MELT: A Psychological Thriller

by Shane M Brown

  The unyielding floor punished Megan’s bruises. Her ear stung. Her shin throbbed.

  'Those stupid lights,' complained Chrissie.

  Alex yelled, 'Can someone please turn the lights off?'

  'Here, use this.' Glen passed Chrissie something.

  'Me?' asked Chrissie, sounding surprised.

  'I don't need it,' said Glen. 'I always sleep during the day.'

  'Thank you.'

  Chrissie fitted the eye mask.

  'Ouch.' Something in Victoria's apron poked Megan. Megan pushed it away.

  'Sorry,' said Victoria. 'Better?'

  'Yes.'

  After a few minutes on the cold hard floor, Megan felt warmth emanating from Victoria and Chrissie.

  Someone's stomach rumbled loudly.

  ‘Get used to that,' said Chrissie. 'I'm not good at being hungry.’

  Surprisingly, Megan wasn't feeling hungry. If anything, she felt relieved.

  Why do I feel relieved? We haven't escaped.

  But they were surviving. They were learning.

  This chamber is our world now. We have a north and a south pole. A water cycle. A calendar. Temperature zones.

  Across the chamber, Megan's umbrella marked their north pole like an explorer's flag.

  What else can we learn? Enough to escape? Is that why we're here?

  Even though her bruises throbbed and her ear hurt from the stone shard, she felt her mind slipping into that halfway place where time passed quickly.

  Tomorrow they needed to keep moving or die. They had no choice. They could walk or dig. Megan already knew her choice.

  I’ll dig. The ice holds answers. I know it.

  GLEN

  Chapter Nine

  Glen stared at the bomb.

  It moved! he thought. It just moved!

  Glen doubted icy Ericsson could really prevent the bomb detonating.

  If it falls now, we’ll all be incinerated in a fiery heartbeat. No one will know but me.

  Heart pounding, Glen checked the bomb's tailfins.

  Two tailfins were still ice locked.

  He exhaled in relief.

  It didn't move. I'm overreacting again. That's perfectly normal. Just calm down, Glen.

  He tightened his bathrobe. The sun had set outside. Without sunlight, the temperature was dropping.

  How cold will it get in here? Is it even possible to survive a night in here?

  They’d find out soon enough.

  'Where's global warming when you need it?' he mumbled.

  He checked his watch.

  10:35 pm.

  My bedroom alarm clock is buzzing right now. Sampson will be scratching at my door.

  Glen's cat always heard his alarm clock.

  He'll have nothing to eat until the police realize I've been abducted.

  Glen’s last outside memory was of his cat, Sampson.

  It was a terrible memory.

  Glen had been sitting at his PC playing World of Warcraft. The doorbell sounded.

  He lifted his earphones.

  Was that angry knocking?

  Not that it mattered. He wasn't going to answer it. He'd given up answering his door, his email or even his mobile phone days ago.

  He rubbed his itchy eyes and checked the time.

  Yep, he'd pulled another all-nighter. Ten hour of caffeine-fueled online mayhem. How could a computer game be so addictive? Well, it wouldn't matter soon. He'd have no electricity after Friday.

  His mouth tasted nasty.

  He searched his drawer for chewing gum. The tattered yellow packet gave up a single pellet. Chewing, he scratched his three day stubble. Better shave while the electric razor still works.

  In the bathroom he plucked a note from himself off the mirror:

  DON'T WEAR YOUR PAJAMAS ALL DAY YOU LAZY PRICK!

  Glen crushed the note. Yesterday-Glen was a bossy pain in the ass. His pajamas were comfortable. He wasn't going out. Why did it matter if—

  STOP, he told himself. Pure laziness has fucked your life up enough. Get dressed!

  He spat the gum into its wrapper for later. The electric razor buzzed to life, but stopped again instantly. The bathroom light went out too.

  Shit. They've cut my power. Have I lost track of the days again?

  He checked his watch.

  It’s only Wednesday!

  They weren't allowed to disconnect his power until Friday.

  He dashed out the front door and tripped over his garden hose. One slipper flew off, but he recovered and ran around to the fuse box.

