Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (14 page)

“
Man,
we gotta move.” Blackout pulls himself into the hallway where
an orange shade fills the corridor. The dull hues cast upon the
vintage wallpaper, causing sickening waves to float around inside
their heads.

No
sooner has he stepped away from the door when the ceiling crashes in.
Wood and brick topples to the carpet in a dust and debris riddled
cloud. Somebody's shopping bags brimming with not yet emptied
products spill among the rubble.

“
That
was close.”

Gunner
drags Blackout by the upper arm and pulls him away without digesting
it. Once they get free of this building, then they can analyse the
situation.

Something
must have crashed into this building too. But what?

Strange,
abstract paintings of boats and water lie on the carpet where they've
fallen. Gunner recalls seeing them last night in his drunken haze,
but he's never understood abstract. Elise used to say his “black
and white” view of the world stopped him from seeing things.

He
stumbles across the carpet across broken glass and other fallen
objects.

Glass
implodes and brick grinds against pressure somewhere within the
building, and both men fall forward.

Glancing
backwards, Gunner's face distorts into horror before he pushes the
other forward. “Run!”

If
the past has taught Blackout anything, then it is this: if Gunner
tells you to get down, you get down. If he tells you to stop, you
better damn well stop. Likewise, if Gunner tells you to run, you
don't wait for your brain to process the request.

Without
affording himself the luxury of viewing what he is fleeing from,
Blackout's boots thunder against the carpet. Gunner's ragged breath
amplifies in his ears, even over the carnage behind as the metal bulk
of something large drives through the hotel.

He
is unaware he is screaming as his feet lose solid ground and he
plunges into the darkness below.

•

“Good,
you're alive,” the raspy voice says.

His
body wakes into a sitting position before he understands where he is.
When the smell of dust and fumes hit his nose though, he knows he is
still inside the
fucking
hotel.

Searching
across pieces of wood and different textures of carpet, he goes for
his gun. His heart stutters as a hand grips his arm and pressure
pushes against his back.

“
No
gun
.
Come on, we have to find a way outta this shit hole.”

It
takes a moment for his head to fight through the mess to remember he
hasn't got his sidearm; he hasn't used it since leaving the force.

In
the distance, he hears sirens wailing over the metal groans and large
items dropping around them.

As
the pressure leaves his ripped top, a wisp of cold air comes from
somewhere, or at least that's what he tells himself.

“
What
happened?”

“
It
wasn't
a
plane crash.”

Pulling
himself to his feet with shaky vision, he stares around at the
confusion. The statement makes no sense to his head, in fact, he
doesn't understand why he would say it at all.

“
What—?”

“
You
fell a floor and hit your head, but you'll live.” The man
before him pulls him close by the shirt and stares into his face. The
mixture of grime and blood sticking across his face would be
hysterical if his head didn't thump so bad. His skull feels as though
someone is stuck inside and attempting to knock their way out with a
sledge hammer.

The
dryness clings tight to his cheek when his scrunches his expression
into curiosity. A sticky substance slides down one side of his face,
and Gunner realises it's from where Coban has taken a knock.

“
How
many fingers am I holding up?”

Wavering
before his eyes are the chunky digits that poke out from the
fingerless gloves.

“
Eight.”

Gunner
sighs and drops both hands. “There's ten.”

“
Eight
and two
thumbs,
fuck face.”

“
Well,
you seem okay.” Gunner stops to inspect his eyes before getting
back to his feet.

“
I
don't see a hole,” Blackout says as he looks about the ceiling.

“
Yeah
well, I had to lug your heavy ass away from it.”

Shaking
his head, Blackout stares around at the filth in confusion. It
doesn't even look like the same place. “Where are we?”

Gunner
stares, head tilted as if to state “where the hell do you
think, moron?” Yet, Blackout realises something else within his
mate's irritation. He may have the hangover from hell, but the spark
in his eye—the spark he hasn't glimmered in months—is
back.

Reaching
for the outstretched hand, Blackout gets to his feet. “What
came through?”

With
fingers running over the dirty stubble at his jaw, Gunner looks back
at the rubble behind them. “Not sure, it just . . . stopped.”

“
Fire?”
Blackout sniffs the air about him, but nothing comes to him besides
the dust and wisps of tainted air.

“
No.”

The
look in his mate's face forces him to turn.

What
the hell is going on here?

