Shades of Fear

by D. L. Scott

  I slump back to the ground, defeated. My eyes dart around, desperately trying to find light. Fear is sabotaging me, monopolizing my thoughts, clouding my mind. My fingers play absently with the strap as I try to clear my head and think my way out of this predicament. Why am I here? Who did this to me? Why?

  I sit back up, as far as I can but the strap stops me from sitting properly. I scrape my middle finger on the concrete, making my nail jagged and use that to work on the stitching. I scrape and snag my nail on the cotton, trying to tear and break it. I want to unpick it and release myself. I struggle with it.

  My nail tears and I curse, “Shit!”

  Still cursing, I shake my hand and squeeze my fingers, trying to stop the exquisitely sharp pain. I growl in rage and frustration and frantically wriggle and stretch, half throwing a toddler’s tantrum and half trying to wrestle myself free. In my frenetic flailing, I manage to get my left hip up and through the strap. At first I don’t even realize, but soon feel the pressure release from my hips. I feel that I can now wriggle free. I pull my other hip through and slip my legs from the strap. I am briefly exultant, until I am reminded of my situation.

  Standing, I put my arms out in front of me, fingers splayed and stretched to feel ahead. I slide my feet forwards, to avoid tripping and begin to explore this strange world. I am sure I’m enclosed somewhere. No air moves across my face and fingers. The only smells my nose detects are dust and grime. The dryness of the stale air tickles the back of my throat and I strain to suppress a cough. I’m not sure why, but I suddenly feel I should keep quiet. I don’t want to announce that I am free, but every move I make blasts noise into the silence. More and more I am gaining awareness of my surroundings. Rust taints the stale air further and the gentle shuffling of my feet seems to bounce off the walls around me. I knock something hard and heavy and bend down to examine it. It is cold and heavy with sharp edges that crumble in places. My fingers smell of metal and rust so I wipe them together and straighten up once more. Arms outstretched once more, a cold, hard surface hits my fingers and I jerk them back in surprise, as if the wall were on fire or electrified.

  Smiling at myself, I reach out once more and feel what I hope is the wall. It feels and smells like rusted metal and it has a corrugated shape. My fingers ebb and flow as they ride the waves of the wall. Now that I have found the barrier to my prison, I begin to search its length, seeking the door. Shuffling and stumbling, I carefully travel the perimeter, constantly brushing the wall with my fingertips to avoid losing it. The wave of the wall becomes a monotonous and almost hypnotic sensation. The scale of my prison is beginning to reveal itself. The wall is higher than I can reach; the echoes of my shuffling feet tell me the metal box is big, cavernous even.

  A scrape stops my movement. I wait, breath held, listening intently for more. My heart pounds so loudly that I doubt anything but the loudest noise will break through its thunderous roar. Am I not alone in here? Is someone else held captive or is my captor in here with me? My fear begins to paralyses me once more as I wonder if I am moving toward, or away from danger. I listen. I wait.

  After a few minutes of shallow breathing and statuesque waiting, I begin to move once more. It must have been a trick. The sound in this odd place is distorted and strange. I am lulled once more by my slow search along the wall until I am thrown from my stupor by a change in that status quo. There is a wall in front of me now and my fingers feel the angle of a corner. Buoyed by this I dare to hope I have found the end of my enclosure. Traversing the new wall I soon feel the exciting evidence of a door frame.

  The undulating metal is capped by a straight and boxed piece of metal that runs as low and as high as I can reach. On the other side, the wall no longer waves but is flat. Could this be the door? I search it with my fingers until I find a long metal handle. It takes some time to figure out how to move the lever but a loud clunk indicates I have released the catch. Breath held once more, I listen and wait.

  Silence envelopes me. Slowly, cautiously, I push the large door but nothing happens. I am desperate to hold on to my sanity but I feel despair welling from within. I push again and again, using my full body weight against it. The damned thing is locked. I feel as far around the edge of the door as I can, trying to find a catch or a lock. When I feel the bottom of the door, I almost cry out with joy. A track sits raised off the ground. The door is on a sliding mechanism. I straighten up, grab the edge of the door and slide it open with a low rumble and not the loud screeching groan of tormented metal that I am expecting.