  'Hey!' he yelled at the guy messing with his fuse box. 'You can't do that until Friday!'

  The fuse box door swung back, revealing the person ruining Glen’s day.

  He had no face. Or rather, he wore a full face mask. A gas mask. A scary as hell gas mask. Nothing like an electrician would wear.

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh shit!

  A trap.

  Glen glanced back, praying he wouldn't see....

  Another masked man stood behind him, blocking any escape. The second man held Glen's garden hose.

  'Look,' said Glen, pointing toward the 'SOLD' sign in his front yard. 'I've sold the house. I'm signing the contract on Saturday. You don't need to go all Halloween hard-core on me.'

  And not just with masks. They both wore rubber boots and gloves. Rubber everything.

  A sickening connection fused in Glen's mind. They weren't trying to hide their identity. They weren't trying to scare Glen. They wore the protective equipment to insulate themselves.

  One had an electrical fuse box.

  One had a garden hose.

  Oh God — they're going to electrocute me. They're going to push me against the fuse box and spray water at me. They'll cook me alive!

  'Please don't,' begged Glen. 'I can explain! You don't need to do this!'

  The man at the fuse box nodded.

  Glen barely glimpsed his garden hose. It dropped over his head like a hangman's noose.

  He grabbed at the hose, but—

  YANK

  —the loop jerked tight around his throat.

  He tried digging his fingers under the hose. It didn’t work. The hose squeezed so tight he thought blood would squirt from his ears.

  Fuck — they're strangling me. They're really killing me!

  Glen tried to speak. This was all a huge mistake. He'd sorted this out.

  He couldn't utter a sound. He couldn't breathe. He could barely think.

  Fight back!

  He thrust his head back. Made contact. His reverse headbutt hit the man's face. No, not his face. His mask. Only his mask. Useless.

  Glen's vision blurred. Darkened. Faded.

  He saw his cat. Sampson. Watching from under the fuse box.

  He thinks it's all a game, Glen thought, his final thought in the real world before waking in the chamber.

  They hadn't murdered him. They'd choked him into unconsciousness.

  In hindsight, a dart in the ass would have been nicer.

  #

  Brrrrrrrr

  A strong shiver swept up Glen's spine and chattered his teeth like a tiny earth tremor shaking roof tiles.

  Time to start jogging again.

  He'd learnt to jog in little circles. Jogging on the spot made his slippers fly off. He hated chasing them in bare feet across the freezing floor.

  After jogging thirty small circles he checked the tailfins again.

  Still okay.

  He touched the back of his fingers to the bomb's fuselage.

  It’s as cold as the ice. If it's frozen, maybe it can't explode.

  Crack - tink...tink...tinkle....

  Glen jerked back his fingers.

  What was that?

  He'd distinctly heard a cracking noise, then the sound of a bouncing ice chip.

  He bent over Ericsson, checking the ice under the bomb.

  SHIT! Look what I've done!

  Some ice under the tailfin had fractured. A piece had fallen out. That
was the sound.

  Glen blinked, not quite believing what happened next.

  Tiny cracks began spreading from the tailfin. Spider web cracks that branched and re-branched as though the bomb was sending roots down through the ice.

  Crackle...crack...crackle...crackle....

  Oh my, God. No, no, no....

  Panicking, Glen knelt on Ericsson's chest, slapping his palms to the ice, praying he could hold it together.

  'HELP! HEEEELP!' he shrieked. 'IT'S FALLING!'

  His prayers went unanswered.

  The fractures weren't stopping. Now they were branching out from above the bomb. They were everywhere!

  The icy jigsaw held in place for a split second then...

  ...shattered like a windshield hit by a cannonball.

  Ice burst through Glen's fingers. Shards cascaded around his hands like a collapsing sandcastle.

  'NO, NO, NO!'

  The ice began birthing the bomb straight into Glen's arms.

  Glen shoulder-charged the bomb, trying to pin it to the ice.

  Thrusting his full weight against the freezing metal, using every ounce of strength, he shoved and shoved and shoved. Red-faced and shaking from his adrenalin-fueled effort, Glen felt the bomb halt.

