Now he knew how Jesus must have felt.
The thought brought a subconscious smile to his lips. He wasn’t aware that the camera crews were rolling until one of the town council members cleared his throat. And it wasn’t a subtle gesture, either. It was a you don’t know what the hell is going on so I’m going to wake you up type of throat clearing.
Ignacio flashed his poster-boy smile and folded his hands. It was a sign of power, a gesture that he was in control of the situation. Also, he never brought notes to public engagements, so he needed something to do with his hands. He couldn’t very well stick them down the front of his pants, now could he? That would be very un-mayorish.
“I have a very important announcement to make,” he said in his richest voice, “but first I would like to thank all my friends on the City Council who made this day possible.”
Ignacio gestured toward the festering old meat sacks with outstretched arms and acknowledged the camera flashes with practiced ease. The room was filled with journalists and camera crews. There were so many of them, in fact, that some reporters had to stand in the doorway because there wasn’t enough room inside. The fact they were all from out-of-town didn’t upset him. Media coverage was media coverage, plain and simple.
When the camera flashes died down, he continued. “As all of you know, I have not been in office for a long time, but that doesn’t matter. I want to make the most of my time as your mayor. That’s why I’m here today: to announce the opening of a factory in Stone Creek.”
Ignacio paused for dramatic effect and, almost on cue, a flurry of questions darted across the table. Some were spoken, some were shouted, and some were yelled, but they were all painfully audible.
“What is the company called?”
“Can you tell us more about the factory?”
“When will construction begin?”
Ignacio waited a moment for the chaos to die down, and then lifted his hands to calm the remaining voices. If he wasn’t mistaken, Moses had done the same thing in the book of Exodus, except he’d been parting the Red Sea, not calming a crowd of rabid journalists. Although the latter did take a miracle of equal magnitude.
“Easy. Easy. One question at a time.”
The cameraman wearing the faded duckin frunk t-shirt panned across the crowd. He stopped on a diminutive-looking journalist with large round glasses and unnaturally pale skin. If not for the laminated press pass that hung around his neck, Ignacio would have thought he was a character from a wacky vampire novel. He was sure creepy enough.
“Mr. Mayor, what are you hoping to accomplish by bringing this factory into Stone Creek?”
The man’s words were spoken softly, with a very light stutter. He was a young little prick, probably fresh from College with nothing but a fancy diploma to testify to his journalistic capabilities. His hands were shaking like leaves in autumn.
“That’s a good question,” Ignacio mused. He’d prepared a long time for this question. “You see, Stone Creek has gone through some hard times—crop failures, droughts, and the like. What this factory will do is attract jobs, and help jump start a dead economy so that, when the next crop failure takes place, the community will not be devastated like it was before.”
A light murmur brushed through the room.
Jackpot. They were playing right into his hands.
“When can we expect construction to begin?”
This time the question came from a man with silver hair and sharp blue eyes. He was the exact opposite of the vampire-like youth beside him: cool, collected, confident in his abilities. He bore all the marks of a seasoned journalist, and those were the ones Ignacio hated most. They never knew when to put down their pen and stop meddling. They always seemed to stick their noses into unwelcome territory, like the curious cat that got his head lopped off by a meat cleaver.
Well, that was Ignacio’s favorite version of the story at least.
“Good question. Construction is scheduled to begin as soon as possible. The company is sending employees to stake out the site this afternoon, actually, so we should expect to see significant progress within the next two to three weeks.”
A volley of voices rose up in response, but Silver Hair wasn’t done. His crisp voice lifted above the rest and caused everyone else to stop and listen.
“What is the company called?”
Ignacio leaned forward, gazing into those sharp, intelligent blue eyes. “The company is called Wonderworld Industries,” he said quietly. “And they employ the most brilliant scientific minds known to man.”
His tactic worked. The room grew quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Ignacio could hear his own heartbeat. He’d been waiting all night for this moment. This was his time to shine, his grand crescendo. If he played it right, he would be the subject of newspaper headlines for weeks, maybe even months. So he was very careful when he opened his mouth to speak.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Wonderworld Industries is the future of pharmaceuticals in North America. As we speak, they are working on a cure for the common cold. Imagine a world free of diseases. Free of sickness and frailty, and even cancer. With this new factory, one day that dream will become a reality.”
~*~
Across town, Roger watched the press conference with ephemeral concern. He wasn’t impressed with the new factory. Nor was he impressed with Ignacio’s heartfelt address. He’d lived long enough to see through many flimsy exteriors, and he had no doubt he would penetrate Ignacio’s soon enough.
Salvador was a politician, for God’s sake. As far as Roger knew, politicians didn’t care about creating miracle drugs or eliminating pain or suffering. All they cared about was money—money and power. Salvador would probably sell his own grandmother for a hundred bucks.
“Hey, Roger. Still watching this shit?”
The bartender, Dewey, stood across the counter sponging out a filthy shot glass. His black and white speckled hair fell across his forehead, casting a dark shadow over his eyes. Roger took comfort in the fact that no matter what happened, Dewey would always be there, pouring alcohol and looming over his ancient mahogany bar.
