Cat and Mouse

by Mark Ayre

  Raising her gun, she grabbed the handle of the nearest door, shoved it open, and stepped inside.

  On the bed, a child; on the office chair a teenager. Ahead of them both, a tall, imposing man with frightening eyes.

  Noting his gun, she swung hers around.

  As she did, he shot her twice, putting her to the ground where she began to bleed profusely.

  Eve and Doc jogged but did not run towards the farmhouse. Even this steady pace, often not much quicker than walking, was a struggle for the injured doctor. Eve, who had so recently been shot, rolled her eyes at his struggles.

  “You should have stayed with the car.”

  “Woulda got bored,” he said. “I wanna be where the action is.”

  She rolled her eyes but did not argue. If she felt speed necessary, she would leave Doc. Though she was anxious to see her brother again, she trusted Graham to do what was needed.

  Even so, she might have run. Though she did not like to engage in introspective, it was hard to avoid the realisation that she was afraid.

  Don’t burn yourself out. Remember, you’re nothing without your powers.

  Eve could not have been older than seven when her mother had sat her down and spoken to her these words. It had left the child wondering, if she was nothing more than the powers the organisation pursued, for what reason was she fleeing?

  When her mother was not poisoning her mind, she knew the answer. Adam. He was why she fought, and she was why he fought. If they didn’t need each other, they need not exist.

  Eve wanted to save him but felt impotent. She was a great shot but had only Carter’s stun gun with which to work. She feared using her powers would kill her, leaving Adam with no reason to live. Graham would save him. She would be there when it was over.

  They arrived to find the door gaping, the hall beyond empty. Stepping inside, she saw an open door into the kitchen to her right, an open door into darkness on her left. Leaning a little closer to this latter, she saw stairs which must lead to a cellar. Thinking it more likely the action was above, she backed up, intending to take the stairs to the first floor.

  At a groan, she froze. Someone was below.

  Moving to the edge of the cellar, she listened. Before too long, the groan repeated. Upstairs, she heard heavy footsteps. Graham.

  The groaning continued. Doc was unarmed, and she had only her stun gun. It could be a trap.

  It could also be Adam.

  Handing Doc the gun, she said, “Go upstairs. Help Graham and Adam.”

  His eyes widened at the mention of Graham. Ignoring him, she crossed the hall into the kitchen, relieving a block by the fridge of its sharpest knife. Returning, she shoved the static Doc stairsward.

  “Either do as I say or get back to the car. Decide now.”

  Frightened but determined to participate, Doc nodded, and headed towards the stairs, moving far slower than was necessary. Eve returned her focus to the cellar. A quick foray, just to ensure Adam didn’t lie injured below her feet, and she could head upstairs to support Graham and Doc.

  Clutching her knife, she moved to the top step and began to descend.

  Omi feared for Delilah; was desperate to keep her safe.

  Below, gunshots. Adam firing at Lucy, Lucy firing at Adam. Omi didn’t know. Only way this worked out for Delilah was if they killed each other.

  More gunshots, then footsteps on the stairs. In the office chair, Hattie sat dazed, clutching her bottle. Speaking to her elicited no response. On the bed, Delilah hugged her legs to her chest. Omi stroked her hair, promising to protect her.

  Desperate to keep this pledge, he stood, aiming his gun at the entrance. Whoever had ascended paused in the landing. They might go left or right. In case they picked right, Omi had to be ready. Whoever entered, he wasn’t supposed to kill. He should maim Adam, welcome Lucy. In either case, Omi doubted he could refrain from murder.

  The door opened. Someone entered. Noting the gun, Omi fired without hesitation, hitting centre mass twice from two. Before the intruder hit the ground, Omi knew there was almost no chance she would survive.

  It wasn’t Lucy. Sandra’s daughter might well have survived the initial barrage. Had Omi seen her hateful eyes, he would have put a bullet through her skull. With Hattie and Delilah, he would have fled. Like Adam and Eve, they would spend the rest of their lives on the run. The organisation would never let go.

