Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

Did it do any good? Like hell it did. He winced. Smashed up face and the shot leg. It was the leg mostly now. How was he going to limp his way out of this? Keep Fimple under some kind of control and you’ve got a halfway decent chance.

  Easier said than done.

  “Give up on Patience McDaniel, for the time being, at least, Norbert. Probably all shot up by now. What happens when you people refuse to listen to me. Society discarded you—and it irks them that I came to your rescue. I showed them up. Now they’re determined to exterminate us. That’s how they do things. In their eyes, we’re the defective ones, therefore disposable. When in fact, they’re the cause behind everything.” Fimple had both hands on the mask, tugged on it. What stopped him, as before, was the resulting pain. “Leave it, Norbert. It’s on there for your own protection. Should confuse the trigger-happy morons long enough to stop taking potshots at us for a while. See the logic behind it?” The reaction he got from Norbert was no reaction.

  “You don’t see the logic behind it? Why do I even bother?”

  The tremendous crash that ensued, originating, he figured, somewhere above the Mattress Room, shook the ground so that it felt like a powerful aftershock. About time, thought Biggs.

  CHAPTER 620

  Monroe remained stuck in the area outside the john. Some of his people were at the top of the stairwell and the open basement door. No one was in denial of the situation they were caught up in. Bullets were going off in that room with the table saw and butcher’s block and was soon followed by a loud, rumbling, crashing noise that sounded like a section of floor coming down, like lumber or heavy rafters and/or part of a ceiling collapsing in that room with all the blood-stained mattresses.

  What Perez and most of his people had no way of knowing was that, in fact, it was a combination of all of the above—and then some: the large, cabinet-sized safe a few members of the rescue posse came across earlier in that first floor bedroom had crashed through and hit the cement floor with such tremendous force that hundreds of rounds of ammo spilled out over the floor and fire, taking a member or two of the rescue group who had been busy pilfering Biggs’s belongings, stuffing their pockets with guns and ammunition and other things, with it, dropped through the hole in the floor and were burned alive—and that pretty soon it would be like a 4th of July fireworks display in this steadily-progressing inferno of doom.

  CHAPTER 621

  The Fun Room certainly was not a fun place to be for a bewildered Patience McDaniel and a hen forever unwilling to give up on finding a way and a means out of the tub, while cartridges continued to go off and fire continued to spread. The crashing of the safe across the way had rocked the area to the point Patience was slowly coming to. Hardly alert enough to be so much as aware of her surroundings, but she was stirring; her eyes were open. She saw the chicken flutter its wings, but could not quite determine what was going on.

  The hen bounced up on the woman’s belly; and with a second, greater effort, went higher. Was up on her chest, near the chin somewhere.

  Patience made a lackluster grab at it with her hands, and missed. The hen hopped up her face, made it to the top of her head—and flew off it far enough to land on the floor. Wanted to continue on out the door. The gust of black smoke and Sheetrock dust blowing in from across the room where the crash had taken place thwarted that possibility for a moment.

  Bullets kept going off in the Fun Room. Smoke receded out there, and the chicken ran out.

  Weak as she was, Patience McDaniel willed herself to sit up. A couple of bullets exploded, bounced off the part of the tub where her feet were—and further ricocheted off the cement floor and metal cabinet. Patience summoned enough strength this time to rise up the rest of the way, climb over and out. She had regained her senses to the point she knew where she was now and what she had to do, as she stepped out of the Fun Room.

  CHAPTER 622

  Even though quaking down to their toes up there at the top of the basement stairs, several of the men, drawn by screams coming from the Mattress Room a moment ago, decided they needed to make it back down; someone had to take a look inside to see what had taken place exactly and if anyone indeed were still alive.

  Perez urged them to stay where they were. Reminded them that they had no cover, and that he would check it out himself.

  “Stay put. Please.”

  He did his best to cope with the smoke. Inched toward the door where the cries came from a minute ago.

