Castling

by Jack McGlynn

  Castling

  1.

  Jack McGlynn

  To say Jack writes for a living is perhaps misleading. To say he scavenges the mind’s recesses for unlikely, if palatable, ways of relaying meticulously detailed carnage is certainly fairer.

  Similarly, one could in truth depict him as a games journalist, film critic and technology analyst. A copy editor. A freelancer. That said, bolting on the prefix ‘cheeky’ for each term would work wonders for the statement’s overall accuracy.

  Castling marks his first foray into the world of published fiction. Clinging true to the adage ‘write what you know’, it’s a series seething with sardonic jibes, emotional immaturity and inventive mayhem.

  To understate, and somewhat drastically, Jack really hopes you enjoy it.

  1.

  Head thumping, Rook trudged past aisles of frozen vegetables. Phone in hand, he thumbed his way through its Inbox. His text had indeed delivered. He had the report to prove it.

  Eighteen degrees in the shade, his long fingers idly traced the freezers’ cool rubber lining. Molly hadn’t responded to his SMS in half an hour, which seemed a little incongruous given how charming he presumed himself to be.

  “Meh” Rook grunted with mustered nonchalance. It was unconvincing. Though two long decades had passed since he’d been a thirteen year old boy, the attention of pretty girls was a narcotic yet to lose its kick.

  Speaking of which...

  The dull thump inside his skull promoted itself to full blown ache. Rook was in desperate need of a fix and its lure fairly hastened his gait. A few jogged steps and he found himself before a door, fogged with condensation. Thick digits snatched at the handle and yanked it clear.

  “Come here to me, you frozen sonofa... bitch...”

  Empty.

  He stood a moment, jaws slackened with cruel irony. The ice-cream section of the self professed Convenience Store was conveniently out of stock. Understandably, Rook took this as a personal affront.

  And it was all he could do not to burn the place to the ground.

  Assuming they’re not out of lighters too!

  Feeling the unmistakable tremor against his thigh, he dragged his mobile free, eager for the distraction brought on by Molly’s wry flirtation. Apparently his service provider had an offer on international calls over the Bank Holiday Weekend.

  “You’re doing this to punish me, aren’t you?!” Rook snarled, eyes narrow, yellow rimmed pupils cast skyward.

  The ache became piercing, and relocated to his temples. Rolling hunched shoulders, Rook bounced his forehead off the freezer’s plexi-glass.

  Endurance ruptured for but a moment, fury crept in. He reckoned there should be public health warnings on the dangers of trying his patience. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge his predicament couldn’t possibly deteriorate further.

  A trio of sharp pops sundered that illusion.

  Oh, awesome.

  Gunshots. Probably just a handgun. And originating at the supermarket. About seventy yards up the road.

  Aggravated, Rook threw his arms, his head shaking in weary resignation,

  “You’re pushing it now!”

  He knew better than to get involved. This wasn’t his concern, hadn’t been for seven months. England had people for this sort of problem. Respectable people. Calm people. If not better than him, then certainly nicer.

  Rook knew what he should do. Turn on his heels and walk. Jump on a tube, march home and stick his head in the freezer. Besides, he had only just started his new job. And, unlike his previous employ, it called for subtlety, for delicacy. It called for a low profile.

  He couldn’t think of anyone less qualified to do it.

  Rook didn’t even want to intervene. His gut rumbled, his skull screamed and it was his first day off in twelve.

  But... They probably have ice-cream in that Tesco...

  So he never really had a choice in the matter.

  *

  Having rapped on the clear glass pane, Rook reclined against the locked door and waited. Shuffling footsteps answered.

  A man, perhaps ten years his junior, clothed in a needlessly baggy hoodie and far too skinny jeans, cranked the key in its lock. The door swung open and the cool barrel of a gun was promptly pressed to Rook’s throbbing head.

  He struggled to recall an instance wherein having a weapon levelled at his skull felt as soothing.

  “You brain-dead?” Skinny Jeans postured.

  “Getting there. Have you got any ice-cream?”

  “You wot?”

  Rook’s eyebrow arched at the confusion, “Uh, which part’s tripping you up?”

