The Soul Collectors dm-4

by Chris Mooney

  She found she could turn her head and she did, to her right, and saw IV lines and Jack Casey. He lay next to her, unconscious, an oxygen mask strapped across his swollen, bloodied face. Nose broken and left ear mangled. A steel frame had been mounted across the front of his torso so he couldn't move — it was a Stryker frame. You put someone in that when you suspected possible paralysis and didn't want the body to move.

  She wiggled her toes, felt them move along with her fingers and arms. She craned her head — a pain like nails being hammered through her skull — and saw her body lying on a simple stretcher. Her boots had been removed but the rest of her clothing, torn and dirty and bloodied, remained. Her wrists were strapped. Two more straps covered her chest and she saw one across her thighs. They had strapped her down to keep her body from moving in case she had suffered a spinal injury.

  The pain turned into a jackhammer and before she sank back down to the pillow she saw the back of the ambulance, the open doors revealing patrol cars, fire trucks and other emergency vehicles parked on wild grass twisting in the wind, while above a pale milk-coloured sky filled with smoke.

  Someone jumped on the back bumper and she heard heavy footsteps.

  Sergey's face hovered above her own. The man looked beaten down, broken, but he didn't have a single scratch on his face. Good. The copter had made it out.

  It took great effort to speak.

  'Taylor,' she said in a hoarse whisper.

  'En route to the hospital. You're going there too, in a moment.' Sergey touched her hand, squeezed it. 'You're fine. Probably a concussion and that's it.'

  'Three.'

  'Three what?'

  'Third one. I keep this up I'm going to end up like Muhammad Ali.' She licked her lips. 'The listening device.'

  Sergey hadn't heard her. He leaned closer and she asked him about the listening device she'd found inside the USB drive.

  'The Boston techs couldn't track it down,' he said. 'My guess is they shut down their listening post from their car or wherever they were hiding.'

  'Hatch?'

  'Gone. Blown apart, have no idea who or what was down there.'

  Sarah, she thought. Had Sarah Casey been trapped somewhere beneath that hatch?

  'Same with the mass grave site where you found Jack's wife,' Sergey said. 'Explosion blew it apart, scattered shit everywhere. We've started the recovery effort, collecting body parts, evidence, whatever we can find. We almost didn't get out of there.'

  'Farrell?'

  'Banged up but okay.'

  She looked at Casey. Sergey answered the question.

  'I don't know,' he said. 'The Stryker frame's a precaution. When they found him, he was unconscious. Could be a severe concussion or something more serious, we won't know until he gets to the hospital. That's where you're both going. Keats is going to be there with you. Keats and some of his men. They'll keep an eye on you and Jack.'

  'I'll come back and help you search.'

  Sergey didn't answer. He had already left.

  An EMT, a doughy, bald man with cheeks red from the cold, came into view and she saw him knock twice on the side of the ambulance. It drove away a moment later, sirens wailing.

  The EMT moved in the space where Sergey had knelt and checked the machine beeping somewhere behind her. A moment later he checked one of the straps binding her wrists to the gurney.

  'Too tight?' he asked.

  She nodded and looked up at the ceiling, drowsy. The EMT loosened the strap, then cupped her hand in his own.

  She lifted her head slightly. It wasn't the EMT who was holding her hand; he had moved to the other side of the gurney to shoot something inside her IV line. It was Keats. He was kneeling by the end of the gurney and his eyes were damp.

  'Sorry,' he said.

  She swallowed, trying to get some moisture into her mouth. 'Not your fault.'

  'I'm sorry,' Keats said again, and this time he lost it, broke down and started to cry. 'They made me do it. They have my son.'

  A bolt of fear exploded through her and then died as the drugs floated through her system.

  'They said they'd give Luke a lobotomy,' Keats wailed. 'He's only eight, and they said they'd turn him into a vegetable like Jack's wife unless I brought you to them and I had to… I'm sorry, I had to do it, God forgive me, I'm so, so sorry.'

