Chapter 14
Joel followed the guy, who introduced himself as Herbert, up paved paths toward the library. The crazies thinned out. Shortly after they started walking, a flash of yellow flitted into the shadows between buildings. Herbert lifted his arm and the pistol cracked, the sound of it sharp and flat, pitching a bullet into the indeterminate gloom.
Joel said nothing but thought, No way he could know whether that was a loony or someone like us, someone like me.
Did Herbert even care?
Reaching the upper quad, they left the path, and Herbert opened the side door of what Joel believed to be one of the science buildings.
"What are you doing?" Joel said.
"As a teaching assistant for the chemistry department, it’s my duty to protect the chemicals inside. Do you have any idea what chemicals can do in the wrong hands?"
"Hey, look, I truly don’t give a shit right now. I’m out of here."
"Gee," Herbert said, "I was really hoping you could lend me a hand."
His arm jerked up and out in Joel’s direction, and Joel had just enough time to experience a rush of wordless fear before the muzzle flashed, and Herbert said, "Heads up."
Joel jerked around. A big, middle-aged guy in a College Heights football shirt lumbered at them, leaking blood from a fresh hole in his gut. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his mouth—green again, Joel noticed—puckered, but he kept coming.
Herbert straightened his arm, held the pistol sideways, gangster-style, and popped the guy half-a-dozen times in the chest and stomach. "Yeah, boyeee! Take that, honkey!" He giggled. "Who’s fucking this dog?"
The guy crawled toward them. Herbert walked over, pressed the barrel to the back of the guy’s head, and fired. "I’m fucking this dog, asshole, that’s who." Then he turned to Joel and said, "Let’s go, inside. This commotion is sure to call more meatheads."
Joel nodded, feeling numb and off balance. Everything had happened so quickly. Herbert raising the gun, Joel sure that this was it, the end; then the big guy—why hadn’t Joel heard him coming?—and all those shots, all of it so fast…
"Come on," Herbert said, and they went through the door into a stairwell. "That’s twice, old buddy."
"Huh?"
"Twice," Herbert said, pausing in the stairwell. "Two times I’ve pulled your ass out of the flames."
"Thanks."
"No problema," Herbert said and giggled again. "That’s Spanish for ‘Don’t fucking worry about it.’" Then he really laughed, and Joel did his best to join in. He did not want to piss this guy off.
Still laughing, Herbert said, "Has it occurred to you that I could kill you at any moment?"
Joel looked at him. "Uh…no, not since, you know, you saved me back at the car, and I knew you weren’t one of them."
Herbert giggled again. "I was just wondering if it had crossed your mind. I mean, the poo-poo really hit the fan this time, you know? Sprayed all over everything. Almost sprayed all over you."
"Yeah," Joel said, and faked a smile, thinking, What the fuck is this guy talking about? A wild idea flashed through his head: sucker punch Herbert right now, knock his skinny ass down, and take those guns. But Joel had never decked anybody in his life and wasn’t sure he could do it now. Besides, Herbert had saved his life, and he was good with those guns of his.
"Yup, anything goes now," Herbert said. "I mean, let’s say you had a score to settle with some old chemistry professor, right? Maybe some guy who used to belittle you in class, say, or something like that. Then he nixes your teaching application, that kind of guy. Now, what would you do? What could you do, if he happened to walk into this hallway now?"
"Pretty much anything I wanted, I guess," Joel said.
"Damn straight, you could. You could blast him straight to hell, and nobody would ever pin it on you, not with all this crazy stuff going on." He started giggling again. "Or say you had a crush on some girl, right? You could do anything to her, force her to do anything tonight. Imagine that, huh? I mean, you could take her clothes off. You could look at her, touch her, you could do it to her."
"Yeah," Joel said, trying to make it sound natural, trying to stay cool, sure now that this guy had driven about five hundred miles north of normal.
Herbert’s stare intensified. "You do know what I mean, right?"
Joel nodded.
Herbert made an OK sign then poked the pistol barrel in and out of it. "Do it to her."
"Yeah."
"And when you finished, you could poke her goddamned whore eyes out, if you wanted to. Not that anybody would do that. I mean, you’d have to be crazy to do something like that, right?"
