Running down the corridor, I had a hard time distinguishing between the pounding coming from the metal box I was pushing and the thumping of my heart as it attempted to beat its way out of my chest. Before long I came upon a set of hospital-style double doors, and I allowed the metal box to slam into them at speed, and-
I felt a flash of agony in the whereabouts of my hip, and the world spun around me crazily for a half-second or so, at which point I discovered I was lying on the floor, doubled over in pain. Eyes watering slightly, I managed a quick look around me, and very quickly pieced together what had happened.
Only the left door had been left unlocked... the door on the right was still locked in place.
Thump! Thump!
Right.
I quickly got to my feet and hobbled over to the doors, located the lock mechanisms for the door on the right, pulled the latches at top and bottom into the unlocked position, then limped back around to the noisy metal box and heaved against it. Both doors parted gently to give way this time, and I picked up the pace. The pain from my injury was already beginning to recede, but I could sense I wasn't moving at the same speed I had been before.
Goddamned locked doors....
It only took a handful of seconds for me to fly down the last twenty feet or so of hallway and through the open doors leading to the very warm room at the very back of the building, the one housing the crematorium. Upon entering I had to grab the gurney and lean back, my boots sliding against the concrete floor in an attempt to arrest its forward momentum. For a moment I was afraid that Stevie's prison would slide off the top of the gurney and fall to the floor, but the welded metal box managed to stay in place.
Its ability to stay together was a whole different story....
The top of the box now resembled a rounded metal boulder whose surface was composed of frighteningly large outward dents, some of them bearing what appeared to be knuckle imprints. The sides were starting to bow outward as well, causing the rectangular box to become warped and slightly misshapen. There was another rage-laced grunt of effort followed by a tremendous thump, and yet another bulge appeared on the metal surface before me.
My eyes strayed to the locks, and then to the welds that held the box together. Most seemed to be holding up fairly well, but one seam at the top had come apart slightly and produced a crack running along the corner, one that was almost a half-inch wide and a few inches long. Though I could now hear Stevie's furious grunts of effort better through the slight gap he'd exposed, it appeared he hadn't noticed it yet, else he would probably have switched gears and focused on attacking the weak spot to make it wider.
My mind raced through all of the factors I now had to consider. I was hurt, and I didn't know how bad it was, but it might affect things like lifting and pushing. In the original plan I had assumed that the box would be sufficient to contain Stevie, which would give me lots of time to load both it and him into the incinerator in an orderly fashion. Trying to tackle this sort of weight in a hurry was a different matter altogether, especially with nobody around to help.
The guy on the roof, maybe? The one I was using as bait? Could I go and get him, bring him down here and get him to help?
Thump!
No, that wasn't an option either. By the time I made it up to the rooftop, convinced him to come down with me and then got back here Stevie might be loose.
Thump! The crack in the weld widened a little.
Okay, there was no 'might' about it... Stevie was going to be breaking out of his reinforced metal prison, and soon.
Time to give it the old college try. Not that I ever went to college, of course.
I rolled the gurney up to the front of the incinerator, next to what looked like an industrial-style bench with rollers built into the top, the kind that allowed heavy loads to be slid along its length with relative ease, sort of like an unpowered conveyor belt. Once I got him onto that all I'd need to do is line him up and push him in.
Thump! Another fist-shaped bulge appeared in one of the side panels, bowing the metal further.
And making the box slightly wider than it had been a few seconds ago as well....
Shit. Not only was the box looking to be in terrible shape structure-wise, but it was also now a little bit malformed and bulging at the sides. With the number of dents Stevie was putting into his walls in his effort to escape, he'd managed to changed the dimensions of the box itself slightly. Would it even fit into the incinerator?
I quickly backed up to have a look, crouching down and assessing the widest part of the misshapen box and then comparing the width I judged it to be against how wide the mouth of the incinerator was. It didn't look good. If it did fit now it'd be close, and if I was going to try this I realized I'd better do it before Stevie made his box any wider with his repeated punching.
There was a canvas smock hanging from a nearby hook, and I grabbed it and began hurriedly folding it in halves. Once the wad of fabric was about the size of a magazine I held it up against my right shoulder with my left hand and considered the metal box.
