by The Behrg
“You’re planning to flash the entire Facility,” Dugan said. “When did I miss that little meeting?”
“That, Dugan, is your fault, not mine! Far too many loose threads.”
Rojo and Kendall both stationed themselves against either wall, flattening their bodies to create less of a target. Their firearms both trained toward the faceless voice coming back at them.
“I’ve given you way too many liberties and I see now that you should have been reeled in long ago so, in a way, I’m to blame as well. But there’s no going back, Dugan. That doesn’t mean you or your men have to be a part of that flashing.”
“I’d like to see him try,” Rojo breathed.
“But we need to work this out peacefully, so drop your weapons.”
“You’ve surprised me,” Dugan said. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What, to outsmart the great James Dugan?”
“No, to make a decision for yourself!”
Chupa, still at the door, held one hand out to get Dugan’s attention.
“Would it surprise you if I told you it wasn’t my idea?” Marcus shouted.
“They’re gonna blow the doors,” Chupa said softly. “From outside.”
“Not really!” Dugan lowered his voice. “Get down low. Choop, give us a count.” He blew out a long breath of air, remembering why he had taken up smoking in the first place. “You taking orders from Shannon now?” Dugan said in a raised voice.
“No orders, but I do take ideas. Especially when they’re from men like this one.”
Chupa ducked his head from the glass, whispering. “Charge is set.”
“Oh yeah, and who’s that?” Dugan shouted, willing to keep Marcus talking.
“One,” Chupa said.
“A little Vietnamese man with only one eye,” Marcus said. “I believe your men call him Cyclops.”
“Cy, that bastard,” Rojo muttered.
“Traitor!” Kendall shouted.
“Two,” Chupa said.
Dugan had much harsher words for someone whose loyalty could be so easily bought.
“Be reasonable, Dugan. There’s no reason to risk your men’s lives. Lord knows you have enough names on your conscious.”
“I look forward to the day I add yours,” Dugan said.
“Three!”
Chupa dropped to the floor, Dugan following his lead. The plated doors blasted apart with an infernal burst of air and flames. The light that replaced the explosion ripped through closed eyelids, piercing like the burning tip of a sword.
Shots began to rain down from the far end of the hall and in the madness Dugan found himself yelling to his men the only word that made any sense — “Run!”
They plunged into the carport, entering a sea of pure light.
Verse XI.
The attic above Sir William’s pantry was wallpapered in charts and aged maps, corners curling off the walls. Stacks of old books littered the ground, rolled posters or parchments leaning against a far corner. There was a single desk against one wall, its wood dulled with time, a decrepit bookcase across from it filled not with books but rock samples, both large and small. But the decor wasn’t what caused Donavon and Kenny alarm; it was the bare legs of a woman’s corpse extending out from beneath the cubby of the desk.
The skin was bone pale and mottled with sores. Her feet, one crossed over the other, looked like chewed hamburger. Who knew how long the rats had been feasting on her.
“Should we call someone? Authorities?” Kenny asked.
“They’d probably lock us up for discovering the body,” Donavon said.
“You think the old man, Sir William, was a serial killer?”
“We know he was a recluse, and he said he left his country in a hurry. Maybe he was running away but couldn’t stop old urges? I bet he even killed his wife …”
“I’m going back down.”
“Wait,” Donavon said. “Just … stay here.”
The smell of decomposition and excrement was strong, no doubt aided by the intense humidity of the country. Donavon tried breathing through his mouth to keep from gagging. He wondered when Sir William had stashed the corpse and for what purpose. If only the old man was still around; there were far too many questions that would likely never be answered.
“Think he was planning this for us?” Kenny asked. “I mean, he helps us out of jail, invites us into his home? That’s not normal.”
“What’s not normal?”
“Helping other people. There’s always a motive, right? Maybe this was his all along.” Kenny suddenly sneezed, the noise like a cannon in the small room.
Donavon jumped, startled at the sudden eruption of snot sprayed into the air in a fine mist. Pattering feet slunk away, vermin scattering. And then the prone feet beneath the bench jerked back, folding in at the knees and disappearing into the cubby of the desk.
“Oh my god —” Kenny’s voice had gone as high as a girl’s.
Donavon shushed him.
A pale thin hand appeared from beneath the desk, gripping its top, the flesh almost transparent. Purple veins moved like silk worms beneath the gossamer skin. After another moment, a partial face emerged from the shadows.
Long thick strands of black hair, almost as knotted as dreadlocks, hid all but the forehead and bridge of the nose. Even the girl’s eyes were covered by locks of hair. She let go of the desk, pulling her hair back. A mossy brown eye, speckled with grey and green, stared up at Donavon, before the girl’s hand moved to block the light from the hanging bulb.
“Light … bright.”
Her words were awkward, as if she hadn’t spoken in decades. She scooted further out from beneath the desk when a chain rattled, a metal collar around her neck yanking her back.
He kept her in here like a dog.
The venomous thought confirmed Donavon’s feelings about their recently deceased British benefactor. Now Donavon wished he could have been the one to pull the trigger.
“We should go,” Kenny said behind him.
