Behind the Fire: A Dark Thriller (18 page)

A crazy kick thwacked in his mind like a detonator releasing an explosion in his synapses, and he was on the woman. She couldn’t escape. That wouldn’t do for the mission if she alerted the patrons. He couldn’t have that. He didn’t know why. He just knew.

The speed of his forward movement gave him momentum, as he firmed his grasp about the handle and swung the axe behind his shoulder.

Striking distance was three feet, and it was all in the timing.

The woman had expected to only fetch a table’s order; fried calamari and chicken pesto pasta, now lying at her feet. It was in her eyes. The revelation had arrived. She should have run, but she’d wasted time evaluating, thinking 
this can’t be real
, thinking 
this is some kind of joke
. Her hands flew to her face, instinctive and pointless.

As Toby swung it was as though his cognizance slipped outside his body. He saw where he was, saw her, and recognized he had no reason for this, no reason to take another step or do another thing, except put down the axe and run back out the door, leaving these people to their evening and their lives.

Then the thought was gone like a car fishtailing down a street, glancing off parked cars before careening away, without leaving a note—it’s not 
their
 responsibility.

It’s not his responsibility.

Toby let go of everything that 
was
 him, everything except the arc of the axe as it swung from behind his shoulder and the swish of air sliced like it was a solid thing.

The blade landed square in the woman’s chest, the sound like the thick thud made when a basketball slaps against a wall. The axe stayed there, wedged, as though in a block of wood. She looked down at her front like she’d spilled coffee that could be wiped away with a cloth.

Add some soda to that and it’ll be good as new, sweetheart.

Blood, rich and red, sprayed out at crazy angles. Some landed on him, thick and warm. Blood streamed down her body and legs, to run to the floor and begin to pool. The woman looked up at him again, before collapsing, her life gone.

The axe came away easily, her fall’s momentum loosening it, so it required only a tug on the handle to retrieve. Back, in his control, resting between his legs, he gripped his weapon with both hands like it was a macabre walking stick.

Toby turned his head toward Fryer Guy, who still held the handgrip of the metal basket like it would be his salvation. Toby’s neck stiffened. A sudden dull throb made itself known. 
A muscle pulled when he swung the axe?

He stretched his neck, twisting it sideways, left, toward his shoulder and then to the right.

“What the fuck, man?” said Fryer Guy, taking a step toward Toby, then moving like a world-class athlete, hurling the basket toward him. The metal container only made it halfway, landing between them; the smell of oil and half-fried chips bloomed in the air.

The woman’s body lay crumpled to the left of the dining room doorway. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as though examining a mark up there as her sprawled corpse blocked that avenue of escape. Fryer Guy appeared reluctant to pass near her, perhaps fearing he’d slip on the blood—there was a lot of it now. The only other exit was through the door Toby had entered. That meant moving by him, the intruder. A lost look crossed over Fryer Guy’s face as he scanned the room, and probably realized there were only bad options.

Toby, also, calculated his next move.

A metal island stood in the center of the room, and it would be five strides to Skinny Kid round the right or three to the left to Fryer Guy.

He trusted his instinct. 
Straight and true.
 The phrase, embedded in his head, powered every command, the words like background music to his thoughts.

Skinny Kid cowered by the sink, barely breathing, his hands gripped together as though in prayer, his knuckles white and curled like mini rocks. Not a word or a cry had passed the kid’s lips since Toby’s entrance.

He would be easy.

The bulk of Fryer Guy made him more of a threat; he appeared more aggressive, more of an adversary ready to fight, as he stretched to his full height, his chest expanding as he drew in deep, readying breaths.

Fryer Guy had worked it out, weighed up his options. Trapped, yes, but not going down without a fight. Maybe he thought he could win. How could he believe anything else? What creature does when facing death?

Toby saw the thoughts in his eyes. 
If he could throw this intruder off balance just for a second, he might have a chance. Too bad for Skinny Kid—he was on his own. When death visits, it’s every man for himself.

Fryer Guy lunged for a knife on the counter. A good size blade, too—a blade used for dicing carrots and onions the way cooks do, with machine-like fingers. An axe wasn’t made for chopping onions. No, it was destined for greater things. It’s blade came with a weight of conviction you just don’t get with a knife.

Fryer Guy didn’t understand this.

“You motherfucker,” Fryer Guy screamed, lunging toward Toby, the knife held high as though he were flying a kite. Toby was ready, his thinking clear, as though he was an automaton with only one function. He sidestepped the spilled oil, moving with grace and instinct—and purpose. Purpose is a powerful thing.

Straight and true.

Toby swept sideways, swinging from waist height, instead of bringing the axe across his shoulder. Fryer Guy wasn’t expecting that. The blade caught him in the gut—really more of a paunch—before he’d even come close with the knife. Wounded, he waved the knife in the air for the seconds it took him to glance to his waist, to see the parting of the muscles and skin, now incapable of holding his life within. Released, internal organs gushed out to mingle with the oil and the chips. Blood 
is
 thicker than oil—they don’t mix. The evidence lay on the wet, red soaked floor.

Toby swung the axe again as though felling a tree; this time the blade connected with his adversary’s neck. That did it grand. The knife dropped from Fryer Guy’s hand and bounced on the floor before disappearing beneath the cooker and grill. Seconds later, his victim joined his knife to marinate in the blood and oil.

Gurgling sounds filled the room, as Fryer Guy’s mouth opened and closed as though he had words to speak but just couldn’t find them. Then he grew still, just his feet and hands twitching a flicker. A few jerks and he was done.

Toby took a moment to stand over the man and look at his handiwork.

