And he could almost hear its thoughts. He’d imagined it upstairs for some time now. He’d pictured it chopping into the boy called Al, ripping away that muscle and weird fatty stuff inside. Almost as if he’d been doing it himself. A dark place he’d gone over the last two days while that boy . . .
While Jeff . . .
He was still tied to the chair, but he knew there was nowhere to go even if he wasn’t. It seemed sort of silly now. All of it. He’d been wrong. If he’d been able to speak, he’d say it aloud. Tell everyone: There was no real Jeff Jacobson. Or Jeff Dahmer, for that matter either.
There was only Cain.
Warm water splashed over his back and soaked the top of his head.
The table beneath him turned red. Like a magic trick. Like a sorcerer’s spell. And the red on the table was blood, he realized, and his instant silhouette—his own head and shoulders—appeared on the table outlined by the spatter.
All sound vanished. Then something like thunder pierced his ears.
This is DEATH, he thought.
He felt great weight fall against his body and then slide away again.
He heard more thunder.
Gunshots.
Something touched his face, lifted his head.
The light above burned his eyes, and he crept back into the darkness again. The burn from the ropes slackened suddenly.
Then nothing.
He felt himself being lifted from the chair.
Like flying.
He forced one eye open.
“Castillo,” he said.
“I got you, pal.”
NO MORE TALK OF SHAME
JUNE 15, WEDNESDAY—NEAR ROUTE 47, SD
Jeff woke. For all he knew, he was still in his own house in Haddonfield the night his father left. The night Castillo arrived. And all the rest, all of it, the worst of it, had been a nightmare. Imagined the whole thing. For all he knew . . .
Yet his entire body ached a thousand different ways. And a man stood at the end of his bed, fading in and out like another ghost. Maybe that’s all I am now, too.
A small black man came into focus. The smile already so familiar . . .
“You’re safe.”
But Ox hadn’t spoken.
The voice had been Castillo’s, and Jeff tried turning to it.
“Take it easy,” the voice said.
Jeff torpidly skimmed the rest of the room. Sparse. Bare walls, a cot, a rusted metal desk.
“You’re safe,” Castillo said again. “But, Jeff . . . Hey?”
“Yeah.” His own voice sounded like high, cold wind far away. He followed Castillo’s to train his sights on him. The man’s face was exhausted, sorrowful. Jeff didn’t need a mirror to see the damage Castillo was looking at. As much as Castillo was trying to hide it, Jeff could see it in his eyes. I’m broken. He fought to sit up. Couldn’t. “Where are we?”
“My place,” Ox spoke for the first time. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“Where’s my dad?” Jeff asked Castillo.
Castillo shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I tried to . . .”
Jeff looked away. Fixated on the wall. “One of those things killed him,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. How’d—”
“I just know.”
“Jeff, I’m so sorry, man. But you’ve . . . ,” Castillo said, refocusing his effort to make everything seem normal. “But I need you to only focus on you right now. On getting better. I got some more work to do before it’s over over and then—”
“You’re going to DSTI, aren’t you? They’ll just kill you, too.”
“They’re going to try to soon, anyway. This way, maybe my own timetable. My terms. Might help.”
Jeff turned back. “I want to go, too,” he said.
“Not possible. You should be in a hospital as it is. You should . . . You’re going to need help for a long, long time. You’ve been through something terrible, I know. Believe me. And, as soon as we can, I’ll get you all the help you need. But you’re not going anywhere until we know for sure DSTI and Stanforth and all the rest are done with us. With you. Jeff, you need to understand—”
Castillo had only glanced, but enough. Jeff followed the look. Found his arm had been bandaged. “What’s this?”
“We’re gonna get you what you need.”
“It’s that stuff that Henry had, isn’t it? That black stuff.”
“Yeah,” said Castillo. “A little bit. Yeah.”
“I took some pills once a week.” Jeff gently touched the bandage. “My dad said I had allergies.”
“Guess it depends on how you define allergy,” Ox said.
“The other kids . . .”
“At DSTI? Not your problem. You need to—”
Jeff shook his head. “Now you don’t understand.”
