Melani Schweder - 72 Hours till Doomsday

“Hey! Hey! What you think you’re doing motherfucker? Huh?”

He waved the pistol around wildly, twisting it sideways.

“Whoa whoa. This is my house.” He nodded towards the door.

“Your house eh?”

“Si. Mi casa. Can I help you boys with something?”

The man holding the gun looked to be maybe nineteen, twenty at most. His neck and forearms were covered in tattoos, but it was the smattering of smaller ink on his face that made him look menacing. Three teardrops on the left cheek, a tiny cross on the right. Matias knew what those symbols meant. The other, shorter man had come over to join his partner, showing a similar array of body decoration, but held his gun down at his side. He had a blue bandanna wrapped around his shaved head, glistening with sweat. They both seemed a little unprepared to run into anyone and their bodies were fierce with defensive posturing.

“Help with something man? Yeah. Get the fuck outta our way.”

His companion laughed and tugged at his baggy pants, swiped his nose with his left thumb.

“Listen. I don’t know what you boys want, but I’ve got nothing. Nada.” The older man held up his hands in mock surrender. “It’s just me and my wife here. Everyone else left.”

“Aw, your wife bro?” He looked over his shoulder at the little plaster house and his face broke into a wicked sideways smile. “Let’s see. Come on. I’m sure she’d like what we can give her.”

He grabbed his crotch in a lewd gesture, nodding to his friend who made a similar threatening move.

“Ay, Mami,” his friend purred, wiggling his hips. They both laughed.

Matias wasn’t about to let some young gangbangers talk about his wife like that. Even if there was still a gun pointed in his direction. He felt the rage boil up under his skin, his pulse pounding against his temples. He didn’t bother to calculate his next move. What else did he have left to lose? His body moved, not as quickly as it used to, but quickly enough, his hands flying forward. They caught the assailant in the chest and he pushed him up against the tinted windows of the Cadillac. The gun was wedged between the two men’s bodies, but luckily not in a position to do much damage. The compatriot’s gun, however, was now pressed up against Matias’s temple.

“What the fuck man?” The young man yelled into his face, taken off guard.

“What is your name son?”

He was met with silence, but pushed into him harder.

“Huh? I can’t hear you? What is your name?”

“Ruben.”

“Ruben, why you threatening my wife? Huh? She’s sick. What kind of little fucker are you?”

“Sorry, man. I’m sorry.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“They call me Smiley,” the short one answered, his gun still raised.

“What you boys doing here? Huh? What do you want? Money?”

“We’re just looking around man.”

“Sure you were.”

“Come on, let me go,” he whined up against the hot car.

“There’s nothing here. No money. No food. No drugs. I think it’s time you boys left.”

Matias lessened the pressure against the man’s chest and took a step away. Smiley was still standing to his side, but he could see that his hand was shaking slightly. These were just kids. Kids out to prove themselves. Cowards looking for easy prey. Ruben shook himself off, adjusted his shirt, and shoved his gun into the back of his pants.

“Come on, Smiley. This fucker’s loco.”

But his friend didn’t move, his sights still set on Matias as he stepped further away from the car. Ruben opened the front door and slid in with an angry scowl on his face.

“Get in man. Let’s go.”

Finally the gun was lowered and Matias breathed a little deeper. He crossed his arms and stood there until the last of the dust kicked up by their tires had settled back to earth.

Gregor felt another bead of sweat roll down his forehead. His head was throbbing and his whole body was cramped from sitting on the concrete floor, limbs pressed up against the metal grate. It rattled loudly as he shook out of his tortured slumber. There was still fresh blood seeping from his hand, staining the white bandages. His stomach was in knots from the lack of nourishment. There was still water running from the taps but the only food was from the half-empty vending machine down the hall. Stale chips and candy bars could only go so far when you’ve got thirteen hostages to feed.

They’d taken his cell phone, which Gregor honestly felt was the worst part of all. He’d been unable to contact his wife, his children; unable to patch back through to Anna. He had no idea if she was still okay or even in the building anymore. The coworkers had lost contact yesterday afternoon when the takeover of Battersea Water and Power had been successful. Their captors were surprisingly adept despite their young and brash appearances; they seemed to have a highly intelligent plan in place in order to exact the necessary control to achieve their ends. Those ends were yet to be fully illuminated, but they seemed to encircle the ideas of wealth distribution and government corruption. They’d seen the opportunity and seized it. Unfortunately, there were bound to be casualties along the way. So far the damage tally included two overhead electric lines and one security guard.

Yesterday afternoon seemed like a dream, or something straight from the pages of a crime thriller. His chain around the generator room doors had bought him just enough time to hide, although not enough time to make it back to his team. They’d shot open the doors and pushed inside: two older guys made for the generators themselves while four others searched the perimeter, looking for stragglers. The rebels had found the cage first where two women and one man cowered in the dark, clutching wrenches behind their backs in their sweaty palms. Owen and Arthur had stationed themselves elsewhere throughout the giant warehouse room, ready to pick off the intruders as they came in. Gregor had shimmied himself behind a cooling tank along the side of the safety station. Ensconced in brick and metal, he’d waited with his breath in his throat as heavy footsteps prodded around. He could hear the clanking of guns and pipes similar to the one he’d held in his hand.

There had been a loud shuffle and a wet thud, followed by a deep guttural cry and an explosive crack: Owen’s wrench had met someone’s face and they had retaliated with gunfire. Gregor could hear several people wrestling and wailing, Arthur’s voice among them, shouting. Whatever these people wanted, it was clear they were ready to kill for it and be killed themselves. Suddenly the whole situation took on a different flavor, the acidic bite of a deadly attack instead of a merely inconvenient one. Then the power went down.

The warehouse was flooded with blackness and the generator’s whine grew deeper and softer before disappearing altogether. Their senses scrambled to reconfigure, now that they could hear everything and see nothing. It took Gregor a moment to regain his bearings, every sound slowly coming into focus. There was someone right around the corner, and he flexed his fingers, curling it around the pipe, ready to strike. He’d stepped out into the darkness and swung, meeting a fleshy resistance and prompting the young man to cry out. Suddenly something came down hard near his head and his vision went white, searing pain shooting up through his skull. He remembered falling and someone kicking the pipe out of his hand, slicing it open as they did so. He’d clutched his bleeding hand and curled up on the cold concrete as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the cage next to Arthur, Libby, Janet, and Trent, his hand freshly bandaged. That was around 8 P.M. according to the old plastic clock on the wall.