Callum sank his hand into the bag and retrieved a shell. And, in one fluid movement, he managed to break the shotgun mechanism. He slammed the round into the chamber and, with a reassuring metallic click, snapped the action shut. The dog launched itself just as Callum closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.
The report of the heavy load being spewed forth was deafening. Callum winced as the sawn-off buckled in his hand. The dog’s head erupted in a cloud of crimson mist, its lifeless body falling to the floor at Callum’s legs.
Callum slumped back, his body throbbing from the fight, his wrist pulsing from the gun’s punishing recoil.
There came a scream from the other side of the door, followed by a mournful howl. “I’m going to inflict untold misery upon you, little rabbit!” Mr Memory bellowed.
Callum pressed his back to the wall, tried to regain his composure. It was then he realised that the only thing he could do now was to push forward and take the fight to his captor; it was painfully obvious that he couldn’t stay in this room forever.
He glanced to his right at the still- motionless woman locked in her cage, her expression blank and unchanged from their previous encounter. He felt sick that he had forgotten about her. Not only that, but had almost been tempted to join with her captor.
He huffed in frustration, his self-disgust tearing at his already crumbling morality. Not the only female I’ve let down today.
He shook his head in an attempt to cast the guilt from his mind. He reached into the rucksack and retrieved the remaining four shells. He eyed the cartridges in his palm and let out another heavy sigh. Only four. He broke the shotgun and proceeded to retrieve the spent casing, the faint waft of cordite catching his nostrils as he tossed it to the floor. He popped two fresh rounds into the chamber and snapped it shut.
He grinned, his mood somewhat improving as he wielded the freshly-loaded weapon. Diligently, he placed the gun on the floor and turned his attention to the pile of crumpled and sodden clothes. He quickly pulled on his t-shirt and hoodie, somewhat welcome for the semi-warmth they provided. He stuffed the last two rounds into his pocket and swung the rucksack over his shoulders, securing it around his chest.
Once again, he glanced at the incarcerated woman. “I’m sorry, I can’t take you with me now, but I promise I will come back for you,” he whispered softly. She remained silent, her eyes devoid of emotion or understanding. Callum picked up the shotgun and looked around the room, trying to figure out his next move. He couldn’t hear Mr Memory, or his dog, for that matter. The quiet unnerved him a little.
Callum glanced to his left and the corridor that led to the entrance. He suddenly remembered the wooden door at the base of the ladder. He had no idea where it might lead, but he thought it prudent to investigate. After all, Mr Memory could have been lying and on the other side may very well be an escape route.
Callum took one last look around and started to move towards the door. He paused and stared at the dog’s lifeless corpse.
“Stay,” he whispered, half-grinning to himself, then quickly he exited the room.
Eight
03:42 Hrs
Callum reached the ladder in less than thirty seconds, his heart threatening to explode through his chest. He stood at its base and raised his gaze to the now secured entrance.
“Damn it!” he mumbled as he noticed the thick metals bars extending the length of the hatch. He grimaced. They must have been hidden within the walls and had only come out when the locking sequence was engaged.
No wonder he hadn’t noticed them when he had first descended.
He turned his attention to the wooden door. Reaching out, he clasped the handle with his left hand. With his right, he gripped the sawn-off and kept it trained on the doorway, waist height, knowing full well the spread of the shot would have a much higher hit rate. He wasn’t a marksman, but even he knew a shotgun at this range would be devastating. He swallowed hard and pushed the door open, his weapon ready to clear the way of any threat.
Another room, but this time it was bigger than previous ones. Callum looked around. There were two strip-lights hanging from the ceiling, but they were dim, so Callum had to wait a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. He paused, then edged his way in.
On his left was a large, freshly-painted white wall, and scattered upon it were hundreds of newspaper cuttings, each a story or article regarding a missing person or the tale of someone who had been missing for years, suddenly returned with no recollection of what had happened to them.
