The Vanishing by Gary Brown (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📕

to the ground, and push the fabric bolts on top of him. With Fallon distracted, he would pull even more bolts off the shelf and throw those on top of him too, hopefully delaying him long enough to make good his escape. But that solution wasn’t practical. Fallon would fall to the ground, as too would the lantern he held in his hand. It would smash to the floor in the melee and a fire would inevitably ensue. The sawdust that covered the floor would accelerate the blaze, along with the many wooden furnishings, cans of paint, and bolts of cloth. In truth, there would be nothing Virgil would like to see more than Fallon collapse into a tomb of fire if the conversation he had overheard was true. But there were others in the building, and they would become innocent victims. Virgil could not allow that to happen. He could not expose his friends and family to such peril. He needed a better option. Perhaps he would step out from behind the security of his hiding place, confront Fallon face to face, tell him what he had heard, and demand an explanation for the murderous conspiracy. One option or the other, he thought as Fallon stepped further into the room. Decide now. You’re not going to get a second chance.

38

FALLON PLACED THE lantern on a chair, turned away, then crossed the room to a small closet from which he removed two rifles. Virgil watched from behind the fabric bolts as he placed the rifles and a handful of shells on an unfinished table and loaded the guns one by one, first breaking the breach and inspecting the barrel for obstructions, then snapping the weapon closed. A single shell rolled across the surface of the table in a wandering arc and dropped to the floor. Fallon walked around the table to retrieve the errant projectile that had fallen into a deep mound of sawdust. He lifted the lantern from the chair, placed it on the floor beside him, and raked his bony fingers through the sawdust. He found the shell, shook off the excess sawdust, and slipped it into his pocket. The lantern’s wire handle slipped in his grip as he lifted it, and he caught it quickly before it fell to the floor. It felt damp to the touch. He set down the lantern, brushed away the fine particles of sawdust from his fingers, and examined his hand in the lamplight.

More blood.

Whoever he sought had been in this room.

Fallon remained motionless, listening intently to the surrounding sounds. He picked up the lantern and rose slowly to his feet. Were they still here, watching him, even now? He lifted a rifle from the table, drew back the bolt, and chambered a round.

From above, sounds echoed throughout the room. In the door’s direction, floorboards creaked.

Fallon swung around, raised the weapon to his shoulder, and crossed the room in Virgil’s direction. A weakened floorboard sighed underfoot as Virgil pressed his back to the wall. He tried to disappear even further behind the veil of the cloth barricade, couldn’t. As Fallon approached, he fought the urge to panic and react prematurely. Fallon had him dead in his sights. He would pull the trigger and ask questions later, assuming Virgil was still alive to answer them. But Virgil too had questions, many of them, and he wanted answers. He held his breath, waiting to be discovered. He thought of Sky and Blessing, and despite the grimness of his situation, realized he would still be better off alive than dead. His questions would be answered in due course. For now, they would have to wait.

Another creak.

This one more noticeable than the last.

Outside the door.

Fallon turned his attention away from the rack of fabric bolts and zeroed in on the phantom sound. As the handle turned, a familiar calmness overtook him. He spotted a chair several feet away, moved into position, dropped quickly to one knee, slipped the barrel of the rifle through the chair slats, rested it on the cross-brace, and focused on an imaginary target above the door handle. The intruder could be armed. He turned out the lantern and plunged the room into darkness.

Center mass, he thought. Never high or low. Without a scope, a headshot is a waste of a perfectly good round. Drop the target on the first shot. The game is about shooting to kill, not to wound.

His training had been invaluable.

Finger on the trigger, crouched behind the chair in the room’s blackness, he was all but invisible. The adrenaline rush that came from acknowledging the power he held to steal the last breath of a life he did not know surged through him with such a force it made him shiver. The exquisiteness of the moment captivated him. He balanced the rifle, aligned the sight. His concentration was peaked. He felt as though he was no longer within the confines of the small room but in the middle of an electrical storm, drawing its current into him, harnessing its enormous power to do his bidding, the rifle in his hands the conducting rod.

The silhouette in the doorway spoke. “Fallon? You in here?”

Fallon’s finger flew back from the trigger. In the darkness, he withdrew the rifle from the chair slats and stood up.

Prophet.

“Why didn’t you stay where you were?” he said curtly. He chose not to share with Prophet just how close he had come to being shot and killed. “I told you I’d be back in a minute.”

“Do you think you’re talking to a fucking dog?” Prophet yelled. He threw open the door, slammed it against the wall. “I had to find you. We’re out of time. We’ll search the grounds later. The others are assembling for dinner, and if we’re not there on time, they’ll come looking for us. Put away the rifles and meet me in Communion Hall in five minutes.” With an air of disgust, Prophet turned and walked away.

Fallon stared at the empty doorway,