"Yeah," Joel said, wanting to get the fuck out of there, willing now to take his chances with the crazies outside.
Herbert said, "Come on. I’ll show you just what I mean."
Fuck that noise, Joel thought. He did not want a demo on what this crazy bastard wanted. But outwardly, he kept his cool, saying, "That’s all right. I know what you’re saying."
Herbert chuckled a little, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "I’m going to show you something." He pointed his pistol at the door and said, "That way, right through the door and into the main lobby. Normally, we would catch some shit from Cliff, the security guy," Herbert said, giggling again, the sound of it going up and down Joel’s spine like a tuning fork, "but when I stopped by earlier tonight, he had one hell of a headache. He’s probably just lying around."
"Okay." Joel pushed through the door and into an expansive, dimly lit lobby.
Herbert pointed toward the near wall with his pistol. Joel wished he would put the fucking thing away. "Hit the lights, my man."
Joel looked at the lights, the wide lobby, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the quad. "I don’t know, Herbert. We turn the lights on, everybody in the whole quad will be able to see us."
"Turn on the fucking lights, Joel."
Herbert kept smiling, but his tone was unmistakable, its implications irrefutable. Turn on the fucking lights, Joel…or I’ll kill you.
Joel hit the switches, bathing the room in bright light. In contrast, the windows now resembled sheets of obsidian.
Herbert walked past him into the main lobby.
Jesus. Joel looked at the darkened windows and imagined the view from the other side. We’re on display. He had to get out of here, had to get away from Herbert. Just run.
But he knew better. Herbert was death with those guns of his. He’d blow Joel to pieces before he even crossed the room.
Herbert beckoned with the long-barreled pistol. "Let’s go, slowpoke. Hustle your bustle." Again, the grin grew, exposing crooked and yellow teeth, going from crazy to fucking crazy in a lift of the corners.Joel hustled his bustle.
Herbert paused in front of the lobby display, a row of tall, colorful paintings. "Professor Dougherty set this up. Student art displayed in the main lobby of the chem building. Interdisciplinary bonding. You like art, Joel? You enjoy it?"
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes, huh? What’s that supposed to mean?" Herbert giggled again. "Sometimes you like it, sometimes you don’t? Sometimes you hate it? Sometimes you look at it, but you always like it? Or do you like some stuff and hate other stuff? Whatchamean, Joel?"
"Uh, I guess I pretty much like it, you know, when I see it. Most of it."
"Now you’re talking sense, compadre," Herbert said. He gestured across the lobby with his pistol. "Let’s have a little tour. Think they’ve set out wine and cheese? That would be the shit right now, huh? Wine and cheese? What do you say, Joel?"
Joel said he thought that sounded good.
"That’s what I like about you, Joel. You’re an agreeable fucker. Not like the rest of these goddamned meatheads. Everything’s got to be an issue, you know? Not with my buddy Joel, though. No, sir. He’s the bee’s knees."
Joel swallowed with difficulty. His mouth was dry. "Thanks."
Herbert led him past the paintings, babbling unstrung nonsense, going
from what a shame it was that pop culture no longer used the phrase "bee’s knees" to the type of lighting they used here and how it wasn’t really the correct sort of illumination for painting displays to some story about a professor who insisted all chemists were drawn to the major either by drugs or bombs.
Joel tried to respond appropriately, thinking, Whatever this weird little prick wants, go with it. He wants to look at art, look at art. He wants to talk about crazy shit, do it. Keep your eyes open, stay ready, and as soon as it’s safe, jet.
Herbert pointed stopped before a huge, abstract painting. "Picasso? Van Gogh? What do you think, Joel old buddy?"
"Doesn’t look like much of anything to me," Joel said. It seemed the safest path.
"Oh, but it does look like something," Herbert said. "Look harder. Don’t you see it? Lean in there. Really look."
Joel gritted his teeth. This was just some asshole’s attempt at modern art, whatever the hell that meant. Nothing but reds and yellows and blues splotched and striped back and forth, a big glob of purple in one corner. Behind Herbert’s high-keening humor, though, buzzed a dangerous brand of impatience. Joel looked closer. He still saw nothing, of course; there was nothing to see.