  On the floor, Omi’s victim coughed, spluttering blood from between her lips. Rolling down her chin, it joined the copious amount soaking her shirt. As their eyes met, Omi recognised her.

  “Carter?”

  She opened her mouth but, instead of words, more blood escaped. With weak, shaking hands, she tapped her chest, as though she were a wizard with a wand. As if she would say Abra Kadabra and her wounds would heal.

  “What are you doing here?” he said. “Lucy didn’t say. You aren’t supposed to be. I couldn’t have known. I’m sorry.”

  He was babbling. He knew if Carter were going to survive, she would need immediate medical attention. He wouldn’t even cross the room to try stem the flow of blood. Guilty though he might feel, his priority was Delilah. Her safety he would not jeopardise for anything.

  “Omi?” said Delilah. He wished he could look at her, comfort her, but it was not possible. Hattie should have leapt to hold her daughter. The wine bottle had her hands, and she would not let go. To her daughter’s frightened voice, she showed no response.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” said Omi. “I promise it’s going to be okay.”

  More footsteps, coming towards the stairs. Omi pointed his gun to the open door.

  From nothing, as though teleporting, Adam appeared before the wardrobe opposite the entrance, pointing a gun at Omi’s chest. He gestured to the guard’s weapon.

  “You’re going to drop that,” he said. “Then tell me everything I want to know.”

  Grendel was inside, Eve nowhere to be seen. Because Adam could not countenance a scenario where Grendel had murdered his sister, he had to assume she was nearby. With the tracker, he might find her in minutes. Together they would flee.

  At the top of the stairs, Carter proceeded through a door to the right. Adam was halfway between floors zero and one when someone started firing.

  Carter had left open the door. Through it, Adam could see the agent propped against the wall, approaching death as a bull approaches a matador. Unlike the bullfighter, the Reaper would not step aside at the last second. Beyond Adam’s range of vision waited at least one person—the shooter.

  Why had they shot Carter? Were they not colleagues? A jumpy shooter did not for a simple situation make. Ask Eve.

  Downstairs, Grendel traversed the hall towards the foot of the stairs.

  Inside, a child spoke, a deep voice replied. Invisible, Adam entered. In a chair sat a drunk, dazed teenager. A tall, bald man concealed the child. Only this bald man—the child had called him Omi—was armed.

  Pointing his gun at the tall man’s chest, he appeared.

  “You’re going to drop that,” he said. “Then tell me everything I want to know.”

  Heavy feet ascended the stairs.

  Crossing the room, keeping his gun on Omi, Adam closed the door. It was impossible to avoid the creaking, but Grendel’s footfalls were loud enough to have masked a slam. Adam was confident his action would go unheard.

  Returning to the wardrobe, he glanced out the window. Below was the porch roof. It was not so close as to be a simple drop, not so far as to be undoable. Adam figured he might not have much choice.

  Grendel reached the landing, stopped.

  There was no need to shush his new companions. Grendel’s monstrous feet were more convincing than could be Adam’s finger to his lips.

  After almost a minute of silence, Grendel moved from the door, choosing left rather than right and entering another room.

  “You got one chance to get out of here alive,” said Adam, his voice quick and low. “Tell me where the tracker is,
and I’ll let you leave.”

  “No,” said Omi, without hesitation. His voice was steady, strong. His gun lay at his feet, but he seemed ready to die to protect the organisation’s asset.

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Adam. “It’s not worth dying over.”

  Omi shook his head. “Tracker’s not here.”

  “I think it is.”

  The door across the hall opened, and Grendel exited. They fell back into silence as the beast proceeded to the next room.

  Adam continued. “Don’t think I won’t kill you. I will. Whatever you try, I’ll destroy that tracker.”

  Until he mentioned destroying the tracker, the drunk teen in the office chair, clutching her wine, might have been comatose. At Adam’s promise of destruction, she shrieked and rose.

  “You leave my baby alone. She can’t help it.”

  “Calm down. I’d never kill a child.”

