Chapter 7: Freedom Run
People chattering, metal sliding, keys dangling.
Henry's left eye is swollen shut. He moves his left hand to rub upon the wound. His right arm involuntarily follows, until he feels something metallic binding his wrists together.
Letting his hands rest on his belly, he looks to the white ceiling above him. Spots of black on the bottom right corner catch his right eye as he groans once again. His headache forces him to turn to his right. Black iron bars gaze back at him.
Henry scouts his surroundings as he sits up. A cot bolted onto the western wall with no covers. A moldy toilet and a grimy sink attached to the southern wall. On the eastern wall, nothing. Just a wall that, aside from more black mold, has a crack extending from the ceiling. The crack runs down the middle of the eastern wall and ends on the first bar of the northern iron fence.
Vertigo disorients Henry as he gets up, forcing him onto one of the iron bars to stand. He slowly raises his hands to have them rub at his swollen temple.
How'd I wind up here again?
Sanford's patrol car cruises down the sandy road. Air rushes through the driver-side window, making the hairs on Sanford's arms stand as he grasps at the steering wheel. Right next to him, Hank rests his head on the other window. The waning gibbous moon gazes down from the apex of the horizon, surrounded by stars. Vaguely in the distance, the planet Mars looms beside Luna.
Sanford shifts a gear, accelerating the scenery. "What exactly were you expecting to happen with Dan and Henry?"
Hank turns to Sanford, bags under his eyes. "I really don't know. I just thought maybe those two lunatics would talk a lot more once they clicked."
"'Once they clicked?' Yeah, that's bound to end well." Sanford shakes his head. "Got anymore brilliant hunches we should play on?"
"Look at the bright side. At least Henry's not our problem anymore."
Sanford looks at him momentarily. "You almost sound like Deimos when you said that."
"I don't take that as a compliment."
"You shouldn't."
Hank looks back at the deformed moon. "So now what do we do about the murders?"
"We?"
Hank sighs. "I'm interested in it."
Sanford turns back to the road. "Why?"
"With a lot of things going on, let's just say it's now caught my attention."
"All because of Henry and Dan?"
"Sort of. Remember when Henry said the 'Ab Ipso Ferro' means they seek to rebuild and reform the AAHW?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"It just makes me wonder if these guys were just watching when Underground Circus was happening."
"We'll never know on our own." Sanford spots a street lamp in the distance. "But if that hunch of yours is right, I think we're bound to find out."
Henry grunts as he rubs at his broken arm.
"You gotta stop doing stupid shit, Henry," he says to himself.
His knees fail him and he falls onto his cot. His handcuffed hands fall to his side and lie upon the polyester that make his bed.
Henry takes a deep breath.
"If the White Lion Society is now forming, they're still vulnerable. It took about three months after the first AAHW murder back home for the second-in-command to try and get me to join him."
He sits up.
"Damn it, Sanford. You should've just gave me your number, you miserable drunk."
Henry looks at his broken arm and pulls his fingers into a tight fist. Smiling, he staggers to the bar door.
"May as well, since this worked so well in the realm of alchemy."
He twists the chain that binds his wrists back and forth. Feeling his broken arm loosen up, Henry pulls his wrists apart.
SNAP!
The chain gives way. Henry grabs at his cell door.
"Guard!" Henry rattles the gated iron. "I need some help!"
Heavy footsteps approach the cell. A large shadow reflects off the floor.
"Shut the fuck up," a new, gruff voice speaks. "Lights out."
"I'm aware of that, sir. However, I think something should be brought to your attention."
The guard comes into view. He wears a blue suit shirt with a black tie, covered by a khaki duster. Black trousers complement his dark brown cowboy boots.
"What seems to be the probl-?" The guard blinks. "Hank?!"
"One and only." Henry holds his hands up. "My restraints just snapped. I'm in need of a new pair of handcuffs. Preferably sturdier ones."
