Suspense

Freshly Baked

Jan 152011

Tomas slipped into the bakery, eyes darting all about, assessing, ready to bolt if need be. Gregor was sliding a heavy wooden spatula into an oven. His son, Lor, stood on a stool at the kneading table, working a ball of dough almost half his size. Janna, Gregor’s wife, was at the counter waiting on the sole customer, an old woman carefully placing her allotment of bread into a canvas sack. Janna glanced up ever so briefly. As the old woman began to turn Janna touched her hand, drawing back her attention.

“Now don’t tell anyone I gave you this, Dorri dear.” Her hand moved under the counter and came up with a kifli. The old woman cooed with joy as Janna jerked her head to the right, not daring to actually look at Tomas.

The woman quickly stashed the pastry in her bag, then held her finger to her lips in an exaggerated shushing motion. Tomas used this distraction to slide sideways, behind a rack of cooling breads. The heady aroma of yeast, warm bread, and rye nearly made him swoon.

As soon as old Dorri shuffled out of sight Tomas dashed forward. Janna flipped up the hinged counter, allowing Tomas through.

“Lor, go back to the storeroom and count how many bags of flour we have left,” Gregor ordered. Without hesitation the boy wiped his hands on his midsection and disappeared.

“I am sorry,” Tomas said, knowing the danger he placed his old friend in. “I did not know where else to turn. They took Merb and Ilona yesterday.”

“I heard,” Gregor said, face grim. They had taken all the professors at the university first, but until yesterday the municipal library had been left untouched, as if of no interest. The library staff had been foolish to assume they were safe.

Without further words Gregor stepped over to the leftmost of his three big ovens. It stood cold, unused. He pulled open the door and climbed in, signaling Tomas to follow. Tomas took a deep breath and stepped forward. At this point he had no choice but to trust his friend.

At the back of the oven Gregor removed two bricks. Using the voids as handholds he heaved a section of the wall up and forward, arms straining under the weight. A hole, barely big enough to crawl through, stood before them.

“Once you are inside I will light the oven and keep it very low, just hot enough to keep anyone from poking about. Tonight we’ll let you out, and you can make your way to the river. I have a name I can give you.”

Tomas looked dubious.

“Or we can let you out the back door now and you can try for the river in daylight.”

With a grimace Tomas crawled into the tiny chamber. When everything went black he wished he had gone for the back door. As time passed he noticed heat building on one side of his sanctuary and he scooted as far from the source as he could.

Janna looked up to the sound of the door thrown open, her breath catching when she saw Captain Giamarty stride through, followed by two Corporals, both bearing automatic weapons. Gregor stopped kneading bread, and wiped his hands.

“Good afternoon, Captain.” He tried to keep the smile on his face natural, relaxed. “How can I help you?”

Captain Giamarty ignored him as he prowled around the bakery, breaking ends off an occasional loaf of bread, sniffing it, then discarding it on the floor.

Gregor and Janna slowly moved together, silently watching, sweat forming on their brows.

“I am just browsing,” Giamarty finally answered as he approached the counter. He did not pause as he lifted the drop gate. Janna stiffened when he peered under the counter.

“Kifli?” He straightened and looked at the bakers. “This is not kifli day.”

“We had a few left over from yesterday,” Gregor said, wiping his sweating hands on his hips. “Please, help yourself.”

“How is it you have extras? Is your flour allotment too high?”

“I think the rain kept some of the customers away yesterday,” Gregor said.

“Interesting.” Giamarty turned away from the counter and stepped to the bank of ovens at the back of the shop. He opened the doors, one by one, to see what was baking. “This one is empty.”

“Yes.” Gregor blinked sweat from his eyes. “We are preheating it…”

“My father was a baker.” Giamarty closed the oven door. “I think 90 is too low, don’t you?”

They said nothing.

Captain Giamarty turned the oven up to 180 Celsius and continued walking about the shop. “Where is you son, Lor?” he asked amicably.

“He is helping Madame Muller in her garden today,” Janna said, a little too sharply. Then, more evenly, “She gives us some cabbages at times in exchange for weeding.”

Giamarty nodded, then pulled out a stool and took a seat. “Please, carry on. There is bread to be made.”

Gregor moved stiffly to the kneading table.

At first Tomas thought it but his imagination, but now there was no mistake – the heat in his hidy-hole was definitely rising. Rivulets of sweat began running down his face, stinging his eyes; down his back, soaking his clothes. He wedged himself as far back as he could, to no avail. Worse than the building heat, he thought the air was getting thin. He was having trouble breathing. Panic began to build. He had to get out. Perhaps he could use his feet to force the bricks out into the oven.

There was a scraping sound behind him, then he felt a rush of cool air run up his back. Light flooded in. He turned to see small hands working at some bricks. He swung around and worked at the same bricks. One by one they moved until there was a small hole – a bolt hole – that might be just big enough to squeeze through. Lor’s head appeared, twisted round to face up. The lad smiled.

Single White Male

#fridayflash, #STLwrites, flash fiction, Suspense 22 Responses »

Jan 072011

Jack Hurley lifted a single slat of his blinds and surveyed the street below. It seemed pretty well deserted. Every once in a while a car would pass by, but they were all nondescript. No sign of Internal Control. He gave the backpack at his feet a slight kick, cursing his fate. Here he was one week before his twenty-fifth birthday and still no prospects for marriage. If he was going to make the break he should have left weeks ago. He knew that, but he had kept hoping Mary Beth would come around. But her goddamned father would have none of him.

Yesterday he paid the rent for three months in advance, to make it seem like he planned on being around for quite a while. Sometimes Internal Control was content to simply observe, and stability was one of the markers they used in making that decision. But Jack knew he had too many markers going the other way: broken home, abusive father, above average IQ. He had taken the Potentiality Test on the Internet with Tony and Jerry. Of course they were drunk at the time, but he still remembered their reactions when he scored an 87.

“Bummer, dude,” Jerry had said. Tony just shook his head, downed his beer, refused to meet his eye. “You better get married soon,” Jerry laughed, still thinking it all a joke, then popped another beer.

But they had been drunk. So Jack took the test again two days later, anonymously at the library. He scored even worse – an 88. Then he begged Mary Beth Anderson to marry him. Her father threatened to call IC himself if he ever came around again.

Since then Jack had been hitting the singles bars almost nightly. He was able to score often enough – plenty of one-night stands. But no one willing to commit. No one willing to help out a guy in a jam. Now he was just about out of options.

Another car passed down Sheridan Drive, going slow – too slow. Jack swallowed hard. This was it. The car stopped just beneath his window. Jack broke out in a cold sweat. Then a guy got out and dashed across the street to No. 1122 to deliver a pizza. Jack’s knees almost buckled underneath him in sheer relief.

He was not a serial killer. No way. That just wasn’t him. Damn the Potentiality Test. Damn Internal Control. The hell with this. He was making a break for it. If he could make it away from his apartment building unobserved he might be able to make it out of town. Then he could disappear, make his way north to Canada. Or maybe try for Mexico. He just didn’t think he could take twenty-five years in Preventative Detainment – all because of some theoretical ‘potential.’

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and slid out the door. He paused in the hallway, listening, then made his way to the basement, to the back door for the alley where they discarded the rest of the trash. It was dark outside – he had unscrewed the light bulb yesterday, and knew the super would be weeks in getting around to replacing it. He glanced up and down the alley, then took a deep breath. Instead of turning towards the railroad tracks on impulse he turned toward Dinsmore Park. Maybe he’d pay Mary Beth’s dad a visit before he left town.