by Gary Denne
Inside the lobby of M1, it was calm. The solo pianist continued to gently caress the keys of the baby grand, oblivious to any impending threat. In fact, with the building’s solid construction being very resistant to outside street noise, no one inside was aware of the commotion. But that wouldn’t last for long.
Sean came busting out of the revolving doors and started racing through the lobby, heading up the stairs to the first-floor, five-star restaurant and cafe, serving the freshest and most sought-after ingredients from the city’s rooftop gardens and basement food production factories. As his heart rate took the express elevator to the roof, he sucked in a few quick breaths to recover from the burst of energy. Turning over his shoulder, he saw Roberts in the lobby. The old man looked like some kind of grotesque, bodybuilding cowboy. Roberts immediately spotted him and instantly fired off several shots, like he’d just spotted the first of the prey in duck season. Sean dropped down behind the continuous staircase railing as the shotgun pellets sprayed right at him. If not for quick reflexes, some well-placed load-bearing pillars, and a hell of a lot of luck, Roberts may well have claimed him. Staff and guests immediately did the same vanishing act as the souls outside, with the building’s concierge ducking behind his desk, dialing on his cell phone in a panic, making one call he wouldn’t be receiving a tip for. They all feared for their lives and could barely believe this was actually happening in their premium residential building.
Staying crouched down, Sean reached the top of the stairs and quickly entered the spacious dining room of the Le Provençal, a fine-dining French cuisine restaurant catering exclusively to residents. There were stares and frightened faces from diners as they all looked to him, having stopped eating their hot and cold breakfasts at the first sign of trouble. They whispered and murmured among one other, wondering if they had indeed heard what sounded like gunshots, and if the man before them was, in fact, the gunman, about to start randomly firing at them.
But Sean didn’t waste any time offering explanations or exchanging pleasantries to the diners. He quickly glanced back over his shoulder and then weaved around dining-room tables with their crisp, white tablecloths and the finest bone-china dinnerware. Diners watched in stunned silence as he made his way towards the restaurant’s kitchen doors at the back of the dining room.
Crashing through the swinging kitchen doors, he quickly looked around for a clear exit. Nothing. He would have to improvise; there was no more time. Dammit. He could already hear the screams of elderly ladies, who up until now had been enjoying some breakfast conversation over toast, spreads and black tea. As the screams grew louder and in greater numbers, he knew the old man was not far behind.
Sean crouched down low. He waited. Adrenaline started to pump through his veins like a racehorse. No biker chick was going to save him now. From his low position, he could see the doors to the kitchen slowly swing open. Without even a visual sighting, Sean already knew it was him. He could hear the high-pitched wheezing and difficult breathing of an old man somehow exerting himself far beyond his abilities.
The old man stepped into the kitchen. His footsteps were slow, loud and intimidating. Sean could almost sense his hunter scanning around the kitchen. He was in no hurry now. The old man knew he was in here somewhere.
Roberts took another step into the kitchen, and suddenly Sean came out of nowhere and jumped him from side on in an aggressive tackle. He grabbed at the shotgun, surprising the old man, angrily pushing him down to one of the preparation benches, making the shotgun fire into the kitchen exhaust fans above, sparks flying every which way.
Sean used all his available strength to keep the barrel of the shotgun away from him, grunting for a little bit more adrenaline to kick in. Roberts snarled and surged in an irate response, but Sean managed to bash the old man’s hands onto a shelving unit, knocking dozens of cooking utensils onto the floor, echoing throughout the kitchen like a grand symphony of stainless steel. Sean bashed the shotgun free from Roberts’ ugly and wrinkled hands, but was on the receiving end of a kick which sent him flying back onto a trolley of finished meals. He crashed onto the floor amongst scattered utensils, broken plates and dishes. Blood started to emerge from cuts on his face and hands. Sean forced himself up and quickly moved around the maze-like prep benches, looking for something he could use against this maniac. Roberts just stood there, letting Sean get a good fill of fear for the moment. They both circled the maze of prep benches, moving in synchronization as they played cat and mouse and each caught their breath.