  It was evident, the people who had fallen through with the safe had not survived and there was nothing that could be done for them. He crossed himself. Turned to make his way back toward the spot under the stairs and noticed that two of the men had made their way down from the landing and were waiting in the john area for an assessment from him.

  He looked at them and shook his head, letting them know it was hopeless. He wiped soot and sweat from his brow. How many more people had to die before the evil character, who caused all this, was stopped?

  CHAPTER 623

  Inside the Furnace Room, Biggs was peering through the vertical crack between top and lower hinge. Door could only be opened so far. He strained through the eye holes in the pig mask that he’d slipped over the Brother Trusty one. Could see well enough that Monroe Perez was about the lone character ballsy enough to stand his ground under the stairs, hiding behind the torture board that he peeked from from time to time, in spite of what had taken place in both rooms, in spite of the fact the fire was obviously gaining momentum inside the Fun Room, and that the section of his bedroom floor had already crashed down in the other.

  While he may have admired Perez’s gutsiness, he was far from happy that he had that gun with him and had the ability to prevent him from making good his escape.

  More bullets went off in the Fun Room. The part of the first floor above it should have been coming down by now to cause added mayhem. And if it didn’t? He would brave his way out anyway.

  “Let’s get you to a doctor, Norbert. I’ve got your toes in my pocket. They can sew them back on. You’ll be like new before you know it, Norbert. You’ll be hopping around like Brenda’s rabbit in no time.”

  Expected Perez would be shooting at them as soon as they emerged. Or would he? Would the Parfrey masks cause him to doubt what he was shooting at and make him take pause? Where was Patience to help out by adding to the confusion and making it a little more complicated for Perez and his gang of sociopaths and thieves? Smoke hindered his vision. Pig mask wasn’t helping, and neither did the other under it. Face was hot. Sweat in his eyes made them sting to the point it was unbearable. Did it even matter where Perez was? Had to make a break for it. Let him shoot at Norbert. Why not? Piper had to be paid. He had helped him and his kind in the past, now it was their turn to sacrifice. Biggs yanked the pig mask off and jammed it in one of the pockets. He donned the gas mask in its place.

  “Don’t sweat it, Norbert. We’ll share the gas mask—as soon as the smoke clears—or gets to be too much for you, whichever comes first. Only don’t panic. Never panic. The last thing you want to do in a situation like this is panic.”

  As usual, Norbert Fimple said nothing. His grunts and expression, however, seemed to say: I’m not the one in any panic. You’re the one who’s in a panic. Besides, you glued this pig mask to my face, motherfucker.

  “Besides, it’s defective. About the only way to disguise my face. I’m the one they’re after here, not you.”

  They inched their way out, squeezing their way through the door and a loud crash, not unlike the one that had taken place a moment ago in the Mattress Room, froze them momentarily. Part of the living room had crashed through; that gave Biggs a little more hope. There were screams, made, possibly, by someone being burned alive. There was a cry by a woman, in great pain and dire need. Maybe they had a real chance now.

  Biggs looked back, turning his head. Was able to make out Perez standing at the door to the Mattress Room, looking across the way. Shouted to men in the john area to come assist.

/>   “We’re wide open.”

  Perez hurried over to where they were, provided cover with his door, and the trio headed in the direction of the Fun Room.

  The woman, sounded young enough, continued to scream. They were cries of anguish. Biggs saw this as his opportunity to limp on over to the bookcase with Norbert.

  CHAPTER 624

  Perez and his buddies emerged from the Fun Room with a badly burned teenage girl in time to see two men, one of whom was Cecil Biggs—or was it?—both tall; one lanky, the other heavy set, limp out of the room they had been hiding out in. The lanky one wore a gas mask. Had to be Biggs, thought Monroe Perez. Gotta be. The other dude: big and burly, had a disgusting boar mask on. Smoke was a thick screen impossible to see past.