Callum studied the montage, his eyes flitting from one picture to another, his mind digesting as much information as possible. He was breathing heavy, the sweat permeating his already damp clothes.
Each of the articles was from regional newspapers from across the country: London, Lincoln, Scotland, Cornwall. The list of locations went on.
“My God,” he mouthed. Mr Memory had taken people from all over the UK. No wonder no one had made a connection. Callum turned and took in the rest of the room.
On the far side was a set of large metal racking. He moved closer. The shelves were filled with heavy duty plastic boxes, their lids tightly sealed. He reached out and popped off one of the lids, then another. He inspected each in turn. The boxes were full of supplies, thick industrial tape, bleach, disposable latex gloves, throwaway overalls, rope. There was even survival supplies such as tents and sleeping bags and military spec lighters and hand tools. The list went on. Everything a psychopath needed to ply his loathsome trade and evade capture.
Callum swallowed hard and continued his investigation. At the end of the room was a large metal cabinet. He moved closer, reached out a hand, and tugged at the door.
It was locked.
Callum huffed and, gripping the twin barrels of the shotgun, used the butt to knock off the handle. It came away easily and with a reassuring metallic snap. Callum pulled open the door and froze. Scallywag stared at the three shelves, stacked high with bundles of cash, each one bound with an elastic band. He reached in and grabbed one of the piles and began to thumb the notes.
There was a mixture of denominations, so it was impossible for Callum to know how much was in each bundle. But, judging by the thickness of the wads, each one had to contain at least five grand. Callum eyed the stacks of money. There must be at least five-hundred to eight-hundred grand just sitting there, ripe for the taking.
He grinned to himself then swung the rucksack off of his shoulders and began to stuff bundles inside. No point carrying too much. He had enough in his pack to set him and Rebecca up for life. And, all being well, he would be able to return at a later date and take the rest. Either way it was Callum’s payday and he was going to make the most of it.
He closed the door gently and scanned the room once again. There was neither another exit nor any other items of use.
Then, he caught sight of a small, military-green jerry can, tucked behind the doorway.
Callum moved closer and, on inspection, found it to be half full. He popped the lid and was suddenly aware of the pungent fumes of the petrol. He smiled and replaced the lid, then returned to one of the plastic boxes and retrieved a small storm-proof lighter and tucked it in his pocket.
He paused, toying with the idea of giving it a proper search, but then decided it would be a waste of time. The secondary switch could be anywhere, and so there was no point wasting time in a potentially futile quest to discover its location.
His only option was to face Mr Memory head on. He gripped the 12 gauge tightly and lifted the petrol can, then made his way back to the hallway.
Callum moved swiftly down the corridor and once again found himself at the inner room, its secondary door still closed, the dead dog untouched upon the floor.
However, the woman in the cage had disappeared. Callum swallowed hard. That meant his captor had gained access to the room and taken her away. But if that was so, why hadn’t he released his second dog? The path had been clear for the canine protector to re
ach him. Callum assessed the room, fearful that something was amiss, his paranoia boring into him like a parasite.
It didn’t make sense. Regardless of his instincts, he had no choice but to push on. He pulled open the door, all the while poised for imminent attack. He let out a sigh when he found the corridor to be empty. That meant one thing: Mr Memory had to be hiding in his room of memories. As far as Callum was aware there was no other place for him to seek sanctuary.
Despite his newfound optimism, a sudden swell of caution washed over him.
Who exactly was hunting who?
He shuddered at the thought of walking into a trap. There would be no escape, should he be outmanoeuvred for a second time.
Callum broke the shotgun and nervously jabbed at the cartridges, making sure all was well and that the weapon was indeed loaded and ready to fire. He relaxed slightly as he snapped it shut, pleased that everything was as it should be. He eyed the short corridor and the last closed door separating him from his quarry.
Callum took one step forward.
