Beyond the Storm

Iain’s throbbing pulse thunders into his swollen fingertips; tightening the swollen mass of tissue where flesh connected with bone. Ears ring with the shouts of the figures around him. They gather together, moving in perfect synchronization until there is no escape. The largest one brushes his fingers against his lip, baring rat-like teeth in a menacing grin when it comes away bloody.

Lightning flashes and illuminates the dark alleyway, the sharp contrast highlighting the sobbing rain that drips through Iain’s clothes. Next to his ear a raspy voice whispers incoherently, the grotesque sounds clawing fear into his gut. The heavy odor of flesh and blood drowns out the soft scent of the ozone. The figures converge suddenly, dark clothing heavy with moisture as knives are drawn. His head hits the ground with a muted crack. His limbs are pinned by the combined weight of three men. His back arches and limbs tremble with the effort to escape, but to no avail. Their leader holds up a single glove-covered hand, his face shadowed by a dark sweatshirt. His sleeve falls back revealing skin torn and puckered with burn scars, a single tattoo stands at attention, stark against his pale flesh.

“This will teach that scum brother of yours a lesson.” The words barely more than a whisper fly violently into the ears of everyone present. With that, his hand falls.

Screams echo unheard into the night, drowned by the deep roar of the thunder and the steady current of rain.

***

At eighty-three Margot Heaumann has far too few hobbies. A violent storm rages outside her window, sporadically illuminating her frail body with bursts of lightning. The cracked pane creaks and groans with the wind lashing at its surface, held together by thin strips of metallic duct-tape. Knob-knuckled fingers trace the rain racing down the window. An old crochet blanket wraps around achy knees. A warm cup of watered-down hot chocolate sits in her lap, tilted precariously, contents on the verge of spilling out. Liquid grey eyes, squinted with old age and cataracts peer intently outside, watching as a group of people close around someone. She shakes her head slightly; not wanting to watch someone get mugged, but too tired to move away.

From the mildewed curtains of her apartment, she watches someone fall. Her eyes dart away for a single moment, to a yellowed picture of her deceased husband, taped to the faded stripes of her wallpaper, the bottom signed, Love you forever, your dearest William. She mutters a brief prayer before she turns back; the only thing she learned in primary school that stuck with her. She witnesses the group converge on the figure. When the group leaves, the man doesn’t rise. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t wake.

Margot’s trembling, arthritic fingers reach toward a phone that hasn’t been updated since the eighties. She shifts it carefully from its nest of doilies, as one would hold a newborn baby. Picking up the receiver, a dial tone sounds faintly in her eardrum. Besides the phone rests a worn hat, exhausted from wars long past. Dog tags glint silver from their place, nestled under the brim.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The young woman’s voice sounds tinny and distant through the receiver.

“H-hello?”

“Hi. Margot? Is that you again?”

“Wh-why yes. How could you tell?”

“You called yesterday Margot… and the day before. What can I help you with?”

“Hello again dearie! I’m afraid I forgot about that. Well… I just thought you might want to know… oh dear! My hot chocolate spilled!”

“Margot? What did you want to tell me?”

“Oh, yes. There is a young man in the alley outside my apartment. He isn’t moving. I just thought you might want to know. I do hope that he is alright. If you will excuse me, I need to clean up my drink.”

“Margot! Can you stay on the line? We need to send people to investigate.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you need. What was your name again?”

“Rebecca. Thank you for the tip Mrs. Heaumann.”

With a sigh of relief so deep it pops her back, she settles back into her chair, the spilled drink forgotten. Her pillow settles uncomfortably in the small of her back. The wind hammers against her window, scattering the drops before they reach the bottom. With a light knock against her creaky door, a young man walks in. His dark hair is plastered to his lightly freckled forehead, dark stars scattered on his skin with raindrops. Leather gloves are pulled from his hands; the raw scent of cowhide mingles with the mothball odor of the apartment.

“Nana? Are you in here?” His deep voice calls softly to his grandmother, bouncing softly from room to room until it reaches her chair by the window.

His steps pad softly over the faded floral rugs scattered across the carpet. Liquid grey eyes, mirroring those of his grandmother take in her figure, silhouetted by the dim light coming through the window.

“William? Is that you?” She asks without turning away from the window. His broad hands rest lightly on her shoulders. A childish grin blooms on her face, pulling at her cheeks and lighting her eyes that are still peering through the glass. A melancholy smile tugs at his heart as he lies to his grandmother.

“Yep! It’s William. I’ve missed you!”

The sleeve of his sweatshirt rides up to his forearm, the pale flesh is puckered and ruined. The landscape of his flesh still carries the light pink color of new skin, fresh and raw, like that of a newborn infant. The only blemish to the raw tone of his skin is a dark tattoo.

           Down below them on the street a dozen officers mill around, each with hands covered by white latex, investigating the apparent crime. An old, bald man scratches the top of his oiled head, confused.

Fog blurs the details from the miniature people below them, but one thing is evident. Blood stains the dirty pavement. Scattered and splashed and violent. They carefully open dumpsters, sift through heaps of garbage. They pace around the massive, bloody area. Despite their efforts nothing comes to light. There are no bloody footsteps leading away from the apparent massacre.

And there is no body.

Grandmother and grandson witness the search from high overhead, one grimly satisfied, the other innocently concerned. He takes Margot’s frail, decrepit hands in his and murmurs a quick apology.

I am so sorry that I must go darling, he says.

I will miss you, you know. And I will love you forever, she replies.

Within moments of his departure, the memory fogs and disappears. Watching the tiny figures mill about on the ground below, and waiting for William.