  Bright sunshine does not assail my eyes as I had hoped, like some glorious symbol of my release. Instead, more darkness greets me. A gentle breeze of fresh air caresses my face and I breathe deeply. I am out. As my eyes adjust to my new surroundings I find there is a small amount of light from the stars, but are mostly obscured by heavy clouds rolling by.

  I get glimpses of them, shining high above me. Their intermittent glow does little to illuminate my surroundings but I can make out huge looming silhouettes in a long line before me. I turn to see my prison and find it is the same. They are domed in shape but, from my experience, not circular but elongated. They line facing each other across a wide expanse and I am reminded of military aircraft hangers that I have seen on television. What the hell am I doing here?

  I hear a metallic click-click and my body, heart and lungs freeze. Again, television springs to my mind and I see with brilliant Technicolor, a shotgun being cocked. Indecision maintains my frozen state, all except my heart that is thumping painfully in my chest.

  When my breath returns it is shallow and fast and does nothing but aid the light headed feeling washing over me. Another click-click breaks the silence and also breaks my spell. I run. I have no idea where I am running to, or who I am running from, but I hear more clicks over my heavy breath and even heavier heart beats.

  Almost simultaneously, the ground just ahead of me explodes in a plume of dust and stone and a loud shot cracks the night and ricochets around the metal hangers. I stop and run in the opposite direction, but a second shot hits the floor ahead of me. They are toying with me. I look around, widening my eyes to let as much of the meager light in as possible. I can make out what appears to be an aircraft control tower to my right. I imagine a sniper, waiting to pick me off. I run to my left.

  One of the hangers is open at both ends; I see pale light at the far end of the gaping maw of black. I nearly run in but dart between it and the next instead. I don’t want to be trapped inside another of those lightless, airless tombs again.

  The clatter of rapid gunfire follows my escape along the outer wall of the hanger. I stop at the far end and listen. The heavy thuds of boot on ground tell me my pursuers are jumping down from their positions and coming after me.

  What the hell is going on? Why am I being hunted? Hunted? It’s madness!

  I scan the scene, looking for options. A row of small, undulating hills lay to my left. The tower looms to my right and ahead is flat ground, only accented by the razor wire fencing that bisects it. My captors are almost silent. I know they are stalking me. I have no choice but to run for the hills.

  I surprise myself by barking out a single note of laughter. My hand clamps my mouth shut. Run for the hills? Idiot! I think the stress of my bizarre situation is getting to me. I risk a look behind me but see no movement. They have not ventured out onto open ground. I wonder why. I have no weapons, no way of hurting them.

  Still, I am grateful for their caution. I don’t believe I have ever run so hard. My father’s constant pushing when I was a child was paying off. He was determined that his children would not lounge about the house all day. He coached our local football teams and had us training six days a week. That regimen is so ingrained now that I still run five miles every day and visit the gym four times a week.

  I reach the hills and check behind me once more. I can see the solid outline of the hangers is broken near the ground with human shapes. The light is so dim that I have to stare to differe
ntiate between levels of blackness. Movement catches my attention; they are coming.

  I run down into the valley between two of the small hills and rather than running up the other side, exposing myself to their weapons, I run the length of the valley and out onto a rough road. I skid on loose stones, kicking some into the hill opposite. It clangs and I realize these grassy knolls are man-made. They appear to be bunkers, with grass laid over them to disguise their presence.

  There are two rows, facing each other with big bay doors, like the hangers. These are smaller though and rather than the smooth shape of a true dome, they are angular with flattened roofs. I try opening the door to the bunker I am in front of but the rusted metal screams in protest and I stop, and listen.

  When no shots are fired, I squeeze through but immediately retreat. I run to the next and see it is already slightly open. Three more stand with silenced, but slightly open mouths and I squeeze through into the second-to-last. Inside the darkness is absolute once more.

