The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk) Read Online Free Page A

ignored them all.  Carefully – but hurriedly – I made my way down the stairs.  I found my way back to the office that we had first gone to, the office that held the dead woman.  I would treat Poe's wounds and hide him and myself.  We would wait out the killer until reinforcements came looking for us.  There we would be safe. 
    For why would the killer return to scene of his first kill?
     
    * * *
     
     
    thump... thump...
    The killer is in the room with us. 
    The feet that shuffle across the floor do so uncoordinatedly, as if they are too big for the legs that use them.  Such power in each step makes the very floorboards under me shiver.
    thump... thump...
    I need to flee.  I need to draw the killer out of the room, if only for Poe's life.  Draw it somewhere else into the belly of this great building and... contain it, somehow without fighting it.  For why kill a beast, if only to become one?
    Poe's pistol lies beside him.  I know that it's spent, however, he always carries an extra set of cartridges.  The bullets won't hurt the killer; that much I know.  However, it might anger him enough to keep after me and save others.  Yes, that is a lie I allow myself as I carefully shift my position and began searching my friend's pockets.  I find the paper cartridges and pocket them in my vest.  Taking the pistol, I tuck it under my arm—
    thump... thump...
    —and leap from my prostrate position to my feet.  I make a mad dash for the door, hearing the killer make a strange noise that seems part auditory 'question mark' and part grunt behind me.  Suddenly, the room erupts in that horrid high-pitched keening and heavy footsteps explode behind like a breaking dam releasing its waters.  I keep my head down and eyes on the floor so that I do not step on the dead woman as I run like the dickens.  I clear each hurdle, glancing up and seeing the door ever closer, knowing that freed—
    That’s when the killer grabs my arm, wrenching me backward.  My arm feels as if it's in a vise, someone recklessly turning the wench.  I spin around like a top, my natural instincts wresting control and my body moving like one of those automatons serving the food in Wanamaker's restaurant: quickly, precisely, and without independent thought.  The pistol in my hand whips across the killer's face slamming off the multi-eyed helmet and cracking two of the portals.  The vise-grip lessens for a moment and I wrest myself free.
    Immediately, I bolt in the direction of the door.  Throwing it open, I fling my body out into the hallway with such force that I lose my footing and hit the wall.  Bouncing off the plastered hallway, I recover just enough to plant one foot in front of the other and run as if the devil himself were after me.  As I had planned – and hoped – there are explosions of sounds from behind me as something large knocks over furniture, rips wood out of the doorframe, and spills framed photos off the wall.  Its thunderous footsteps clamber behind me but I do not look back.
    No, I press on, turning the corner and barreling down the hallway that leads to the grand staircase.  It is now, though, that I allow myself a glance back.  The killer is a stone's throw away, the massive form turning a small hallway table into kindling—
    Instantly, I discover that of all the times to glance back, this moment was the worst... for I cannot see the dead body suddenly at my feet before I am tripping over it.  I have a moment's conscientious thought regarding that I am about to fall down a flight of stairs before I am actually falling.  In that time, I tell myself to tuck my body into a roll, eager to put my torso between the stairs and any vital organs that probably shouldn't connect violently with wood.  I plan to use my hands as rudders that I will use to direct my fall.  I am ready.  But reality is far worse than fiction.  I learn instantly, that it makes no difference, one cannot control chaos.
    The fall is graceless