"What, exactly, is my end of the deal, say right now?"
"Anything I damn well say, Joel, anything I damn well say. If I tell you to imitate a bird and fly off the edge of the roof, you’d better give it a shot." Then, grinning and lifting his pistol, he said, "No pun intended."
Joel nodded, hoping to hell Herbert didn’t fall in love with either of those ideas, Joel-as-bird or pulling the trigger.
Apparently he hadn’t, at least not yet, because he said, "Now, did you police all the brass?"
Joel nodded.
"Good. I’m especially happy that you’re doing well with the terminology. It’s exceedingly important for us to share the same jargon, Joel. It’s a mark of efficiency, jargon, and as you might have noticed, I value efficiency."
Joel nodded, waiting.
Herbert said, "I’ll give you some examples of the lingo I’d very much like us to share. This, for example, is not a ‘gun.’ It’s a pistol. And over there, that’s a rifle. Get it? Good. Now, the people on my wish list are to be known as ‘assholes’. Got it?"
Joel nodded.
"What are the people on this list called?"
"Assholes," Joel said.
"That’s right. And once I’ve put a line through them, they’re called ‘dead assholes’. Got it?"
"Got it."
"These two assholes," Herbert said, pointing to the names Joel had noticed earlier, "thought they were smart. They’re the ones that planned this whole big event, the ones that gave me this opportunity, and for that I am grateful. So I made them famous. Tomorrow morning, when their taped public service announcement airs, everybody in the world will know their names."
Herbert let out another round of grating laughter. "They wanted something to throw into the beer that would make everyone’s shit turn green. What a couple of assholes, huh? They make some grand plan to spike tens of thousands of drinks, and that’s the best they can come up with? Turn people’s shit green?"
More laughter. Then Herbert said, "I made what they wanted. They tried it out on themselves, and it worked like a charm, of course." Here, he paused to grin, and Joel forced himself to grin back. "So they paid me, and I banged out a big batch of the stuff, and then their little eco-groupies dumped it in the beer. And get this: in their video, which is all set to hijack the College Heights website and university channel on a steady loop until somebody shuts it down, they take full responsibility for ‘the event’. Of course, when they taped it, they didn’t know that I’d added my own secret ingredient. They thought they were just making everybody’s poopie green!" Herbert threw his head back and exploded with laughter. "You remember what I said about fuse, flooding the amygdala with oxytocin?"
Joel remembered only mumbo jumbo but nodded anyway.
"Fuse was just the beginning, a test. See, the stuff these assholes tossed into the beer, it hits the amygdala, too. Only, instead of just taming the fear center, this shit—I call it Phineas Gage—it stirs up the rage center and destroys social inhibitions. The limbic system takes over, these assholes just want to kill and fuck and maybe eat each other. The toughest part, other than abducting Guinea pig hitchhikers, was getting the timer right. Pharmacokinetics, half-lives, cross-linked density, what a pain in the ass. But I digress. These assholes from Green, they didn’t know shit about Phineas Gage, but they dosed the whole town, and tomorrow morning, they’ll take credit for the whole thing."
More laughter.
Joel forced a chuckle. Then he said, "I guess, the lines through them, they’re…uh…dead assholes now?"
"Correct-a-mundo, good buddy. Deader’n shit, those two assholes are. Headshots." Herbert reenacted, actually squeezing off a round, readjusting, and firing again, close to Joel’s head. "Dead! Dead!" Herbert shook his head, chuckling. "And they were the only assholes that knew it was me making the shit. I drew up a contract and everything. A fucking contract! Saying they wouldn’t tell anybody. They actually signed it. Oh, I know they were laughing at me behind my back, but I knew they’d honor it, too. After all, why share the glory, right?"
"Right." Joel figured maybe Herbert had overlooked human nature, figured these guys had probably told a shitload of people, laughing about the crazy chemist and his contract, but he wasn’t about to point this out to Herbert. No thanks. People who thought they were smarter than Herbert had a way of ending up crossed out on a list.
