Fuck the Rules Page 10

“Come in!”

  She turned the knob and entered the small office. It looked like little more than a converted janitorial closet, but any room would have looked small with the giant of a man sitting behind the desk inside.

  “Dinah, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Come in and take a seat. I have to finish some paperwork for another student’s graduation application, but I’ll be done in a moment.”

  The young woman nodded and closed and locked the office door. Dr. Larson was oblivious to the fact that his door had been bolted. She could see the reflection of his screen in his glasses and pursed her lips. He wasn’t filling out paperwork for a student – he was playing Solitaire.

  Brilliant, she thought. Glad to know I’m still not a priority.

  “So, what brings you in, Dinah?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  “I wanted to talk to you about David’s promotion, again. You put him at the head of my project and I want to know why.”

  The man heaved a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes. He turned to face her for the first time, giving her his full attention. “Look, Dinah, we’ve talked about this. He was promoted—”

  “Because he has the most professional experience. I know what you said, but how about the truth this time?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The best projects go on to compete at the state level, and at conferences around the nation. The leader of the research team is the one who gets to present at those competitions and conferences, and you didn’t want to have a woman speaking for this department.”

  “That’s absurd. I would love to have you participate. I only chose David because—”

  Dinah raised a hand to silence him. “Because that summer he spent as a team leader-slash-bus boy at Chuck E. Cheese really prepared him for the management track, and you want to see him succeed. Am I close?” she hissed defensively. “Fine. If that’s the lie you want to keep telling yourself, fine.”

  The man’s eyes had diverted back to his game as she spoke, which only irritated her further.

  “Can you at least help me clear something up about the experiment data? I think there was either a data collection or calculation error, but I’m unsure.”

  The man sighed but nodded. She moved around the desk as he logged into the mainframe.

  “What am I looking for?” he asked.

  “Check over the information for the last few days,” Dinah instructed. “Tell me if you see anything weird.”

  As he scrolled, she drew the gun from its holster. She made sure the safety was off, and then pulled the hammer back.

  Dr. Larson stopped reading at that sound. He was former military – he couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard it. “Dinah? What are you doing?” he asked, raising his hands in his best ‘don’t shoot me’ pose.

  “I’m taking out the lying, cheating, misogynist, loser-promoting trash,” she replied, pulling the trigger.

  The bullet went through the back of his skull, leaving a small entry wound, but the .45 caliber round had torn a large section out of his face and took a good chunk of his nose along with it.

  Blood splashed back on her from the impact and she smiled a 100-watt, all-teeth, prom queen smile. She kept on grinning as pieces of bone marrow and brain matter slid down the face of the broken monitor. She didn’t dim her smirk even after she holstered her weapon and walked out of the small office.

  They were remodeling the building next door, and she had conveniently decided to plan her revenge for a day that demolition was scheduled. The shot fired was assumed to be part of the jackhammering and controlled blasts outside, so no one came running.

  Dinah’s phone rang once she was outdoors and heading back for the lab. The caller ID let her know it was her father.

  “Hey, Daddy,” she crooned. “What are you up to?”

  “Not a lot, Pumpkin. I wanted to call and see if you were having any luck getting through to the people at school.”

  “Much better. Actually, I don’t think I’ll have any more trouble with them. They’re all seeing things my way.”

  “Good, girl. That’s my baby. Well, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have some work to do.”

  “I do. I definitely do. Thanks for checking on me, Daddy.”

  “Anytime, Pumpkin.”

  When she got to the building she entered the lab through the back window she had climbed out of.

  She stepped around the now sticky and drying blood which had pooled on the laminate flooring. She surveyed the grim scene for a moment before she turned on the nearest computer. There was no doubt she would be discovered soon, and she still had work to do. With no leadership left, it was a matter of time before their hard work was abandoned and forgotten. She had to finish the last round of edits on their manuscript before someone noticed all the blood. She didn’t anticipate having more than an hour or two to work, but with any luck that was all she would need. She would not allow the day’s sacrifices to be in vain.