  I feel my way around the walls, searching for a place to hide. The walls in here are rough concrete, not as cold as the metal doors. Deeper into the bunker, I feel for anywhere I can hide.

  A metal frame greets my fingers and I stop to investigate. Smooth and cold, I feel glass set into the door and lower, a handle. I pull down and a soft click announces the door is unlocked. The door opens soundlessly and I step through and close it behind me. Feeling the wall beside the door, I find the smooth square of a light switch. Do I dare? No, there is so little light out there that I cannot risk this bleeding out of the bunker. Beside the switch I feel a frame and more glass. The room appears to have a window in the front wall. As I move I feel exposed, despite the darkness. My hip hits a sharp edge and with my fingers I find a desk. On it are the familiar shapes of a keyboard, mouse and monitor. The window takes up most of the wall.

  I am frantic as I search beneath the table for a computer, but am rewarded with the feel of smooth plastic box. I find the button and turn it on. Nothing happens. I try again. Nothing. I feel around the box looking for more buttons or loose connections when I find a flat, rectangular object on top of the computer. A laptop? I search it for the catch and open it. Feeling the smooth keys I find the start button and push it.

  The room bursts with light as the laptop starts up. I get a brief glance of the front wall, almost entirely made up of a single, large window. Shit! I duck below the table and search the laptop for the combination of keys to reduce the screen brightness. It is still far too bright for my comfort so I remove my sweater and lay it over the screen, creating a hood to reduce the reach of the light.

  I can barely see the startup procedure and then the password prompt. Shit! I am no computer expert but I try all the obvious passwords, like password, that people with no imagination, or memory, use on their computers. I don’t expect any of them to work; and they don’t. I use the dim glow from the laptop to survey the room.

  The room is small. Behind the table, along the back wall are filing cabinets and a gun case. The case is empty but a large, black handgun rests on top of one of the cabinets.

  I pick it up and fumble with it, trying to find how to open it. I press a small button and a magazine, or clip or whatever the hell they’re called, falls out and onto the floor, making a loud clattering. Shit shit shit!

  I bend and retrieve it. Using my thumb I slide bullets out, one-by-one, just as I had seen in the movies. They looked like live bullets but I had no way of knowing that for sure. I have no idea what dead bullets looked like. I slid them back in, filling the magazine/clip thing and returned it to the handle of the gun.

  I was pretty sure I was meant to check the chamber, but I had no idea how to do that and didn’t want the damned thing going off and telling my hunters not only my whereabouts, but also that I am now armed. I slid the gun into the waistband of my jeans, before hastily taking it out again, realizing I could easily blow my behind off. I put the gun on the desk and return to my search.

  I catch a glint of light and what looks like another window into a similar room. I pick up the laptop and take it over to explore further but am stopped by movement. I drop to the floor, heart pounding, mouth dry and close the laptop lid, plunging myself once more into darkness. I listen and wait, something I am becoming expert in.

  When my muscles begin to scream with cramp, I decide I am alone and begin to stand. With deliberate movements I move to the window in the side wall.

  I can see nothing in the darkness and as I reach up towards the window I touch its metal frame and feel it move beneath my fingers. After a moment’s pause, I push at the window frame once more and it swings lightly on the wall, making a quiet swooshing noise.

  It’s a bloody mirror, I realize.

  Opening the laptop, I examine the mirror and then my face. I see eyes sunken and fearful, skin pale and clammy, blood congealed in my hairline. I lift the laptop higher to examine the blood and see a note attached underneath. Harold1066. It couldn’t be, could it? Surely no one is that stupid. I type Harold1066 into the password prompt and the laptop comes alive.

