by Kit Power
“Apparently. Just.”
He laughs, a single, shaky sound. Deborah feels a surge of disgust, but she is well pleased all the same. He's so fucking weak. So malleable, she thinks.
The bomber laughs too. Her hate runs cold.
“Okay, well, there’s going to be more now, right? Probably a negotiator, something like that. How are we doing for time?”
“Quarter to four.”
“Think we can hold them for five hours?”
“If you’re doing the talking, we could probably hold them for five weeks.”
The bomber laughs again at that, and Deborah has to close her eyes for a second and just breathe deep.
Never mind those two. You know what you need to know about both of them. What you don't know is where your help is coming from. So look, woman. Find your accomplice.
The bomber starts giving orders. One of the central pews to her left is emptied of people, and men from the back rows are ordered to stack the bodies of the priest and the other guy in front of the doors. Deborah's eyes move over the congregation, seeking out someone, anyone, who doesn't look like they've completely given up.
It's hopeless. Hardly anyone is even looking in her direction, and the few that do won't even meet her gaze, eyes sliding away from her as though she were furniture. She realises with rising anger, and not a little fear, that that is how they see her – this goddamn beshitted wheelchair has rendered her an object, not a person. Even if anyone was thinking straight enough to realise that the only way out is by taking down the bomber, Deborah is the last person they'd look to for a co-conspirator.
Nobody is going to help her.
She can't do it by herself.
Deborah feels panic start to rise. She feels sweaty, hot. Frantic. She does not want to die in this building, but they are all running out of time. Someone, one of you, please...
“Katie?”
Deborah jumps in her chair at the voice. The bomber has moved up the aisle, and is standing now with his back to her. In front of him, Deborah can just make out the girl kneeling, also facing away from the stage. By the other body.
“What do you want?”
Something about her tone makes the hair on the back of Deborah's neck stand up.
“I’m sorry. I need to clear the aisle now. I need you to move Alex.”
He has his back to you.
Deborah's heart starts to hammer in her chest. Her mouth goes dry. How far away is he? How many steps?
She places her left foot on the ground. Tests the weight.
“Yes, okay.”
It feels solid. Not wobbly.
“Do you... Shall I get someone to help you, or...”
Could she run? Would he hear her? Could Deborah get to the sword before he...
Her thought is interrupted, cut short, as he takes a step back, straightening up. Instinctively, she pulls her leg back, putting her foot back in the cup.
“I’m sorry this happened. I think I would have liked her.”
Closer to Deborah, back still to her. But the speed of his movement has spooked her badly, and she turns back instead to face the stage.
Wondering if she'll get another shot.
Katie looks down at Alex, trying to assess how she might move her. Thinks too about hearing her voice. Her own mind, giving her what she wants the most. It should make her feel even worse, but maybe things are so bad that it can’t. Maybe going crazy can be comforting.
You’re not crazy, just big boned. Now move me, before that asshole hurts you. Do it or...
Or you’ll kill me. I know.
Katie cannot help but smile. It makes her look younger than sixteen – makes her look like a child. I can do this, she thinks, and is relieved to discover that she really believes it, that it’s a statement of fact, not some attempt to gee herself up.
She leans forward over Alex, taking her in.
Her. She's a she. Who knew?
Katie means to remember her like this for the rest of her life, and so she takes her time, eyes cataloguing every detail of her hair, face, skin, body. Her eyes move across that stained purple shirt, the heavy jacket, the bloody cloth still held uselessly to her stomach, and Katie cannot unsee the gaping wound now concealed beneath, knows she will carry that too, right to the end, down to her waist, her..
Katie’s breath catches in her throat. The jacket has an inside pocket, at waist height, and there’s something in there. Something cylindrical.
Katie is aware that her heart is suddenly beating very hard indeed, that she’s all but panting, and her eyes appear to be glued to that shape as her mind, never the sharpest, tries to process this new data.