  Darby struggled to stay awake and Keats wailed as if he were about to burst apart at the seams. The EMT clapped a hand on the Secret Service agent's shoulder, leaned in close and told him not to worry. Luke was alive and everything was going to be okay.

  PART THREE

  The Wheel

  79

  Darby couldn't remember how she had arrived at this place, wherever this place was, or who had brought her here. She remembered lying in the back of the ambulance and Keats crying and then she had drifted away. When she woke up, all she saw was this cool, pitch-black darkness that smelled of mildew, dust and decay. She had been stripped of her clothes, her wrists shackled with chains that extended somewhere above her, bolted to the ceiling. Her ankles had been shackled too, but she could move if she chose.

  She did, the first day, stumbling around in the darkness with her chains, her fingers and palms sliding against smooth stone. A hole dug in the floor to use as a toilet. She felt thick iron bars mounted inside a small, rectangular space. The same darkness was out there but with sounds of life — jagged breathing, crying.

  Several times she had called out for Casey. He didn't respond. Either he was somewhere else or he was dead. She had tried calling for Sarah Casey and received no answer.

  Sergey and the FBI had to be looking for her — and Casey, Keats had said they wanted Casey too. A package deal in exchange for Keats's son, Luke. She didn't know about Casey, but she still had a GPS unit installed in her arm. The FBI hadn't come so she assumed they couldn't lock on to her signal, which meant she was being held somewhere underground. She didn't know where — for all she knew she could be halfway across the world. But Sergey and his men had to be looking for her. And what had happened to Keats? Had they spared his life and left him to spin some bullshit story about how she and Casey had disappeared — or had the Secret Service agent disappeared too?

  Darby lay in the dark with questions revolving in her head and heard whispering voices asking God for help and strength. Prayers for mercy and forgiveness. The voices never stopped.

  Darby didn't pray. She didn't sit around trying to wish the situation away. She was here, trapped, but sure of one thing: she had to find a way to survive. If she was going to live, she would have to be the one to save herself.

  She had no idea how long she'd been shackled in here. At least a day but probably longer. Two, maybe, possibly three. The darkness pressed against her and her mind kept demanding answers. She couldn't provide any so it reacted, of course, with its natural primitive response: fear. And each time it came, each time she felt it flutter through her stomach and limbs and start to close around her throat, she didn't push it away, didn't try to talk it away. She embraced it. I'm shackled in some dungeon-like cell, so, yes, I'm scared. There's no food or water and I'm starving, so, yes, I'm afraid. Every inch of my skin is exposed, and when they come, they could hurt me like they hurt Mark Rizzo and Charlie and everyone else that came before them, so, yes, I'm terrified, because I don't want to be hurt. I don't want to suffer.

  But that would come later.

  The first part of their plan, whatever it was, had to do with fear. They wanted her to be trembling in fear when they came. That was why they had locked her in here in the dark. They had stripped off her clothing to make her feel vulnerable. They had denied her food and water because hunger did extreme things to the mind. Her mind didn't know what was happening or going to happen so it busied itself conjuring up all sorts of gruesome scenarios. She acknowledged all of these things but she also knew she had to steel herself against them. Conserve her strength and, more importantly, her sanity. Fear clouded the mind, prevented you from seeing opport
unities. She had learned this first-hand, during the time she'd been imprisoned inside Traveler's dungeon of horrors. She had survived that and she would survive this.

  So she occupied her time with things she could control — her body, her mind. She kept her body limber. Stretched. Did push-ups and sit-ups and when she finished she meditated to clear her head. Show no fear, she kept telling herself. That's what they want to see from you, that's what feeds them. No matter what happens, don't give them what they want. Keep the fear at bay and you'll find a way out of this. These people are not divine beings. They bleed like the rest of us. The first one came as she lay asleep. She awoke to the sound of a key in a lock and she sat up as the door swung open.

  No shoes clicked on the floor, no sound. Bare feet, she thought.

  She sat stock still, listening to the clicking sound of metal chains.

  The sound stopped.

  Clink clink near her ear and she didn't move.

