Behind the Fire: A Dark Thriller (19 page)

Ten steps, he now took, the sound of his boots echoing in the hollow of the alley, the reverberations, earthquake loud in his skull. All doubts evaporated, his steps, the sound of destiny as he approached the door.

He shrugged his shoulders and stretched a hand across his chest to yank the bag from his shoulder, allowing it to drop to the ground at his feet. Bending to it, he pulled back the zipper and reached inside, his hand electrified as he found the prize he sought.

Toby drew the axe up, the smooth weight soothing to his palm, his skin melding with the wood as though an extension of his body. This axe had served him well. Last autumn, when he’d removed the tree whose roots insisted on invading the front pathway, its blade swung true and straight. Now it would serve another purpose. Just as true. Just as straight.

He reached for the door’s metal handle. As he turned the knob, he felt the click of the enabled lock resisting him. He took two steps back, examining the impediment. The gray film swimming before his eyes had returned, blurring his vision. Still he saw what needed to be done.

It would take two hands. He knew this from chopping the tree. He moved his left hand to the axe and swung the weighty and powerful tool over his shoulder. Then back at the door. As the blade slammed just left of the handle, the crack of splitting wood sounded sharp and loud.

A fracture appeared in the door, jagged splinters protruding from the dull, white surface.

Again.

He repeated the action, this time swinging with even more conviction. This time his aim was true. The blade sliced through the wood, hitting the internal lock. The door instantly sprang open as if relieved to be free of constraint.

Toby shifted the axe to his left hand and reached down to pull open the door. Coming from behind the entry, he heard voices and the sound of shattering plates and glasses.

The light from within spilled out, enveloping him in a pool of brilliance. He blinked rapidly, momentarily blinded, the light painfully piercing his eyes. Then, as though an automatic recalibration was made, he could see again.

Inside lay a small kitchen, fifteen feet by ten feet wide. Two men, dressed in t-shirts and jeans, wearing white aprons from chest to knees, stood staring at him. To the side, a ponytailed woman, wearing a white shirt and black skirt, covered her mouth with her hands. At her feet lay the shattered mess of an unserved meal and drinks.

Toby looked toward the men, then to the woman. Behind her, he noted another door. The door to Amaretto Café’s dining area filled with patrons enjoying a meal; laughing, drinking, eating, never thinking in the next five minutes their destiny would change. Soon something would enter their lives and they would be part of changing the world. Part of the message.

Those who survived.

“What the hell?” The speaker was a burly man with a carefully groomed three-day beard and blue bandanna tied about his head. His hand clasped a fryer basket submerged in bubbling oil. He hadn’t moved, still standing in the same position since Toby had entered. His eyes were as white as the dinner plates laying on the counter.

“Listen, buddy, we don’t want no trouble. Whatever you’re thinking, we just don’t—”

The third person in the kitchen, a scruffy teenager, skinny, with a pimple-peppered face, stepped back toward the sink. Dishes and pans overflowed the suds as though the sink was some kind of birthing incubator.

The three smelled of fear and confusion, vulnerable human beings now part of something they’d only imagined in nightmares. They didn’t understand. This was a good thing. Soon they’d see. Just like Toby, who didn’t fully understand, but still knew what needed to be done. Thanks to the voice, he was getting the picture, slide by slide, word by word, command by command.

Take the axe.

The voice was inside his mind, commanding his body. He sensed it wasn’t his own thoughts, but he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t need direction on what to do with the axe, so hefty in his hand. He’d never done this before, never seen it done before, yet he knew. He knew to move fast. In seconds, they’d rally. It’d be the waitress, who decided to move, to leave the other two. It was in her eyes, the realization she couldn’t help them. She could only help herself.

She wasn’t quick enough—not for Toby on his mission.

Move quickly forward. Eight, maybe nine steps, is all. Swing now.

Toby accepted the commands firing in his brain, pulled back the gate inside his mind, the guard of all things sane, and allowed the impulses to travel from his head to his body. His arm twitched as the energy flowed through his being, down his arms and his legs, through his hands and his feet. Blue ice travelling at light speed.

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.

 

WHEN KENDALL FIRST READ THE bolded heading on the “Breaking News” web page, she gasped. When she’d prayed for interesting news, she didn’t mean anything like this.