Fathers

by Matt Rogers

  She unlocked the phone, tapped in his number, and dialled.

  Her heart was in her throat, thudding so hard she could hear the roar in her ears.

  Then his voice came on the line and drowned out the noise of her throbbing pulse. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. Rebecca.’

  ‘New number?’

  ‘Been having phone issues. Had to buy a new one.’

  A stomach-churning silence. ‘Are you banking on my arm getting tired?’

  ‘W-what?’ she stammered.

  ‘You must think I’ll get sore and take this barrel away from precious Margaret’s head. I know your new friend’s swimming around here. I can sense it. I hate these fucking games you’re playing with me.’

  ‘Baby, I’m on my way...’

  ‘Sure you are.’

  ‘Do you want the truth?’

  ‘I’d love it, baby. Doesn’t mean you’ll give it to me. And I’m about ten minutes from losing it.’

  ‘I’m on a bus,’ she said. ‘That guy … he ditched me after I agreed to come back to you. He didn’t like that. I think he wanted me in the wrong way, like you said. You were right. He made like he was going to drive me to The Point but instead he dumped me in the middle of nowhere. I’ve been getting my bearings this whole time. I’m on my way, I promise.’

  She spoke like she meant it. She sold it like she was hoping to get an Oscar nomination for her performance, because that’s exactly what it needed. Anything less and he’d see through the lies, get nihilistic, probably murder-suicide the three of them. She’d lose her parents and her ex-boyfriend and any semblance of her life in one fell swoop.

  So he had to buy it.

  And he did.

  He said, albeit cautiously, ‘Alright. I’ll be here. But nothing changes. You get here as fast as you can. Until then the old folks are collateral. I need assurances. You understand, right?’

  You understand, right?

  The three most pathetic words he ever could have uttered. How could she possibly understand?

  But she said, ‘Yes, baby. Just stay put. I’m coming. That big douchebag is out of the picture.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘I—’ she started, and then hung up like she got cut off again.

  She rocked back in the chair and tried to keep her expression neutral. She couldn’t, so she stared at the ground, hoping no one passing by would notice the state she was in.

  But she’d done it.

  She’d bought time. Lowered the chance of Myles going off the deep end before King could act. She had no way to contact him, so she didn’t even know if he needed more time, if he really was circling her parents’ home.

  All she could do was sit here and wait and try not to throw up.

  69

  Tyrell had no control of his mind either.

  The dark can be a terrifying place for a twelve-year-old, especially when the threat of monsters is real.

  He huddled tight in the pitch black space, knees up to his chest. He kept his breath quiet but in the confined prison it was like a death rattle each time. He kept his eyes closed even though it didn’t make a difference either way. He tried not to panic.

  But he was twelve. He didn’t know anything about controlling his emotions. He had to let them out — they swelled like a champagne cork set to explode — and he was either going to cry out or try to get out when his phone rang.

  He had it on silent, of course, but the screen lit up in his pocket like a homing beacon and he wriggled around in the darkness to get it out.

  UNCLE DWAYNE.

  He knew what to do. Slater had told him what to do. Press that red button. End call. An easy choice. But it would plunge him back into the darkest of dark. It would bring him back to the terror, the unknown, the mortal fear that sapped the strength from his bones and made his arms shake.

  No. He wouldn’t do that. His brain wouldn’t let him. He was powerless to stop himself.

  He pressed the green button and gently raised the phone to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’ he whispered.

  Dwayne’s voice was low, too. Staticky, deep, growling. ‘Hey, nephew.’

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Your voice is shaking, boy.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Of me?’

  Tyrell didn’t answer.

  Dwayne growled, ‘You don’t need to hide anymore. I know you don’t like it. Time to stop being silly. Time to come out.’

  ‘I was told … to stay put.’

  ‘“Stay put”? You getting all proper on me, boy? This motherfucker giving you English lessons or somethin’? Cut the bullshit, Tyrell. I’ll protect you. Your uncle Dwayne will keep you safe. You know I ain’t lyin’. Don’t you?’

  For an instant Tyrell could see through the words, glimpse the psycho behind them, but then that fell away, overshadowed by the intense claustrophobia gripping his chest like a vice, refusing to allow him a deep breath.

  He said, ‘I want out of here.’

  ‘Then come on out.’

  ‘Are you here?’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dwayne growled, and Tyrell could almost hear that victorious smile. ‘I promise.’

  ‘O-o-okay.’ He got stuck on the first syllable like a scratched record. He hung up before he could make more of a fool of himself and reached for the way out, blindly groping in the dark.

  Slater told you not to do this.

  Didn’t matter. He was on the verge of a panic attack. He needed out.

  Weighted footsteps thudded on floorboards, right nearby.

  So close he could imagine the bulk of the men making them. Their size, their anger, all channelled at him.

  His hand froze in mid-air, still encased in darkness.

  It all hit him, his thoughts catching up to his primal emotions. Don’t be fuckin’ stupid. You go out there, you’re dead. Dwayne ain’t a good dude. He ain’t your uncle. He’s a no-good deadbeat gangster.

