by Mark Ayre
Omi and Doc were armed. They might kill one or two of their adversaries but would die soon after. Their only hope was that they could take cover and let Graham do the work.
Yacob had thought of that.
“Grendel,” he called. “We know you’re here for Eve. If you want her—” he nodded through the open doors behind him. “She’s on level -2.”
Graham growled and stepped forward. Once the beast was through the doors, they would close, and Yacob would give the signal.
Hattie was terrified. She knew she could not allow it to play out as Yacob intended. After taking a step towards her daughter, she turned to face Yacob while calling to Omi.
“They’re going to kill you. Take Delilah and run.”
With a roar, Yacob lowered his finger and brought his gun towards Hattie’s stomach. She had already leapt. He gave an oof as she crashed into him and took them both to the ground. From his hand popped the gun.
Delilah was running, calling for her mother. All around, hidden guards began to move.
Doc sprung from the wheelchair, Omi raised his guns, but they stood no chance. They were outgunned, outmatched. Finished.
Graham gave his loudest roar yet.
Above, hundreds of bulbs flashed to life, revealing several hidden agents. One had a gun levelled at Omi’s head.
There was a crack like thunder, and Omi’s would-be killer disappeared in a spray of blood.
Through the door appeared two women.
Ursula was first. Smiling, she fired a shotgun, blowing away Yacob’s second-in-command.
Looking around, she said, “It’s a mutiny. Who’s ready to die?”
After that, chaos reigned.
Sandra snorted. “What a drama Queen. I thought you were sensible.”
Something in Eve’s eyes seemed to frustrate the older woman. She shook her head as though trying to shake her daughter’s stare.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m trying to remember,” Eve said, “If you were always this way.”
“You always hated me,” said Sandra. “Don’t you recall?”
“You’re an idiot,” said Eve. “As well as a bitch.”
Eve and Sandra shared a short temper. Eve saw the jaw working, the hand twitch. How many times had Sandra backhanded her daughter? More often than she had Adam, for sure, though both children had received more than their fair share.
“What do you mean?” Sandra managed, stepping back to reduce the risk of lashing out at her daughter and possibly sealing her fate into the bargain.
“Regardless of the life I’ve had,” said Eve. “No matter when I made my first kill, I was still a little girl once, and I wanted what any little girl wants.”
“And what’s that?”
“A mother who loved me. I used to lie awake at night praying in the morning you’d have changed, that you’d show some sign of care and affection. As I grew, I realised that wasn’t going to happen, so I settled for a mum who would protect me. Who gave up everything to keep my brother and me safe. Often, when there wasn’t a fresh bruise on my cheek, when I wasn’t in tears from your latest verbal assault, I could almost believe that was enough.”
Eve expected a fast retort, either angry or sarcastic. Possibly both. She was shocked when her mother instead bowed her head and looked ashamed. Eve was happy to fight; in the face of her mother’s submission and contrition, she didn’t know what to do.
She pushed on. “What hurts is that, when you died, however much I hated you, I still remembered you as a protector. I loved you for that, even as I hated you for everything else. But when I learn that not only are you not dead, but you’ve spent the last decade-plus not protecting but pursuing us what am I supposed to feel? Should I still love you, because you’re my mother? Because I’m not sure genetics are enough to keep alight the tiny spark of love I had.”
Still, Sandra bowed her head. Eve considered squeezing the force around her throat; making her take notice of her daughter; couldn’t bring herself to do it. Letting out a breath of frustration, she crossed to the door and faced away from her mother. This seemed to give the older woman strength to talk.
“This will be hard for you to believe, but I’m going to say it anyway.”
Eve wanted to turn back but resisted, afraid her mother would clam up if they were eye to eye.
“I came here as a teenager. I thought I needed cash; what I needed was someone to care for and for whom I could care—someone who could cure the crippling loneliness. I refused to see that. When I left the red room, and they told me I wasn’t getting paid, couldn’t leave, I was furious. I wanted to burn this place to the ground, killing all inside. I couldn’t, and I hated that. Then I learned I was pregnant.”
Eve closed her eyes. “And you finally had a couple of lives you could not only hate but over who you could have total power.”
After a hesitation, Sandra said, “Yes.”
“So you hated us from the beginning?”
“I was pregnant for eight months,” said Sandra. “I despised you and your brother every second of it. Though they locked me up before they knew I was pregnant, I blamed you for my predicament. The morning sickness didn’t help. On more than one occasion, I wished I would miscarry; that the two of you would die.”
Eve was still facing away from her mother, but no longer because she was worried Sandra would clam up if she turned. She pushed her forehead to the wall and tried to ensure her sobs weren’t audible.
“I’m so glad we had this conversation,” she said. “It’s made me feel so much better.”
“I’m not finished,” said Sandra. “I said I loathed the two of you for eight months and I meant it. Then I went into labour, and I hated you even more. It lasted twenty-five hours, and when my first child was born, I told myself I would rip its head from its body before kid two came. Then the doctor put my baby in my arms and told me she, you, were a girl.”
Eve realised she wasn’t breathing. The room had gone silent. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. She waited.