  He looked from the teen to Omi in time to see the bald man evacuate his horrified expression. Something lurched inside. The child drew his eye. Via baggy trousers and hooded sweatshirt, she hid nearly every inch of her flesh. Exposed hands revealed mottled grey, leathery skin. A quick step to the left removed the Omi obstruction, revealing a puffy face with skin that matched the hands. Though the child dipped her head, more effectively concealing herself with hood and golden hair, Adam saw milky white eyes. With the weight of realisation, he closed his own.

  “It’s not a machine. It’s a power,” Adam said. “It’s you.”

  Omi was still, the teenager sobbing. The child shook with fear.

  Grendel burst into the room. Though the beast had no words, his drooling smile spoke clearly.

  Dinner is served.

  Carter was on the beach of trauma. The tide of reality crashing over her then slipping away, crashing over then slipping away. And on and on.

  She wanted to live.

  She had once been in love. For her parents, she had always cared deeply. In her childhood, there had been a cat called Milo, who belonged to her sister. Though Carter pretended to be disinterested, she had adored the feline.

  Given her mother and Milo had died, her father and the ex moved away, Carter found their presence unnerving. Fighting to bring her surroundings into focus, she saw her mother standing beside Adam, her father by Omi. The ex had a hand on the drunk teenager’s shoulder; Milo curled in the child’s lap. She tried to smile at them. They ignored her.

  Adam was talking. They watched him with rapt attention. Something he said caused the teenager to shout. The words blurred, like the tide of reality they washed over her, but from them, she could discern no meaning.

  Her family were ignoring her because she was pathetic, stranded on the floor. They could see she was dying, would only speak with her if she proved she wanted to live.

  The door flew open, Grendel appeared. Carter opened her mouth to scream, but no words escaped, only an almost inaudible squeak. Grendel didn’t hear. He stepped over her and moved towards the others.

  Carter’s family were gone. In the hall, they waited. She needed to reach them.

  Aware of her blood-drenched body, the internal throbbing which signalled the final seconds of life, Carter none the less managed to galvanise her remaining strength. Using the wall as a prop, she moved to her feet. As she stood the world span, pushing the door out of reach again and again. Closing her eyes, she tried to breathe. Difficult. But when she looked, the room remained still. Smiling, she staggered into the hall, arms outstretched to embrace her family.

  They were nowhere to be seen. Carter was alone but for Doc, who reached the top of the stairs as she turned to face them.

  Have to go, she said. Or did she? Perhaps the words only rang in her head. She couldn’t remember moving her lips.

  Doc moved his, but she could not tell what he said. Knowing only of her need to escape, she stepped towards him, intending to get down the stairs even if she had to roll to the bottom, tangled within his limbs.

  As she reached him, he grabbed her. Struggling was futile, her strength a distant memory. She could do nothing as he put her back to his front, held her arms, and forced her into the room from which she had somehow escaped.

  He spoke. Carter could not hear what he said, only the words’ echos flying over her shoulder.

  Adam stood beside Omi, the teenager and child behind them. The twin had been speaking to Grendel when she entered. At Doc’s shout, he stopped. As Grendel turned, she saw what was to happen. At last, she managed to speak. A single word.

  “Please.”

  When Doc spoke, his words were clear.

  “For Francis. For my uncle.”

  Maybe that she could speak and hear meant she was getting better.

  Doc shoved her. Unable to stop, she flew into Grendel’s arms. She saw the black orbs and razor-sharp teeth. Then everything was fading.

  She accepted unconsciousness gladly.

  The stairs not only creaked but seemed to compress beneath Eve’s feet. Unable to use her power, she was more than usually wary of traps. Were the stairs to collapse beneath her, best-case scenario, she broke both legs.

  Once she had confirmed the groaner was not Adam, she’d leave. Hidden below, an army of agents might wait to launch a surprise attack. To mitigate the risk of being captured, Eve descended only so many steps as was necessary to scope out the basement.