The pocket isn’t where a pocket would normally be. And it’s an odd shape. She leans forward just slightly, to get a better look, not thinking about how that might look, curiosity alive and bright. She sees what looks to her like fresh stitching. The fabric that makes up the pocket is leather, but a different kind from the jacket.
Alex made this. She made a hidden pocket in her jacket and put something in there. Katie finds herself reaching out for it, then suddenly snatches her hand back like it touched something hot. Idiot! Do you want everyone to see you? Katie almost looks around, before realising that would look even worse. If someone has seen, they’ve seen. Don’t get yourself caught now. Calm down. Focus. Get her out of the aisle. Get her somewhere out of sight. Then, maybe, you can see what there is to see.
She leans forward again and slides an arm up under Alex’s armpits. Their faces are close, and Katie can’t help but remember the kiss, and her lips tingle slightly at the memory. Then she gets her feet under her and lifts. There’s an awful slurping sound as Alex’s back peels from the wooden floor and the congealing layer of blood beneath, and Katie feels her stomach flop.
Alex is slim and not tall, but she is horribly slack, and Katie almost drops her at first. She has to thread her hands together behind Alex’s back and pull her in, gripping her to her body. She feels Alex’s face push into the soft flesh of her chest.
It should feel awful, but somehow it doesn’t. It’s what she would have wanted, thinks Katie, and it feels true enough that she almost smiles again, arms around her dead lover. Katie looks up, sees that the aisle they both came from has cleared, the residents displaced to other pews. She sees sweaty bald man, hovering at the edge of the row behind. He’s shifting from foot to foot, frowning. Did the madman say something, before giving Katie her instructions, or did they just move?
Doesn’t matter.
Katie begins to shuffle step Alex forwards, the heels of the dead girl stretching out behind her. Four steps in and her heel hits a clotting lump of blood on top of a deeper liquid layer. The combination sends her foot skidding out from under her. She feels the lurch, her centre of gravity fail, but it’s too late to do anything, and she lands on her ass with a squelch. The body slides forward as Katie falls, so Katie ends up sitting on Alex’s feet, the girl's pale face still buried in Katie’s chest. Alex’s jacket flies open as they hit the ground, and Katie hears the sound of glass connecting with a hard surface as the jacket slaps the wood. To Katie, it sounds like the loudest noise in the world.
There’s an awful silence. Katie wonders if someone is going to laugh, like at school the time she dropped her lunch tray on the way to her table. Katie wonders if the madman heard the glass. Katie wonders what will happen next.
Nothing happens.
Katie leans over, flips the jacket closed, and drags Alex clear of the blood, knees bent, low to the ground. She looks down to make sure she’s past the slip zone, then straightens up again, and concentrates on moving until they reach the far edge of the empty row.
Putting Alex down is hard. Katie does not want to lose the intimacy of holding her. She lowers Alex very slowly, gently, one hand cradling the back of her head to stop it hitting the ground hard. Her fingers rest in Alex’s hair. It feels delicious. Awful. Katie shudders, tears up.
She slides her hand out from under Alex’s head and raises i
t to her own face, wiping away the fresh tears. She can smell Alex on her fingers, a mixture of shampoo and girl sweat. Katie feels like something is pulling in her mind and feels her chest tighten. She realises she’s on the verge of just totally losing it, and that if she does, she’s unlikely to be any use to anyone, so she pulls herself together instead. She takes her hand from her face and returns it to Alex, resting against the bulge she can now see clearly in her jacket. She hopes the gesture looks natural.
A hand grabs her wrist.
“You really hurt me, you know.”
Somehow she manages not to scream. He’s kneeling next to her, leaning close enough that, now they are facing, she can see fine dark stubble on his upper lip. His eyes are bloodshot, with big black circles around them. He looks angry, distracted.
The sweaty bald man opens his mouth and says, “When you hit me in the stomach. That really hurt.”