“Look, if there are any kids left . . .” Castillo looked over at Ox. “We’ll get as many as we can. I promise. Ox has a couple pals that are gonna help me. You’re gonna stay here with him, where it’s safe.”
“But I can help!”
Castillo reached out to comfort, put a hand lightly on Jeff’s shoulder. “You’ve already helped more than anyone. You’re gonna stay put right here. We’re waiting for one more guy to show up to help Ox here, and then I’m off to DSTI.”
“Trust ’im, little man,” Ox said. “He can handle it.”
“Yeah?” Jeff lifted his hand. It was shaking. The nails worn to nubs. “Well, it’ll be easier to handle it with this.”
“What’s that?” Castillo asked. He leaned back, curious. Half smiling, even.
This damn kid.
“Keys,” Jeff said, and wiggled his fingers. “Five keys.”
“Security system?” Ox said. “Oh, my.”
Jeff nodded.
“No,” Castillo said. “We can get around their security without that. Hell, I’m looking for a front-door invitation anyway.”
“But I know DSTI. And Massey. Like where they keep all the drugs and stuff. And . . . and there’s even this tunnel underneath the grounds that connects them. I’ve gotten into there a couple times. I bet—”
“I said no. Goddamn it, you’re done. No more. Those fucking monsters ain’t ever getting near you again.”
“ ‘If you are curious, Father, watch and see the stuff that’s in me.’ ”
Castillo stared hard at the boy. “What did you say?”
“ ‘Watch and see the stuff that’s in me. No more talk of shame.’ Telémakhos says it to his father right before that battle at the end.”
“Yeah, he does.” Castillo collapsed, head down on his chest, both hands out to hold the boy.
“I’m not gonna hide anymore,” Jeff said. “Not from the monsters.”
“No such thing, Jeff.”
“You know that’s not really true.”
Castillo did. “I killed it,” he said. Killed two, actually.
“But there’s more.” Jeff blinked.
Castillo knew that also. “Yeah,” he admitted.
“And they’re looking for me right now.”
Castillo and Ox exchanged glances.
“I think they’re real close,” Jeff said.
Castillo sighed heavily, looked back at Jeff.
“Should we bug out?” Ox asked.
“To where?” said Castillo, still looking at the boy. “If they can find him here, they can find him anywhere. Can you think of a better place to do this than here?”
“Would I be ‘here’ if I did?”
Castillo smiled. “OK. Plan B, then.”
Ox stood to leave. “I’ll round up the guys.”
“Soon,” Castillo promised, patted Jeff’s leg. “Give me one more day,” he said.
The boy nodded.
• • •
Jeff shielded his eyes from the midday light. Trees surrounded them at every turn for what felt like a thousand miles. “Where are we?” he whispered. “Looks like the middle of nowhere.”
Ox met them again at the foot of the ramp. Gave a brief tour of the encampment by pointing: Half a dozen different trailers and sheds spread haphazardly among the trees. Solar panels, generators. Paddocks for livestock, chicken coops, a small dog kennel. Barns for a couple horses. Down the road were another dozen lodges and trailers scattered throughout the three hundred acres, Ox explained. Several, he added, led to underground bunkers. “For the fallout,” he said. “There’d be mass strikes in the west, you know.” He smiled when he said it.
They walked slowly, matching their pace to Jeff’s, who walked stiffly. Lifelessly.
They reached the camp’s main provisions and armaments complex, a V-shaped structure of two long igloo-style halls joined at the bottom by a central kitchen facility. Inside the chow hall, three men waited. Two in summer camouflage appeared at the foot of the trailer’s ramp. Twins, black-masked with ballistic vests and well-adorned AR-15s. The third of indeterminate age beneath a thick beard and long hair. “Sir,” one of the men nodded to Castillo.
“How many people live out here?” Jeff whispered, sitting slowly.
“Classified,” Ox whispered back, winking at Castillo.
The third man handed them each a tray of food.
Ox read Jeff’s face. “Ain’t never had T-rats before, huh?”
