by Matt Moore
“Don’t hurt him,” Greg said, eyes wide.
“Do what I tell you and I won’t.” Whatever it was released from my temple. A hand holding a pistol entered my field of vision. It motioned to a door in the hallway. “Open it.”
“Look, just call the cops,” Greg said. “We can—”
The hand squeezed my throat again. “Open the door, Muscles.”
I struggled to take a breath, clawing at the hand around my throat. It was too big and strong to pry loose.
Greg half turned to find the handle. Hinges squeaked as he pulled the door open.
“Down.”
Jack’s eyes brightened with anger. “I ain’t going in no fucking—”
Stars popped in front of me. “I can’t—” The gun pressed against my head again and I cried out.
“Get down those stairs,” the voice said, “or I’ll shoot him, then you two.”
“Okay,” Greg said, putting up his hands in surrender. “Don’t hurt him. Let him go and we’ll do whatever you say.”
“Hey, fuck that,” Jack blurted. He stepped forward, fingers pointing at Greg and me. “This was their idea—”
“Shut up, Jack,” Greg said.
Darkness pressed at the edges of my vision.
The gun pointed back at Jack and Greg. “Last chance, boys. No more bullshit.”
“Okay,” Greg said, hands still raised. He looked at me before disappearing from view. Stairs groaned as he descended.
“I had nothing—” Jack began.
“Shut it, Blondie,” the voice said. He motioned with the gun for Jack to follow.
With Jack and Greg out of sight, the hand released my throat. I’d whooped in half a breath before being shoved between my shoulder blades. Raw panic seized me and I charged down the cellar stairs, barely keeping my feet under me. Hinges shrieked and the door slammed, spiking my panic. My feet tangled. I was falling—
Greg caught me before I hit the floor. “Easy,” he told me as I got to my feet.
Fear, ice cold, rose. “I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I didn’t hear him—”
“Just take it easy.”
Jack, a few feet away, said to me, “You said no one—”
“Shut up, Jack,” Greg told him.
Footsteps moved through the house above us.
I caught my breath, inhaling the basement’s dank, musty smell. It was completely empty. No tables, shelves or tools. Not even a lightbulb. Two small windows high up on the front wall at ground level cast the only light.
I wiped at tears, fighting to stay as calm as Jack and Greg seemed to be.
The cellar door creaked open and I froze. “Alright, fuckheads,” the man yelled, “back against the wall where I can see you!”
Greg stood in front of me, walking me backward until my back pressed against the cold, uneven concrete wall.
Silverman came down the stairs slowly, steps moaning under his weight. His slacks were cinched tightly around his waist, pressing a roll of flab up and over his belt. The fabric of his shirt stretched against his skin, barely able to contain the bulk beneath it. A thick, pasty neck oozed up from the collar, supporting a round head covered in wisps of thinning black hair. Round, wire rimmed glasses perched on a narrow nose. In each of his chubby hands he held a pistol, barrels lowered. One was a big semi-automatic, the other a smaller snub nose revolver.
Before Silverman could speak, Jack was at him again. “You better let us go.” He almost managed to mask his fear.
Silverman smirked. “Or what?”
“This is kidnapping,” Greg explained. His voice was even, like he believed he could talk his way out of this. “We’re minors.”
“And we’ll tell the cops you molested us,” Jack added.
“There’s not going to be any cops. This is between you and me. I’ve seen you kids before. I’ve seen you snooping around when you think I’m not home. Never thought you’d have the balls to break in.”
“Just call the cops,” Greg said. “You’ve made your point.”
“Not even close, Muscles.” Silverman placed the revolver at his feet. “You were going to fuck me over, right? Steal my shit. Like it’s some kind of fucking game? Well, I got a game, too. It’s one the SS taught my father and his two brothers in the Warsaw ghetto. The Nazis had enough space in a truck for two men. So, the SS officer gave them a Luger with one bullet. He told them one of them would make a choice, and that choice was which of the other two would shoot the third.
