by Stuart Keane
"Seems to be a trend today, for you anyway."
She smiled. "SG 516 rifles, made by Sig Sauer. Semi-automatic, multi calibre. I found thirty-round magazines, which is fortunate, and they take five point five-six millimetre rounds. We also have Remington 860 shotguns. The ultimate stopping power, should we need it."
Bruce stepped forward. "Why are there only two of each? What about me?"
Goodright laughed. "I'm not arming you with either of these weapons, young man. The shotgun will knock you off your feet. The rifle will break your back. You can carry two handguns instead, like a modern-day cowboy. We'll need to give you a quick crash course as well. Ever heard of Billy the Kid?"
Bruce nodded. "Of course."
"That's you, okay? Two guns and taking names."
"Coooool."
"But don’t go shooting us, alright? Or other humans. I do have some limits."
Bruce blushed and nodded. "You got it."
Goodright smiled. "Just be careful and sensible, okay? Even Billy the Kid died in the end, if legend is to be believed."
Harrison gasped. "Spoiler alert!"
Both Goodright and Bruce chuckled.
Harrison smiled. "Is this it?" He proceeded to snap bullets into the empty magazines.
"Yes. We load up as much ammo as we can carry, and that's it. We have a squad car outside, mine, or we can take something bigger. Maybe there's a Sprinter in the garage. If we're considering your rescue mission, maybe the latter will be best."
"A Sprinter sounds good."
Bruce looked up, his fingers caressing one of the Glocks. "What's a Sprinter?"
Goodright emptied a box of shells onto the desk. "A van. I believe some of the kids call them 'meat wagons'?"
"Why?"
"I'll tell you later. We need to load these weapons and get going."
"Sounds like a plan," Harrison said.
Goodright snicked a round into the first Remington. "It’s a plan, alright. I just hope it works."
EIGHT
The first thing Stephen Stone noticed when he awoke was absolute darkness.
A void, an abyss.
Nothing.
He could see it. He could feel it consuming him, and chilling him to the bone.
He groaned and waved his hand in front of his face, to no avail.
Stephen saw no movement and no distortion in the black hole before him.
He rolled over slowly and felt a cold surface clawing at his flesh. His short sleeves betrayed him; gooseflesh prickled his forearms and his legs, the trousers doing nothing to quench the eerie feeling. A numb sensation crawled around his kneecap. As he moved, the white-hot agony that had subsided returned with a blistering frenzy. He hissed, spittle flying from his chapped lips.
Then he remembered.
The strange kid. The swift kick. His busted leg.
Shit.
"I see you're awake."
Stephen froze.
"Well, I hear you're awake, that was a slight untruth on my part. No one can see anything in that room. It's called The Pit for a reason."
"Where am I?"
"Pay attention, Mr Stone. I just told you."
"The Pit. Where is it? Where did you take me?"
"Oh, that doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. You're not going anywhere fast, and even if you do, you won't get too far on that busted leg. By the way, I advise against any attempts to escape. You don’t want to feel my wrath … again."
Stephen said nothing. He glanced up and down. Blackness. It was his whole world right now. He wiped his face and coughed. He felt the cool sweat on his flesh. "I … I need medical attention. My leg is broken."
"Nonsense. I ripped the cartilage around your kneecap, that's all. I always had a good kick on me; it’s why I played as striker on the school football team. It'll heal in time. It's a regular injury for athletes; footballers, tennis players, wrestlers, that type of thing."
"I need … I need some tablets … a doctor."
"No, you need to listen to me."
Stephen began to cry. "Why won't you help me?"
"I'm not here to help you. No one is coming to help you."
"Why … why are you doing … doing this?"
"Because you parked in my spot."
"That's … ludicrous. Appalling. How … pathetic are you?"
"Oh, Mr Stone. You antagonised me once today. Do you really want to repeat that feat?"
Stephen lapsed into silence.
"Well. It seems you're learning for once. Bravo to you."