"Wait." The guard grips his rifle. "What're you doing there in the first place? I never got the memo."
"Look, let's just say there was a bit of a mix up. You can talk to the Powers about it later." Henry shrugs. "All I'm asking for is just new handcuffs. I'd rather not get into more shit down the road, you know?"
The guard hesitates. He gestures at the bars with his rifle.
"Lay your wrists between them. Slowly."
Henry nonchalantly does as he is told. "Thank you."
The guard stares at him. He lowers his rifle and reaches into a pouch hidden under the duster.
For the split-second the guard fumbles around, Henry grabs him by the sleeve, smashing him against the cold iron. The prisoner clocks the guard just above his right temple. As the guard slumps, Henry catches him and takes the keys from his inner jacket pocket. Letting the jailor fall to the ground, Henry promptly inserts the key into the keyhole of his door. A relieving click precedes the door opening.
Henry steps out. "Thank you very much."
He looks both ways of the prison corridor before tossing the keys to the cellmate across the hall.
"I'm not playing distraction for you." The other prisoner leaves the keys back to the jailor.
"Smart man." Henry nods.
"I'm serious. You're not gonna make it past the entrance."
"Watch me."
Beside a steel door, covered with copper gears and silver clockwork, a guard sits at his desk. The rosewood work surface has a computer-like monitor on it, as well as a steaming, white mug. He rests his head on his left hand. With heavy eyelids, he stares at whatever is on the glaring screen. The guard blinks and tilts his head at the monitor.
A knocked out guard, in the east wing of the prison.
Reaching for the mug, the gatekeeper feels a hand grip him from the back of his head. The fingers entangle his brown hair and yank his head back, before bashing his face against the rosewood.
Henry shoves the monitor off the table. The clamour of plastic caving and glass shattering linger across the hallway. He opens the guard's duster and sees a green lanyard tucked under his suit shirt. Henry pulls out the cloth band and sees that it holds a keycard.
"Rookie."
Henry gets the mug and puts the tip on his lips. The bitter contents spill into his mouth and fall down his throat. Still holding the mug, he pats the guard on the back and walks to the steel door. The gears and clockwork turn and twist from a single keycard swipe. The door opens.
Freedom awaits.
DRIP...
DRIP…
Hesitation gets the better of Henry as he turns back to the unconscious guard and sees blood fall from the desk. Blinking the sight in, he proceeds through the doorway.
Bright light invades his left, forcing him to look at the prison's infirmary. He enters and sees an operating table in the center of the room and a few chairs surrounding it. To the end of the room, a lone medic cataloguing the pills takes her hair tie off, letting her long chestnut hair drop.
Carefully placing his steps, Henry moves closer to her until he is right behind the physician. He raises his left hand and covers her mouth and pinches her nose. Hearing her whimper, he raises his right hand, extending his forefinger to touch his lips.
"Shhh."
She quiets down as her hazel eyes meet his crimson red. She nods and feels the filthy fingers clamping on her nose let go. The medic takes in a deep breath while fumbling with something in her fatigues. Henry looks down and sees her holding a call remote. He glares at her, feeling her tremble under his grip.
"Don't," he whispers.
She presses the button.
Henry removes his hand from the nurse's mouth and grabs at her long chestnut hair, smashing her head onto the pill cabinet she was cataloguing.
Watching her fall over and flop like a fish, Henry turns his attention back to the pill cabinet. He continues his search until he finds a group of white, circular pills. On one side, an "M" was encircled by a square. On the other, is the number 100.
Henry swallows a pill dry and leaves the room. Only a few more miles.
Hank waves to the patrol car and watches it drive off. The crickets are in full clamor now, relentless during the brisk night. Dogs bark at humming streetlight he stands under. As he turns to home, Hank pulls his arms to himself. He kicks the path leading to his porch, feeling a piece of the sandstone chip away. His feet crunches the ground, widening unseen cracks until he reaches the other side.
