Cheap Thrills (6 Thrilling reads) (44 page)

Fifty Six

The year 2006: SIX YEARS BEFORE BOARDING THE TRAIN

Mrs Gardener stands on her suburban porch watching traffic go by. It’s a delightful evening and colours jump out of the sky. The stars shine brighter tonight than ever. The air seems cleaner, too, and people passing say hello.

She’s always gotten along with her neighbours, but suburbia has taken its toll on how she sees most people. People change when receiving bonuses on their already meaty cheques. Mrs Gardener enjoys the good things in life too, but sees the luxuries other people want as burdens. She enjoys good wine and good people. She also enjoys looking after kids and gets tremendous satisfaction from cooking Thanksgiving dinner for her mom and dad. Yet she sees herself as a shadow of what she wants to be.

A car horn on the street jars her back to reality and she shakes her head in disappointment.  Two men shout at each other a few hundred yards down the street. They scream obscene words at each other and holdup traffic.

She goes into the house and admires the view from her pristine living room. She glances at the clock on her wall and starts to strip down to her French underwear. Her body is immaculately well-kept as if she goes to the gym regularly.

Her doorbell rings and she opens the door wide, sees her visitor’s face and  pulls him into the house, closing the door behind him. She pushes him against the door and starts kissing his neck.

‘Hello, Mrs Gardener.,’ She looks up at him, smiling.

‘Hello, Jason.’

Fifty Seven

The long crawl through the air ducts is cramped and hot.  Sweat drips down Fredrick’s forehead and he turns around to Nathan, who is a mere few feet behind him.

‘How can an AC air duct be so damn hot?’ he whispers.

Nathan laughs and taps Fredrick’s leg.

‘It’s okay, man. Let’s keep going. We need to get out of here.’

‘Why are you touching me? I told you, star, I’m no batty boy’

Nathan stops crawling.  ‘I told you, I don’t know what that means. I’m assuming you think I’m gay.  Well, sorry to disappoint you, I’m not a ‘batty boy.’ Call me that one more time and I’ll kick your ass!’

‘You crazy or something? You want to fight the man who is saving you in an air duct? You crazy white boy.’

‘Racism is not the answer, Fredrick. Have I called you a black boy?’

Fredrick shakes his head. ‘If you did I’d cave your face in bombaclart’

Nathan hears voices below them and signals Fredrick. ‘Be quiet. There’s someone below us.’

‘No shit. There’s a whole bunch of people below us. Guards, hostages, guns and explosives.’ Nathan and Fredrick crawl a few more minutes. They come to a T Junction.

‘Which way? Fredrick asks.

‘How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who came through here.’

‘I know, star, but it’s different on the way out.’

‘They did not change the damn air duct layout in a day.’

‘I’m going the opposite way, aren’t I? You stupid or something?’

‘That’s how backward and forward works!’

Fredrick pushes Nathan back a few feet. Nathan pushes back and Fredrick swings in the cramped space. Nathan ducks and the punch lands firmly on the metal air duct, rattling the structure with a humongous clang.

The floor beneath them collapses and both men fall into a room, landing hard on the concrete flooring.

Dazed, they look at each other as they sit up.

A massive hole marks where they were crawling in a few seconds ago.  Fredrick grabs his arm, clutching it in pain.

‘Are you alright, Fredrick?’

Fredrick gasps for air as he’s hit in the back of the head with an AK47. His head snaps back and hits the floor with a bloody thud.

Nathan jumps and turns to see a barrage of armed guards taking aim at him. Behind them, Connor Chase holds his trademark gun.

‘Glad you could join us, Nathan. You gave me a scare. I was worried you left without saying goodbye.’

Fifty Eight

Frank picks the padlock with a hair clip and looks to make sure no one is in the vicinity. He hears the clip snap in the lock.

‘Shit.’

