“You think you’ve got me, don’t you, Tyler? You think you’ve won. So help me, I’ll kill us both before I let that happen,” Pritchard promised, as he tried to turn the valve, which was stiff from years of inactivity.
“Turn, damn you,” he grunted. His face glowed red from the effort, but the handle had rusted and wouldn’t budge an inch. Pritchard looked around, desperate to find something to use as a lever. The torch beam cut through the darkness like a white laser, until it came to rest upon a thin rod of iron protruding from beneath the old generator. About two-foot-long, it was perfect for his needs. He slid it into the valve and started rocking back and forth violently, until, with a loud creak, it began to move. As the valve turned a gentle hissing began to fill the silence, growing steadily louder as the colourless, odourless gas escaped into the air. He knew it wouldn’t take long to saturate the atmosphere of a room this size. He immediately started working on the valve in the cylinder above, which, to his surprise, wasn’t nearly as hard to move.
Suddenly, the door thundered as something powerful crashed into it from the other side.
Tyler! He quickly shone the torch across his barricade, afraid it might have collapsed. Neither the generator nor the filing cabinet had moved, and he breathed a small sigh of relief.
“Pritchard, open the damn door,” Tyler called. The Disciple could hear the anger in his voice.
“Losing your temper, are you, Jack? Not very professional is it?” he taunted. With the second valve now opened he turned his attention to the valve in the third cylinder. He had to use the iron rod on this one, just to get it going.
“Pritchard, I’m warning you,” Tyler shouted, banging the door with his fist.
“Ooh, I’m shaking in my shoes,” the killer responded sarcastically. The valve in the third cylinder was now spewing its flammable contents out with great gusto, and he quickly started work on the forth. Figuring that four canisters would be more than enough to cause the destruction he wanted, The Disciple moved over to the door, pressing his face against the glass panel.
“In fact, you’re scaring me to death.” Holding the torch under his chin so that it illuminated his features from below, he distorted his face into a caricature of a death mask.
The door jolted forward, almost banging into his face as Tyler kicked it from the other side. Instinctively, the killer shrank back, an agitated scowl on his face.
“Okay, Jack – my very own Inspector Abberline – if you want me, come in and get me. I’m waiting for you and I’m ready to go out in a blaze of glory. The question is, are you?” The killer stepped backwards, into the centre of the room. He held the torch tight against his chest, shinning it upward. It gave him a ghostly appearance. As he finished speaking, he switched it off, sending the world into darkness.
◆◆◆
Tyler couldn’t see a thing now that the torch had been extinguished, but from what little he’d been able to make out when it was on, he reckoned the killer was trapped in a storeroom of some sort. He doubted there was another way out. Pritchard would have been long gone if that were the case. He pushed on the door, lending all his weight to the effort. To his surprise, it only moved an inch or so. He tried again, quickly establishing a steady rhythm. Push, pause for breath, brace in readiness to push again…Push, pause for breath, brace…
Slowly, ever so slowly, the door began to open inwards. It soon became evident that a large piece of machinery had been wedged behind the double doors, blocking them.
“Fucking asshole,” Jack cursed through gritted teeth.
Jack stopped shoving as soon as there was enough room for him to squeeze through. The entry was going to be a very dicey manoeuvre, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
The killer had too great an advantage. For a start, Jack didn’t know where in the room the fucker was hiding. Pritchard, on the other hand, knew exactly where he was. Another advantage the killer had was that he knew the layout of the room; he’d had plenty of time to familiarise himself with it. He knew what obstacles were in it and where they were. And, if he needed it, he could always turn his ruddy torch back on. Jack didn’t have that luxury.
There were other, more poignant dangers, to consider. Jack knew that Pritchard had dropped his knife up in the warehouse, but did that mean he was now unarmed?
Somehow, that seemed unlikely.
Could he have retrieved it when he fell?
Possibly.
Could he have other weapons concealed on him, brought along as a backup?
Probably.
Had he found something lying around that he could improvise with to create a do-it-yourself club or spear?
Almost certainly.
Jack had learned the hard way not to underestimate this particular killer. He might be mad, but he sure as hell wasn’t stupid. Tyler listened carefully, hardly daring to breathe. The only noise coming from inside was a strange hissing sound, like steam escaping from a pipe.
Tyler shouldered the door, knocking it back another couple of inches. Stepping back, he crouched down, waiting to see if there was any response.
There was nothing. No movement, no noise – just the constant unexplained hiss. Tyler sniffed the air, worried that it might be a gas leak, although he couldn’t smell anything unusual.
There was no easy way to handle this situation. He couldn’t afford to stay where he was in the hope that help would arrive, but the more he thought about going in after Pritchard, the less he wanted to do it.
He began to focus his breathing, filling
