Horror movies and violent video games do a very poor job of preparing one's self for the reality of seeing someone's head be exploded by a bullet.
I know, logically, that I need to keep my head on the door, watching Safeguard rake through the padlock with a small little thing they called a wave rake, and a little turning doohickey that looks like one of those L-shaped wrenches for hexagon bolts. I know I should be not looking directly at the sound of a gunshot. If it's aimed at me, then I hope and pray that I do not see it coming. Or keep my eyes on Gale or Spindle, and hope their oblivion is peaceful and quick.
The moment of oblivion never comes. The explosion is miles away, it feels like, a single bullet leveled at some poor sod in the middle of the warehouse. His body is already kneeling, or maybe it was kneeling before he was shot. I can't tell if my torso was already turned to watch, or if I started turning in response to the noise.
I don't see the moment of impact. I do, however, see the next couple of seconds, where several of the least hardened criminals around the man flinch, jump back, yell, and otherwise express extreme surprise at the sight of one of their own suddenly shuffled off the mortal coil. The eldest, and the most beaten up, among them seem to be under no such illusions. Mr. Polygraph and Mrs. Heartstopper seem totally unfazed, like this is just another dime-a-dozen execution in a warehouse.
The air is filled with a cloud of pink mist. The back of the man's head, tracing a line directly from the almost pretty, circular entry wound on the forehead to the very back of his skull, has exploded open like a flower blooming, petals unfurling. By the time I glance, the splatter has already made a vaguely conical smear of red against the floor of the warehouse. The rest of the material is in greys and off-whites, fragments of bone and brain sprayed out the back. A small chunk of the floor has been carved out by the bullet.
My senses flare up, and I can smell every particle of blood escaping this ex-human. A man wearing a wifebeater and slacks, who had a muscular build with tanned skin from too long in the sun, even as Daylight Savings fast approaches. A man who had a name, goals, aspirations, and who put on pants the same way I do and eats food the same way I do. Maybe he even liked the same food as me. His eyes are rolled up in the back of his head, no longer seeing anything at all. His skin is burnt around the entry wound.
Mr. Polygraph lowers his handgun to the body. It takes less than a fraction of a second for him to fire again, this time through the sternum. This bullet explodes out the back just the same as the first one. The sound of firing is dulled by the ringing of my ears. The padlock snaps open and Safeguard ushers us through before too many boxes are taken away and we lose our ability to hide.
Mr. Polygraph does not make another speech. It's clear to everyone, including us, what just happened. This initiate was tested, and according to Mr. Polygraph's powers, he was found wanting.
My foot crossing the threshold feels like stepping through molasses, each second stretched thin. Once we're all out, Gale eases the door shut behind us. I watch as Safeguard quickly unfolds a paperclip, bending it into a crude but functional shape before jamming it into the keyhole. Will it stop anyone from inside? No, of course not, I picked that much up from one of Safeguard's many attempts at teaching me the craft of lockpicking, but it'll at least make life inconvenient for anyone going outside to the inside.
As we step into the outer rim of the warehouse, the night air hits us with a chilly hug, a big difference from the tense atmosphere inside. This area of the city feels abandoned, hidden in shadows and silence, except for the faint sound of engines in the background, and the last vestiges of trick-or-treaters, now replaced with the racuous calls of drunken revelers. Partygoers. It's like a place frozen in time.
The warehouse stands tall like a sleeping giant, its old walls with peeling paint telling stories from long ago. A fence surrounds it, topped with menacing barbed wire that glimmers under the faint moonlight, a harsh reminder of the line between lawlessness and lawfulness. The fence wraps around, like a metal snake coiling around its prey, creating a secluded space that feels both safe and prison-like.
Beyond the fence, the city lights twinkle in the distance, a world away from the somber scene in front of us. The air carries a smell of metal and damp earth, the kind of scent that lingers in forgotten industrial corners of the city. It's a smell that whispers secrets and hidden things, stories that the city prefers to keep quiet. Small puddles in the concrete and asphalt are filled with oily water, shimmering in the bright lights.
At the back of this fenced-off area, a row of plain white trucks sits quietly, their engines gently purring in the night. Each truck is a ghostly silhouette, softly lit by dim lights. Their back doors are wide open, ready to swallow the night's cargo. The positioning of the trucks shows careful planning, too precise to be accidental. Every single car, belching out their fumes into the evening air, reeking of diesel gasoline, is there to ferry goods.
There's a sense of excitement, like hungry beasts waiting to be fed. Their engines purr.
But for now, there's an odd calmness, the quiet before the chaos. Inside the warehouse, Mr. Polygraph's inspection keeps everyone busy, leaving the outside strangely deserted. It's like a surreal painting, the quiet trucks and the silent warehouse, all watched over by the barbed wire and the distant stars.
Spindle's gesture is sharp and decisive, a silent command that shepherds us towards the front. His confidence in Safeguard's lockpicking skills is infectious, a silent thread of hope that we cling to as we move. The padlock on the gate is sturdy, an old guardian of rust and metal, but to Safeguard, it's just another puzzle waiting to be solved. I watch, holding my breath, as they work the wave rake and turning tool into the lock, their fingers deft and assured. The click of the lock surrendering is a symphony in the stillness of the night. It doesn't even seem to take them any effort.
