by Bryan Smith
One of the men pulled a gun and aimed it at Melissa’s head.
“Put the fucking knife down, bitch!”
Melissa sighed. Idiots.
The zombies were still coming at her, greedy hands reaching for her. And these geniuses thought she was the threat?
Jesus wept.
Quigley appeared behind them, head down, drool depending from each corner of his mouth, empty eyes looking at the guard with the drawn gun. Melissa opened her mouth to shout a warning, but it was too late. The dead maintenance man took a bite out of the guard’s shoulder.
The guard shrieked.
His trigger finger squeezed reflexively.
The blast was hugely loud in the little break room.
Another scream rang out and a body fell to the floor.
13: RAINING BLOOD
Something was happening. Something was wrong.
That much was apparent the moment the Cadillac rolled up to the gatehouse. The so-called “gatehouse” was actually just a booth with waist-high windows on every side. The “gate” was a plank mounted on a stanchion at the rear of the booth. A flick of a switch would cause it to raise up or down. Wayne had imagined something much more elaborate. A metal gate, for starters, and maybe a high chain-link fence tipped with coils of barbed wire. Armed guards with rifles patrolling the perimeter. Frothing guard dogs straining at leashes.
But the low-key security made sense, now that he thought about it. The SIMRC wasn’t the state pen. Rather, it was a kind of alternative school, albeit one teaching an insidious doctrine of blind faith in the value of conformity. Most of the “students” were here against their will, but they weren’t prisoners. Not really.
At least that was the official party line.
There was an ugly truth behind the benign veneer, and Wayne hoped one day places like this would be widely viewed as the abominations they were.
The guard manning the booth was standing half-in and half-out of it, watching them as he spoke into a walkie talkie. He stepped out of the booth and held up a hand for them to wait. Mark Cheney responded with a nod and a wave, and the guard moved away from the Cadillac, stopping at the gate to stare at the main SIMRC building as he continued to jaw at the walkie talkie.
Wayne frowned.
The guard gestured wildly with his free hand and grimaced several times as he listened to static-filled squawks from the walkie talkie. At one point he glanced over his shoulder at the Cadillac. He frowned and shook his head, said something else into the walkie talkie. Wayne wished he could read lips. The guy was afraid, stressed out by something. But by what?
Wayne kicked the seat in front of him. “Yo. Cheney. What’s happening?”
“I…don’t know. This is…unusual. Something isn’t right.”
Steve snorted. “No shit. If by something you mean everything about this shithole.”
Cheney said, “We do good work here.”
It sounded rote, like something said automatically any time someone from the outside criticized the center. Maybe he was wrong, but to Wayne’s ears the words didn’t resonate with the clear, bedrock faith of a true believer. The impression meshed with his belief that these people were little more than modern snake oil salesmen. Opportunists who had identified a void in the marketplace, a means of exploiting the fears of parents with troublesome children.
Fucking leeches on society’s ass.
Steve scowled at Cheney. “Bullshit. You’re Big Brother. This shit is 1984 three years late. The rebirth of the Third fucking Reich. You mind-controlling sons of bitches can all eat me.”
Wayne wanted to tell his friend not to get so worked up, but it was too late—his outburst had drawn the attention of the guard, who turned fully toward them now and frowned again as he watched the emphatic hand gestures Steve made as he spoke. The guard spoke into the walkie talkie one more time, then lowered it and approached the Cadillac.
Cheney pushed a button and his window whirred down.
The guard knelt and peered through the open window, his gaze sweeping over the front and back seats before he spoke. Wayne locked eyes with the man for a moment and felt his stomach roll. He willed himself to remain calm, to sit tight and show no outward signs of nervousness. There were still so many ways everything could go wrong. It would suck to blow it now after having come so far. He thought of Melissa and forced his mouth to form a small smile.
The guard nodded and looked at Cheney. “Mr. Cheney, my apologies. I’m afraid I can’t admit you to the facility tonight.”
