by Frank Tayell
“What’s that?”
He smiled. “Forgive me, but that is not something I am willing to share with you. Not yet, at least. What you must understand is that, though it may not seem like it now, what we do is for the betterment of all.”
“Isn’t that what all traitors say?”
“And if they succeed in toppling the government, they write the history books and call themselves the founding fathers of the nation.”
“I can’t see the Luddites writing many history books,” she said.
“Ah, yes. Our technophobic friends serve their purpose, as I serve mine.”
“Don’t you have any remorse for all the people you’ve killed?” she asked.
“Remorse? Hailey Lyons was a criminal. She would have died sooner or later, leaving no contribution to our species save the nutrients her decaying body would have returned to the soil. I merely brought forward the date on which that contribution was to be made.”
“What about the Marines?”
“Death is a risk of those who don a uniform.”
“And the passengers on the Mail train?”
“Collateral damage,” he said. “A few may die now, but their deaths mean that millions won’t die in the years to come.”
“And that’s it? That’s your justification? You have no right to decide who lives and dies!”
“And you do? Your government gave you a badge and sanctioned you to kill others. How many ethics classes did you take in the academy? How much did they teach you about good, evil, and the rule of law? Nothing. Some must die so that others can live. That is the law of our civilisation. All is done for the greater good.”
“Why did you kill Fairmont?” she asked, not truly caring about the answer, but knowing that as long as he was talking the pain wouldn’t begin again.
He took a deep, thoughtful breath. “That is something you will learn in time, but not before the information is no longer of any use to you. I would like to offer you an exchange.”
“Like a prisoner exchange?” Ruth asked.
“No, I said I’m offering you an exchange. I want information about Isaac. Tell me everything you know, and I will tell you who you really are.”
“Isaac?” Ruth asked, confused. The rest of Emmitt’s words sank in. “What do you mean who I really am?”
“You weren’t called Ruth when you were born,” he said. “I know your name.”
“How?”
“I can tell you the story of your past, but in return you must tell me about Isaac.”
“No,” she said, with barely any hesitation.
“Your name is Sameen,” Emmitt said. “And you were named after your maternal grandmother.
Ruth stared at him. Was he telling the truth? It was the wrong question. Was there anyway that she could know he wasn’t lying?
“Strike a match, Sameen,” Emmitt said. “You’ve heard the expression before.”
She shook her head.
“You’re not very good at lying,” he said. “It’s something Isaac said. I know him, you see. Strike a match and remember something good. You know why he says it? Because he was the moment in history. He was the one who let all of this evil loose on the world. Whatever you think you know about him is wrong, and now you are on the wrong side of history. Tell me what you know.”
Ruth considered it, right up until she remembered Sergeant Davis.
“No,” she said.
“You’ll change your mind. We have plenty of time. Weeks, in fact.”
“Until the fifth?” she asked.
Emmitt smiled. “I will return in the morning. We’ll talk then. Understand, however, that I do need those answers. If necessary, I will ask Eve to return.”
Emmitt left, leaving Ruth feeling more alone than ever before.
Chapter 13
Strike a Match
“The fifth. That’s when he’s waiting for. It is, isn’t it?” Ruth asked the empty room, wondering whether she was right, or just trying to convince herself. “What’s going to happen then, and why can’t it happen sooner.” No answers came back to her.
What did it matter? What point was there in solving the case when she was trapped? She’d learned it was night. Or probably night. Maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps that was why the electric lights had been left on, so they would mask any stray beams of sunlight creeping down the stairs. Morning or night, the time truly didn’t matter. Emmitt would return, and then…
She began to shiver. In an attempt to stop it she slammed her palms up and down against the chair’s wooden arms. She wanted to cry, not with the memory of the pain but out of the hopelessness of her situation. This was where she would die. Alone, and in pain, but not until she’d told Emmitt everything he wanted to know.
A sob escaped her lips. Despair flashed into anger. She pushed down with her feet, raising the chair the full inch the bolts would allow. She slammed it down with all the force her torn muscles could manage. There was a crack. Not a loud one, but the sound brought a ray of light to her soul. She braced her feet again, pushed, and slammed them down. Another crack. She tried moving her arms. The left had some give. Pushing and tugging, scraping off skin, she managed to pull the chair’s left arm free from its support. Her hand trembled as she picked at the rope, freeing her other hand, and then her feet.
She was barely able to stand. Blood ran freely down her hand. She was trapped. She was alone. The best she could hope for was a quick death. No. Quick or slow didn’t matter, and as long as she was alive she’d fight. She looked for a weapon. The leather case was on the table. There were some blades among the tools, but they were small, almost delicate instruments. She picked up the chair’s broken arm. It wasn’t the most formidable weapon, but the weight was reassuring. She listened. There were no footsteps, no sound of anyone coming down the stairs. Was the crypt soundproof? Was that why no one had heard her cries? No. No more questions, suppositions, or assumptions. Someone would return. The chair leg would be a feeble weapon when they did.