“I’m sorry!” It comes out harder than she intends. She’s scared, and she’s dismayed to realise that fear hasn’t left her after all, but it’s a distant kind of scared, and behind it is a yawning darkness. This man is trouble. This could be bad.
The absurdity of that last almost makes her laugh.
“It hurt.” He continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. He is looking her in the eyes, but his own eyes seem unfocused. Empty. Katie feels unsteady, like the ground is moving underneath her. “I was just trying to stop you getting killed. You really hurt me.” His hand rubs a spot on his belly, eyes never leaving hers. His breath smells to Katie like spoiled milk.
He’s still gripping her wrist. Hard.
“I didn’t want you to die; that’s all. I don’t want to die either.” He blinks, eyes pulling back to the here and now, focussing on her face. She can see he’s very scared, perhaps hysterical. Also, still angry.
The swaying feeling increases, and she’s almost sure she is moving, but his face hangs constant and steady, so it must just be in her head.
“We’re going to though, aren’t we? We’re going to burn.”
“Probably, yes.” It falls out of her mouth, but having said it without thinking, she realises she believes it. She’ll take whatever she finds in Alex’s pocket - if this arsehole ever lets go of her hand - and if a time comes, she’ll use it, but any real hope Katie had of leaving this building alive died with Alex. The thought elicits a kind of wary acceptance in her.
Fuck you, girlfriend. Suck it up and get your shit together. There’s a world of kissing and breasts and heat out there, and with me out of the picture, you’re just going to have to do them all for the both of us.
She sobs, once, the shock cutting through the growing numbness.
“Shhh. Shhh.” The sweaty bald man is looking around nervously, waving his free hand in front of her face in a frantic calming gesture. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, focuses on not crying. She can feel it in her throat, painful, but she holds it in.
She feels a hand on her breast.
Her eyes fly open, mouth too, and the sweaty bald man lets go of her chest and clamps his free hand across her face. He does it hard enough that she’s pushed back and to the side, her free hand falling flat against the ground behind her to hold her up. Trapped. He’s above her now, eyes flicking between her face and her breasts.
“Sorry. I’ve never had anyone. I can’t die like this. Sorry.” He’s whispering, face far too close to hers. A drop of sweat rolls down his nose and lands on her cheek.
“Just...” He yanks her held wrist, pulling her hand off of Alex, and pushes it into his stomach. With a low grunt of effort, he squeezes her hand down his trousers. She feels skin being scraped off of the back of her hand by the belt buckle and moans into his fingers. Her eyes flick from side to side, trying to see the rest of the congregation, but her neck is twisted to one side, and she can only see that the man and her are beneath the sight line of the bench.
She can see no-one.
No-one towards the back of the church can see her. Them.
“Just...” Her hand is flat against his lower stomach, trapped there by his bigger hand, now on top of hers, crushing. She feels short hairs brushing her fingertips. She gags into his hand.
“Just...”
She's stuck. He’s moved over her, using his weight to hold her legs, and the angle she’s fallen back to means she can’t move her other arm without falling, banging her head.
Trapped.
Inside his pants, he interlocks his finger with hers, like a lovers grip. He rotates her wrist, and again she cries out into his muffled hand. Then her hand is clamped around something hot, hard and soft.
“That’s it.” His hand is clamped over hers, squeezing painfully. He starts to jerk, hard and fast. The skin on her lower arm scrapes against his belt buckle, scratching. His grip is tremendous, and she can already feel her fingertips becoming numb. His breathing becomes ragged, harsh. He sounds like he might be about to have a fit.
Please stop this.
She feels no anger, only a sick dread in her stomach, a yawning pit.
Please stop this.
His face is so close now that all she can see is his left eye staring into hers. She can see the tremble caused by the motion of his arm in his face. She can’t seem to close her eyes.
His eyelid flutters, and the thing in her hand throbs, twitches, spasming, and he makes some kind of not-quite-groan deep in his throat, and she feels sticky heat on her wrist. He squeezes harder, and she feels the bones of her fingers groan in protest, and then his grip loosens.