Callum screamed as the something— teeth? — punctured his leg, the sudden shock of the attack causing him to drop the petrol can and simultaneously pull the trigger, unintentionally discharging both barrels into the ceiling. The detonation was catastrophic within the confines of the tiny space.
Callum could feel the ripple from the concussion blast desperately trying to vent from the tunnel. The shot peppered the roof, causing a light bulb to explode and a flurry of concrete and debris to scatter downwards. He screamed in pain as Romulus savagely tugged his head from side to side, each time sinking his teeth in deeper. Callum tried to turn, lashing out with the now-empty shotgun, but the impact did little to dissuade the dog from its attack.
He swung again. This time the impact caused the dog to release a little pressure, giving Callum just enough time to turn his body so he was facing the dog head-on.
Romulus attacked again, but this time the impact knocked Callum backwards. He stumbled and, with splaying arms, landed on his back, his head cracking off of the solid concrete floor, sending a wave of pressure to his eye-sockets and forehead. He screwed his eyes tight, his vision awash with tiny flashing stars.
The dog, sensing its opportunity, leapt forward, landing on Callum’s chest, his throat no doubt its intended target. He instinctively tucked his chin in, desperately trying to deny access to the fleshy part of his neck, his head ringing from the dog’s relentless assault. He felt teeth puncture his cheek as Romulus attacked again repeatedly snapping at his body. Callum could only blindly lash out at his opponent, his fists hitting solid muscle, the beast’s snarls drowning out any sense of reason.
He began to grip its fur in desperation, yanking clumps away in a bid to halt the onslaught, but it was to no avail.
A sudden high-pitched whistle brought the relentless barrage to a sudden halt. Through bloodshot eyes, Callum saw Romulus back off and lie down, poised and ready for its next command, its eyes studying its prey.
Callum stared at his ripped trouser leg and the blood flowing freely from the vicious wounds. He tried to stand, but his leg couldn’t support his weight. In a scream of rage, he slumped back down, his head facing the end of the hallway.
Through his blood-washed eyes he saw the familiar figure of Mr Memory slowly walking towards him, a syringe clasped in his right hand.
Callum tried to reach the shotgun, but realised he wouldn’t have time to retrieve the ammunition and load it. He scanned the area, his nausea beginning to take hold from the immense trauma and sudden blood loss.
It was then he saw the jerry can. Using his elbows, he scrambled towards it and, with all his strength, gripped it tight and yanked it towards his body, simultaneously flipping the lid.
Mr Memory ran forward now, fully aware of Scallywag’s intentions.
“Fuck you!” Callum screamed as he launched the now emptying can towards his approaching captor. There was a loud metal crash as the fuel can bounced off the wall and came to rest in the hallway between Callum and his pursuer.
Scallywag grinned as he retrieved the storm-lighter from his pocket and activated the intense burning blue flame. Then, with his last ounce of defiance, he tossed it towards his tormentor.
Mr Memory was feet away when the lighter hit the spreading puddle of petrol. With a sudden whoosh the fumes ignited. Callum shielded his eyes as the corridor was transformed into a raging fireball. He kept his head low as blue and orange flames licked the walls and ceiling around him. He glanced up to see Mr Memory, lying on his back after being blown off his feet by the initial blast.
With gritted teeth, Callum dragged himself to his feet and turned just in time to see Romulus lunge for him. He ducked, managed to drop himself to one side, which caused the dog to sail harmlessly past him and into the fuel-scorched corridor.
Romulus skidded into the tunnel and immediately turned to attack once more. In such a confined space, the explosion was devastating. It had just been fumes that had ignited before. But now somehow the fire had reached the jerry can.
With a cataclysmic surge of power, and a deafening crack, the ball of twisting fire and metal fragments took Callum off his feet and sent him flailing backwards through the open doorway and into the room. His hair was singed and his face burnt as the heatwave came crashing over him. He covered his face to protect himself and, as he hit the floor, he heard the dying howls of Romulus as it was reduced to nothing more than molten flesh and charred bone.