  Insulted, Skinny Jeans bunched a fistful of the arrogant stranger’s navy jacket and cocked the weapon’s hammer,

  “You a pig?!”

  “Does anyone ever say yes to that?”

  A predictably tense moment followed, wherein Skinny Jeans contemplated pulling the trigger and Rook pretended to give a damn.

  “Actually, they don’t” the young hood revealed, withdrawing his firearm from the man’s brainpan.

  “Might be worth rephrasing then. Can I come in?”

  “You come in, you aint leaving again!”

  Rook snorted, shouldering his way past Skinny Jeans,

  “Why would I leave? The ice-cream’s in here.”

  Ushered through at gunpoint, he caught glimpses of the other two geniuses hoping to make their fortune holding the staff of a local supermarket to ransom. One was even shorter and younger than Skinny Jeans, brandishing his polished handgun as a communicative aid.

  The other snared Rook’s attentions, undivided: Two metres of taut, bulging grey flesh. A respirator obscured the nose, mouth and bottom jaw. Orange gloop pumped intravenously into the giant’s bare neck, shoulders and spine. Bunched tubing tapered into a sophisticated harness strapped across the hoodlum‘s puffed chest.

  It was not the kind of tech street gangs merely stumble across.

  Wide eyes flashed in his direction. Three inches shorter and maybe fifty pounds lighter, Rook was almost relieved when Skinny Jeans shoved him forward, towards the other hostages.

  Inclining his head to the two men on the floor (one shook, clasping his knees while the other chilled his bruised cheek with a can) Rook strode over them, kneeling beside an anxious store clerk.

  “Tell me you have ice-cream.”

  “What?” the pale woman barked. Scrambling to her feet, she backed up, glancing clumsily against a confectionary stand. A deluge of chocolate rained down.

  “Maybe it’s the way I’m saying it...” Rook mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

  “Uh, yeah, we have some. Aisle four,” pointing she added, “just over there, toward the back.”

  Rook’s right hand reached out, snatching the coated handles of a wire basket. His left gestured,

  “Lead the way.”

  Approaching the store’s rear, and making a large assumption as to her captors’ earshot, the young shop assistant shrieked,

  “What were you thinking!?”

  “I may need some context here.... Alison” he replied, reading at her name tag.

  “Who volunteers to be a hostage?!”

  Rook shrugged.

  “What were you thinking... unless you’re, you know, unless you’re one of them?”

  “You know, of all the Tesco employees I’ve had the pleasure of chatting with, you are, by some measure, the most cryptic.”

  He halted before a fully stocked freezer. A giddy yelp escaped him. Alison rolled her eyes and latched onto his arm, fingers digging with mortal urgency, mouth downturned in a gaunt plea.

  “Are you here to save us? Christ, please be here to save us!”

  Unfortunately for the frightened clerk, Rook was miles aw
ay. He tore into the nearest box of choc-ices. Pinching the plastic wrapping with eager fingers, he stuffed his mouth. The relief was instantaneous, a sugar fix easily worth risking a bullet to the face for.

  Finishing it with a second wolfish bite he turned to the young woman, cheeks bulging,

  “Do I lookmpf like I’m here to savemph anyone?”

  Not entirely insensitive to the wrinkles of discontent crumpling her face, Rook rattled the box, offering a chocolate coated olive branch. She swatted it away,

  “Don’t have much of an appetite at the moment, funnily enough!”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Digging through a mountain of Vanilla, tossing aside bricks of Raspberry Ripple, he eventually yanked free a two litre tub of Cookie Dough. “There’s always room for desert.”

  His basket crammed, his migraine subsiding, Rook beamed. Creamy residue outlined a toothy grin. Alison flinched; the severity of her station became clear; locked in her place of work with a trio of armed thugs and a madman.

  Noticing her discomfort, the tall, slim addict opted for a distracting tangent,

  “And where might one find the cutlery, Alison?”

  Pouting, she led him to an adjacent aisle, jerked a thumb towards the shining silverware. Her head shook in disappointment as he swiped a serving spoon. Turning away she entirely missed him pocket a steak knife.

