by A. Wendeberg
He bursts out laughing, but sobers quickly and leans forward, nostrils flared. ‘So you think safety and wealth aren’t things one should strive for?’
Uh-oh. Whatever I say now will be used against me in court. So to speak. I snap my mouth shut.
The silence stretches, then he nods. ‘Very well. I’m making a decision for you. You will enrol at Reykjavik University. Study whatever you like. Learn to live abroad, away from home. Different culture, different people. It will do you good. You’ll receive a generous allowance. Your life will be comfortable.’
‘What? Iceland? Are you fucking kidding me?’
‘Watch your words, young lady!’
‘Are you frigging kidding me?’ I’m mocking him. That’s never a good idea.
‘There’s an alternative, of course,’ he says softly.
‘You don’t say.’
‘You move out. You never ask for money. Not from me, not from your mother, or your brother. If you want a job in my company, you send in an application like anyone else. There’ll be no special treatment for you.’
I open my mouth, shut it, and try to breathe. ‘You hate me.’ It all makes sense to me now. Christopher, the golden son, got all the love and attention, because he’s male and more likely to follow in his father’s footsteps. I’m a girl. Like mom, I’m softer, less ambitious, and hence, worth less in his eyes.
‘You really hate me,’ I whisper.
‘I love you, Kay. It hurts me to put you through this, but I believe you need to grow up.’
‘Fuck you.’ I stand, and my eyes search the conference table for something to throw at his head, but don’t find anything big and heavy enough. ‘Go fuck yourself and your career plans!’
Before tears get a chance to spill down my face, I turn on my heel and storm out of the office.
***
Alex
I yank the strap loose and pry off the cast. I have to twist my body so Chris can pull the gun out of my pant leg. We barely fit into this vent. Every move is almost painful.
We leave the cast behind. Chris keeps checking the map, making sure we take the correct turns at the correct intersections. I push the microwave gun ahead of me. It’s wrapped in my jacket, so it doesn’t scrape over the metal casing of the vent. Despite moving with extreme caution, the vent echoes and magnifies the rustling of our clothes, our huffs, and our short, whispered conversations. When we reach the exit, I’m drenched in sweat.
Chris unscrews the hatch. One click — the first nut drops. Three more and every time it’s a bit like someone’s fired a shot. He moves the hatch aside and carefully sticks his head through the opening.
He shows me a thumbs-up, and slips out of the venting system. A moment later, his boots make contact with the concrete floor.
I inch forward and glance down. He’s hunched behind a car, scanning the surroundings. I wait for his all-clear, drop the gun and he catches it. Then I slip through the opening, careful to replace the hatch so it looks untouched.
Chris points to a door. “Staff Only” That’s us. I nod, put my jacket back on, pull my hood low over my face, and we move to the next car, then the next.
A noise stops us.
Footsteps.
We prick our ears and count. Eight. Ten. Maybe twelve people?
They are approaching. We hear combat boots on concrete slabs, and suddenly, the soft clicks of safety catches being flicked off.
Realisation suffocates us. This is a trap.
As quietly as possible, Chris places the microwave gun on the floor and pushes it under a car. Handicapped parking. I hope the driver doesn’t show up in the next few minutes.
I pull my gun from my waistband and flick off the safety. Chris’ eyes grow big. He’s unarmed. Never shot anyone. Sweat beads on his temples.
I nod at him. I know, brother.
The crackling of a mic, and then a quiet, raspy, ‘He’s in section A3.’
Whoever ratted us out believed I would be the only one here tonight. Which is everyone from the meeting last night, minus me, Chris, and Floh.
More movement. Faster now. They are fanning out and coming at us. I point at Chris, then under a car. He shakes his head and gestures at me. Idiot! I tug at his sleeve. There’s no time for discussion. We retreat quietly, past parked cars, concrete pillars, from one shadow to the next.
Hectic steps, getting closer. Again the crackling of a mic, but the words are unintelligible. A shot is fired and concrete chips off not far from us.
‘Drop your weapon! Come out where we can see you! Do it now!’