Herbert shook the envelope. "Now it’s time to get my game on. The meatheads are thinning out, people are hiding. The National Guard won’t get their shit together for hours, not out in the streets, so it’s time for a little door-to-door. Feel like giving me a hand?"
"Sure," Joel said.
"See, that’s what I like about you, Joel. You’re such an agreeable bastard."
"I try," Joel said, and—
Then he was down, sure he’d been shot.
One second, he’d been up on his feet, awaiting instructions; the next, he was down, knocked from his feet, and there was only noise, light, heat. A pair of explosions shook the building, and then, within a second or two, the other end of the roof erupted like a volcano. With a deafening roar, huge chunks of roofing blasted aloft, and something massive rode a geyser of flame high into the night sky.
Then the rooftop, or at least what was left of it, rolled like the surface of a wavy sea, and for a second, Joel was certain it would give beneath him, that he’d fall into a cauldron of flame. Gasping in terror, he shielded himself as best he could from raining debris. Finally, the last of it pattered down, and the building stopped moving. Joel stared in disbelief at the crackling flames and pillar of smoke billowing forth from the sagging hole that had been the other side of the roof.
"Fuck yeah!" Herbert yelled. "Yeah!" He screamed laughter. Somehow, he’d managed to stay on his feet and now hopped up and down, arms raised triumphantly overhead, mouth wide, eyes flashing in the firelight. He squeezed off several shots with his pistol, hooting with each pull of the trigger, and turned to Joel. "That was the fucking NMR, you stupid bastard. Do you realize that? The N-M-fucking-R! Yes! Did you see it?"
Joel stared, dumbstruck. NMR? He didn’t…they’d almost died…the building was burning beneath them…
Then Herbert had the gun in his face. "I asked you a question, motherfucker. Two, actually. Did you realize that was the NMR?"
Joel shook his head.
"Did you see it?"
Joel nodded.
Herbert pulled the pistol away, laughing again, and stared at the flames. Beneath them, alarms shrieked, and smaller explosions popped like gunfire.
"Fucking amazing," Herbert said. "I always wanted to do that. How the fuck? Did you do that, Joel?"
"Me? No."
"I’m just shitting you, my man." Herbert whistled, shook his head.
Nearby, a large section of rooftop lurched and sagged. Flames replaced it.
"Well," Herbert said, "we’d better make like shepherds and blow this hotdog stand. Get up." Again, he leveled the pistol on Joel. "That’s it. Now move. Take that shit with you. No, leave that. Grab the backpack. Come on. You first."
Joel paused involuntarily. The stairwell was black with smoke. Sprinklers hissed overhead. Alarms squealed, shrill, piercing. Choking on the smoky air, Joel stepped backward… and felt Herbert’s pistol poke him between the shoulder blades.
"Move," Herbert said, "or you’re one dead asshole."
Joel moved.
Half a flight into his descent, he could see nothing. Smoke burned his lungs and forced his eyes shut; alarms pierced his ears like ice picks, so loud they added to his disorientation; and water spraying down from above soaked him and made the stairs so slick that he slipped and fell. Nauseating waves of pain pulsed from his burned leg. Then Herbert was kicking him, shouting, and Joel struggled to his feet in the choking murk. With the pistol prodding him along, he stumbled blindly on.
At the first landing, he almost fell again but caught himself and started down next set of stairs. The fumes worsened, and Joel knew th
ey would incinerate his lungs, melt his eyes, kill him. Lost to panic, he flung himself forward, misjudged the flight, and slammed face-first into the wall. He felt his nose break, and sparks filled his inner darkness. Herbert slammed into him, cursing. Joel nearly fell again, and that’s when he knew what to do.
He was going to trip this asshole and run for it. If Herbert fell, Joel could hurry downstairs, and if he could get around a corner before Herbert could aim and fire, he would just keep running…
It was his only chance. It had to work the first time.
The time to do it was now, just as they were approaching the next landing, just before the twist…
Now!
Joel squatted and thrust upstairs.