Hank raps his knuckles against the sprucewood door. Two sets of knocks, like always.
Knock, knock. Knock, knock.
He waits a few seconds. Footsteps hurry from the other side.
Click, click.
And two clicks back, like always.
The doorknob turns and the front door opens. Hank could already feel the warm air alluring him from indoors, with the even warmer face of his wife greeting him. Cathy bear hugs him once he steps inside. He replies in full; after all these years, he had gotten used to the parts of her that were stronger than him.
"Welcome home," she whispers.
"It's good to be home." He presses his face against her neck, letting her feel the cold features of his face. "Really good."
Their lips touch as Hank shuts the door behind him. As they part with the silence, his shoulders droop down and no longer strain.
"Are you okay?" She gives him a peck on the lips as they walk to the bedroom, hand in hand.
Hank says nothing, so Cathy leaves him with his thoughts. Inside their room, the queen-sized bed sits between two nightstands with their respective lamps. Across from them, lines of books packed a shelf between two dressers, with the centerpiece of the mini-library being an aged copy of Sun Tzu's "Art of War."
He sits down at the bed, rubbing at his face. "We're still on square one."
She sits next to him. "Really?"
"Yeah. I don't know what to do now." Hank falls back onto the bed. "Henry's antics keep giving me an aneurysm."
Cathy carefully lies by his side. "Reminds me of you."
Hank stares back at the ceiling. "Very funny."
Cathy rests her head upon her hand while she makes small twirls with her husband's black hair. Hank frowns to himself before he faces her directly.
"What could we possibly have in common?"
"Your people skills. Like back when we were dating."
"It wasn't that bad."
Cathy gives him an "are you serious" look. "'Nice weather we're having' didn't exactly make me fall head over heels for you, you know?"
"We weren't technically dating at that moment, so that doesn't count." Hank reaches for the hand messing with his hair and intertwines both sets of fingers. "It seems like he didn't grow up."
"Yeah," her smile fades. "It makes me wonder if he's what you would've turned into if we didn't work out."
"You shouldn't have to wonder." Hank sits up slightly, still eye to eye with Cathy. "He's not our problem anymore."
Cathy's expression melts, this time in a less playful manner. "Hank."
"Look. Whatever or whomever he is, he's not worth the effort to improve."
"Hank, he's gotten himself broken and beaten all his life. Can't you at least help him out with his drinking?"
Hank's face scrunches in scrutiny. "Do we look like a charity?"
"It's not just out of goodwill, Hank. If he's going to stay here, shouldn't we help him find a place in the world?"
"He can do and go wherever and whatever the hell he wants, as long as that place isn't here." Hank sits up fully. "I think right now, we should focus on us and Damien. Henry's now being taken care of in Antithesis."
Her face lights up. "Just like Danny?"
Hank looks into her eyes as his throat runs dry. "Yeah. Just like Daniel."
The soothing silence makes a more awkward turn. From behind, Cathy wraps her arms around Hank's chest.
"Hey, I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have pushed you like that."
"No, I'm just… a little stressed, that's all." He forces himself to accept that answer.
"Well..." her warm breath tickles the side of his ear as she traces a finger by his neck. "I think I know one way I can help you with that."
"Christ." Hank chuckles as he looks at her. "The covers and the comforter haven't even been straightened from last night."
"Then we can fix them tomorrow." Her grip on him tightens. "And make double the mess tonight."
"You're shameless, Catherine."
Hank spins around and pins Cathy's arms to the bed in one motion. She yelps, but her erratic breathing and the grin on her face tells him what he needs to hear. They close their eyes, inching their faces closer and closer, until…
"DADDY!"
The couple's heads smash into each other. They scramble over the bed like startled teenagers caught by their parents, with Hank nearly falling off and Cathy trying to show some semblance of composure.
"Damien, you're..." The words stumble out of Hank's mouth as he rubs at his forehead. "... conscious."
