by Bowman, Dave
Kyle stood up and walked over to Jack.
“You got something to say, 154?”
“Yeah, I need something to eat,” Jack said from where he lay on the floor. “And water.”
Kyle stared at him, then gave him a sharp kick in his belly. Jack groaned in pain.
“Around here, you gotta work for your supper,” Kyle said, scowling. “And you ain't ready to work yet. I can tell just by looking at you.”
Kyle stood before Jack for a moment. Then, his steel-toed boot came flying again and landed in Jack's shoulder.
This time, Jack saw stars. He nearly passed out from the pain. But somehow his consciousness stayed with him. He almost wished it wouldn't.
Kyle turned toward the door and walked away. The woman in the doorway laughed, then slammed the door shut and locked it.
Jack strained his eyes to look at the new man over near the other bed.
There was a bit of light filtering in around the plywood on the window. Jack could make out his general shape. He was short and round. He groaned from the pain of his own injuries as he struggled to get comfortable on the floor. Finally, he let out a deep sigh.
“You all right over there?” the man said, breaking the silence of the room.
Jack drew in a sharp breath, grimacing from the new pain in his gut and shoulder. “I'm hanging on.”
The man sighed. “A few days ago I was just working at my desk,” he said. “Minding my own business. Now, look at me. They got me chained up like an animal.”
“Did they just bring you in?” Jack asked.
“No. I've been here – what? Two days or so. I don't know. They've got all the windows boarded up so you don't know if it's day or night. And they come in and beat you every so often so you black out and fall asleep. Hard to keep track of the time like that.”
Jack moved around and pushed himself up to sit on the floor. With his arms and legs bound, it took some work, and the pain made him wince.
“The name's Steve. Steve Randolph.”
“Jack Hawthorne.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jack. I'd shake your hand, but, well, you know.”
Jack tried to chuckle, but it came out as a grimace. “So where'd they pick you up?”
“They got me in my own home,” Steve said. “Here in White Rock. The bastards just broke in while I was asleep in my bed. I didn't even have a chance to fight back. Opened my eyes and there were four of them with rifles pointed at me.”
“They're good at that,” Jack said. “Closing in on you when you don't see them coming.”
“Yeah. So they drag me out of bed, cuff me, and make me march through the city till we get to some big adobe house. Must be their headquarters or something. Some guy sizes me up and says, 'B Block.'”
“But this is C Block, isn't it?”
“Right. I'm getting to that,” he sighed. “On the way over I try to run away. They only had one guy with me, and I got out of his reach and tried to escape. Well, that just made everything worse. They caught me, to say the least.”
“So they took you here as punishment?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah, C Block is for those of us they find unruly, I guess. What'd you do to get in here?”
Jack shrugged. The movement sharply reminded him of the blows he'd taken to his shoulder and back.
“I was driving through town. They took my car and then dragged me off the interstate, along with my two friends. As for how I got here in C Block, I guess they'd say I disrespected them,” he said bitterly.
“They had it coming, I'll bet,” Steve said. “What do they expect? They drag us out of our homes and cars and lock us up to work for them like slaves.”
“But how can they get away with this? Why isn't anyone fighting back?”
Steve shook his head. “They're too good, Jack. They're too damn good. They've got this whole city on lockdown now. No one has any weapons to fight them. They've killed all the police and stolen their guns. They've all got us separated where we can't fight together. And then there's the matter of these chains and cuffs.”
Steve rattled the chains that kept his feet tied to the bedpost.
“But it doesn't make any sense,” Jack said, frustrated. “How could they do all of this in just three or four days? Take over a whole city like this?”
“They moved fast. As soon as the power went out, they were taking over houses, killing people, stealing their weapons. It's almost like they were waiting for this to happen – for the outages, and the bomb. They were just waiting for some opening so they could make their move.”
That much was clear to Jack already. There was some architect behind all this. Someone must have been waiting for society to collapse so they could put their plans into action. The leader in the adobe house with track marks on his arms didn't seem like he was capable of it. But who knew? Nothing made much sense anymore.
“They just worked strategically,” Steve continued. “House by house, street by street, until they had the whole town. I didn't even know what was going on until I saw them in my house. Then, I saw it with my own eyes when they marched me down the streets. All the destruction through the city. All the people they had massacred. Everyone else has seen it too. That's why they're out there working for them. It's better to work for these people than to die.”
It became harder for Jack to breathe as he listened. He started to feel the walls closing in on him. He didn't like what he was hearing.
“That's it, then? You're just going to give up? You're going to spend the rest of your life working for these people?”
Jack heard the handcuffs clink together as Steve shifted in his seat.
“What else is there to do? I don't have a gun. And everywhere you go, there's a dozen of them pointing a dozen guns at you. I'm no match for them.”
“But what about the people they've got working for them outside? Why are they going along with it? They could try to escape, or get together and plan an uprising.”
Steve laughed a bitter little laugh. “I think you overestimate the human spirit.”
“What do you mean?”
“These guys know exactly what they're doing,” Steve whispered. “How else could they get all this done in just a few days – this machine they've built? They know how to break people.”
