Paul Melko - The Walls of the Universe

He snuck down the alley, taking the back way to the warehouse. He peered down the cross street and saw no one in the front seat of the SUV. He felt foolish. Lots of people parked in the alley. He’d probably seen that same SUV a dozen times.

He came to the padlocked rear door of the warehouse. He of course didn’t have the key; it was in his dresser at home. He could see nothing inside. The window was crusted over with dirt and grime. John would have to go in the front door.

A Dumpster, half-rusted and smelling of foul water, blocked most of the alley. Beyond it were piles of pallets. Technically he owned all of this, but he hadn’t bothered to clean it up.

He made his way along the wall of the warehouse. The sun blazed down on him-it was hot for an early May day-and he cast no suspicious shadows over the windows.

At the corner, he glanced around quickly. The SUV was still empty, and the door to the warehouse was open. Someone was in his warehouse.

The device was in there.

Peering around the corner of the warehouse, he tried to get a good look inside. He heard voices.

“Get the torch.”

He dodged back.

A man exited the building, tall and blond, one of Visgrath’s men undoubtedly. He opened the back of the SUV and pulled out a blowtorch and canister. Grunting as he lugged it over the door sill, he called, “Help me with this.”

John heard the canister being dragged across the cement floor. They were definitely heading for the office where the safe was.

“I don’t know why we can’t wait for a combination,” the man who had fetched the torch said.

“You know why.”

“We’ll find him sooner or later.”

The second man said something in a language John didn’t recognize.

The tire iron suddenly slipped in John’s sweaty palm. He snatched at it and barely caught it before it clanged on the ground. His heart thudded. What was he doing?

He had to stop these men. Call the police? How long would that take? Grace and Henry were in danger. Casey had been shot. John didn’t have time to wait around. Everything they were working on was in that warehouse. And these two goons were breaking open the safe that held the device.

John waited five seconds, then ducked down and crawled toward the door. If the two men were in the office with the safe, they had no direct line of sight of the door. He slipped inside.

The office was ten meters from the warehouse door, past the workbench where the electronics sat.

He carefully and swiftly ran to the wall next to the office door, plastering himself there. The two men were muttering to themselves. John heard the clicking of the ignitor but no burst of flame from the torch. Good.

Then there was a whoosh as the torch caught. The two men laughed.

John counted to five again, determined to rush in on five. When he got to ten, he almost laughed aloud.

“Come on, John. Now.”

He dodged into the room.

The two men, goggled, were bent over the safe.

John slammed the tire iron into the shoulder of the closer man, the man who wasn’t wielding the torch.

He grunted, collapsing to one knee.

John raised the iron over the second man.

He cursed in that odd language and tossed the torch aside.

John brought the iron down, but the man blocked it with a forearm. The arm bent at an odd angle. The man grunted, pulling it to his chest. John had broken it.

The other man wasn’t down. He swung at John, his fist connecting with John’s jaw.

Staggering, John saw blotches of light. The tire iron fell from his hands, and he reached to pick it up. The first man landed a punch to the side of John’s head, a glancing blow.

John kicked with his foot, catching the first man in the knee. He went down hard. John found the handle of the tire iron and swung it madly at the first man. It connected with his skull. A dull, sickening thud knocked the rising man flat. He didn’t move.

John swung the iron backhanded at the second man, the one with the broken arm. He jumped back, but that brought him to the wall. John swung again and caught the man’s shoulder. He grunted, twisting, trying to get past John. John slammed the iron into his thigh. He fell like clothes off a hanger.

John paused, his chest heaving. His enemies were both down, one unconscious, one clutching his thigh. John raised his iron to knock the second one out, but the man cringed before him, and he found he couldn’t swing his iron on a defenseless, prone man.

The smell of smoke rose in the room. The torch had landed on a pallet, among some old newspapers. The tip, still hot, had caught the papers aflame. Already the papers were engulfed, and the pallet was next.

John thought for a moment whether there was a fire extinguisher, but he couldn’t remember where. He turned to the safe.

Placing the tire iron on the top of it, he touched the lock with a finger.

Suddenly his brain wouldn’t work! He couldn’t remember the combination.

“Damn it!”

He glanced at the rising fire. He ducked his head below the smoke that was collecting at the ceiling. His lungs kicked and he coughed.

John placed his hand on the dial. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Turn, spin the dial to…

He remembered, or rather his fingers remembered for him. He dialed the combination.

The safe popped open, and he grabbed the device.

The conscious man cried out.

John turned, expecting him to be lunging at him. The man was still on the floor, having crawled his way to the door. He was staring with amazement at the device in John’s hands.

“You have a -.” He used a word John didn’t know. “You have a goddamn -.”

The man started crawling toward John. He grabbed the tire iron and swung it, but the man wouldn’t be deterred. John couldn’t swing on a prone man, and now he was blocking the door with his body. Smoke continued to fill the room.

John leaped over the man, running for the door. He stopped at the lab table. He scooped all the electronics, all the notes, into a box, laying the device on top of it.

He turned slowly and surveyed the warehouse. There was nothing left here. Casting one last look over his shoulder, he saw the two men, one dragging the other, struggling out of the burning room. John turned and ran.

John’s mind raced. He slowed the car down to the speed limit. Getting pulled over now would be bad. What could he do? What had happened so suddenly? He drove past the exit he’d usually take to his apartment. They’d be there for him now. He drove past the school. They’d look for him at class.

Casey was shot. Casey may have been killed. Visgrath had Grace and Henry. They’d kidnapped Grace and Henry! John’s breath came in short breaths. He pulled off the highway, found the first parking lot.

Dare he go to the police? What would he say? Grauptham House was a billion-dollar company. They had a security force. They had weapons. They used their money to buy secrecy. What could he do against them? He had no allies.

What could he do?

His eyes found the familiar logo of his bank across the street. That was one thing he did have. Money. His bank account had swollen with cash in the past few months and was still high even after the purchase of all the equipment for the lab.

It was time to make a withdrawal. He drove across the street and entered the bank.

The cashier looked at John oddly.

“Gold? You want gold?” she said.

“Can I withdraw everything as gold?” John said again.

“We don’t have… At least I don’t think we have…,” she said. “Let me check.”

The cashier-Molly according to her nameplate-entered another office. Through the window, John saw her point him out to another woman, presumably Molly’s manager.

“Sir,” the manager said when she emerged from the office, “you want to withdraw your five hundred and fifteen thousand dollars and receive it in gold?”