When her mother said nothing, she pushed. “Yes?”
“From the moment I held you I…,” she stopped. She couldn’t do it. “I…”
“What?” said Eve.
She turned in time to see the third member of the room, about whom she had forgotten entirely, stand.
“I—”
And this time, Sandra was cut off.
“It’s Adam,” said the guy. “I’ve found him.”
The car park was silent. No sooner had Joel stepped from the car, he could hear the sound of gunfire from the adjacent building. He could only hope this was his men dealing with any threat that may have arrived with Grendel and the child, both of whom Sandra had promised to capture today.
Ir never hurt to be too careful. Joel’s bodyguard and driver flanked him. Both had drawn weapons, and Joel did the same. Though he was nearly sixty, he could still move well enough and was an excellent shot.
“Be ready,” he told his men.
As a unit, they approached the facility’s entrance lobby.
Yacob’s men had expected an easy evening. They did not react well or quickly to the surprise of the lights coming on, the two mothers appearing. As ever in such operations, complacency was proving to be fatal.
The moment the lights revealed the assassins, Graham pounced. Though he liked to stop and devour his kills over several minutes, he acted with professionalism now, tearing through the men and women as quickly as he could.
Using as cover the metal opening, which led further into the building, Ursula and Rachel were blasting away their adversaries. By the entrance opposite, Doc was supporting their indiscriminate shotgun fire with more targeted handgun shots.
Delilah had bolted towards her mother. Though she was not on the hit list, a guard aimed his gun at her, prepared to fire.
Omi arrived, knocking the child to the floor, covering her. Raising one hand, he shot and killed the attacker. Grabbing D
elilah under his arm, he ran towards Graham’s trail of destruction where overturned desks provided protection, and the dead shooters offered no threat.
Seeing her daughter go, Hattie scrambled to a stumbling run. If someone was going to shoot her, she at least wanted to see her daughter before she died. The need to let Delilah know she loved her more than booze, more than anything, consumed Hattie.
Within two steps, a hand grabbed her ankle, and she collapsed. Rolling onto her back, she saw Yacob crawl over her legs, her stomach, keeping low to avoid taking a bullet.
The risk was minimal. The abundance of standing targets rendered him near invisible. With ease, he made it on top of her. After it spun from him, Yacob had not reclaimed his gun. Hattie got the impression he didn’t mind. A bullet would have ruined his enjoyment.
He put his hands around her throat.
“Stupid bitch. What did I say? Didn’t I warn you? Your daughter will pay the price for your insolence.”
Her neck began to ache. Her world swam as she struggled to bring air into her lungs. Yacob meant not to kill her, only to render her unconscious for easy transportation to later horrors. Regardless, she felt terror crawl in as the spots appeared and her head began to swim.
From somewhere far away, a scream. Hattie had no doubt it was her daughter. Whether the cry would make any difference, Hattie did not know.
She looked to her left. There lay Yacob’s gun, well out of reach. Turning her face back to his, she found she could not meet his hate-filled eyes. Glancing down his body, she saw something else.
Another scream. Shots fired. They sounded close. Perhaps noticing this, Yacob squeezed harder. Hattie sensed his thoughts had turned to murder.
Her scrambling hand found his stomach, then his thigh. At last, she found his belt. She met his eye and saw a gleeful smile paired his hate-filled eyes. Perhaps he felt her remove something from his belt because shock and fear fast replaced glee and rage.
He loosened his grip—lowered one hand.
Too late.
She plunged the blade into his stomach, feeling it slip in like a knife through butter. Aware of the blood already flowing onto her clothes, she pulled free the knife and plunged it again, and again. Again. Again. Again.
He grabbed her wrist. No longer did he possess the strength to stop her.
Again. Again.
Again.
With her free hand, she shoved his shoulder. He rolled onto his back beside her. Blood drenched them. To an onlooker, it would not be immediately apparent who had killed who and if either were still alive. Across the room, Hattie saw the approach of another guard, seemingly ready to put a bullet in her, just in case.
A shot found his throat. He dropped.
A hand grabbed Hattie’s arm. Before she could scream, Omi’s face came into view.
“Come, now,” he shouted.
As she rose, as Omi dragged her away, the shooting stopped. She watched Ursula, Rachel and Doc move into the room’s centre. Roaring, Graham tossed a corpse aside and ran to Ursula. Mother and son embraced.
“I think we won,” called Doc. As he did, another shooter appeared. Before she could end his life, Rachel put a bullet through the survivor’s head.
“I like you,” said Doc to Rachel.
From behind cover, Delilah appeared. Spinning from the wreckage, bursting into tears, Hattie ran for her daughter, dragged the girl into her arms.
“Mummy, you’re okay, you’re okay.”
“I am now, darling. I love you so much. I love you with all my heart and could never love anything more. Never.”
“I love you all the much, too, mum.”
Omi put a hand on Hattie’s shoulder. His worried eyes were on Delilah.
He said, “Time to leave.”
Graham growled.
“He’s right,” said Doc. “We promised.”
“Well Hattie and Delilah need to go, and someone has to protect them.”
