by Matt Rogers
‘You can?’
Perhaps the unsuppressed gunshots had affected his hearing more than he thought. He twisted around to face her. ‘Where?’
‘Front door,’ she said, meekly.
She backed away, scaling a couple of steps.
‘Stay there,’ he said, quiet as he could.
He slumped down off the first step, now seated on his rear on the carpet. He had a direct line of sight to the giant wooden door set in the far wall of the drying room.
He brought the red dot sight up to shoulder height.
‘Shien,’ he said. ‘Do you know if this lodge has crutches?’
‘There might be some in the storage room.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Downstairs. In the basement.’
‘How many ways are there into the basement?’
‘Only one. Except…’ Then she shook her head. ‘No, that’s blocked. Only one.’
‘Go down there now. See if you can find them.’
‘I don’t like the basement, Will.’
‘Why? Does Mother have helpers?’
‘No. It’s just her.’
‘So the basement’s empty?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to have to do this for me. Or I’ll be dead. That’s how serious it is.’
She nodded, solemn, reserved.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
She leapt off the third step, directly over him, landing like a cat on the other side of the hallway, and took off running in the other direction. He kept his gaze locked firmly on the front door, ready to empty the magazine as soon as it burst inward. Behind him he heard a sliding door rolling on its tracks, and then the soft pitter-patter of footsteps descending down into darkness.
Williams’ words rang in his ears.
What’s your best-case scenario here?
You get her, and then what?
He didn’t know.
One step at a time.
One problem at a time.
First, the guards.
The front door shot open, its lock snapped clean in two.
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It swung on its hinges and bounced off the opposite wall, and Slater instinctively fired a three-round burst through the doorway, before he even knew what was there.
The lead sailed straight out into the forest, lost to the woods.
Hitting nothing.
Finding no targets.
There was no-one there.
Slater froze, still seated. He went through the same acrobatic manoeuvre, getting his left foot jammed tight against his rear, then levering upright. Balanced precariously on one leg, he kept the HK416 aimed tight at the open doorway and tensed his finger against the trigger.
A soft sound.
Boots on snow.
Someone moving, close by.
Then something sailed through the doorway. A small blunt object, about the size of a tin can. It clattered to the linoleum, making a racket, and skittered into the carpeted hallway in a stroke of bad luck.
An M84 stun grenade.
Slater processed it all at warp speed, and realised he had a decision to make.
Surrendering now, or surrendering later.
Either way, he was going to lose.
But surrendering later wasn’t a definite guarantee. And Slater was a born and bred fighter. So without considering the consequences he lunged forward on his left leg — the only possible action. The stun grenade had lost its momentum a few feet away from Slater. He could reach it with one massive hop, and punt it with the other foot. It was a case of picking his poison. Either put all his weight on the shattered ankle, or use the appendage to kick the grenade.
Either way, he was in for a world of hurt.
His athleticism assisted him, allowing him to close the gap in a bounding stride, all his leg muscles tensing at once, a hard explosive bundle of fast twitch fibres. He sealed his lips and prepared himself as best he could and thundered his broken foot into the grenade.
He nearly passed out from the pain.
But he hit it right where he needed to. It shot back toward the doorway like a dart, a tiny black capsule that spelled disaster for whoever was in the vicinity when it went off.
Which, unfortunately, was Slater.
The stun grenade sailed halfway across the drying room, then exploded in mid-air. Slater had meant to turn his whole body away from the room the instant he kicked the grenade away, but the horrifying pain rippling through his foot froze him like a deer in headlights.
For a half-second, his brain refused to compute — enough to seal your fate in a game like this.
He had his eyes on the grenade when it went off, and the accompanying blinding flare of light ruined his vision.
He’d already been off balance, and the disorientation finished the job.
He went down hard, temporarily deaf and blind, almost landing on the wrong side, with his good foot crushing the bad one. But he rolled at the last instant and landed on his stomach, squashing his face into the carpet, mouth wide open, sucking in deep ragged breaths. He lifted a hand to his face and pawed at his eyes — he was no stranger to the sensation of a stun grenade, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
He blinked fast, three or four times, and rolled to his back, bringing the rifle up to aim at where he thought the doorway lay.
Still blind.
Still deaf.
Panic hit him like a truck. He threw caution to the wind and fired, pulling the trigger, feeling the HK416 vibrate in his hands. He didn’t hear the reports, or see where he was aiming.
Then he stopped immediately, because he had no idea if or when Shien would return from the basement. He pictured her racing to the top of the steps, brandishing crutches, cut down in the carnage.
He let go of the trigger.
He couldn’t run that risk.
He would sooner die than put her in harm’s way.
His vision came back, piece by piece…
He made out dull shapes looming up in a glowing white rectangle.
The doorway…
Then the bullet hit him in the shoulder.
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It tore a chunk of flesh off his deltoid muscle, and all the pain followed immediately after. His brain barely knew how to deal with itself, focusing back and forth between the grisly foot injury and the fresh destruction of nerve endings in his right shoulder.