“And leave her?”
“It’s not our problem.”
“She’s a victim here. She needs help! You don’t just leave someone chained up.”
“Maybe she’s chained up for a reason, I mean something’s seriously wrong here. Major bad vibes.”
“You … help?” the woman asked, each word like a cautious step testing the weight of the ground. Her neck jerked back with the chain, causing her hair to fall back over her face.
“Yes. We’ll help. Do you know where, uh, the key is for your …” Donavon motioned to the rusty collar around her neck. The woman peered back at him between strands of hair, not understanding. “I don’t think she speaks much English. I’m gonna see if we can take it off.”
Moments passed without Kenny answering. And without Donavon moving any closer to the girl. “You sense it too, don’t you?” Kenny said. “We should leave.”
“No one should be treated like that.”
“Saving her’s not gonna bring Faye back.”
“You really are an asshole.”
“I’d rather be a living asshole than a dead saint. Come on, dude, did you see the amount of dust on the stairs we came up? No one’s been up here for months. She could be a freaking vampire for all we know!”
“Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth?”
“Even the monkey was scared and wouldn’t come up.”
“She’s not a vampire.”
“Help? Please?” the girl said.
“We’re not leaving her like this.” Donavon moved toward the desk, his uninjured hand raised, palm out, in a calming gesture. Like warding off a volatile beast.
The girl slunk back, shadows replacing her features with only the vague impression of where she sat or knelt.
“It’s okay. We’re here to help.”
The smell of decay was much stronger, the air from the stairwell no longer providing ventilation as it did closer to the opening of the desk’s cubby.
Feces and waste and a sharp acrid odor that couldn’t be human.
How long had she been kept up here? And for God’s sake, why?
As Donavon approached the desk, he repeated the words “help,” knowing they were words she had said, hopefully words she understood. He glanced back at Kenny, then dropped to a knee, ducking his head to look beneath the bench.
The girl shot forward, snarling.
Donavon leapt back, putting pressure on his bad wrist and crying out in pain. And then something sunk into his right calf.
He screamed, kicking with his other leg and connecting with the girl, but whatever she had clawed him with had burrowed deep into muscle. Fibers tore, nerves firing incendiary explosions.
“Aaagh!”
The girl broke free from his leg, but not without her trophy.
Donavon scrambled back, bumping into the far wall, blood pumping from the torn and gaping wound on his calf. Wild eyed, he glanced back up at the girl.
The chain connected to her neck rattled as she smiled back at him.
Donavon barely kept from fainting.
Her teeth were filed into jutting points and, between them, she continued to chew the mass of flesh and muscle she had ripped free.
“Oh, dude, I tried to warn you — I mean look at how pale she is!”
Donavon closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.
“First we get some floating Indian dude, now we have a freaking vampire. I didn’t sign up for this shit, man. Unless I’m just, like, super stoned. Like totally, ridiculously fried. And that stupid story about your monster show got me imagining things.”
“Kenny, little help?” Donavon said between breaths, his teeth chattering from the pain. “Get a bandage or something, ‘cause I know I’m not imagining this blood running down my leg.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Kenny said, starting down the stairwell. “I told you, bad vibes!”
With Kenny gone, Donavon once again closed his eyes. The girl continued chomping and slurping at the uncooked flesh.
His flesh.
He didn’t know what was worse, the sound of her eating or the words she began to speak once she had finished. Words that came in a sweet sing-songy voice.
“Little help, little help, little help.”
Verse XII.
Faye’s cell wasn’t made of brick or stone, but hardened earth. The rock walls were scarred with angular spikes and shallow crevices, without a single smooth edge. Though it provided her a way to split the cord with which her hands had been bound, she took little comfort from her surroundings.
In the center of the burrow was a pit that dropped straight down, continuing from a level above her in the ceiling. Twice, liquid slop had splashed down from the hole above, much of it landing on the outskirts of the pit and drizzling down its edges. Even from her position near the bars, the stench of that foul waste had been overwhelming.
Faye had removed the cowl they had slipped over her head and used it now to breathe through. Its mildewed earthy smell wasn’t much better than the air around her, but she supposed anything was an improvement. Half a day locked in this cistern of sewage and she’d be ready to confess anything.
Maybe that was the point.
She heard the footfalls long before she could see the guards. The only light was what little stretched from around the corner, outside her cell.
“Hey — I’ll talk! I can help you! Hello?”
She shook the bars violently, for all the good it would do. Two guards finally rounded the corner, both dressed in their gray camouflage patterned uniforms.
“I need some water,” she said. She repeated herself in Spanish.
Dull eyes and expressionless faces stared back at her, then the alcalde stepped from around the corner. He was breathing heavy from the walk, his face dripping with sweat. The other two guards moved aside to allow the large man to pass. The alcalde looked at her as if she were his prize, a caged tiger put on display.
“Where’s your fedora?” Faye asked.
The general looked at her with a puzzled face. His pleated pants bulged from the pressure at his significant waist, his shirt barely managing to remain tucked-in.
“Your hat?”