Our relief is short-lived.
The ground beneath us shifts, a sensation like the earth itself turning to liquid. I stumble, my balance thrown as the concrete gives way to an unexpected transformation. It's like stepping onto a living, moving entity, a surface that shouldn't, couldn't be fluid, yet here we are, trying to find our footing on this churning asphalt sea.
From the shadows, a figure emerges, the asphalt swirling around him like a cloak made of the earth itself. Mudslide. His presence is as much of a surprise as his attire – a tan button-down shirt paired with a black tie and slacks, speaks of a man trying to dress the part of someone more important than just a street-level thug. He still has his brown paper bag mask, but it looks almost professional now, face holes clearly cut with a razor or something else extremely sharp rather than just torn out. I see his eyes, glinting with the shifting light, just past the eyeholes of his mask.
They're blue. Baby blue.
"Really thought you could just waltz out of here, huh?" Mudslide's voice is a rough growl, tinged with the kind of arrogance you'd expect from someone who thinks they've got the upper hand. He saunters closer, the ground shifting with his every step, re-solidifying underneath his freshly shined dress shoes. "Thought there'd be no security around the back? You're not as smart as you look."
His taunt is a clear challenge, but there's an undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice. It's almost as if he's trying to convince himself of his own importance, to assert a control that he's not entirely sure he possesses. The way he moves, with a swagger that's slightly exaggerated, tells me he's still finding his footing in this new role he's carved out for himself.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
As Mudslide approaches, I can't help but muse about his journey. From a petty criminal wearing sweatpants and a tee-shirt to this… whatever this is. It's almost impressive, in a twisted sort of way. The weirdest part of me feels almost proud of him. But there's no time to dwell on Mudslide's fashion choices or career aspirations. We're on a clock, and every second we spend here is a second closer to getting caught. I glance at my teammates, each of us sharing a silent understanding. We need to move, and we need to do it now.
I try to organize the route we took in my head. From the rooftops, down to the side entrance, the one with street access, then across and around the interior perimeter to the corner, then to the nearest exit… we've cut straight across, to the side-back exit. The front doors of the warehouse, those big, big ones like an oversized garage, that would lead us right out into Trenton Avenue, are shut. The opposite street, the one we're facing, lacks cars, more of an alleyway than anything else.
Safeguard's whisper, a mere breath of recognition, hangs in the air between us. "Mudslide." I can feel the weight of that name, heavy with history and danger. Spindle doesn’t hesitate; he's already moving, determination etched into every line of his body. He begins dragging himself out of the muck, a solitary figure inching toward Mudslide.
Spindle's reaction is almost immediate, his decision clear in his movements. He's dragging himself, not away from the danger, but towards it, towards Mudslide. There's a determination in his eyes that's hard to miss. He tugs down his ski mask just enough to bare his lips, head sideways towards us, mouthing "I got this". It's a bold move. Reckless. Admirable. Stupid. He's stepping up, trying to be the hero.
In his hand, almost casually, he reveals to us a can of mace, pulled out from his pants pocket. It's a small gesture but it speaks volumes. He's ready to take on Mudslide, to buy us time. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. He's planning to sacrifice himself to give us a chance to escape. After everything with the Phreaks, this is his moment, his shot at redemption.
My heart lurches. I want to stay, to fight alongside him, but Gale and Safeguard are insistent, pulling me away. There's an urgency in their grip, a silent plea to trust in Spindle's plan. My mind races, torn between the need to escape and the impulse to stand and fight.
Spindle, now facing Mudslide with his torso, neck twisted back, locks eyes with me. His gaze is a steel trap, unyielding and resolute. He shakes his head firmly and points in the direction we need to go. Go. The command is unmistakable, an order that brooks no argument, without a single spoken word.
I’m torn, every fiber of my being screaming to defy him, to rush into the fray. But there's wisdom in his madness; he knows what he's doing. I watch, heart in throat, as he begins his dangerous dance around Mudslide. Gale's wind is at my back, floating under my shirt, trying to generate enough lift to drag Safeguard and I out of the mud.
Mudslide, with that brutish confidence of his, hefts a brick in his meaty hand. But Spindle is a wraith compared to his bulk, a shadow weaving around the edges of the thug's perception. Mudslide's eyes are fixed on Spindle, underestimating him, just like he underestimates everyone else. "That's alright. I'll just rip out each of your teeth with a claw hammer 'til you give up everything. Those three included."
I see it then, the storm drain, barely noticeable in the cowboy-style circling, and I know what Spindle is trying to do. "You'll have to catch me first," Spindle challenges, mace can still palmed, out of sight, ready to be applied to the face.
As we retreat, Gale practically dragging me away to a patch of solid ground, my eyes stay glued to the unfolding scene. Spindle moves with a contortionist's grace, sliding through the muck, his every movement calculated and precise. Mudslide swings a brick, and it comes apart in his hands, spraying into a cloud of red flecks that re-solidify into sharp chunks, a cloud of brick fragments flying through the air with all the momentum that brick carried.