"Well," Herbert said, "what is it? What do you see? They say paint and canvas make up only half the actual painting. The other half is what your eyes and mind do with it, what they bring to the viewing experience."
A horrible thought entered Joel’s mind. Was this Herbert’s painting?
"Well?"
"Uh, I’m not very good at art," Joel said. "I mean, I don’t know what to look for."
"But you’re not blind, are you?"
Joel shook his head.
"So whaddya see, Joel? What is it?"
"I don’t know…a storm?"
"Heeeeee heeeeeee! A storm. That’s good, Joel. Very artsy. But no. You really don’t know what it is?"
Joel shook his head again.
"It’s a piece of shit!" Herbert slapped him on the back and Joel jumped a little. Herbert tapped the canvas with the barrel of the pistol. "This is a worthless piece of shit. These artsy-fartsy pansies paint like this, and everybody oohs and aahs, but it’s shit, all of it. Them, their teachers, their art. All of it. And they think they’re so fucking great. Well, guess what? I’m the art critic now. I’m fucking this dog, and I’m the art critic, and I say it’s shit."
Out of his jacket pocket, Herbert drew a little red squirt gun. It was so unexpected, Joel almost chuckled, but the laughter left him as Herbert pumped the trigger, and thin jets of clear liquid hit the canvas with an audible sizzle. A sharp, chemical smell tickled Joel’s nose, and his eyes blinked defensively.
Each squirt melted a hole in the canvas, and around each hole, paint rippled and ran as if retreating in fear.
Herbert stopped and took a step back, admiring his handiwork. "This is hydrochloric acid, Joel. A strong concentration."
There was a shuick sound, a light patter, and suddenly Joel’s toes were afire.
Shuick.
Joel’s thigh burst into flame.
"Shit!" Joel yelled, hopping away. "Fuck!" Through holes in his shoe and jeans, he saw his flesh burning, boiling. "What the fuck, huh? Hey, put that down. Stop. Seriously. Don’t."
Herbert laughed. He’d holstered his traditional pistol, but he still aimed the squirt gun in Joel’s direction. With his free hand, he reached once more into his puffy jacket. Joel heard metal clinking. Herbert tossed something at him, and he flinched. The tossed thing clattered on the floor.
Handcuffs.
"Put those on," Herbert said.
"Why should I, you crazy bastard?"
Herbert raised his brows and smiled. "Because I want you to?"
"Okay, I’ll put them on. Just wait. Jesus, this burns. What the fuck did you do that for?"
"The cuffs."
Shaking with pain, Joel picked up the cuffs. He shut one cuff, then, awkwardly, the other.
"Tighter," Herbert said.
"How am I supposed to make it tighter? I’m fucking handcuffed." He knew he was making a mistake here, letting his anger and impatience show, but the way he was hurting, it was hard to give a shit.
"Impress me with your ingenuity," Herbert said. "Otherwise, squirt, squirt."
"All right," Joel said. "Take it easy." He tried not to look at the holes in his jeans, the holes in his flesh, where acid had burned him, where it was still burning him. Was the acid spreading, melting him? He knelt and pushed his wrists against the floor, one at a time, and managed to tighten the cuffs. Too much so with his left; the metal cut into his wrist and seemed to limit his circulation.
"Now get up," Herbert said.
Joel struggled onto rubbery legs, and they continued their tour, Herbert pretending nothing had happened. He chattered on, bashing the paintings and art in general, but his rants were better natured now, manic discourses on the low nature of artists and can-you-believe-it criticism of individual paintings, sculptures, and mosaics. For the present, Joel could only play along.
Even if he were able to escape, Joel knew he’d never survive on the outside, not in this shape, not with his foot and leg all fucked up and his wrists locked. The crazies would eat him up without so much as putting an apple in his mouth. So he had to fake it, had to nod and respond. Not too much, though; playing along too hard would infuriate Herbert, if he thought Joel was being condescending. And then, as the crazy fucker put it, squirt, squirt…
So he limped along and kept his complaining to a minimum and mumbled and looked when Herbert told him to. Then they took the elevator to the top floor where Herbert led Joel down a long hall past offices and labs to a metal door that Herbert unlocked and opened. "Up."