“I see you haven’t altered your drinking habits.”
Roger considered the can of Spiffy Cola in his hands. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking the stuff, but he couldn’t help it. It was his security blanket, something he turned to when the going got rough. Some people turned to alcohol, some to religion, but Roger would always have his can of soda.
“I decided to take it back up, for my health.”
“Says the smoker with chronic lung cancer.”
Roger shrugged. “Better now than in five years. God knows what this town will be like by then.”
“All the more reason to stay and defend it,” Dewey said. He had a matter-of-fact way of saying things that caught one’s attention.
“I’m listening.”
“Don’t be like Sam. Don’t run away like a coward just because something bad happened. If this town is worth fighting for, then fight for it. Don’t turn your back and pretend it never existed.”
Roger opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when he realized he had nothing to say. Dewey was right. He had two options. One was to leave now, before all hell broke loose, or stay and fight for his beloved little town. There was no middle-ground. Either he stood up for Stone Creek and its small-town ideals, or let them die a slow and agonizing death. Neither choice would be easy.
Fortunately, he had made up his mind a long time ago. He was staying. And tomorrow he was going to talk to that sly con-man of a mayor. End of story.
Chapter 6
Unfortunately, that was not the end of the story. Far from it. Roger had no idea what he was getting into when he showed up outside Ignacio’s motel at nine o’clock the next day. He was expecting a short conversation, an exchange of profanities, and then a door getting slammed in his face. What he did not expect was a bloody, decapitated corpse lying spread-eagled in the motel lobby.
Roger stopped dead in h
is tracks, head reeling. The sickly-sweet scent of death permeated his nostrils like the plague, swarming down his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He could see where the man’s spine emerged from his ruined neck, just a chalky white rod extending from a gooey tangle of veins, arteries, and muscle tissue.
“What in God’s name…”
Roger edged into the room, not sure if he should stay and investigate or run as far away as possible. His journalistic instincts told him to stay, but common sense told him to run. As usual, his journalistic instincts won him over. He’d never witnessed such a gory crime before, especially in Stone Creek, but he’d be damned if he didn’t find out who was behind it.
Edging forward, he stooped over the battered corpse. It was still fresh, blood leeching from the severed arteries, but he couldn’t identify the body without the head. Luckily, he found that a moment later, staring at him from under the receptionist’s desk.
Roger swallowed hard. It was Enrico, Ignacio’s head security guard. He recognized the man from press conferences and newspaper photographs. Enrico’s glassy eyes peered through the darkness, surprisingly clear, considering his head was completely separated from his body. Roger watched them with morbid curiosity, seeing his reflection in the inky black pupils.
Who would do such a thing? Certainly no one in Stone Creek would dare commit such a heinous crime. Most folks were good, God-fearing citizens (or claimed to be at least) who shuddered at the thought of murder. Maybe Ignacio had some enemies from the big city who wanted him dead. That might explain why he’d wanted to take refuge in such a small town.
“Shit,” Roger breathed. Ten minutes had passed and he’d done nothing but stare at a disembodied head, which now seemed to be leering at him despite its lifeless nature. He didn’t know whether to call the sheriff or investigate a little longer.
The motel was completely silent, which wasn’t too surprising, considering the only people who stayed there were tourists or folks passing through. Still, Roger felt uneasy. He felt like there was another presence nearby, a very volatile presence. Perhaps even the person who’d beheaded poor Enrico.
Roger crept forward on his hands and knees, careful not to disturb the crime scene. There were papers tossed all over the lobby, chairs overturned, and a few expired shotgun shells on the floor. It looked like a war zone, what with blood spattered all over the floor and disemboweled drywall across the desk.
Then Roger saw something interesting: a syringe filled with some gooey purple substance that bubbled in the sunlight. He picked up the syringe gently, careful not to prick himself with the razor-sharp needle, and rolled it over in his hands. It wasn’t some sort of hallucinogenic drug as far as he could tell; it looked more like a raw chemical compound, the kind used in college chem labs.
Laying the syringe back on the carpet, Roger surveyed the room one last time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. This time, when he looked into Enrico’s cold, dead eyes, he didn’t just see himself in the reflection. There were two men behind him, wearing bleach-white chemical suits.
Roger suppressed the urge to bolt for the door and rolled behind an overturned sofa. Had they seen him? Did they know he was there? Or were they preoccupied? He wasn’t sure. Their footsteps trailed across the room, slowly, methodically. He heard one of them kick Enrico’s body, which responded with a juicy thump.
“Poor bastard,” one of the figures said. “He should have run when he had the chance.”
“He put up quite a fight,” the other replied. “He was loyal to the end.”
Both men laughed, their voices, harsh and cold, filtering out through the heavy gas masks they wore. They looked surprisingly like government scientists from some lame made-for-television movie, the result of a pot-induced daydream.
“Is the perimeter clear?”
“Team two is on the north corner, and team three is on the roof.”
