by A. L. Knorr
I strained to hear the men downstairs. I could have laughed at the absurdity of my situation. Hiding in an attic and wishing a ghost would come back to help me escape the living, rather than the other way around.
The sound of the ransackers was a distant commotion, barely audible. That gave me the confidence to move towards the hatch that opened to the lavatory. Once I’d escaped, I could figure out how to open the puzzle box. If all else failed, I’d just smash the thing open, though it would be a shame to destroy something so pretty.
I lifted the box and rattled the rings, sensing every contour and the potent hum of their unique composition.
I made to put the box in my bag and discovered it wouldn’t fit. I looked at my school books. They were expensive and weighted with knowledge I needed to pass classes and grow as an archaeologist. I’d been carrying them everywhere with me.
With some sorrow, I traded the books for the ring box. Returning to the ladder, I began my descent. Halfway down came the sounds of sighing and the trickle of liquid into a basin. I froze, realising what I was hearing, and hung there suspended halfway between the ceiling and the stall, my heart galloping in my chest.
My pulse doubled as I realised I hadn’t turned off my phone light. It was a miracle he hadn’t noticed it reflecting off the back walls. One handed, I tried to draw the phone out of the jacket pocket. The ladder gave a little squeak.
The trickling sound stopped.
I didn’t dare turn around and bathe the lavatory in the white light of my phone. Every muscle tense, I hardly breathed. Every sound seemed amplified including my hammering heart.
There was a grunt followed by a zip, the shuffling of clothing and I found a thin slice of hope. Maybe I hadn’t cut him off midstream. Maybe his business was finished.
Heavy steps moved behind me, heading towards the door. He passed the sinks without stopping. I was so close to a clean escape. Then came a curious mutter and the scuff of shuffling feet. An eternal second of surprised silence, and then an angry shout.
“What the bloody hell!”
I flew down the last rungs of the ladder and shot out of the stall, just as he came around. He gave a snarl as the light from my jacket pocket caught his unprepared eyes.
He was dressed in a construction worker’s neon yellow vest, complete with a white hard hat and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His pants were coated with powdered drywall, and slivers of wood clung to his sleeves. One gloved hand held a crowbar, while the other shielded his face from my light.
He started to holler again when I spotted the thumbtacks where they’d fallen on the floor. With a sweep of my arm I sent them zipping like a cloud of hornets. They flew at his face and upraised hand, biting into fabric and flesh.
He shrieked and swung his crowbar. I had to dive off my feet to keep from being brained. He tripped over my legs and fell, smashing into the stall door hard enough to crack the wood.
On all fours, I scrambled to get clear. Remembering what was in his hand, I gave the metal a hard shove. Flexing as though it were made out of rubber, the crowbar took the momentum of his swing and whipped around hard. The sudden wrenching force twisted his wrist. There was a cracking sound, and he released the crowbar with a whimper.
I was on my feet and out the door as he lay on the floor, curling his whole body around his wrist.
Five steps down the hall, three more burly ransackers blocked my way. I skidded to a halt on the polished floor. Mean eyes and hard faces in the glare of my phone eyed me with a mix of anger and interest. I must’ve looked like easy pickings. Their faces split into predatory grins. One with a crowbar in his hand shared a knowing look with his compatriot hefting a claw hammer. The third one, short but with arms like tree trunks and a barrel of a body, raised two-handed a sledge as though it were a broom handle.
“Come ‘ere, lass,” the sledge-wielder rumbled with a gap-toothed, yellow smile. “Come an’ I’ll give yeh a kiss.”
Though none of them were slight, they couldn’t block the whole hallway. I faked a step left before lunging right.
No dice.
All three of them ignored my feinted step and sprang in front of me, weapons ready. I tried to adjust course, zipping back the way I came, but I was too close. The sledger bulled towards me on stumpy legs, checking me hard with the wooden haft of his impromptu weapon. Breath exploded from my lungs as I flew backwards, landing on my rump, then rolling over in an awkward flop.