“Don’t try it muscles,” said Ursula. “Aside from whatever you promised my son, we just saved your life. You owe us, and you’ll be invaluable in phase two.”
Omi closed his eyes, building for a fight. Doc asked, “What’s phase two?”
Still looking at Omi, Ursula responded. “We’re going back in. We’re going to destroy the red room and tear their infrastructure to the ground. We’re going to kill everyone who stands in our way.”
Now she looked at Doc.
“For thirty years, this facility has been ruining lives. It ends tonight.”
Cold light, a world from the bright bulbs of the floors above, bathed the facility’s lowest level. Smooth stone replaced metal everywhere except for the doors, which were black-painted thick steel. It was quiet, though far from devoid of enemy footfall.
Seconds after stepping from the lift, Adam encountered three guards and killed them without resorting to his power. His head still pounded; he hoped he would not have to use his abilities.
Where now?
Glancing back, he saw the lift doors close. A white line, several inches long, blemished the otherwise smooth silver surface. A scar. Somehow, Adam had followed Saskia’s instructions without meaning to.
With ease, he recalled the memory of her before him in the luxury cell. At first, he saw nothing but her lips on his. Clamping his eyes shut, he forced his mind to recall her words, skipping past those he most wanted to hear—she loved him, missed him; she lived—to the directions she had given. Remembering the way to her cell, he pushed away memory in favour of reality and began to walk.
Two turns in he had to kill another two guards. One corner later he almost bumped into a second duo. Reacting fast, he shot one, but the other smacked his jaw. As he span, he hit something and felt a blade at the back of his neck.
Someone fired. Adam went to the ground, got up.
At his feet lay the guard he had killed, and the guard he believed had shot him. Both dead. Both having taken bullets to the chest. A third person must have fired the shot Adam had heard, and not at him but his enemy.
Spinning, he expected to see his sister or Saskia but found the corridor devoid of any living soul but him. Touching the back of his neck, he discovered only a scratch. Perhaps his helper had attacked before realising he was not the enemy. Having killed the real problem this saviour had disappeared. But where had they gone, and why?
Had he not been so close to his goal, curiosity and the desire to say thank you might have sent Adam in search of his knight in shining armour.
Saskia was in the next corridor. With no more feet in earshot, Adam turned the corner and jogged to the door she had indicated as hers. Black, like the others, encased in stone walls with an iron handle. On this, Adam’s hand rested. The cold metal against clammy skin did nothing to calm his racing heart.
He was afraid to proceed. Despite guessing the door would be locked, he tried the handle and was shocked when it turned.
From his position across the threshold, corridor side, Adam could make out a stone, sparse room. Devoid of warmth or humanity. He opened his mouth to call to the only person to whom he had ever given his heart, but found his throat dry. He could say nothing.
Now he could hear footsteps. The guards were swirling. They were agitated, already they must have found some of their dead colleagues. Before long, they would find those who lay one turn from where Adam now stood. He had no time to dally at the room’s door but was afraid to enter.
“Saskia?”
His voice was hoarse, the word so quiet he could barely hear it himself. He tried again. This time, nothing emerged. The room was silent. The guards were coming. If Adam waited even another thirty seconds, he would be out of time.
With a deep breath, he stepped through the door and pulled it to behind him. In an instant, he had taken in the entire room. It was not tricky, being empty but for a single bed.
And on that bed, a sleeping beauty.
“Saskia.”
The word was no louder, but this time she heard. When her eye
s opened, Adam feared he might experience a heart attack.
She turned his way. Her beautiful eyes met his desperate ones. She smiled.
“Well,” she said. “You bloody took your time.”
“Ah Joel’s here,” said Pandora. “Wonderful. We’re almost ready to begin.”
No one was listening. No one watched Joel draw his gun. They didn’t see him, in tight formation with his bodyguard and driver, exit the car park through a side door which led into the facility’s entrance lobby. The open-plan office Hattie and co. had minutes ago vacated.
“This is exciting,” said Pandora. After a pause, she rotated, looking at those in the room. “Hello, doesn’t anyone else agree that this is exciting? Come on, pick your jaws off the floor.”
Pandora’s finger had hit the deck with a horrible squish. Quite unconcerned, Isla’s daughter had pulled her towel tight and stuck the bleeding knuckle in her mouth. When she removed it seconds later, the stump had healed over. The room's inhabitants had barely noticed.
The severed finger was moving. On the floor, it wiggled and writhed like an excited worm. One of the controllers pushed back his office chair, folded at the waist, and throw up.
“That’s disgusting,” had said Pandora.
On the smooth floor, a line had appeared down the finger’s centre, from base to fingertip. As they watched, shocked and stunned, the finger began to tear in two.
Pandora had spoken.
“How is everybody’s knowledge of Greek Mythology? I take it you’ve heard of the Pandora after who I named myself? She who released a batch of nasties upon humankind by opening a jar, more often retold as a box. Sickness, death, etc.”
The two half fingers rolled into balls. Beneath the skin, a writing mass began to push outwards from all sides, until it seemed the skin must rip. Instead, it stretched. Rather than tearing, the orbs began to expand.