The Turning

20

20

There had been skepticism in the operator's voice when Kyle had told them that he and the heart attack victim were barricaded in a house while a mob of people was shooting up the place. It seemed far-fetched for them to believe that such a thing could be happening in Wilton of all places.

Well, I suppose he’ll get a shock and a half, he thought, slamming the phone back in its cradle and hurrying back up the stairs. The old man was calling his name, and he could hear the thwacking sound of splintering wood as the mob began to work on the reinforced door.

In one hand, he held a cold glass of water, in the other some Panadol. Even to him, it seemed absurd that Panadol would do anything for Brett Stephens; he might as well have been giving him jelly beans. But it was something, which was always better than nothing.

"How're you going?" Kyle asked as he approached the doorway. He could see Brett, lying at an angle with his head propped partially against the door. His eyes were closed, and there were great wads of sweat running down his face, but he was breathing somewhat steadily again.

He handed over the glass and the two Panadol capsules, supposing that Brett would ask him what the hell he thought it was going to do for him. But Brett said nothing, took the tablets and flushed them down. The back of his head bumped the wall as he lay there, peering up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his chest.

"Feels like there's a few tons of cement sitting on me," he wheezed. Kyle helped him to sip from the glass and then placed it on the floor beside him. Since talking on the phone, he had calmed considerably, a part of that at least due to the knowledge that, for the time being, none of them could get in. Otherwise, they would have already.

The police will stop it once they turn up.

The only thing he was concerned about was getting Brett the treatment he needed. More than likely the paramedics would arrive and find no means by which to get inside and help him. They would immediately find that they had their hands full as it was and would wait for the police to arrive. They would be stuck in this house for at least another hour and the question was could Brett last that long?

“Boy…” Brett muttered.

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kyle slowly shook his head. “No, I can’t. I can’t leave you here.”

Brett shook his head violently, red flushes filling his cheeks. “Don’t be a moron,” he croaked irritably. “You need to go. It’s no good to be here for me to get better because I might not. And then they will break in and you’ll die because of me. Don’t you understand that?”

Kyle only stared at him, hot tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “How would I anyway? They’re surrounding us.”

“There is a place you can go that they won’t get in and you can wade it out. In the basement. I’ve barricaded it and put supplies down there. I did it as soon as I knew what was happening in this town. Just in case I didn’t end up getting out in time.”

“Then I will take you with m-“
“NO!” Brett cried. “I’m a waste of time and energy and you don’t have much of either. That door can hold them off for a bit but they’ll get in eventually.”

“But Mr Stephens-“

“I’m already dead, Kyle,” he said softly. Kyle winced.

“No, you’re not.”
“I will be. I know I won’t get through this. It will take the ambulance men too long to get in and save me and every breath is startin’ to feel like my last.”

For a moment they listened to the sounds surrounding the house and yet again Kyle wondered how this had happened. How could it have possibly happened?

“You’ll have to go. But before that will you get me a cigarette?”

Kyle thought of telling the old man no, cigarettes were the main reason he had had the heart attack or at least one of the main culprits, but then he saw the old blokes face and realized that the old man was going to die with his habits. What difference would it make?

"They're in the pocket of my robe," Brett said. Kyle searched the left pocket and then the right, fishing out a crumpled pack with a picture of a gangrenous foot on the front. After what had happened that day, it was certainly not the worst thing that Kyle had ever seen.

He sat the cigarette between the old man’s lips, lit up and then crawled across the floor and to the desk. His hand shot up, grabbed the beer bottle and hurried back.

“Oh god. That’s just what I need. Thanks,” Brett said, taking the bottle. He took a good long gulp and burped. Then he popped the cigarette between his lips.

“If you don’t have time to get to the basement there’s another way.”

“What is it?” Kyle asked. Brett motioned for the lighter and Kyle lit his cigarette. Then he told him.