Straight and true, my friend. Straight and true.

“That’s better, now, isn’t it?” he wanted to say, but he couldn’t speak the words. The voice in his head wanted him moving. So move he must.

Two down, one to go.

Slowly he looked up, tilting his head left then right. Toby scanned the room, his attention now focused on Skinny Kid. He stepped over the body of the felled man that he’d never met before this night.

No matter who, no matter what, you keep on going
, so said the voice.

He wandered toward the boy, sitting slumped on the floor, his face pressed against the metal cabinet that held plates and utensils he’d never wash again. Five paces and Toby was over him, staring down at the cowering adolescent. The boy’s hands were above his head, flattened against his skull, as though they offered some kind of protection.

A pain blossomed in Toby’s head like a vice clamped round his brain. With each breath, it squeezed tighter, the ache growing sharper. The pure agony stopped him; halted his movement. He needed to readjust. He needed to fight past it.

Skinny Kid, perhaps sensing Toby’s hesitancy, turned his head to look up, his body shaking as though the temperature of the room had dropped to a minus ten wind chill factor.

“Ple. Plee— pleeease.”

Please won’t help him.

Today was the day, and Toby was here to deliver a message to change the world. If only he knew the full message, maybe he’d deliver a meaningful speech, but he didn’t get that memo. He still couldn’t truly remember why he was here. All he knew: he was exactly where he was meant to be.

There was no hesitation as he swung the axe, because actions spoke louder than words.

 

TOBY BENSON PAUSED AT THE alley’s entrance to hoist the ungainly blue sports bag higher on his shoulder. Traveling here, the awkward, precious cargo had caused the bag to slip down his arm, forcing him to stop several times to rebalance the weight.

He stared up the dark corridor of gray shadows and fractured shapes, the towering buildings only allowing the barest slip of light to enter from the full moon overhead. Wall lights hung above the back entrances to the establishments illuminating a collection of trash containers, sentinels to the doors. A perfect location to film a horror movie; just add haunting music and the audience would be clued something terrifying was about to happen.

Toby didn’t notice these things. Somewhere deep inside, perhaps, he registered them on a subconscious level, understood he should be afraid or this wasn’t the place for him. If he did, though, the thought didn’t make it through to that part of his brain controlled by self-preservation.

He saw nothing except a strange mist settled over his vision like a swirling film on the surface of a pond. He heard nothing except the voice in his head, which he imagined came from God, spoken with such authority he couldn’t resist. The voice knew him, wanted to help him and guide him toward his destiny.

At the end of the brick corridor a doorway lay, guarded on either side by two tall commercial waste containers. Pieces of trash dotted about their bases as though rejected competitors that hadn’t made the cut—scattered bottles, empty cardboard fast-food containers, plastic bags, paper, and even what looked like a woman’s shirt. Wasteful. Thoughtless. Humanity’s flotsam discarded to become someone else’s problem.

Human beings were filthy creatures.

He noted the fleeting thought, but decided it was unimportant and unrelated to his future. To the mission.

The back door glowed a fluorescent green as though it were showing him the perfect entry. A signal he was on the right path.

Green meant go to him, but he didn’t fully understand why.

On the opposite side of the building would be the front door to Café Amaretto. Toby knew this area well, the entertainment section of the city, populated with myriad restaurants and clubs, ranging from small cafés to silver service establishments.

As he neared the doorway, the green intensified, the light piercing his eyes, making his brain feel as though it were pulsing. The alley, which had been dark upon his entry, now appeared bathed in green. This radiance, like colored breadcrumbs, gave him assurance this was his mission path.

This way. This is for you.

He’d followed the markers for the past hour, and they’d led him here. A streetlight, a car, a crosswalk sign—they were all just like the door. At first they would shimmer softly with a gentle hum of color against the darkness of night, then intensify as he neared, so he never doubted his path.

The voice buzzed again in his brain. He stopped and listened, tilting his head to the left, then the right, stretching his neck. The sound of his joints cracking like a sharp snap, felt like a mini-explosion in his skull.

Then he was moving again. The voice wanted him inside that door. 
He
 wanted to be inside that door.

Ten more steps and he would be inside and then—

Wait.

Toby stopped, his feet felt suddenly magnetized to the ground. He stared at the door a few steps away. Inside the door lay his future, the rest of his life, the thing he was born to do, an act to change the world. 
So said the voice.

Doubts slipped into his mind, a million ideas and images circling simultaneously as the gray film covering his eyes disappeared.

Why did it matter? Why was he really here?

An urgent idea swept over him. He should be home asleep, or watching television, his girlfriend snuggled against him.

The word 
desperate
 hung before his eyes, ferociously demanding his attention, with the same fierceness the door beckoned. He 
should
 be home. Not here. Not in this alley. Not ten steps from that door.

Toby wanted to turn and walk away. His legs wouldn’t move, wouldn’t allow him control. His desire to move forward greater than his desire to back away and abort the mission.

Mission?

Where did that come from?

He didn’t go on 
missions.
 He went to work. He came home. He made plans for the weekend. Plans for dinner. Plans for the future. He thought about his past, only twenty-seven years in the making. He didn’t walk down dark alleys. Not like this.

Toby began to turn, to walk away, but the sight of the door caught him. The deep green flashing: 
Enter me. Enter me, now!

He did want to enter. 
Yes.
 Be inside, on the other side of the door. The need, strong, intoxicating, overpowering him like a drug. The thought wended through his synapses, drilling into his subconscious until thoughts of his girlfriend and his life disappeared, until it became him and the door, and the thing stowed inside his bag.