by Kirk Alex
He concluded he was wasting his time. Loon’s mind was gone. He reloaded. Made it back out. Pausing there with his back against the wall. That stairwell across the way on his right is what he wanted. If he made a run for it he’d be left wide open. There was no way to determine how many psychos there were and how many had guns.
Shoulder pain was killing him. Would he be able to cut across to that other side, where the stairs were by the wall? Even if he ducked down, he’d still be an easy target. They had flashlights and the ability to use them whenever they felt like it.
Needed to “low-crawl,” the way he was taught in Basic and AIT. Low-crawl and scramble across the cement like a crab on angel dust, a lizard on speed. Only he knew he didn’t have it in him to pull off. Sore ankle and nicked knee. There was the age factor, the pain, and the belly. The beer belly. All paid for, to be sure, but would get in his way. Fuckin’ beer. You like guzzling brewskies? How is that helping you now? Them little blue pills you been taking ain’t doin’ you any good here, neither.
CHAPTER 535
He considered moving to his right, along this wall, past the room with the bunks and the black-and-white tv and what looked like some sort of laundry area beyond it. Could hear a washer and dryer going, a toilet flush. Sounded like there was a latrine in that area, too. Some of the geeks were in there. Didn’t know how many or what they had.
Some of them were just too plain nuts and didn’t give a shit about him, weren’t bothered by him, like the zombie in that room with the furnace; and them others, some of the others hated his guts—had been told, probably ordered, to kill his butt. Preacher was nothing more than another version, a crazier one, for sure, of Manson. Like Harold said.
So forget going that way. The left, then. He ducked down, gun at the ready. Moved past a tall bookcase, past a wall of steel and a steel door. Against the wall that faced his place was another bookcase, loaded down with volumes. There was that metal patio table and chairs—bolted down.
What was he going to do? Cross this area. Move up against the wall to the room he was in earlier with the tub and torture toys. Wait there a while, make sure the coast was clear, gather enough strength—and hurry across to where the stairs were. That was the plan. Get to the stairwell, make it to the first floor—and walk right out the front door.
He was crouching. There was thumping inside his skull that felt like he had a sledgehammer pounding away in there from one side to the other like a goddamned pendulum. Lose enough blood and you’re fucked. Done for. Can’t let that happen. Lived through too much after two tours in ’Nam to let that happen in this smelly shit hole of a dungeon.
Went for it. Moved across, looking all around the way he was taught, ready to do what he had to with the revolver, ready to make some of these assholes bite the dust. Kiss cement. Same thing.
He reached the midpoint, somewhere in there, stubbing his right toe against something on the floor. What the? . . . A door. Looked like a door. On the floor. Reached down. Lifted it. A door—over a pit with water in it. Rats swam around in there. Rats. Vermin. A pit in the goddamn floor.
He lowered the door. Keep going; you need to keep moving. Forget the pit. Tell it to the law when you get out. Move. Get to the stairs and make it up without getting cut down like one of them worthless Commie dinks you smoked in the boonies. Ain’t your time to go. Not now. Shot your share of them smelly gooks. Commie fucks had it comin’ to them. This ain’t for you. Not here.
A bright light flashed ever-so-briefly somewhere in that area where the washer and dryer were, to the left of the room with the noisy tee-vee. Flash could only have been made by a gun muzzle. He ought to know. Trying to take you down. He was fired at.
Held the door up again. Crouching. Lying low. There was the faint outline of a geek in a wheelchair, in one of those monk’s robes with the oversized hoodie, so that you couldn’t make out the face, barreling down toward him. Somebody had either shoved the wheelchair out, or were pushing it with everything that they had.
More shots were fired at Petunia’s husband. By the fool in the wheelchair?—or someone else in back of him? Couldn’t quite tell.
Roscoe did the only thing that was left for him to do: emptied his revolver in the direction of the dirty dog in the wheelchair who was shooting at him.
