Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

  “—meet the others.”

  Carl added, “Seriously, yo. I’m going with her.”

  Jonah ignored him. “It’s time to think tactically. The goal is safety. We need to divide.”

  For once his teacher tone didn’t turn me on, and I ground my teeth. “Splitting up strikes me as problematic and unsafe.” I turned to Piper, who could act as tiebreaker. “What do you think?”

  “I think you never like anyone else’s ideas—”

  “Patently untrue,” I said to her, and wow, that stung.

  “Getting on the roof and calling for help is something I can do.”

  “And I said I’m onboard.”

  She jabbed a finger in the direction of the carousel. “We need cover so we don’t get trapped there or picked off. Look at it. We’ll be totally exposed on top. And we don’t have much to work with. We need someone to cover us. Just in case he gets out.”

  Jonah tied the supply bag to his belt loop, which looked like a third leg and would knock him in the balls if he wasn’t careful. “If anyone has a better plan”—he didn’t say Tommy, but I heard my name plainly in his pause—“now’s the time to share. I’m open.”

  I’d imagined Jonah and I embarking on a dashing, daring, heroic mission as a team. United. Along with Piper and…well, not Carl, who watched us in his silent, sweaty, pale, deer-in-the-headlights, I-want-to-hide kind of way, but we’d valiantly drag him behind us. Jonah and I would save our friends, the kid, and the day.

  No guts, no glory.

  My teammates waited for me to say something as water dripped like a metronome in the distance. And, maybe a trick of the light, I could swear a lick of fog swirled below the mezzanine.

  Here’s the adult learning curve in life—or mine, anyway. Adulting is about facing hard tasks, difficult decisions, and unpleasant realities. Stepping up to the plate even when you don’t want to, because you have to. But sometimes adult life requires you to stand down, listen to others, and find the grace to compromise respectfully.

  Therefore I admitted, “As far as actual, physical plans go, I have nothing. Carry on.”

  Jonah nodded as if he’d suspected as much. Obviously. “My gut says we rely on our individual strengths for the betterment of all.”

  Carl piped in, “I’m sure Beyoncé has an anthem for that.”

  “Shut up, Carl.” Piper turned to Jonah. “You were saying?”

  “You guys don’t act like teachers.”

  Piper shrugged. “We’re off the clock.”

  I said, “And she teaches gym.”

  Jonah stuck to the script. “Tommy runs faster, climbs higher, lifts heavier—” I was sort of the OG Parkour Geek Strongman Ninja of our group. I worked out a little. “So he’s the brawn, and I’ll be the brains.”

  “Wow, harsh.” Carl gave me look. “Weren’t you just sucking his face? He called you stupid.”

  “Shut up, Carl,” I said. “He means well, even if his delivery needs improvement.” A crash rang from across the neutral zone. Not a gunshot. Metal hitting metal. “Okay, Brainiac, you’re on. Quickly. What do we do?”

  Time ticked onward. And I hadn’t imagined the fog. A rope of white hugged the floor near the fountain. Tendrils reached from the far corridor where we’d run, curling against the wall. The temperature had dropped.

  Jonah conferred with Piper, “Where’s Dougie?”

  “Up top. Said to meet in fifteen—which is now, man. He’s in an old card store behind the elevator. We’re to gather everyone at Friday’s and decide the next move.”

  “We need to keep the guy—” Jonah stopped and asked Carl, “Does your kidnapper have a name?”

  “Ricky called him Herb. I thought he meant like, herb, you know? Kush.” We knew. “But his name is legit Herb. Says so on his shirt.”

  Another curious detail. What kind of killer wore a freaking name tag?

  Hello My Name Is: Your Worst Nightmare.

  Piper frowned thoughtfully. “Wait a sec. There aren’t a lot of Herbs, right? Not around here. Big guy. Red hair. Do you think he’s Herbert the Pervert? The dude who hangs around the 76?”

  How the hell? “How do you know that?”

  “Our team bus used to fuel at the truck stop. Coach was like, that’s Herbert the Pervert, do not engage.”

  Carl hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know. He didn’t molest me, so maybe not? But yeah. Probably. His hair’s fire-engine red.”