"I wanted to play cops and robbers again." Damien frowns. "Are you and mom fighting the Boogeymen again?"
His parents' faces go beet red. Hank grits his teeth.
"Damn it, Deimos…" he mumbles to himself.
Henry keeps trekking down the hallway. The grey walls take no notice from him until he spots a steel door to his left. The door is latched onto the wall itself and looks to have some dust covering the latches. He takes a deep breath as his right eye begins twitching. His fingers tremble and forearms clench.
"Only You could leave us in the dark."
He turns away from the door, glaring at the end of the hallway, deafened by the siren going off. Covering his ears with his left hand and right shoulder, Henry leans against the wall closest to him.
"ATTENTION! ATTENTION! A PRISONER HAS ESCAPED FROM THE EASTERN CONTAINMENT DIVISION! HE BEARS A STRIKING RESEMBLANCE TO HANK J. WIMBLETON!"
Henry resumes walking down the hallway, feeling the soundwave push on his shoulders and the back of his neck as the announcement continues.
"ORDERS ARE TO TAKE HIM ALIVE! DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE HIM! THE OPERATIVE WHO SUCCESSFULLY CAPTURES HIM WILL BE AWARDED WITH 60,000 CREDITS!"
"Damn hyper-hearing!" The siren continues, while Henry keeps his ears covered. "Sounds like a foghorn!"
With his continued journey down this hallway, Henry spots a pine door to his right. He tries the door handle, but the door will not budge.
Henry takes a step back and with a powerful kick, smashes it open.
"Figures."
As soon as he enters the room, he immediately closes the door behind him, pressing his body against it. In front of him is darkness, with the only source of light coming from the bottom of the door behind him. Even with the siren beating on Henry's ears, he hears footsteps nearby and sees shadows pass under the door. One of the shadows sits.
"Guys, wait up!"
Another shadow appears under the doorframe. "Wolfgang, I really doubt that prisoner'll be in that closet."
"You never know. Cover me."
Henry can feel the door getting pushed. He promptly moves to his left and has the door open and cover him. Light can be seen reflected from the walls as subtle footsteps make their mark.
Just keep moving.
Fingers appear on the door, light being shone on the floor right at Henry's feet. Rusty creaking sound off as the door moves away from Henry. Right in front of him is a grisly man, half a foot shorter than him with a rifle pointed right at the prisoner's heart.
Henry slowly raises his hands. "You shouldn't've checked here."
Wolfgang holds his rifle steady, having the light be on Henry's eyes. With a right hand as fast as a bullet escaping the barrel of a gun, Henry knocks the gun upward. The gun fires, drowned out by the siren still sounding.
Henry pulls the rifle from his attacker's hands and uses the butt of the gun to strike at Wolfgang's sternum. This was followed by a bash to the jaw, making it come out of place and blood spit out of the Operative's mouth.
Henry turns the flashlight off on the rifle. "Where're all these rookies coming from?"
"Wolfgang, Come on!"
Henry stands right beside the doorframe and pops out, shooting whoever's in front of him. The assailant falls, watching blood seep out of his shins and knees. Bullets pass by Henry as he hides back in the room.
Subtle footsteps make their familiar sound as Henry keeps his rifle close.
"Get out with your hands over your head."
Haven't tried this in a while.
Henry lowers his rifle and walks on the center of the doorway.
"Drop the gun."
He does as he is told. The siren drowns out the metallic clink as the gun collides with the concrete floor.
One of the Operatives takes a step back, keeping his gun aimed between Henry's eyes. "Hands up."
Henry raises his hands. The Operative takes a few steps closer to him takes his wrists, but Henry pulls him close and keeps him in front.
"Put your gun down and your friend will be let go."
"You harm him-"
Henry grabs the Operative's legs and picks him up. With him off the ground, he throws the hostage at his comrade, all the while feeling a sharp pain over his right hip. Like bowling pins colliding, they both hit the wall before falling on the ground.
