‘Jim?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Pink?’
There was no reply. Frank called out again. ‘Pink? You there?’
Again, there was only silence.
‘Get out of here, Jim,’ yelled Frank.
He heard footsteps in the distance and a door open. ‘I’m out, Frank. I’m out.’
Frank moved into a large, segregated area. On all sides it was glass. At one time it must have been some kind of telephone exchange or a conference room. There were phones all over the place, all torn from the wall, their wires feeling the air like the tendrils of a dying squid.
‘Steve?’
He listened for footsteps.
‘Steve? Are you there?’
A pain shot through the left side of his head where the scar was. He put his hand up to it and pressed, closed his eyes until he felt the overwhelming throb subside. By the time it had gone, he was on his knees. It felt like someone was twisting a knife through his skull.
‘Steve,’ he called. ‘God dammit, answer me, you murdering son of a bitch!’
A shot whined past, wide of him, and took a lump out of the wall ten feet away.
This was the point of no return. Frank had met this a thousand times before, not with cops, for sure, but with anyone who had decided to make their stand. There was always that moment when, decision made, that final battle was declared, either by gunfire or laughter or silence. At a certain point, a person became unreachable, beyond redemption.
The pain lessened, one thump at a time. It took hold just behind his left eye. It had its claws in him and had no intention of letting go, but the relief was magnificent.
Frank pressed the heel of his hand into his socket and tried to massage the remnants of pain away. It made no difference.
‘Steve,’ he called. ‘Give it up. Come on. It’s not just me here. Half the precinct’s outside.’
Another shot, blindly taken from behind some defensive wall, went wide.
Frank moved forward, sure of the direction from which the sound had come. The floor still had the thin carpet on it. No one had got to the windows yet. Maybe the landlord was hoping for another rent. You’ll be lucky, thought Frank. It was probably some pin striped asshole from Long Island who thought nothing of separating money from the people of Brownsville. One fly dies, there’s always another to suck the shit.
Frank darted out from behind the cabinet and put himself behind a table. He pulled the table over and made it into a shield. Every move he made seemed to bring back the pain. His face felt red, swollen, as if his head was about to explode. He kneeled again on the floor and rolled forward until the top of his head was on the carpet. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. His entire world was rooted to this one spot just below his skull. It felt like it was trying to force his teeth from their sockets, his eyes from his head.
A shot thumped into the back of the table and caused it to shudder. Frank tried to raise his gun, but his arm just wouldn’t work. He put every ounce of effort into his shoulder, tried to think it into his biceps, into his triceps, into his elbow, into his forearm and lift the ton weight of metal from the floor.
It was beyond him. He dropped his gun and clawed at his head in an effort to remove the pain. He heard a cry, high-pitched, like a wounded animal, distant, in the forest, camouflaged among the undergrowth, just waiting to die. Then he realised it was him.
He heard footsteps and turned his head an inch to the side. He saw Steve’s feet. His eyes grated across the sockets and he looked up.
Steve towered over him. He was wet with sweat, his face ruddy, his eyes wide and red with fear.
He raised the gun.
Frank cringed as the pain returned.
How absurd, he thought. How absurd. All this way, for this.
A shot rang out.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Bradbury was born in 1962. He attended schools in Bracknell, Windsor, Mauritius and Bloxham and, despite all these, failed to learn a thing. He spent his formative years in a cocoon and failed to see the time go by. When he woke up he realised that it was too late.
He has been a shop worker, a hospital porter, worked in medical records, in the CSSD department, as an estate agent, as a nurse, as a delivery driver, a bus driver and as a teaching assistant to those with learning difficulties.
He lives in Yorkshire.
He is married to a lady and has some lady children.
He loves them.
He has always wanted to write or act or do something that brings him praise and attention.
Sadly, he has always been average.
He is also the author of:
The Ghost of Dormy Place and Other Tales
The High Commissioner’s Wife
Looking For the Light
A Kind and Gentle Man
Acceptable Behaviour (Poetry)
Praxis (Sci-Fi Fantasy - with Ian Makinson)
Praxis – Part Two: Regeneration Paradox (Sci-Fi Fantasy - with Ian Makinson)
Chine (Horror)
Sniff – The Meanderings Of An Average Man (Poetry)
Uncomfortably Numb (Play)
Chris Bradbury’s Poems for Kids
A Beginner’s Guide to the Wars of the Roses
The Ashes of an Oak Page 23