by L V Gaudet
“Close the door! Close the door!” he rasps through the cord choking him.
Jason has to let go of the cord to reach the door. He does so and his prisoner lays there panting from stress and relief, finally safe from the moon and stars.
Jason walks over to the prone figure, standing over him, and roughly kicks a grunt out of him.
“Show me the kid or I’ll drag your sorry ass back outside, strip you naked, and pin you down like an insect for the sun, moon, and whatever else is out there to eat you or whatever the hell you think is going to happen.”
Nathan squeals like a struck pig, his eyes widening and mouth drooling with fear. He rolls, struggling to get to his feet.
Jason bends over, grabbing him by the arms, and yanking him up.
“What the hell smells so bad in here?” Jason wrinkles his nose in disgust. He recognizes the stench. Death.
Convinced now this psycho killed the kid, he lets his prisoner lead him. He has no reason to rush now.
With the demons in his head whispering vile things to him, Nathan shuffle-walks through the house, leading Jason to the basement.
Kill him. Push him down the stairs. Trip him on the stairs. Throw yourself down the stairs with him. The man became the boy became the man. It’s evil. Evil evil evil. Kill it. Kill it. Kiiillll it before it kills you. It kills. It kills the ladies. It tortures and kills them. It enjoys killing.
Nathan tries to not listen to the voices whispering in his head, but they are incessant, the dry paper rustle of the dead and dry leaves in the fall. The sound the dead make.
They reach the basement door.
“Down there.” Nathan looks at the monster that looks like a man. A quiet calm has come over him. He blinks and the blink takes a very long time. Time has slowed, seconds ticking by like minutes, still slowing down.
Time is about to stop. That’s bad. There is only one way to stop it. If time stops, it might never start again.
Jason opens the basement door and looks down into the darkness below. There is no sound. No stronger odour of decomposing flesh wafting up.
This feels wrong. He looks to the madman.
The monster looks down to the darkness below. It hesitates.
It knows it belongs in the dark. It doesn’t want to go. It doesn’t want to go home to Hell.
The monster begins to turn its deceitful head to look at him. Without a sound, wrapped in a quiet calm, Nathan twists his body, launching himself against the monster with as much force as he can manage with his arms tied behind his back and feet hobbled.
They crash against the doorframe, the door swinging and banging hard against the wall with the bang of wood against drywall, teetering for just a split second and almost falling backwards to the kitchen floor.
Jason tries to get his balance, teetering on the precipice of falling either way. They both fall into the open black maw of the basement stairs. He hits the stairs painfully, his captive falling with him, half on top of him, half tumbling-half sliding down the stairs together to the concrete floor below.
Jason’s head cracks against the concrete with a dull wet smack. The cool hard concrete against his face is soothing in that moment before the world goes black.
Two figures skulk in the dark outside the Bayburry Street Geriatric Home. They move stiffly, hunched over, keeping to the shadows, darting from bush to tree to sign to bush, finally to the wall and plastering themselves against it.
They follow the wall down and slip around the corner, stopping at a window. One tests the window, shakes its head and they move on to try the next one. Two more windows up, they score.
The window moves with a groan in the frame with some pushing. They stop and then look around, ducking down. No one seemed to notice.
The figure goes to work on the window again. It doesn’t move easily, swollen in the window frame from lack of use, but it inches up a little at a time.
With the window open, he tries to climb in. First trying to lift his leg, but can’t lift it high enough. He motions at his partner, whispering. “Help me.”
His partner moves in, trying to lift while he tries to pull himself up, finally getting him over the windowsill head first. His partner grips his legs, easing him down inside. He puts his hands down, feeling for the floor, taking the strain off his partner when he finds it. They ease his legs down and his partner drops them, letting him fall the rest of the way with a soft thud.
He uses the window frame to pull himself up to his feet and leans out grasping his waiting partner’s hand and pulling him up. With a little difficulty, they get his partner in head first through the window too. He eases him down carefully and helps him to his feet.