"What do you want with me?" Stephen sat up, wincing as his knee sent a thousand stabbing pains up his thigh. He began caressing the injured appendage, groaning as he fought the increasing pain.
"Nothing. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Stephen said nothing. Processed the information.
"I'll be back, Mr Stone. Don't go anywhere."
"No, don't. Don’t leave me here. Please."
But the stranger was gone.
*****
"How long are you going to keep him in there?"
The young man rubbed his stubble, the facial hair rasping on his fingertips. He stared down into the warehouse, his eyes focused on the large metal container in the centre. Off to the left, his red Mercedes convertible gleamed in the fluorescent lights. A man mopped the concrete floor with a steady hand, avoiding eye contact.
He turned to his associate, who also avoided eye contact. A smile spread across his lips. "As long as it takes."
*****
Melanie Bartram sat up, whimpering as a bolt of searing pain flashed behind her eyes. She closed them, blocking out the blinding light that drove a searing knife into her brain, winced and groaned as her cranium throbbed like a thousand heartbeats. Shielding her eyes, she studied the puddle of dark blood that stained the carpet. Touching her nose, she hissed again, her fingertips stroking the tiny shard of snapped bone that protruded through her delicate skin. Drool slivered down her chin as she rolled into a comfortable position against the wall behind her.
And noticed David sitting in her chair.
He was alone.
David. Karen.
Karen was gone.
Her soggy eyes roamed from her patient—a man she was beginning to assess as mentally unstable—to the office door, to the empty room and back to David again. She tried to speak but nothing sounded off her tongue. The pain was too extreme.
"I really did a number on you, didn’t I? I apologise, it wasn’t my intention to mutilate your beautiful face but … well, I needed some time alone with Karen. She had things to consider, some manners to learn."
"Wha…"
"Don’t speak. Your nose is broken, which is compromising your body's normal ability to function. It might be affecting your breathing too. Save your energy. I bet it hurts like a bitch, right?"
Melanie hissed and spat, the saliva flowing freely from her mouth, but said nothing.
David stroked the arm of the chair. "I can snap it back in place for you, if you want. Let's just say I'm prone to striking a woman in the face should the need arise. You really are a feisty bunch. It wouldn’t be my first bone-setting."
Melanie glared at the man with stern conviction, defiant.
"You have to ask nicely, though. Say please and mean it. Maybe … maybe do something for me," he said, stroking the bulge in his trousers. "Pay me in kind."
Melanie groaned and touched her face. Her fingertips eased back when she felt the sharp ridge of shattered nasal bone. They probed again, gauging the severity of the injury and the unnatural position of the enamel. She resisted the need to cry, and fought the stabbing pain that was crippling every inch of her body. Taking a deep breath, she clasped the bone between two fingers and pushed it back into place with a squelch and a high-pitched scream.
David flinched, surprised by the sudden movement.
Melanie finally snapped the bone into place and sagged to the carpet. The pain began to ease
off, the bone now home. A tense throbbing pulsated through her entire skull, reminding her that the injury was still in need of medical attention. Warm blood trickled over her quivering lips.
"Bravo, doctor. I'm … I'm impressed." He rubbed his crotch. "Yes, let's use that word."
Melanie laid her cheek on the carpet, the soft surface and its homely scent soothing her a little. She stored a mental note to thank her cleaner for a job well done, for this minimal respite, and almost chuckled when the absurdity of the inappropriate thought became apparent. Despite the major threat that sat inches from her position, she closed her eyes and calmed herself, enjoyed the relief of her self-surgery.
If he was going to kill me…
He would have by now.
I've been unconscious for…
She opened her eyes and checked her watch.
Thirty minutes.
"I wouldn’t worry, darling. We're safe in here. Time is no issue. No one can interrupt us; no one is coming to help. We have all day."
Melanie felt a dark surge of terror boil deep within, an action that forced her to close her legs and curl them together, and almost made her vomit. She crossed her arms too, covering her chest. She felt violated.