  “Please stay on task.” Jonah snapped his fingers, the sound alarmingly loud for the occasion, and was immediately followed by another clang from above us. He seemed psyched, bouncing on his toes, and ready. I knew I was. My shoulders were stiff with the need to move. My fists knotted. “I’ll keep”—Jonah glanced between Carl and Piper and rolled his eyes—“Herbert occupied.”

  Hey, if he wanted to sacrifice himself on a suicide mission, who was I to stop him?

  My brain complied. My mouth? Not so much. “With what? A few ping-pong balls and some creamer? Are you nuts?”

  “Probably.” He grinned. No shit. Mr. Robot had officially left the building. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “So basically, you’re going to wing it.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Your task is to be a human catapult.” He dug into his front pocket and exhumed a key fob, which he placed with care in Piper’s outstretched palm. “And you get to the phones. Don’t lose this.”

  The fob vanished inside her shirt. “Roger that.”

  Another shot dinged from the stairwell, and then an encore from someone’s whistle. Once. Twice. Three times. Rapid and to the point. Toot-toot-toot.

  Jonah held my gaze. “I’ll go first. See you at TGI Friday’s.” Like we had a date or something. He instructed Piper, “Tell them where we are. I calculate it’ll take twenty minutes from the time you call, so make every second count.”

  Piper nodded soberly. “Got it.”

  I touched his arm. “Just don’t do anything more stupid than this already pretty stupid plan. Okay? Meet me.”

  “Confirmed.” He spoiled this promise by yanking the mud-colored hoodie over his head and chucking it to Carl. “Swap with me.”

  Shit. His plan continued to spiral. At least he wore a long-sleeved undershirt, which would keep him warm while he waited for the ambulance to cart his ass to the hospital.

  I didn’t utter a damn word.

  Carl removed the Hofstra sweatshirt, revealing a mosaic of purple and black tattoos across his chest and stomach. Only they weren’t tattoos. They were bruises. And the kid wore a mesh tank top. That’s all. He shivered as he covered himself.

  Piper hissed watching him. “Oh man, kid. Go easy.”

  She shot me a look. What could any of us do for him other than stay the course and get him home?

  Once Jonah had Carl’s teen-sized sweatshirt donned, he yanked the hood up, winked roguishly at me, and scurried away, taking my heart. He retraced Piper’s path. Confident. Capable. Brave. Busting at the seams. And barking fucking mad. I felt ill watching him run toward certain death.

  Fog swallowed him.

  Welp. That was that. Time to rally Team Carousel. “Carl”—I decided—“you’re going with Piper.”

  He drooped. “Thank fucking God, man.”

  “You’re welcome.” I just hoped he didn’t trip on the sleeves of Jonah’s sweatshirt. “You up for it?”

  “I am.”

  Piper nodded to me. “Solid move, Tom.”

  “Just don’t lose him. He’s quicker than he looks. And he needs to stay with you and speak with the police.”

  “Roger, dodger.”

  Carl sighed, grim-faced. “I guess I have to.”

  “Yes. You do. Okay. Let’s go.”

  We were off. Vaulting, one, two, three in a row, over the barrier, we crouched low, hugged the gloom, and Carl’s shoes called to every dog in town. Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  No more questions or bitching, no endless yakking or terrible odors. The echo of Herbert clat
tering inside the stairwell hastened us along. Possibly he was constructing a weapon of mass destruction. Maybe a battering ram.

  Carl trailed Piper. Closer to him in age, and while not exactly nicer than me, she was slightly prettier. They were nearly the same size too. If only the rest of his clothing didn’t gleam like a signal fire in the dark. White shoes. Light-gray pants. White hair. He stood out.

  We were going to die.

  “Carl. Blend, man. Pull your hood up. Wipe some dirt on your pants. Something.”

  Herbert blasted at the wall or the stairwell door or the ceiling. He must be smugly assured we were trapped in his mall-sized maze. Probably having the best night ever. I bet he’d secured our special exit door as Jonah and I were innocently making out under the escalator, just after we heard the sound of glass pinging. I wondered if he’d watched us.

  Scratch that thought.

  We rested against a column, judging the distance to the carousel. A patch of open space separated us, and two of Dougie’s LEDs still burned, so not far, but no cover.

