One hand in the air, three fingers up. The hot breath of his conspirators steamed heavily into the thick night. Everything was wet or covered in frost, the most miserable conditions a job could be done under.
Two fingers up. Jackson DeCaro's heart beat hard in his head, making his eyeballs twitch and his mind unclear.
One finger up. Is this what terror feels like? He was one loud startle from losing bowel control.
Hand down. They were moving.
Jackson wished with every fiber of his being they were professionals as he forced one step in front of the next. Real professionals, not five guys with guns on their wit's end stuck between that horrific gas or a monster. Truth be told, if he had to choose, he'd choose the monster. The gas looked the worst sort of death imaginable, truly something only the mind of a madman could concoct.
He'd been forced to watch as his best friend Brandon went through it – they all had. It was a lesson, a lesson for what happened when you didn't stick to the plan and tried to take a bigger cut than was offered. Brandon's laughing had started slow, picking up in volume and intensity. His smile was wide, as were his eyes, but it wasn't happiness or joy Jackson saw there. It was panic. Streaming, Brandon's tears fell fast and hard to the floor as he sat on the ground and pushed his back to the nearest wall. Jackson thought it was to get away from the madman at first, until Brandon's hands started beating the concrete at his sides fervently. His back began arching backward from the shaking muscle contractions it was clear Brandon was trying desperately to stop. His feet had pushed against the ground, trying to force his back straight against the wall, but it was no use. The laughing became more and more like screaming until a sudden series of pops and a loud crack left Brandon silent, his torso bent grotesquely in half backward.
The madman made his point. No one had stepped out of line after that.
His team, though Jackson thought the word "team" applied rather loosely, quickly but clumsily made its way to the museum loading dock where the lights were off inside but the large metal shutter door had been left open just enough for a man to squeeze under. Jackson was the first through, taking the duffel bags of gear slid to him through the gap.
It was terribly dark and musty in the loading dock. Every sound made him certain there were security guards closing in or worse, the monster. His shaking hands took the last of the gear bags as three more men came from under the door and one remained outside for watch. As they walked to the door from the loading dock to the museum proper in silence, Jackson became acutely aware of his surroundings. He could feel his rough canvas black pants scratching across his legs with each step, the rubber soles of his boots slightly squeezing under the weight of his body. The pin-prick sensation of sweat releasing from his pores erupted suddenly and uncomfortably despite the cold. He could smell the old artifacts, and could swear he almost heard the dust falling. The duffel bag in his right hand weighed heavy, and with every passing moment the dread grew from the center of his chest.
He wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home, but he reached for the handle and prepared to turn it. If their inside man had failed, this would be it. The alarms would go off and the monster would come flying. Did it fly? No one seemed to know for sure. A part of Jackson hoped the alarms would go off now, that way they'd still have time to make it back to the car. If they triggered mid-job…well, it wouldn't help to think about it.
Turning the handle, he opened the door millimeters at a time. It felt as if hours passed between the moment of the handle turn and when Jackson opened the door wide enough to pass through. So far, so good. His fear began to subside, and his confidence grew. Clearly their inside man wasn't totally incompetent.
He knew the layout of the museum well. He'd taken several trips here in preparation over the last three weeks, walking the hallways his path would take until he could do it eyes closed. Listening to the footsteps of the men behind him, he stopped suddenly when a different sound cut through to his ear. Static.
It was pulsing on and off with the occasional garbled voice breaking through until an unmistakable, "Dan? Dan can you hear me?" pierced the air. Jackson gestured a quick two flicks of his hand and they were running. It would be a matter of minutes before someone came to check on Dan, and Jackson was certain they wouldn't be happy with what they found.
As he rounded the corner toward the heist goal he skidded to a halt on the well polished floor, turned his head, and vomited. The pristine white wall was awash with red, and the slow drip formed a crown around the slumped figure's head. They found Dan. The first rule working for the madman was no one used their name. Dan the inside man, it turned out, had the top of his head turned inside out. A security pistol was gripped loosely in his right hand, and it was abundantly clear to Jackson what had occurred. Faced with the madman or the monster, Dan had given in to the gun. There was no chance the shot hadn't been heard by the other security guards and, as if in confirmation of Jackson's fears, the alarms began to wail. For a few seconds Dan and everyone on the heist team had something in common as Jackson watched the same look cross everyone's face when they looked through the high ceiling window and the bright light in the sky flashed onto the clouds. The monster was coming and they ran for the loading dock, shoving each other out of desperation to get to the door, and the getaway car, first.
With the surge of adrenaline everything was a blur of instinct. Jackson could smell the fear of the men with him, dashing down the museum corridors to the dock door. They were through the loading dock, running hard the three blocks to where they'd left the vehicle running lights off in an alleyway. Time slowed to a crawl and, as in a nightmare, Jackson felt his knees getting weak and his ability to run fading by block two when he watched the first man fall.
The monster never killed. It seemed to have a penchant for maiming. The second man cocked back his fist mid-run with a wide-eyed look of insane desperation plastered on his face as the monster dropped in front of him. He swung into nothing, and let out an ear shattering scream when the monster reversed the man's elbow for his trouble while tripping him to the ground. The third man raised his pistol and shot wildly into the swirling black mass before a gauntleted fist obliterated the fingers holding it. He sank to the ground, clutching his hand and staring in disbelief as an elbow swung into his face, splattering teeth, saliva, and blood onto the sidewalk as a light pattering of rain. Jackson and the fourth man continued to run, Jackson in the back, before the man let a sudden yelp and his screams of terror lifted away into the black sky.
Alone, he reached the corner of the alleyway with the getaway car and began to feel relief when it seemed the monster had chosen to let him go unharmed. A foolish notion, he realized, when he discovered the car had been stolen. The irony was not lost to him as he sat down and pushed himself up against the wall weary with fatigue. Removing his pistol from it's holster, Jackson unloaded it and threw it as far as he could upon his ears finally registering the police sirens. They were rather close now.
With a thud and a ruffle of black fabric the monster appeared kneeling before him, spiked and slowly standing to reveal his terrible form. For all the fear he felt Jackson didn't have the energy to cower, and instead stared blankly at the dark inset holes where its eyes should have been. Red and blue began to flicker interchangeably on the alley wall behind the monster, sirens getting ever louder until headlights tore through the alleyway and squad car doors flew open. When Jackson looked back the monster was gone. He slowly put his hands in the air.
"I'm unarmed."