Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

is unable to believe the noise wasn’t real. It’s a windy night, I tell myself. Maybe the wall studs were just flexing.

I listen at the nearest door. Someone is snoring inside. A helpless sound.

But Fred is awake, and some of the others may be, too. A toothbrush isn’t much of a weapon. Even a knife from the kitchen might not be enough. I need a better plan. I go back into my bedroom and shut the door.

In the closet I find some flannel pyjamas in my approximate size. I put them on and wriggle between the smooth, clean bedsheets. There’s a reading lamp and some books, mostly about programming. The same kinds of books Lux had on his shelves. Maybe they’ve been placed here for me.

My coding abilities are rudimentary. I open one of the books, with the half-formed idea that I could master new skills overnight and make a more convincing Lux in the morning. But I’m too tired to absorb the information. I turn out the light.

I think about the hiker, wondering who he was and how he knew my name. Then I find myself thinking about the barbed-wire video, scheduled to be filmed tomorrow. I don’t know what’s supposed to happen in it, who it’s supposed to happen to, or if they will survive it.

Tonight I stood by and let Donnie murder one of the prisoners. Am I going to do the same thing tomorrow?

I didn’t come here to save anybody. I just wanted a decent meal before I checked out. According to Samson, the prisoners are killers. It was great. Watching someone like that getting what he deserves. I have no obligation to help them.

And yet.

I spend another half-hour lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Then I mutter, ‘Fuck,’ and get up.

CHAPTER 8

What bird do you force down your throat?

I remember seeing Samson use a can opener on the baby corn spears. He rinsed it straight away and returned it to the third drawer down, on the right-hand side. It was a P-38, the same kind you find in army surplus stores for a dollar: a rectangle of steel with a fin-shaped blade folded against it. Simple, easy to clean, and useful for things other than opening cans. I would have preferred tin snips, but this will do.

Someone has left their phone charging on the sofa, near the fireplace. I don’t have the unlock code, but it doesn’t matter. I can switch on the flashlight function without it.

A button near the bottom catches my eye: Emergency call. I don’t need the unlock code for that, either. I could just call the cops.

But then I wouldn’t get to eat the Guards. A thousand pounds of meat, wasted.

I clench my jaw, trying to convince myself to make the right choice for once. But I’m so hungry. I might never get another chance like this.

I can always call the police later, I tell myself. Then, as I’m about to pocket the phone, I notice the message up the top of the screen: No service. I’m too far from any cell tower. There’s wi-fi, but no network signal. Calling the police isn’t an option.

I wish I’d tried. Then, when the call didn’t connect, I could have pretended to be the kind of person who sometimes does the right thing.

It takes me a minute to work out how to disable the lock on the back door so I don’t get trapped outside. Once I’m through, a wall of wind and sleet nearly knocks me off my feet. I pull up the hood of my coat to protect my ears. No moon now, and I don’t have my goggles. Donnie locked them away in the armoury with the weapons. Can’t risk using the flashlight app yet, not with so many windows facing this way. I try to retrace my steps through the backyard towards the slaughterhouse.

The dogs growl at me as I pass the fence.

‘Back,’ I say, imitating Fred’s voice.

The dogs aren’t fooled. They keep growling until I’m out of sight.

The slaughterhouse is far enough away from the house that I doubt I’ll be heard, but it’s possible I’ll be seen. I circle around towards the back.

No one is screaming inside this time, but I can hear a distant howl from further away. Not the dogs. At first it sounds human, but the longer it goes on, the less sure I am. Could be a bobcat in the woods. Eventually the sound is gone.

When I turn the corner, a red light blinks above me. A surveillance camera. I freeze, my back pressed against the cold sheet metal. I think of Fred, watching all those rectangles. I don’t recall any of the feeds showing the slaughterhouse. Hopefully this camera is pointed outwards, towards the woods behind the property. I can’t see the lens to make sure.

I fold out the blade of the P-38 and stab it into the wall, about four feet above the ground. It doesn’t go through until I thump it with my other hand. The screaming starts from inside. I wiggle the handle back and forth, working the blade towards the ground. The wall is thicker than a can. Cutting through it is slow, hard work.

A woman inside says, ‘Shut up!’ and the screaming stops. She’s realised that the Guards wouldn’t be cutting through the back wall of their own dungeon. She thinks this is a rescue mission.

She’s right, more or less, although the details might surprise her.

By the time I reach the concrete foundation, my arms are burning. I wrap my sleeves around my hands, grab the sharp edge of the sheet metal, and bend it outwards. It creaks and bangs, but the wind swallows the sound. I don’t have a mask, so I pull the hood low over my face, then slip through the triangle