  The relief was palpable, and he stayed put, but his butt scooted a couple of inches on the metal as he stopped his momentum.

  A muffled voice close by said, ‘You hear that?’

  70

  Slater gave thanks that the burned safe house captured so much attention.

  It spewed from the swamp like a charred monolith, twisted and mangled and gutted. The four-man hit team were fixated on it. Two were already inside by the time he sprinted into the marsh in pursuit, which was disastrous, but the other pair weren’t doing what they were supposed to. Slater imagined they’d been told to wait out front to stand guard, but they were facing the shack with double-handed grips on their carbines. It made sense — the long-range shooters were covering their backs, only the snipers were dead, beat to pulp.

  Slater was the new sniper.

  He slowed to a jog then skidded to a halt in the mud, grinding his boots into the dampness. He was still at least a hundred feet from the shack and the low sound of his boots sliding got swallowed by the thick salty air. The two mercs out front kept their backs turned.

  Slater brought the SR-25’s stock to his shoulder and calmed himself down.

  After sprinting through the humid swamp his heart rate had to be one-sixty at the bare minimum. He brought it down as best he could, but it was never going to plummet to where he wanted it, so instead he focused on letting it beat without affecting the rest of his musculature, without changing his steadiness. He sweated freely but he didn’t shake, didn’t so much as budge a muscle. He became statuesque in the tall nutgrass and peered through the Leopuld sight. At this range there was no need to account for the wind or the fall of the bullet over hundreds and hundreds of yards, so he lined up the tiny red dot with the back of the first mercenary’s head, let the breath expend from his lungs, and pumped the trigger once.

  The round blew the top of the guy’s head clean off.

  He spun like he was made of rubber and his half-headless corpse slappe
d the charred porch of the shack. His comrade spun and employed a semi-respectable gameplay, dropping to one knee and raising his M4 carbine, firing before he’d even lined up his aim to maximise the chance of getting lucky with a stray shot.

  One of the rounds even whisked past Slater, maybe a dozen feet away, cutting through thin stalks and reeds faster than the eye could see.

  Slater wouldn’t have survived if he’d allowed the bullets to deter him in the slightest. Instead he kept his lungs empty and his head clear and barely registered the incoming gunfire. It allowed him to sweep the red dot sight over in one fluid motion, line it up with the second mercenary’s forehead without the slightest shake in his aim.

  The moment he found his target he pulled his trigger finger again.

  Another burst of blood and brain matter.

  Another limp corpse slapping the ground.

  The two mercenaries in the shack were smarter. They didn’t take their time, didn’t wait to determine where Slater was. They realised in a marsh their best chance was the element of surprise, and they also knew nothing outside was friendly anymore, so they stuck their carbines out through the doorway and resorted to the art of spray-and-pray.

  Which worked too well.

  Slater had near-inhuman reflexes but he was still slow to throw himself down, failing to anticipate such a reactionary response. With thirty rounds apiece, the two carbines sent sixty bullets slicing at random through the swamp, tearing through weeds and muck and salty air. Slater was prone less than a second after they started firing, but shots whipped past him all the same. He knew the odds, but they didn’t reassure him. Nothing ever gets you accustomed to live rounds blasting through the air around you.

  He knew if he caught a stray shot and bled out, Tyrell would be trapped in the dark with no option but to walk out into Dwayne’s hands.

  It only heightened the stakes further. He abandoned any notion of his own wellbeing and squashed himself into the mud until it enveloped him, thick swampy deluge rising and spreading over him as he pushed himself down further.

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear…

  But clips aren’t limitless.

  The gunfire petered out and he reared up like a demon cometh from the swamp. He raised the Glock, prayed it wasn’t clogged, and wiped mud from his eyes.

  One of the mercenaries had half his frame presented in the doorway. His profile was shadowy, drenched in gloom from the low cloud and the shadows of the shack, but it was still more than enough. The guy was reaching for a fresh magazine. He didn’t even get his hand on it before Slater put three bullets in him. One hit the vest, but his face and throat ate the other two. He collapsed back in the doorway.

  Slater surged forward.

  One on one.

  He barrelled for the doorway, zoned in on it, and he knew that even if the last mercenary materialised with a loaded weapon Slater would beat him to the shot, end him before he had a chance to use it…

  That’s not what happened.

  The guy spray-and-prayed again.

  He must have reloaded at warp speed — not even Slater could eject a spent magazine and hammer a fresh one home so fast — but that became inconsequential when the carbine appeared in view, clutched by two gloved hands, and sprayed out into the marsh again.

  Slater skidded to a halt and crouched down.

  He aimed and fired twice at the gun. If he wasn’t pinpoint accurate…

  He was. One of his rounds smashed straight through the hand that was on the trigger, pulverising the palm, and the carbine gave a final pathetic burst as its aim went haywire. The merc was in the process of dropping it, an impulsive reaction to one of his hands getting blasted apart, and the barrel skewed sharply to the right.

  Directly toward Slater.

  There was nowhere to take cover, so he tensed up.

  A three-round burst churned up the marsh right in front of him.