One of Roscoe’s bullets seemed to hit the psycho in the belly somewhere, and Roscoe watched him slam into the door and topple over. The shooter’s gun went flying. Landed on the cement. Skidded a ways and hit a wall in back of Roscoe.
Marty dove for the weapon. Got his hands on it—to discover that it was empty. He spun around and crawled back to take a better, closer look at the yella-livered cur in the overturned wheelchair. See what you can find on him. Maybe ammo. Something.
Nothing close to it. It didn’t take long to realize that the moans were clearly a woman; the hurt and sprawled figure on the basement floor was a woman. Sounded like . . .
Had he shot his honey? How was that possible? He’d told her to stay in the house. . . . He’d told her to stay put. . . . Be ready to fetch backup. . . .
Sick sumbitch had set him up. It was Biggs. Preacher got him to shoot his dear Petunia.
CHAPTER 536
Roscoe dragged the wheelchair toward him and propped it under the door so that it afforded them a degree of cover. Not much, some. He drew back the hoodie on his wife’s head. Saw that her eyes were gone and that the sockets had been stuffed with wads of cotton—and he could do nothing about the tears that formed in his eyes. He fought hard not to be heard as he choked on sobs. Held her. Had to be gentle. Look what they’d done to his baby. He made the effort to lift her in his arms—and the strength just wasn’t there. Did the next best thing: dragged her behind the stairs.
Heard commotion in that general area where the shots had been fired from a moment ago. The toilet flushed again. What were they trying to do? Send a message? That his kind needed flushing? No way. Because Biggs and his loons were the ones who were sewage—and not him and his wife.
Made no difference. Because the plan was the same. The idea was to get up them stairs. Question was: Would he be able to do it in his condition? His left arm felt like it was about to fall off. Not only that, if he got shot he wouldn’t be good to either of them. Turned his head. In back of them. Seemed to be a room. He crawled to the corner. There was a door that he opened, and returned for Petunia. Scooped her up in his arms and carried her, collapsing before they reached the door. Got inside somehow.
He closed the door after them.
It was even darker in here than where they had just left. There seemed to be mattresses all around. They reeked. Chains dangled from the ceiling.
Roscoe held his woman in his arms.
“We’ll fix you up, babe. We’ll fix you right up, honey. You’ll be like new.”
“Please shut up, Marty. Can’t you see what they’ve done to me?”
As much pain as Roscoe was in, as far as he was concerned, it did not remotely compare to what they had done to his mate and best friend. He’d never known it ’till now: Yes, she was his best friend. One and only true friend. Love of his life. Her agony must be impossible, he thought. Wiped his eyes. Thought he heard someone snicker on the other side of the door. Maybe Biggs and that nigger. He couldn’t tell. Listened. They were snickering. It was Cecil. Didn’t matter. He needed to help his wife. Wanted to do something for her. And Peaches—if possible. Somehow. Didn’t know what. Was not even confident that there was anything that he could immediately do for them or himself—other than cradle Petunia in his arms.
“It ain’t the end of the world, babe. We’ll fix you up. That’s a promise, babe. I love you, Petunia honey. Ain’t nothing changed with us.”
“Marty, I can’t see. I can’t see.”
“You just don’t worry about it. There ain’t nothing to see in here.”
“I’m in pain, Marty. I’m in so much pain. Marty . . . Hold me, Marty. Hold me. . . .”
“I’m holding. Feel
me holding? I’m holding. . . .”
CHAPTER 537
Harold Crust had the closet door open and damned near slipped while attempting to use the footstool. One of the candles had gone out, or maybe burned down, and it wasn’t easy to see. He reached for a cigar box behind the neatly folded sweaters on the top shelf and was back in the living room. He placed the cigar box on the coffee table, lifted the lid and took the gun out.
The 9 milli automatic, double-action felt okay in his hand. It had been a while since he did anything with it, practiced shooting it out in the sticks, or even cleaned it properly, but it felt all right.
He released the clip. Saw that it contained the eight rounds it was supposed to, and shoved it back inside the butt. When he looked up, his wife Fay was emerging from the kitchen with one of those pink fruitcake boxes.
