawing blood. She scrambled back to her feet and looked up toward street level.

  A man was at the top—big, bald, broad-shouldered—and he was currently barreling down toward her. He wore a jacket, and as he tore down the steps, his hand reached in and came back out with a small machine gun.

  Gunshots sounded out again behind her.

  She wasn’t sure which way to flee now—up or down. Either way promised danger.

  The bald man made things easier for her. The stairs were narrow and he wasn’t slowing down. It was clear, too, his focus wasn’t on her, but rather the door leading into the bookstore. Still, his giant bulk made it impossible for him to slip past her unmolested, and she found herself pressed against the railing, still screaming, until she realized the man had passed her.

  She tried scrambling back up the stairs but slipped again, this time failing to grasp the railing and sliding back down the steps. Something immediately broke her fall, and it wasn’t until she turned over that she realized it was Jeff. He was clearly dead, his eyes half open and blank, blood pouring out of the back of his head where he’d been shot.

  Inside the bookstore, more gunfire erupted, and smoke fought its way through the broken glass.

  Ashley knew she needed to get back up to the street. That was where there was safety. That was where the police would come to save her.

  Currently she was too hysterical to cry. She didn’t even have the mindset to let loose another scream. She simply stared up at the top of the steps, knowing that was where she now needed to be.

  The heels, she knew, would have to go.

  She kicked them off.

  Her fingers wrapped around the railing, squeezing it tightly.

  Every muscle in her body was on edge.

  She went to push off with her right foot, to give her all the momentum she would need to catapult herself up the stairs, when behind her Jeff’s corpse reached out and grabbed her arm.

  nineteen

  The Aztec and Mayan book only causes a temporary distraction. It hits the man right before he’s about to pull the trigger, causing his aim to go wide and shatter one of the windows. But he bounces back almost immediately, squeezing the trigger again. This time the bullet doesn’t shatter more glass. This time the bullet strikes the man just outside the door in the back of the head.

  Outside, a woman screams.

  I’m faintly aware that it’s the woman—Ashley Walker—from a few minutes ago, and that the man who’s just been killed was her partner, the black dude that didn’t say much. I’m able to deduce that in only a second, and by that time the man has swiveled so his gun’s now pointed back at me.

  I hit the ground. Spread myself on the floor as flat as I can, while above bullets tear into the counter, into the wall, raining down chunks of plaster and glass.

  More gunfire starts up, only this isn’t from the same gun. This sounds like it’s coming from the front of the store. The bullets that were meant for me now stop. The pause is long enough for me to glance up and watch a large bald man advancing through the store, a submachine gun in his hands.

  I see the faux-businessman crouched behind one of the tables, covering his head, shouting something. It doesn’t make sense to me until I remember his tiny earpiece. He knew the two reporters were coming before they even started down the steps. Which means someone else—this guy’s partner—must be somewhere up on the street.

  The gunfire pauses for only a brief moment, and in that moment I hear screaming.

  It’s Ashley Walker, outside, about ready to head up the steps.

  A moment of indecision passes before I spring to my feet and start running toward the front door. I’m taking a wild chance, but I’m certain the new gunman isn’t here for me. This is confirmed only a second later when my movement catches his attention and he swings the barrel toward me, pauses, then swings it back toward the table behind which the other gunman has taken cover. He hurries deeper into the store, which is now thick with smoke, the fire growing more intense. He lets off a couple more rounds, trying to spook the other gunman.

  I dash for the door, jump over the dead body, and grab Ashley’s arm before she’s able to start her sprint up the steps.

  She screams. This is what I expected. What I didn’t expect is for her to spin around and rake my face with her nails.

  I shout something indistinguishable.

  She pauses, looks at me, looks down at her murdered friend, looks back at me.

  She screams, “What are you doing?”

  “You can’t go up that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not safe.”

  As if my words summon him, a man appears at the top of the steps. He, too, is dressed like a businessman. He, too, is carrying a gun, held close to his side as if to conceal it from those passing by up on the street.

  He pauses at the top, sees us, sees the dead body and the blood, and immediately starts to raise the gun.

  I grab Ashley’s arm and pull her back into the store.

  The fire in here has gotten worse. The smoke is almost too thick. The bald gunman is standing over my syringe-wielding buddy from earlier. He raises the submachine gun at us but pauses again when he sees who it is.

  “Another one’s coming!” I shout.

  “Shit.” The bald gunman drops the magazine from the submachine gun, smacks another one in place. He looks around the store, then asks me, “There another exit?”

  “Back room. Leads up into the alley.”

  He glances back toward the fire, then gives me a weary look as he pulls a small radio from his pocket. “Go.”

  We hurry past him, stepping over the dead man. I pause only briefly when I see the syringe still on the counter. Without exactly knowing why, I scoop it up with my free hand and then keep pulling Ashley toward the fire.

  She shouts at me to stop, to hold on, that she doesn’t want to die.

  I shout at her that this is the only way out.

  The fire is intense, the smoke thick, but fortunately the flames haven’t reached the door leading into the back room just yet.

  More gunfire erupts behind us, two sets.

  I don’t
bother using the doorknob. I kick in the door. The hinges are old and snap off, the door swinging inward.

  I pull Ashley inside.

  “Keep going to the far back. There are steps leading up to a door. It will take you into the alley.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Just go!”

  She hurries away.

  I peek back out through the bookstore. The burst of gunfire has stopped. All I can see is smoke, and through the smoke flames.

  Then a figure appears.

  My hand squeezes the syringe tightly, though I’m not sure just how effective it will be against a gun.

  But it doesn’t matter—it’s the bald guy with the submachine gun.

  He bolts into the back room, slams the door shut.

  “Grab that!” he shouts, pointing at the closest bookshelf.

  We each take an end and walk the shelf over and tip it against the door. It’s not a perfect barrier, but it will have to do.

  We hurry through the back room and up the stone steps to the door that’s already hanging open. Ashley’s waiting outside against the wall. She’s looking nervously up and down the alleyway, and when she sees the bald gunman, she releases a sudden cry.

  “It’s okay, he’s a friend.” I glance at him warily. “You are a friend, right?”

  He nods. “Something like that.”

  Before I can ask him what that means, the sound of screeching tires fills the alley.

  A black SUV swerves around the corner, headed this way.

  Ashley starts to turn to make a break for it.

  The bald guy says, “It’s okay, that’s for us.”

  She pauses, turns back to me.

  I stare into her eyes for a moment. I’m not sure what to tell her. Her partner was just gunned down. She has some of his blood on her clothes. Her legs are bloody from where she fell on the steps out front.