Chris’ eyes are huge. He begins to rise. I shake my head at him, mouth NO as clearly as I can, and motion him to hide.
But he doesn’t listen. He stands, opens his mouth, and says, ‘I am unarmed.’ He stretches out his arms and begins to turn away from me. Something punches my upper arm. Chris stops, looks down at his chest. A poppy begins to bloom there. An enormous—
The report of the gun hollers through the garage. Chris sinks to his knees. ‘Go,’ he whispers.
Instinctively, I slap the butt of my gun in his palm, roll away, duck behind a pillar, rip off my boots and grab them. I run like a madman. As fast as I can. Always with the image of Chris kneeling, grasping at the poppy on his chest.
I hear a shot. Then machine gun fire.
Finally, the pain registers; it rains down on me. I look at my arm and see a huge hole ripped into my sleeve. Blood everywhere. Everywhere.
I’m more hacking than breathing. Lights dance in my vision. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to listen, try to locate the cops. There’s a screeching and buzzing in my ears that I can’t shake off. My knees are like water. Frantically, I search for the darkest corner and find a tunnel. Twenty, thirty metres from me, maybe. Can’t say with precision. Everything seems far away, except the cops.
I reach the unlit tunnel and drag myself down along it.
Dead end.
Fuck.
No, wait. There’s a door — grey metal on grey concrete. No handle, though. I drop my boots, pull out my knife and run it along the edges. That’s when I spot the small keyhole in the door frame. I fumble in my jacket, find my electro pick and try it.
Nothing happens. Shit.
I can hear shouts behind me. They probably all know now there’s a second man. Not much time left. I’m losing too much blood now. Hard to apply pressure on my injured arm and pick a lock at the same time.
Still nothing.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead, and try my magnetic pick.
Nothing. I want to kick the fucking door to shreds.
Breathe. I slide the pick back in, move it gently, back and forth, back and forth. There’s a soft slide of metal against metal. The magnetic lock opens.
I push through, quietly snap the door shut, and take in what’s before me.
A small parking area. Or is it? I see no cars.
Hunching, I move forward and try to spot surveillance cameras. I can’t find any. It takes all my energy and focus to move, press my fingers on my wound, and make sure I’m not seen. But if they find a trail of blood…
Fuck. They’ll get dogs. I have to find a car, break in, and get out of here. My hands are shaking so hard, I don’t think I can even turn a key in an ignition. Not that anyone would be so nice and leave a key for me…
Then it hits me. Chris is dead. The motherfuckers killed my friend! He told them he was unarmed. He had his hands halfway up. And the cops pulled the trigger on him!
God, I hope he got one of them.
Not important now! Focus! Push all thoughts of Chris aside. There’s only one goal: get out, get away. Tell the others. Find the rat.
My mind is on autopilot.
In the farthest corner, I spot a van. No, a bus. A vintage VW bus with flowers spray-painted all over it. It’s probably the most stupid idea to pick a car that stands out as much as this one. But it’s either that or the black stretch limo.
I try the sliding door, and can’t believe my luc
k — the bus is unlocked!
I hoist myself in, bump my shoulder and grunt in pain. I press my healthy arm over my mouth, trying hard not to puke. The door shuts automatically with a soft hiss.
Okay. Take a short break. Just a short break. And think. Think!
What’s the next step? I try to remember the floor plans for this level. Was there a small parking area? Was there an emergency exit for it? There must be an emergency exit.
No, wait. Staunch the bleeding. That’s crucial now.
I finger my wound and almost cry out from the pain. I grasp at my shirt and tug until I hear the fabric give. I wrap the strip around my arm, catch one end with my teeth, make a knot, and pull it as tight as I can.
Fuck, this hurts. Bile fills my mouth, and I bury my face in the bend of my elbow. Deep breath. Pull yourself together.
Carefully, I raise my head and peek out the window. There’s movement. I duck.
Footfalls approach. I can’t stop my limbs from shaking.
But then… The steps are light and short. Maybe a woman. Or a young man? Still, too dangerous in my current state.