  The room was large; barren but for the groaner and a bookshelf stacked with far more heavy volumes than it appeared the rotting framework could support. There was nowhere to hide. The only danger was to the victim, who lay within the precarious bookshelf’s range.

  A bag concealed the groaner’s head, but it was not Adam. Too small with a feminine moan. They were almost certainly an innocent bystander in this, a victim. They might also be a trap.

  Four steps from the top, Eve paused. Adam would have rushed to the girl’s rescue. Eve had always maintained Adam’s hero complex was a liability. She climbed two steps.

  In her ear, a whisper. Her mother’s voice.

  Graves and cells the world over are lined with the compassionate. With those who fell because they paused to help another, rather than saved themselves. In a cruel world, only the ruthless survive.

  Eve had hated her mother. This was one of the foul woman’s edicts she always followed.

  She climbed to the doorway which split cellar from entrance hall, paused. In crept the fear she was becoming that cruel woman. Eve often claimed, of the twins and their mother, only Adam had been born with a heart. When she said it, she smiled. She prayed it was not true. Despite her fear, she had always abandoned the victim to save her brother or herself.

  Powerless, vulnerable as she had never been, Eve learned this time would be different when she found herself descending into the cellar rather than ascending towards her brother.

  Two metres from the bagged girl, out of the bookshelf’s range, Eve stopped. An attack of compassion would not leave her blind to danger.

  She said, “Who are you?”

  The girl raised her head though, through the bag, she could not hope to see who had spoken. The bookshelf seemed to creak; to sway in a breeze that did not exist.

  “Eve?”

  Spiders of recognition scuttled along Eve’s spine. Did she know the girl? One word did not provide enough of a sample to be sure.

  This was a bad idea. Had Eve never entered the cellar, she would not be suffering internal conflict. On her shoulders sat a Devil and Angel in the form of her mother and brother. Unfortunately for her safety, of the two, she would always first heed Adam.

  Crossing the room, she dropped by the girl, her fingers hovering over the bag.

  Perhaps sensing Eve’s closeness, the girl raised her head, pressing the scratchy canvas against Eve’s skin, causing the twin to recoil, but not leave.

  “Please,” the girl said. “Help me.”

  “Is this a trap?” Eve asked.

  “Yes.”

  The answer came before Eve had a chance t
o scold herself for asking such a stupid question. The kind to which you never expected honesty.

  “She wanted to use me to get to Adam,” said the groaner, “but she couldn’t wait. She ran after him, and I don’t know what happened. Eve, what if she got him?”

  “She didn’t,” said Eve. “There’s a dead girl outside. Anyway, don’t worry about Adam. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Sobbing with relief, the girl dropped her head to the stone. Immediately, Eve lifted it and removed the canvas sack. Tossing it aside, she met the tear-soaked eyes of a young woman cursed, as many had been, for coming between the organisation and its coveted prize.

  “Bethany,” Eve whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Shaking her head, blinking back tears, Bethany said, “Don’t be sorry. Thank you for saving me. Thank you.”

  If not for the twins, Bethany would not be here. After she drove them from a fierce battle with an army of agents, Adam and Eve had watched her disappear into the sunset. They had prayed her life would follow a typical path from that point. After many nights sleep, her tribulations at the hands of the organisation would become a distant memory, nothing worse than a nightmare banished to obscurity with the morning’s light.

  Unwilling to allow even the smallest of loose ends, the organisation had pursued her. Rather than terminate, they had captured her as part of their latest sick scheme.

  Eve wished she could offer Bethany a lifetime’s safety guarantee. Freeing her for now, getting her home, would have to do.

  “Come on,” she said.

  Bethany nodded but winced then collapsed as she tried to stand. Throwing the girl’s arm around her shoulder, Eve helped her up. To their side, a crack sounded against the wall. Eve saw horror widen Bethany’s eyes as a book hit the stone with a muted thud. A second later, a painful creaking indicated the whole structure was collapsing.

  Another crack, and it fell.

  Acting on instinct, which forgot one danger to prevent another, Eve spun towards the shelves and raised a hand.