Story code: ST-001837
Part 2: The Slipping Chain
The heavy oak door retreated inward, pulling a wave of cool, air-conditioned air out into the humid, chaotic evening. It stopped with a sharp metallic clank. A heavy brass security chain, thick as a ship’s rigging, held the door to a two-inch gap. Through the sliver of darkness, Arthur caught the glint of terrified, darting eyes.
Before the woman inside could process the sight of him, Arthur drove the steel toe of his work boot into the narrow opening. The homeowner immediately threw her weight against the door to slam it shut. The thick wood collided with Arthur’s leather boot with bone-jarring force. A shockwave of pain shot up his shin, but he didn’t pull back. He couldn’t. If that lock clicked back into place, his life was over.
“Get back!” a woman’s voice shrieked from the marble foyer. “I have security! I’m calling the police!”
“They’re… they’re already out here,” Arthur gasped, pressing his face against the crack. The polished wood felt like ice against his burning, feverish cheek. His hands shook violently as he jammed the crumpled manila folder into the narrow space, forcing the damp paper through the gap. “My insurance. Your company… the acquisition canceled my policy. I need the executive override.”
The eyes in the darkness blinked, wide and uncomprehending. “What?”
Arthur swayed, his locked knees threatening to buckle. The edges of the porch dissolved into a fuzzy, static-filled gray. His heart fluttered against his ribs like a trapped bird, a desperate, irregular rhythm warning him that his blood sugar was plummeting into a fatal zone. His tongue felt thick, tasting faintly of copper and ash. “The waiver. You just have to sign the waiver.”
Behind him, the mob realized what was happening. The click of the deadbolt had acted as a starting pistol. A roar went up from the lawn, a sound so loud and dense it felt like a physical blow against Arthur’s spine.
“They’ve breached the door!” a streamer screamed, his voice cutting through the bass-heavy chants. “The old guy got the door open! Push!”
The line of tactical guards on the porch buckled as a surge of bodies pressed up the brick steps. The hand on Arthur’s collar-the guard who had been trying to yank him away-was suddenly ripped back as the guard was dragged down into the crush of the crowd. A teenager wielding a heavy telescoping pole smashed into Arthur’s back, pinning him hard against the oak doorframe.
The breath rushed from Arthur’s lungs in a pained hiss. He clawed at the wood, his fingernails digging into the varnished grain to keep from sliding down beneath the trampling boots.
“Sign it,” Arthur choked out, unable to draw enough oxygen to yell. He reached into his chest pocket with a trembling, numb hand, fishing out a cheap blue ballpoint pen. He tried to push it through the gap toward the woman, but his fingers betrayed him. A spasm locked his knuckles. The plastic pen slipped, clattering against the brass threshold and rolling away into the darkness of the foyer.
“No, no,” Arthur mumbled, a wave of pure, unfiltered panic washing over him. The severe hypoglycemia was shutting down his central nervous system. He was losing control of his own limbs.
Inside, the woman looked down at the crumpled folder wedged in the doorframe. Through the gap, Arthur could see her backing away. She was wearing a pristine silk blouse, her hands trembling as she clutched a sleek cell phone to her chest. She looked at the paper, then up at Arthur’s sweating, pale face, seeing only another monster from the lawn.
“Please,” Arthur begged, staring at her through the darkness. “Mrs. Sterling. It’s Arthur. Arthur Pendelton. Fleet maintenance. Please.”
“I don’t know you!” she yelled back over the deafening roar of the mob. “Take your trash and get out! They’re going to get in!”
“They will kill me out here,” Arthur whispered. The black spots in his vision expanded, merging together to form dark curtains closing over his eyes. He could no longer feel his feet inside his boots. The only thing keeping him upright was the crushing weight of the protesters pressing against his back, pinning him to the doorframe like a mounted insect.
A heavy elbow caught Arthur behind the ear. A flash of blinding white light exploded in his skull, followed by a dizzying wave of nausea. Someone grabbed the shoulder of his flannel shirt, violently yanking him backward.
“Out of the way, old man!” a voice shouted in his ear. A protester wearing a black balaclava shoved past Arthur, trying to force his thick forearm into the two-inch gap. The masked man reached blindly for the brass security chain, desperate to unhook it.
“No!” Arthur roared, finding a sudden, primal reserve of adrenaline. He threw his weight back, slamming the masked man against the brick exterior of the house. Arthur turned back to the gap, throwing his own forearm over the brass chain to shield it from the intruders. The friction of the doorframe tore the skin from his elbow, but the pain barely registered through the numbness of his crash.
He stared through the gap at Mrs. Sterling. He flattened the crumpled insurance waiver against the inside edge of the door with his bloody, shaking hand.
“Sign it!” Arthur screamed, his voice breaking into a wet, desperate sob. “I just need a signature!”
Mrs. Sterling stared at the masked men pressing against Arthur’s back, then down at the bloody hand holding the corporate paperwork. She took a hesitant step forward, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a silver fountain pen.
Arthur’s heart leaped, a final spike of hope fighting back the creeping darkness in his brain.
But as she reached toward the gap, a deafening crack echoed across the porch. The last of the tactical guards had fallen. The full, unbridled weight of a hundred rioting protesters slammed against the front of the house in a unified surge.
The heavy oak door groaned under the immense pressure. The brass security chain pulled taut against Arthur’s arm, the thick metal links whining in protest. The screws holding the chain’s mounting plate to the doorframe began to strip out of the wood with a sickening, splintering crunch.
If that chain broke, the mob would flood inside, trampling Arthur into the expensive hardwood floor before the cap ever came off her silver pen.