Chapter 6 - A Gasp of Vengeance
“Ethan…?”
Olivia’s voice is a high, trembling screech that doesn't sound human. Her hands fly to her mouth, her fingers clawing at her lips as her knees buckle beneath her. She stares down at me with wide, unblinking eyes, trembling violently as if she were looking at a ghost stepping out of a grave.
Mason doesn't freeze.
For a fraction of a second, shock registers on his face, replaced instantly by a cold, feral survival instinct. His eyes dart to the crowbar still clutched in Henderson’s trembling hands, then to the heavy wrench sitting on the nearby tool bench.
“He’s... he’s having a post-mortem muscle spasm!” Mason shouts, his voice pitching high and frantic as he tries to regain control of the narrative. “Henderson, don't listen to him! It’s just nervous system decay! Post-mortem twitching—it’s entirely common in stroke victims!”
“The hell it is!” Henderson spits, blood trickling from the corner of his split lip where Mason hit him. He stands up, using the crowbar to block Mason from stepping closer to the open casket. “That man just knocked four times, called my name out with a crowbar, and took a breath that could fill a tire! You tried to burn a living man, you sick bastards!”
“Shut up!” Olivia shrieks, tears of pure terror streaming down her cheeks now as she realizes the trap has sprung shut around her. “Mason, do something! Do something!”
I cannot speak yet. The neurotoxin is slowly wearing off, but my vocal cords still feel like dry sandpaper. I lie flat on my back in the satin-lined coffin, my chest heaving as I drag in giant, greedy lungfuls of cool air.
Slowly, deliberately, I raise my right arm—the one that had remained dead weight just minutes ago—and point a single, trembling finger directly at Mason.
The gesture is silent, but it carries more weight than a gunshot.
Mason takes a half-step back, his professional veneer completely stripped away, revealing the desperate, cornered animal underneath. His hands twitch at his sides. He looks at Henderson, then at the exit doors leading out to the parking lot.
“Don't move, you cowardly piece of trash!” Henderson yells, raising the iron crowbar. “I’ve already hit the silent alarm under the desk. Police units from the West Precinct are five minutes out. You’re not going anywhere.”
Hearing the word police, Olivia completely loses her grip on reality.
She turns and bolts toward the rear exit doors, her designer heels clicking frantically against the concrete floor.
“Mason! Help me!” she screams over her shoulder.
Mason doesn't even look at her. With a sudden, explosive burst of speed, he lurches past Henderson, catching the operator off guard and shoving him hard into the metal shelving unit. Tools, spray cans, and spare parts cascade onto the floor in a deafening clatter.
Mason doesn't stop to look back. He shoves through the exit doors into the rainy alleyway, disappearing into the gray Chicago drizzle before Henderson can even regain his footing.
“Damn it!” Henderson curses, pushing himself up from the wreckage of the shelf. He looks down at me, his chest heaving as he drops the crowbar and reaches out with both hands to help me sit up. “Can you hear me, Mr. Marcelli? Should I call an ambulance right now?”
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I swallow hard, my throat burning as the first real words force their way past my lips, rough and cracked like grinding stones.
“Phone…” I rasp, my fingers gripping Henderson’s arm with surprising strength. “Give me… your phone.”