“Look … I don’t know who you are, but this is some kind of mistake, okay?” Sean pleaded, sounding as serious as he could as he raised his hands up in peace.
Roberts gave no response.
Sean could see the pumped up rage flowing through Roberts. The cowboy’s lone eye was bloodshot and bulging out of its socket. The veins around his neck and temples looked like they might pop any second. In fact, his entire body looked bloated and puffed up like some kind of human puffer fish. To Sean, the old man didn’t look normal. He looked sick. He sounded sick. And whoever the hell he was, he wasn’t into negotiating.
Sean quickly reached for a long chopping knife on the bench in front of him. He held it up to Roberts, warning him not to come any closer. But this seemed to please the old man, not deter him. Roberts glanced down to his shotgun on the floor and left it where it had come to rest, deciding not to rearm himself. Staring Sean down, assessing his opponent, Roberts let out a snicker of amusement as he coughed and wheezed. Blowing his target away with a shotgun within the confines of a restaurant kitchen would be like shooting fish in a barrel. The old man wanted a fight … a challenge. But not before he had soaked up the anticipation of human conflict. Whether it was the Pump talking, or simply the man himself, Roberts was enjoying this moment immensely. It was as though the thrill of the chase was a much better payoff than the final outcome, and needed to be stretched out as long as possible to remember what it was like to feel the surge of raw emotions flowing through his body. Whatever it was Roberts was waiting for, it was making Sean all the more terrified, regardless of whether he was holding a chopping knife in defense or a bazooka at the old man.
Finally, the old man’s wheezy breaths slowed down and he appeared to reach a moment of satisfaction.
And it was on...
Roberts suddenly came at him, yelling in an aggressive charge like a drug-fueled madman. Sean held up the knife ready to defend himself. It looked like he was going to have to kill this old man if he wanted to leave the kitchen alive.
With a quick movement of his hand, Roberts knocked the knife out of Sean’s hands and onto the floor, disarming him with ease. He pushed Sean back to the group of stoves against the kitchen wall. Holding him firmly, Roberts planted his wrinkled hand onto Sean’s face, trying to press it down to the hot plate which was still sizzling away with a mountain of onions and hash browns, cooking up guest’s breakfasts only minutes earlier. It was a tense struggle. Sean tried hard to hold his position with his hands planted firmly onto the kitchen bench, but Roberts, despite his age, was somehow displaying strength and aggression above and beyond his years. Sean winced as Roberts forced his face closer and closer to the scorching hot plate. They both fought each other’s strength back like a saloon arm wrestle, but Sean knew he was losing ground and couldn’t hold on for much longer. The steam rose up to his face from the hotplate, and the smell of the food reached his senses. Glancing above him, he reached up with one arm, hoping to feel something he could pull down and use. He frantically grabbed at objects, trying to clutch onto a small saucepan on one of the storage hooks next to the stoves. He got a grip on its handle, summoning all the strength he had left, and brought it down, bashing it over Roberts’ head, knocking the old man off his feet.
Roberts lay dazed on the tiled kitchen floor for a few seconds. But just as quickly as he’d been knocked down did he get up, shaking the blow off. Sean was shocked. A blow like the one he just delivered should’ve at least subdued
the guy to allow for a getaway. But no, it was as though this pumped up old man felt the blow like it was a tap on his shoulder.
Sean was losing his strength and energy, but was angrier than ever now. Pissed.
This guy wanted to play a game, did he? Well, okay, let’s play a fucking game...
In a last stand attempt, all of a sudden it was Sean’s turn to attack and he charged at Roberts like a bull at a bullfighter, collecting him up and ramming the old man against a row of shelves that stored all manner of cooking ingredients, spices and sauces in bulk bottles and cans. Ingredients fell and smashed all around the two of them onto the floor as the shelves rocked against the wall in the struggle. Everything happened so quickly.