  The Hanging Wood

  Guy N. Smith

  Life was almost idyllic, Harvey Mitchell reflected as he set out with shotgun and Ellie, his springer spaniel, that foggy December afternoon. He had been appointed manager of a small rural branch of his bank only last year. A keen sportsman, the offers to shoot over several customers’ farms were soon forthcoming, the latest being that owned by Frank Wylie. It comprised a few hundred acres, mostly grassland but with an oak wood on a steep hill amidst the fields.

  Wylie had needed a loan to tide him over until he received his pending agricultural payment and Harvey had obliged. Hence he was here now on unfamiliar territory with maybe the chance of a shot or two and something to take home for the freezer. New ground was always exciting, as one never knew what it held.

  “Heel!” he called the spaniel back, stood and surveyed those oaks which covered the hill up ahead. It would be a steep climb but it was the best place to flush a pheasant or two, maybe a woodcock. One never knew what to expect in such places.

  Frank had told him that it was known locally as the Hanging Wood. It was rumoured that, after the sacking of a Roundhead stronghold in the Civil War by the Royalists, prisoners taken alive were hanged there. Harvey smiled to himself. Another local rumour of which there were many such throughout England. In effect there were numerous similar woods growing on steep ground named “hanging” woods simply because of their elevation. He pushed it from his mind and concentrated upon any game which he might find up there.

  Dusk was already creeping across the landscape by the time he reached the fringe of that steep area. He wished that he had come here directly upon his arrival at the farm. Still, there should just be time to find a pheasant going up to roost or maybe a woodpigeon or two flighting in from feeding on the surrounding farmland.

  “What the hell’s up with you?” Ellie was hanging back, tail between her legs, clearly reluctant to enter that wood. She gave a low whine. That was very strange as usually he had problems keeping her close to him. “Come on, don’t be so bloody stupid!”

  She obeyed with obvious reluctance but, instead of walking to heel, she slunk some distance behind him with her belly close to the ground.

  The hill was steeper than he had envisaged and the daylight was fading fast. Moss and lichen formed a slippery carpet beneath his feet and the giant oaks grew in weird, twisted shapes where the wind had battered them over the centuries. It would be tricky shooting any bird which flushed.

  A hundred yards further on he paused for breath. As the daylight faded, a thin mist began to creep in.

  “It’s a waste of time today,” he spoke to Ellie, who was still cringing behind him. “I think we’ll head for home and give it a try another day.”

  There was an almost overpowering odour of rotting vegetation from the fallen leaves which carpeted the slippery, mossy ground, along with something else which penetrated his nostrils and throat. The stench of rotting flesh. It was probably from a decomposing fox or bad
ger, he told himself, but somehow that did not seem quite right.

  “Let’s go home.” He had half turned to retrace his slippery steps when he became aware of a rustling, low growing branches being thrust aside. It would not be from a small animal; perhaps it was a deer. Somehow that did not seem right. Whatever it was he wasn’t going to hang around any longer. Ugh!

  A sudden rasping cough was followed by a muffled mumbling which was definitely human. Somebody was coming downhill in his direction. Harvey experienced a desire to flee, which was just damned stupid, he told himself. Folks came up here, ramblers visiting the area. But surely not in this weather or at this time of day. The breeze which was bringing in the mist moaned softly. Like it was warning him. Don’t be so bloody stupid he told himself.

  “Come on, Ellie. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

  Then a shape materialised out of the gloom. He saw an outline, upraised arms pushing obstructing branches aside, small twigs cracking. Whoever it was they were hurrying, probably eager to reach open terrain like himself.

  “Who’s there?” he spoke in a grating whisper.

  The stranger came into view and paused a few yards in front of him, head thrust forward on stooped shoulders. The other’s clothing was ragged, a jacket that hung in shreds, a near skeletal hand clutching a stick to support his frail, bent body. A whiskered face, pallid, with staring eyes that seemed to recede into their sockets.

