"The search for a scapegoat is the easiest of all hunting expeditions."

- Dwight D. Eisenhower

02:12 a.m

4 days earlier

The stack of cleaned pictures had grown. About a novel thick, most of them were photographs of landscapes. Barns, farmlands, and a river populated a majority of the images, with the occasional propping of an elderly male farmer and his wife, a chair bound woman that was often pictured in a rocking chair on a porch. Tim was beginning to lose hope that the photo album would be able to provide them with any sort of clue as to what was happening with Sin and that it might have simply been one of Vashmir's personally belonging which he threw into the fire in a fit of madness. Tim was not even sure what he expected to find, but the lack of leads meant it was either that or to sit and wait to die.

Stella breathed softly in his room. Having kept a peaceful sleep despite the noises of the world outside. He had taken a peek out to find the streets filled with cars attempting to leave the city. Since their apartment was nearer to the edge of the metropolis, he could watch the slowly growing waves of refugees getting into the gridlock, more people than he had seen in the past two weeks combined.

Honks blared through the whole city and into the night. Behind him, the city centre continued to turn with screams and shouts, the cycle of which had become a strange rhythm that echoed as a gentle heartbeat to his ears.

Once again, Tim stepped out of the apartment and stared over the parapet. On the ground, most of the cars had moved forward, with a new batch in their places. However, Tim could see a few that had stopped their advances. The driver seats emptied. A sparse group of people weaved between the cars as they proceeded forward on foot.

Then, the flitting flash of torches cast long shadows across the street. Catching his eyes, he leaned slightly over to look down to the walkway below.

A group of about a dozen people stood in a circle at the entrance to his apartment building. He watched them discuss noisily, though the five stories distance meant their voices were still muffled enough that he could not make out what they were saying. It was during the prolonged conversation that he saw it. Each of the men and women were armed with a variety of garden appliances. From hoes to shovels to even sickles and pitchforks.

To himself, Tim noted, “That's a mob,” and with that, one of the woman in the group looked up at him. Their eyes crossed and she pointed him out to the others. “Oh. That's my mob.”

The group broke off, with two staying on the ground level while the rest disappeared into the building. Tim took the movement as a sign to retreat back into his apartment, locking the door behind him.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit,” he cursed as he fumbled into the apartment. He hurried back into his room where Stella slept. Shaking the girl by the shoulder, he begged, “Wake up. Come on, wake up!” but to no avail. She continued to stay unconscious without even a flicker of her eyelids.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. Think fast,” he ran back into the living room and grabbed all the photographs and album off the coffee table and brought it to his father's room. Junking the evidence under the bed, he went back out and shifted the furnitures aside, making way for the couch to be pushed to the door.

With heaves and huffs, he moved the small furniture into the narrow entrance. Sweating and panting, he rammed the sofa against the frame of the door and added to the weight by lifting the shoe cabinet onto the barricade. All this just in time as the furious knocks from the mob came from the outside.

“Open up, Timothy Kleve!” a man shouted. “We don't want anyone getting hurt!”

Tim shouted back as he re-entered his room, “Says the people armed with gardening supplies!” as gently as possible, he lifted Stella off the bed. “What are you trying to do if not hurt me? Give me a fucking trim?” he actually felt his hair was getting quite long and could in fact, do with a visit to a barber.

“Look,” a woman's voice this time. “If you're not coming out, we're coming in!”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He carried Stella into Joshua's room. Watching her leg, he placed her down on the floor beside the bed. “Don't believe those stupid posters, you idiots!” heaving, he pushed Stella under the bed. Luckily, her full body pyjamas meant she simply slid across the floor without resistance. “Sorry,” he whispered to her. He pulled the blanket of the bed over to cover the gap.

From outside, he could hear the woman say, “Ralph, do the thing.”

“No, Ralph!” he shouted back. Getting to his feet, he did a quick scan to make sure Stella was completely hidden underneath. “Don't do the thing!” his pleas were ignored as the sound of body ramming against wood banged through the household.

