by David Jester
Neil didn’t remove his eyes from his father. He seemed delighted with the despair he had created. “You are sick,” he said. “You and him,” he drove a toe into Marshall’s bleeding corpse, “and this whole building needs to be destroyed.”
Hildenberg stared back. He was breathing heavily, panting like an animal. His face was red, tears welled up in his eyes and threatened to stream down his face. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but the words refused to form. He shook them away, clenched his fists and then charged at his son, with an animalistic roar.
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Neil enjoyed the anger in his father’s eyes and seemed to allow the attack. Hildenberg tackled him to the ground, knocking the knife from his grasp and crashed down on top of his spurned son. Neil was still smiling when Hildenberg pulled back to look at him, to spit a frothy stare at his contented grin.
“You want to eradicate me?” Hildenberg spat, spraying Neil with angry spittle. “I’m not a fucking pawn. I’m not a nobody that you can walk all over.”
“Like your son you mean?” Neil laughed.
Hildenberg drove a knee into Neil’s groin, wiping the smile from his face. He thrust his hands against his neck, pinned his head to the floor and began to squeeze. At first Neil didn’t respond, he allowed his father to increase the pressure on his neck, and stared into his angry eyes as he attempted to choke the life out of him.
“You’re not my son,” Hildenberg hissed. “You’ll never be my son.”
Neil continued to stare back, enjoying the moment, the despair and the anger in his father’s eyes.
Malcolm and Darren watched the spectacle in disbelief, swapping stares between each other and the scrap on the floor. They were helpless and didn’t know who to help even if they weren’t. Malcolm tried to squirm free, tried to work his hands out of the ropes, but they were tied too tight, the material sunk into his flesh with every movement, every twitch.
On the edge of the stage, where the dead bodies of the two bodyguards lay, the spotlight continued to fizz. It began to spit like a Roman Candle, spraying bright sparks over the stage and over the bodies. Eventually the sparks landed on a dry spot of clothing, catching fire. More sparks fired, more ambers caught, and before long the two bodies at the foot of the stage began to burn; the scent of singed flesh filled the room.
“Are you just going to lie there?” Hildenberg roared at his son.
Neil’s face was turning from red to blue but he still didn’t move. Hildenberg’s face was flush with exertion. He thought he was going to kill him without a struggle and he considered reducing the pressure, removing his hands and waiting for an answer, but the anger and the adrenaline was too high. He continued to squeeze.
Finally, Neil reacted. He bucked out like an animal, catching Hildenberg by surprise. The doctor released his grasp on his son’s neck and steadied himself, stopping himself from failing over. Neil bucked again and again, he drove his knee upwards, into the small of Hildenberg’s back and then, when the doctor was about to fall, he drove both of his hands upwards, hitting the doctor in his chest and knocking him backwards.
Neil scrambled upright and placed a boot down on the doctor’s throat, like he had done to Marshall. The doctor wrapped his hands around it and tried to pry it away, but that only caused Neil to apply more pressure.
“Did you enjoy that?” Neil asked, grinning. “I wanted to see the look in your eyes as you killed me. You brought me into this world, you gave me life, you destroyed my life, and now, you’ve nearly ended my life. Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
Hildenberg tried to reply, but his voice choked out of his mouth; he tried to kick out, but his legs couldn’t reach his attacker; he tried to punch, to grasp Neil’s legs, but he needed his hands to relieve the pressure of Neil’s foot on his neck.
Neil didn’t shift his gaze from his father, didn’t look up to the edge of the stage to see that the fire had spread from the two bodies—their flesh hissing and welting under the intense heat—towards the stage curtains. The flames climbed the fabric in an instant, whipping up the curtains and coating the entire stage in the intense light and heat of an inferno.
Neil felt the heat on his skin, he smelled the burnt flesh in his nostrils, cloying at the back of his throat, but he ignored it and concentrated on his father, on the man he had been hunting for most of his life.