“Oh, jes, my hat.” He wiped at his head with his massive hands. What little hair he had was greasy and combed straight back, thin tufts attempting to hide his spreading alopecia. His eyes were swallowed in his rising cheeks as he smiled. “We wear helmets in da tunnels, princesa. So we do not bump-a da head.”
He held up a forest green hardhat at his side, similar to what the other two guards were wearing. He turned to the other men. “Why is she being held here?” he asked in Spanish. “Open the gate. Let her out!”
“You’re letting me go?”
The general turned back to her. “Jou are not a prisoner, here. Dere has been a mistake. Jou are a guest!” Switching to Spanish he shouted, “Come, open the door.”
One of the guards brushed past the large man and slid a long key into the old fashioned keyhole on the gate. Gears cranked loudly and then the gate began to slide open, screeching with every inch.
Faye almost fell forward with the give of the gate. She rose to her feet, a tingling sensation vibrating down her legs. “So I can leave?”
The general squinted with feigned confusion. “Leave?”
“You said I’m not a prisoner.”
“Of course jou are not a prisoner. Jou can leave whenever jou want. Once is safe.”
“Safe. From who?” Faye rubbed absently at her wrists where the skin had been rubbed raw from the rope.
“While jou were resting dere has been, uh, changes outside. Da Shaman, he is, uh, burning da world. Is not safe.”
“I thought you captured him?”
Droplets of moisture clung to the general’s upper lip. “Oh yes, he is here but he is — how do you say — he does not want to help?”
“Uncooperative?”
“Yes, uncooperative,” the general said awkwardly. “Come!”
He beckoned for her to follow which she did, the first few steps tenuous. Rather than turn back the way the men had come from, they continued down the corridor to the left. Faye had the feeling they were moving deeper through the tunnels. As they walked, the general handed her a plastic water bottle, which she downed in three swallows.
“Dese mines were once filled with gold,” the general said. “Hundreds of men and women, children, chipping at the rocks for shiny pieces of metal. Now dere is more gold in the trees than in the rocks, but jou know dis already, yes? Later dese tunnels were used to hide refugees from Brazil. First to hide them, then to kill them. Dere is only one way into the tunnels. One way in, and one way out. But they are not the same. The Braziliaños found the way out; do you know the way out, princesa?”
“My name’s Faye.”
“Like faith. And do you have faith, princesa?”
“Only in myself.”
Gutierrez guffawed loudly. Droplets of water splashed up from their steps, a trickle of water running down the worn earth they walked over. In the distance, Faye heard drops of water falling and plinking into a shallow pool.
“The way out is in a bag body, I think you call it.”
Body bag. Faye didn’t see a reason to correct the man.
“Though some find their own way out. Jou know suicidio?”
“Suicide,” Faye said.
“Here is not with a rope around the neck; is with water, drowning. Jou like to swim?”
Faye’s head brushed the top of the ceiling, the tunnel narrowing and growing smaller. She was tired of the alcalde’s posturing. “Who is he? This Shaman my father was after? Why is he so important?”
“What do you think? Is he a god, or a devil?”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“To me, he is a big paycheck,” Gutierrez said with a laugh.
“Big enough to kill over?”
“Princesa, in Venezuela any dinero is big enough to kill for.�
��
They stopped in front of an adjoining alcove. A glint of light shone off bars before darkness consumed what lay beyond. A rotting stench swept toward them, and Faye struggled not to gag. This wasn’t just the stench of human waste, it was something more. Overpowering. The fetid reek of rotting flesh and decay.
The general seemed not to notice the smell. The two guards trailing behind kept their distance from the alcove.
“Let me guess, these are your guest quarters?”
“No, no, this is our … treasure room. What’s inside is more valuable than all of the gold found in dese mines.”
Faye glanced down the dark hall, her eyes failing to see beyond the bars. “The Shaman’s in there?”
“Ah, jou are a smart girl, but I need jour help.” The general snapped his fingers and one of the guards handed him a small plastic case. Gutierrez unzipped it, pulling out a syringe filled with a yellowish bubbly liquid. “We need the Shaman to go, uh, to sleepy time. Is too dangerous awake.”
“What’s happened outside?”
Gutierrez’ jowls curved upward into a half-smile. “Jou would not believe me if I told jou.”
“So, what? I stick him with that?” Faye held her hand out for the syringe but her intentions betrayed her.
“Ah-ah-ah, I give it once jou are inside. I do not wish to go to sleep.”
“Can’t you send in one of your men? I don’t know how to use that,” Faye lied. In truth, she handled a syringe as well as a pen.
“Remember dat word? The Shaman is … uncooperative. Every man I send in does not come back alive, so this time, we try sending in a woman!”
His laughter made Faye’s skin crawl. She was reminded of the screams she had heard earlier, the sheer terror in those voices. And their abrupt end.
“Do this for me and we will discuss your freedoms,” Gutierrez said. He pointed down the dark passage. “Go.”
One of the guards shoved her forward, the other moving to open the gate.
“How do I know you’ll do what you say?”
“Because if jou do not do what I say I will kill jou myself. Then jou will know I am a man of my words.”
The guard behind her held a wooden baton in his hand, motioning her forward.