by Luis Samways
“Corridor Six Exit” reads the sign.
‘Shit!’ Frank swats at the security camera, knocking it off the wall with a crash. His eyes dart down the corridor and he sees shadows approaching fast. Multiple footsteps, multiple men. At least six, according to Frank’s math. He bends and grabs the dead guard’s 9mm. He aims down the corridor and sees silhouettes approaching.
He waits. Three seconds. He cocks the gun. Two seconds. He breathes in deep. One second. He fires.
Forty Eight
Jason wakes to a vibration in his pocket. He flips his cell phone open and reads the message. He types something and hits send.
Jason puts the cell phone back in his pocket. Crystal’s head rests on his shoulder as she sleeps. Jenifer is stirring from a deep sleep. He nudges Crystal awake. She opens her eyes and smiles at him.
Shaking his head, he gestures at Jenifer.
Crystal understands what he is trying to say and sits up to brush herself down to make herself more presentable.
He smiles and gives her a playful wink.
Jenifer catches him in the act and coughs to get their attention. He glances at her, his face stern but friendly.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks.
Jason stretches in his seat. ‘Nothing, I just woke up.’
‘Is that so?’ Jenifer gets up from her cabin chair and faces Jason and Crystal.
‘Why are you sitting next to her?’ Jenifer points at Crystal.
Jason crosses the short distance to Jenifer and tries to calm her. He takes her hand.
She snaps it away and steps a few steps away from him.
‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but last time I checked, you were on this train ride with me. Now you’re with that frigid slut?’
‘I’m not with anyone, Jenifer! I’m here for the ride to Boston’
Jenifer slaps him across the face; she leaves a red palm mark on his cheek. He grabs at his burning skin.
Jenifer pushes him into his seat and walks away, leaving him and Crystal staring at each other in silence.
Forty Nine
Chief Shaw rushes into the DA’s office. The carnage of empty bottles from the mini bar and case files that are strewn all over the rinky-dink office make him gasp in shock. He shakes his head in amazement as he walks over to the Eddie’s desk.
Eddie is fast asleep, his head resting on the assortment of files on the solid oak surface. Shaw rattles a bottle next to him, grabs it, takes a long swig of the clear alcoholic liquid and purposely thuds the bottle back onto the desk, awakening the sleeping District Attorney.
Eddie looks at Shaw with clear distain. ‘What the hell do you want?’ Shaw takes a drag of his oversized cigar. ‘I want you to get your ass up and follow me to the incident room.’
‘I’m the goddamn District Attorney. Don’t talk to me like that,’
‘You’re drunker then my dad on Saint Patrick’s Day and that’s saying something considering he’s Irish!’ Shaw laughs at his light-hearted joke.
Eddie smiles, appreciating Chief Shaw’s humour. ‘Okay. I’m getting up. What seems to be the problem besides me losing all hope and drinking the department’s liquor budget for the whole year?’
‘You should see Frank’s office at the Christmas party. Now there is a man who can drink!’
‘On the subject of Frank: any news on his whereabouts?’ Shaw shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The man is MIA. But it’s not unusual for him to go missing for days on end. He’s probably in a gutter somewhere drinking himself stupid.’
‘Well we have that in common.’
‘Chase is about to go live again, according to his YOUTUBE channel.’
‘Why haven’t we shut that thing down?’ asks the DA
‘We can’t. It’s beyond our jurisdiction; FBI would have to subpoena Google.’
‘Why?’
‘They own YOUTUBE.’
‘Let’s hear what Connor has to say this time.’
When they arrive at the incident room, the place is abuzz with officers gathering files and intelligence. Eddie Smith turns to Shaw in confusion. ‘What’s with all the rushing? Don’t your people ever rest?’
‘It’s called an incident room for a reason. They are investigating leads on various cases, including this current one.’
‘Various cases? Surely everyone should focus their attention on Connor Chase.’ ‘Unfortunately, the people of Boston have taken to the streets and started mass looting. There seems to be a kinship with Chase and his beliefs. A lot of people support his message.’