Thump! "Mother fucker!" The crack was large enough that I could now make out his words.
Here went nothing....
I took two steps back, took a quick breath, and then tore forward and slammed my padded shoulder into a flat section of the box nearest the top corner. Then I stood back and inspected my work. The whole thing had moved maybe three or four inches, I noted.
My second attempt managed to move the box another few inches off the gurney, and one of its corners now appeared to be directly over the roller table. I also noticed that my shoulder was telling me it no longer wished to do this sort of thing again.
Ignoring my shoulder, I rammed into the thing a third time with a loud yell, one that mixed with Stevie's own furious cry. This time, from what I'm guessing happened, I managed to time my collision with the metal box almost perfectly. Stevie's punch upwards coincided with my shoulder connecting with the side of the box, and when it shuddered with his powerful blow I didn't have quite as much friction or inertia to overcome. This time the thing moved almost an entire foot, with part of it now clearly resting on the rollers.
There might be hope after all.
Thump!
But I'd still have to hurry....
Stevie began to yell something vaguely threatening at me, and though I couldn't precisely make it out it certainly didn't sound all that good. I moved around to the other side of the box, pressed my left shoulder up to it and gave it a shove. Maybe an inch. Transferring the smock into my right hand and pressing it to my left shoulder, I backed up and then leaped forward, ramming my left shoulder into the side of the box, moving it a few more inches onto the rollers. My second flying leap with my left hurt actually hurt quite a bit, even with the padding, and barely moved the metal structure a single inch.
My third one didn't move it at all... I was practically bounced off of it as though I were hitting a wall.
Cursing in French, I ran around to one side to see what the problem was, and then dropped to a crouch so I could inspect what little space existed between the gurney and the roller table.
The welded seam at the bottom was giving out, splitting open, and the lip at the bottom was curving down slightly. It was now extended about a half-inch lower than the top of the rollers, and wedged right next to it, stuck.
Gritting my teeth, I growled a word that rhymes with 'stuck'.
A groan of effort came from the box rather than the usual sharp exclamation, and it was joined a second later by a groaning of another sort... the sound of weakened and distressed metal slowly being convinced to give way. He'd taken to pushing rather than punching now, probably with his legs.
I stood back a pace, then realized I was running my fingers through my hair, a nervous gesture I hardly ever used. Why? Because generally speaking I don't end up in situations where I have the opportunity to get nervous. But yeah, right now... I was very nervous.
"When I get out of here-" Stevie began, sounding much louder now that the seam had been opened up further.
"Shut up! I'm thinking," I shouted back, both hands pressed against my temples as my mind raced through my options. None of them were very good, I realized.
After a brief pause I heard another herculean groan of effort coming from inside the box. There was a loud crack, and I saw the far end of the box twitch slightly... likely another corner seam exploding open.
It seemed like blowing him and the box up with my grenade launcher was my only real option at this point. Except now, instead of blowing Stevie up in the middle of a roomy funeral parlor, I'd be launching my explosive at a box next to a gas-fed incinerator, which meant ruptured gas lines. An explosion, then fire, then possibly another explosion following that one. And I didn't exactly have a good, clean line of sight from down the hallway, which was where I'd have to fire from if I even hoped to come out of this in one piece. I'd have to launch it from the entrance and fall back around the corner immediately, running as quick as I could.
Also, there were two problems with my newest plan. The first was the pair of hospital-style doors halfway down the hallway. I'd need something to prop them open if I was going to have a good line of sight.
The second was the fact that my grenade launcher was currently on the second floor balcony, where I'd left it.
First things first... problem number one. I scouted the room for some paper, or something I could fold into a wedge and jam into the bottom of the doors.
Thump! I heard a deep voice growl the words “Son of a bitch!”