“Army food,” Castillo explained. “Probably older than you are, knowing Ox. Never as terrible as they look, though. Regardless, you need to eat.”
Jeff thanked the bearded man, worked at opening the packaging.
“OK, Mr. Classified,” Castillo asked Ox. “This it? Six total, yes?”
“Including you and me. Last came in an hour ago. Best I could do. Already got him out on security to relearn the terrain with Rosfeld.”
“Five more than I had a week ago. Thanks, man.”
“They’re coming tonight?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah,” Jeff replied.
The entire room turned to him.
“I’m telling you . . .” Jeff’s face braced, looked at Castillo only. His small shoulders shivered. “Tonight.”
“Tonight,” Castillo endorsed him. “Also could be in ten minutes. But these, ah, men, were specifically developed, trained, to work in the night.”
“So,” Ox drew a breath. “How’d you run it if you were them?”
“If they don’t simply pitch a drone at us, I’d wait until early morning and put their super soldier, or soldiers, dead center. Run ’em straight up the gap or maybe MFF insertion.” He made a dropping motion with his hand to indicate a high-altitude free fall. “Helicopters can’t really get in here. Too wooded. Couple spots in close that they’ll consider, maybe over by the paddocks, but we got those Russian SA-14s of yours for that.”
“What kind of special forces guys we talking about?” one of the others asked.
“One or two men,” Castillo said. Keep calling them men. For their sake. And yours . . .
“Who the hell are these guys?” the man returned.
“Don’t know,” Castillo said. I really fucking don’t. “But I can tell you they travel light, fast. Fastest I’ve ever seen. They use special camouflage, face paint. Stick to the shadows and you’ll lose ’em. Thermals won’t work. But they’ll come in close anyway. Like working with blades.”
“Blades?” The other men exchanged looks.
“Uh-huh. And while they’ll cut through you to get there, they’ll only be after the boy.”
The room looked at Jeff again.
“He’ll be with me,” Castillo said. “Just close on me if the fire lines break. You’ll find the real bad guys there. And, bullets will work fine.”
Ox cleared his throat. Smiled.
There ARE Bad Guys in this world, Ox. I know you know it, too. . . .
“So,” Castillo pushed on. “These two, or one, or three . . . if I were them, I’d have another group. Regulars. Have ’em come in slow from the outside; secure the perimeter with maybe two dozen men. ATF, maybe. Local cops, I hope. They’ll doubtless tell everyone we’re some kinda whacko survivalist cult, or gun runners for the Taliban. Worst case, it’ll be mercs or current Special Ops. If they go that route, our defensive position won’t be enough. In any case, I’d set up snipers like this”—he pointed at the maps lying on the table—“here-here-here and so on, to take out anyone hoping to get out of the kill hoop. Steadily squeeze in. Let these special units do what they do best. That’s what I’d do.”
“Then, that’s what they’ll do,” Ox said. “So what’s our plan?”
“So we . . .” Castillo picked up his package of peaches and laid it on the map. “Stay tight. Here. Keep the bunker as the fallback. Work the interior lines up top. Take out the special units first. See if the others even have the orders to come in anyway. Regardless, reset your claymores to funnel them here and here. Couple of rounds to piss ’em off. If it’s ATF or local boys, they’ll be spoiling for a fight and take the bait. They like to pretend they’re real soldiers. Some of our own sniper fire here, open up the snare some. Keep ’em honest. They’ll have thermal imaging,” he said, and turned to Ox.
“Just so happen to have a shipment full of those new German combat ponchos. Gortex, mylar insulation. We’ll put everyone in masks. They might hit us with gas.”
“Yeah,” Castillo said, and looked at Jeff. “They might.”
And maybe we’ll hit them with what I now have. . . .
He was thinking of the small canister he’d retrieved from Ted’s dead body. He had little doubt as to what was inside.
One of Ox’s crew spoke up again. “Twenty or more against, what, seven? We won’t hold out very long.”
“If at all. We’ll bend back pretty quick. Retreat. Create a gap here. The reserves come in after our retreat here and here. Draw ’em in.”