“You mean with the beatings?”
“Yeah, the beatings. But also the food deprivation, the solitary confinement – hell, I was all alone for who knows how long until they dragged me in here. I guess they filled up all their rooms and now they have to double up.”
The thought had already occurred to Jack. That would mean they had potentially even more than the fifty or sixty people that Mandy had estimated were kept prisoner in the motel for the worst offenders.
Jack could see Steve leaning forward in the shadows.
“But it's more than that,” Steve said. “Just seeing how many people they've killed is enough to mess with your head. When they had me walk through the town, I saw – I saw terrible things.”
Steve was quiet for a moment. Above them, they heard a struggle in the room on the next floor. Something – or someone – fell to the floor. Then, they heard the sound of someone crying out in pain.
Steve groaned. “You hear that? That's how they do it. Everywhere you look, you see or hear death and dying. After a while, you don't have much fight left.”
They listened as the person above them screamed in agony.
“I'm done,” Steve said. “I want to get out of this damned motel and see the light of day. I'll go out and work for them pulling trailers by bicycle if that's what I have to do.”
“That's not a bad idea,” Jack said. “You could escape that way, you know. Just get on a bike and slip away when they're not looking. Before they know you're missing, you could be halfway to Phoenix –”
“It won't work,” Steve interrupted. “They've got men guarding every way out.”
Jack scoffed. “There's gotta be some way out of here.”
Steve shook his head. “I've seen it. They've got every exit sealed off by guys with semi-automatic rifles.”
They were silent again, listening to the man crying out on the next floor.
Steve cleared his throat.
“Like I said, I'm done. I'm getting out of C Block. And not in a body bag. The next time they check in on me, I'm keeping my head down. Once they know you won't give them any more trouble, they'll put you on work detail. If you want to go on living, Jack, I suggest you do the same thing.”
Jack didn't answer. He was lost in thought, considering Steve's words.
After a long while, Steve fell asleep. His snores filled the room. Upstairs, the man was still groaning in pain.
Jack wondered where Naomi and Brent were. Had they already been broken? Had they already given up?
He didn't know if Steve was right or not. Maybe he was. Maybe it was too much to ask for people to fight against a gang that had trapped them and soaked the town in blood.
But Jack knew one thing – he wasn't giving up yet.
30
Dox's boots pounded on the carpeted hallway of the headquarters.
He was finally getting off his shift, and he needed to have a word with Oscar.
Dox had done a lot of thinking. Oscar just wasn't handling things well, and Dox wanted to make that clear.
Dox rolled his eyes remembering the afternoon before. That California guy had insulted them all, and Oscar had just let him get away with it.
If Oscar kept letting prisoners disrespect the twelve core members, how could they expect to keep control? Not only would they risk an uprising from the prisoners in the camps, but the new recruits – the worker bees – might get some ideas. What if one day they tried to overthrow the Dirty Dozen?
It would be difficult for the workers to revolt. Dox and Oscar had made sure of that. Workers were always under tight surveillance by either a member of the core group or a member of the second level – the trusted members who had proved themselves. Trusted members always carried a gun or two.
But still, there was always a risk of a rebellion. With an operation as new as theirs, they had to be vigilant.
Which meant they couldn't allow any room for smart alecks and back-talkers.
If prisoners thought they could get away with insubordination, they would try even greater offenses next time. Like escape.
If you gave them an inch, they would take a mile.
If Oscar wasn't going to lay down the law, Dox would have to.
Dox knocked on Oscar's door. It was very early morning, before sunrise. Right when Oscar was about to leave his room and start the rounds. Dox didn't want to waste any time.
“It's Dox,” he called at the closed door.
“Come in.”
Dox stepped inside. Oscar was standing near a large desk on the far side of the room, cleaning his rifle. He smiled at his friend, his right-hand man.
“Morning,” Oscar said. “I trust everything went well at the interstate last night?”
“Right as rain,” Dox said, standing in the doorway. “But could I talk to you?”
Oscar nodded and motioned for Dox to shut the door. “What's on your mind?”
Dox took a seat at the desk. “Well, it's about that group from California yesterday.”
“Right, John Wayne and his pals,” Oscar said. “What about them?”
Dox traced his finger along the wooden inlay on the desk, then he dropped his hand in his lap. “To be frank, I don't think that guy should have been sent to C Block.”
Oscar set his cleaning rod on the desk in front of him. “Is that so?”
Dox nodded. He felt his chest tighten. Oscar seemed upset. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.
“Yeah,” Dox said. “It's just – well, that guy had a mouth on him. He insulted you – us – in front of Billy and the rest of them. Don't you think that's dangerous? Any prisoner who talks to us like that should be shot.”
Oscar laughed. “How's it dangerous?”
“You know,” Dox said, “they could get the wrong idea. That we're soft. Those workers could start to get ideas. Like trying to take things over for themselves.”
Oscar shook his head. “I don't think so. Everyone with a weapon is loyal and trusted. Everyone without a weapon is guarded by those core members. We've got this thing under control. It's running smoother every day.”