“You lil’ son of a bitch,” Roberts snarled and snickered, as he gave Sean a quick uppercut, knocking him onto his back.
Roberts picked up a knife from a cutting board, where a Maddox chef had been chopping freshly-picked herbs to garnish guests’ plates. He quickly flashed the knife at Sean, showing it to him, letting the imagery of the steel blade put fear into his target’s mind, moving it from hand to hand like some kind of Delta Force Special Operative, extensively trained in knife-fighting combat.
“I’m gonna gut you like a pig,” he growled in his deep, gravelly voice.
He lunged at Sean with the knife, and in a split-second had cut into his shirt and arm, drawing blood through a large gash. Sean pulled back from the cut, grabbing at his arm in pain.
Roberts lingered, snickering and sneering as he watched Sean react to the gash. He seemed to draw pleasure from the fear he could see in Sean’s eyes, and did not seem interested in making a kill quick and merciful.
But rather than go on the defensive, Sean rushed at the old man, grabbing onto the knife. Both of them crashed to the ground under the strain. Roberts was briefly stunned by Sean’s determination but quickly rolled over and flung Sean beneath him like a rag doll. Sensing the kill, Robert’s strength seemed to increase.
Sean knew he was suddenly in trouble. His energy was diminishing. Looking up at the old man on top of him, he saw veins up close bulging grotesquely across Roberts’ wrinkled skin like the roots of a tree. His good eye was bloodshot and big as a golf ball. But those two sights weren’t as frightening as the tip of the kitchen knife edging closer towards him. Sean gave all his might, groaning loudly to summon what strength he had left. The tip of the knife was getting closer, as Robert’s pushed down with both his hands, the blade shaking gently in the do-or-die struggle. Sean began to hyperventilate, realizing he was moments from death. The tip of the knife was an inch away from entering his chest. Sean closed his eyes, fighting Robert’s force with all he had.
Sean couldn’t hold the knife back much longer, but surprisingly felt a sudden calmness flow throughout his body. Perhaps it was a final reserve of his body’s adrenalin kicking in, seconds away from death. Looking past Roberts, he saw a shelving unit up against the wall. Reaching as hard as he could, he began to stretch his foot underneath one of its legs, just barely holding the blade from his body. Sean pulled at it with his shoe, and while it shook, the shelving unit didn’t budge. Roberts’ sweat dripped down onto Sean’s face as he tried to ignore the horrible visual of the bulging, wrinkled old man growling down on top of him. He pulled on the shelving unit again. The knife tip was almost touching his shirt. In a second, he would be dead. He reached a little more, straining as he pulled one last time...
There was just enough momentum. The shelving unit began to fall.
Sean screamed out for a final burst of strength and pushed the knife to one side as the shelving unit came crashing down on them both, landing right on top of Roberts. One of the steel shelves slammed right into the base of Robert’s head, knocking him unconscious. Sean immediately took control of the knife and pushed it away, across the floor. Quickly, he pushed up, lifting the shelving unit up just enough to climb out from underneath Roberts’ hold. Gasping for breath, Sean left the old man lying there amongst dozens of open containers, cans and bottles of sauces, spices and condiments. One hell of a recipe. It was over.
He was exhausted. He desperately sucked in air. Even though he felt the dulled impact of the shelving unit through Roberts, Sean could still move his body—nothing seemed broken. The old man, however, didn’t move. Sean stood over him for a few seconds as he felt blood running down his own forehead. His shirt was ripped in several places. His hair was in a mess.
He took his eyes off the old man and checked his arm. There was a gash. Not to the bone, but deep enough. And it stung like crazy. In fact, he was hurting all over. He reached up to his head, wincing as he made contact with each wound. He brought his hands down and looked at them. There was blood on his fingers, and his hands were shaking from the conflict. He looked back at Roberts, wanting the old man to move just an inch so he could kick him with all his might and get some payback.