Sure,
there are sirens in the distance, but none seem to be getting any
closer, nor do any more screams fill the air. There appears to be no
commotion at all now, at least not from anywhere he can tell.

I
must have hit my head harder than I thought.

He
touches his forehead, then withdraws from the sting. If he didn't
know any better, he would insist they have transported to another
place.

“
Which
way?”

Gunner
steps past him and motions with his head. “Must be a way
through this, give me a hand.”

Furniture
blocks the way—a pine wardrobe and a mattress still with the
sheet hanging on. Across the material are crimson stains which
Blackout notes look too dry to have been from this accident. Wooden
planks have fallen atop them as well as bricks and filth.

Gunner
heaves the planks out his way and tosses them to the floor without
thought.

Lending
him a hand, Blackout throws fallen bricks and other debris aside when
his hand touches something soft. He delves deeper to pluck the item
from the rubble. As he stares at the limp body, he cannot help
feeling a pang of something in the pit of his stomach.

He
stares at the black eyes and red mouth on the stuffed body. The
thread hangs either side, making it seem as though the red lips are
frowning. The wool on the misshapen scalp is chestnut and hangs
either side in thick pigtails. On its modest, floppy body is a dress
of white and blue chequers that's sewn onto the limbs. A white frilly
apron is around the waist and large bloomers hang down to the thighs.
It reminds him of a rag doll his younger sister, Harriot, had of
Dorothy
from
The Wizard of Oz
.

Even
under the filth coating it, he swears it is hers.

Hers
had a huge smile though.

“
This
isn't time to find your inner child.”

Dropping
the doll to his side, he stares at Gunner's hardened face.

Maybe
he is right to be grieving. We've both lost people, yet he is the
only one acknowledging it.

Once
they clear enough rubble, he waits as Gunner holds the mattress up
enough for him to bend beneath. Ducking his head, he slips through
and returns the favour, then drops it back down.

This
side of the rubble, the floor is clearer and in a better state of
disrepair.

The
open door at the end of the corridor leads into a modest hallway area
where the staircase is. Although it all looks relatively similar from
when he was walking around earlier, he still cannot shake the feeling
this isn't the same place.

As
they come out into the open space with dust particles floating above
their heads, they find the staircase. Fallen obstacles restrict the
stairs leading upwards. Downstairs is more favourable with mostly
only glass from the shattered high windows decorating the carpet.
Heavy, scarlett curtains flap widly as the wind drags them outwards,
creating a sinister atmosphere that has both men on alert.

“
What
the hell is that?” Blackout points to the outside where the
storm clouds linger ominously. Despite the familiar darkened forms
still brewing over head, a red tint curls inside. At first, he feels
compelled to write it off as nothing but the product of the knock to
the head, but when Gunner slips in beside him, he knows it is not.

“
Is
it sunset?”

How
long have we been in here?

“
It
can't be sunset.”

Blackout
uncovers his wrist watch from beneath his long sleeve and grimaces.
The hands remain at three minutes past ten in the morning. Shaking
his arm, he listens for the ticking, but hears nothing.

“
Fantastic,”
he scowls. “If it's not sunset, then what?”

Over
the darkened clouds, the crimson becomes more prominent as it leaks
into the surrounding sky.

“
I
can tell you what it isn't,” Gunner states before setting his
feet into action down the stairs. “Come on, let's move.”

Standing
there a moment longer, Blackout thinks back to his walk earlier.
There was nothing abnormal about it as far as he can recall.

I
was too busy worrying about his drunk ass to notice anything else.

When
Gunner calls back to him, it snaps him from his thoughts and he sets
his feet into motion. He tries to ignore the banister where finger
marks and smudges of blood cling, but finds he can't.

Where
did this come from?

As
he treads over the glass, the outside chill creeps beneath his
clothes, causing his insides to involuntaryily tremble. As he reaches
the bottom, the stillness of the building grips him.

Written
on a golden wall plague is the number seven.

We
were on level nine, so we must have fallen to eight.

In
contrast to the screaming and the building's groans as it was tearing
apart, this is much worse. The emptiness makes him so uneasy he has
to refrain from calling out.

“
The
calm before the storm, hey?”

His
whisper doesn't travel far, so he doubts Gunner hears him. He is too
busy staring down the left corridor and straining to hear.

“
Do
you hear that?”