‘Only in Boston I swear! How can anyone support this man?’ Eddie shakes his head
‘People may not agree with terrorism, but Connor’s message has reached a huge number of people. It could spark a city wide demonstration and result in mass violence.’
‘Are these people mad?’
‘No, but they’re eating up Chase’s speeches and blaming us for all his killings. They want a 28th amendment.’
An officer approaches them. ‘It’s about to start, Chief.’ The three men walk to the large screen. A live picture of Connor Chase flashes, showing him standing where people have become accustomed to seeing him. He’s as serious as ever as he stares at the camera. He paces, apparently not aware he is live. An off camera voice tells him and he snaps out of his haze.
‘Hello, ladies and gentleman. I’m here again to discuss the progress on my purposed 28th amendment. Or lack of progress, shall I say? I’m severely disappointed in the lack of interest the Boston and Washington establishments are showing me. The government that swears to protect and serve hasn’t contacted me, they are letting people die. That is unacceptable. I am deeply shocked at the carefree attitude they are taking. It offends me that they would rather have people die at my hands than honour my requests. They are making a monumental mistake in not taking me seriously. Maybe I should be more assertive in letting them know I mean business. Surely the fact that the people of Boston are revolting should wise them up. But no, they play dead and blind saints who cannot see nor do evil. Of course they have no reason to want to address my 28th amendment because they would have to give up collecting all of your information. Why would they want to give up that currency on the black market? Why would they want to give up their only way of knowing who we truly are? They can tell a lot about each and every one of us through credit card statements, web browsing behaviours, credit reports, family history, social networking profiles and internet logs. They have us under a virtual wire, a wire of oppression. They save money on good old fashioned hard working men whose professions were to search for people, find information. Now all they have to do is go to a yellow pages style programme and pick out the lucky candidates. Screw this government’s way of using our personal information to entrap the poor and free the rich. Screw the cocksuckers who trade our information for more tax money’
Connor is visibly worked up. He signals someone behind the camera, and three people join him, hands cuffed in the front of them with white bags over their heads. He pushes each of them to the ground so that they are on their knees facing him. He pulls out his Desert Eagle and swings it as a child playing Cowboys and Indians might. He turns to the camera, still composed.
Everyone in the incident room gapes in horror at the scene playing out in front of them.
‘So let’s make all these wrongs right. These three people grovelling before me are the big wigs employed by M.I.T. It will be my pleasure to rid the world of these tyrants. The government can save them by contacting me in the next twenty seconds by agreeing to write a 28th amendment and guarantee the safe passage of me and my men. If they do not agree, every half hour I will dispatch three more people. There are four hundred employees in my custody. This little game could go on for a few days. When I run out of people to sacrifice to this government’s agenda, I have contingency plans in place. Your twenty seconds start now.’
Chase paces the room, his mobile phone in hand, parading like a king, invoking fears into
the hearts of everyone in the incident room. Shaw looks at the DA.
Smith puts his hand on the chief’s broad shoulder. ‘We can’t do anything about it Shaw; we don’t have the power to grant him his wishes.’ ‘Who can make that decision? Those people need to be saved, we can’t let them die.’ ‘Washington has to make the call. But it’s the United States of America’s policy not to negotiate with terrorists.’
‘Fuck policy, we have to get them out!’
‘We will, but going in with all guns blazing will only get our men killed, along with the hostages.’
Chief Shaw nods and walks out of the incident room as three gun shots echo, followed by dead silence.
Shaw cringes at three souls perishing. His thoughts revert to finding the only man he knows who can turn this around, the only man he can trust in this situation, the only man who can lead his officers into battle. His thoughts turn to finding Frank McKenzie.
