Scallywag TYPESET

by Brogan, Stuart

  Callum remained motionless, desperately trying to resist the urge to move forward and investigate the subterranean dwelling. He decided to wait a few minutes longer. There was no way of knowing how big the cellar was or how long the target would remain swallowed by its depths; he couldn’t risk being caught out in the open without a contingency plan in place.

  For over five minutes Scallywag kept his vigil, his body aching from the intensity, his head pulsing from the concentration, his eyes every now and then scanning the hallway behind him. He paused and stared back towards the front of the house. Maybe he should explore the house while the target was in the basement. Better yet, maybe he should just close the trapdoor and let the fucker rot in his hidey-hole. The chances of him being found were slim.

  Callum shook his head. No, he would be found and, in all probability, still alive and kicking, free to ply his trade. Callum simply couldn’t take the risk, he had to finish him personally. At least he would know the job had been done properly.

  Finally, he decided that his first course of action was indeed correct and it was time to move on. Slowly, he pushed the door open just enough for him to edge his body through, then silently manoeuvred his way towards the opening. As he got closer Callum could see that there was a faint light emanating from the bottom of the hole. And resting up against the inner wall was a ladder. He peered over the ledge and saw that the drop was about ten foot. The floor at the bottom appeared to be concrete, illuminated by overhead lighting just out of sight. Once again Callum was intrigued; he could almost smell the money waiting for him within the hidden bunker, enticing him to take his fill. He shook his head, remembering the real reason for his visit.

  Rebecca’s face suddenly appeared in his mind’s eye, her silent scream pleading for help, his inner clock silently counting down. Callum sat on the ledge, gripped the metalwork of the trapdoor with both hands, and eased himself down onto the ladder. He glanced down one last time, exhaled softly and— with the image of Rebecca still freshly burning in his head—slowly began his descent.

  Six

  23:32 Hrs

  As Callum reached the bottom of the ladder the first thing he noticed was the sudden drop in temperature. He exhaled softly and silently watched as the breath rose from his mouth. He shivered involuntarily, his body starting to feel the subterranean dampness gnawing at its core.

  The second was the thick wooden doorway just to his left; it looked old and well-worn, a heavy metal latch securing it shut. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that it ventured out under the back garden, but for what distance was anyone’s guess.

  He suddenly felt exposed and quickly turned around, convinced he was being observed, reluctant to venture further yet eager to discover what treasures lay hidden within the bunker.

  Directly in front of him the corridor measured about seven-foot high by five-foot wide, and seemed to extend approximately thirty-foot in the direction of the front of the house, culminating in what looked like a heavy metal door. He assessed the surroundings; the ceiling was interspersed with dull neon bulbs every three feet, the floor well-worn concrete. He took in a heavy breath and winced as the acrid smell of disinfectant attacked his nasal passage, causing him to gag softly.

  Callum reckoned that the doorway itself would be located just past the front entrance of the house, possibly even under the driveway. Of course, he couldn’t know for sure as he hadn’t been to the front of the property; at this point it was mere supposition. He glanced behind him, once again staring at the latched wooden doorway. There was no way of knowing how far this bunker extended or, for that matter, which way the mystery man had travelled. All Callum knew was that he had to keep going.

  He glanced back towards the metal doorway and instinctively made his decision. Scallywag grabbed his backpack and retrieved the heavy torch, adamant he wasn’t going to venture any further unless armed. His fingers ached under his grip; he ignored the throbbing and cautiously made his way down the tunnel.

  The sudden high pitched scream resonated out of nowhere, instantly paralysing him with terror. He couldn’t move, his mind desperately clawing for some sort of reasoning as to what he had just heard. Another scream but this time followed by a muffled voice. He stared at the door, half-expecting someone to come through at any second. Then there was nothing once again; he pushed forward even more stealthily than before, his every fibre telling him to flee.