I grabbed a sheaf of important-looking papers from a nearby counter and scooted down the hall to the doors, folding as I ran. Shoving the left door open, I dropped to a squat and shoved a hastily folded triangle of paper underneath it, then kicked the improvised wedge a couple of times for emphasis. I stepped back, letting go of the door, and it appeared to hold up. Quickly, I repeated the process with the second door, trying like mad to ignore the steady stream of curses and thumping noises coming from the crematorium. Once that was done I ran down the hallway until I was about ten paces away from the entrance to the parlor, spun around and turned around.
Doors were holding, and my line of sight was reasonable. Stevie's box would be a little difficult to hit, and I'd have to account for a bit of drop from the slower-moving grenade, but whatever. I'd made harder shots than that one.
I bolted out of the hallway and entered the main parlor, leaping over Shoe's upturned casket and raced for the balcony stairs. Once there I took the stairs two at a time, heading up to where I'd originally situated myself, realizing as I did so that I couldn't hear much of anything aside from the sound of me running. I couldn't hear what sort of progress Stevie was making escape-wise, but pausing for even a few seconds to listen carefully wasn't an option.
I continued to leap up the stairs, and arrived at the top of them in fairly short order. Once there I located my grenade launcher, ran over to it, picked it up by the shoulder-strap and reversed direction just as quickly as I could, heading back towards the stairs I'd just come up.
Shuttle-run, kids. It's not just some stupid arbitrary exercise they make you do in phys-ed class. Sometimes drilling that sort of thing can come in really, really handy.
As I approached the stairwell I extended my left hand to grab a portion of the banister so I could use it to swing around and maintain my forward momentum down the stairs, and-
Crash!
I screeched to a halt, attempted to normalize my breathing, and I listened.
A second crash! This one was followed by a very, very angry roar that lasted for longer than it should have.
And I knew I wasn't going down the stairs after all....
Stevie was free.
Fuck.
'Plan A' hadn't worked out at all like I'd figured it might, and it looked as though my hastily constructed 'Plan C' of blowing Stevie up from the hallway was now, to put it succinctly, shit. I did still technically have my 'Plan B', which consisted of blowing him up from the relative safety of the balcony once he was in the main parlor area, but that plan had involved him being stationary and unaware, thinking he was alone in an empty room. Now he'd be looking for me, and if he managed to spot me just as I was about to launch a shoulder-mounted projectile at him, he might have time enough to move away, or other wise improve his cover position. I'd have one shot, and one shot only. If I missed that shot....
Well, let's try not to think about that.
I ducked behind the balcony railing, much like I had before, my hand fumbling for the small rectangular mirror in my pocket. Once I'd located it I raised it up in order to view the scene below me, trying to ignore how difficult it was to see anything with my hand shaking so badly. I took a few deep, relaxing, and near-silent breaths through my nose in an effort to calm myself slightly, which I hoped would improve my ability to hold the mirror steady.
Stevie stormed into the parlor, growling a noise that echoed off the walls and somehow became even more disconcerting. Even from this range, via the reflection of a tiny, unsteady mirror, I could see that his curled fists were blackened with blood, or ichor, or something else I didn't have a ready explanation for. But his hands were definitely curled into fists, and he looked positively murderous.
Upon entering the room he stood there for a moment, shoulders hunched, and glared about the room. Then he ran over to Shoe's upturned casket, picked the big man up, tossed him to one side, picked up the casket, tossed it to one side, then threw back his head and roared.
I'm sure it was just a trick my mirror was playing on me, but it appeared as though Shoe had sailed about ten or so feet through the air before hitting the floor as a result of Stevie's mini-tantrum. And the casket looked as though it had gone about twenty-five.
Breathe. Steady your hand, focus on the mirror. He doesn't know where you are.
Stevie just stood there for a while, looking as though he was taking huge, gulping breaths of air, which didn't make all that much sense to me when I thought about it. I filed that particular tidbit under 'Consider later, if you're still alive and able to do so.'
Standing in place, he slowly turned his head left, then right, the rest of him more or less facing my direction the entire time, hands still tightly curled into fists. If I was going to have any sort of an opportunity to light him up I'd need him facing away from me, completely unaware of my presence. Projectile grenades are a fair bit slower than things like bullets, so simply standing up and firing at him wasn't exactly an option so long as he was facing in a direction where he could see me.