What if…
Did he…
While I was out of it…
Repulsed, Melanie sat up and stared at David, her eyes searching for a hint of humanity in those blank psychotic orbs. She licked her lips and tasted blood, the bitter tang of copper assaulting her unbalanced senses.
He watched her and smiled, crossing his legs. "Now you're awake, let's begin."
Melanie stroked her cheek. The skin was swollen and sore, soft. Within a few hours, she guessed she would have two black eyes. A lovely look for a therapist, she thought. Again, she resisted a chuckle at the absurdity of that thought, especially with the current situation. Her breathing now controlled, and the pain nothing more than an irritation, she looked at her captor. "What did you do … do to Karen?"
"She needed a time out."
"Why? She's not a … child."
"She was becoming an irritation, a third wheel, a gooseberry."
Melanie said nothing.
"I want you all to myself. And now I have that, we’re going to have some fun."
*****
Aside from a few toppled tables and a broken chair, the bakery was empty. No one roamed around inside, and no noise emitted from the building. A bloody handprint decorated the glass cake cabinet located at the counter, the smeared crimson almost luminous in the display lights. A half-moon of carrot cake had tumbled to the floor. The destroyed dessert was nothing more than a brown pile with crumbs and shattered glass peppered around it.
Emma backed away from the porthole window and returned to the kitchen, knife in trembling hand. She flicked a glance at the lock on the door, satisfied it would hold. Aside from her initial flurry of panic, an action she believed had saved her life, the bakery had remained untouched. The terrified screams had driven her into the kitchen; waiting around to pique some insane curiosity was never the sensible thing to do.
She should have relaxed, settled in until help came. A wealth of baked goods stocked the multiple fridges that lined the walls, and she had an industrial oven at her disposable. She could indulge in sausage rolls and cakes until the cows came home. After all, no one counts the calories during a … whatever this panic was.
Yes, she could have relaxed.
However, she’d forgotten to lock the front door, the entrance to the store itself.
A foolish error.
The mistake haunted her thoughts, for every second that she sat still. It drove her insane, nagged at her ragged conscience, and kept her on the edge. A worry nestled at the back of her mind; would she forget? Would it be her downfall?
As the worry increased, a slight fraction for every second she spent alone, an idea began to blossom, like the phoenix from the ashes. A bad idea, but an idea nonetheless.
Go and lock it.
Terrible idea.
You don’t know what's out there, what caused the screams.
You don’t know anything, not yet.
Who's to say anything is even there?
No one screams like that unless there's a damn good reason.
You could be safe. You could be worrying for nothing.
I could die.
As Emma turned her back to the kitchen door and shoved a handful of flapjack into her mouth, she failed to notice the police-issue Sprinter that cruised past the bakery.
*****
"Best sausage rolls in town," Harrison said, pointing to the bakery, the building now quiet and isolated. He steered into the bend with one hand. "I spend way too much money in there."
"Figures. Junk food rots the senses," Goodright said, a sly smile on her face.
Harrison nodded. "I just hope Emma got away."
"Emma?"
"She worked there. Lovely girl, sweet, generous. She wouldn’t hurt a fly." He sighed deeply. "So many innocent casualties. It doesn’t bear thinking about."
"I'm sure she got away," Goodright uttered, adjusting the shotgun in her lap. "Sensible people always do."
"How do you know?"
"Intelligence prospers. Do people freeze in the face of adversity? Sure. But for every person who does so, there's another two who enable their fight and flight mode first and foremost. A majority of people would use their common sense and run."
"I don’t know. How can you prepare for this sort of…?" Harrison trailed off.
"Look at us. We’re at an advantage with our vocations, but ol' Bruce back there's just a kid. Yet, he's more prepared than most children his age, and most of the police force. Wherever they are."
"I'm not a kid," Bruce spat.
"It’s a compliment, son," Harrison replied. "She don't give them out often. Make the most of it."
Bruce said nothing.
