Chapter 89 - LAST WORDS
The room is plunged into a tense silence, broken only by Mark's muffled screams and the muffled sound of his body hitting the floor. His eyes reflect a mixture of anger, pain and despair as he stares at the scarred man, who watches him impassively, as if completely disconnected from humanity.
“You crazy fucker, why did you shoot me, I'm going to kill you!” shouts Mark between his teeth, his voice filling the air with uncontrollable fury. However, his words are just an empty echo in the room, with no effect on the man in front of him.
The scarred man's cold expression doesn't change in the slightest as he raises the gun again for a second shot, aiming it at Mark's other leg. A new burst of pain echoes through the room as another bullet pierces Mark's flesh, who now lies on the floor, wounded and bleeding out.
“Who has the reins on all this? It's me,” he declares in an icy tone, making clear his authority over the situation.
Mark, still lying on the ground, casts a hateful glare at Frank. “You're a bastard,” he growls through his teeth, his voice weakened by pain and blood loss.
“Excellent last words,” Frank replies calmly before raising the gun towards Mark's head, aiming it directly at his forehead. The silence becomes even more oppressive as I hold my breath, witnessing the cruel outcome ahead.
“Frank, don't do that!” shouts Jack who seemed at first unwilling to interfere. Jack's words echo through the room, desperate and full of anguish, but Frank shows no signs of flinching. His cold, determined eyes are fixed on Mark's face, his steady hand holding the gun pointed directly at his victim's forehead. The silence thickens, almost palpable, as everyone holds their breath, witnessing the cruel outcome ahead.
“Shut up, Jack,” Frank replies in a cutting tone, his gaze never leaving its target. Jack's hands tremble, helpless in the face of Frank's determination as the decisive moment inexorably approaches.
With cold, ruthless precision, Frank pulls the trigger without hesitation, and the room fills with the deafening roar of the shot. Mark's body jerks violently with the impact, one last spasm of agony before he falls to the floor in deathly silence. The bullet rips the life from him in an instant. Blood spurts out in a dark stream, further staining the floor a deep red as the metallic smell of iron permeates the air. The echo of the shot echoes in my ears, resounding like a tragic echo of death.
The piercing scream escapes my throat involuntarily, as an echo of horror spreads through the room. Frank, who had bent down to touch the blood, stops abruptly at the sound of my voice. His cold gaze bores into me, a mixture of surprise and disdain reflected in his eyes. Why is he doing that? I wonder, but fear paralyzes me, preventing me from articulating coherent words. The macabre scene before my eyes stuns me, and my mind struggles to comprehend the brutality of what I have just witnessed.
He approaches me with a slow but determined stride, his bloodied hand firmly gripping the pistol impregnated with the strong smell of gunpowder. His rough, blood-stained fingers press against my cheeks, crushing them slightly under his grip. “This is what will happen to Genrant,” he murmurs in a voice laden with menace, his words echoing in the tension-laden air.
My heart pounds in my chest, fear gripping every fiber of my being as his words penetrate my mind. I don't want Genrant to save me, not at the cost of his own life. If necessary, if I must give my life to protect him from the danger that looms over him, I will do so without hesitation. But first, I must find a way to escape from this place before he arrives or these men decide to take drastic measures.
“Jack, help me get the body out of here! I don't want the whole basement to stink, we have to take care of the 'merchandise',” Frank urges, using a term that makes me shudder in horror.
“Merchandise?” I mutter to myself, my mind filling with questions and fears about what's really going on here.
The echo of the word “merchandise” echoes in my mind, sending a shiver down my spine. what do they mean by that? My thoughts are interrupted by the conversation between Jack and Frank, who are arguing about what to do with Mark's body.
“I can't believe you did that, what are we going to tell the others?” asks Jack, his voice shaky and full of concern for the consequences of his actions.
Frank shows no remorse as he replies with disdain, “The others, they what? They're still on patrol.” His words are like sharp daggers, cutting and threatening.
“Are you going to be a snitch and go right out and tell them? Do you want what happened to Mark to happen to you?” continues Frank, pointing the gun at Jack with a menacing gesture.
Jack tries to explain himself, “I mean when they come back from patrol they won't find him and they'll know something weird happened.”
“We just have to lie to them, tell them that Mark went out on patrol too and I'm sure he won't be long in coming back. And when Genrant arrives, we'll tell them that it was him who killed him, it's simple,” Frank says with a disturbing calmness, as if it were an inevitable conclusion.
Frank's coldness takes my breath away, as I watch helplessly as they plan to hide the dark secret they now share.
The air in the room becomes thicker with the presence of the corpse, and the smell of blood and gunpowder permeates my senses, making me feel even more trapped in this nightmare. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the vision and the smell, but to no avail. The reality of the situation hits me hard, reminding me of the gravity of my situation.
Jack leans gingerly over Mark's body, visibly disgusted by the task before him. With awkward, tense movements, he lifts the limp body over his shoulder, feeling the dead weight dragging him down. Mark, for his part, follows behind him, watching with a grimace of disgust as Jack struggles to comply with Frank's order.
With slow, heavy steps, Jack heads for the door, with Frank following close behind. They both disappear from my sight, taking with them the body of their fallen companion and the surrounding darkness. Despite everything, the feeling of danger and oppression lingers in the air, reminding me that I am still trapped.
Once alone in the room, I concentrate on undoing the ropes that imprison my wrists. With each movement, the pain intensifies, as if the fibers are cutting into my skin with each tug. With patience and skill, I search for the weak spot in the knot and begin to slide my hands through the ropes, feeling the searing friction leave marks on my sensitive skin.
Each movement is a struggle against the searing pain that intensifies with each tug. I feel the ropes cut into my skin, leaving bloody red marks on my wrists. Why are the ropes so tight? Can't I escape before they come back?