Four
FOUR
Rats scurried back and forth in the alleyway, scratching angrily at the rubbish strewn in the gutter. A tramp lay in stoned bliss atop a tarpaulin covered wheelie bin, snoring away the cold day in an old, stained anorak. A faint tinkling sound awoke him. As he stirred he heard a far-off scream; one of the hazards of urban living. He closed his eyes as the heroin and the cold began to take him once more and drifted back toward the light.
The explosion of flesh showering from the shattered corpse therefore came as somewhat of a surprise. This time he opened his eyes into a red hell, a gory nightmare in glorious Technicolor reality splattered across his face. The fat guy’s body had hit the sharp metal corner of the wheelie bin at terminal velocity; the tramp tasted blood in his mouth. He rolled from his gore-soaked bed and lay retching over the splintered body. He didn’t see the shadowy figure peering down on the grotesque scene from high above as he rifled the dead man’s pockets; no wallet. As he walked away from the elephantine carcass, he gave it a kick. No sympathy from the living dead.
Bruce backed away from the shattered window; jagged shards hung lethally from the frame. He became aware of something sticky in his good hand. It was Jimmy’s wallet, nestled in his crimson-soaked palm, slick with warm blood. It was plump, overflowing black leather, rough around the edges. The intercom sounded on the desk, bringing him back into the moment.
“Mr Masters, is everything OK in there? I see Porky Pig is on holiday again... Jimmy?”
The secretary sounded frantic; the Looney Tunes bit must be some kind of code for “the alarm’s been triggered”. Bruce slipped Jimmy’s wallet into his inner jacket pocket as hammerings came from upon the door. Now was the time to make good his escape. He addressed the door in the manner of a cartoon pig.
“That’s all, folks!”
Bruce took a moment to take stock. He couldn’t go out the window; there was no ledge like in the movies. The door was obviously a no-go. However, above the doorway to the room was a wide, chrome ventilation duct protruding through the white polystyrene ceiling tiles. Evidently Jimmy had sunk the ceiling decoration cash into the fancy Wurlitzer. He reached for the vent; he was miles away. He jumped and tried to catch the mesh. No dice. The lock and hinges began to creak beneath the weight of the balding security team. It wouldn’t hold much longer. Bruce thanked Jimmy for not skimping on the door, the poor, dead, guilty bastard.
He dropped his head and heaved at the extravagant marble desk with his good arm; it didn’t budge an inch. He pushed again; nothing. He pictured Jimmy’s smug chubby chops, mocking him roundly from beyond the grave; that sick prick! He channelled the welling fury into a mighty blow with his bionic arm. The desk slid back several inches. He hit it again and again frenziedly until the hefty marble lay horizontally across the inward opening doors, flush against the painted wood. He stopped to catch his breath; a siren sounded from the street storeys below, rushing in through the shattered window with the wind. A key rattled in the lock; it was now, or never.
Bruce stepped up onto the desk; the duct now within his grasp. The door shook angrily behind him voices as the security team struggled with the lock. The mesh covering the vent was sturdy, a hexagonal metal grid around half an inch thick. He gripped it in his prosthetic fingers and squeezed; the steel came apart like plasticine. He made short work of it, ripping the crumpled latticework apart and casting it aside. He pulled himself up past the lip, pivoting on his bionic elbow into the comforting cold confines of the vent and lay still, exhausted by the effort.
He heard the door below him nearly give, and then finally surrender to the small army of angry shaven-headed guards that had gathered in the hall. They stomped angrily around the room, making phone calls, reporting his deeds to unknown parties. They sounded as though they were enjoying themselves. After a few minutes, the voices disappeared back out into the waiting area. Time to make good his getaway
Bruce turned onto his belly, careful not to make a sound, and slithered his way deep into the buildings infrastructure, pulling himself forwards with his arms. His good hand was freezing.;you never heard John McClane crying about that type of shit though. Wild fantasies ran through his mind as he crawled; of being chased by an army of snakes through the belly of their mother, of being stuck in the veins of a steel giant. Coldness began to take him and he felt himself melt into the metal. The darkness enveloped him, and the distant sirens grew silent at last.