They turn to the bed where an elderly woman is sleeping under a too thin blanket. The light coming in from the hall through the open door reveals the faces of two geriatric men.
William McAllister stands over his wife, looking at her for a moment before he leans in, covering her mouth gently with his hand.
She stirs, mumbles, and starts shifting.
“Sshhh, Marjory. Don’t make any noise. We’re getting you out of here.”
Her eyes are clouded with confusion, her lids and jaw slack from the drugs that are beginning to wear off. They will be back soon to dose her again.
“What did that boy do now? What trouble did Jason get into this time?” Her words are slurred, barely understandable, her voice wavering and frail.
“Ssshh, don’t talk. Come on.” William reaches for her arm to help her up, but it’s stuck.
Anderson moves to the other side of the bed, pulling the blanket away.
“They’ve got her restrained.” He fumbles in the dark and gets the cuff undone, releasing her arm.
“Ugh, she’s soiled herself,” he complains with a grimace of disgust. He scowls, meeting William’s sad eyes over her. “She deserves better than this.”
William releases her other arm and they help Marjory to her feet. They get her to the door and stop. William pokes his head out, looking up and down the hall.
“It’s clear. Let’s go,” Anderson says.
“Wait, I have something I have to do.” William motions him to wait here with Marjory, out of sight.
“This is a lockdown ward. It’s going to be harder to get out than the home I live in. There will be alarms on the doors. When we get out, we will have to move fast.”
“All the more reason I have to do this now. There won’t be any coming back after we’re out that door. Give me five minutes.”
William steps out to the hall, keeping against the wall, and hurries down the hall towards the secure entrance and nurses’ desk.
“What fool errand is he on?” Anderson mutters, watching him go. He hears a noise from the other direction and ducks back in Marjory’s room.
“What-,” Marjory starts.
“Quiet woman,” Anderson hisses, covering her mouth. “You will give us away.”
He waits; growing more anxious, then finally hears shuffling footsteps coming. A thrill of fear runs through him. We’re caught! No, it doesn’t sound like nurses shoes. Too shuffling.
William appears in the doorway. He pulls an old woman into Marjory’s room. She stands there on unsteady feet, eyes vacant, and a thick cord of slimy drool hanging down from her slack mouth.
William shrugs at Anderson’s expression.
“Mrs. Bheals. If she is senile, then so are you and I. Her family dumped her here and never came back. She belongs here even less than Marjory does. I can’t just leave her.”
“She is dead weight. Just look at her,” Anderson frowns. “She’s a walking zombie. Leave her.”
“I’m not leaving her behind.” William meets his scowl with a stubbornness Anderson has seen before.
“Fine, let’s go. No more breaking from the plan.”
The two geriatric men lead the two drugged elderly ladies out and down the hall. The foursome shuffles towards their goal, a seldom used side door on the other side of the common room.<
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They reach the common room and stop.
A very shocked looking nurse is standing there staring at them.
“You told me to get her out of here,” William says.
It takes her a moment to register what’s going on. She blinks at the four elderly people, thinking how impossible this is.
“You-, you are stealing her!”
“It’s not stealing. She is a person, not a thing. You can’t own her. We are breaking her out.”
William stares the nurse down defiantly.
She stares back, fights an involuntary reflex to smile and laugh. It’s not funny. She is scared. She thinks for a moment.
“Wait here.” She scurries off down the hall in the direction they were heading.
“She is going to blow the whistle on us,” Anderson says dryly. “We should kill her.”
“We are not killing her.”
“Why not? We can’t leave witnesses.”
“This isn’t that kind of job. We are not killing her.” William’s expression is firm. He will not give in on this point.
“Fine,” Anderson mutters. “This is your mess to clean up.”
“That’s right,” William says flatly.