I waited, once more attempting to focus on keeping my mirror-hand steady.
Shaky-reflection Stevie simply stood where he was for a few moments, continuing to project manic rage in all directions. Then, and in a way that made my stomach lurch unpleasantly, he slowly began to look up.
My heart nearly stopped entirely as his gaze swept past the mirror I was holding. I was tempted to retract it, but the sudden motion involved in making it disappear from view would more likely than not have attracted his attention. Instead I steadied my nerves and continued holding it in place, as steady as possible. Which wasn't very.
Stevie didn't appear to notice it, his gaze continuing upwards until he was practically looking straight up, towards the ceiling, standing very still. He stood like that for what seemed to be a long, long time.
And then I heard a growl that was comprised of at least half evil chuckle.
Turning in place so that his back was to me, and appearing as though he'd just arrived at some sort of decision, Stevie sprinted over to the hallway he'd just emerged from.
Shit. His back was to me, but he was a moving target now, and not a slow one.
I hastily raised myself from my crouch and attempted to hoist the metal cylinder in my left hand over to my right shoulder and get everything lined up as quickly as possible. I pressed my eye against the targeting reticle and stared through it... just in time to see most of Stevie disappear from view and into the hallway.
Fuck, fuck, and fuck.
A few seconds later I heard the sound of large amounts of glass shattering, snapping, or otherwise giving way to a superior force being exerted upon it. After hastily scanning the details I'd managed to memorize about this place, I realized that the sound had probably come from that really nice colored glass window pane set into the outside wall... the one with the doves and the wheat stalks I'd made a point of inspecting while touring this place. Furthermore, I realized the sound profile resembled that of a large object being hurled through a large, stately stained glass window. I'd heard that particular sound before.
Don't ask me how... it's a long, long story.
Stevie looking up at the ceiling, the sound of breaking glass. He wanted to get outside, and quickly. I put two and two together, and-
The guy on the roof.
My working theory was that Stevie could somehow 'sense' where his victims were located, and now that that he'd 'sensed' where the unfortunate mafioso nicknamed 'bait' was currently at, he was heading outside in order to employ the quickest, easiest method he could think of to get to the rooftop above. Which was a fire escape.
Because every building over three stories tall has a fire escape in this town. There are laws, after all.
I cursed in Chinese and quickly threw the strap of my weapon over my shoulder, then turned away from the stairwell and ran instead towards the second-floor display room, the one that featured all of the various urns and ash-holding whatnot that this establishment had to offer. Once at the door to that room I threw it open and charged inside, running past the various colorful and expensive-looking vase-shaped objects that were sitting on their respective shelves, or plinths, or display cases, heading towards the fairly innocuous door that led to the second floor office. Once I managed to get that door open, I burst through and headed to the northwest corner of the office, heading back to the maintenance area, where they kept the majority of their mops, brooms, and other cleaning apparatus. Upon arriving there, I quickly located the maintenance access to the rooftop, which was more or less a hand-built wooden ladder, and I began to climb. Once I'd made it to the very top of the ladder, I inspected its terminus.
An angled hatch, very much like the trap door leading to an attic, only more so. If I correctly remembered where I'd told mister mafioso to stand all evening long, opening this hatch should give me a clear view of most of the rooftop, and decent line of sight for anyone who happened to be standing on it.
I took a few deep breaths, then steeled my nerves and unlocked the hatch, pushing the thing open a few inches or so.
The first thing I noticed was the panicked babbling, high-pitched and nasal. That was consistent with what I understood of the fellow I'd parked on the roof earlier that evening... kind of a whiny Bronx/Jersey tone of voice that somehow managed to convey the sense that not only did the fellow possessing it not know what the hell you were even talking about, but that you were in some deep, deep trouble for even assuming that he was guilty of the sort of thing you were accusing him of.
The second thing that caught my attention was the response to this panicked, babbling, high-pitched and nasal outburst, which manifested in the form of a throaty chuckle, followed by a grumbling, menacing voice saying something I couldn't quite make out.
