His brain told him it was the wind that blew the door shut. Ten paces and he would be at the door, and able to open it to freedom. It isn't the same as the last time.
His body didn't quite believe him. His adrenal glands kicked in, their potent juices hitting his heart and ratcheting its rate tenfold. Absent any wind now, the shed became a dry sauna, the heat enveloping and smothering. Seizing the moisture from his mouth and air passages. Cotton in his throat. Dead silence but for the rush of his surging blood pressure in his ears and the sound of his ragged breathing.
He closed his eyes in an attempt to bring his bodily functions under control. Tried slowing his breathing, but as he breathed more deeply the heat entered his lungs and suffused his body, bringing his already elevated temperature up.
Squatting where he stood he felt around the ground for the lost flashlight. His fingertips brushed the very end where it had rolled under the nearest shelf. Only a couple of inches in which to manoeuvre his hand and he felt it roll further away. He stood up in defeat.
Okay…no light. Just walk to the door.
He could yell for help. Plenty of cops around. Just what he wanted- to be rescued. Again. Not an option.
Mentally orienting himself, he took three steps towards what he thought should be the door, and felt his ankle contact something that fell into his path, tripping him up and causing him to lurch forward. His hand grabbed blindly for support and succeeded only in finding more handles that gave under his touch and fell clattering to the ground.
His normally competent antiperspirant finally succumbed and sweat began trickling in rivulets down his sides under his shirt. His forehead was already past beaded, and he wiped irritably with his latex clad hand at his eyes, the salty sweat causing them to sting and burn. The latex just moved the sweat around instead of absorbing it so he pulled the tails of his shirt out of his pants and wiped his face.
Blinking a few times to clear the last of the stinging he tried once more to gather himself. He knew where he was. He knew why he was there. There was a door. He could exit whenever he wanted to. Just had to get there. He could now picture where he was and he forced himself to remain calm and refused to do what his body was telling him to do - screaming at him to do, which was sprint for the door.
He strode purposefully to the door and as his hand pushed the door it flew open to reveal Warrick framed against the night sky.
He pushed past his friend without a word, hoping his fear and anxiety wasn't apparent. Warrick grabbed his arm and tried to stop him. He shook his friend's hand free and took a few more steps before turning to face him.
Before he could say a word-
"Nick. What the hell were you doing in there?"
"My job."
"What were you thinking shutting the door? It must be over a hundred and fifty in there. And where's your flashlight?"
"I didn't shut the door. The wind musta caught it."
Warrick looked like he was about to say something more but Nick figured he must not be as good an actor as he hoped because Warrick brought himself up short from his next pointed question.
"Jeez, Nick. How long were you in there? Are you okay?"
"Fine."
"Well the way your eyes are going all glazy and the sweat covering your entire body tells me otherwise. Why don't you grab a bottle of water and sit in the truck for a while? Take a chill. Literally, Man. You need to cool down a bit."
"I'm fine," he repeated.
Warrick lowered his voice and moved his face in closer to Nick, apparently conscious of the presence of the cops still wandering the perimeter. "Nick. Less than four months ago you were spending the night in the Cardiac Unit. Do yourself a favor before you wind up back there. Go back to the truck and turn on the AC. On high."
"I have a job to do, Warrick. Back off. Give me your flashlight."
The look on his face must have been something else, because his partner handed over the light without argument.
He grabbed the flashlight, turned it on, and re-entered the shed, this time stepping nimbly over all the fallen garden tools. He felt Warrick enter the shed silently behind him.
He made his way back to the shelf where he had seen the gun and reached back to grab it by the very end of the exposed muzzle. A Heckler and Koch 9mm by the look of it. Bobby would know for sure. Reversing the gun and grabbing it by the very end of the butt he walked the firearm back out of the shed. Grabbing anther plastic storage bag, he dropped the weapon in and sealed the top. Forcing himself to follow procedure he pulled a Sharpie from his vest and initialed and dated the seal. He noticed his hand shaking as he wrote N. Stokes 9/23/05.
Warrick had exited behind him, maintaining a hovering pattern around him. He again hoped fruitlessly that his friend wouldn't notice the shake, but it was difficult to hide under such close scrutiny. He caught another concerned look from his friend.
Sighing, he handed over the flashlight back to his partner. He grabbed the tail of his shirt and wiped away the perspiration that had re-accumulated on his forehead and had his eyes burning again.
His heart rate was still way up and he felt lightheaded. Worse, he felt utterly depressed. And angry. Five minutes in a fucking garden shed and he was weak-kneed and sweating. So much for back to normal. And 'the look' was back, pasted all over his partner's face. Rather than deal with him, he figured he'd take the easy route and walk away.
He lowered his head and tried to keep his pace slow so as to not attract any unwanted attention. Made it unnoticed to the driveway. He opened the door of his truck, assaulted by the waft of new heat that escaped through the open door. He turned the key on and started the AC running. Ripped off the heavy Kevlar vest. A blast of scorching hot wind struck him leaving sand glued in the sweat coating his face. He ripped off the latex gloves and threw them on the passenger seat then rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. Checked his hands. Still a slight tremble, so he balled them up into fists, then stretched his fingers back out, trying to work it out.
He still had the handgun, so he walked to the back of the truck and popped the hatch, pulling open the rear storage area. He placed it into a lockbox and shut the hatch back up. Walked back around to the driver side and hauled himself up into the seat. Shut the door and let his head fall back onto the headrest.
His enjoyment of the AC was short-lived as the passenger side door opened up and his partner climbed up into the adjoining seat, shutting the door behind him. Warrick reached into the back and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to Nick without a word. He took the bottle, a nod the only allowance for gratitude he felt but didn't particularly feel like showing. Polishing off the bottle in a series of long pulls, the cool water gushed down his throat, the liquid washing away some of the heat and grit but sitting like a cold stone upon its arrival in his stomach.
He thought briefly of closing his eyes and wishing away his friend.
Nope. Wishing your friends into cornfields only works in the Twilight Zone.
He turned to look at Warrick, knowing his friend was itching to say something. Mentally shaking his head he audibly sighed. "What?"
"Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you?"
"Yup. Fine."
Now it was Warrick's turn to sigh. "Yeah. You look fine," he said, sarcasm dripping from the words.
"I am fine. Leave it go, Rick."
"Man, cut yourself some slack, Bro. We all know how great you've been doing. Give yourself some credit. The door blew shut. Just …"
His voice trailed off but Nick heard the words anyway. Just bad luck. Yup.
"Nick, Man. Don't let it shake you. One ripple. That's all. Man, you've been doing so well… I mean, if it had been me…"
That was the straw. Somewhere a camel screamed in pain.
"It wasn't you, Warrick."
"Shit, I know that. But I mean, it was just a coin toss- it could've--"
"No. It couldn't have been. Never would have been. Before that fucking coin ever hit the air, you and I both know who was going in that goddamned box."