My phone fell out of my pocket, and the light went off when it struck the floor. The hallway descended into broken twilight. My bag gaped, spilling the puzzle box onto the floor. The trio advanced, their eyes gleaming greedily like subterranean misers. My lungs felt as though they were collapsing as I tried to suck in air.
“What’s that you got there, girly?” one cooed, as they leaned forwards eagerly.
“What might be in that pretty package, I wonder,” another tittered in an unctuously high-pitched voice.
“Looks like the little witch just made our jobs a lot easier,” grated the rough throated voice of the sledge-wielder.
Air began to fill my lungs again. Anger and desperation pushed me to my knees. As I shoved upwards, the rings on my hand rasped against the floor, reminding me of their presence. Reminding me that I was going about this all wrong. I was so scared, so desperate to get away, I was going about this like the old Ibby. I clenched my ringed hand into a fist. I needed to stop trying to run like Ibby, and start fighting my way out like … an Inconquo.
I put one unsteady leg under me and — with a grunt — forced myself to stand.
Alerted to a change, the ransackers looked up from the box, their faces masked in the half-light, but the ugly humour was gone. They sensed something different, and they didn’t like it. No jokes or taunts this time, they advanced, weapons raised. Too bad they didn’t realise their implements of iron and steel were under new management.
The one with the claw hammer came first, swinging the weapon with an aim to bury it in my skull. I could feel the metal of the head running down all the way into the plastic grip. With an angry jab, I sent the metal head sliding through its grip until it split the plastic. The misshapen hammer fell from its maker’s hand as shards of broken handle bit into his palm. I sent a sharp kick into the side of his leg as he barrelled blindly past me. His weight folded around his wrenched knee, and he fell with a scream.
The others came at me, eyes wide.
The sledge swung in a wide arc, determined to either force me back or put me in an awkward position for the long-handled crowbar to make a strike. Yanking on the upraised crowbar, I brought it down on the back of the sledger’s head. An off-handed mental shove forced the sledge to swing wide as its wielder ploughed into the ground, senseless. The hard hat he wore had saved his life, but he and his huge maul were out of the fight for good.
The last one stared, stunned into a wide-mouthed gape. His bemusement became terror as I reached out and forced the long-handled crowbar to twist in his hand like a living thing. He screeched and tried to throw it down, but I wound it around the front of his body like a snake, pinching his arms to his chest.
I stalked forwards as he squirmed and danced, trying to work his arms free. Scooping up my bag, I slid the ring box inside. He never saw the step kick that took him hard across his posterior and sent him tumbling to the floor. I didn’t bother to look his way as I went for the stairs, though I could hear him panting and wheezing.
As a bonus, I found my phone on the way there, and I slid it into the coat next to Dillon’s phone.
I walked down the stairs, head high but ears and eyes open. The halls were empty and quiet, minus the distant shuffling movements and groans from above.
I’d done it again.
The realisation was incredible, almost intoxicating. Is this what was meant by the thrill of victory? This wasn’t a thrill; this was a high. Despite the ache in my ribs and some scuffed shins, I felt damn near invincible. Three times now, bad men had come at me, and t
hree times I’d beaten them all. I wasn’t just a mystic guardian: I was a bloody superhero!
I felt the metal fittings on the main entrance hall doors and the scaffolding in front of it. Throwing both my hands out to punctuate the mental blast, the huge oak doors swung wide, the scaffolding dancing out in front of them. Plastic sheeting flapped and fluttered as I strode out of Brexlon Hall, victorious.
17
That buoyant exultation carried me all the way to the edge of campus, where I used my drainpipe trick to handily waltz over the wall and into the alley.
You know that thing they say about pride?
Sharp snaps whip-cracked through the air, and the bricks behind me puffed up in a spray of burst mortar and brick shards. A few shards hit my face, and I screamed as the shrapnel cut a gash over my eye. I felt hot blood trickle down the side of my face.
Bullets whizzed by and buried themselves in the wall, where they throbbed dully.
