Ritual

by Ryan Casey

  Hooked up to this needle, his blood crawling through this transparent tube towards the extraction device at the opposite end of the room, Brian wasn’t sure how long he had left.

  The crowd in front of him was growing smaller, lowering in number. The furore had died down. And as blood trickled across the floor from the body of the fallen sacrifice, Brian got the impression he wasn’t the main event. He was just someone who had to die. Someone who knew too much.

  Someone who’d stuck his head in the wasps’ nest and couldn’t pull away, no matter how hard he tried.

  He attempted to pull free of the needle. Tried to tense his muscles, snatch the tube free with his right hand. But it was worthless. He couldn’t do much with his left hand still chained to the wall. He couldn’t do much anyway feeling so sickly, so lightheaded, so weak.

  A man in a black mask looked on at Brian. The man who’d killed the sacrifice. He was shaking. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. Couldn’t quite accept it. And although Brian couldn’t see his eyes, he knew he was watching him. Closely.

  He looked at the long tube of his blood, illuminated by the light of the dying flames. Outside, he heard voices. Voices of the dispersing crowd. A dispersing crowd that proved just how irrelevant he was to them. He wasn’t even worthy of any attention in death, let alone life.

  A sad way to go.

  A pitiful way to go.

  As he watched his blood drain away from his veins, he thought of Hannah and Sam. He thought of Davey. He thought of all his doubters in life. All the people who’d told him he wasn’t strong. That he wasn’t a good person.

  He thought of Annie. Thought of Marlow. Thought of their confusion when the news of his death broke. What would they think of him? How would they remember him?

  How quickly would they move on from him?

  And would the answer to that question terrify him?

  He looked at the blood on the concrete. The blood of the sacrifice. He wondered who he was. Who that poor kid was. What his family would think when they found out what’d happened to him. Except … no. They wouldn’t find out what happened to him. They’d be fed some bullshit. Some lies about whatever.

  They’d never find out the truth about their son, their brother, their friend.

  And in a sense, the way Brian watched him die, that was probably for the better.

  But Brian couldn’t help but wonder how many more there were. How many more like that kid. How many more people involved in the murders and the cover ups.

  The privileged always preyed on the weak. Didn’t matter where, didn’t matter how advanced society thought it was, it always happened.

  He felt something. A sudden sharpness in his right forearm. He winced. Heard something spurting. Looked down.

  The needle had popped out of his vein. Blood dribbled down his arm, onto the concrete. Out of the top of the needle, more blood spurted out.

  “Shit.”

  The man watching Brian hurried forward. And it was as he did that Brian heard something. Heard something jangling in the man’s pocket. Change? Perhaps.

  Keys?

  Fuck. What good was hoping anyway?

  “Keep still,” the man said. He reached down. Fumbled around on the floor for the end of the needle.

  Then he lifted it up. Held it above Brian’s arm.

  Brian felt like giving up.

  Felt like just letting this guy stab him in the arm and finish him off.

  But he had to do something.

  He had to try something.

  So he tried the only thing he could.

  He grabbed the tube so quickly it slipped out of the man’s hands. And before he could do anything about it, Brian kicked him in the shins, sent him tumbling to his knees.

  Then he wrapped the tube around the guy’s neck and he started to squeeze.

  “Give me your keys and nobody has to know you let me go.”

  The man spluttered and struggled. Brian was so twisted that his handcuffed hand felt like it was going to jolt out of its socket.

  But it was all Brian had.

  “Give me your keys or I’ll strangle you. Right here.”

  “You—” the man spluttered. “wouldn’t—”

  Brian tightened the tube. It was still warm with his blood. “Don’t try me.”

  He heard movement outside. Footsteps. He knew he didn’t have long. People came in and out of here all the time. And he knew this guy he was holding knew that too.

  So he had to up the stakes.

  Somehow, he had to up the stakes.

  He grabbed the end of the needle and he prodded it against the man’s neck.