  Piper pulled my sleeve. “Tommy. Do you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  Herb must have completed his craft project. Or, if we were lucky, he’d gone into cardiac arrest.

  Piper bit her lip, looking impossibly young, and responsibility for her safety bore down on me. “We need to go, champ. Seriously.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Fog shrouded parts of the neutral zone, obliterating obstacles I knew for a fact littered the floor. Once I freed Piper and Carl, I would soon be cold, alone, damp, and tripping over debris as I fled, but so would Herbert. “Ready?”

  Pale Carl gave me a flat look. Plainly, he’d been ready for two days.

  I bolted, swift and silent, aiming for a tall, ebony-colored pony. My ride. When my foot hit the decking, I discovered a slick patch. Nothing felt stable either, and I slid, but plastered myself to the pony, one arm hugging its neck, the other gripping its gilded bridle.

  A decade of rain from the open skylight had encouraged rot to settle in and make itself comfy. Unanticipated, debris from the roof covered everything. Given our luck, it contained asbestos. If the gunman didn’t kill me, cancer might.

  Dammit. We were alive. We were dry. We had half a plan. We were closer to an exit than we’d been in a lifetime, and if needed, I could slither through the fog and escape Herb the Perv like that snake Voldemort milked in Harry Potter.

  Oh, plus, it wasn’t raining. Five stars.

  The next step seemed straightforward and well within my wheelhouse. Climb. As the carousel was two-tiered, and the second tier was shuttered by a wooden roof and thus, fuck that thing, I’d have to leap for a handhold closer to the outer edge.

  No biggie.

  One foot in the stirrup, then onto the pony’s back, a hand to the inner spoke, let muscle memory take over from there. I could leap, grab a support pole, flip to the whatever it’s called, and once on top, I’d scale the framework, my sneakers finding purchase on what I imagined were long, painted wooden arms jutting from the center pole. I’d find a perch and toss those two turkeys to freedom. Done.

  The rest to be sorted later.

  I checked above my head for signs of sharp edges, rotted wood, bats, broken bulbs, and asbestos. No bats, so things were looking up.

  Because I’m six one, I snagged the top of my pony’s pole—the crank gadget—and the carousel instantly became a wobbling mass of jell-oh my God.

  The bony remains of the carousel were terrifyingly flimsy. And people used to pay to stick their kids on that thing for three minutes of peaceful entertainment at the end of a hellish shopping day. What the actual eff? Questionable parenting, in my humble opinion, and I was shocked a lawsuit hadn’t hastened the closing of the mall, but also the carousel was in total alignment with Parkway’s overall theme: Fucking Deathtrap.

  In review, beyond the second tier, there was nothing to grip overhead except thin, rusted cables, some narrow metal slats likely covered in tetanus spores, and round steel poles. I could flip over the decorative edging—whatever that was called—and frankly, my carousel vocabulary could use some work. The painted wooden spectacle of frolicking ponies concealing the ugly interior framework—a facing? Yes, well, the facing was speckled with smashed light bulbs and spots of mold, but I could do it. I could climb anything. And, the facing offered a shield while we figured out how the hell to get to the top.

  Check.

  The climb tested more than my physically ability. There was physics to consider, momentum, trajectory, yes, and broken glass, and slippery mold, sure, but I struggled under the weight of causing Piper any harm.

  Through the spokes, streaky clouds blurred the stars above us, and if I didn’t move posthaste, rain would make escape impossible.

  Piper scurried close, pressing against me, her expression stark as she eyeballed the structure up close. “Woof,” she said under her breath.

  “I know.”

  “Come on, Tommy. Challenge accepted. I’m good. Quit twiddling your thumbs and throw me through the skylight. I’ll stick the landing. I’m trained for this.”

  Just toss her to the ledge, right? Mario Bros this crap. Leap, climb, save the princess. I could chuck that fucking kid into outer space—no problem—and still a notably bad idea. The evening had been chock-full of increasing difficulties, so why hesitate now? Level the fuck up.

  Also, all things considered, our trio had the less onerous task.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, kiddies. Time to fly.”