A blow cracked across my ear. My head rebounded off the wall, and the world became a riot of strobing colours and watery sounds. I slumped down onto one knee, and another impact broke across my shoulder blade. I sank onto hands and knees as blood dripped freely from my head. Black haze crowded my vision and pain swelled, blocking out rational thought.
A voice carved its way through the fuzzy moshpit of my senses. It was a cruel, ranting gasp of sound as more impacts came.
“… think you can get away with this you stupid …”
Blows drove against my side, crashed into my stomach and ribs, and bounced my body off the brick. Curiously, the pain was going numb. I should be hurting more, but all I felt was the dull rocking force of the beating and the rebounds in my nerveless body.
“… smirk at me now you, ugly, little …”
A shrinking voice inside my battered head told me the numbness was a bad sign, but the thought was drowned out by the mad voice.
“… I’ll cut those rings off your filthy corpse, you …”
The world was grey and indistinct. Something deep inside me fought and clawed, willing me not to surrender to the inviting oblivion. My vision came into focus for a moment, and there was a flash of his face. Dillon, his expression twisted into a horrible mockery of his normal features. Bulging eyes and gnashing teeth lurked beneath hair gone stringy with sweat.
A sudden stark spotlight highlighted every grotesque crease and cranny. The light intensified, washing out his features, and the muddled sounds merged into a rattling roar. Dillon’s terrible gaze swept towards the brilliant light, and I watched in confusion as his countenance shifted into fear. The roaring noise was incredible now.
Dillon flew away as the light blinded me, then roared past in a flash of metal and petrol fumes. I tried to get up using the wall for support, but my body didn’t want to obey. My knees trembled uncontrollably. Only one eye seemed to have vision.
The alley was in chaos. A growling motorcycle slewed around, chasing Dillon, while a brute with patches of blistered skin across his face and hands fired wild shots at the biker. Dillon sprinted down the alley, arms pumping and my bag dangling from one fist. I felt a blunt sort of anger and desire to retrieve the bag, but my body was gradually awakening to its injuries, and those were quickly eclipsing everything else. My hand rose to my head as I tried to collect my thoughts. Everything felt sticky inside and outside my skull. A wave of nausea ploughed over me, and I curled around my aching stomach before vomiting onto the dirty cobblestones. Gagging and retching, the stabbing pains in my side brought back focus with razor-sharp clarity. Even the eye that had been out of commission regained some sight.
Dillon rounded the corner at the far end of the alley. My bag, still bouncing along on its strap, disappeared with him. The motorbike slowed to a stop, and the black, insectile helmet gazed after Dillon, before swinging back my way. The rider appeared torn between following Dillon or racing back the way she’d come.
Yes, she. Men were not built like that, though I knew quite a few lucky women who might match.
She came to her decision when the gun thug, who had been reloading, started firing again. Bullets, hastily blasted down the alley, zipped past her. She revved her engine and shot out the mouth of the alley.
The brute — the big one I’d hit with the espresso machine — stomped after the biker, firing off another useless shot before stopping. I watched him, fighting for each pain-laced breath, as he turned to glare at me. I saw the stained bandage on his hand, the bubbled welts all over his skin, and the way he stood, as if his back had stopped bending properly. A fresh quiver of fear shook me. He lusted for vengeance.
Almost lazily, he walked towards me, pistol dangling from his big fist. He wanted me to know he was in control. When he spoke, his thick voice was dripping with smug satisfaction.
“I could hurt you so badly,” he declared. “But I think I’ll just end you and finally take those rings off your hand. Hang Sark’s orders.”
The pistol rose, and the world moved like it was caught in syrup. My mind worked only marginally faster, but it would have to be enough. The handgun was, to my surprise, composed mostly of non-metals, but there were a few things, not least of all the bullets. The suppressor jutting from the pistol barrel was a tube of baffled metal, and I fixed my attention on this.
As badly beaten as I was, forcing the handgun down was like gripping something with a broken hand. I sobbed with the effort. Still, with his first trigger pull, the bullet struck the base of the wall a foot to my right.
He snarled and fought against me with his whole body, leaning against the gun with his considerable mass. I released my hold, letting him whiplash the other way, and his second shot went wide to my left.