Callum tried to move but couldn’t stand, his leg injury sending waves of agonising pain throughout his body. He started to laugh, the realisation and relief of being alive taking hold. It was then he saw the figure standing in the doorway, a syringe clasped in his hand.
Scallywag tried to move but nothing would respond. All he could do was watch as the figure approached. He started to sob softly, “Please, no, I’m sorry!” He once again tried to scramble to his feet and, once again, felt the crushing agony as his leg gave way under the strain.
Mr Memory had reached him now and silently kneeled beside him. Callum looked on helplessly as, with one powerful, hand he clasped hold of his collar and proceeded to drag him down the scorched and still-burning hallway towards his memory room. With the last remaining remnants of his spirit Callum, tried to struggle and break the hold, but it was of little use. His captor’s grip was too tight. He could only watch as his wounded leg relentlessly pulsed blood, leaving a crimson smear trail upon the concrete floor behind his battered body.
Mr Memory kept walking, seemingly unperturbed by Scallywag’s desperate attempts to escape. He reached the door and stepped over the threshold, then let go, allowing Callum’s body to slump to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Callum eyed his captor as he slammed the door closed then crouched down; his face inches from his own.
Mr Memory sighed softly. “I truly thought that we could do this the easy way, little rabbit. I had been so excited regarding your arrival, I really did think we had reached an understanding, and that you would have become my student. The wonders I could have shown you would have expanded your mind beyond the mere mundane. I could have made you a God amongst sheep. Alas, it would appear I was a tad overzealous and let my emotions run away from me.”
He moved forward and, with one hand, yanked up Callum’s sleeve. Callum tried to snatch his arm away, to grab onto something in a last-ditch effort to escape, but it was of no use. He looked on, helplessly, as the plunger was pressed, injecting the drug into his bloodstream.
He suddenly felt cold.
Mr Memory gently stroked his head and looked on with delight as the drugs began to take hold. Callum’s eyes glazed over and his pupils dilated.
“Don’t worry, Callum. I have something special in mind for you, my inquisitive little rabbit. Something that is truly deserving of your treachery. Who knows? You may even enjoy it.”
It was at that moment Callum felt himself lose his will to fight back.
Nine
Monday 08:25 Hrs
Callum slowly opened his eyes and immediately felt the angry throb of pain radiate around his sockets and forehead. He coughed coarsely, his mouth dry and parched from lack of fluids. He tried to move, but was unable to command his limbs, his muscles aching and his body stiff from lack of use.
He raised one hand to wipe his face, and was surprised to feel a soft, plush bandage sealing his wounded cheek. As his vision returned he looked about him. He stared at the drip in his arm and followed the tube to the IV dispenser hanging next to his bed, the steady rhythmic beeping indicating dosage.
He tried to prop himself up using his elbows, but with limited success. He rubbed his head once again and huffed quietly, Where the hell am I?
He looked to his right and stared blankly at the large double window, a smaller one at the top slightly open, the curtains pulled back allowing the sunlight to cascade in, flooding the room with its warming rays. He closed his eyes and was engulfed by a surprising sense of relief as he felt the gentle breeze touch his cheek. He took in the room as his brain-fog eased. It was a brightly-painted and sparsely-furnished hospital room, without a doubt stereotypically NHS. Outside his door he could hear the muted day-to-day workings of a busy ward. Hushed voices interspersed with the sound of telephones chirping, the high-pitched squeak of shoes on polished floors.
Callum relaxed and, as his stiffness began to subside a little, eased himself into a sitting position. To his left, there was a jug of water and a plastic cup. He reached over and poured himself a generous helping, eagerly swallowing the liquid. He swiftly followed it up with another two cups. He exhaled softly, the liquid soothing his pains, somewhat.
Though the liquid refreshed his body, his mind was another story. He tried to recall how he had come to be in this room, but he couldn’t. In fact he couldn’t even remember his own name.
Scallywag TYPESET Page 8