  Clink clink somewhere directly in front of her face and she felt warm drops on her stomach.

  Clink clink and her heart hammered inside her chest as something cold and hard and wet slithered up the inside of her thigh. She didn't move and it travelled up her stomach and across her breast and over her shoulder and disappeared.

  The door shut and then she was left alone. She touched the liquid on her stomach and held it up to her nose: she smelled blood. The door opened again, sometime later. Several people this time.

  She stood against the wall and listened to the soft footsteps. She could feel them surrounding her, could hear their breathing.

  One of them moved closer and pressed the edge of something hard against her lips. She jerked her head and heard a splash of water.

  'Drink,' a deep but muffled voice said.

  'No.'

  'You need to conserve your strength. To keep your head clear for the choice you are about to make.'

  She clamped her lips shut.

  'We could make you.'

  Say something? No, not yet. Wait and see.

  She stood, defiant, lips pressed together. If only I could see them, see how many there are…

  Something was placed on the floor in front of her and she heard them retreat.

  'You will learn to do what we ask,' another voice said, and then the door shut.

  No, she told herself, I won't. She found what they'd left on the floor: a thick wooden bowl holding cold water. She rooted her fingers around inside the bowl, but felt only its smooth surface.

  She lifted it up to her nose and couldn't smell anything. Didn't mean it wasn't poisoned. Anything could be in there. Drugs. LSD.

  Or just water, her mind said.

  She put the bowl back on the floor. Her tongue and throat swelling with thirst, she picked it back up and with two hands smashed it against the floor. Heard it split. She brought it high over her head and kept smashing it. All she needed was one piece with a pointed end.

  She found one and scurried to the door to wait. They must have heard the noise and would come to investigate. Pray for one, she thought. Just one.

  Nobody came.

  She kept waiting and nobody came.

  Sitting back against the floor, she inserted the jagged end of the piece of wood into the keyhole for the manacle around her left wrist. These locks had to be old; they wouldn't be complicated. A simple spring mechanism, she figured. She moved the tip around inside the keyhole until the wood snapped. She gathered the other broken pieces, sharpening their ends against the stone. Put one into the keyhole, took a deep breath and tried again.

  80

  Darby woke to the sound of chains. Hers. They were moving.

  The metal shackles bit into her wrists as her arms were jerked above her head. The chains kept climbing and the chains attached to her feet were moving too, sliding down the tiny holes inside the floor.

  She wrapped her hands around the chains above her head and pulled with all of her strength. Her fingers and palms, cut and tender from the long hours of trying to sharpen the pieces of wood and pick the locks, started to bleed and she couldn't maintain her grip. The chains kept rising, and, as she had been without food and water for days, her strength evaporated.

  But not her will. No, her will to fight was still there. She had to conserve her strength for when the opportunity came and this wasn't it.

  Her feet dangled above the floor, arms stretched high over her head.

  She closed her eyes and breathed slowly to calm her pounding heart. Time passed and the muscles in her arms and shoulders and back strained and cramped, but she kept her breathing steady, her mind clear. Pain was created in the mind. Pain could be controlled. It could be managed.

  The door opened and she kept her eyes closed.

  A click of footsteps this time and they stopped in front of her. She heard a match being struck.

  'What did you do with the bowl?' a muffled voice asked. 'We know you broke it.'

  She didn't answer.

  The footsteps left, stopped, then came back.

  'You put them in your toilet,' he said. 'How ingenious.' Soft laughter. 'Open your eyes.'

  She kept them shut.

  'Open your eyes.' He stood by her side now. 'I shall not ask again.'

  She didn't and heard another match being struck.

  Clink clink.

  She gulped air and her body stiffened with fear.

  The pain can be managed.

  A whistling sound…

  I can manage the pain.

  … and hard strips of metal were raked against the back of her thighs. Her eyes flew open and she hissed back a scream, shaking on the dangling chains and casting shadows in the flickering candlelight.

