Hatchet stopped under the shoebox shaped camera focused on the door. He dropped the heavy bag that had been shifting against his back, took a deep breath and then gave Clancey an encouraging nod. Skipping, scissoring, the boy launched feet first into the wall with enough speed to stamp twice up the bricks, wielding a miniature aluminum baseball bat filled with sand and landed a mortal blow to the camera and it fell with a thud against the watered fescue. Just as Hatchet had anticipated, he heard an internal alarm squealing.
He imagined the digital signal traveling the grid to the police dispatchers and sleeping Guardians’ phones sitting inches from their pillows.
Hatchet tugged his ski mask into place and kicked the camera farther into the shadow sprawling the curve of the structure and immediately slammed a massive flat edged pry-bar into the black line where door met opening. He gave it a vicious crank and the lock failed with a loud hollow tone, pieces of it falling to the floor of the ingress. He reminded Clancey to stay out of sight until he traded places with him, the idea being that the cameras would never record more than one of them a time. He advanced on the second door only ten feet in and repeated the exact same violence with metal clattering against the hard floor and immediately a brilliant red light began strobing from the corner above him. The entire hallway pulsated with crimson shadows. Another siren began screeching down the hallway. He noted the volume of the alarm and scrambled back out to the kid who jumped the gun and Hatchet had to grab him and lower his mask then he patted him on the head, releasing him to his planned rampage.
Programmed by Hatchet like any robot with guts of silicon, Clancey bolted into the red disco flash. He smashed the two cameras charged with the security of the corridor and with his own pry-bar, he made quick work of the fire door to the counting room. Another alarm shrieked to life as he added a few decorative craters in the walls. Once inside the counting room, he smashed a couple of the currency counters for good looks then shattered the two dome encased IP cameras attached to the ceiling. Then he sprinted back down the hall, almost slipping to the floor on pieces of the door strewn across the concrete. He peeked out and waved Hatchet inside so Hatchet struggled the bag over his shoulder and followed the kid into the counting room flashed and disjointed in the same disorienting pulse of bloody color. Hatchet handed him a thin orange plastic strip, a forgery of the dated seal he now snapped from the handle of the sliding door that opened the money drop.
Hatchet put the broken seal in his pocket then tossed the bag down the chute and mounted the enclosure feet first as if he were a toddler at the top of a playground slide then he disappeared into the dark shadow of the tube. Clancey slammed the door closed and sealed it with the strip in the exact same fashion it had been before Hatchet removed it. The entire operation had taken less than forty-eight seconds. Clancey stood for a moment, removed a vial of blotter acid from his pocket and dropped a full dose onto his tongue. He laughed and kicked a folding chair straight into the ceiling then lit a cigarette. Clancey strolled the hallway with insouciance, the bat cradled across his shoulder, a can of black spray paint tracing a crazy thread the length of the wall to the wasted exit where he painted a brazen Dog Boy tag across the wall.
He imagined the digital signal traveling the grid to the police dispatchers and sleeping Guardians’ phones sitting inches from their pillows.
Hatchet tugged his ski mask into place and kicked the camera farther into the shadow sprawling the curve of the structure and immediately slammed a massive flat edged pry-bar into the black line where door met opening. He gave it a vicious crank and the lock failed with a loud hollow tone, pieces of it falling to the floor of the ingress. He reminded Clancey to stay out of sight until he traded places with him, the idea being that the cameras would never record more than one of them a time. He advanced on the second door only ten feet in and repeated the exact same violence with metal clattering against the hard floor and immediately a brilliant red light began strobing from the corner above him. The entire hallway pulsated with crimson shadows. Another siren began screeching down the hallway. He noted the volume of the alarm and scrambled back out to the kid who jumped the gun and Hatchet had to grab him and lower his mask then he patted him on the head, releasing him to his planned rampage.
Programmed by Hatchet like any robot with guts of silicon, Clancey bolted into the red disco flash. He smashed the two cameras charged with the security of the corridor and with his own pry-bar, he made quick work of the fire door to the counting room. Another alarm shrieked to life as he added a few decorative craters in the walls. Once inside the counting room, he smashed a couple of the currency counters for good looks then shattered the two dome encased IP cameras attached to the ceiling. Then he sprinted back down the hall, almost slipping to the floor on pieces of the door strewn across the concrete. He peeked out and waved Hatchet inside so Hatchet struggled the bag over his shoulder and followed the kid into the counting room flashed and disjointed in the same disorienting pulse of bloody color. Hatchet handed him a thin orange plastic strip, a forgery of the dated seal he now snapped from the handle of the sliding door that opened the money drop.
Hatchet put the broken seal in his pocket then tossed the bag down the chute and mounted the enclosure feet first as if he were a toddler at the top of a playground slide then he disappeared into the dark shadow of the tube. Clancey slammed the door closed and sealed it with the strip in the exact same fashion it had been before Hatchet removed it. The entire operation had taken less than forty-eight seconds. Clancey stood for a moment, removed a vial of blotter acid from his pocket and dropped a full dose onto his tongue. He laughed and kicked a folding chair straight into the ceiling then lit a cigarette. Clancey strolled the hallway with insouciance, the bat cradled across his shoulder, a can of black spray paint tracing a crazy thread the length of the wall to the wasted exit where he painted a brazen Dog Boy tag across the wall.
Edit 11.10.2018