The Knife

The corridor was dark with two thin deep-orange strobe lights blinking rhythmically along the edges, periodically bringing the narrow walkway into a pulsing soft light and then plunging it back into the darkness. The lights pulsed and bounced off the cold steel girders, occasionally revealing a mellow haze of smoke rising up to the ceiling.

In the small recess stood the Brutor, waiting patiently, his huge frame wedged into the wall. Clad in old dark-green almost black combat trousers and sporting a long black trenchcoat which flowed almost right down to his rusted steel toe cap boots, he waits.


As the sound of distant footsteps clinking off the meshed flooring grow closer a cigar is stubbed out on the girder and flicked down and onto the floor, it sizzles and fades away against the cold metal. The Brutor pulls on his fingerless military issue gloves, footsteps closer now, the man coming towards him is dressed in the uniform of a local wannabe law enforcement crew, he is young looking, barely 20 years of age, fresh of face and he sports a ruthlessly efficient looking silver stun gun that clings to his leg in its holster.

The Brutor's grip is firm. The razor sharp blade clasped in his hand tightly, he lunges forward revealing himself from the darkness, his trenchcoat swooping across the floor in a breathtaking arc, the timing is perfect as the strobe lights shimmer off the silvery blade. He pulls the young man towards him, as he tries to yell out the Brutor's hand grips his mouth, he falls silent, struggling he wriggles like a trapped fawn in the grasp of the predator's claws.

The knife is sunk deep into the man's back, the thug-like Brutor twists the shank further into the flesh, through the gloves the sensation of hot liquid oozes onto the man's black skin. As the blade is pulled the young man gasps and all the air leaps out of his body. He stumbles, still on his feet he swings around a full turn, his hand now fumbling for his weapon, he is now shaking, the sudden realization of what is happening strikes him and wrenches at his heart, death is upon him.

The Brutor smiles, revealing a gold tooth, it is a menacing grin, a trained killer in action, he doesn't flinch as the young man points the gun at him before firing off a bolt of the stun gun.


Shaking nervously. He misses.


As the weapon begins to spool up for another shot, the Brutor kicks out, his worn boot smashes against the man's shin with a sickening crack, taking his legs away from him he falls onto the flooring and the weapon falls into the side of the walkway, spinning on the floor. Blood spills more violently as punches rain down on the head, a frenzied attack the man is now lifeless.

Air hisses from one of the station venting systems, filling the corridor for a moment in pure cold vapour, the Brutor takes in a large breath, replenishing his lungs, he stands over the body.

A small badge on the uniform reveals the name and rank of the young soldier.

Junior Officer, Adams.

Two letters are emblazoned on the side of the Junior Officer's blood stained shirt.


E.M.


The Brutor thug rips away the badges and carefully places them inside the top pocket of his trenchcoat, he pulls out a fresh smoke and walks away down the corridor, the blackness in the bottom belly of the station envelops him.

Ruthlessly efficient.




MB.