pursuer’s feet begin to slap on the concrete. He knew he’d have to be quick or they’d catch him with the metal door open and they’d all be lost.
He ran as fast as he could, pumping his legs harder, and judged that he’d just make it.
Monroe saw Dillard coming toward him and then his focus shifted to the crowd moving rapidly behind him. There were almost a dozen of them now and they all seemed to be moving impossibly fast.
As Stanley Dillard got to within an arm’s length of the door, his eyes met Monroe’s. For a split second, he thought he saw Monroe silently urging him on. All of a sudden, Monroe’s expression changed and it seemed as if he’d just given up on the old man. It was as though he thought it would be too close and risking his and Claire’s lives was too much of a gamble.
As Dillard took his next—and final—step, he saw Monroe tug the door closed behind him. With a heartbreaking finality, the metal door slammed in its frame just as Dillard felt the first pair of hands latch onto his shoulders. Slamming into the door, more hands grabbed onto him and pulled him down toward the unforgiving ground.
Inside the small room, Monroe and Claire panted and held on to one another. Claire started crying and Monroe pulled her tighter. Over the sound of her sobbing, a frantic thumping and hysterical screaming from outside could be heard.
~ * ~
The next morning, Monroe and Claire awoke on the floor of the cramped Count Out Room. Once the noise from outside subsided, they’d cleared some space by pushing the chairs and assorted boxes out of the way and created a makeshift bed for themselves. The floor was freezing, so they’d spent most of the time with their arms wrapped around one another for warmth.
Lying there, Monroe repeatedly ran the scenario of what had happened to Dillard over in his mind and, as was his way, he’d even managed to convince himself that he’d done the only thing he could have by shutting the door on the man.
After all, if he hadn’t, they
The only thing Monroe now found himself regretting was him not having had the foresight to grab some food before locking themselves in here. It had been a while since he’d eaten the microwaved burrito and his hunger was now something he couldn’t ignore. Claire was hungry as well. She’d been bitching about not having anything to eat since she’d woken up. Monroe wasn’t sure what she expected him to do, for chrissakes. It wasn’t like he could just unlock the door and go grab them some snacks.
The only choice they had was to wait.
So, that was what they did.
And as the hours passed, they’d done little else except lie there on the cold floor and bide their time. Hopefully, someone—the cops, the army,
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monroe was sure he could talk Claire into it.
And as the hours wore on, Monroe closed his eyes and he began to formulate his side of the argument.
The Mouse Print
The fading light of day came spilling in through the polarized windows of the high-rise office; rays of diffused illumination splashing across the lush carpeting in broad strokes. The slate-colored floor covering was deep, soft and very expensive. The fibers soaked up the light’s warmth like a sponge. The thick ply was not only a comfort to the feet that trod upon it, but it was also an eye-pleasing accent to the room’s deep brown mahogany walls. Near the floor-to-wall panes of glass at the far end sat a large, regal cherrywood desk. Regimented piles of paper were set in very ordered rows near a thin, white computer monitor that jutted up through a hole in the desktop. Behind the desk’s leather upholstered chair was a wall covered with framed 8x10' photos. In each, the same man grinned out excitedly from the frame with one arm around someone. Upon closer inspection, those someones were all political dignitaries, film stars, recording artists and fashion models.
Off to one side, the man who appeared in the photos stood looking out of the window at the teeming city far below. The view fell away sickeningly and it was easy to get the impression that to fall from such a vantage point would mean a very long time might be spent hurtling through the emptiness of space. Looking out, vertigo clawed at perception. All that glass and open air was enough to make a person feel dizzy and off-balance when he entered the room.
It was exactly the response Joseph Weber wanted to inspire in his visitors.
Almost sadly, he turned and ambled over to the bar hidden in the bookcase on the other side of the room. Pulling the cabinet open gently, he snatched up a handful of ice and filled a short glass. Scanning the array of bottles set out before him, he selected his poison and poured three fingers of scotch. The frozen cubes crackled and settled deeper into the squat, pre-chilled tumbler.
With drink now in hand, he returned to his vantage point and sipped the harsh, smoky liquid. The fluid coated his tongue and made his mouth burn in a soothing way. It had been a rough day. This respite was a welcomed diversion from a schedule chock-full of meetings with sponsors, bitch sessions with networks, and the ever-present chore of filling his talent roster. Off in the distance, a lone hawk circled the sky, hunting the concrete and glass landscape for prey.
Weber knew exactly how that sort of thing felt.
He drew another mouthful of liquor and swirled it in his mouth before swallowing. The scotch’s intoxicating effect nibbled at the edges of his consciousness and he felt some of the stress he’d accumulated begin to melt away. He knew he’d have to be careful and not let the alcohol carry him too far. He still had one more meeting to get out of the way before calling it a day and heading upstairs to the penthouse he called home.
As he stared out over the spires of the city, he dimly recalled a quieter and far less prosperous time from what seemed like a lifetime ago. His reflection told of the years that had passed. His face had a few more lines carved into its flesh. His hair had a bit more gray. His eyes looked more worldly… and also more weary.
'So much…' he whispered to himself. 'So much has changed.'
Back once upon a time, he’d been a poor day laborer—a grunt—working long hours on construction sites hauling heavy loads of wood and concrete for some very shitty pay. He’d been dead last on a fast track to nowhere. At least that was what everyone—his boss, his friends, his white trash family—kept telling him. All he’d had to look forward to was a lifetime of backbreaking work, maybe a loveless marriage or two with some ungrateful kids who would no doubt grow to resent him, and then a good ol’ fashioned chest-crushing heart attack before being dumped into a low cost casket and buried deep in the ground, ultimately to be forgotten. The only thing that would mark his time on earth would be his name and a couple of dates chiseled into a concrete marker somewhere.
Then, that depressing future had all been changed by some multicolored streaks of light tearing across the sky, a sky not unlike the one he now found himself looking out over. With one swipe of Fate’s hand, everything that had been in his cards was shuffled away. The whole game got changed when that first dead body opened its eyes and began its search for breakfast. He’d been one of the smart ones and had managed to suss out the whole walking dead situation pretty early on. He figured being forced to cave in the skull of a foreman as he tried to chew his arm off was a pretty big give-a-way.
Weber was not a man who learned fast… but he did learn well.
So, as quickly as he could, he found himself a safe haven and tried to think things through. By luck or by providence, he met up with a guy named Jimbo who, while not a mental giant, was a physical behemoth. An alliance was quickly formed and a plan was just as quickly hatched. By the time the dead gathered enough of their numbers to be a consideration, he and Jimbo had been ready and waiting.
Looking back, those were some fine days and he and Jimbo had definitely had themselves a time. It had been just the two of them, like a modern day Harold Hills, travelling the countryside, sleeping where they could, and methodically bilking the yokels out of their cash and commodities with a grift that was anything but square.