  Perez froze where he stood. Urged the others to go on with the injured girl, giving them the door to use for cover. They made it over to the bottom of the stairwell and proceeded their way up.

  Pressing his back against the wall of the Fun Room, Monroe had the hand that held the gun up, needing to take aim, unable to. Couldn’t see what he desperately needed to see, while with his other he kept his shirttail over his mouth and nose, fighting smoke, choking on it practically.

  Adding to the problem was that retarded black woman running around still, chasing after the mindless chicken, and he couldn’t shoot wildly. He wanted Cecil so bad right now, and any of the goons who tried to help him, but he needed to watch it, use caution.

  They hobbled out. Cecil and the heavier one. Limping, hurt. Moved over to their left, Perez’s right. Paused at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Slid it to the side, attempted to. Stuck, it was. When it wouldn’t budge any further, Biggs pulled it forward, knocking the whole thing over, and the case full of books went flying, that revealed a door.

  Monroe could make out Cecil fiddling with keys, if indeed this was Cecil. It was the guy in the gas mask, attempting to get this door unlocked. Guy was fairly lean. Had to be Cecil. Just had to be. The other man was too big to be Cecil. This was what he had to go by. So be it.

  Monroe wondered about his own gun and how many shots he had left. Wanted to make them count. When he looked back up, the chicken had reappeared, and so had the nutty woman. Goddamn her.

  If he got a good, clear view of Biggs he would take his shot. Chance it. Risk hitting the imbalanced broad or not.

  CHAPTER 625

  Biggs dropped his keys. Once, twice. Got the door unlocked.

  Where were they going? Why that door? What was at the other end of that door? Escape route? He didn’t know. Had to be. Sure. Attempted to fire, only the crazy woman kept getting in the way, chasing after the chicken. She and that chicken made it impossible.

  Shoot her. Put her out of her misery—and get Cecil and the large man with the pig mask with him. Get Cecil. If that’s a tunnel he’s gone into . . . He’ll escape. Never mind that there are people in the backyard . . . He might disappear. . . .

  Perez had helped the woman get out of harm’s way a moment ago, at least did what he could, and she was about to get cremated, alive. Didn’t seem to care that the place was on fire, that there were bullets going off. If they didn’t get fried, didn’t get drilled by a hunk of lead, chances were they might get crushed by various sections of the ceiling that were crumbling, dropping down, crashing.

  He couldn’t bring himself to go ahead and shoot, his conscience wouldn’t allow it. It pained and angered him, but he also knew in his heart he couldn’t risk taking the life of an innocent human being. If he did, he’d be no better than the evil son of a bitch who caused all this.

  Once Biggs had the door unlocked and opened, Monroe saw that it led to what looked like a passageway, maybe a tunnel. Made sense. He’d been right. Escape route. Explained why he started the fires. Smoke screen.

  Having nowhere else left to run off to, the chicken took off in there. The unstable woman went after it. Fled right past Biggs and the other guy. He saw the bishop lift a duffel off the floor, carry it on inside, take a right, and he lost sight of all of them.

  CHAPTER 626

  In the Dicker kitchen, Lloyd and Wilburn were wiping themselves down with paper towels, getting at the dirt and blood. Fontana had left in search of Band-Aids and rubbing alcohol in the bathroom in back. Brenda, their teen granddaughter, was in the living room tending to her pet rabbit’s water and food.

  “What was it you exactly saw in the man’s garage?” Lloyd was speaking in a hushed tone, so as not to disturb Brenda in any way and to keep his wife from hearing.

  “Like I said . . .”

  “Tell me again.”

  He started to. Looked in his sister’s direction.

  “They can’t hear us.”

  Wilburn was reluctant to go over it.

  “Sure they weren’t department store mannequins and such?”

  “You kidding? Department store mannequins? They were swinging like beeves on hooks.”

  “You keep saying that. You never saw beeves in your life. This is San Fernando.”

  “You’re just pissed because it wasn’t you saw it and can’t go: Told you so.”