  A miss.

  But the mud splattered up, a shower of thick brown droplets viciously propelled, and they hit him right in the eyes.

  Burrowing into the mud before, he’d kept his eyes squeezed shut. Now there was mud caked inside the eyelids, right on his corneas. The burn was horrendous but he didn’t care about that. He reached up and wiped his eyes hard, trying not to panic. Nothing happened. He was still blind, the world turned black, the thud of his heart in his ears, his blood roaring.

  He knew this would come down to the tiniest swing in momentum so he fired blindly in the direction he thought was right. Popped off shots until his clip was empty and then he frantically reached for his eyes, practically clawing them in an attempt to get some semblance of vision.

  It didn’t work.

  Run?

  Which direction?

  He flattened himself prone in a desperate attempt to get his bearings, gather himself.

  Someone rushed him. He heard the thumping footsteps of a big man sprinting and then there was a hand on the back of his neck, a powerful hand, forcing his face into the mud.

  This time involuntarily.

  The last merc must have used both his magazines. It was the only explanation for a bullrush, and if Slater’s thoughts were cohesive he might have wondered why the guy didn’t just snatch up one of his fallen comrades’ weapons. Maybe he saw a better chance this way, especially if Slater was blind. It’d ensure he couldn’t retreat and regroup.

  But he considered none of that because he was choking, drowning, blind and deaf and fighting to push himself up out of the swamp but it only drained his energy faster.

  His heart beat so fast he could feel his body’s desperate need for air within seconds.

  The hand on his neck was holding him there with life-or-death strength. Slater fought back with equal strength, but his position was worse, so he achieved nothing.

  No way out.

  The darkness closed in.

  71

  Tyrell’s world was a storm.

  The darkness only accentuated the gunshots. They were right near him. With no sight he could only listen, and the ruthless blasts deafened him. Even when his hearing went, he could still feel them, the reverberation in his gut with every shot.

  His phone screen lit up the dark again.

  This time it seemed brighter, like a saviour come to pull him from this madness.

  A vestige of hope.

  Eyes only cracked open a millimetre, he turned the screen to see who was calling.

  Even though he knew.

  UNCLE DWAYNE.

  This time he knew if he answered, it’d be the end. He didn’t have the strength to fight this shit anymore. He would tell Dwayne where he was and his uncle could do whatever he wished with him. He wasn’t strong like Will Slater. Wasn’t tough like all the gangsters and thugs who’d torn his life apart before it had the chance to get started. He wasn’t even a goddamn teenager yet.

  If he pressed that green button it’d all come spilling out. He’d break down and cave.

  Fuck this, he thought.

  He stabbed the red button, rejecting the call. The screen faded to black and plunged him back into the terrifying darkness.

  He couldn’t bear it much longer.

  But he could try.

  That’s what Will had told him to do. Just to try. Doesn’t matter if you fail. Give it a shot.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped the war unfolding out there ended soon.

  72

  Boston lay under thick low cloud.

  Rebecca didn’t quite feel human. She’d stared into space for so long that the lobby took on a hazy, shimmering texture. Or was it her vision rippling? At some point one of the receptionists had floated over to ask if she was alright, and she thought she’d mumbled something about waiting for someone. She must have done just enough to convince. No one had been back to follow up with further questions, or escort her out.

  Her new phone rang.

  She stared down at it like it was radioactive.

  But something made her answer a
nyway. ‘Hello?’

  Myles said, ‘Time’s up.’

  ‘Baby…’

  ‘Don’t fucking baby me.’

  She fought for composure. ‘Myles, I’m not screwing you around.’

  ‘That’s all you’ve done. That’s why we’re here. In this predicament. Because you couldn’t do what you were told.’

  I ran, she thought, because you shot at me. I ran for my life.

  She said, ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve screwed up. I’m on my way. I swear on my life. I’m ten minutes out.’

  ‘Ten minutes?’

  ‘Yes. I swear.’

  A silence that might as well have been a whole hour. Then, ‘No deal, Bec. You’re not going to come. I’d tell you to say some final words to your folks, and maybe even to me … but after everything you’ve done to me? Fuck you.’

  Click.

  She stumbled up out of the chair, teetered across the marble floor. The lobby swayed. The chandelier expanded and contracted in her vision. She didn’t realise she’d dropped the phone until she was out the revolving door and realised her hands were empty. The clouds bore down on her, and something choked her from the inside.

  She fell to her knees on the pavement.

  A moment later someone tapped her on the shoulder, but she was beyond response. She thought she made out the shape of one of the bellhops in his prissy uniform, holding out a phone, telling her she’d dropped it. He may as well have been speaking an alien language.

  That’s it. It’s over.

  It might have been easier if she hadn’t got her hopes up that King would fix things. He hadn’t acted, and now Myles would kill her parents, then himself.

  Her life was destroyed.

  What did she have to live for?

  The bellhop’s words morphed into English. ‘Ma’am, are you okay?’

  She couldn’t even stay on her knees. She fell to the concrete, grazing her face, and an anguished cry rolled out of her throat.