“This ain’t no social call, Fay.”
“I can’t be rude to those people, Harold. Ain’t neighborly.”
“I don’t get it. You just heard Monroe Perez tell you about all the strange crap going on over there and you’re bringing a fruitcake with you?”
“That’s my way, Harold. Besides, done had it baked and was just sittin’ there. Let us get it over with. Poor woman must be sick to her stomach worrying about Marty.”
Harold shrugged his shoulders.
“Suit yourself.” He stuck the gun in his jacket pocket. Grabbed a flashlight. They walked outside.
CHAPTER 538
Monroe was right, Harold thought. Air is mighty creepy tonight. He and his wife looked up at the moon now that its presence was one a body could not be indifferent about. There had been clouds in the sky earlier. The clouds had shifted and the bright sphere gave off a grayish, ominous glow.
“Don’t nothing good ever happen on a full moon night.”
Harold may have felt the same about it. He kept it to himself.
They climbed the stoop to Marty and Petunia’s front porch. Mr. Crust knocked on the door and waited for a response that never came. It seemed a second attempt was required.
“Roscoe?”
There was no answer. Fay Crust was willing to let it go at that. Harold reached out with his left hand and placed it on the doorknob. Turned it. Pushed in. Door was not locked. He kept his other hand inside the pocket the gun was in.
“We shouldn’t be doing this, Harold.”
Harold withdrew his pistol, clicked on the flashlight, and took a slow, anxiety-ridden step inside.
“You’ll get us shot.”
“Shh.” He looked at her. “Be ready to get back to the house and call somebody.”
“How am I supposed to do that? We get a dial tone, then we don’t get a dial tone—”
“Call from any one of these damn houses, Fay; long as you find a phone that works. That’s all that matters. We might need help.” He noticed the fruitcake that she still held in her hands. “And put the gall-darn fruitcake down, will you?” He shook his head. Couldn’t believe it. They was practically Breaking and Entering and the woman ain’t got rid of the damn fruitcake.
Fay hadn’t thought where to put it. Porch floor was probably not the cleanest, so she couldn’t very well leave it there and risk getting dirt on the pink box. There were no chairs in sight, just a row of cardboard beer boxes full of the usual junk Roscoe was known to collect and saved like a pack rat. No place to leave the fruitcake other than the porch swing on her right. There was a large box that took up quite a bit of space and she placed the fruitcake on top and wondered if the flaps would hold up under the weight?
Harold took a deep breath. Exhaled. Hoped what he was about to do was the right thing and wouldn’t get him arrested, or worse. Wasn’t one hundred percent confident—about any of it.
He went in.
Clouds must have shifted some more. Seemed they were blocking the moon again, because it was just too dark, much more so, inside the house now.
CHAPTER 539
Fay stayed put where she stood on the porch by the front entrance, wringing her hands and looking around apprehensively. Loud music started up again and seemed to be coming from Mr. Biggs’s place, had to be. Sounded like disco. Something about a bell, ring my bell; some darn, silly thing about a bell. You also had television sets in homes on the block filling the night air with their own brand of noise pollution that only added to the nervousness she already felt. She wished Harold hadn’t gone in there. Had no right going inside somebody’s house. Roscoes had been neighbors for years, pretty friendly neighbors, too, for white folk; still, it didn’t make no sense to go in their place if they wasn’t home. Just wasn’t done. People was shot for less nowadays. Rollers should be doing all this. Harold had a pacemaker, was slight of build, past fifty, and there he was: playing John Shaft like a dang fool. It scared her. They had no business doing any of it. It was Monroe Perez. Got them involved. Should not have listened to him. Should’ve stayed out of it.
She happened to glance at the fruitcake. Fruitcake seemed to be sinking, or was it? Why’d she have to bring it with? Harold was right: no need to bring a cake every time they went calling. There was times it was the right thing to do, and times it wasn’t.