Henry limps to the Operative he shot and takes his pistol. "You boys make sorry soldiers."
Seeing him crawl to a rifle, Henry pulls back the slide and keeps it pointed at the Operative's head. He rests his left foot on the downed man's back. "You get any closer and you won't get chewed out by your superior. Ever."
The Operative's fingers tremble and shake as he inches his hand closer to the rifle. Henry kicks the gun, watching it slide down the floor as he feels streams come out of his ears. With his left hand, he feels his ear and sees blood drip from his fingers.
"Enough's enough," he grouches to himself.
Reaching the end of the hallway, Henry takes off what remains of his overcoat and tears it into bandages. He looks to his right hip and sees a bullet hole close to his appendix. He hastily puts the makeshift bandages over his lower abdomen. Stickiness makes him look to his wound and sees the wounded area turn dark red.
Wiping his brow, Henry leans against the wall that ends the hallway and feels a material that is too thin to be concrete. He brushes his right hand against the area and punches through it with his left. Tearing down the rest of the thin area of the wall, Henry finds himself in the company of a spiral staircase that leads even lower but also up above, to the moonlight.
"Didn't think they'd still use this passage."
Henry grins as he sprints up the stairs, skipping three steps with each stride.
Loud footsteps finally become audible for Henry as he reaches the surface. Alongside that, he can hear his own panting and sits beside the manhole.
"Glad that's over with," Henry snaps at his left ear, hearing it, somewhat faintly. "But in any case, I'm gonna need to get to Hank's."
He looks to the desert in front and to the Mesa behind him. A bullet whizzes past his nose, making him jump back and hide behind a group of rocks as more shots are heard. Looking up and peeking over, Henry spots a familiar glare that comes from a sniper rifle scope. Another shot is fired, shattering a rock to his left.
"Why's he toying with me?"
In the distance, the revving of a motorcycle can barely be heard. Looking south, Henry sees a man in a black leather jacket riding a white dual sport motorcycle down the desert road.
"Now or never, Henry."
Henry leaps from his hiding spot and runs to the motorcyclist. Reaching the center of the road, he waves his hands up high and stays in front of the rider.
The white motorcycle slows then stops. "What in God's name happened to you?"
BANG!
The cyclist and his bike fall over. Henry turns back to the Mesa and sees that same glare. He picks up the bike and rides in the opposite direction it was going.
Damien slowly opens the door to his parents' room. Dread fills him as the door opens with a creak. Both Hank and Cathy are sound asleep in their bed, with Hank having his arm over Cathy's shoulders and chest.
Damien pokes at his father's shoulder, then at his chest. "Dad, wake up."
Hank shifts his head slightly. Damien resumes poking then shakes at his father's shoulder until he can see Hank's eyes open.
"Damien? What're you doing up at this hour?" Hank yawns as he looks at the clock. "It's four in the morning."
Damien's hands and body tremble. "I'm scared, Dad."
Hank sits up. "Another nightmare?"
Damien shakes his head. "Ghosts."
"Ghosts?"
"Yeah, I can show you."
Grabbing his father's hand, Damien leads him downstairs to the kitchen. He points to the corner by the stove. "There."
Hank turns on the light, seeing the air in that specific corner shift and have lines move about. It is as though it is a birthing form of itself.
Damien gets picked up by his father and is taken back to his parents' room. He gets put down at the doorway and watches Hank run to the bed. His mother is shaken awake.
"Catherine. Wake up, now."
Cathy's eyes open wide. "Wha-what happened?"
Hank looks around the room. "Somebody's in the house. Come on."
Cathy is helped out of bed and Damien gets picked up again and is held above Hank's left shoulder. Once all three are out of the room, Hank hands Damien to his wife.
"Get to the panic room. NOW."