The third shot would not miss. I didn’t have the strength to wrestle with him, and we both knew it. He smiled at me then, and he took his time levelling the pistol at my face.
“Get stuffed, you mangy cow,” he spat out the words and pulled the trigger.
I couldn’t muster the mental effort to grapple with him over the handgun, but I had enough strength to wrinkle the metal in his suppressor, turning it into a long, metal stopper.
The firing pin struck the primer, igniting and detonating the powder. The bullet hurled forwards, carried on a tide of erupting chemistry. It met the pinched-off suppressor, and with nowhere to go, Newton’s Third Law came into effect.
The pistol barrel and suppressor exploded. The ear-splitting pop paired with a sharp ‘ping’ as fragments shot off in all directions.
I threw my hands in front of my face, so I didn’t see the immediate effects on the gunman’s hand, but as I looked between my fingers a second later, I watched him reel through a thin cloud of smoke. The pistol had fallen from his bleeding hand, but it was little comfort as he came barrelling through the grey haze. His undamaged hand wrapped around my throat, and he dragged me up against the wall until my feet were off the ground. Dangling there in front of him, face to face, I got full view of his incredible, unflinching rage. He looked as though he was going to choke the life out of me if it was the last thing he did. I clawed feebly at his crushing grip.
Things were getting spotty. My vision became a tube, then a tunnel. But, there was a light at the end of it. Wavering, white and bright and … accompanied by a snarling engine. There was a jarring thud.
My executioner released my neck, and I collapsed like a marionette without a puppeteer. I crumpled to the cobblestones, hacking, fingers at my neck as my throat burned and screamed. My lungs wailed for air. Tears leaked from my eyes, blurring my vision. I scrubbed at my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket and looked up, still coughing.
The biker circled around and came to idle in front of me. She holstered a collapsible baton on her hip.
Knees wobbling, it felt as though I took years to get to my feet, but I managed to sag against the wall. Gazing at the woman on the bike, I managed to mouth, “thank you.”
The biker threw up the visor of her helmet. Her eyes were familiar, though in my brutalised s
tate I couldn’t place them. Dark and flashing dangerously, they took me in. She held out her hand, shouting over the engine’s throaty purr, “Phone.”
I stared stupidly, but when she reiterated the demand, I slowly complied. It seemed strange that she’d come back just to rob me of my phones, but I was past caring. I wanted to lapse into a coma peacefully, if it wasn’t too much to ask.
I held out my phone as well as Dillon’s. She took them and settled back onto her metal steed. With mechanical efficiency, she disassembled both devices, separating casing, battery and phone. She popped open a rear compartment and unceremoniously dumped the dismembered plunder inside. She snapped the compartment shut and faced me.
“Come on!” She held out a hand.
I stared into her eyes, those familiar, lovely spheres, and though I felt like lying down, I forced myself to reach out. She helped me onto the back of the bike where I wrapped my arms around her.
“Hang on tight,” she called. With a hungry cry from the motorcycle, we tore off into the night.
My rescuer raced up roads and down alleyways, interchanging between major thoroughfares and side streets, seemingly at random. Sometimes, we were hurtling along fast enough the wind stung my face, and at other times, we coasted, barely faster than a jog. I gave up on working out her destination, and after passing the same Indian restaurant for the third time, I realised she wanted to ensure no one was following us.
It was a comfort she didn’t seem intent on dragging me off to some evil lair posthaste, but the evasive tactics allowed me to replay the events. I groaned and set my forehead against her back.
I’d lost the other set of rings, failing at the one task I’d set out to accomplish.
A weight that had nothing to do with bodily fatigue settled over me until it was all I could do to hold on. I bit back tears as we coasted around another corner.
Failed. Utterly.
If it hadn’t been for the mystery woman, I would have also lost the rings I was wearing and my own life to boot. I shivered, the realisation of how close I’d come to death, mere seconds, cast my confidence on leaving Brexlon Hall into a new light. I’d been so stupid, so arrogant, and in doing so, I’d lost everything or damn near close to it.