On unsteady feet, she made her way across to the metal canisters. A long-handled steel wrench lay next to them. The heft was comforting until she remembered the automatic rifles. Partly curious, and partly to put off the inevitable fate waiting at the top of the stairs, she pulled the cap off a metal can. She gave it a sniff. It wasn’t water, but something oily. Could it be diesel? She hadn’t a clue what that smelled like, but they had to store it somewhere. Was diesel flammable? She didn’t know though supposed it must be. Whatever happened to her, she could at least destroy the building, and perhaps Emmitt’s fuel store. Perhaps she’d even kill the man himself.
She laid the fuel can on its side. Oily liquid spilled out onto the floor. She reached for another, then a third. With the fourth, she trailed a line of fuel to the staircase. Almost as a reflex, she began searching her pockets for a light. A crooked smile crept across her face.
“Strike a match,” she murmured, but she didn’t have one. Would breaking an electric bulb provide enough of a spark to ignite the vapour? She had no idea, but the thought of burning alive in the cellar was even less appealing than being shot or stabbed to death. Perhaps she could find some stub of candle on the stairs.
Fear grew with each step she climbed. The staircase began to curve, and the light from the lamps was replaced by hideous shadows. After thirteen steps, she reached an iron gate. Paint flecks fell like snow as she brushed her hand against the metal, searching for the lock. She found it, but there was no key.
She backed away a step, and then another. Maybe, just maybe, she could hear distant voices. What to do? She retreated another step. Sit in the chair, with one of those long thin knives in her hand, wait until that woman got close and then… but the chair had its back to the stairs. Before anyone got close they would see the ropes were untied. She could smash the lights and make the cellar dark. When they came downstairs, they wouldn’t be able to see her. Perhaps she could sneak past them. Perhaps even lock them in the cellar. Except what if smashing a bulb
ignited the vapour? Even if it didn’t, then surely, on seeing that the lights were out, one of them would come down with a naked flame. Either way, the fumes would ignite, and she would burn to death.
Despair returned. She retreated back into the crypt. There had to be some other way out. There had to! Her eyes roamed the room, searching for an escape. There wasn’t one. Perhaps she could pick the lock. She crossed to the metal case and pulled out a long needle. Reason returned. She had no idea how to pick a lock, and wouldn’t learn in the next few minutes. Despair turned to desperation as she paced the room, searching for a window, a door, or even a loose brick that might reveal some secret tunnel.
Her foot kicked against something. It rattled across the floor. She looked down. Her first thought was scrap metal, but no, they were cartridge casings. She bent and picked one up. Had Emmitt executed people down here? Except next to the casing was an unspent bullet. She held the cartridge close to the nearest light. The markings around the casing looked like they’d been made by pliers. She looked down at the floor. There were more cartridges. Perhaps forty or fifty of them. How much explosive propellant did that add up to? Was this Emmitt’s solution to not being able to rob a munitions train? It didn’t matter. She looked at the casing in her hand. The percussion cap looked undamaged. There was only one way to tell. She breathed out, then in, and her lungs filled with those oily fumes. Her hand trembled as she laid the needle against the indentation in the casing. Do it. Do it.
“Do it,” she said aloud. But she couldn’t. Not yet. The fumes were getting stronger. She retreated back to the gate. Perhaps they would ignite from the heat of the lamps. Perhaps. And perhaps the sound of the flames would cause someone to come down the stairs, unlock the door, and investigate. Perhaps she could get outside and slip away into the night. Perhaps. But more likely not. They’d come to the gate, smell the fumes, and guess something was wrong. In which case she had the needle, and the percussion cap.
“Strike a match,” she murmured, sitting down on the step to listen. “Strike a match and end it all.”
Time passed.
She heard voices. They got nearer. She braced herself. They went further away. They came back. She fixed the image of Maggie’s face in her mind and remembered a Christmas of years’ past. The voices faded. A tear rolled down her cheek. The sense of loss, of isolation, of utter abandonment was almost overwhelming. The voice telling her to just end it grew louder and louder and louder and—
The ground shook. A dull rumble echoed through the church above her. Dust danced down from the ceiling, and for a moment she thought it would collapse. The sound faded, to be replaced by a crackling. Was that fire? Flames? A wave of horror swept over her, but no, it was something else. Gunfire? Yes. People were shooting. That could mean only one thing. A rescue. Captain Mitchell had found her!
She stepped away from the gate, retreated down into the room, and leaned her back against the wall. A stab of pain ran across her shoulders as they touched brick. She ignored it. She would wait. Mitchell would call out for her, but Emmitt or that woman might come down to kill her. If they did… She gripped the metal wrench firmly. The gunfire got nearer, growing in volume, resolving into individual shots.
“Ruth?” A voice called. It wasn’t Mitchell.
“Isaac?” She ran up the steps. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“I told you I was following you,” he said, running his hands across the lock. “I could probably pick it.” He sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Diesel. I’ve been spilling it on the floor. I was going to burn it.”
Isaac sniffed again. “That’s not diesel. That’s gasoline.” He disappeared before Ruth could ask him where he was going.