  It's stopping. I've got it!

  His elation faltered.

  First his legs, and then, by degrees, his entire body began buckling under the weight.

  This is it, he realized. I'm going to die and there's nothing more I can—

  Carl's body hit the bomb with such force that Glen was amazed the weapon didn't detonate.

  The two of them halted its lethal descent again, but Glen didn't think that even together they could lower the weapon safely.

  But they weren't alone.

  Alex was between them. Under them. Under the bomb. Sitting on Ericsson with his back against the ice bracing the bomb above his head.

  Megan straddled Alex to get both arms under the weapon.

  Glen snatched the tailfins, twisting to make room.

  'Hurry,' shouted Alex from under the bomb. 'My arms are giving out.'

  Totally unplanned, but like four choreographed dancers performing a complex maneuver, Glen, Carl, Alex and Megan lowered the bomb to the floor without crushing fingers, breaking limbs, or causing life-ending explosions.

  No one spoke until the bomb kissed the floor.

  Four pairs of hands gently released the bomb's fuselage and tailfins.

  For at least ten seconds, Glen only heard heavy breathing, settling ice shards and his own heartbeat.

  I'm alive.

  Megan broke the silence. 'We did it.'

  'There was no room for me,' said Chrissie, 'or I would have helped.'

  Carl smiled at her. 'Four people were enough. Although for a moment I thought we’d be the last casualties of World War Two.'

  'It felt like we’d practiced it,' said Alex.

  'Maybe we have been,' said Megan. 'In our heads. I know I've been thinking about it.'

  Carl offered Glen his hand. 'Thank you, Glen. You've just saved all our lives.’

  Glen accepted Carl’s hand and shook it properly. The way two close friends shake. Glen couldn't remember ever having someone shake his hand like that. Not even his father.

  Carl said, ‘I have no idea how you kept that bomb from falling by yourself, but we'd all be dead if you hadn’t.'

  'Adrenalin,' admitted Glen. 'Pure fear-fueled adrenalin.'

  Everyone surrounded Glen to repeat Carl's sentiment.

  Glen realized this was the most alive he'd ever felt. He felt like his candle was burning at three ends.

  #

  Carl wiped his hand over the fuselage, revealing black writing.

  G.P.

  500 LB.

  AN-M64

  Lot 11758

  EXPLOSIVE

  U.S. BOMB

  'Well?' asked Chrissie.

  Carl looked soberly around the group. 'It's a general purpose five hundred pound high explosive bomb. The Allies used them in World War Two to destroy bridges and railroads.'

  'Maybe it's defused,' said Victoria.

  Carl shook his head. 'This bomb was packed with two hundred and sixty seven pounds of TNT, Amatol or Composition B. Probably TNT. Judging by the weight, that explosive is still in there. It's very much alive and dangerous.'

  Holy shit, thought Glen. And I was holding that thing. If I'd slipped....

  He couldn't describe how it felt to stop a five hundred pound bomb from exploding between his legs.

  Megan began photographing the bomb. Alex studied the hole in the ice. Victoria began piling the loose ice over Ericsson's corpse.

  'I need a cigarette,' said Chrissie.

  'Should we just leave it here?' asked Megan.

  'It can't stay there,' said Victoria. 'Someone might accidentally set it off.'

  'Against the wall then?' suggested Carl.

  Glen waved everyone over to help. 'Come on. We'll slide it.'

  'Wait,' said Alex. He rubbed some ice over the floor.

  'What's that for?' asked Megan.

  'So the bomb slides easier,' explained Alex. 'Ready.'

  Megan and Chrissie knelt at the front of the bomb. Alex and Carl knelt where the bomb tapered into the tailfins. Victoria watched.

  Everyone looked to Glen.

  He nodded. 'Ready? Go.'

  Everyone pushed.

  The bomb shot from Glen's grasp. The tailfins cut past Alex and Carl like a shark through the surf.

  Shit!

  The detonating nose-cone sped toward the wall.

  Only Chrissie and Megan had time to react.

  Both women dove on the bomb. Chrissie at the side and Megan at the back.

