Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Thomas - Day 758

They retreated with tails tucked between their legs, breaking as quickly as possible toward the office—in need of a lock to help secure their position. Another thud, followed by a low muttering. Maybe they hadn’t been found out. No matter, they still pushed their way quietly into the office and locked the door.

“What the— what the hell happened?”

Thomas took his time responding. The adrenaline had gotten the better of him, and his voice might carry further than he intended. “Just a—Just a second.” He rested his hand on James’s back.

Another thud from the other room.

“This guy doesn’t know what— the hell’s going on.” James’s breathing labored through his quiet words. “We’ll need— We need to go and get him.” He began to rise from his crouched position.

“Just wait a—”

An eruption of broken glass interrupted him. A wooden chair bounced against the conference table, crashed to the floor, and came to rest among the shards. Without hesitating, Thomas grabbed the legs of the wooden chair and flung it back into the library to distract their assailant as he drew his pistol to retaliate. His flashlight followed the muzzle as he scanned the stacks, but there was no one—nothing. What the hell?

James scurried toward the door and pressed himself against the jamb, using it and the heavy door as cover for what might be waiting. Thomas’s eyes met with James who began nodding to him. The look told him he was about to open that door—that he was ready to move.

Thomas affirmed with a quick nod. It was ten paces to the ladder and the same to that locked door. The choice had been made. There would be no rush to the ladder. No escape through the hatch. They had been found. It was time to take control of the situation.

James switched the door’s lock while Thomas stared obsessively at him, waiting like a caged animal. He rushed the door as James pulled it, but was knocked off his intended path. His pistol clattered to the floor, and the flashlight tumbled, whipping light across the walls until coming to a rest toward the center of the room.

A set of hands slid past Thomas’s head, wrapping his neck into the crook of an elbow. He tried to drop his chin to prevent the rear choke, but it was too late. James rushed to help, but Thomas spun away, collapsing onto the floor, knocking a sharp gasp from his attacker as the full weight of Thomas’s frame crushed him.

James drew his pistol.

“Have to shoot him to get me!” the attacker cackled from the floor, hiding behind Thomas while he gripped his neck tighter and tighter from behind.

James tried for a clear shot only a moment longer before holstering his pistol and working to free Thomas from the chokehold. The man wasn’t letting go, and James’s attempts to pull the grip apart proved insufficient. Thomas wanted to tell James to just shoot him, but the words couldn’t pass his throat. Thomas began to feel light-headed—his consciousness slipping.

In a last ditch attempt, Thomas threw his elbow several times into the man’s ribs, finally breaking the hold. The blood rushed back into his head. A flurry of strikes against his back had little effect other than to annoy Thomas as he rolled over to face his adversary.

Thomas straddled him, took hold of his shirt, and slammed his head against the floor several times. The man’s eyes began to flutter and roll back into his head. “Are you fucking done!?” Thomas yelled.

“Yes, damn it,” the man cried out. “Get off!” Thomas hurried to get back to his feet, but the man was able to connect with several strikes to the inside of his knee, causing Thomas to buckle. Relentless little fuck! The attacker attempted to pass under Thomas, trying to improve his position, but it was no use. Thomas heard a loud crack as his fist connected with what he believed was a nose. A bestial howl of pain. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” the man begged.

“Roll him over!” James called out.

Thomas backed off the man, taking control of his shoulder, and pressing his face into the carpet. They worked to get his arms behind him. Thomas held them in place, and soon James secured a line of parachute cord around his wrists.

“Got him?” Thomas asked.

James slapped Thomas across the back. “Hell yeah, man.”

Thomas’s head snapped back toward James, his chest heaving. “Really, man?” He exhaled. “Just— make sure he’s the only one in here. I got this one.”

James gave him a look.

“Go, damn it!”

James slid through the entrance to the stacks once again.

A large lump squeezed through Thomas’s throat as he swallowed hard. “Damn!” His neck felt tight. “Little bastard.” Thomas crouched down behind a desk with his pistol drawn, bouncing his attention between the prisoner and James’s search of the stacks—it wasn’t long before he returned.

“All clear.”

James shifted their prisoner into a seated position and dragged him back against the wall. The flashlight caught a portion of the man’s face, his nose crooked and flowing red. James grabbed some tissue from a nearby desk, rolled it, and stuffed a piece in each nostril.

“Damn,” the man puffed, “ya didn’t have to do all that.” The man nuzzled his face against his shoulder, streaking blood across his face and clothing. “I was giving up, honest as ever.” The man’s eyes lacked any sign of sincerity. There was an eerie smile resting behind his fake words. Thomas had seen this before—a man surrendering while in the back of his mind planning how he would end you.

“Who are you?” James demanded.

“David. Nice to meet you.”

“You little shit.” James slapped him across the face. “Damn it!” He wiped blood across the front of his pants. “You’re one of the Butcher’s men aren’t you?”

“Hell if I am.” His answer was quick. “I just use the services when they’re in town.”

James took his flashlight more deliberately across the man’s face. There wasn’t a scar, not even an attempt at giving him one.

Thomas rocked forward in the chair. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Finding books to get some time with the girls.”

“James, mask him, and we’ll lock him in the supply closet until tomorrow.”

Thomas appreciated James’s setup and had picked two chairs of his own. Leaning back with both hands cradling his head, unable to sleep, he stared toward where the ceiling must have been. The sense of security that let him sleep so soundly the first portion of the night had been compromised. The reason lay just around the corner, locked in a small closet.

Only Thomas appeared to hold this apprehension that prevented sleep. A deep ache in his mind—an inability to keep both eyes hidden from the world—lying there plagued with phantom sensations that crept across his neck and chest—a lingering effect of the ambush that he couldn’t shake. Any time he found himself dozing, almost as a defense mechanism, his body jerked, trying to expel this feeling of hands wrapping his throat. It was a close call, much closer than any he had experienced.

James, on the other hand, didn’t stir, nor did the stranger. How the hell are they sleeping? He continued to collect thoughts from the darkness around him, reflecting on the day and the lives he had stolen.

He pictured their faces—that couple in the train yard was simply trying to survive, likely scared because of what may have happened in the past, completely unaware that there were people in the world who wanted to improve it, not solely to take advantage of it. If given the chance to explain, to speak with them and lay out the possibilities of a better life, maybe then they could have been saved.