The nurse appears in a doorway ahead, waving them forward. They move on, stopping in the doorway. The nurse is there with an elderly woman behind her, her long hair hanging down wild and unkempt. She looks at the visitors who have come to see her.
“Do I know you?” There is no recognition in her eyes even for her two fellow residents. My family is coming to see me.” She blinks and looks at them in confusion. “Do I know you? My family is coming to see me.”
“Mrs. Ferguson,” the nurse says. “She is too far gone to remember any of this. She’ll make a good distraction. I’ll tell them she got out of bed and opened the door. It wouldn’t be the first time.” She waves them to follow; leading poor confused Mrs. Ferguson along.
They arrive at the little used side door and stop, looking at each other.
“Go, go,” the nurse urges.
William gives her a solemn nod and pushes the bar on the door. The door is locked. The sign above warns that it is a fire exit to be used only in emergencies.
Anderson looks around nervously.
The nurse is wired with stress over their escapade.
The two drugged elderly women are obliviously staring off at nothing. Mrs. Ferguson is starting to get agitated.
William waits, counting down.
Sensing something unusual going on, some of the other residents have gotten out of bed and are milling around in confusion.
As expected, with the door opener bar depressed long enough, the lock mechanism releases. Without this safety feature, the fire escape would be useless in an actual fire. He pushes the door open and the moment the connection breaks, the alarm starts wailing loudly through the facility.
Mrs. Ferguson starts wailing, holding her hands in front of her and waving them in distress. She starts pushing the other residents, trying to push through them. They start wailing and moaning. Woken by the blaring sirens, other residents are getting out of bed.
The secure entrance on the other end bangs open and nurses charge into the ward.
“Let’s go!” William urges and he and Anderson lead their two charges, Marjory and Mrs. Bheals, out the door into the night, leaving the nurse to deal with the nurses and distressed patients.
“You!” Ryan stands there stupidly gaping at the man on the other side of the open door.
Trevor stares back, blinking in confusion at the visitor he was not expecting.
Ryan’s shock turns to rage and he leans forward on the verge of launching himself at the other man.
“How?” Trevor hardly has any voice, fear sending a liquid chill down his spine and turning his bowels watery.
Trevor steps back, grabbing the door to slam it closed.
Fuelled by an animal rage, Ryan lunges at him with a low growl, colliding with both man and door, knocking them into the motel room.
Trevor falls to the floor, laying there staring up at Ryan in stunned fear.
“Don’t hurt me.”
Cassie’s voice comes to Ryan, small and afraid through a veil of darkness. He sees nothing of the room around him, only the face on the floor. Trevor.
“Please don’t hurt me.” Cassie’s voice, little, like her, so quiet he almost can’t make her words out.
He is confused. Why is Cassie’s voice coming from Trevor?
Cassie’s voice comes from behind him now, calm and clear. “Close the door David. You don’t want anyone to see.”
He turns, looking for her, the world filled with a fog that will only let him see what is directly in front of his eyes. The door swims into view and he goes to it, closing it softly.
“Kill him David,” Cassie says in her calm clear voice. “He hurt me.”
He turns, still can’t find her, and focuses on the man-face on the floor. Darkness is clouding his vision, filling his mind. He doesn’t recognize the face.
“He is you David. He killed me. You killed me. Kill him David, kill yourself.”
The man-face shifts and fades into the fog in his mind. Violent rage is pounding through his veins. He clenches and unclenches his fists.
Trevor stares up at Ryan. What is he doing? He watches him turn and calmly close the door. It sends a deeper terror through him, that calm quiet motion in a man who is oozing violence from every pore, his face a manic mask of rage. He stares up at him, standing over him, clenching and unclenching his fists.
He is not even looking at me. It’s like he doesn’t see me. He tries shifting, expecting it to draw an attack. It doesn’t.
Did he follow me here? Did he see me put it in the trunk? Trevor glances at the closed door. The disposal guy will be here any second. Will he think Ryan is with me? Maybe he will realize and kill him.