He jammed into Herbert’s legs and felt Herbert fly over top of him. Then there was a loud explosion—Herbert firing the pistol—so loud that Joel shouted with the pain of it in his ears, then kept shouting with the fear as he leapt up and charged ahead, stumbling over Herbert, who lay on the landing before him. All of this was felt, none of it seen, in the heavy cover of black smoke. Joel slammed once more, too hard, into the wall, nearly fell but kept his feet, knowing this was it, this was his only chance, and there was another explosion, so loud, and Joel’s face seared with pain, another explosion, and his leg jerked under him. Pain, burning white, leapt up his leg even as he fell forward around the corner from Herbert and tumbled down the stairs. Joel bounced and spun down the entire flight, screaming with each impact, things in him breaking. At last, he slammed hard into the next landing, where he scrambled around the next corner and came to his feet, dizzy with pain. Pistol shots exploded above him. Bullets ricocheted past him, whining close, and bits of kicked-up plaster stung against his neck. Joel hurried through thinning smoke and arrived finally at a magical sight, all in caps and burning red as lifeblood: EXIT.
With Herbert still some distance behind him, Joel plunged gasping through the door.
He wanted to drop and breathe air, wanted to fall and give into the pain in his leg, his face, his ribs, his shoulder, but he couldn’t, because Herbert would be out here in mere seconds, and now… Oh, now Herbert is going to be really pissed off.
So Joel kept to feet and hobbled half-blind toward what he thought was the front of the building. He wanted to run, but there was something wrong with his legs, so it was only with a spirited lurch-and-stumble that he moved when the dark shape separated itself from the shrubbery and closed over him.
Chapter 31
Demetrius slammed the guy against the wall and pressed the point of the scissors to his throat. The guy, battered and filthy, opened his eyes and moaned in apparent terror. This was the son-of-a-bitch who’d done it all.
Don’t kill him, Demetrius told himself. Not yet. Recon first. Justice later.
He dug the scissors harder into the soft flesh under the jawbone and said, "One push, and I sever your carotid. Another and I go straight into the brain. Do you understand?"
The guy nodded, wide-eyed.
"Where’s the gun?" Demetrius said.
The guy blinked, feigning confusion.
Demetrius slammed him hard into the wall. "Where is it?"
Then, seeming to understand, the guy said, "It wasn’t me." His voice was hoarse. He coughed. "Let me go. He’s coming."
He’s coming? Demetrius thought. Who…oh, shit.
He took a step back, still holding the scissors to guy’s throat, and looked more closely.
"He’s coming," the guy said, and pointed toward the door.
Demetrius saw the cuffs…
"Shit," he said, letting the scissors fall away.
The kid in cuffs shuffled away, coughing as he lurched around the corner.
Demetrius heard the door bang open behind him, turned, and saw the shooter, a small guy in a puffy jacket and glasses, an automatic pistol in one hand. The shooter coughed. Then, seeing Demetrius, he extended his pistol arm.
Demetrius didn’t hesitate. He leapt straight at the shooter just as the pistol flared, roaring.
It felt like someone punched him in the stomach. His body twisted against his will, but he still plunged forward, closing the gap. The pistol fired once, twice, three more times, every explosion concurrent with another slamming impact that rocked Demetrius; yet even as his body hopped with the bullets’ force, Demetrius crashed into the shooter, brought the scissors around, and felt them plunge into flesh.
Then Demetrius’s legs went to water beneath him, and he spilled onto the hard sidewalk…
Chapter 32
After they made love, while Cat was washing up, Steve decided to go ahead and call his brother. He didn’t know how Tim would respond and didn’t care. This crazy-ass night had driven home a new sense of urgency in Steve. Almost but not quite wasn’t going to cut it anymore.
He flipped open his cell and saw messages waiting. There was a new one from Greggers, and the ones from Jessie, which he still hadn’t played. He lay there, staring at his phone, focusing on those two names, Greggers and Jessie, and that’s when everything clicked.
Greggers’s voice entered his head: I think she might be caught up in some kind of terrorism.
Greenwar.
Green…
That was it.
Steve felt so stupid for not putting it together earlier. Greggers’s concern, Jessie’s situation, her calls, he’d just written it off as more of Jessie’s Bullshit. He’d blown off calling her, blown off listening to her messages, and then he’d met Cat; and from that point, he’d spent his time getting baked, getting to know Cat, and dealing with the ever-present inconvenience of fucknut cannibals.