  Megan hit the tailfins first, skewing the bomb sideways.

  Chrissie slid off the twisting bomb, landing between it and the wall.

  The bomb hit Chrissie instead of the wall.

  Oh, God, thought Glen. Did I just crush Chrissie?

  When the bomb didn't explode, Chrissie's head popped up from where she'd landed.

  'You idiots! You three nearly killed us!'

  'Holy shit,' said Alex. 'And I was worried it wouldn't move.'

  'Ouch!' cried Megan, lifting herself off the tailfins. 'Who pushed it so hard?'

  Everyone looked at Glen.

  'It wasn't me!' said Glen, hoping that it wasn't. 'Rubbing that ice on the floor made it too slippery.'

  Now everyone looked at Alex.

  'This thing weighs five hundred pounds,’ said Alex. ‘It shouldn't slide like that.'

  'We should have tested that first,' said Carl. 'None of us have any experience in this type of thing.'

  'No one in the world does,' said Glen.

  'I'm starting to shiver again,' complained Chrissie. 'Can we just get this done?'

  They did, but this time Glen gripped the tailfins firmly. They maneuvered the bomb sideways against the chamber wall.

  'Now, no one kick the detonator,' said Carl. 'That would spoil my day.'

  'Can we cover it?' asked Chrissie.

  'Let's bury the nose in ice,' suggested Megan.

  'We need the loose ice to cover Ericsson,' declared Victoria.

  'Okay,' said Carl. 'First Ericsson, then we'll cover the bomb.'

  Our first group decision without a huge argument, thought Glen. Maybe we can work together after all.

  #

  ‘Could you pace out the circumference of the ice again, Alex?’

  Megan had her phone ready. She’d started some kind of algebra equation.

  Alex turned from chipping the ice. ‘I already have. I’ve been doing it every two hours.’

  ‘Show her what you worked out,’ prompted Glen.

  Alex pulled out his phone. ‘I’ve been checking how quickly the ice is melting.’

  ‘That’s what I want to know!’ said Megan.

  Alex nodded at his calculator. ‘After twenty-four hours the dome will be 11.3 meters across. That’s 35 centimet
ers of ice loss all over.’

  ‘Hardly anything,’ said Megan. ‘Are you sure that’s right? There’s a lot of water running down that drain.’

  Glen did some quick mental math.

  If it’s six meters tall and melts thirty centimeters a day, it will take about twenty days to melt. That does sound about right actually.

  ‘Dad left this algebra app on my iPhone,’ said Megan. ‘You said the diameter will be about 11.3 meters?’

  Alex nodded.

  Megan typed that number into her phone. ‘Then it will lose around seventeen thousand gallons of water.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Glen. ‘That’s a lot of water. How does that help us?’

  ‘You can never have too much information,’ said Alex.

  Glen nodded, and at the same time smelled something new.

  He smelled smoke.

  That's not my imagination. I can really smell smoke.

  Megan asked, 'Can anyone else smell that?'

  'The bomb,' yelled Carl, dashing to grab Megan’s arm 'It’s smoking. Everyone get back!'

  Alex walked over and squatted beside the bomb.

  'Get away from it!' yelled Carl.

  Alex raised an eyebrow. 'To where? I won't be any less dead over there. I want to see what happens.'

  Glen agreed. Dead was dead. Plus the smell was wrong. He joined Alex, but leaned forward to smell the detonator.

  ‘Careful, Glen,' warned Megan.

  'It's not the bomb,' decided Glen.

  Alex jumped to his feet and strode around the ice. 'I know that smell.'

  Glen knew it too.

  Around the ice they found the culprit blowing clouds of smoke toward the ceiling vent.

  Chrissie.

  Smoking a cigarette.

  She took a long drag and studied the glowing ember as they approached.

  'Where'd that come from?' Alex demanded.

  'Ericsson.'

  Smoke chased the answer from Chrissie's lips.

  'I found three in his sunglasses case.’ Chrissie uncrossed her arms to flash a red Bic cigarette lighter. ‘And this.’

  Glen felt his lungs tightening.

  Smoke triggered his asthma.

  'You can't smoke in here,' said Glen.