The flaps gave way, and the fruitcake sank inside. She reached in, as a reflexive reaction, to retrieve the fruitcake and got a good enough glimpse of what was down there and got the shock of her life: animal remains. Petunia’s dogs. And Fay’s hands had ants crawling up them. Ants was all over the cardboard box, and they was nipping at her skin.
She slapped them off. Only there was a whole lot of them.
CHAPTER 540
Harold was in the Roscoes’ living room. Moved stiffly, cautiously. Shined his light about. Sweat rolled down. Called out Marty Roscoe’s name again, called out Petunia’s.
Heard nothing, other than worthless disco hammering from next door, and then something else: maybe something like someone breathing. Couldn’t be certain. Felt someone else’s presence. Neared a closet door, and was attacked from behind with some type of metal rod. Fired his gun once as he went down.
Cecil Biggs, in his thoroughly vengeful Brother Trusty alter ego appearance, continued whacking away at him across the back and top of the head and shoulders with the iron poker in his hands three more times just because it made him feel good. And the job was done. Fait accompli.
Heard Fay utter her husband’s name a few times. Biggs remained silent. Stood in place. Heard her mention god. Felt her run off. Good. Like a panicked baby chick.
Biggs picked up the flashlight and shined it on its owner: spread-eagled on the carpet before him. Picked up Harold’s piece. Looked it over. Not bad. Released the clip. Looked at it. Slapped it back in. Another firearm for the collection. Made it easier, although not as thrilling and adventuresome as breaking into homes in search of weaponry to add to his growing arsenal, not to mention: it was cost effective.
CHAPTER 541
Fay Crust’s fear got the best of her, and there she was hurrying back home, to the safety there, and to figure out what to do next. Could be the dial tone was back by now, and she would be able to get in touch with the North Hollywood police.
Dial 911. That’s the call for help. That’s the emergency number you dialed when Harold had his stroke and was in a real bad way and nearly died.
People came. City sent help and saved him. Dial it. Dial nine—one-one, and someone will get here to help out.
Dear Lord, what do I do if there ain’t no dial tone?
What if everybody else got phone trouble? Electricity was out, too. But then how do you explain the phone coming back on, then going out—as if somebody was playing some kind of mind game, just messin’ with people’s head for kicks?
Yes, only that shot I heard was no game. That shot was for real. Harold shot, or they shot him, whoever they was. Somebody shot their gun in that house. Somebody did.
Call the police. Call the police, Fay, she kept telling herself.
CHAPTER 542
Fay rushed to get her hands on the living
room phone and dial for help before what little light was generated by the flickering candle went out. She reached for the receiver, held it to her ear in hopes of hearing the dial tone—only what she heard was silence. Lord; phone’s out again.
What now? Harold said to try their neighbors. Like who? Some of these Mexicans who lived around here didn’t like black folks. They was racist and didn’t bother to hide it. They wasn’t all racist, but enough of them acted that way.
She thought about going across the street to Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd Dicker’s place. They was the older white couple; nice enough to everybody. Friendly. Was they in this evening?
She peered through her curtains over the living room window that faced the street. Mr. Dicker’s lights were not on. Was they in bed? Asleep by now? Older folks went to bed early. Gone out? Didn’t know.
What else to try? Go to who else? Or would the phone be back on like before? If it went back on, that would be the easiest thing to do: stay and call, then. Only what if Harold was shot? Anything coulda happened.
She ran out of the house and knocked on the front entrance of the duplex next door. People didn’t feel like answering. Mexicans. They was religious, and yet didn’t seem to want to be bothered. When Mr. Gomez came to the door, in walking shorts and wifebeater, a bottle of Dos Equis in his hand. He was cordial enough. Fay did her best to explain what was going on. To her surprise, Mr. Gomez invited her in. Fay thanked the man. Grabbed at the phone. All she got was more of the same that she experienced in her own home. Line was dead. What in heaven was going on? Wondered if the whole block was like this?—if everyone on the block was having the same problem with they phone? Do it be a power outage? What they called them. Happened before in this part of the Valley. Power outage. Some folks had they light on, some didn’t.