Frank takes a few steps back and notices a nearby lay-by where cars are passing at high speeds. He watches headlights coming down the lay-by to his right. A chain link fence separates him from the road. Frank ducks to avoid the beam of light and the car sweeps by with a whoosh. Frank peeks over the fence and sees no oncoming traffic. He walks to the nearby door again and draws his weapon. He fires a shot into the padlock. It snaps at the force of the bullet. He smiles. ‘That should do it.’

He removes the buckled padlock, throws it on the floor and opens the rusty door to the warehouse. The room is pitch-dark and he manoeuvres himself in, feeling the wall for a light switch.

He finds it and flicks the switch. Light fills the room, hits his eyes and blinds him momentarily. His vision goes red while his eyes adjust. Then they light up with joy when he can see. A mass of weapons and a stockpile of ammo reach up to the ceiling in front of him.

He walks to the assortment of heavy weapons and picks up a bolt action Remington MSR sniper rifle. He cocks the bolt back and pumps out a .338 Calibre bullet. It lands on the stone floor of the warehouse and the everlasting echo pierces the night. The smoke coming from the side of the rifle plumes into the air as Frank cocks the bolt back one more time for good measure. He enjoys the sound of the projectile hitting the floor as he takes aim with the MSR; he scopes into the far distance of the warehouse. He aims down the sights, four hundred meters; he flicks the laser sights on and takes a deep breath, his finger hovering over the trigger, twitching with excitement.

Fifty Nine

‘Okay men, this is it. We are going to sweep downtown Boston. I’m splitting you up into teams of ten. In total, there will be ten teams. Each team will take an assigned block. In the next hour, a ten truck convoy will arrive in downtown Boston. Each team will have a point man. I will call out the team’s assignments in a minute. Each of you will have a number on your shoulder; that number corresponds with your team. The point men for each team will be....’

Chief Shaw announces the point men in a random order. ‘...team eight will be led by officer Santiago. Team nine will be led by Officer Phillips. Finally, team ten will be led by Officer Mullins.’

Mullins steps forward and joins the point men in formation.

Each man steps forward and turns around, forming a line across the width of the car park, facing the on looking officers. Shaw steps in front of the selected point men, he paces up and down, looking on at the remaining men.

‘Okay, team leaders, disperse to the convoy area and line up next to your numbered truck. Your team will join you as they select their numbers. I’ll come and brief each one of you in the next thirty minutes.’

Mullins walks up to the number ten truck and looks at the other men leaning against their trucks. Truck number nine’s point man nods in acknowledgement. Mullins nods back.

He takes a deep breath in and swallows hard.
Something just doesn’t feel right,
he thinks to himself.

Sixty

Sandra Austin pushes the hot water button on the vending machine. Water spills out of the plastic nozzle into a polystyrene cup. She hits the cappuccino button and the machine hums; sputters and delivers powdered coffee into the cup. She grabs the steaming beverage out from under the dripping nozzle and takes a sip. Her camera man laughs at the face she makes.

‘Tastes like shit right?’ he asks.

Sandra nods. ‘What the hell are we doing down here?’ her companion asks. ‘It’s a damn train station.  Nothing newsworthy is happening here unless you count lousy coffee and train delays.’ Sandra takes another long sip of coffee. ‘I don’t know Mike. Just point the camera in my direction and leave the questions to me.’

Mike puts the camera on his shoulder and points it in Sandra’s direction, focusing in on her bust.

‘Stop being immature, Mike. And save space on the hard-drive. We don’t know how long we‘re going to be here, do we?’

Mike reluctantly puts the camera back on its tripod overlooking the tracks. ‘Why do you think Bob asked us to set up on this platform specifically?’ ‘It could be one of many reasons. Maybe someone famous or of importance is going to disembark here.’

Sandra and Mike stare down the tracks in anticipation of the train’s arrival.

Sixty One

Frank stocks up on ammo and weapons in the warehouse. He has the MSR rifle slung across his back and two 9mm’s hoisted on his belt. He grabs a twelve inch army knife from a box on a shelf above him and spots a box next to it that says, “EXPLOSIVES.”.  He grabs the box and settles it on top of a stack of crates at his chest level.