I grab the blanket I’m sitting on, and tug on it frantically. I pull it over my shoulders, my head, roll myself to a ball, and squeeze as far down beneath the backseats as possible.
My breath stops as the driver’s door is opened and the interior lights flick on. A female voice cries, ‘Fuck!’
My hair stands on end. I can’t believe how much energy punches through me. I’m ready to jump, and twist her neck. But then she starts the car, puts it in reverse, and drives off.
Is this really happening? Could it be so easy? No. The police will stop her and search the car. I should have thought of that earlier.
But I didn’t.
Fuck. I’m scared for the others. For Floh, even for Horst. God Floh, why Horst? Why the fucking hell?
I realise I’ll never get answers. I’ll die in this car. A bullet to the head. Execution style. That’s what the cops did to Chris: they executed him. Clean centre mass shot.
Lange knew we were coming. He sent in the police to protect his arse. One of the Providers is his spy.
I have to warn Floh. But how?
Quietly, with gritted teeth, I pull my boots back on, and tie them as well as I can. Just in case I might be able to run.
The car is bumping over a ramp. My vision narrows to a tunnel. I don’t think I can run like this. Where blood loss makes me hollow, pain fills me in. It will soon be over, anyway. I’m growing calm. Only a few moments, then she’ll be stopped, the cops will search the car and find me. I just wish I’d brought a second gun. I don’t want to be put in a cell, hung from the ceiling, have crocodile clips fastened to my ball sack, and electricity zapped through my body until I beg to be killed. Unheroic.
My eyes burn. There are all kinds of heroes. Raffe was the kind that only big brothers can be in the eyes of their kid brothers. Tall, protective, adventurous. I looked up to him with awe. I wanted to be like him. Be him.
I wipe my wet cheeks. Fuck. I haven’t cried in ages.
The car slows down. I brace myself. My hearse is a hippie VW bus. That should be funny. Shouldn’t it?
We bump over another ramp, through an elbow, and she speeds up.
She speeds up?
I risk a glance from beneath the blanket. The ins-and-outs of lamp lights. Tall buildings, windows lit. My mind needs a moment to process this.
We’re out! I made it. How is that even possible?
I pull the blanket back over my head and try to form a coherent thought. But all that’s bouncing around in my skull is, it’s a trick, you are dreaming, you’re already dead and didn’t even notice, you idiot.
We drive on, and the hum of wheels on asphalt is comforting. I touch my arm. The bleeding seems under control. I check the tourniquet, tighten it more, and feel myself deflating like an old balloon.
— FIVE —
Kay
I open the door to fetch my things. That’s odd. I didn’t leave a blanket under the backseats, did I? I tilt my head and bend forward, and immediately draw back. Did it just…move? I look closer. Shit! Something is moving under that blanket!
Dad’s weapons cabinet flashes through my mind. Stop being ridiculous and pull yourself together! I move my hand toward the pile. My fingers are trembling, I roll them to a fist. Whoever is hiding beneath the blanket seems to be sleeping. Or unconscious, dead?
There’s only one way to find out.
I unfurl my fist, lean over to pick at a fold of the thick fabric, and slowly pull. Short, curly, dark hair — maybe black, but it’s too dark to be sure. A face, dark skin. A shoulder covered by a bloody hand. He’s injured! Shit. What do I do now? A faint grunt issues from the curled up form.
‘Hello?’ I try.
His eyes open, he cries a ‘Haaaah!’ as his head snaps around, his bloody hand grappling at something invisible. He’s mad! Or in shock?
I scramble back, and his gaze makes contact. Blinking, disoriented. He’s youngish. Hard to tell his age, though. His nostrils flare as he sucks in air, widening his already broad nose. Full lips peel back over his teeth. Eyes like cold marble.
Illegal immigrant, I think, and I’m so relieved, I could giggle my head off. How the hell did he even get into my car? Did I forget to lock it when I stopped for gas, and he climbed in when I went to the restrooms? Where was that, again?
Never mind.
‘It’s okay,’ I say as soft as my rattled nerves allow. ‘I won’t call the cops.’