He gasped, still deaf, mostly blind.
He moved to re-adjust his position and get the bulky HK416 aimed at the silhouettes in the door frame, but his right arm refused to move.
He tried again.
One last time.
Nothing. His vision seemed to get worse, and he heard nothing but the dull thrum-thrum-thrum of everything at once. No discernible sounds. No ability to raise his arms.
He knew when he was defeated.
He screamed, ‘I yield,’ at the top of his lungs. His own voice rattled in his head, but he couldn’t hear anything that came out of his mouth.
He let go of the gun, letting it cascade to the floor. He stretched out on his back and put his hands above his head, fingers out, palms open. He stared up at the ceiling. Barely seeing it. Barely aware of what was going on around him. He felt a squelch under his right shoulder, and sensed blood soaking into the carpet. As he lay back he dragged his right heel across the ground, and the torn muscles gnashed together.
He groaned.
And then they were all standing over him, four of them, and he could make out their features a little clearer. They all had their helmets on now. Slater wondered if the material was bulletproof. One of them crouched over him as the other three aimed rifle barrels at his chest. The guard flipped up his visor, and Slater stared into green eyes burning hot with rage.
The guy had the square head and weather-beaten complexion of a stereotypical Marine. Or, ex-Marine, if Russell Williams was to be believed. A get-shit-done type. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Close to Slater
’s age, but even if he’d had a career for the ages he would still rest a world apart in experience.
Experience did Slater little good now.
The guy reached down and shook Slater by the collar of his jacket, deliberately aggravating his shoulder wound.
A fresh torrent of blood poured out of the torn jacket.
Slater moaned.
‘You really thought you could do this?’ the guy said.
‘Figured it was worth a shot.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘No one sent me.’
‘We’ll get it out of you.’
‘I’m terrified,’ Slater said. ‘Listen, guys, can we all agree that any attempt to beat information out of me is only going to lead to me feeding you false intel? Can we come to a mutual understanding?’
‘Why would you want to convince us of that?’
‘Better a quick death. Get it over with.’
The guy shrugged. ‘Probably. But you’re not dying on us. You’ll lose consciousness, maybe. But not until…’
He looked up at the faceless guards around him.
They all nodded in unison.
The guy bent down and gripped the back of Slater’s skull with a meaty hand, lifting it off the carpet. He growled, ‘You’re not as smart as you think. We’ve got surveillance access in the booths. We saw what you were doing.’
‘Oh,’ Slater said.
‘Where is she?’
‘I told her to run off.’
‘You told her where to go.’
‘I’ve never been in this building before. You think I know all the hiding spots?’
One of the faceless guards screamed, ‘Roll call!’
A cacophony of high-pitched responses drifted down the stairwell, piercing into what little hearing Slater had left. He grimaced. In response, the three guards in helmets hustled up to the communal dormitory area. He heard them split up, checking the rooms, sweeping them for any sign of Shien. A couple of the kids floated innocent questions, which were all met with harsh single-syllable responses.
Now was not the time for explanation, evidently.
The first guy with the green eyes took a Beretta M9 out of a holster at his waist and jammed it into Slater’s throat, pinning him against the carpet. He wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Looked like you were here to rescue her,’ the man muttered. ‘You her father or something?’
‘Do I look like her father?’
A pause. Studying skin tone. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘How’d you figure that one out? Are you a Mensa member?’
The man slapped him in the face, producing a wet crack.
Slater groaned.
The guy said, ‘I think she’s in the basement.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Seems the logical place to go. It’s a maze down there. She could hide for hours.’
‘Why don’t you go find out?’
‘I think I’ll take you with me. I’m not in the mood for hide and seek. Seems like you mean a lot to her. I wonder if she’ll stay quiet when I shoot you in the head in front of her.’
‘You’re going to traumatise her like that?’
‘That’s the least I can do. I’ll make her suffer afterwards.’
‘Aren’t you here to guard these kids?’
‘I don’t like your friend one fucking bit. She’s the rebel of the group — that little runt. I’ve told Command time and time again that the whole program would be better off without her. But her test results are phenomenal, apparently. So they’re keeping her around — even after all the trouble she’s caused.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got a whole host of your own issues to deal with if you’re getting this worked up over a kid.’
The green eyes sparked, and the guy smiled. ‘Of course I do. Why else would I be all the way out here?’
He hauled Slater to his feet — it wasn’t an easy process. First he tried to lever him upright with all the weight on his shattered foot, and Slater pitched violently to the left to avoid that result, which sent him tumbling straight back to the carpet. He flailed around on the floor like a lifelong alcoholic deep in a bender, willing himself to retaliate, trying to figure out how to disarm the guard without the use of his right arm or leg. One side of his body, effectively shut down.
He couldn’t do anything to resist.
The guard got him balanced on his left foot, and then touched the Beretta’s barrel to the back of his head.
‘Walk,’ he said. ‘Basement.’