Joel climbed the single flight of stairs, which led through open bulkhead doors onto the rooftop of the chem building. Wisps of cloud ghosted across an otherwise crisp and twinkling night sky.
"Over there, by that big fan," Herbert said.
Joel stumbled in that direction. Off to the left, the library defined the top of the quad, towering above the elms, the other buildings, everything. Down below, a big guy in a green shirt beat a park bench with the twisted frame of a mountain bike, the clack of each strike echoing off the masonry of the buildings flanking the quad.
"Watch your step," Herbert said.
"Shit!" A corpse lay at Joel’s feet. It was the security guard.
"Joel, meet Cliff. Told you he had a headache," Herbert said and broke into screeching laughter.
The guy had taken a bullet to the forehead.
"Ask him who’s fucking this dog," Herbert said.
Joel stared at the guy.
"Don’t just stand there with your thumb up your butt, Joel," Herbert said. "Ask him. Ask him who’s fucking this dog."
Joel asked.
Herbert laughed. "See? Right there. Right fucking there, Joel. That’s your answer. See?" He raised the squirt gun. "I’m asking you a fucking question, Joel."
"I don’t know…see? I mean, what do you want me to say?"
"He’s answering your question, Joel. You asked who was fucking this dog, and he’s answering your question. He is the answer. See, I’m fucking this dog." He gestured across the night sky. "This great big dog, campus, town, all of it. I’m fucking this dog tonight."
"Okay."
"You’re goddamned right it’s okay. Now come over here, unless you wanted to talk to ol’ Cliff some more."
Herbert led him to the far side of the roof, where a folding chair sat near a rifle on a tripod. Nearby, a power cable snaked out of the darkness into the back of a laptop sitting atop a cardboard box. There were other boxes, too. Some were filled with ammunition, Joel saw, others with glass quart jars wrapped in red chamois cloth.
"You stand right there," Herbert said. He pulled a short length of rope from one box, tied an end to the wire cage covering a large fan, and called Joel to him. Then he tied the free end to the back of Joel’s belt, assuring Joel with a good-natured chu
ckle that he’d melt his balls if he tried anything funny. Joel believed him and stood perfectly still.
"Guess I’m not much of a host," Herbert said. He sat in his chair and swiveled halfway around. "If I’d known you were coming, I would have brought you a bean bag." He tittered, shouldered the rifle, and leaned into the scope.
Joel saw the girl hobbling across the quad. She looked over her shoulder, and Herbert shot her through the chest.
The noise of the rifle, the pure concussion of it, hit Joel like a slap in the face. Down on the ground, the girl dropped, a red geyser spraying from her chest. Joel shuddered.
Herbert whooped. "One shot, one kill. Little different than the pea shooter, huh, Joel? This a model 700 Remington .308, perfect for deer, bear, and meatheads."
"Was she even…one of them?"
"Fuck if I know," Herbert said. "Head’s up. Here comes a couple."
A guy and girl ran, hand-in-hand up one path. Joel wanted to shout a warning but didn’t, knowing it could prove a fatal mistake.
"Which one?" Herbert asked.
"What?"
"Which one do you want me to shoot, the guy or the girl?"
"What? Neither."
"No stalling," Herbert said and grinned at Joel. "Guy or girl? Choose now, or I’ll shoot ‘em both."
"Fuck. Hold on."
Herbert shook his head. "5, 4, 3…"
"The guy, okay?" Joel said. "Shoot the guy."
"Good choice," Herbert said. He turned back to his rifle, settled into place, and shot. The guy flipped in the air and landed in the grass, where the girl crouched over him, taking his shattered head in her hands. Even from this distance, Joel could hear her imploring the dead guy to get up, to get up for God’s sake because they had to get out of there.
"Breaks my heart," Herbert said. "Raccoons are the only animals that linger over their dead. One raccoon bites it, the others hang out to grieve, I guess. That’s why you see two or three of them dead on the road next to each other. Stupid fuckers." He fired again, and the girl fell across her friend.
And so it went, Herbert picking off individuals and small groups, until a moped came buzzing up the path.
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