“So that’s what you three are going to do. One of you is going to die. The other two can walk out of here, but one will be a killer and the other will live with the guilt of making the choice. And you can’t shoot yourself. Do that, and I’ll kill the other two. Don’t play my game, I’ll kill you all. Any questions?”
I was too terrified to speak.
“You can’t be serious,” Jack said.
“Pull that trigger and find out, Blondie.” Silverman toed the revolver. “One bullet.” He backed up the cellar stairs, his other gun aimed at us. The basement door closed, then a sound like something heavy being dragged across the floor.
“Fuck you!” Jack screamed up the stairs.
“Shut up, Jack!” Greg yelled at him.
“No, you shut up! That faggot”—Jack stabbed a finger at me—“said the house was empty.”
“I looked,” I tried to explain. “Maybe—”
“Silverman said he’s seen us before,” Greg interrupted. “We’ve missed seeing him, too. Look, there’s got to be a way out of here.”
“The windows?” I suggested.
“Let’s try.” Greg had to give Jack a shove, but they boosted me up.
We tried one window, then the other, but neither budged.
As I was about to get down, the front door opened and steps thumped across the porch.
“What’s happening?” Greg asked.
Silverman’s feet came into view and disappeared around the corner of the house. The garage door rattled open and, a moment later, an engine sputtered to life. An old, beat up pick-up backed out of the driveway and disappeared.
“Let me down,” I said. As they lowered me, I described what I saw.
“He’s gone?” Greg asked.
“Yeah.”
Greg turned, charged up the staircase and threw himself at the door. I expected a crash as the door gave way, but it sounded like Greg hit a wall. For a minute he slammed his shoulder into it before screaming “Fuck!” and slapping his palm against it. He came back down, sitting on one of the bottom steps, breathing hard. “There’s something blocking it,” he panted. He looked down at the gun, still where Silverman had left it, and picked it up.
Jack took a step backward. “The fuck you doing?”
“Seeing if he’s lying,” Greg said. He examined the gun until the cylinder swung open. Greg pulled a single bullet from it. “Son of a bitch.”
“What do we do now?” I asked. “I mean . . .”
“Nobody’s shooting anybody,” Greg said, then pocketed the bullet and swung the cylinder shut. “Could you fit through the window?”
“It’s stuck.”
“I mean through the hole? If the glass was broken.”
“Yeah, but it’s too thick—”
Greg, holding the gun by the barrel, slapped the butt against his other palm. “Use it like a club.”
A moment later, I was on his back. I held the gun like Greg had and swung. It rebounded off the thick pane.
“Swing it harder, faggot,” Jack told me.
“Jack, shove it,” Greg said and readjusted his weight. “But swing harder. And cover your eyes.”
I took a few practice swings, buried my face in the crook of my left elbow, and swung with everything I had. Stinging pain shot up my arm with the impact, but when I looked there was a spider web of cracks in the glass.
“Don’t stop,” Greg said.
I lined up my swing, covered my face and swung again. My hand bounced off, but I heard a crack. I look
ed, thrilled at the larger web shot through the glass.
“Do it—” Jack began, but Silverman’s truck rattled into view and turned into the driveway.
“He’s back.”
Greg let me down. Footsteps thumped up the porch steps, the front door opened, then footfalls above us. Greg took the gun back, reloaded it and pointed it at the top of the staircase. His eyes were wide, hands trembling.
There was a sound like metal sliding against metal, then Silverman said, “Do we have a winner?” His voice echoed through the heating ducts.
“Yes,” Greg replied. “I shot my friend.”
“Bullshit,” Silverman said, his voice reverberating. “Small Fry ain’t got the stones to make the call so soon and you sound too calm for a killer.”
“He’s dead!” Greg screamed.
“It’s true!” I yelled. “Let us out.”
“Fine. I’ll check tomorrow.”
I looked at Greg, wanting to know what to do next. Jack stared at him, disgusted.
Greg sat down, his back against the concrete walls. “How’s the window?”