  Callum gripped the torch tighter, his fingers and hand aching from the increasing pressure. iIn some far corner of his mind he took solace in the fact that somehow it gave him some semblance of courage, yet his rational side doubted it would be of much use, should the shit really hit the fan.

  He edged ever closer to the door, his sweat saturating his t-shirt and hoody, despite the plunge in temperature. Step by step he kept moving his body, ready to react to any threat. He finally reached the door and paused, desperately listening for any movement, but once again was confronted with only silence.

  His mind was an utter maelstrom. Should he charge in all guns blazing and utilise the element of surprise, or should he try to sneakily open the door relying on stealth and guile? If he went rushing in there was no way of knowing what he would be facing. On the other hand, if he moved too slowly his target may see the door move, giving him all the time he needed to launch an attack of his own. Simply put, there was a fifty-fifty chance of Callum getting killed in the next few minutes, regardless of which tactic he chose.

  He paused, his left hand hovering over the heavy iron latch, his right still clutching his makeshift weapon. He scanned the door, hoping to find something that would sway his judgement and force him to make a decision, but nothing was forthcoming. The door was heavy, its edges peppered with spots of rust. Callum reasoned that it had been in situ for some time, judging by its well-worn appearance.

  He glanced at the floor, immediately noticing two heavy tracks carved into the concrete. He looked closer. He shuddered with nervous excitement when he realised that they must have been made by something heavy being dragged. A box full of money, perhaps? Once again, he listened, desperately trying to find out what lay beyond. “Fuck it,” he whispered, and slowly worked the latch. Any action was better than inaction, he told himself. The handle creaked slightly as he turned it. He braced himself as he heard the latch come free, then pushed forward, gently easing the door wide enough for him to enter.

  He found himself in another dimly-lit semi-barren room and, to his relief, alone. He let out a heavy sigh, the sensation of safety washing over him. He scanned the subterranean bunker. The room itself was approximately fifteen-foot square and the same height as the passageway. Directly in front of him was another heavy metal door housed in a thick wooden mounting. To his left was a free-standing metal bathtub, half-filled with what appeared to be liquid.

  He moved towards it and, upon reaching it, gently dipped his free hand in. It was water and freezing cold. He quickly withdrew his hand, the temperature catching him by surprise. It was then he noticed the shallow run-off ditch leading from the bath to the centre of the room, where a small metal grate covered what looked like a hole one-foot square. A nagging feeling told him that there was something peculiar about the floor, and it took him only a few seconds to realise that the concrete sloped in towards the centre, The gradient was ever so subtle, but now investigated, painfully obvious.

  A sudden chill took his breath away; for it was then he caught sight of the four meat-hooks hanging from the ceiling, and what looked like chains attached to each wall. Despite Callum’s initial optimism, he started to feel a crushing sensation—of defeat—and also something else, something primal, a deep-seated fear. There was no doubt in his mind that something was very wrong here; he could sense it, the very atmosphere oppressive and desperately malignant. Every part of his being was telling him to run, apart from his heart, that was. He couldn’t just leave, not when he was so close. He had no choice but to go on in the vain hope he could complete his task and rescue his sist
er.

  He screwed his eyes tight in a bid to alleviate his trepidation and to calm his rapidly-eroding nerves. Why the hell would someone have a room like this? Just who the fuck was this guy? He sure as hell wasn’t like any copper he had ever had dealings with. Scallywag had no choice but to face the cold stark truth that he had bitten off more than he could chew; in fact, the whole situation was getting more bizarre and sinister by the minute.

  Time to get out before the shit got so deep he found himself drowning and unable to escape. He opened his eyes and hastily moved back towards the first door. He had made his decision; he was leaving. He would just have to find another way to save Rebecca, or die trying.

  The sound of the metal door swinging back on its hinges stopped Callum instantly; he stared on in disbelief as the hulking brown jumper-wearing figure stepped over the threshold, a heavy metal bar gripped in one hand. His face was hidden—except for his eyes—by a black latex bondage mask. Callum barely had time to react as the figure viciously swung his weapon towards his head.