But now it was clear. Jessie and her little militant eco-club had tampered with something—Steve knew it had something to do with alcohol, and he was pretty sure it was Cougar beer—and they’d managed to turn College Heights into a slaughterhouse.
He played her first message. Standard fare, Jessie trying to sound cool, concerned but together, asking him to give her a call. Said she could use some help. Nothing big, nothing specific.
The second call, she’d placed later, around ten. In this one, she sounded a lot less cool. Two more came along rapid-fire, each less together than the last. She mentioned Green, some guy Garrett, and how they’d done something stupid, and now she was worried, and could he please give her a call as soon as he got this?
The fifth message, placed at 11:20, was nothing short of hysterical. Noise raged in the background. Lots of it. "Please, Steve," Jessie’s voice begged. "Please call me. I’m in big trouble. Garrett hired this super-genius chemist to make something, and we put it in the beer, but that guy Herbert must have fucked up or something because everybody’s crazy, and I think we did this, Steve. Look, I’m sorry if I pissed you off or something, but please just call, okay? Please call."
Cat came back to the room, toweling off.
Drawing her to him, Steve said, "It was the beer."
"The beer? How do you know?"
He pulled her close and replayed the message.
"It’s terrorism," he said.
"Like Al Qaeda?"
"No, homegrown. Ever hear of Green? I hadn’t, either." He explained most of what he knew, holding the biggest news for last. "The chemist she mentioned, I know the guy. Herbert. He’s my chemist, my connection for acid, fuse, X. The guy can make anything."
"No shit?"
"No shit." Steve ran a hand through his hair. It was all dawning on him now, all coming together. "You know, I don’t think this ‘glitch’ was an accident. Herbert’s one weird motherfucker. He lives in this little white house out on University Way, near the sewer treatment plant. I stopped by a few times on business but never went inside. The guy is Creep City. I mean, he just gives you a vibe, like he might have a bunch of prostitutes buried in the basement. And his laugh is fucking crazy. Makes your hair stand up." He took her by the shoulders. "Cat, he did this. He did it, and he meant to do it, and I think he’s sitting somewhere watching the world go up in flames, laughing abou
t the whole thing."
He pulled his little notebook from his back pocket and flipped through till he found it. He poked the page, accidentally smudging the name with a red fingerprint. "Herbert Weston. That’s the guy. Jessie just said ‘Herbert,’ but I guaran-fucking-tee it’s him. He’s a complete genius, he’s got a lab in his house, and he’s the strangest guy I’ve ever met. Shit, he did this."
"So what do we do now?"
"I don’t know. Little late to intervene."
"This is big, Steve. You’re sure about this? "
"I am."
"Then we have to tell the cops. Maybe they’ll be able to track him down or something."
"Would it do any good now?"
"Maybe he has an antidote. Maybe it’s something simple. Catching him might save lives. Lots. And besides, the asshole has to pay."
Steve smiled and kissed her. "You’re one tough chick."
"I am." She leaned back, beautiful but definitely, no-doubt-about-it tough as hell. Steve saw it in her eyes, her face, her taut muscles. It occurred to him that he’d hate to have her pissed off at him.
He tried 911. It was tied up. No surprise there. "Let me try Jessie. Shit, I hope she’s okay."
He let it ring until it went to voice mail but hung up without leaving a message. She’d see his missed call. He hoped.
"I hate to say it," Cat said, "but we have to keep moving. We have to find some cops."
Steve nodded. "I could use a pot or two of coffee."
"Me, too. And a shotgun."
"Yeah. My anti-gun stance isn’t quite what it used to be. I might take one myself now." He laughed. "And probably shoot myself in the foot."
She laughed and assured him he’d be fine if they were ever so lucky as to come into some guns.
Steve said, "Speaking of shooting myself in the foot, I have an idea." From his pocket he pulled one of the baggies he’d been holding for Joel.
Cat stared with wide eyes. "The fuck, Steve? Is that coke? You’re going to get high now? Now?"
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