Fifty
‘Shots fired I repeat, shots fired; squad B-miner in need of backup on corridor six.’ The officer shouts into his two way radio while ducking for cover and firing his weapon blindly. Six officers locate cover in the hallway and fire their weapons without daring to peak over their cover to see what they may be shooting at. Bullets ricochet off the surfaces of the walls, debris falls, temporarily blinding one of the men. For a split second, he flails behind his cover, trying to wipe the white dust blocking his vision.
One guard takes a bullet in the arm. Blood trickles from his wound as he grabs his arm and screams in pain.
Two squad mates come to his aid but one collapses on the floor in the middle of the hallway, blood pouring from his neck. The second looks at his fallen comrade, notices the bullet wound to his neck and swallows hard. He turns to the first injured officer.
‘This guy obviously has some training. We can’t risk losing more men.’
The officer points to the dead guard on the floor ten feet from them.
‘What do you suggest we do then?’ The man shakes his head. ‘I think we should let him go to avoid any more casualties.’
‘We can’t just let him go. He’s killed our men. From what I could see when we came in, the crazy bastard is covered in blood! He has either killed some others or he sweats blood. Either way, he isn’t going anywhere.’
The other guard nods in agreement and grabs his two way radio.
‘This is Lieutenant Fishman,’ he says as the noisy hissing subsides. ‘General security check. Have there been any other incidents besides the one on corridor six?’
A long silence precedes the radio crackling back to life. Bullets hiss past Fishman and he hugs the wall tighter.
‘Negative Squad B-Miner, all sections are normal.’ ‘Copy,’ Fishman puts the two way back on his belt holster.
‘I say we let him go. Let’s get you and anyone else injured to safety. I am not risking you or any of my men for some spy bullshit.’
The injured man reluctantly agrees. ‘You’re the boss.’
Fishman stands and raises his hands. ‘We surrender. Just go about your business. We don’t want any more casualties.’ A dense cloud of dust obscures his vision. The smoky cloud finally clears from the hallway after a long silence. The hallway is empty except for the guard’s mangled corpse on the floor.
Fishman turns to see the remainder of his men motionless on the floor. Only he and the injured man remain. But the injured guard is also motionless on the floor. He rushes to turn him over and finds a bullet hole neatly placed in the middle of the man’s head.
A cold sensation crawls down Fishman’s neck. A gun fires and Fishman collapses into a pool of blood.
Frank McKenzie walks out of corridor six.
Fifty One
The year 2006: SIX YEARS BEFORE BOARDING THE TRAIN
Mrs Gardener stands in front of her whiteboard as she surveys her class. Attendance is lower than usual since she is hosting the ever popular after school detention club.
She hates that part of her job. The same people are there every time she is assigned to the job. She coughs to draw the attention of the ten students sitting in front of her with expressions of boredom.
‘Okay, boys and girls. It’s the end of the year and you still find it impossible to go about your school activities without finding yourselves here so I’m not going to waste my time telling you anything. Please use the time allocated for you to catch up on any work you are falling behind on. Save any questions till the end of detention.’
The class moans and goes about their business. Mrs Gardner sits and starts grading papers. A bottle of wine and a TV dinner for one, she plans her evening ahead. She gazes out of the window, taking in the sunny day and the brisk wind ruffling the trees on campus. Someone sits on one of the outside benches facing her. She feels a vibration in her pocket and pulls out her mobile phone. She unlocks it and reads the message. She smiles. She makes sure none of her class is aware of her text messaging and replies, then hits send. She looks back out of the window. The figure on the bench in the distance reaches into his jacket and pulls out a phone. She smiles again. The figure on the bench is wearing charcoal washed blue denim jeans and a brown leather jacket. He fiddles with his phone and Mrs Gardener’s phone vibrates again.
She reads the new message and laughs. She immediately puts the phone back in her jeans pocket as the students all look at her, and carries on marking her papers. She looks out of the window and notices the figure on the bench is gone. She quickly glances at the new message on her phone.
“I’ll see you tonight at yours. Wear something revealing. Ideally nothing. Kiss.”
She smiles as her heart beats hard in her chest. The name above the message fills her with glee. She knew who it was anyway, but seeing his name means it is real.