  Again on the ground, beneath the table I begin exploring the contents of the laptop. Windows Explorer reveals the usual, Documents, Pictures and so on but they are empty. Within the basic folder structure on the screen, I see my name: Emma Grainger. I see other women’s names also; Katherine Day, Geraldine Simson, Petra Mathews, but my name draws me to it. I double click the folder and am presented with files. Most are picture files with what appear to be dates as filenames. I flick through them and see myself jogging, driving to the gym, working late at the office in my home with no colleagues to keep me company, swimming in an empty pool, kneeling at my parents’ graves, on my first date in years at a Spanish restaurant in town. Other files give detailed schedules of my movements each day. Still more files show copies of my birth certificate, marriage and divorce certificates, parents’ death certificates, my exam results, degree award and post graduate qualifications. This laptop holds details of every part of my life. Who the hell are these people?

  As I search I see something that makes my stomach lurch and a cry catch in my throat. EG23-11-75_Death_Cert. I open the folder and see three files. I feel like I am working underwater: weightless, lifeless, an automaton. I open the three files and see a police report, coroner’s report, and death certificate. The date is what I believe to be today’s date, 5th January 2014. A fluttering in my chest feels like moths fighting in their cage of ribs attempting to break free.

  My eyes become heavy and head faint. I know these people are hunting me, but until I saw this I didn’t really register the end result. They want me dead. They have a cover-up planned. I am to die of a heart attack whilst running.

  I have no family so there will be no one to ask to see the body. How can they get away with this? How can they just make me disappear? Surely someone will notice? But who would notice? I work from home. I have no colleagues, no gym partners. My husband moved to another country to get away from me. I am alone. And they know that.

  “Fuck them!” I say aloud. “I will not be afraid any more. I have a weapon and I have proof. I will not allow them to dictate my death.” I shut down the laptop and put my sweater back on so I can tuck the device in my jeans waistband and under my sweater. It won’t be the most comfortable way to move but I will have my arms free. I pick up the gun and head out of the room. With the laptop light gone, it is pitch black once more. I resume my shuffle and splayed fingers reach for obstacles. I can see the open door, a sliver of lighter gloom in the surrounding dark. I feel for the safety catch on the gun. I have no idea which way is on or off and the moment of discovery could be my last, but I have no choice. I marvel at how much a girl can learn from movies.

  My forward motion is stopped by the sound of shuffling outside. I crouch down, making myself a smaller target and point the gun, holding it with both hands. The glow of a cigarette butt sails past the open doorway and a figure steps into the void.

  I pull th
e trigger…and nothing happens. I smooth the catch in the other direction. I am lucky. I can see by his silhouette that the man has his back to me and is looking around. He is expecting me to be hiding, cowering like a helpless mouse. He turns and enters my bunker and I fire. The explosion of sound is immense and I am completely deafened. I have no way of knowing if someone heard, is calling out or investigating. My man is on the ground. He is still and I hope, silent.

  I edge closer to him, gun poised, ready to shoot again. As I reach him, he is slightly illuminated by the gloom outside. Is dawn approaching? My hearing starts to return as my victim’s splutters reach me.

  I kick his rifle away from him and take a closer look. He appears to be wearing goggles and I realize they must be night vision goggles. I thought they only existed in movies and in the armed forces. I try to take them from him but he weakly bats my hand away.

  I try again and this time he does not resist. His breathing is labored and weak. I put the goggles on and the world is illuminated in green. When I look at the man he is all but dead. His throat is a mess of blood and sinew and I can’t believe the luck of my shot. I try to feel guilty about killing another human being, but this human wanted me dead. He took me from my life, brought me here with the purpose of killing me. I cannot feel guilt at protecting myself.

  I am now armed, I have proof and I can see. I will fear them no longer! I will get out of here alive, if I have to kill every last one of them. I will hunt them down and I will make them fear me.

  About the Author

  T. D. Harvey, or Tee to her friends, has been writing stories since she first put pen to paper. Having lived in Philadelphia USA, Caerleon Wales, and Bristol England she always returns home to Hampshire in southern England and sets much of her writing in that beautiful and historic county.

  In her previous career as a qualified Veterinary Nurse her writing often revolved around animal stories and thrillers based in the Veterinary world. Today she balances her much more eclectic writing with a full-time job as a Business Analyst and volunteer work as a school governor for a local special needs school.