At that, the man freezes.
‘I mean… I wasn’t implying… What I meant to say was, my family donates to refugee charities, and I’d never tell the police if anyone, you know, entered illegally. I promise.’
His eyes narrow. A small nod, and he holds out his hand — the uninjured arm. I gaze at it, unsure, then wrap my fingers around his and pull. He winces, untangles himself from the blanket and scoots toward me.
Shit, his grip is so strong, it cuts off the circulation in my hand. Maybe I should have taken one of Dad’s guns. Just to be on the safe side.
My fear fades a little when he slides down, breathing heavily, head between his trembling knees. A groan and he slumps, tips forward, about to fall out of the car.
‘Hey, Mister!’ I shout and accidentally grab his injured shoulder. It’s as if I electrocuted him. He cries out and snatches my wrist, turns it until it crackles.
‘Stop! You’re breaking my arm!’
He lets go, mumbles something, and tries to stand.
‘I’ll help you. It’s okay. We’ll go inside, I’ll check your injury, call a doctor—’
‘No!’ He tears away from me, stumbles along the walkway, and falls to his knees.
I rush to him and touch his hand. ‘Okay, whatever you want. But first we need to get you inside. It’s too dark here to see how your arm is doing.’
He nods once.
‘Ready?’ I ask.
Another nod.
I push my hand under his healthy armpit and try to hoist him up. He’s too heavy. ‘Come on, help me!’
On wobbly legs, he pushes himself up, and we stagger to the house. I lean him against the doorframe like an old broom, search for the keys and find them under a bunch of crap at the bottom of my rucksack. Cursing, I unlock the door and lead him inside.
‘Wait, I just—’ I twist to toe the door shut, and my foot catches on the rug. My other foot tries to balance the tilting of my body, but the guy’s weight is on me and he, too, seems to trip. We fall in slow motion, and all I can think of is how often Dad has thrown out the ugly thing and Mom’s dragging it back in. You always, always trip over it when you enter.
I catch myself on one hand and both knees. The guy isn’t as lucky. He hits the floor flat on his injured arm and bellows in pain just before his head smacks against the floor. The cry wilts in his mouth. A grunt, then silence.
I killed him. His skull must be cracked. Or his neck’s broken.
I
fucking killed him!
I scramble around his prone form and check the pulse on his throat, his breathing. There’s both. Stop hyperventilating, Kay. Check his injury. I get up, too fast, fall again, curse, and run to switch on the lights in corridor, kitchen, and bathroom.
When I return, he’s still out cold on the rug. And the mess we’ve made…
Fuck.
I have to search the internet on how to clean up a crime scene.
My gaze follows the trail of blood from the doormat into the corridor. Thick, and nearly black against the tiles. A few drops are stuck to the guy’s combat boots. I untie them and pull them off his feet, grab two corners of the rug he’s lying on, and drag him into the kitchen where the lights are brighter and the tiles smoother, easier to scrub. I stumble, and with a sickening clonk his head hits the floor again. Shit.
My knees tremble. There are red smears on my index and middle finger. I clap my other hand to my mouth and race to the bathroom, yank up the toilet seat and roar at the bluish puddle of water and cleaning agent. I roll my tongue around in my mouth, spit a glob of acid into the toilet bowl, and blow my nose.
Okay. I’m done barfing. Back to work.
I find him rolled up and shivering. Long, black lashes curl against his dark cheeks. He’s not black, not like central-african-black. More like coffee-with-milk black. I wonder where he came from.
Not important now.
I squat next to him and poke a finger at the hole in the fabric of his jacket. A blob of coagulated blood slinks out of the hole and rolls down his sleeve. The squiltch it produces as it hits the rug makes my throat clench. The strips of fabric he tied above the injury must have come off when I moved him into the house and there’s a lot of blood coming out. I retie it, then run to fetch a dish towel and a pair of scissors.
I gaze back at his boots that lie in the corridor. They look like combat boots to me. His whole outfit screams burglar. Or militia, or whatever.