  “Let’s see that hand.”

  Wilburn lifted it for the old man to take a look.

  “How’d it happen?”

  “Biggs shot it off.”

  “Asked you not to fool with him.”

  “What was that? Who was it kept sending me over there to check out the odor.”

  “I never said to confront him, did I?”

  Lloyd rolled his sleeves up, and began to wash his hands and face over the kitchen sink. Fontana had returned with the medicines, towels. “Not in my kitchen sink, Lloyd.”

  He looked at her. Already done.

  “Sorry, Hon. I wasn’t thinking. Had to get the crud and dirt off.” Lloyd grabbed one of the towels to dry off. His wife took their grandson by the hand and led him to the bathroom. “Your face needs washing. Knees got skinned.”

  “He can’t wash himself? What I’m talking about, Tana.”

  They had already disappeared in the back. Lloyd looked at Brenda, who stood at the living room curtains, taking in what was going on in front of Biggs’s place. He was grumbling to himself, more or less. “Don’t have to baby him. Whore-mongering little maggot.”

  He held onto the towel. Walked to the living room in search of a mirror to check his cuts and bruises. He returned to the kitchen. Applied Band-Aids, then walked in back to the bathroom. Fontana was washing Wilburn’s face and neck with soap and water. Lloyd stood there, not pleased to see it.

  “Isn’t he old enough to do that by himself? He can’t wash his own face?”

  “He’s injured. Give him a break. She used a plunger on him. It’s demented. People have no class.” Fontana was on the verge of tears.

  “Too much.”

  “It sickens me to see it, Lloyd. It’s appalling behavior. People used to have manners and grace. Kindness has all but vanished.”

  “You said it. It’s kind all right to take someone’s beloved pet cat and bury it up to its neck, not to mention all the other ‘graceful’ behavior he’s known for.”

  “Don’t start. Lloyd, please.”

  He walked to the front room.

  “Police show yet, Brenda honey?”

  Brenda shook her head.

  “Your fool brother went and got one of his fingers shot off.”

  CHAPTER 627

  Maybe he had his priorities a little mixed up, but Cecil Biggs was going to do what he needed to do: there was that old dresser further along in this section of the storage corridor (that ran in back of and/or parallel to the walk-in) bulging with under garments and clothing having been “relinquished” by various victims, as well as same he had picked up during home break-ins over the years.

  Yes, he had stuffed his pockets and the duffel with a few underpants up there while in his room, but general nervousness and light-headedness and feeling rushed had prevented him from taking a satisfactory amount. Having had to give up the pantyhos
e to Norbert’s foot hadn’t made him feel all that good, either. Besides, this dresser contained a far greater trove, and he wasn’t about to leave without getting a few more choice panties from the mother of motherlodes.

  The ceiling was much lower at this point and he ducked his head. Some blood dripped down from above. He made it past all sorts of household goods. He reached the dresser and started pulling out drawers. The fact that the cell gate and the cell itself was but a few feet ahead of him and that the Filipino woman and the baby she held in her arms were crying on the other side of the gate (if not in a state of panic at this time, easily nearing it), made next to no difference to him.

  “You’re not going to let your son die? You can hate me for leaving you, Cecil, but your son does not deserve this. . . .”

  He yanked the gas mask off so he could respond.

  “My son? How do I even know he’s mine?”

  “You saw the DNA results yourself, Cecil.”

  “For all I know it was fabricated by the lawyers—to win over your demands: child support and alimony.”

  “I was a virgin when we married, Cecil. I told you that.”

  “You told me a lot of things, as did your lawyers to the judge—who ruled in your favor on every issue.”

  “I have no family here, in this country. I have to care for my child.”

  “See all those receipts on the wall? Taped them up for your benefit—to help remind you what you cost me; how much I squandered on you and your money-grubbing relatives.”

  “I never asked for anything . . . only a good marriage, and to have a family, a faithful husband. The child support and rent money I requested was reasonable.”