Tim bolted back out into the living room. It was impossible for him to escape while carrying Stella, but at the very least, even if he was caught, she would be safe then. However, he had no intention of giving in. Grabbing his revolver, he managed a plan as he put on the holster.

“I've got a gun!” he yelled back, trying to buy some time.

And almost instantaneously, a man called, “He's lying!”

“Fucking idiots,” he whispered under his breath. He held his gun out to the ceiling and fired a warning shot. The women outside screamed and he could hear Ralph the battering ram flailing and falling back in fear, crashing into everyone around him. In the confusion, he loaded a new round into the fired chamber, grabbed his jacket, and headed into his room.

About an arms reach away from his window was the unceremoniously bland brick wall of his neighbouring apartment. A sight which he had hated for years yet found inexplicably lovable at that moment. He climbed over and onto his desk. Once balanced he pulled his jacket over his hands. Holding onto the inside wall of his room with a foot on the window sill, he reached his left hand out and arched into the brick wall opposite, finding some grip for his fingers. He did the same with his left leg, managing a foothold in one of the larger crevices. Slowly, he eased his entire body out of the room, where he hung between the building gaps like a mutated starfish.

As the ramming of the door returned, he looked down the five stories difference between him and the ground and huffed out, “Dumbest. Idea. Ever.”

With that self cursing, he manoeuvred himself back and away from his windows. Grunting as his muscles strained with his weight. He pushed his limps to lock himself in place between the two walls. Knowing full well that loosening too much would meant him pin-balling into the ground below.

Slowly, he loosened the grip his feet had, adjusting until he felt them just about to slide away from the walls. “Okay. Okay. Okay,” he tried pumping himself.

The door to his apartment broke open with a crash signalling his time for an all or nothing. He locked his legs' muscles and released his fingers from the crevice and begin his slide down the walls at a speed much faster than he had thought he would. Past the forth floor, past the third, he plummeted downwards, desperately trying to control his descend with his hands. Protected by the jacket sleeves, he pushed his arms against the wall and he slowed slightly, though not without a grunt of pain. Once past the second floor though, he released all his limps and free-fall the last four meters to the ground, breaking his fall with a roll.

Yet, he had no time to rest. He needed to draw attention away from his house and in turn, from Stella. He needed to get the attention of the mob, which was not hard, as he grunted out a large, “FUCK!” while squeezing his aching hands in pain, the sleeves of his jacket having been ripped to shreds. However, his hands, save for a few small cuts, were otherwise unharmed.

“What was that?” he heard the female ground floor watch voiced out.

“It came from there!” another man exclaimed.

Tim got to his feet and began limp-jogging towards the back alley. He heard a woman behind him go, “He's down here!” shouting loud enough for her conspirators upstairs to get wind of. “He's getting away!”

He looked back to see the pair chasing him struggle to fit through the small pathway with their larger builds. Easing himself through the last leg, Tim tucked out into the back alley. Looking left and right for cars that did not exist, he made sure he was not followed from elsewhere before running towards a garbage pile to his left.

Without worrying further, he sauntered over and into the midst of the black garbage bags. Pulling up his hood and zipping up his jacket, he squatted into the trash, camouflaging himself amongst the shadow of the alley, the darkness of the night, and the black of the bags. He had to raise his jacket up and over his nose to cover not just his face, but the nauseating stench of being in a pile of waste. His two pursuers stepped out of the pathway and into his view.

“Where did he go?” the man asked, his eyes scanning right over the corner of darkness that Tim was in. His heart skipped a beat when his eyes lingered at him, but soon turned away. Tim held back his sigh of relief as the man commanded, “You go that way, I'll head down here. He couldn't have gotten far,” he pointed to the two opposing directions before splitting up with his partner.

Once the pair was out of earshot, he quietly climbed out of the garbage pile and stepped out into a thankful breath of fresh air. Wasting no time, he bolted down the alleyway opposite him, away from his two pursuers and before the main mob could join back up.

His home was no longer safe. He needed somewhere else to hide.