“Like Cannae,” the bearded man said.
“Yup.”
“What’s that?” Jeff asked.
“Like a pincer.” Castillo made his thumb and finger into a U and squeezed them together. “Double envelopment. Sucker ’em down the middle, make it look like a retreat, and then hit from the flanks. Hannibal used it at the battle of Cannae, where he was outnumbered three to one against the Romans.”
“It worked?”
“Big-time. Hopefully, they’ll recognize it for what it is. That’ll give us our chance to try a variation on Hannibal. Interlocking fire here, here. With four men, like this . . .” Castillo pointed.
“Yup, yup,” one of the others agreed. “Ox didn’t pick this property for its scenic charm.”
“Yeah,” Castillo agreed as he looked at him, then around the room. “Except for the special units, we will avoid enemy casualties where possible. Incapacitate, take prisoners, chase ’em off. But these aren’t enemies. Most all of these guys won’t even know why they’re really up here. They’re only following orders, doing their damn jobs. And they’ll have been lied to. Understood?”
“Castillo’s running the show,” Ox reminded quickly.
All the men nodded in agreement.
“Our objective is to put up a good show,” Castillo said. “Draw ’em in enough to make a mess of things.”
“Why don’t you guys double-check the claymores,” Ox said, releasing them. “They might not wait until night. Get the roof stationed. Be out in a minute.”
Castillo watched and waited as the three men filed out of the room. They’d spent the day sizing Castillo up. He’d done the same. They were a collection of “Misfit Toys,” castoffs. The lunatic fringe of the American Right. Or Left. He wasn’t sure that even mattered anymore. Somewhere along the way (right or left, right or wrong), they’d all fallen off, or stepped off, society’s great grid. How many more months would he have spent waiting in a trailer in New Mexico before joining them somehow, someday, anyway? He decided half of the men knew what they were doing. The ot
her half were weekend warriors at best. Prepper militia types. How would they do when the bullets really started flying?
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“Sure I do,” Ox replied.
“Why?”
Ox reset his glasses. “Let’s just say I want my two sons living in a place and time worthy of them.”
Castillo nodded. “And these other guys are just as sure about it?”
Ox replied, “ ‘All experience hath shewn that mankind is more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.’ ”
“Uh-huh. I repeat, your guys sure about this?”
“Are you sure about the counterstrike after?”
“Nope,” Castillo said as he picked up his peaches, tossing them onto Jeff’s tray. “Not by half. But we’ll cover after after.”
“Copy,” Ox said. “Then you sure about Now?”
Castillo shook his head. “Christ, I’m not even sure about Before anymore.”
“Oh.” Jeff looked up from his plate. “You’ll actually get used to that.”
UNFOLDING OF MISCALCULATIONS
JUNE 15, WEDNESDAY—NEAR ROUTE 47, SD
Castillo watched the boy fuss with his gas mask, weaving his tiny head this way and that to counter the weight of the side respirator, the same type used by British SAS a decade ago. Castillo figured Ox had paid three hundred apiece for them. The combat ponchos they all wore weren’t too bad either, would probably work for a quick TI scan.
Of course, thermal imaging was the least of their worries. The things looking for Jeff wouldn’t be tracking by shape or heat or noise. They were after blood. How exactly, Castillo had no clue. But there was no doubt that it was how they’d found Jeff and the other boys. Maybe even how they’d found Castillo all those years before.
What the hell am I doing? Castillo stopped his assessment. Or, rather, amplified it.
I’m going to war with the United States.
By tomorrow, he and the others would probably be statistics, relegated to a Wiki page. Another Ruby Ridge or Waco. They’d talk about the crazies holed up in South Dakota for guns, drugs, religion, whatever. Who knew? The real story would never be his to tell. Only the victors told stories. And Stanforth and the others would surely come up with something for the news to talk about for a couple of days. It was easy enough to make everyone vanish. Him, Jeff, Ox, and the rest. Maybe even Kristin too, now, if they didn’t pull this off. Like the kid had warned when they’d first met.
Cain's Blood: A Novel Page 27