  He dropped his body weight and scrabbled back. Then, running on instinct, he threw himself to the right in a bid to escape the incoming blow. He just managed to duck in time as the bar passed within inches of his head.

  Brown Jumper grunted and, in a fit of rage, lunged forward, swinging once again, desperately eager to inflict blunt force trauma. Callum bellowed in pain as this time the makeshift weapon managed to hit its intended target and connected with Callum’s right shoulder. There was a dull muted thump as the bar hit its mark, the colossal impact sending Scallywag sprawling to the floor. His body crumpled underneath him as his head took the brunt of the fall.

  Despite hitting the concrete with bone-jarring velocity, he managed to regain his composure just enough to roll to his feet, clutching his own weapon, ready to defend himself, his vision blurred, his head still ringing from concussion.

  “Come on, you bastard!” he growled, fuelled by a surge of adrenaline, his vehemence spewing forth. Brown Jumper didn’t rise to the bait but remained silent and eyed Callum cautiously, then slowly started to circle him, his body hunched ready to strike just as a wolf might stalk its prey.

  Callum held his gaze, his eyes defiant, not wanting to show any fear. He sidestepped, his movements loose, all the while trying to maintain his distance, his own weapon raised and ready to lash out at the first opportunity.

  Without saying a word, Brown Jumper threw himself forward, his body low, his head down. Callum wasn’t expecting that kind of attack and the sudden change in tactics caught him off-guard. For a split second his brain couldn’t register a response, momentarily causing him to hesitate. That was all the time his attacker needed. The impact of the rugby tackle sent a wave of pain surging through his body as Brown Jumper’s massive frame slammed into his stomach, sending both men tumbling to the bunker floor.

  Callum tried to stand but just as he started to get up was knocked back down by a heavy right fist smashing into his face, the impact opening up a savage cut to his lip, his head once again slamming into the concrete. For the second time, Callum tried to rise, but he immediately felt a pair of vice-like hands clamp down around his throat, forcing his upper body to the floor, the pressure so intense he could feel the blood supply to his brain diminishing.

  He wildly tried to throw a punch but hit nothing but air. He kept struggling, his muscles starting to feel lethargic as they began to scream out for oxygen. Brown Jumper held on, his monstrous grip unrelenting. No matter what Callum did he couldn’t seem to break free. He half-heartedly threw another punch, the impact doing nothing more than irritating his attacker and, in turn, making him grasp even tighter.

  Through his delirium and rapidly diminishing consciousness, Callum was aware that he could smell his attacker’s pungent body odour and, despite the mask, feel his foul breath upon his face. Scallywag suddenly thought of Rebecca, her face solemn, her body broken. A wave of torment washed over him, the reality of letting her down and for not being the big brother she always thought him to be was painful beyond comprehension. The look of absolute disappointment on her face was crushing. Callum stared at the ceiling and saw the light above him flicker, its shine becoming dimmer, then slowly fading out of focus.

  Finally, there was only darkness.

  The impact of the ice-cold water caused Callum to wake instantly from his slumber, the shock forcing his body to suck in a massive intake of air. Remnants of the liquid ran down his face and into his mouth. He shook his head and was immediately aware that he was on his knees; his arms outstretched either side of him bound by chains to each side of the room. He frantically tugged at his restraints, desperately trying to free himself, but the minimal slack of the bindings showed little or no movement. He coughed again, his stomach awash with water and blood from his mouth, a deep cut on his forehead adding to his gore-soaked appearance. He let his head fall to his chest, the reality of his incarceration overwhelming.

  “Who are you, little boy?” The voice was deep and low, yet somewhat soothing and polished. Callum raised his head and stared in the direction of the voice, his eyes still blurry from his unconsciousness. Five feet in front of him, sitting on a single wooden chair, was Brown Jumper, his body leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes boring into the young burglar, yet his latex mask still present.