Cathy runs down the hall as Hank turns to the stairs, seeing the familiar set of lines shifting right in front of him.
"Show yourself."
"You have no authority over me."
Hank's brow furrows at the metallic voice. "I don't?"
The lines slowly grow more defined by the second. A man comes into existence, out of the shell of his camouflage and back into it.
Hank approaches the lines and sees them dissipate all the while hearing a motorcycle revving in the distance.
"HANK!"
Hearing Cathy's voice downstairs, Hank runs down a flight and sees his wife cornered by more sets of air-shifting lines at the living room.
"DAD!" Damien cries as the remaining lights go out.
The only source of illumination comes from the street lamps outside the windows on each wall of the living room. Hank raises his fists, waiting for a strike to come. He turns to the glassware cabinet on the west wall of the house and hears steam hissing.
Turning to the sound, Hank feels hot steel colliding with his cheekbone. He stumbles back, his tongue feeling the empty space in his mouth that had his left maxillary cuspid. Blood and tooth fragments escape Hank's mouth as he prepares for another hit.
Feeling the radiating heat, Hank ducks slightly and catches the arm into a kote mawashi hold.
KCK!
One of the sets of lines shrieks and backs away while Hank feels a swift uppercut under his chin. He shakes his head and waits for the same attack, only to feel a kick to his sternum.
Hank closes his eyes and raises his fists to face and chest level. His head shifts from left to right, hearing footsteps in front of him. With a well placed underhook, he was able to keep the other attacker from getting closer to him.
"Enough!"
Opening his eyes and turning to the familiar electronic voice, Hank can see the glare from the barrel of a silver SR.357 Magnum pointed at Damien's temple and a Raging Bull 44 Magnum pointed at Cathy's.
Damien whimpers, holding his mother tight.
Okay Hank, you can do this. If I can get something to distract the these guys, I should have enough t-
Revving from outside becomes too loud to ignore. Bright light flashes from the windows closest to the glass and antique cabinet. One of the sets of lines in front of Hank refracts the newfound illumination, exposing itself.
The lights grow brighter, blinding the apparent invader as a white dual sport motorcycle runs through the window and onto to him. The shirtless rider is in full view of everybody, a large grin etched on his face. Everyone can see the lashing marks all over his lower back, his left shoulder is missing flesh, and the back of his neck shows rope burns.
The bike smashes the intruder into the ground and stops right next to the sets of chairs in front of the television. The rider gets off and turns to Hank, revealing a number 26 branded on his chest and black cloth wrapped around his lower abdomen.
Hank blinks at the entrance. "Henry?"
While everyone else is distracted by the scene before them, Cathy seizes Damien and runs out the back door. Hank charges at the attackers, but gets shoved onto the bike by Henry.
The air vibrates as a bolt of electricity lands on Henry, forcing him through the cabinet. Glasses and antiques of different assortments shatter on impact, showering shards slashing his flesh. Hank looks to the source and sees the lines and oddities in the air dissipate.
"Henry!" He calls out.
Henry can only respond in groans. Hank grabs a spare pistol from under the television. He raises his sidearm and peers outside the back door. Cathy is out on the road, holding Damien tightly in her arms.
Hank sighs. "They're gone."
Walking to his twin, Hank could see third degree burns on the right side of Henry's chest where the bolt of lightning hit him. He picks his doppelganger up in a bridal carry and puts him on the couch behind the chairs and motorbike.
"You did good Henry." Hank pats the top of Henry's head. "You did good."
Henry gives no response as he lies on the couch, wincing from his new wound.
Hank goes out the back door. "We're all right for now, Catherine!"
Cathy does not loosen her grip on Damien, who had long since passed out. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Hank turns to the fallen homewrecker. "They're gone."
"God," she whispers, checking if Damien is still asleep. "Who were those people?"
He cannot give her an immediate answer. Police sirens wail in the distance as more of their neighbors exit their houses.
"I wish I knew."