“It’s cracked,” I answered. “A few more whacks and I think it’ll break.”
“Okay,” Greg replied. “Let’s hope—”
Something scraped along the floor above us. I had the mental image of the cardboard boxes I had seen in the back bedroom. Whatever it was wound its way to the front door and bumped down the porch steps.
“The fuck’s he doing?” Jack asked.
“Up,” Greg told me. I hopped on his back. Silverman loaded one of the boxes I had seen into the back of the pick-up and returned inside. Another box slid its way through the house, then Silverman carried it to the truck. Greg told me I was getting heavy and let me down.
“Maybe he’s leaving again,” Greg said when I described what I’d seen.
“Yeah, for good this time,” Jack said. “Leaving us stuck the fuck down here. If we got one bullet, let’s use it on him while we got time.”
“How?”
“Start screaming or something. Get him to come down here and put a bullet in his head.”
“And if I miss?”
“Then give me the gun, tough guy. I won’t miss.”
“We don’t need to start shooting, Jack. We get the window open—”
“And your brother takes off and leaves us down here.”
“I have a name—” I began, but Jack ignored me and continued talking.
“Let’s get him down here and fucking shoot him.”
“No,” Greg said. He turned away from Jack, went to the steps and sat down. I sat next to him while Jack sat in a corner.
We waited as Silverman dragged heavy things around the house.
The rectangles of sunlight streaming through the two windows tracked across the floor and up the wall. Greg tried to keep me calm, saying Mom and Dad had called the cops by now and were looking for us. Jack sometimes paced, telling us we’d be free right now if we listened to him. He proposed different plans—shoot the gun off and one of us plays dead, someone waits under the stairs and grabs Silverman’s legs as he comes down.
Other times he just sat.
At some point, the phone rang. Greg crept to the top of the stairs to listen, but told us the conversation was over before he could hear anything.
Jack was just a dark smudge against the slightly less dark basement wall when steps sounded on the porch. Whoever it was knocked on the door.
I stood up. “Cops.”
Silverman’s heavy footfalls thumped above us.
“The window.” The front door opened as Greg boosted me up. I expected to see a black and white patrol car, its red and blue lights pulsing, but there was nothing out there but the empty street and the marsh across it, the water black as daylight faded.
Upstairs, Silverman and whoever it was began to talk. The door shut.
“Well?” Jack asked.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Still don’t mean this ain’t our chance.”
“What do you mean?” Greg asked, letting me down.
“Still could be a cop. Or neighbour. Or someone who could help us.”
“Or someone crazier than Silverman.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling and screamed: “Hey you fuck-wad, hooknose, Jew-Boy kike!”
“What the fuck—”
“Come on down here and suck my White Power cock!”
“Knock it off!” Silverman yelled into the vent, but Jack yelled louder, dirtier. “I’m warning you!” Footfalls moved down the hallway.
Jack’s eyes went wide, begging Greg to go up the steps. Greg’s anger was obvious, but so was his understanding: Jack had committed us. He motioned for me to join Jack in screaming and went up the stairs, gun pointed at the door. He’d just reached the top step when the cellar door swung open, hinges screaming. Silverman—just a dark shape with the hall light behind him—filled the frame.
Greg pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Silverman’s thick arm was a blur as it grabbed the gun, yanking it—and Greg—toward him. Greg fell forward and Silverman swung his other hand, holding the automatic. Greg ducked the blow and stumbled back down the steps.
Silverman followed, big gun aimed at him. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the hall light casting his long, wide shadow toward us. “Against the wall.” We backed up, Greg again putting himself between Silverman and me. Keeping the automatic trained on us, Silverman looked at the revolver in his hand. “Someone’s been playing with this. Rolled the cylinder?” His meaty cheeks pulled into a smile. “Stupid.” He approached us—approached Greg—the revolver raised.
Greg put his hands in front of his face, turning away as Silverman closed. “If you’re . . .” Silverman pressed the small muzzle against Greg’s temple. His breath caught. Greg grabbed me and pushed me away. “Let my brother go. He’s—”
Silverman pulled the hammer back, its inner workings clicking. “No.”