  This is getting repetitive, Callum found himself thinking.

  “Fuck you.” There was a slight chuckle followed by a deep sigh.

  “I’m not sure you truly comprehend where you are, my innocent little rabbit.” He paused then slowly raised his hand, outstretched his index finger, and jabbed it at Callum

  “You are in my world now.” Brown Jumper let out another subtle chuckle and slowly rose to his feet. Callum tensed and eyed his captor, bracing himself for an attack. He took the opportunity presented and quickly glanced around him; he was relieved to see that it was the same room as before.

  He let out a staggered sigh; at least he knew which way to run should he eventually manage to escape.

  Callum remained silent as Brown Jumper slowly made his way towards him. He reached down and, with one gloved hand, grabbed hold of Callum’s chin, forcing his head upwards. Brown Jumper bent forward, only stopping when he was two inches away from his victim’s face.

  “I could inflict such levels of pain upon you, the likes of which you couldn’t comprehend, little rabbit. I alone decide when you die and, for that matter, the level of suffering you endure until such a decision is made. In this place you deem Hell, I am the only voice you will hear for the rest of your life.” He snarled menacingly. He pushed his hand abruptly against Callum’s jaw, forcing him to turn his head away. “However long that may be,” he added softly. Once again, he stood up and moved back to his chair, his movement’s fluid and relaxed in contrast to his size and build.

  Callum spat a large globule of phlegm onto the floor. “If you are going to kill me just fucking get on with it,” he snapped, no longer willing to play his captor’s game. Brown Jumper turned to face him once again, his demeanour unflinching. Callum shuddered under his gaze. Brown Jumper broke the uneasy silence.

  “I must admit I am at a loss as to who you are and what your motives are regarding coming here. In fact, just how you found this place is something of a mystery to me. But I can assure you that, whatever you think you have to gain from entering my world, it is nothing compared to the wonders I have seen. Maybe you are here to play your part in history, however brief that maybe. Could it be that your arrival was foretold, and that you are now a part of something bigger than any of us. Could you now be nothing more than a tiny piece in the great game we are both destined to play out?” He paused and stretched his arms up above him, his fingers reaching up and touching the ceiling, his head hanging crookedly. Callum smirked

  “What the hell are you on about, you twisted fuck?”

  Brown jumper merely sniggered and huffed in response.

  “Maybe I should show yo
u the game you are destined to play.” He rose to his feet then manoeuvred his way towards the wood-surrounded doorway. Callum followed him with his eyes but remained silent. Brown Jumper opened the door, paused, then turned to face Scallywag once again. Even though Callum couldn’t see his face, he knew with complete certainty that he was smiling.

  “Stick around, little rabbit. I think you are gonna enjoy this.” Then, in a swift movement, Brown Jumper disappeared, slamming the door behind him.

  Callum hung his head once again, his pulse rate threatening to erupt at any second, his head and neck throbbing. He started to shake, the mixture of the cold and adrenaline sending shockwaves around his body. It was only then that Callum noticed he was bare-chested, his hoodie and t-shirt discarded on the floor at the far side of the room, next to his backpack.

  His rage started to boil once again. He tugged at his chains and grimaced as the metal cuffs began cutting viciously into his wrists under the strain. Callum screamed in anger and the futility of his struggles. There was no way he was freeing himself from his bondage. He truly was at the mercy of his captor.

  Callum relaxed his body and started to laugh, the irony of the situation causing him to fall ever deeper into hysteria. No wonder Tall man and his men didn’t do the job themselves. Brown Jumper was nothing short of a maniac; no doubt a sadist, and more than likely some sort of serial killer. The kind you see on those TV documentaries.

  Callum looked up as the metal door opened once again. He looked on as Brown Jumper’s massive frame backed into the room. Callum stared in silence as his captor pulled something into the room; he gave a sharp intake of breath as he finally saw what it was.