“Perfect. Now, let’s clean up this mess and get the hell out of here.”
Roger felt his throat go dry. He hoped to God they wouldn’t accidentally run across his hiding place. He was getting old, and he didn’t have enough energy to fight off two middle-aged combatants. Especially after seeing what they’d done to Enrico.
“You grab his legs. I’ll get his arms,” the first man said. “He shouldn’t be too heavy.”
“Not after you hacked his head off.”
“Good point.”
The men chuckled and lifted the body off the ground. Roger watched them retreat toward the door, all the while trying to keep his heartbeat in check. Right now it was pumping at two hundred miles an hour and it sounded like a diesel engine.
Taking a deep breath, Roger bolted across the room. He had to find a better hiding spot before they came back, or else he was a goner. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this scared. He wished he could just roll up into a ball and disappear. Unfortunately, he was incapable of such a vanishing act, so he found the nearest closet and leapt inside.
A moment later the men returned, their suits stained red with Enrico’s blood. They seemed to be enjoying themselves in some macabre, unspeakable way. Their eyes danced with passion behind the plastic face shields, like two big-game hunters who had just bagged a prize elephant.
“How long do you think it will take before these hicks know he’s gone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe two or three days at best. Someone is bound to notice his absence soon. The bastard was making public appearances almost every day.”
“I see what you mean.”
The two men strode across the room, surveying the damage with impassive eyes. Roger couldn’t see them, but he could hear them. He could hear their breath through the heavy masks, the way they lingered by the desk, mopping up blood like a grocer would mop up spilled milk. It didn’t take very long. Within fifteen minutes they’d completed their vile act, and the room smelled like strong commercial cleansers. Thank God. If Roger had been forced to smell the sweet tang of death much longer, he would have thrown up.
“What about the debris? It looks like a fucking construction area in here.”
“Leave it. We have to disappear in ten minutes. We don’t have time to clean that up.”
“Lucky that bodyguard had such poor aim, or both of us would be in body bags right now.”
“Too true. Now let’s find the bastard’s head and get the hell out of here. The other teams have already left.”
Roger held his breath, listening. The darkness seemed to press in on him, making it hard to breath. Would they make one last sweep of the motel before they left? He pressed his eye against the wooden door frame and peered into the lobby. The door was only ajar a couple inches, but it was enough to see through. And right now all he saw was a gigantic white figure approaching the closet.
Shit.
Roger dodged back, further into the closet. Had they seen him? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had seen them… and that they seemed keenly aware of his presence.
The scent of ammonia and cleansers grew stronger. A thousand thoughts buzzed through Roger’s head. He should run. He should burst out of the closet, take his attackers by surprise, and try to escape before they could regroup. No. That would be suicide. He’d seen what they’d done to Enrico. Maybe he should surrender peacefully and hope they let him live…
The doorknob rattled. But before it could open all the way a voice echoed down the hall.
“Hey! I found it! The sneaky bastard rolled under the desk.”
Roger relaxed. He saw the white figure moving away from the door, his curiosity appeased by his companion’s discovery.
That had been a close call. Too close. Roger couldn’t wait to leave this cursed sepulcher and find refuge in his office. He’d seen quite enough action for one day.
The old journalist took a deep breath. The men seemed to be retreating toward the door. One of them cradled Enrico’s head in his hands. He tossed it up and down like it was a football, and each time it fell back into
his hands it made a meaty thud.
“Do you think they know what’s coming?” the first man asked, the one carrying their cleaning gear.
“Nah,” the second replied. “They’re dumb. They have no idea what Wonderworld Industries has in store for their cozy little town.”
“That’s probably a good thing. Because if they knew what was coming, they would all try to leave right now.”
Both men laughed and disappeared outside.
When Roger couldn’t hear their voices anymore, he slowly emerged from the closet. They’d done a thorough job cleaning up Enrico’s blood. The lobby looked as good as new, minus the pockmarked drywall and debris-laden desk. They were obviously professionals. But why had Wonderworld Industries hired a strike team in the first place? And what were their plans for Stone Creek?
Roger contemplated these questions as he wandered through the motel. A short search revealed another problem.
Where was Ignacio Salvador?
The mayor was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 7
Months passed.
The town was still in shock over their beloved mayor’s disappearance, and Roger had released a series of damning newspaper articles that blamed Wonderworld Industries for his absence. In them, he detailed his encounter with the white-clad hazmat team and the headless body of Enrico, Ignacio’s favorite goon.
The effect of his articles varied. Some believed him right away and went along with his conspiracy theory, and others questioned why a multi-million dollar company would assassinate a newly elected mayor who had openly supported their cause. Quite frankly, Roger didn’t know the answer. He made educated guesses in his daily column, but nothing quite satisfied his curiosity.
Meanwhile, construction of the factory was underway. Each day that passed saw another addition to the gigantic cement beast. Yesterday the main plant had been completed, and now billows of wretched black smoke lingered from the cone-shaped structure. Who knew what would come next? The town watched its progress with growing trepidation, not knowing what tomorrow would hold.
Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation Page 9