PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 6
Dystopian Psychological Thriller
PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 6
©2022 Stephen Conway
“Gotcha-gotcha-gotcha you son-of-a-bitch,” the voice says as my body gets dragged from under the bed.
“SWAT team return! Return! I got 'em! Got 'em!” he shouts.
Face-down on the floor, the only option to keep me under the relative safety of the bed is to grab the bed leg near my head. Then grab it with two-hands. Look down to see familiar boots. A SWAT-rat. He must have climbed up onto the mattress while his comrades were ripping apart the effigy I lovingly sculpted for them. In my mind I can see him putting his finger to his lips—sending the others away to create the illusion of them all leaving my apartment. Miscounted the number of boots walking out. Six pairs—not eight. Grappling my ankle tighter, the SWAT-rat swings me and the full-sized bed around the floor like a mop. My grip on the bed-leg temporary at best. The view from under here is a rapid-fire slideshow of flashing baseboards, SWAT jackboots, window, ceiling, walls, underside of the bedframe. Swinging and bucking back and forth across the room. SWAT-rat slams me and the bed into the free-standing wall I’d built years ago to create this separate bedroom space. Only sheetrock and wood—it cracks from the impact. SWAT-rat swings me and the bed into the opposite wall. Schmuck—doesn’t he know I would have surrendered if he’d pointed a loaded M-16 at my face? Better than this bruising.
The sound of heavy breathing fills the quiet between this WWWF rampage. SWAT- rat’s breathing is heavy now.
“Release the bed you little shit,” he says. “Surrender now!”
The bed stops moving.
“The Consortium commands you! Stop resisting stop resisting!” he says.
Huffing air, he lets go of my ankle.
“Chlickt.” The rifle’s safety catch. “The Consortium commands you! Stop resisting!” SWAT-rat shouts, “Surrender now!”
Letting go of the bed-leg my body is friction free. Prone—on my back—floor vibrations rattle my shoulder blades, ribcage, pelvis. His comrades are clomping back into my apartment like Clydesdales. Push my legs out from under the bed and SWAT-rat throws a hand around each of my ankles. With tractor-pull force he pulls me out from under the bedframe with no resistance. His own body weight pulls him backward. Downward. Stumbling. Losing his balance, he releases my ankles. His face contorts. Arms swinging as if to stop himself from falling off a cliff. His rifle spins around to his back—twisting it’s short shoulder strap around his neck and one arm. Unable to stop his uncontrolled fall. Head bounces off the solid baseboard molding behind him.
Up on my feet and standing over him now—SWAT-rat’s chin is on his chest. His rifle strap pins his right arm. It’s a dirty move, but I kick his temple with a semi-roundhouse. Bouncing his head with monster-truck force a second time off the baseboard. The air in his lungs sputter past his lips like a deflating party-balloon. He slumps. Lean-over him to pull the rifle off his shoulder. Strap is stuck. Not happening. Drop to the floor to wrestle the M-16 into a firing position. Shove the butt of the rifle into SWAT-rat’s armpit for stability. Aim at the threshold of my bedroom door and fire-off several single shots. They hit the first SWAT cop barreling-in through the doorless threshold. He goes down. His comrades recoil. Shouts of “officer down officer down assistance required. Back-up. Send back-up,” spill from the other side of the make-shift wall. Reposition myself—lifting their silent comrade in front of me. A meat shields. Set the M-16 to rapid fire. Pull the trigger. Bullet after bullet shreds the sheetrock—a relentless firehose of metal breaks apart the wall. Release the trigger. A dusty-silence fills the space broken by the intermittent groans of the other SWAT members. Unclip the tangled shoulder strap from SWAT-rat’s lifeless body, stuff the strap into my pocket. Lift myself from the floor all slothy and slow. Aim the rifle at the shattered sheetrock wall. I peer through. The SWAT team is toppled among each other: a forest of trees after a tornado.
THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP
The chopper’s flood-light sweeps across the floors walls and windows of my flat. Radio squawks and footfalls spilling-up through the jamb of the splintered front door. SWAT team back-up on the way.
Grabbing my messenger bag—rifle in hand—I disappear.