“But that’s absurd, Gerald.” Cheney spat the words out, sounding every bit like an entitled official accustomed to getting his way. Good. It meant he was still focused. And still conscious of the hidden guns pointed at him. “I spoke with Miss Huffington less than half an hour ago. She assured me I would be admitted.”
The guard sighed. “I received her instructions.” A corner of his mouth twitched. Wayne frowned. It looked like the man was trying not to smirk. Strange. “But circumstances have changed. We have a developing situation inside the center. Until the danger has passed, I can’t let anyone in.”
Danger?
The thought of Melissa facing some unknown threat overrode his better judgment. He leaned over the seat and looked the guard in the eye again. “What the fuck’s going on in there, man?”
The guard’s eyes narrowed.
Oh, fuck…
Wayne knew he was teetering on the brink of a bad mistake. But he didn’t care. Melissa’s safety was all that mattered. He slipped a hand inside his jacket, gripped the butt of the.45 sticking out of the inner pocket. Too bad it wasn’t loaded. He felt stupid. His early notions of how this would work seemed naïve as hell now.
The guard looked at Cheney again. “What’s the deal with the kids? Who are they?”
Cheney ignored the questions. “I demand to know what’s happening inside the center. Answer me now if you value your job.”
The guard regarded Cheney coolly for a moment before answering. “We’ve got a small riot of sorts going on. Hard to tell what’s really happening from the scattered reports I’m getting. So you can see why it would be wise not to enter the facility at this time.”
Steve blurted it out: “A fucking riot!? Are you shitting me?”
Wayne groaned.
One of guard’s hands drifted to the butt of his holstered handgun. “Something’s fishy here. Everyone out of the car.” He drew the gun and stepped back a few paces. Now!”
Cheney opened his door and stepped out immediately. Steve threw a glance Wayne’s way and shrugged. What could he do? He got out of the car and began to move toward the other side.
“Keep your hands where I can see them!” The guard raised the gun and aimed it at the center of Steve’s chest. “That’s right, lace your fingers behind your head, then come on over, nice and slow.”
Steve did as instructed, but with a typical expression of amused insolence. “Whoa. Hold on there, Lone Ranger. No need to get excited.”
“Shut your mouth, punk.” He looked at the car, saw Wayne still sitting there in the back seat, and gestured with the gun. “Are you deaf, son? Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Hopelessness settled in Wayne’s gut like a lead weight. His worst fears were coming true. They had botched the mission. Melissa would never get out of this place, and he and Steve were going to jail. Then he had a thought. A crazy idea. A small smile dimpled the corners of his mouth. Hell. What he had in mind was beyond crazy. It was dangerous.
To understate.
But he was fucked anyway. Might as well go for it.
He got out of the car and saw that Cheney’s big body was shielding him from the guard. Perfect. He pulled the.45, moved into position directly behind him, and aimed the gun at the back of his head. “Drop the gun, asshole, or this motherfucker’s brains are gonna fly.”
The guard gaped at him, disbelief etched in his features. Then he smiled and swung his own gun toward Cheney. He sai
d one word, a seeming mockery of Wayne’s own thoughts: “Perfect.”
Instinct caused Wayne to lurch away from Cheney, which was good, because in the next instant the guard squeezed off a shot and a large caliber slug penetrated Cheney’s forehead. The force of the blast slapped the man backward as the back of his head exploded. Brains flew. A spray of blood spattered the driveway. The dead man fell against the car, then toppled to the ground.
Steve said, “Holy shit.”
Wayne’s mind reeled. Fucking hell. He’d just watched a man die. Had just witnessed a cold-blooded murder. It made no sense. He felt sick. In the space of just a few seconds the world as he’d understood it had ceased to exist. All bets were off now. Any damn thing could happen. He looked at Cheney. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. Moisture mingled with the blood leaking from the hole in his forehead and spread a thin red film over his face.
“Drop the gun, son.”
He looked at the guard. The man was aiming his weapon at him now. Wayne stared into the dark barrel and felt the lethal potential there like a weight pressing against him. He experienced a moment of perfect and profound awareness, pure knowledge of precisely how fragile and vulnerable the human body could be. He’d never felt so afraid. He didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to be shot.