  I scrambled onto my pony’s chipped back. The floor rocked ever so slightly beneath us, and my number-twelve sneaker cracked right through the seat of the horse. Seriously. My shoe sank two inches deep in shattered circus plastic. Not the majestic move I anticipated. I caught myself one handed on the gilded pole.

  I hated everything and everyone at that exact moment, and still pulled my act together, my sneaker free, and utilizing my excellent wingspan, launched off the pony’s back. I snagged a support pipe, monkey-barred until I dangled from the outer lip of the carousel—again two-stories high—then flipped seamlessly onto the swaying fucking disaster above us.

  Cables creaked. Debris sprinkled onto the platform. And the goddamn carousel moved. Spun slowly on its axis, wheeling a foot or so counterclockwise, and not merrily. Carl and Piper were out of sight below me. Sure, they were fine, but now we faced the arcade, closer to being exposed to the neutral zone.

  Carefully laid plans are bullshit, and since we didn’t have one of those anyway, I let go.

  Fortune favors the bold.

  I dropped upside down, knees hooked over a pipe, feet tucked under a cable, and partially hidden by the facing. With a wish and a prayer, I grabbed those little fucking lightweights, and they climbed me like a ladder. Another kick to the head by random sneakers. How many times now?

  Our ascent wasn’t pretty, but we weren’t being sponsored by REI. We scrabbled for purchase as the carousel groaned in agony. We were up, flattening ourselves from view.

  The carousel gaily spun another few feet, making hella racket.

  Not part of the plan.

  If a soundtrack existed in some cosmic version of my life on film, our little ride would be underscored by a circus calliope poop-pooping us toward certain doom.

  We teetered to a stop, and held. Hardly breathing, eye level with the second floor, we had the center pole yet to reach. Once there, I’d have to balance on a dime, overhead-press Piper, toss her a good seven feet into the air, and previously unforeseen, spin in slow-mo.

  Oh, and then I’d have to repeat the process. Dos Amigos.

  On the plus side, Piper and Carl weren’t deadweight. They were fit and able and had adrenaline working in their favor, and nothing makes the impossible possible like the threat of imminent death.

  I could do this. My gym sessions involved flipping truck tires up a hill four days a week and carrying sacks of grain on my shoulders and all th
e happy, Spartan-inspired good stuff. I’d spent most of the last decade working to become more like Thor because the weak, geek, queer motif hadn’t paid off for me, personally.

  Another plus? We had an unobstructed view of the neutral zone through a series of cutout charioteers racing along the facing.

  Across the mall, where darkness intertwined with smoky curls of mist, danger arrived at the top of the floating staircase in the form of an oversize, pasty-faced ginger.

  Herbert. The Pervert. Man. What took him so long?

  An excellent opportunity for Dougie and Jonah to offer the you’ll-know-it-when-you-see-it ping–pong-ball diversion.

  Carl stiffened. “Mr. Cline. Get me out of here.”

  “Working on it.”

  Time spent in the stairwell had done a number on Herb’s attitude. He looked tense, even from a distance and in the dark. Gone was the humming, carefree, confident serial killer of thirty minutes ago.

  Puffy fingers and jowly cheeks, and very, very red hair, he muttered unintelligibly. The sound carried across the mall as slimy gobbledygook. I pegged him for under forty. He was clothed in black pants and what appeared to be a white button-down shirt. Like a waiter. Not exactly the avatar I envisioned for a crazed killer.

  Guy must go through a ton of stain remover.

  Herbert could have passed for middle management at, say, a used-car dealership. He possessed the failure-to-launch vibe one acquires from living in their mom’s basement and blowing holes in juvenile delinquents for sport.

  He crept down the stairs, and forget middle management, think door-to-door Bible salesman. You know. The kind who lures junkies into his car with the promise of a fifteen-dollar blowjob.

  Man, I’m a judgmental jerk. I know it. I own it. But when I’m right, I’m right.

  Possibly—and here the cogs in my brain squealed to a halt—he’d been a mall cop.

  As I squinted at Herbert plodding stiffly down each step, he really did resemble a mall cop. And maybe the shirt and pants were part of a uniform.

  Paul Blart, only sans tie and Segway, completely crackers, and wearing a holster and a gun.

  Herbert paused on the landing, a dark bag in his left hand, gripping the railing with his right. He surveyed the area.