Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,1

the fence pulling a wheeled cart behind him, a handful of black trash bags tossed inside. Just two more bins to empty. The drop-off point for removal of the bags was at the south-west corner of the Meadow, so once he’d gathered the last two he would dump them all there, return the cart to storage and get his ass home.

He approached the penultimate can, his thick boots crunching in the snow as he walked. He could see the black bag inside was about three quarters full. Coming to a halt, he pulled the bag out of the can, tied off the ends and then tossed it into the cart behind him to join the others. He drew a fresh bag, pulling it off a roll he’d stashed in the cart and replaced the old one.

But just as he was about to move on something on the ground caught his eye.

It was pretty well camouflaged by the snow. He’d almost missed it.

Stepping forward and bending down, he wiped off a layer of snow with his glove.

It was a black shoebox. It looked like someone had tossed it at the trash but missed and walked away, leaving it there on the ground. He was about to scoop it up to throw it inside the newly-replaced bag, but hesitated. He could hear something.

The box was clicking.

The groundsman looked around. All he could see was falling snow and a dark, quiet Park. Whoever had left the box here had long since gone.

Maybe there's an animal inside, he thought.

It was common practice in the city for unwanted pets to be dumped like this. He couldn’t just leave the poor creature out here to freeze to death.

He reached forward, pulled a string securing the box and lifted the lid.

The moment he did, the clicking stopped.

There was a whump. A small cloud of yellow gas spewed from the box and hit him directly in the face. He instinctively recoiled but inhaled at the same time, the mustard-coloured gas sucked into his mouth and nostrils.

And immediately, he started choking.

He couldn’t breathe. Coughing and gagging, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a horrific pain in his chest. It felt as if it was on fire. Every desperate breath he tried to take made the searing, burning sensation worse. He coughed harder, his whole body starting to jerk, blood spraying out of his mouth onto the white snow. He staggered back then collapsed to the ground, doubling over. He curled up in a tight ball in a vain effort to stop the agony, but it was getting worse.

He started to retch, his body spasming violently, blood and pieces of lung tissue spewing from his mouth onto the snow around him. The agonising and uncontrollable spasms increased in intensity, contorting his body and growing more and more violent. Suddenly, there was a loud crack.

His spine had snapped.

Immediately going into shock, the groundsman gargled as fluid filled his ruptured lungs.

And thirty seconds after he’d inhaled the gas, the man drowned in his own blood.

His jerking and convulsing ceased.

He was still, blood and bits of lung spattered both on his clothes and on the ground around him.

Crimson against the white.

He was the only person in the Meadow. No one else was around.

And the snow continued to fall silently from the sky.

Across the city, they’d been working on the guy for almost three hours before he cracked. There were two people torturing him, a man and a woman called Wicks and Drexler. Inside the dark house Wicks walked over to the bed and put his hands on his knees, looking down at the bloodied man who was strapped to the frame. The guy had lasted longer than they’d expected. They’d worked their way through every sharp implement they could find in the kitchen, and by the second hour had gotten creative.

Wicks reached forward and ripped a strip of duct tape off the dying man’s mouth. He did it fast, like pulling off a band aid. Then he peered in close. The guy’s eyes were hazy from blood loss and shock trauma.

‘Something you wanna tell us?’ Wicks asked.

The man coughed weakly, blood around his mouth, his arms and legs taped securely to the wooden bed posts. He mumbled something that was just a whisper.

‘Louder.’

‘Macy’s.’

‘Go on.’

He coughed.

‘B..Bryant Park,’ he said, blood bubbling out of his lips. He must have ruptured a lung.

‘And?’

‘Pier…17.’

‘What time?’

‘Around…11. 30.’

Wicks looked into the man’s eyes for a moment, then rose.

Drexler stepped forward, a suppressed Glock 21 in her hand and gave the