“I feel like this should be prolonged somehow,” Neil explained, watching as Hildenberg’s eyes bulged, as the kicking and squirming reduced, as his face turned blue. “I feel that I should be able to enjoy this more, like I should make you suffer like you were going to make these two suffer, but . . .” he shook his head, “The sooner I kill you, the better.”
Hildenberg’s eyes were losing focus; his grip on Neil’s foot was diminishing.
Malcolm and Darren watched in horror. Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, to tell Neil to stop, an instinct in him that wanted to save human life, but something stopped him. He knew that if the doctor’s life was spared, then his own life was at risk; he knew that his only chance of making it out of the building alive was if Neil killed his father.
“Any last words?” Neil asked, mocking the dying man who couldn’t speak.
Hildenberg’s hands were by his side; his feet were flat against the floor. He had given up but his eyes still twitched, his body was still alive. He looked up at his grinning son, stared into his maddened eyes; he saw the anger, the madness, the depravity, and the timidity, and then he saw nothing.
The fire was in full flow, the curtains ablaze with a ferocious wave of flames, reaching skyward, licking at the ceiling and lapping at the electrical equipment.
Neil stood in the center, looking down at his dead father and brother. His hair was matted with sweat from exertion and heat. He wiped a hand across his brow, let out a long sigh and then turned to Darren and Malcolm. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to help you?” he asked.
Darren’s jaw dropped open in disbelief; Malcolm didn’t waste time in answering, “Yes! Please.” He could feel the heat, from the inferno above him. Parts of scenery were dropping around him, singed and charred pieces of material floated in the air which was thick with heat and smoke. He flinched when he heard a loud crash behind him as a lighting rig fell, making a hole in the stage and spreading the flames into the foundations of the theatre.
Neil untied Malcolm and then worked on Darren. He took his time; Darren thought he heard the sound of him whistling to himself above the chaos around them.
“Now what?” Malcolm asked, rubbing his hands where the ropes had chafed his wrists and directing his attention towards Neil. He ducked instinctively as another rig crashed down behind him, the entire backstage was ablaze and the flames were fanning, about to envelope them.
Neil shrugged. “You leave. Do what you want.”
“And you?” Malcolm asked, already edging away, feeling the intense heat scorch his flesh.
Neil shrugged again and turned to the bodies at his feet. Their flesh was melting; Eddie’s hair had caught a spark from the fire and was beginning to burn, the sickening smell of burnt hair and flesh washed over the stage. “There’s nothing here for me,” Neil said. “I’ve done what I needed to do.”
“You can leave, you can—” Malcolm shrugged off Darren who was trying to tug him off the stage. He glared at him, watched him leave the stage and then turned back to Neil. “—You can be free. You can—”
“I need to see this place burn,” Neil said simply, “and I need to burn with it.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Malcolm said, his desperation and his anger rising as the fire raged around him. “Don’t die here like those two.”
Neil didn’t seem convinced. “I have nothing beyond this.”
Malcolm could feel the searing heat. He could feel Darren getting desperate, tugging him. “You have life. You have the knowledge that you can go on living while these fuckers rot.”
“I already outlived them,” Neil said. “I don’t need anythi
ng else.”
“But—”
Neil stepped forward, sensing the desperation in Malcolm’s voice. He was smiling. He was content, seemingly welcoming of the roaring flames and his impending death. He extended his hand, took Malcolm’s in his. “You’re a good man,” he said. “Thank you for trying to help me. Thank you for caring. But . . .” he shook his head, “you’re not going to win this battle.”
Malcolm gripped Neil’s hand tightly. “You sure?”
“Go,” Neil said.
“Yes,” Darren called from behind, tugging his friend and forcing him to break free from Neil’s grasp. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Malcolm coughed as a rush of hot and toxic smoke passed into his lungs. He took a step back, having to shield his eyes from the intense light and sweating under the intense heat.