  The person who stepped in front of her wore a black theatrical cape made of what looked like thick velvet over a dark suit with a silk crimson scarf. His face — his real face — was hidden underneath a white mask of wood shaped to resemble the devil, maybe a vampire. The mask was scratched and peeling in several spots, especially along the long wooden nose, and a couple of teeth were missing from its wide grin. False black hair shaped into a widow's peak on the top, and tiny black marble eyes. Grand Guignol at its finest, she thought.

  A white-gloved hand with red fingertips sharpened into points held a carved wooden handle; at its end was an O-ring with three chains, each made of seven links.

  'A chain scourge. A rather wonderful invention. The first time I used one was in a castle in Nuremberg and I fell in love.'

  'Is that what you're doing here?' Darby said through gritted teeth. 'Creating your own little private Hitler-inspired army to take over the world?'

  A tired sigh from underneath the mask. 'The time for creating war has passed. Unfortunately. I don't like it up there any more. The surface. I don't like what we created. It's become… evil. Unmanageable.'

  'But you keep going up there to snatch children. Why?'

  'Because I want to,' he said matter-of-factly. 'Because I can.'

  He hit her again with the chains, this time across the shins. Sparks flew across her eyes and her body shook as she clamped down on a scream, refusing to give in to him.

  'I can create a lot of pain,' he said. 'And pleasure.'

  Darby didn't answer, concentrating on his voice. It was calm but she detected something else, something in his choice of words. He had said 'I can create'. Not we. I. The leader?

  He traced his fingernails down across her stomach. 'You're very beautiful, and your bone structure is excellent. Good hips. Now that I'm seeing you in the flesh, I may have to reconsider my original intentions and use you for breeding.'

  The nails moved up her stomach. 'We should start soon, as I fear my time in this body is limited.'

  'Are you an Archon?'

  'The first. Iadabaoth,' he said, unsurprised, more interested in continuing his examination of her body.

  'I understand there are twelve of you. Where are the other eleven?'

  'Here and there.'

  The man folded his arms ac
ross his chest and placed a hand underneath his chin, his nails clicking across his wooden cheek.

  'We need to discuss ovulation.'

  'Sure,' she said. 'Tell me when you get your period and I might be able to help you out.'

  Darby started laughing. Laughed so hard that tears spilled from her eyes.

  'I can make you unspeakably ugly,' the man said.

  'Like Charlie?'

  'Yes.'

  'Now I know why you wear the mask. You must be one ugly fuck.'

  He cupped a hand over her heart. Left it there for a moment with the side of his head pressed against her stomach.

  The nails dug into her skin and the mask tilted up at her.

  'You are a true knight warrior. I could rip your heart out right now and eat it in front of you and yet you show no fear. Remarkable. Truly remarkable. I can't remember the last time I encountered one of your type. Well, well, this does present a rather unique opportunity.'

  'Better get to it quick, then. We know who you are.'

  'I'm sure you think you do.'

  'We know about the tattoo.'

  The Archon didn't answer.

  'The one on the upper lip,' Darby said. 'We found them on Mark Rizzo and John Smith.'

  'Ah. The mark of the trusted servant.'

  'To you?'

  'To all of us. John Smith belonged to another. Thomas Howland was mine. The one you knew as Mark Rizzo. He helped bring me the children. Lots and lots of them to play and experiment with.'

  Charlie's voice echoed inside her head: Tell her, Daddy. Tell her what you did.

  'What's with the mask?'

  'I prefer it.'

  'Why? What are you afraid of?'

  'Afraid?' A tremor in his voice. 'What makes you think I'm afraid of you?'

  'The masks and the costumes,' Darby said. 'This whole Dungeons and Dragons thing you've got going on down here.'

  The gloves came off. Darby saw long, soft fingers. He worked at the edge of the mask and lifted it off his head.

  A woman. Shaved head and pale egg-white skin threaded with veins and a pair of cold ice-blue eyes that looked liquid in the candlelight. But definitely a woman. You could see it in the cheekbones and lips. No eyebrows and the voice was wrong. The voice belonged to a man.