Jack bolted for the staircase.
Silverman spun, his other pistol raised. “Blondie!” The revolver remained against Greg’s temple.
Jack stopped at the bottom of the steps. He looked up at the cellar door like he thought he could make it, then back at Silverman.
Silverman pulled the revolver from Greg’s head and Greg’s knees almost gave out. I put my arm around his waist to help him stay on his feet.
“If you don’t want to play my game . . .” Silverman began, crossing to Jack. He shoved the small pistol against Jack’s forehead. “I’ll declare you the loser and Muscles and Small Fry can walk out of here.”
Jack’s eyes crossed, locked on the gun. The hall light twinkled off its chrome finish. Except for his mouth—which opened and closed and opened and closed—Jack didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.
Greg turned me away. “Don’t watch.”
Jack sucked in a breath. “This wasn’t my idea.”
I couldn’t see, but I wanted Silverman to do it. I wanted him to kill Jack.
The gun clicked.
Jack moaned and started breathing again. Greg relaxed and I turned to watch.
“See, when you pull the trigger, the cylinder rotates.” The barrel still against Jack’s head, Silverman pulled the trigger twice more to demonstrate. Jack shuddered each time the hammer fell and the gun clicked. “Bet you lined up the barrel with the chamber with the bullet in it. So, when you”—he pointed the revolver back at Greg and my heart jumped into my throat—“pulled the trigger, you rotated the loaded chamber away and the hammer fell on an empty one. Lucky for me you kids don’t know shit.” He shoved Jack back toward us, turned the cylinder one more click, then set the small gun on the bottom step. “Don’t pull that shit again. Only thing I want to hear is a gunshot. Make any more noise, I’ll put a match to this place.” He backed up the stairs, gun on us until he shut the cellar door.
My knees gave out and I collapsed. I wanted to puke.
“The fuck, man,” Jack moan
ed, looking at Greg. “You almost got us killed.” He stepped forward.
Greg took four quick steps and snatched the gun before Jack could. “Me? Why the fuck did you start shouting? We should’ve planned it.”
“You fucked it up. Loaded the gun wrong. Give it to me.”
“You tried to pin this on us. No way I’m going to trust you.”
“Fuck you.” Jack skulked away and sat down. “Both of you.”
“What do we do now?” I asked Greg, finally able to speak.
“Wait. Hope whoever is upstairs will get help.”
We sat in silence. Silverman and the other person talked, sometimes raising their voices, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Sometime later the front door opened and slammed shut, then footsteps on the porch.
Nature eventually got the best of us. We decided on a corner. The air became thick with the smell of piss. Combined with a growing headache and empty stomach, I felt nauseous.
Night fell, turning the basement to total darkness. Headlights sometimes arched across the ceiling as cars passed by. Whatever Silverman had been doing earlier, he was done for the night.
I wanted to reach out to Greg, hoping he’d comfort me. Hoping he could do something to convince me it would be okay and we were going to get out of there. But I knew he was thinking, planning, trying to get us out. I didn’t want to disturb him.
I don’t know how long it was before I fell asleep.
Scraping along the floor upstairs woke me. I sat up slowly, a deep pain dragging through me. The basement seemed impossibly bright in the morning light. I felt weak, my mouth sand-dry and an ache had settled into the front of my head. Greg was also sitting up and the look on his face told me he felt as bad as I did. He looked around himself, confused, then worried.
“I have it,” Jack said. He sat on the steps, the revolver in his hands.
“Give it to me,” Greg croaked.
Scraping reached the front door and stopped.
“No,” Jack replied. His eyes were bloodshot.
Greg got to his feet.
Jack slowly pointed the gun at Greg, his hand trembling. “Don’t come near me.”
“I’m just standing up,” Greg said.
I stood, too, sore all over. “Jack,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Give Greg the gun.”
“Shut up,” Jack said. “You’re the fucking reason we’re here.”