  “I don’t have anything to lose right now, buddy. So I suggest if you don’t want your jugular to burst, you give me the keys and you let me get out of here. You let me get back to my son. Who is barely one-year-old. Whose mum your people put in hospital. Okay?”

  Tears dampened the man’s mask. “They’ll—they’ll kill—”

  Brian stuck the needle further into the man’s skin. “And so will I. In three seconds. So do you want to die? Or do you want a chance to get away from here?”

  The man struggled. And Brian knew if he kept on struggling he’d snap Brian’s wrist in no time. He might have a needle to his neck, but he still had the keys.

  Or … fuck. Maybe he didn’t even have the keys. Maybe he—

  A clink of metal against the concrete.

  Brian looked down. Saw three keys on a chain.

  “You—you need to let me go,” the man gasped. “Need to—to let me get away from here now. Please.”

  Brian held the man for a few more seconds.

  Then he let go.

  Dropped the bloody needle.

  Reached down for the keys with his shaking hand.

  He stuck the first one in his cuffs. Didn’t work. Fuck.

  Tried the second one. Shit. Maybe he’d double-crossed him. Maybe these weren’t the actual keys. Maybe he was right behind him and …

  The third key slipped into the cuffs.

  The cuffs clicked open.

  A wave of relief crashed over Brian as he pulled himself from the wall. As he stood up, lightheaded and dizzy and in dire need of some food, some sugary drinks, some energy.

  But all he needed right now was to get away from this room.

  No matter how weak he was, how close to passing out he was, he needed to flee.

  To get away while he still could.

  So he turned around and he ran.

  Fifty-Three

  Brian didn’t know where exactly he was running to, only that he had to run.

  Fast.

  The darkness was thick and suffocating. The air was rich with the smoky remnants of a fire. Like a burned out campfire he used to sit around at Cubs as a kid. That the other kids used to share scary stories around.

  Well, Brian finally had his fucking scary story. He had a whole fucking lifetime of them to share.

  If ever he got the chance.

  He ran as fast as he could up the hill away from the River Edge Methodist Church. He panted with exhaustion. Sweat dripped down every bit of his body. In his mouth, the strong taste of blood. His muscles were weak. Giving up on him. Probably about to seize up at any moment.

  But still he had to keep on going.

  Keep on pushing himself.

  Get the fuck away from this hellhole.

  “… back to mine for drinks if you want.”

  The voice in front of Brian came out of nowhere.

  And then he saw them.

  Three people, all of them walking up the hill right in front of him. Walking slowly. Taking their time.

  He stood there like a rabbit in the headlights. Only the headlights were the moon, which was peeking out from behind a cloud. Fucker. He had to hide. He had to wait. He had to—

  One of them turned around.

  Instinctively, Brian fell to the ground.

  He peeked through the strands of grass as they kept o
n trailing along. As another one of them turned around, looked back. And the scary part of all this was they were just kids. Just kids—early twenties, okay, but still just kids.

  Kids who’d stood in that church and watched as one of their newcomers reached the mystical “Level Ten”.

  Members of a psycho-cult. Manipulated, radicalised, now laughing and chatting about Xbox and booze.

  Brian held his breath. Listened to the laughter creep further and further away. Watched the group disappear up the hill, into the darkness.

  Until they were far enough away.

  Until they were gone.

  Then he forced himself back to his feet. Forced himself, even though his legs ached, even though his muscles were flimsy as fuck.

  He followed them. Went in the direction they were going. Couldn’t see his car anywhere. Couldn’t see Jerry Matthews’ Mercedes for that matter. But they were in a public place. They were close to fucking civilisation.

  So he just had to keep on going.

  Just had to keep on pushing himself.

  Just had to—

  “He’s gone! The fucker’s gone!”

  The shout came from behind. Back down at the church.

  And the moment Brian heard it, he knew he had to get off the road.