Feeling pain throughout his body, he searched amongst the mess on the kitchen floor and spotted the knife, reaching down for it. He picked it up and kept his eyes on Roberts, contemplating what he should do. Suddenly, he could hear sirens in the distance. He turned to the kitchen doors. Shit. Security would be there in seconds flat, if they weren’t already in the building. He had to get out. Thinking fast, he grabbed one of the white aprons and chef hats hanging on a rack, and then slammed through the kitchen doors, back out into the restaurant. The Le Provençal dining room was quiet. The gentle tinker of the baby grand piano had ceased and left with it an eerie void. Half-eaten pieces of buttered toast, grilled sausage and freshly-cooked eggs sat on plates at empty tables, getting cold.
The squeal of the sirens was close.
There wasn’t much time.
Subway
Sean ran through the Le Provençal dining room, weaving around tables, where diners had left their personal belongings in the rush to flee the area. He tossed the knife down as he searched around quickly, looking for a way out. There… At the end of the dining room was an exit, down a hallway leading to M1 resident facilities. He walked briskly past a health club, beauty salon and garment repair service, all on the first floor of the M1 complex. As much as life had changed for the outside world, for the wealthy residents of Manhattan, pleasure could still be derived from a manicure or pedicure, a seaweed wrap, a mud facial. While techniques and methods had regressed due to the times, health was still as important as ever ... if one could pay for it, of course.
As the stinging in his arm persisted, Sean spotted what he was looking for; the stairwell exit, hopefully leading to an alleyway. With what little strength he had left, he crashed through the door, breaking its seal and setting off a deafening old-fashioned fire alarm and sprinklers. As he ran down the cold concrete stairs of a dim and claustrophobic stairwell, he heard water bursting from dozens of sprinklers behind him, ruining the luxurious, antique furniture, artwork, and plush carpets of M1.
He reached the bottom of the stairwell, hoping to hell he wasn’t about to open the exit door and find security, or worse, the old guy somehow standing before him. Before he put his hands on the emergency exit crash bar, he quickly placed the white chef’s apron over him and fixed the hat on his head. It may not have fooled anyone close up, but at a distance at least, he might be able to slip by in the crowds outside and go unnoticed.
After a couple of breaths to gain his composure, Sean pushed opened the door. On the city street he could see people standing in groups around the building’s entrance. There were workers and residents, panic on their faces as they watched and waited. MADDSEC were on the ground. Sean assessed there were at least ten squad members he could see crawling around the place, receiving constant instructions in their headsets, weapons at the ready. Curious onlookers also watched the commotion, perhaps mentioning to their friends and colleagues about how unusual this kind of event was.
Sean ... it’s now or never.
He took a breath, summoned some energy and began to shuffle down the alleyway, towards MADDSEC and the crowd o
f residents and entrants outside M1. He attracted MADDSEC’s attention instantly, and several high-powered weapons were instantly trained on his body. He immediately held his arms up high to the squad members, showing he was no hostile. Instead, he played the part of terrorized worker, stumbling towards them, frightened and exhausted. He made sure to hold the chef’s hat in place on his head. MADDSEC scanned the surrounding area and building exit for any more like him as he came towards them.
“Help me, please. There’s an old guy in there, he’s shooting up the place, he’s got residents hostage and he said he was gonna kill them all,” Sean ranted in fear to the MADDSEC squad members as they held their weapons at him until they had fully assessed the threat level.
“Hold, sir,” one of the MADDSEC team said sternly as he relayed some information through his headpiece. The other nearby squad member stood silently, looking at him carefully while Sean did his best to act terrified, although he honestly didn’t have to try that hard in the moment. The heavy-set MADDSEC officer had a suspicious look on his face, noticing Sean’s cuts and scratches, especially the knife wound on his arm. He seemed to sense something was off, but remained silent as his squad member listened to instructions in the headpiece.