The guard was shouting at him again.
Wayne’s right hand still clutched the.45. It was aimed in the guard’s general direction. Of course, the man couldn’t know it wasn’t loaded.
Wayne sighed.
There was really only one thing to do at this point.
It’s like a card game, he thought. Your opponent doesn’t know you’re holding a losing hand.
So bluff.
He forced a sneer, invested it with phony arrogance.
He cocked the.45’s hammer. Dramatic effect. “No. You drop your gun.”
The guard blinked. The sound of the.45’s hammer cocking had gotten to him, but he wasn’t backing down yet. “Not a chance, son. You don’t have the balls. I can see that plain as the zits on your face.”
A long, silent moment elapsed.
Lethal intent burned in the guard’s fierce gaze. Wayne knew this showdown was seconds away from ending with him flat on his back on the wet asphalt, bleeding out from a hole in his gut. But then another ominous metallic click broke the silence.
“Do what the man said, pig. Put the fucking gun down or you’re dead.”
Wayne glanced at Steve and grinned. His friend had pulled the Walther and was aiming it at the guard’s head. Two empty weapons pointed at a man wielding live ammo. Double bluff.
The guard froze. His jawline quivered slightly. He was afraid now.
Wayne forced a chuckle. “I were you, man, I’d do it. Guy’s stone crazy. Saw him blast his way through a crowd of civilians in Cleveland not too long ago. Besides, it’s two against one. You might get one of us, but you’d wind up full of holes and dead on the ground.”
The guard hesitated a moment longer. A gleam in his eyes hinted at an internal war. Probably he was imagining the devastating results of all that theoretical lead pumping through his flesh. Wayne held his aim steady and prayed the man would arrive at the only sensible conclusion given the circumstances.
The guard sighed and thumbed a switch on the automatic pistol.
The safety, Wayne realized. He gestured with the.45 again. “On the ground.”
The guard dropped the gun and laced his fingers behind his head. “You brats are in over your heads.” The son of a bitch. He’d surrendered his weapon, but remained smug as hell.
It was irksome.
Steve took a few quick steps toward the man, raised the Walther, and slammed the butt of it against the back of the man’s head. The guard let out a sharp cry and his knees buckled. His hands came away from the back of his head as he stumbled forward a step. Steve raised the Walther again. Slammed it down again. Wayne winced as it cracked against the base of the man’s skull. The guard dropped to his knees with a heavy grunt, then toppled over, apparently unconscious.
Wayne swallowed with difficulty, the lump in his throat going down like a cork ball lined with razor blades. He felt sick again. “Holy…shit.. Is he dead? Did you kill him, man?”
Steve knelt next to the guard and removed a pair of handcuffs from the man’s belt. He tossed the Walther aside. It hit the ground and skittered across several feet of asphalt. Wayne knew he should retrieve it. It was his dad’s property. But he felt woozy, stunned by the violence of the last few minutes..
Steve wrenched the guard’s hands behind his back and secured them with the handcuffs. “Dude’s not dead, bro. Don’t sweat it. Can hear him breathing. Should kill him, though. Man’s a fucking psycho. You saw him shoot tubby.”
“Yeah.”
Like he could forget that.
“That was some fucked-up shit. Wonder why he did it.”
Steve shrugged. “Who the fuck knows? He’s a psycho. Psychos do psychotic shit.”
Wayne nodded. You couldn’t argue with logic like that.
Steve scooped up the guard’s discarded gun. So that was why he’d ditched the Walther. Now he was packing heat for real. Steve tucked the gun in his waistband and grabbed hold of the guard’s ankles. “Let’s do this quick and get on the show.”
Wayne frowned. “Do what quick?”
“Move these fuckers out of plain view. You gonna help me or what?”
“Yeah.”
They went to work and in a few minutes they’d managed to stash the corpse and the unconscious guard in the gatehouse.