I couldn't see the owner of either voice based on how little I'd opened the hatch, but I assumed that I knew who both voices belonged to, and knew they'd be focused on one another. Given where I'd told nasal-mafia guy to be standing for the majority of his evening, I had a sneaking suspicion that if Stevie were on the rooftop with him, he'd have his back to me.
Deep breath. Then another.
This would have to be done fast. Like, game show lightning-round fast....
I hoisted the grenade launcher over my shoulder, breathed yet another deep breath, then shoved the trap-door-style hatch open with my free arm and stood fully upright, my eyes taking in everything they could.
Stevie's back was to me, maybe twenty-five feet away. Mob guy was maybe forty feet away from me, fifteen or so away from Stevie, and he was moving backwards rather slowly, his arms extended in a 'Whoa, slow down' sort of gesture you tend to use when you're in an unfortunate sort of situation, and someone else is holding all the cards.
Fifteen feet wasn't exactly a huge amount of distance when it came to explosive projectiles.
Taking out Stevie with my grenade launcher here and now would likely result in an explosion big enough to toss mister mafioso off of this particular rooftop and onto the street below. Hardly an ideal sort of situation, to be sure....
But if I could take out Stevie?
“Sorry Buddy,” I whispered, my hand coming to rest on the launching mechanism located on the side of the cylinder I held, and pressing against it a moment later.
Once I'd sensed that my grenade launcher had fired, I immediately grabbed the handle affixed to the underside of the open hatch and pulled down for all I was worth, practically collapsing into a crouch so that I might be shielded from the worst of the blast that I knew was coming. Then, hatch closed, I pressed my hands tightly against my ears, tensed for the kind of boom that would make my chest feel as though it were attempting to erupt through my neck.
And I waited....
I've been surprised by loud noises before, and let me tell you... it's not pleasant. It's nerve-jangling, even at the best of times. But I'll tell you something that's even worse than that. It's when you're expecting an earth-shattering ka-boom, and nothing happens.
Five of the longest seconds the world has ever known passed in utter silence.
At the end of those five seconds, and against every single good instinct I had, I pushed the trap door open just enough to look out upon the rooftop.
Stevie was still standing there, exactly where I'd last seen him, though he'd turned his head and was now looking directly at the trap door I'd opened in order to get a better look at him.
Even with the relatively poor light being provided from the moon and various street lamps nearby, I could make out something slightly different about him all of a sudden.
My grenade had lodged itself directly behind his left shoulder-blade, and was jutting out awkwardly, looking very much like half of a soup can protruding from his mid-back.
It hadn't gone off. At all.
Ooookay. So, we'd found yet another thing that didn't work on this guy.
Still staring in my direction, Stevie rolled his neck and shoulders, an action which produced several rather disturbing popping noises. Once he'd finished doing that, his face curled up into something resembling a sneer.
“Ow,” Stevie snarled quietly.
“Hey! Help!” cried the nasal-voiced mafioso.
I looked at him, then looked at Stevie.
Nope. Nope times a thousand....
Run, Joe. Run. Very quickly.
I flew down the ladder of the service entrance and bolted back into the second-floor office, remembering to sling my grenade launcher over my shoulder in a way that I could run reasonably well with it. Soon I found myself running along the balcony, heading towards a familiar set of stairs. Gripping the banister tightly with my left hand, I sling-shotted myself down the stairwell so fast that I became concerned about what my feet were doing, and how much control I actually had over them. Somehow I managed to get to the bottom of the stairs without stumbling to my death, and once I hit the main parlor I adjusted my trajectory so that I was heading right, which would lead me to the primary entrance-slash-exit.
Once at the actual doors I practically threw myself upon them, causing them to burst open and slam against the rough brick walls that supported them with a loud 'bang'.
That wasn't the only sound I heard, either.
A scream filled the air. A choking, gurgling scream... the kind you'd expect to hear in a really bad horror movie, issued from some generic, no-name actor who figures he's just one ear-curdling scream away from becoming famous. It was the sort of cry that nobody ever makes in the real world, ever. It was utter agony and despair being projected outward into the night.
I ran down the street and towards my waiting car as quickly as I knew how.
No, actually. Not 'ran' , as such.
I fled.