“Stop calling me David,” Ryan says in a low voice.
“What?” Trevor voices it before he can stop himself. What are you doing? Shut up! Don’t talk!
“I am not David.”
It takes every last shred of what little conscious thought he has left. Ryan looks down at his hands. Boy hands. “I. Am. Not. David.” He pushes the black shroud away, trying to think.
The room slowly swims back into focus. He looks around, rediscovers Trevor and understands.
“Anderson, you sick bastard,” he mutters under his breath.
Trevor stares back at him uncertainly, trapped in the indecision of fight or flight.
Ryan forces his fists to relax at his sides. He gives Trevor a slow dangerous smile.
“Mr. Miller I presume?”
Trevor nearly soils his pants. A cold sweat breaks out and his stomach lurches with nausea. That’s not him. That’s not who is supposed to come.
“I was told you are very,” Ryan pauses, “experienced in this business. You know the drill, let’s get this done.”
He turns and walks out of the motel room, not looking back to see if Trevor will follow.
Trevor stares after him in shock. He falters, and finally gets to his feet and staggers forward on wooden legs, following him out to the parking lot.
I’ll make a run for it. As soon as I’m in my car, pedal to the floor and go.
Ryan goes the other way, leaving him to walk to his car alone. Trevor almost makes a break for it, running for the trees, but it would be no good. Better chance in the car.
Ryan reaches his truck, getting in the same time Trevor reaches his borrowed car. Trevor turns to see, mentally sizing up the truck.
I can’t outrun that in this. He feels his hopes sink down through his stomach. He gets in and starts driving, watching for the truck’s headlights behind him after he pulls out onto the road.
Trevor drives on, half hoping to lose the truck, taking one turn and then another.
Ryan feels the presence of the package he knows is in the trunk of the car like a physical weight dragging him down.
The thought hangs on the back of his conscious mind, hovering just out of reach. He won’t let it in.
He roars up on the car’s bumper, tempted to ram it into oblivion. Instead he passes it, telling himself to keep to the business at hand. Deal with him after the transfer.
The truck’s headlights rear up, filling Trevor’s rear view mirror and blinding him as it pulls up right on his bumper. With an angry roar of the engine, it swerves off to one side and charges past him.
What if I don’t follow? That’s not how this game plays. Play by the rules or you are dead. They’ll find me.
He reluctantly follows the truck down a number of winding dirt roads through nowhere. Finally the truck pulls off on the side of a road bordered by tall trees and thick bush on both sides. He stops, dutifully doing a three-point turn, and backing his trunk to the truck’s back bumper.
Trevor shifts. Last chance to run. No, he wouldn’t dare kill me. He has to follow the rules too. His hands shaking, he shuts off the engine, kills the lights and presses the button to release the trunk. He gets out, feeling his knees go weak.
Parked in position on the side of a dirt road, ready to make the transfer, Ryan watches the shadow of his enemy move inside the car against the backdrop of the headlights. The taillights stare back at him like the Devil’s eyes. The car shuts off and the lights go dark. He watches Trevor get out and stand next to the car.
He gets out of the truck and walks back, meeting Trevor in the narrow space between truck and car. He lowers the tailgate, climbs up, and drags the first of his plastic barrels to the edge, dropping it to the ground with a dull thud. He jumps down, pries the lid off, and leans against the open tailgate. His job is to not touch the package during transfer. Never in view of Mr. Miller. As far as Mr. Miller knows, he never touches the package. No evidence transfer.
With trembling hands, Trevor lifts the trunk lid to reveal the carefully wrapped package inside.
Ryan feels sick. It’s the right size. He pushes the thought back.
Trevor lifts the package carefully. He can’t help but marvel how they always feel so much heavier after the light leaves their eyes. The smell of death fills his nostrils and he gags. It took longer than he wanted to arrange disposal of this one.