  “Go back!” the stranger spoke, his cracked tones barely audible. “Before it’s too late. They are coming!”

  “Who?” Harvey instinctively pushed the safety catch forward on his 12-bore, half raised the gun. “Who’s coming? What’s going on?”

  The stranger halted. His breath was rasping as he held on to a tree trunk for support. There was something decidedly strange about his clothing, a long ripped and flapping coat that might have come from a long past era. A forest worker? A farmhand looking for missing livestock in this eerie wood?

  “Flee, or else they will hang you like they’ve hanged the others!”

  The guy was crazy. All the same, Harvey wasn’t going to stick around any longer. There was no sign of Ellie for she had fled in terror. He turned away and that was when his foot caught a protruding tree root, flinging him headlong.

  He cursed, dragged himself up into a sitting position. Now there was no sign of the mysterious stranger; he had vanished without a sound just like he had never existed. And that was when Harvey Mitchell heard more crashing through the wood up above, angry voices shouting. Whoever they were, they were heading in his direction.

  He stumbled upright, raised his shotgun. Whatever was happening was crazy. He did not understand it and it was very frightening.

  Human shapes materialized out of the deepening gloom. There were three of them, men in broad brimmed hats and long flapping coats, wielding what looked like broad-bladed swords. It had to be some kind of terrifying nightmare.

  “Get the Revolutionist pig!” A hoarse shout rang out and the trio broke into a stumbling run.

  Harvey gave way to panic. Even so he could not murder fellow humans in cold blood, and the double shot from his gun was directed over their heads, crashing reports in the stillness of the forest. A warning to them that he was armed.

  It did not halt the oncoming trio. They were upon him in a rush, strong icy cold hands grabbing and holding him. The shotgun was wrested from his grasp, tossed aside, and now he faced his assailants.

  Jesus God! Deathly white faces beneath those broad-brimmed hats, their expressions sheer hatred and unspeakable evil, their mouths slobbering. Their breath was foul and overpowering, had bile scorching his throat.

  “Let go of me!” He screamed and a hand slapped his face.

  “Traitor! Where is your companion?”

  “I don’t have a…”

  A blow from a near skeletal fist and then icy, bony fingers gripped his throat. His arms were pinioned behind his back.

  “Liar! Traitor to the King!”

  It had to be a nightmare. Or else he had come upon a gang of poachers, criminals who feared recognition and arrest.

  Their breath was rancid and that stench of decaying flesh was stronger than before.

  “You will hang along with the others who sacked and sought refuge in Packington Hall. Traitors, all of you! God save our King.”

  Harvey did not understand. This was too crazy to be real. Strong, cold hands propelled him uphill, low growing branches whipping his face.

  “The uprising will be put down. All traitors will hang!”

  It was crazy, no way could it be real. They dragged him through a clearing where the fading daylight revealed a twisted oak. Something dangled from one of the lower branches, swinging gently to and fro. A body, a human corpse which had kicked its last vestige of life only minutes ago.

  “Scum!” A hand slapped Harvey Mitchell’s face. “You, too, will die along with those who rallied to Cromwell’s call!”

  His feet were dragged over the rough, steep terrain and his arms, twisted tight behind his back, threatened to snap under the strain. His brain spun, refused to accept that which was happening to him. He regretted shooting over the heads of those who now pulled him along; he should have blasted them into eternity and sod the consequences. Anything was preferable to this.

  A second body dangled from a branch, still alive and choking its last, a ragged figure beneath which a long-bladed sword lay on the mossy ground. A third swung gently, a corpse in tattered garb which was soaked in blood. And further on yet another, barely discernible in the shadows of the approaching night.

  “A rope,” one of Harvey’s captors grunted to the other two. “Fetch a rope!”