Harrison steered onto Oak Road. The main entrance to Barrington Mall stood opposite, vast, white and elaborate, a petty blight and a major improvement to the view depending on which resident of the town spoke first.
"How do we proceed?" Harrison asked, his hands wringing the rubber of the steering wheel. He breathed out, ready for battle.
Goodright studied the structure. "We want to avoid corners, nooks, any small spaces that could hide a potential threat. The last thing we need it to be blindsided. Noise will only attract trouble. The parking garage is out, too many hiding places, and too much noise. That thing echoes all day long."
"The main entrance it is."
"River Island is four stores down on the right, which means Shoo Boutique is close to the exit. I've never been in there, but it’s a bright pink monstrosity, all garish and childlike. Only the young shop there—I would have when I was a naïve teenager."
"I see you're not a fan."
"How do we get them out?" Bruce chimed in, leaning forward. His head appeared between the seats. "Stealth is probably key here."
"Yep. We get in, brief them, and set a formation for evacuation. Quick, quiet, efficient. With any luck, we'll do so without obstruction."
"Excellent," the young boy exclaimed.
"You stay in the van, Bruce," Harrison interjected. "You can’t come. You don’t have experience in this type of procedure. And we don’t want the people worrying because we have a child with—"
"I'm not a fucking child!"
"You are—"
"Fuck you, Sean. I'm going and you can't—"
"Stop it!" Goodright turned to Bruce, an aggressive look on her face. "You're fourteen fucking years old, Bruce, and by legal law that makes you a minor, a child. You can object all you fucking want, but you’re staying in the van. You got a problem with that, we can dump you on the fucking kerb with the monsters that are currently wreaking havoc on this town. The safety of everyone in the group is paramount, and having you throwing a fucking tantrum will only complicate things."
Bruce said nothing.
"Do you want me t
o dump you on the kerb?"
Harrison shook his head. "Naomi, please…"
"No, Harrison, he has to learn. If he wants to be saved, he has to follow our rules." She turned to Bruce once more. "You in or out?"
Bruce nodded. "I'm in."
"Good. And quit it with the tantrums, fucktard, you're a smart, cute kid when you're being normal." Goodright winked at him.
Bruce smiled, a slight blush darkening his cheeks.
Harrison nodded. "She's right. You can stay here and cover our backs, our six."
"Your what now?"
"Our six? Surely you know what that means?"
Bruce shook his head.
"Seriously. Video games and war movies. You, me, a large pepperoni pizza."
"And Pepsi?" Bruce enquired, his voice almost giddy.
"Of course. A two-litre bottle. Pizza isn't the same without it."
Goodright chuckled. "Sounds like a date."
"Sounds like an education in rebellion," Harrison uttered. He chuckled.
Goodright sighed. "Right, go time."
Harrison started the vehicle, put his foot down and slowly steered the van towards Barrington Mall. He glanced left and right, studying the various buildings and clear landscape, searching for movement. Circling the infamous Barrington water fountain, he saw nothing. "Shouldn’t we be seeing some kind of activity by now?"
"It's a little odd," Goodright replied. "Keep your wits about you." She turned to Bruce. "You know how to get the side doors open? When you see us at that entrance, and not a moment before, you pop them open so we can get the people inside, okay?"
"Sure."
"Don’t answer for anyone, okay? This is a police vehicle. Survivors might see it as a beacon of hope and come to investigate, but we can’t risk it without the proper precautions. Do not open the door on your lonesome."
"But what if someone sees us—"
"Do not open the doors unless you see us, okay?" she reiterated. "Am I clear?"
"Yes."
"Good." Goodright positioned her shotgun and took a deep breath. "You fit, Harrison?"
"Fit for nothing."
"Attaboy."
As one, they opened the doors and stepped down to the concrete. Closing the doors with a soft thunk, they met at the front of the vehicle and spoke for a moment. Harrison took point with his rifle aimed before him, leading the way to the mall. Goodright followed, watching the rear. Bruce watched them go, impressed.