It scatters like shrapnel, and I smell Spindle's blood in the air as we round the corner. The alley swallows us whole, and we emerge on the other side, the sounds of the confrontation fading into a distant, muffled echo. We're safe, for now, but part of me is still back there, with Spindle, in the clutches of Mudslide's asphalt domain.
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Back at the abandoned music hall that serves as our makeshift headquarters, the adrenaline that carried us through our escape begins to ebb away. My legs feel like they're made of something softer than jelly, something that can't even hold itself together. Jordan leads us through the dimly lit corridors, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space, a rhythmic reminder of our harrowing escape.
I can't hold it back anymore. The images are flashing in front of my eyes like a macabre slideshow — Mr. Polygraph's cold efficiency, the way that man's life ended in a burst of brutality. "Garbage can. Paper bag," I manage to choke out, my voice a raspy whisper. I still smell every molecule of blood in the air. I still taste it, sharp and metallic on my tongue. Taste the way that it made my throat flood with saliva. I don't know why my body did that. I have to assume it was preparing for vomit, the way it is now.
Jordan doesn't question it. They rummage through the clutter of their hideout, procuring a small trash bin and a crumpled brown bag. The moment it's in my hands, my stomach revolts, heaving up its contents. The sound of my retching echoes off the walls, a harsh, grating noise that seems far too loud for such a beautiful, ancient building like this. The pressure is firm and unrelenting, up in my chest, right behind my ribs. I'm glad I didn't eat that much today.
Jamila's hands are firm on my shoulders, grounding me. Her touch is a lifeline, tethering me to this plane. The feeling of her hands is both comforting and jarring, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of the scene we've just left. Jordan returns with a bottle of water, their movements careful and measured. They hand it to me without a word, their face a mask of calm that I know is as much for my benefit as it is for their own. I take a few sips, the cool liquid doing little to wash away the taste of bile and fear.
My throat hurts - it itches, from the inside out, in a way that throats aren't supposed to.
We sit in silence for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts. I can't shake the image of that man's death — the way his head burst open, the spray of blood, the smell of iron so strong it almost choked me. I shudder, trying to push the memory away, but it clings to me like a second skin.
Jamila's voice breaks the silence. "Sam, it's okay. You're safe now. We're all safe." Her words are meant to comfort, but they sound hollow to my ears. Safe? We were anything but safe.
Jordan sits down beside me, their presence a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts. "We knew this was dangerous. We knew what we were getting into. But we're doing this for a reason, right? We can't let them win."
I lean into Jamila's embrace, seeking comfort in her warmth, in her steady heartbeat. Around us, the music hall stands silent, and we wait.
As the hours creep by in the abandoned music hall, the weight of the evening's events settles on us like a heavy blanket. The echoes of our adventure become a haunting lullaby, a constant reminder of the night's grim revelation. We're stuck in a waiting game, tension building up like a tightened bowstring, each of us silently praying for any sign of Spindle's safety. But the hours go on, stubborn and unyielding, giving us no relief and no updates.
In the eerie silence of the hall, Jordan tries to bring some normalcy by flipping through an old magazine they found under a pile of dusty stage props. The pages are yellowed and the words seem meaningless. Jamila sits close, occasionally squeezing my hand as a silent gesture of support that feels both comforting and heart-wrenching.
My thoughts are like a stormy sea, each wave crashing against the shores of my mind with relentless force. The casualness of the execution replays in my mind, a never-ending loop of horror that chills me to the bone. I shudder, trying to focus on the present moment, on the faint smell of dust and age in the air, on the moonlight casting ghostly shadows through the broken windows.
Eventually, Jordan stands up and stretches their legs. "I'm gonna run to the convenience store," they announce, trying to sound casual. "Anyone need anything?" It's a small attempt to break the heavy atmosphere, but we appreciate it nonetheless. Jamila asks for gum and I can't think of anything, so I just shake my head. Jordan nods, puts on a hoodie, and disappears into the night.
We try to distract ourselves with small talk, but our conversations feel awkward, the words foreign on our tongues. At some point, Jordan comes back with snacks and drinks, a small gesture that does little to alleviate the heaviness in the air. We eat and drink in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
As the night drags on and turns into the early hours of the morning, our vigil becomes a shared exhaustion. One by one, we remove our ski masks and dark clothes, changing back into our regular attire that brings a sense of comfort. It feels so obviously symbolic, like shedding our alter-egos and returning to some semblance of normalcy that feels increasingly distant. My English teacher would call it "overwrought".
We huddle together on the couch, a pile of weary bodies seeking solace and warmth. Jamila's arm is around me, providing a steady comfort. Jordan sits beside us, their eyes staring off into the distance, lost in thoughts I can't begin to understand. Jordan's besocked feet rest in Jamila's lap, and although I expect the snap to come, it never happens. Neither of them had much interest in bickering with the other since getting back from the warehouse. Exhaustion laps at us like waves on the shore. Sleep beckons. It doesn't come.