  The hands which held him loosened their grip and he collapsed in a heap on the ground. A booted foot kicked him in the ribs, brought a gasp of pain from his dry mouth, which was greeted with coarse laughter from his captors.

  “You will hang along with these others who defied the army of the king. Your uprising will result in many more deaths before it is defeated. Long live the king!”

  All this could not be happening, it was impossible, he tried to convince himself. In an inexplicable return to the Civil War years, the Hanging Wood had become a scene of violent death.

  Their companion had been gone some time and those guarding Harvey were becoming impatient, chiding their captive as they waited.

  “The police will arrest you for murder.” His threat sounded trite in this unreal situation.

  “Police?” One man glanced, puzzled, at his companion. “What are police?”

  Neither understood because they had somehow returned from the days when the law was enforced by soldiers of the king. It was all beyond Harvey’s comprehension. It was impossible. He closed his eyes and prayed that it would all just disappear, that he would wake up and everything would be normal.

  Footsteps heralded the return of the third Royalist, a giant of a man forcing his way through the undergrowth. A length of thick rope trailed in his wake.

  “String him up,” he grunted in command. “Hang him in the name of the King.”

  “No!” Harvey tried to shout but his plea came out as a hoarse whisper.

  Two of the men pulled him roughly to his feet. The one with the rope slipped the noose over their prisoner’s head, tugged it tight around his neck. Nothing would stop them now.

  The end of the rope was tossed over a stout branch and then pulled taut. Harvey began to choke and there was no mistaking the taunts of the trio; they were enjoying every moment of this latest execution. One of them went to help their companion who was already starting to tug the length of frayed hemp. Another adjusted the noose around their prisoner’s neck. All was ready for yet another death.

  Harvey was mouthing final pleas for mercy. They were ignored. Now the trio began to take the strain, knees bent and heaving with all their strength.

  That was when Harvey Mitchell fainted into blissful oblivion.

  *

  Ha
rvey stirred. Something warm and wet was smoothing over his face. He began to regain consciousness. He groaned aloud, a hand supporting his neck, doubtless fumbling for the noose which would otherwise be strangling the life out of him. It was not there, just the collar of his thick shirt and a tie which was being loosened. He did not understand what was happening,

  “Ellie!”

  He found himself looking into the spaniel’s face, her tongue continuing to lick his cheeks. Then he heard a human voice, one that he recognized instantly, and called out a name in sheer relief.

  “Frank!”

  It was Frank Wylie who was bending over him, torch in hand, a puzzled and worried expression on his florid features.

  “Mister Mitchell, thank God you’re all right. Your dog came down to the farm and there was no mistaking her insistence that I followed her up here. I guessed that something had happened to you. No broken bones, that’s a relief,” he said, running his hands over the bank manager’s limbs. “I guess you must’ve had a fall, knocked yourself unconscious. Your gun’s lying here. Both barrels have been fired. I heard the shots, thought maybe you’d fired at a pheasant or a pigeon going up to roost. How d’you feel now? Can you make it back to the farm with my help?”

  “I’m okay, surprisingly.” Harvey struggled up on to his feet with the other’s help. “Let’s get back into the warm and I’ll tell you all about it. Maybe you can shed some light on what happened to me.”

  *

  “That’s how it was.” Harvey drained the last of the mug of hot tea, felt his frozen body beginning to thaw out. “I can’t explain it and I don’t expect you to believe me. Shall we say I fainted and had a nightmare whilst I lay there?”

  “I believe you, Mister Mitchell.” Frank Wylie finished lighting his pipe, blew a cloud of smoke up to the ceiling. “There are various legends passed down through the generations of local folk, stories about Cavaliers hanging Roundheads up there in that wood on the hill after they had taken back Packington Hall. My folks once told me that my grandfather had a similar experience to yours. Ran for his life and managed to escape his pursuers by the skin of his teeth. None of the locals will go anywhere near the Hanging Wood after dark. Even these days some claim to have heard screams coming from up there.”