Day 189 - Repeat Offenders - Chapter 3 - (1171 words)

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REPEAT OFFENDERS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 3

Monday 08:32 a.m. April 17^th


Brian stood near the machine, and across the space were the other two men, both looking at a watch and some cash. They were static, and then the light around them flickered in and out of phase, like they were pictures received on a failing television set. One final snap of light and they were gone from their current position to come back in the middle of the machine, in the same position they had been in when they were at the vault, but with them came the cloud of gas and half a table where the secure box had been opened, and the tear gas cannister, still spewing it's contents into the space where the men were.


The tear gas was in their eyes, ears and throats and there was no escaping it as they reoriented themselves to the return to their base, twenty minutes after the first departure but at the time when Brian had reset the marker on the three men as part of the anomaly. Brian was least equipped to deal with it and could not see or hear anything in the state he was in. Panic overcame in and he could not tell which way was up, rolling about on the floor sucking in more and more of the cloud of fire that burned at his eyes and lungs.


Michael pulled his jacket over his face and dropped to his knees, slowly crawling out of the machine and away from the cloud, eventually finding some respite well out of the core where the landing site was, the focus of the spindly arms of the machine. He drew in deep breaths and tried to call out to the others, to guide them back to where he was, but each breath was like swallowing needles and he could not get past the coughing to make anything resembling a useful sound.


Ivan also pulled his t-shirt over his head, but instead of rolling out of the centre he moved towards the sound of the gas escaping, the high pitched hissing noise that it made as it came out of the grenade. He scrabbled about blindly for a minute or so, stumbling over Brian who was shuddering and vomiting in a ball near where they 'landed' and then as Michael was clear and coughing a useless warning, Ivan came across the cannister, kicking it with his feet. The rattle made him know where it was and it moved only a couple of feet away, he had a good take on where it was in relation to his position. Ivan took his shirt off and dove towards where he knew the grenade was spewing out the gas, the t-shirt spread out like a net between his hands.


As he landed he caught the edge of the cylinder and it moved slightly, out of the range of the shirt, but he still had it in his grip. His other hand was exposed and he felt a searing pain where the chemicals ran up his forearm and burned him. He made a guttural and painful noise as it started tearing at the skin there, the soft white forearm where the hair was thin or sparse. Still grunting through the shock and heat he manoeuvred the tear gas cannister into the wadding of the t-shirt and wrapped it quickly around the nozzle, feeling the pressure build instantly, and the gas pushing against the tight weave of the shirt, the material heating and wetting up in his hands as it contained the aerosolisation process.


Still with his eyes closed, Ivan got into a crouch and stepped forward a little, taking a half run a few feet, knowing from memory he had few clear meters out of the machine in the warehouse. He opened his eyes to stinging half vision, but he could see shapes through the tears and the bright bursts of pain and light that attacked him when his lids flickered apart. Now he could angle and change his trajectory as he ran towards the door and kicked it open and threw the t-shirt, the cannister and a following plume of gas into the back tool room and shut the door, slammed it shut. Despite being behind the door, the material obviously gave way as he dropped it and the loud hissing could be heard for a few seconds at the high pitch before slowing and stopping after about thirty seconds. Gas was seeping out of the doorway, but in small amounts and Ivan was swiping at his eyes, trying to get focus back as he came back to the machine. There was still gas in the air and Brian was retching and crying for help in the centre, Michael and Ivan both moved towards him together, coming from opposite sides of the large open space, dragging Brian by the arms, his knees hanging in the space between them, wailing in pain and frustration as they pulled him clear of the dissipating gas cloud.


Michael's vision was the first to return to a useful state and he opened the windows on their side, which sucked the gas cloud towards them, but as they were high ones it went in a diagonal line from the centre to the roof where it went out the window and faded like smoke in the air.


Within a few minutes the smoke had faded from the main space and was settling like mist in the tool room at the back, they could see through the semi-transparent window what the state of the room was. Brian was blinded and in nauseous pain from being in the middle and taking in lungfuls of the gas. Ivan had red welts on both hands and a serious looking long burn up his forearm, while Michael looked relatively unscathed.


“No more adventures today gentlemen.” Michael patted Brian on the back. “You ok big guy?”


Still coughing Brian was unable to answer, and Ivan was staring at the burn on his arm with a fascinated stare. It was there and it looked painful, Ivan could feel it and it hurt him. There was also a disconnection from the injury, like he was amused by the result, not warned off future risky endeavours.


“That burn looks bad, we should get you to a doctor or a hospital.” Michael looked at Brian. “Him too.”


“We can't, it'll raise too many questions.” Ivan waved away the concern, but his arm was hot and throbbing so hard he could see it in the back of his vision even when he closed his eyes to reduce the stinging sensation in them.


“Well maybe, but there's no crime to be worried about is there?” Michael grinned, but neither of he others could see that or appreciate it the way he could.


“Diphoterine.” Brian said between two lung clearings. “Cabinet, locked. Key pocket. Left breast.” Each two word couplet was punctuated by the damage that the tear gas had done to him.