The relationship is real. Her feelings are real. She glances at her class; no one is looking at her. She takes one last look at the name on the phone.
617-338-7786.
JASON BORDELLO
Fifty Two
Nathan sits on an oil drum in a store room and looks up at the man-made opening in the ceiling. He looks at his watch, gets up to straighten his legs and looks at his watch again.
‘Fuck sake. Hurry up!’ he says to himself.
Ash drops on his shoulders. Nathan brushes it off and looks at the hole in the ventilation system. Fredrick’s head pokes out of the hole; He has a smile on his face. ‘Come on, star. It’s all safe up here’
‘I’d appreciate it if you don’t drop cigar ash on me again,’ Nathan is still brushing his shoulders off.
Fredrick holds his arm out for Nathan to grab and Nathan hoists himself up onto the oil drum. He steadies himself and reaches for Fredrick’s extended arm. Fredrick pulls him into the ventilation system.
The vent is darker than the store room and very confined. Fredrick is crawling.
‘Where the hell are we going?’ Nathan asks.
Fredrick turns around slightly. ‘We are getting out of here.’ ‘Yeah, I know that, but where does this lead?’
‘It takes us right through the 1st floor of the M.I.T building. Straight through the hornet’s nest and out to the wastes, my breda.’
‘Hornet’s nest, are you mad?’
‘It’s the only available route. No one can get through the entrance foyer. Plenty of guards are walking patrol man, so if we get caught, we will die’
‘How did you get into the building?’
‘The same way we‘re going out, star. Through the ventilation ducts.’
Nathan grabs Fredrick’s leg. ‘This better be safe’
Fredrick pulls away from Nathan. ‘Course it’s safe. I never put myself in danger. Why you grab me like that? I’m no batty boy, star!’
‘Batty boy?’
‘Never mind, let’s get going.’ Nathan says to the silence.
‘Fine by me, star.’
‘Lead the way, “Star,”’ Nathan says sarcastically.
‘Ah. My man likes the word, star, now. That gwan�
�� be good, hear you say that’
‘Yeah, whatever. Let’s get the hell out of here, Fredrick. Leave the playing around shit for the outside. You get me out of here, and I’ll tattoo the damn word on my ass for you.’
‘I would settle for a beer, Breda. Let’s go.’
Fifty Three
Chief Shaw stares at the big screen in the incident room. His mind races as he gazes at the flickering blue screen in the now quiet room. Officers sit motionless at their desks, trying to get a grip on the day’s events.
Shaw looks at his watch and sighs. Seven more hours and the FBI will take the case over. Shaw snaps out of his reverie and gets up to pace. Look concerned, act in control. Everything around him feels like it is slipping. Then the phone rings.
Everyone gapes at the phone on the sturdy oak desk a few feet away from Shaw. He walks over and reaches for the shiny black phone. His hand reflects on the plastic that cases the handle. This particular phone line is dedicated to one thing only: communicating with Connor Chase.
‘Chief Shaw speaking.’
A click sounds in Shaw’s ear. The recording equipment is doing its job.
‘Hello Mr Shaw. It’s Connor Chase here. I’d like to speak to Detective Frank McKenzie.’
Shaw begins pacing again, slowly, and methodically. Walking helps him stand his ground. The incident room is full again and officers take seats around the desk. They all wear headphones, listening to the phone call. Standard procedure when it comes to terrorism. Chief Shaw bites his nails.
‘I’m sorry, Connor, that won’t be possible.’
The only sound in the room is the deep breathing from the other end of the phone.
‘Why won’t that be possible?’
‘We fired him after learning about some of his questionable decisions.’
‘Was it anything to do with his unprofessional behaviour? Sleeping with a key witness? Or did he, I don’t know, just shoot up a down town storage facility?’
The officers start dialling their phones.
‘What are you talking about?’ Shaw asks and the line goes dead.
‘Shit, he’s gone, Sir,’ A technician at the analysis desk says.