  He ran to his left. Ran through the long grass, towards the trees. As he ran, he noticed lights cut through the night sky. Torchlights. Heard footsteps scraping across the concrete. He was fucked. They were going to find him. It was over. Completely over.

  But he kept on going anyway. Because that’s all he could do. For Hannah. For Sam. For Davey. For all the people who’d been fucked over by the Children of the Light. He owed it to them. He …

  He stumbled forward and his vision blacked out.

  And just as quickly as it went, it returned.

  He gasped. Coughed. Lights moving around him, shining on the grass and the trees. The blood. He’d lost too much fucking blood. He wasn’t going to make it much further. He was going to collapse and die and everything would be over, everything would be …

  He saw it. Saw it flicker in the light of a torch.

  Saw the paintwork. The paintwork that, although admittedly not as shiny as when he bought it, was undeniably his.

  His car.

  He ran through the grass. Ran towards the car. It was right in front of the trees. He could get in and he could get the hell out of here.

  And fuck. Maybe his gun would still be in the drinks compartment. Maybe his spare key would still be under the seat—like Hannah hated. Maybe his hope wasn’t over.

  Maybe he was safe.

  He ran and ran as the voices and the footsteps and the lights whirled around him.

  Kept on pushing.

  Kept on going.

  He collided with the side of the car. Grabbed the door.

  “Please be open,” he muttered. “Please be fucking open.”

  The door clicked open.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, as the welcoming smell of his car surrounded him.

  He climbed in. Reached over to the passenger seat. The key was taped under there. They can’t have found it. They can’t …

  Then, he noticed the gun was missing.

  It was only a moment after he noticed it that he heard the footsteps right behind.

  That a light shone into the car, illuminated him completely.

  He held his breath.

  Turned around.

  “Hello, McDone,” Jerry Matthews said.

  “Looking for this?” Lilian Chalmers asked.

  She was holding the pistol he’d stolen.

  And she was pointing it at his head.

  Fifty-Four

  “Raise your hands and walk back to me. No need to make this any messier than it already is.”

  The relief that rippled through Brian’s body just moments ago was gone. The hope of escaping the River Edge Methodist Church in his abandoned car had faded.

  Faded, because Lilian Chalmers was pointing a gun at him.

  Faded, because Chief Constable Jerry Matthews was standing right beside her, silent.

  He looked at them. Looked at them, fully clothed again. Seeing Jerry standing here in a suit was still hard to take in. It was like he was out of place. Like the office was the only place for him.

  But now Brian had seen the truth.

  The truth of what kind of activities Jerry Matthews engaged in when hidden behind a mask.

  “I won’t ask again,” Lilian said. She lifted the gun higher. “Raise your hands and—”

  “Fuck the hell off,” Brian said.

  Her forehead crinkled. Searching torchlights continued to flash behind her. Voices and footsteps cut through the pitch black silence. “Excuse me?”

  “I said to fuck the hell off,” Brian said. His heart raced. Adrenaline no longer ran through his body. It controlled his body. And maybe that was for the better. Maybe that’s how he needed it to be right now.

  “You’re hardly in a position to bargain,” Lilian said.

  “But I’m in a position to refuse to come with you.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes,” Brian said. “Yeah I do think. Because I won’t comply. I won’t fucking comply. Not now. Not again.”

  He glanced at the barrel of the pistol. Waited for a bullet to blast out of it.

  And then he took a deep breath and he turned back to his car.

  He waited for the blast as he looked around his car. Looked for something. Something he could use. A weapon of some kind. Something he had lying around. Shit, Hannah always said his car was a tip. But unfortunately, it wasn’t a tip of sharp objects.

  He waited for the searing pain in his back.

  Waited for the momentary realisation that his head was exploding.

  But still, nothing.

  Still, the wait went on.

  “You still think you can do something about us, don’t you?”

  Jerry Matthews’ voice made Brian shiver. It was the first time he’d spoke since he’d cornered Brian at his car. “I’m gonna do my damnedest.”