“Come on!” Darren screamed behind him.
Neil was so close to the inferno that Malcolm knew he could feel it, he was close enough to burn, yet he didn’t move an inch. Malcolm watched as Neil opened his arms spread eagle and then threw his head to the ceiling. He shouted something, but Malcolm couldn’t make it out. He took another few steps back, allowed Darren to tug him further away, then he watched as the flames engulfed Neil, as the man that had saved his life disappeared in a wash of angry yellow and red.
Darren rushed down the aisle, towards his mother. He rushed to get her untied as Malcolm untied his own mother.
“I’m so sorry!” she yelled, her eyes streaming with tears. “I just . . . I’m—” she was stuttering, struggling to speak. Darren held up a hand to silence her, he pointed to the end of the aisle and told her to wait. He watched as Malcolm untied his mother to similar teary scenes—which Malcolm regarded with apathy—then he turned to Ian who wasn’t crying or mumbling. He regarded Darren warily as Darren studied his restraints.
“If you were to leave me here,” Ian said simply. “I’d understand.”
Darren frowned. The idea had occurred to him, but at that moment he felt indebted to Ian. He felt sorry for what he had done earlier in the day, even if he’d had good reason. He shook his head and untied the ropes around Ian’s hand, allowing him to untie his ankles himself. When he was free they stared at each other for a moment, Darren saw the gratitude in his stepfather’s eyes, he saw a humanity that he had never seen before.
“Come on!” his mother screamed from the edge of the aisle, let’s go!”
The fire was creeping up the aisle, washing over the seats like a wave. The stage was gone, Neil, his father, his twin, and the two bodyguards were now just a part of the epicenter, their bodies extra fuel for the fire.
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They exited the double doors to the sound of chaos behind them. The fire was spreading quickly; it had already made light work of the hall and was expanding to the upper levels as well as breaking out through the door, encroaching on the corridor.
The group didn’t know where they were, but they didn’t have time to figure it out. They ran down the nearest corridor. Ian went first, but he kept an eye over his shoulder, watching his lover and her son who followed close behind. Malcolm half-carried his mother down the hallway, making sure she kept up with him and the others as they all ran as fast as their weary legs could carry them. Their feet slapped against the hard floor, echoing throughout the building, but they no longer feared the patients, no longer cared about being heard or seen, they were running away from bigger things now.
They didn’t stop when they raced past a pile of dead bodies, propped up against the wall like some macabre art installation; they didn’t stop when they heard screaming from a nearby room, or when they heard someone shouting to them from the other end of the corridor. They all pushed on, and when any one of them slowed, the others yelled at them to continue.
They ran down endless corridors, until they all started to look the same, then they realized they were running in circles, and that the corridors were the same. The fire had torn through the building and destroyed much of their path. They could feel its heat all around them, could see the thick smoke flowing down the corridors and could feel it in their lungs. Eventually, Malcolm yelled at them to stop. They were breathless, panting. Darren’s mother looked like she was on her last legs, she was coughing violently, her eyes ablaze with terror; his own mother looked despaired and lost, her pleading eyes were fixed on him. He moved to the head of the group and led them at a steady pace in the opposite direction.
They walked until things started to look familiar, until he saw the same horrors that he had already seen, until he felt the same dread that he had already felt. He saw the bodies, the doors that led to the slaughter. He felt a sense of urgency when he knew where he was, felt the heat in his lungs as the fire continued to rush through the building.
“Where are we going?” Ian asked, the first to speak since their escape.
Malcolm looked at him for a moment and then turned back down the corridor and continued walking “We’re getting the fuck out of here,” he said. “The entrance is this way.”
The front door was still locked, a part of him had hoped that the others had used it to escape the fire, but no one had gone through. He guessed that they were still fighting, still torturing, still prowling, still doing what the doctor had manipulated them into doing, despite the fact that half of the building was on fire.