When it was done, Wayne stood panting against the booth. “Jesus fuck. I’ve about had my fill of body-dragging for one night.”
Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “No rest for the wicked, bro. Let’s move.”
They returned to the Cadillac. Wayne slipped in behind the wheel and Steve took the shotgun seat. He tugged the guard’s gun out of his waistband and thumbed the safety to the off position.
Wayne started the car.
Steve instinctively switched on the radio and cranked the volume. “Sympathy For The Devil” by the Rolling Stones poured out of the car’s high-end speakers, sounding magnificently loud and ominous.
Steve threw his head back and cackled loudly.
Wayne couldn’t help it. He laughed, too. It should have felt wrong to laugh in the wake of the evening’s carnage. But it didn’t.
Fucking hypocrites.
Steve shouted over the music: “GUN IT!”
Wayne revved the Cadillac’s engine.
Then he put the car in gear and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The Cadillac took off like something shot from a rocket. The arm gate shattered in a spray of red-and-white splinters as the big car bulled through it and hurtled toward the building at the end of the long driveway.
14: YOUR PRETTY FACE IS GOING TO HELL
A sensation as of rising up from murky depths. A drowning victim floating to the surface, glimpsing a diffused glimmer of light that grows rapidly brighter. Almost feels like flying, ascending to the heavens on a beam of radiant bliss.
Sybil Huffington awoke with a weak gasp. Her eyes fluttered open and the first thing she saw was the same face she’d glimpsed before losing consciousness. A slim, pretty girl with a dark wedge of hair and pale skin. Cynthia Laymon. The name came to her from the ether, delivered to her conscious mind alone, with no accompanying background information.
The girl grinned and exclaimed, “Queen Cunt lives!”
A male voice: “Shit.”
Sybil frowned.
Queen Cunt?
In the normal course of events, this girl would pay dearly for such offensive insolence. A week spent in the claustrophobic darkness of an isolation room. A daily administration of corrective corporal punishment. At the SIMRC, that could mean anything from paddlings to lashings with a leather strop. Perhaps even a private, late-night disciplinary session or two in her own office. Followed, perhaps, by another hole for Quigley to dig.
But Quigley wouldn’t be digging any more six-foot holes. He was dead, a walking corpse. As were the girls she’d killed. Three of the four, anyway.
Things were about as far from “normal” as she could imagine.
The girl slapped her. Hard.
And laughed.
Sybil groaned and tried to lift her head, but the effort triggered shockwaves of pain. The back of her head touched the floor again and she winced. A big spot there felt tender and moist. A flash of memory then—her feet slipping on the wet floor, the sudden plummet and the hard impact, the mammoth burst of pain, the voices, and the girl hovering over her just before she blacked out.
She blinked and looked past the girl. They were no longer in the corridor. This room had two cots, a small chest of drawers, and a closet. A dorm room, and perhaps one of the most utilitarian she’d seen. The parents of the girls residing here had elected not to pay more for extra amenities. Sybil experienced a flicker of the dark thrill she always felt upon entering such a room. Deprivation engenders a sense of hopelessness. So often she would glimpse despair in the faces girls such as this one. Which was exactly what she wanted them to feel. Their tears made her smile and shiver with delight.
This was but an echo of that feeling. It passed in an instant. Now it was her turn to know hopelessness. The fall hadn’t paralyzed her, thank heaven for small blessings. She had feeling in all extremities. Could move her hands and feet. But she was immobilized nonetheless. Every attempt at movement sparked another lash of teeth-gnashing pain. Escape under own power was not possible.
She spied a man standing in a rear corner of the room. Average height and weight. About thirty. Hispanic. Maybe Mexican. He stood with his back to them, facing a window overlooking the rear of the building. The man wore the uniform of a janitor.
Another flash of memory—the yellow WET FLOOR sign.
The man’s name came to her. Romero. Hector Romero.
Steeling herself against the pain, she lifted her head and raised her voice: “Hector!”
The man flinched but kept his back to her. “Yes?”