“Gregory!” she heard him bellow a moment later. There was no reply from the man, just a renewed crescendo of gunfire. The little light coming from the top of the stairwell vanished as Gregory pushed his way down the narrow tunnel. He had to bend over, with his shoulder blades brushing the bricks. He looked her square in the eyes, and she saw a furious anger burning deep within his. He growled softly, as he pulled out a crowbar, stabbed it between the lock and gate. His muscles stiffened. His veins bulged. Above, the gunfire grew louder, and nearer.
“Don’t bother,” Ruth began. “Get out. Both of you, before—”
There was a creak, a crack, and the lock broke. Gregory pushed the gate open, grabbed Ruth’s arm, and hauled her up the stairs. The bare stone changed to shredded carpet, the stairs to a corridor, and then to a more modern wooden staircase. That led to a vestry with moss on the walls and two ropes hanging down from a shattered roof. Ruth stared upwards at stars she hadn’t thought she’d ever see again.
“Get down!” Isaac yelled. Gregory pushed her to the ground. Isaac was in a ruined doorway, firing a pistol blindly around the corner. He rolled back into cover. “Here,” he said, and threw her a pistol.
She caught it clumsily, crawled to the doorway, swung around the corner, and fired off two quick shots.
Beyond the door was a ruined church. Part of the roof was missing. She guessed the crypt ran under the altar and underneath a pile of rubble that had once been a side chapel. She ducked around the doorway, firing off another two shots. This time, she paid more attention to the dim figures lurking behind the fallen masonry. The ruin was filled with smoke from burning pews, but she could see shadows moving from one patch of cover to the next.
“Four or five of them,” she said, as Isaac dragged her behind the stone archway.
“It would be a shame if you were to get your head blown off,” he said.
Bullets chipped at the stonework surrounding the door. The fusillade seemed to go on forever.
“Sorry we took so long,” Isaac said. The firing stopped. She braced herself.
“No,” Isaac said, grabbing her arm before she could roll around the corner again. A moment later, the firing recommenced.
“How did you find me?” she asked again.
“The short answer is as I said, I’ve been tracking you for a long time. The long answer will have to wait. Are you okay? Can you run?”
“Probably. Where are we? And who’s here? Are Captain Mitchell and Riley with you.”
“No,” Isaac said. “They’re ripping the city apart. I didn’t have time to get them. It’s me and Gregory, and Kelly’s outside with her rifle. I suggest we make sure that we’re gone before they realise that we’re outnumbered.”
There was a ragged burst from somewhere outside of the church, and then another muffled explosion.
“Timed charges,” Isaac said, firing off another two shots. “Nothing more than smoke and noise. There are three more.”
“We can’t leave,” Ruth said. “Not yet. Emmitt is here.”
“Look behind you,” Isaac said.
Ruth turned. There was a body lying in the corner of the room. A rush of joy flushed through her, then anger that she’d not been able to kill the man herself. Then she saw it wasn’t Emmitt, but a man dressed like Isaac and Gregory.
“That’s Liam Greene,” Isaac said. “He died as we came in through the broken roof. Nice lad. Wanted to be a shepherd, but he’s allergic to dogs. Was allergic. He died so you could be rescued, Ruth. It’s time to leave.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but there was another distant explosion.
“Fine,” she said. “But we can destroy this place, set fire to the gasoline, and at least stop Emmitt from using it.”
“Here.” Isaac pulled a small package from his pocket. “I kept one in reserve. You can set the time, anything up to five minutes.”
Ruth looked at the ropes, and the hole in the roof.
“Is that how we’re getting out? A minute should do it.”
“It’s counting down,” he said, handing it to her. “Throw it down the hole.”
“Strike a match,” Ruth murmured, and threw the small device down into the dark, fume-filled stairwell. “And let the place burn.”
“Not how I’d have put it,” Isaac said, “but apposite. The rope. Gregory?”
Gregory grabbed Ruth by the waist and heaved her up. She caught hold of the rope and pulled herself up to the hole in the roof, and then outside. There was another muffled explosion from somewhere near the far side of the church, and then another barrage of gunfire. Ruth rolled over, checked her footing, then swivelled around to offer Gregory a hand, but the man had already reached the top. He pulled himself outside, braced his feet either side of a cracked roof beam, and hauled on the rope. A moment later, Isaac was on the roof.
“Go!” Isaac hissed. “Go.”
Ruth looked for a ladder, or rope, or way to climb down. Something ricocheted off stone to her left. Before she could return fire, there was a whoosh from behind her, a sudden burst of hot air, and she was blown from the roof. She landed hard, jarring her elbow on broken brick. Hands pulled her forward, away from the ruined church, and into the relative anonymity of the woods.
“This way,” Isaac hissed. Ruth couldn’t see a thing, but the man seemed to know where he was going. She looked back at the building. Flames leaped from every broken window and gap in the stone. Ruth pushed herself away from Gregory, raising her pistol, looking for a target. She saw none, but pulled the trigger anyway, firing into the burning ruin and feeling no better for it. Her gun clicked empty.
“Strike a match,” Isaac said quietly, as if he was speaking to himself, “and hope the world doesn’t burn. That’s what I said, once. A long time ago.”