‘I can’t walk.’
‘Then hop.’
Slater forced himself to concentrate, to fight through the whirlwind, to try and find some way to seize the upper hand. This was the only chance he had. One on one, despite the circumstances, despite the disadvantages. He would have to find some way to get it done. Most of the firepower was upstairs, clearing rooms, securing the lodge.
But then the first man called out, ‘Get down here!’
And the other three guards thundered down the steps, filling the hallway with their bulk, brandishing their rifles at the ready.
Slater stood still, his head throbbing, his heart racing, his blood turning cold.
One of them said, ‘All clear.’
‘Good,’ the first guy said. ‘Basement.’
They all nodded.
One on four.
With no right arm, and no right leg.
Against fully automatic assault rifles wielded by men who knew how to use them.
Impossible.
Slater bowed his head, defeated, and jolted across the carpet, hopping on his left foot, heading for the sliding door.
Descending down into darkness, with the cool touch of a Beretta against the back of his skull.
He fought the urge to vomit and pulled the door along its tracks, staring down into murky blackness.
‘Basement,’ he said.
‘Let’s go find your favourite kid,’ the first guy hissed, something sadistic in his tone.
Slater didn’t like this one bit.
He leapt down onto the first step.
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He tried to take his time, but they wouldn’t let him. He fought tooth and nail for any chance to compose himself, to unscramble the wild array of thoughts tumbling end over end through his head. He paused on the second step, pretending to wince, feigning some kind of disruption to his left ankle. The guard with the green eyes shoved him forward by forcing the barrel harder into his head, nearly sending him toppling head over heels to the bottom of the staircase. He fought for balance and took the next three steps fast to avoid a similar fate. By the time he realised what the guard was doing, it was too late.
They were already halfway down the stairs.
They reached the basement, and the guard looped a muscular forearm around Slater’s throat and held tight. He switched the Beretta from the back of Slater’s head to the soft patch of skin above his right ear, jamming the gun in tight.
Smart.
In an attempt to disarm the guy, Slater had to lunge across his chest with his left arm, an awkward manoeuvre that gave the man plenty of time to see what was coming and squeeze the trigger. The bullet might exit Slater’s head and enter the guard’s forearm, but it seemed to be a risk he was willing to take.
They stepped out into a long low space with weak flickering bulbs every few yards along the concrete ceiling. The walls were concrete, too, and the floor. It was like a dungeon, with all the floor space taken up by rows of rusting metal shelving. The shelves sported fight gear and knives of all kinds and regular lumber and building supplies to patch up any discrepancies in the lodge.
Like a nuclear fallout bunker, only larger.
The guard screamed into the darkness, ‘Shien!’
Silence.
‘I’m going to kill your friend!’
Silence.
‘Three seconds, Shien. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.’
Slater sensed the man’s
finger against the trigger, unbearably close to pulling it. He reflected on his life, and determined it had been a good one. He didn’t see it flash before his eyes. None of that sentimental crap. Just a rudimentary analysis, followed by acceptance, followed by a single thought.
Well, if this is it…
He closed his eyes.
‘Okay, Shien, it’s your call! You did this. Ready? This is the sound of your friend getting his brains sprayed across the room. I might make you clean it up. That’s your punishment for playing hide and seek.’
Silence.
‘Damn,’ the guard whispered in Slater’s ear. ‘I was going to do it anyway. But I really wanted her to see it.’
He started to put downward pressure on the trigger.
And then he stopped.
He grunted in disapproval.
Slater felt him turning on the spot, looking over his shoulder, searching for his three buddies.
The man said, ‘Fuck this. She needs to see this. I didn’t keep him alive for nothing. Go find her and drag her here, and then I’ll shoot this guy in the head. Maybe some of his brains will hit her. That’ll teach her to play games.’
Even the stern-faced guards grimaced at that.
‘Go,’ the first man urged.
‘They’re thinking you’re a sick, sick puppy,’ Slater said.
‘Maybe I am. How’s this for a bit of excitement? God, I hate that booth. Nothing to do all day. You’ve got to spice things up every now and then.’
The three other guards shouldered past Slater and the green-eyed man, pushing deep into the basement. The weak light cast long shadows off their helmets. Slater felt the burn in his broken foot and the coagulation of blood pooling around the sleeve of his torn jacket, and he waited for the end to come.
He couldn’t fight it.
One guard took the lead, impatient, wanting it over and done with, likely frustrated at the commotion caused. Mother was dead, and that would mean an upheaval of the routine as Command scrambled for replacements.
Anything to keep the wheels moving, the cogs turning.
Slater sensed the sickness and psychotic nature of everything around him and figured this was what happened when men and women in the upper echelon of the government failed to do their due diligence. Williams might have started this whole thing with pure intentions, but it had clearly descended into some kind of freak show. Almost cult-like. The isolation, coupled with the job stress. No doubt it twisted minds into something darker. Hence Mother, and the green-eyed guard, and the surreal nature of the entire setup.