He is unsuccessful at prying the box open and looks around for something to help him. A crowbar rests near his feet. He grabs it and splits the explosives box open, revealing frag grenades. He attaches three to his belt, using the clips in the box. He closes the box and puts it back on the shelf.

He sees black face paint on the shelf and takes the round shoe polish-like tin and applies it to his face and arms. He rips the shredded sleeves from his tatted shirt and pastes his arms in the paint. It masks the dried blood.

Pain suddenly drops him to his knees. He grabs his head, his finger nails dig deep into his skin, scratching like a cat at a scratching post. Using the crates to steady himself, he drags himself to his feet. The voices in his head thump at his conscious and he relives the day’s events: the killing of Tasha, the bloodshed and brutal killing in the hallway, the massacre at Connor Chase’s home.

He falls again, shaking with pain. His head hits a puddle of water on the floor and he chokes. Trying to lift his head to draw breath, he feels as if someone is holding him down, drowning him.

A blow forces him straight back down into the puddle. He cuts his eyebrow, blood trickles out and the taste of copper fills his mouth.

He gasps for air and screams, igniting bubbles in the puddle. He pushes one last time and manages to free himself from the unworldly grip. He bursts from the water, soaking wet as he looks around the dingy warehouse. No one is in sight.

He staggers to his feet and breaths deeply. His breath is visible in the air, like breathing in a freezer. He looks around and sees nothing out of the ordinary. He sees his reflection in the puddle. A blood droplet falls from his check and lands in water, rippling it with a tint of red. Returning to the shelves, he grabs another gun and pulls the hammer back.  He aims down the sight and strafes from left to right, sweeping the dark warehouse.

He moves deeper into the seemingly empty building and finds a section near the entrance. A noise like a pin drop, a noise acutely familiar to Frank, the sound of a shell casing hitting the floor makes him duck behind a massive pylon. The light switch is just above his head. He hits it, and the lights go off. He hears the crash of someone knocking into something.

‘Damn it.’ a voice says quietly.

Frank turns on the torch in his left hand. His gun is in his right. He spots someone slowly moving away from an overturned trash can. Frank squeezes the hand grip of his gun tightly and approaches the oblivious intruder. A foot away, he cocks the gun for effect and places the cold barrel of the weapon on the back of the person’s neck. The shadowy figure stops dead in his tracks. ‘Freeze dirt bag!’ he demands

‘Frank?’ the man’s voice asks.

Frank shines the torch in the intruder’s face. ‘Eddie?’ He stares at the DA. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I was going to ask you the same question, Frank.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Eddie, but I’m not taking questions at this time.’

Sixty Two

The year 2006: SIX YEARS BEFORE BOARDING THE TRAIN

Flowers decorate the entrance of the Boston High school campus. Students stand in solemn silence as people lay more flowers and ribbons on the campus lawn. Media and news crew’s bespeckle the landscape. Sandra Austin stands just in front of the school’s Football team sign. Mike signals her a five finger countdown:
Five, Four, Three, Two, One.

‘High school teacher Maggie Gardener was found brutally murdered in her home last night. Neighbours complained of a ruckus in the early hours of the morning. The Boston PD responded and found her front door unlocked and open. At the horrific scene, blood was found in nearly every room of the home and Mrs Gardener was found in her bed, brutally beaten. Pronounced dead at the scene, the police have just informed us that the cause of Gardener’s death was asphyxiation. They suspect the woman was raped after her death and at this time, they have no leads or suspects. Mrs Gardener will be missed by many. As you can see behind me, students and faculty members are paying their respects and over seven hundred bouquets and memorabilia have been delivered by hand. The principal’s only comment was “This is a troubling time for us all, I would rather not comment on such a heinous crime. I will let the teachers and students speak for themselves.”’

‘It’s obviously a sad day here in Boston; Maggie Gardener won many awards throughout her career and was considered one of the country’s best. Her standard on teaching will be missed.

This is Sandra Austin, reporting live from Boston High.’