She pulls her hand out quickly, trying to ignore the wet warmth that seems to coat it as she does so, and pushes him in the chest, hard. He sprawls back and off her, releasing her legs. She gets them under her, freeing her left hand, sitting up.
She has her back to the stage now, so she has a clear view of the boy with the gun and the door behind him. She sees other members of the congregation dragging the bodies from further down the aisle. She snaps her head around to the stage. The madman is there, looking down the aisle in her direction.
She looks back at the sweaty bald man.
He’s trying to get up. He landed heavily, arms sprawled out into the aisle, and he’s struggling to roll over and get his arms under him. As she watches, he does this, but when he puts his weight on his hand it slips against the smooth wooden floor and out from under him, and he flops back down with a grunt. Katie is moving without thought now. She reaches over for Alex, feeling for the pocket, the jar.
A weapon.
Her hands are shaking. The coat is big, and she loses precious seconds scrabbling under the jacket, looking for the secret pocket. She finds it at last, hand closing over the cold lid of the jar.
As she does so, a hand clamps across her wrist again.
She cries out in shock, head whipping around. The sweaty bald man is staring at her; teeth clenched, furious. She tries to pull the jar out, but his grip holds strong. His smile is twisted and horrible. She feels things start to go grey, like the world is fading out.
Then a blade appears at his throat. The grin disappears like someone flicked a switch.
“What seems to be going on here?”
Katie can feel her heart hammering in her chest. She has a second to marvel at the feeling, the vitality of it. It feels strange. At odds with the numbness in her mind.
The madman stands above the sweaty bald man. Katie stares up at his face. He looks angry, and cold. So cold. He stares back at her, face an exaggerated frown, clearly expecting her to answer his question.
For an awful moment, she can’t remember what he said. It’s too much, overload, the circumstances and events piling up behind her eyes, threatening shutdown. She feels sluggish, dislocated.
Talk to the man, girlfriend. Give him the score.
“He... He made me.”
She holds up her hand, seeing for the first time the pale fluid smeared across it. She hears the sweaty bald man draw breath but does not look down at him. Dares not.
&n
bsp; She sees the madman’s eyes change focus to her hand, widen in recognition, then return to her face. He looks at her for a long time. She feels her stomach roll over, wonders if she’s going to throw up.
“Please accept my apologies. That should not have happened.”
She notices that his shoulders are trembling, just a little. Her eyes follow the movement, and yes, the fist holding the blade is shaking slightly, vibrating the blade against the neck of the sweaty bald man. The man is crying, she notes with no feeling at all, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
“You owe this young lady an apology, don’t you?”
The sweaty bald man nods frantically, apparently unaware of how close the blade is to his throat. He eyes track left, straining to see the figure behind him. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry! But it’s your fault!”
“What?”
Shut up, silly man. He’s going to kill you if you don’t shut up.
“You said we were all going to die, and I’ve never... never had no-one! And, and, I couldn’t die like that, not having... And anyway, she, she’s...”
He starts crying, huge sobs that shake his whole frame, and the madman has to move the blade to stop the man from cutting his own throat. It’s an awful sound. Katie notices the front of his jeans stain dark as the man’s bladder lets go. He’s incapable of making words now, and instead he just wails, as pure an expression of despair as Katie has ever heard. She looks at her smeared hand (soiled, she thinks), and back at his contorted face. She feels bad for him. For herself. For all of them.
She looks back up at the madman. Realises with a nasty jolt that he’s been looking at her the whole time. Waiting for her attention.
“It’s not true, you know. Free will is free will. What you have been unfortunate enough to be caught up in is what happens when a man gives himself permission to indulge his worst instincts.”
Look who's talking, thinks Katie, the irony of the lunatic’s statement feeling like a physical blow. She hates him at this moment, far more than she feels anything at all for the stupid silly dead sweaty bald man. The madman turns his attention back to the man under his sword.