  Basket looped over one shoulder, Rook tore the lid from a pint of caramel swirl and begrudgingly passed it to the panicked woman. He promised it would take the edge off. She seemed oddly reluctant to take his word for it, adding,

  “Hey, are you going to pay for all this, yeah?”

  Rook took a moment to respond, the spoon still in his mouth, its contents burning his molars. He swallowed, pulling the cutlery from his face and wiping with the back of a rough hand,

  “You are a credit to your workforce, you know that!?

  No, I actually wasn’t planning on paying for it, Alison, what given our circumstance; the one with the hostages, shooters, and juiced up troll not thirty feet to our left.”

  “W-Well,” the ashen prisoner stammered, brushing blonde strands from her face, “Well, maybe we can come to an arrangement...”

  “Like buy one get one free?”

  Hands jammed in her pockets, Alison cowered between her bunched shoulders,

  “Help us and you can clear out the freezers for all I care” she whispered, convinced even her most self-assured voice would crack.

  “Who is it you think I am, love?” Rook asked suspiciously, deliberately lengthening each syllable.

  “Please.” She appealed.

  “But I didn’t bring my clubcard.”

  “Please!” She begged, voice finally cracking.

  Half a year out of practice, Rook had still hoped himself the equal of a seventeen year old girl. Looking into her wide, terrified eyes, he stood very much mistaken.

  He just prayed the over-muscled juicer would prove less challenging.

  “Ah, sod it then! Here,” he growled, handing Alison his basket, “go and bag these. And just.... just keep your bloody heads down.”

  Alison nodded and hurried off with the basket, coaxing her two workmates to take refuge behind a solid looking checkout.

  This left Rook alone against a trio of dangerous hoodlums, armed only with a spoon.

  Suppose the least I can do is make it fair on ‘em.

  He sheathed his spoon. Held upright in the tub, Rook placed it securely on an adjacent shelf, casually beckoning to Skinny Jeans. The young man strolled over, his firearm swaying listlessly in a loose grip.

  “Chief! See you found your medicin-“

  The ridge of Rook’s left palm half crushed the windpipe. Gripping the firearm with his right, he twisted it sharply, snapping Skinny Jeans’ wrist. Unable to scream, the muted thug dropped to his knees, desperate to relieve some pressure from his warped limb.

  Rook reversed the butt of the gun into his victim’s jaw. A sickening slap and Skinny Jeans folded, unconscious. Slumping to the ground, strident whistling escaped his nose.

  Arm automatically lining up the shot, Rook raised his freshly acquired pistol. A hauntingly familiar clack sang through the checkout stands. The first round cleaved through the distant hoodie’s forearm.

  The thug’s gun clattered to the floor, before his blood’s red could seep through his sleeve’s green. The following two projectiles found their way into the meat of his calves. Rook’s second opponent fell whimpering, trembling on the ground, eyes rounded with shock.

  The juicer’s bulging blue eyes simply stared as Rook’s hands blurred over the firearm. The clip was still dropping as he ejected the last round from the chamber. Field-stripping the weapon in a single fluid motion, he let it drop in pieces from his hands.

  His final, inhumanly built obstacle appeared decidedly unimpressed.

  Okay fine. That wasn’t terribly intimidating. I basically just disarmed myself, and made a wee mess. Different tack: Let’s try a little flattery.

  “How about,” Rook queried, unzipping his jacket, “we skip the part where you beat me to death and you can be on your way, no harm done?”

  The juicer snapped open a circular latch on his harness and cranked the dial within. The slosh of orange gloop accompanied a growing tension which entwined the grey bulk of his shoulders, neck and alarmingly stout arms with bulging veins.

  He snarled; a guttural rumbling, repeating across the entire supermarket.

  “Well that’s a fairly emphatic no” Rook sighed, snapping with his Smartphone camera. A series of blinding flashes captured the juicer’s likeness, who in turn vocalised his discontent with a stifled scream.

  “Mind this,” Rook called, tossing his mobile to Alison. Having packed his goods in tall brown paper and huddled with her colleagues beneath a checkout, she snatched the phone from the air. “I’m expecting a text.”