  “You think you can just stamp on the queen and watch the rest of the nest collapse. Isn’t that right?”

  But Brian didn’t respond to Jerry this time.

  He didn’t respond because he noticed the cracked rear-view mirror.

  The split down the middle of the glass. The one Hannah always egged on at him to replace.

  Tension built up inside. He had his weapon. He had his chance. But he still had a gun to his back. A gun that would fire a bullet into his body if he so much as tried to attack Lilian and Jerry.

  Well maybe that’s how it had to be.

  Maybe that’s just what he had to do.

  “You think you can just ride away and disappear? Disappear from a group our size?”

  “George Andrews did a decent enough job,” Brian said. He reached up for the mirror. Moved his hands down the plastic exterior. Pretended to search for a key.

  “George Andrews behaved for a while. We’re diplomatic like that. Maybe we’ll treat your family the same. Han. Sam. And … and what’s your oldest son called, again? He must be getting about Rico’s age now? Sorry, you won’t know Rico. He was the kid we picked up from the streets. Our ritual. The one whose blood is all over your jeans.”

  Rico.

  Brian’s stomach did a somersault.

  He moved his hand around the rear-view mirror. He had to get hold of the glass without them noticing. Which was difficult, considering they had bright torches shining at him.

  But he had to try.

  Even if he died trying.

  Die trying or die wishing he’d done more.

  He knew which one he’d pick every day of the week.

  He felt something hit his back. Flinched. Which just so happened to be enough to dislodge the mirror from its casing. Split through his hand. He gritted his teeth. Lowered his hand.

  “That what you’re looking for?” Lilian asked.

  Brian
turned. Saw the spare key in the muddy grass. His escape route. His way out.

  He looked up at Lilian. The gun was lowered slightly. Pointing at Brian’s mid-section.

  He looked into her smiling face.

  Then he looked beside her. Looked at Jerry Matthews. Looked at the way he stared back at Brian with complete detachment, complete disgust.

  “Thanks,” Brian said.

  He took in a deep breath of the cool air.

  Then he swung the cracked mirror at Jerry Matthews.

  What followed happened in a blur.

  First, he heard the blast.

  Heard it.

  Then felt the heat. Felt the heat right in the top of his left leg. Sickening. Hot. Fucking agonising. Like someone was pushing a burning poker further and further through his skin, his muscle, scraping at the bone.

  The next thing he felt was the contact with the edge of the mirror glass.

  The soft, squishy force that moved in the way of it.

  Lilian Chalmers’ neck.

  Lilian Chalmers’ neck as she threw herself in front of Jerry Matthews.

  Jerry Matthews, who watched. Eyes widening. Face reddening.

  Brian felt another blast. This time in his lower leg. Even worse than the first. Hotter. More searing. Sent shooting pains right through his body. Made his vision blurry.

  But he held on to Lilian. Pushed the blade further into her neck. Felt her warm blood splatter out over his face, his hands, his clothes.

  And then he felt her go weak and fall to the grass.

  He looked down at the gun. Looked down at the gun in her loosening hand.

  Then he looked up at Jerry Matthews. Saw the surprise on his face. Saw the same opportunity awakening in his eyes.

  Jerry reached behind his back.

  Brian crouched down.

  Lifted the gun.

  Aimed it at Jerry.

  “Raise your—your fucking hands,” Brian said.

  Jerry kept his hands behind his back. Behind, the voices grew louder. The lights shone in the direction of the car, the direction of the gunshot. “They’re coming, McDone. And you’re bleeding what little blood’s left inside you. Lower the gun and we’ll talk—”

  “I’m fucking—fucking through with talking,” Brian said. And he was telling the truth. Energy seeped out of the bullet holes in his legs. His hand grew shakier. His vision distorted, more and more gradually. “Raise your fucking hands. And—and get down on your knees.”