Dox nodded, but he was still unconvinced.
“Besides,” Oscar continued, “that California guy could do some hard labor. We need more hands on deck the bigger we get. Kyle and the rest of them at C Block will get him in line. Give Kyle another day, and he'll have him under control. Now, if there's nothing else, I have some work to do.”
Dox stood up. He was silently fuming at the way Oscar had dismissed him. Dox was right to be concerned about the way Oscar was running things. Oscar was letting the ball drop.
But Dox didn't want to push the matter. He couldn't afford to lose Oscar's trust. He shouldn't rock the boat too much.
He took a step toward the door and looked at his boss.
Oscar was looking worse than ever. His face was more sickly every day. Dox could see it, despite the makeup Oscar had been using to hide it. That stuff he smeared all over his skin might have fooled the other guys, but Dox knew what was going on.
“Sure thing, O,” Dox said. He walked toward the door, leaving Oscar behind at the desk where he stood, still arranging his tools. “Good luck out there today.”
Oscar mumbled something in response as Dox crossed the room.
Dox opened the door, stepped outside the room, then glanced back at Oscar one last time through the doorway.
Oscar was looking down at his rifle, then he reached up to scratch his head. Just before Dox pulled the door shut, he saw it.
Oscar frowned. He drew his hand away, and with it came a large clump of hair.
Oscar's hair had started to fall out – fast.
Dox shut the door.
He could feel his heart in his chest.
This would change everything.
Dox had been waiting for this opportunity since the bomb. He'd been waiting for Oscar to show more signs of illness.
No one else seemed to be aware of radioactive fallout. No one minded going out in the streets – even in the streets near downtown – after the explosion.
That wasn't surprising to Dox. They were all idiots.
Oscar was pretty smart about some things, but even he hadn't been aware of the deadly effects of radiation exposure. Only Dox was smart enough to know to avoid it. Only he knew to stay inside the hours after the bomb.
That first day, it had been easy for Dox to stay indoors and protect himself from the fallout. No one had suspected what he was up to. He had volunteered to guard the headquarters with Mark, and Oscar just thought Dox was being helpful.
And Dox had guarded the headquarters all right – while staying safely indoors and away from windows while Mark stood on the street.
And Oscar had made the biggest mistake. He had gotten the closest to Ground Zero of all of them.
Finally, it was starting to catch up with him.
Dox had noticed Oscar's skin looking gray since the bomb. Oscar had tried to cover it up with makeup. But Dox could see through that. He knew Oscar was sick.
And now, he had seen the next sign of Oscar's deteriorating health.
His hair was falling out.
That meant that things were progressing faster than Dox expected. Dox had to act fast. The other guys would see that Oscar was falling apart, too. Even though they were slow to catch on, they would eventually see the same thing Dox saw. And they would use the opportunity to take over.
Dox couldn't risk that.
It was his chance to rise to power. It was his turn. He was tired of working in Oscar's shadow. He would run things better as leader. He wouldn't let people walk all over him.
Dox paced up and down the hallway. Was this the right time? Should he wait another day or
two?
No, he couldn't risk it.
He had to beat out the other guys.
Dox took a deep breath. It was now or never.
He cracked his knuckles and shook his hands out. He knocked on the door again.
“Come in!” came Oscar's voice. This time, he was irritated.
Dox stepped in and shut the door.
“What now?” Oscar asked. He had left the rifle on the desk, and now he was standing on the other side of the room, digging through a suitcase on the bed.
This was Dox's chance. He had to do it just right. No turning back now.
Oscar looked up at Dox distractedly, then returned to the bag.
“Sorry to bother you, Oscar,” Dox said, slowly approaching Oscar's turned back. “Just one more question.”
Dox took another step forward. His hand moved to the sheath he wore at his belt.
Oscar sighed. “I'm kind of busy right now. What is it this time –”
He turned around to face Dox. His eyes went big.
Dox leapt forward.
He plunged a knife into Oscar's heart.
Oscar stared at him, stricken. His mouth moved, trying to form words. He looked down at the knife in his chest as Dox withdrew it.
Suddenly, Oscar turned toward the bed. In one last effort, he reached for something in his bag. But before his fingers could reach the pistol, Dox drew the blade of the knife across his throat in one swift, deadly movement.
Oscar fell forward, hitting the bed with his face and upper body. Then he slid to the floor, hitting the carpet on his side.
Dox stood over him, watching and waiting. Blood pooled around his victim and saturated the beige carpet.
Oscar's head twitched slightly a few times. Then nothing.
Oscar lay motionless on the floor. His eyes were open, still in that shocked expression.
Dox brought two fingers to Oscar's pulse point below his jaw.
He was dead.
Dox exhaled, feeling a smile form on his mouth.
Now, he was king.
He wiped his bloodied hands clean on the bedspread. He looked through the large suitcase on the bed.
Dox removed the useless items and tossed them aside. Clothes, the stash of makeup, and sentimental items Oscar had kept from various houses he had robbed over the years. Those silly things – photographs, letters, trinkets – made Dox laugh out loud. Oscar had always been too emotional to make it big.