  The juicer charged. The floor rumbled. Produce rocked on its shelves. Rook pulled his coat off by the sleeves.

  Swerving under a thundering right, he tossed the jacket over his opponent’s face. As the larger combatant tore the garment free, Rook’s closed fist found its way into the juicer’s unprotected crotch.

  Thankfully, it was not similarly buffed with meta-human cocktails. And Rook was saved the embarrassing tale of how he fractured his hand on some guy’s junk.

  The juicer doubled over, eyes watering, groaning through his mask. Rook grabbed the harness and the tube bunching at the base of his opponent’s skull. Twisting about, he drove his every ounce of strength and torque into wheeling the giant.

  It worked.

  One hundred and eighty degrees later and the juicer’s face smashed through the adjacent fridge’s plexi-glass door. Further muffled groaning ensued.

  Slop filled tubing still choked in his fist, Rook bounced the skull off the sharp edge of a conveniently located shelf. Yanking the huge, lacerated head backward, he exposed an unprotected throat from beneath the respirator.

  Rook’s spare fist shot forth, bony knuckles bruising the juicer’s windpipe. A shrill, choked rasp emanated from the masked thug.

  Rook punched again.

  Way too eager.

  His fist slapped into an awaiting palm. The juicer’s fingers closed like a vice, ragged nails splitting his skin. Trapped in a cliché, Rook pushed against the young thug’s sudden defence, hoping momentum and leverage might finish what raw strength could not.

  But juicers were not designed to be outmuscled.

  “Balls.”

  A strapped boot thundered into Rook’s sternum. He was launched straight down the cereal aisle. After five airborne metres, he skidded to a halt, landing cushioned by some dislodged porridge.

  Senses already recovered, trachea rapidly adjusting, the towering hoodlum charged anew.

  Rook kicked up his legs, landing on his feet with just enough time to slip a wild haymaker. He twisted to the juicer’s back and leaned, swaying on his rear leg to evade a spinning backf
ist from the twirling thug.

  Tilting in, Rook’s rigid fingers snaked upward, opening a deep gash in the larger man’s brow. Blood poured down and in, blinding the left eye.

  Unconcerned, the brute persisted, swinging hooked arms as sledgehammers. Amidst a series of relaxed dips and parrying gestures, Rook mistakenly tried to block one outright. His skull rattled as a result. An uppercut chased it in with such ferocity he was forced to halt its path with a raised knee.

  Another hook from the right followed. Rook dodged backward, slapping down the consequent jab. An opening appeared as the juicer stepped with an overhand right.

  Rook darted in, catching the blow with a raised forearm. A chop clean through the muscle ruined the juicer’s bicep.

  As the thick right arm fell limp, accompanied by an agonised grunt, the point of Rook’s elbow worsened the damage to his opponent’s eye. The socket fractured. The juicer staggered, then dropped like a stone to the cold ground as the slimmer, smarter combatant stamped into his kneecap.

  “I’m betting,” Rook panted, taking a cautious step back from his downed foe, “my offer’s sounding pretty good about now, eh?”

  Skull fractured, trachea bruised, right arm useless and left knee held on by a sinewy thread, the juicer climbed to his feet. The revitalizing hoses tripled their amber output.

  “I can go back over the terms, if you’d like?” Rook pleaded, pushing himself upright again, “They were quite generous...”

  Fresh tactics not forthcoming, the juicer charged anew.

  Elbows bombarded the top of his bald, unprotected scalp, as he caught the slighter man around the waist. Ignoring them, the doped combatant hoisted Rook and drove him into the ground.

  The impact reverberated, rattling the jars on the right hand aisle, rocking the fridge doors to the left and driving the wind from Rook’s lungs. Before he could so much as rack himself with a juddering cough, the first of the giant’s hammering blows split his bottom lip, rolled his jaw.

  That was unpleasant!

  Blood pooling in his mouth, Rook permitted the second strike fall onto his eye. It was a gamble certainly, but the juicer’s growing confidence was also a distraction.