Darren’s mother was still coughing madly; her weak lungs struggled with the smoke. Ian put his arm around her and looked into her eyes. He looked concerned; Darren had never seen such a sincere, honest, and human expression on his face. He wondered if Ian’s concern was for his own safety, but he saw the way he looked at her, the gentle way that his hand rested on her back.
The flames were tearing through the building and had followed the group into the entrance way, rushing down the hallways after them like the patients had done hours before. The building was falling down around them, the coughing, the worry, and the stress was punctuated by the heavy sound of falling masonry. The building had stood for over a hundred years, but tonight it was going to fall.
Malcolm kicked the door hard; the impact reverberated through his ankle, through his calf, and threatened to explode out of his knee. He winced and pulled his foot back, hopping backwards and grimacing towards Darren who shared his pain. Darren tried to run at the door, to charge through, but the door was strong, the lock was fit to withstand anything that a tired, hungry, and scared kid could throw at it. Ian also tried to open it and before long they were all battering it, hoping to crack the lock or to bring the door down.
Malcolm’s mother began shouting, pleading with whoever might be within earshot, to go and get help. Her pleas fell on deaf ears; there was no one around for miles, no one to see the flames engulf the building, certainly no one to hear the tired and desperate screams of one woman. In the dark they might have stood a chance, a blaze in such a large building would have lit up the night sky, but it was afternoon, hours had passed since they had entered the building, and it was bright outside.
Eventually they stopped, Malcolm held an arm up to stop Darren who continued to kick, punch, and charge the door when the others had given up. He took a step back, fired a worried glance over his shoulder, at the advancing flames, and then back at the door. He looked around the room, knowing that everything he saw would soon be engulfed by flames. The heat was getting unbearable and debris was raining down around them.
He heard screaming coming from deep inside the building. He turned to look down the hallways, but couldn’t see much through the blinding light. The voices continued, all screeching through the roaring fire. He looked to see that the others had heard it too, his mother was staring at him with pleading eyes, she sensed her time was up and she was begging her son to help her, knowing that she had failed to help him on so many occasions in the past.
Malcolm felt a stab of hope when he spotted something behind the reception desk. He raced over, ignoring his mother who seemed to think he was about to abandon her, about to run
back into the flames. He hopped the desk, picked up a chair and drove it into the glass case that held the fire-axe. He stared at it for a moment longer and then vaulted back over the desk and raced to the door.
The others watched as he hacked his way through the thick wood, straining and moaning with every swing. The screams were increasing behind them and the fire continued to rip through the building, firing up the room with an unbearable heat, but Malcolm ignored everything else and concentrated on the task ahead of him.
He was unable to hide his excitement when he punctured a hole through to the outside. The cool wind that rushed in, sucking out some of the toxic fumes, was almost orgasmic. It spurred him on, kick-started his adrenaline. He continued until he made the hole big enough to crawl through, then he threw the axe to the side.
He turned around, ready to order the others through. They all look relieved, happy to see the gap to the outside, but that relief quickly vanished when they saw the look of horror on Malcolm’s face. He was looking over their shoulders, towards the hallway that they had all raced down. Three patients were running into the room, heading directly for Malcolm and the others.
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Malcolm hoped that the screaming, running patients were just trying to escape. He hoped that they had come to their senses and that when he saw them, they would have expressions of fear and desperation, and not murderous intent. But they weren’t scared, and judging by the large butcher knife held by one and what seemed to be a chair leg held by another, they didn’t have escape on their minds.
Malcolm’s arms were tired, his muscles burning from chopping the door and everything that had preceded it. Darren was just as helpless, which is why neither of them reacted. They didn’t know what to do, didn’t know which way to turn, whether to charge and fight with what little they had left or to slip out of the gap in the door and run. But before they could come up with a plan, Ian made up their minds for them. The drug addict had picked up the axe and ran to meet the patients before any of the others could move.
