The Loop

by Wesley Cross

  The boy studied Connelly’s face for a few seconds, as if trying to decide if he was being tricked.

  “Stay here,” he said to his younger underling. “If he tries to pass you, scream for help.”

  The small kid nodded without saying a word and fixed Connelly with a cold, unblinking stare.

  Ten minutes later, the teenager came back with a tall, lean, black woman in tow. She looked older; her thick braids that went down almost to her waist were streaked with gray and her face was covered in deep wrinkles. As she walked, Connelly noticed a slight limp on the right side, but despite that, her movements had the grace and agility of a former dancer.

  “It’s been a long time since somebody came here looking for the King of Rats,” the woman said to Connelly. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Mike Connelly, and I think we can help each other.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’m sure you’ve heard about the cannibals in the city.”

  “I have, and I’ve spent as much time thinking about them as I have spent thinking about UFOs, zombies, and other utter nonsense.”

  “They are real,” Connelly said. “I’ve seen them myself.”

  The woman cocked her head, studying his face, her dark, almost black eyes looking him up and down. “You’re saying the reports are true?”

  “They are. For now, nobody believes them, and that’s why you’ve been left alone. But it’s not going to last, and when they come here, it won’t be like in the past when they put you in a warm cell and gave you a decent meal three times a day as long as you behaved. This time they’ll come with napalm and drones with automatic rifles programmed to kill everyone on sight.”

  “All right,” the woman said. She turned around and started walking away. “Try to keep up.”

  “But Viola,” the teenager tried to protest, only to be silenced by the wave of the woman’s hand.

  He started after her, giving a wide berth to the two youngsters. They went up the stairs first and then through the abandoned station. A few groups of men and women were sitting around small fires and islands of burning candles next to cardboard shacks. Some slept, some were engaged in conversations; most regarded Connelly with suspicious looks.

  They crossed the improvised village and came to a door with an Authorized Personnel sign on it, guarded by two burly men in their early twenties. The woman nodded to the guards, and they stepped aside, letting them through.

  A small office had a strange mix of musty smells with a touch of incense. A large lantern was burning in the middle of the desk, its trembling flame throwing long, dancing shadows across the room. Behind the piles of books, papers, and underground schematics sat a black woman writing something in a leather-bound journal.

  She looked up when Connelly and Viola stepped into the room and put the pen down.

  “This is the fool who was looking for the King,” Viola said, waving to Connelly to step forward. “He claims that cannibals are roaming the city.”

  “Does he now?” Her clothes were simple but clean, and as Connelly stepped closer to the desk, he could smell faint notes of an apple-scented shampoo emanating from the woman. “How did you find us?”

  “One of my uncles was a cop. He said he saved the King from a beating once and to return the favor, he helped my uncle track some bad characters. Can I see the King?”

  “You’re about twenty years late.” She smiled, studying him from behind the desk. “The Rats haven’t had a King for quite some time.”

  “Who’s in charge now?” Connelly insisted.

  “I am.” The woman’s smile grew wider. “They call me the Queen. Speak now.”

  “It’s true about the—”

  “I know,” the Queen interrupted him. “That’s why I let you in, to begin with. What do you want?”

  “They’re a problem for you as much as for the city, but I take it you haven’t found them yet.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “I didn’t,” Connelly said and raised his hand before the Queen could ask another question. “They found me, but now I know how to track them.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A few military men will be checking out a warehouse, not too far from the city. I need help eliminating them without drawing attention to myself.”

  The Queen closed her eyes and stayed quiet for a few moments, considering his offer. “I know your type, and that’s why we don’t have to do a long negotiation dance. You’d have to hunt down and kill the cannibals before we can help you with your military men.”

  “I don’t have enough time to do that,” he said. “They’ll be at the warehouse in less than two days.”

  The Queen of Rats smiled and spread her arms open. “You better hurry, then.”

  9

  The Station

  She wanted to stab him right through the eye. The foot-long needle hovered just an inch above his face, the silver tip trembling with tension over his closed eyelid. He seemed restless—his massive body, sculpted like some ancient god of war, was tense, his fists clenched, his square jaw sticking out. His breathing was shallow and fast.

  Cal saw his eyelids flutter and put away the needle, fearing he’d open his eyes before she had a chance to retreat.

  The man stretched, still keeping his eyes closed, and sat up on the edge of the bed.

  “Cal?” he said and finally opened his eyes. His thunderous baritone filled the suite, bouncing off the walls.

  “Good morning, Jay.”

  “Morning to you, too. Would you be so kind as to make a cup of coffee? I’d like to take a shower.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Hungry?”

  “Not yet,” he said as he walked to the shower pod at the end of the room. “I’ll probably work first, but I could surely use some strong coffee.”

  She watched him through the glass as she ground the coffee beans—half French roast and half hazelnut, just as he liked—and set the coffeemaker. By the time he finished the shower and came out from behind the steamed-up glass door, a soft Egyptian-cotton towel around his hips, a large cup of black steaming liquid was sitting on top of the polished surface of his computer desk.

  “Thanks, Cal,” he said. He picked up the cup, took a sip of coffee, and put it on a polished deep-black obsidian coaster.

  She watched him as he sat behind the glass desk and touched the surface, powering up the computer. Multiple columns of letters, numbers, and strange symbols appeared on the giant curved screen, and he started to type away, rearranging them into intricate patterns.

  “What will you do while I’m working?”

  “I’ll watch some telly, if you don’t mind,” she said. “There’s a show that I’ve been meaning to watch for some time. It’s about a serial killer.”

  “Sure,” he said, without stopping. “Sounds like fun.”

  His fingers flew over the virtual keyboard with an ever-increasing speed until they were moving at a pace that almost didn’t seem possible.

  “On second thought, maybe I’ll listen to some music instead. I can watch the show later with you.”

  He frowned, she could see—a deep crease appearing on his forehead as if his head were being split in two—but his fingers didn’t slow down as he continued rearranging the patterns on the screen.

  She turned the player on—the ominous sounds of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung filled the suite. As the music grew in intensity, she saw Jay slow down his typing and then finally stop.

  “Cal?” He turned around and looked at her, but she remained quiet. When he received no reply, he called out again, louder this time. “Cal?”

  “Oh, sorry, Jay,” she said, pausing the playback. “Didn’t hear you because of the music.”

  “Really? Wagner?” he said, a note of irritation to his voice. “First thing in the morning?”

  “He’s fabulous, isn’t he? That trombone is exquisite.” She turned the music back on again and turned up the volume. “I can listen to it all day
.”

  “Turn it off, please. It’s distracting me.”

  “Fine.”

  The music abruptly stopped, and he turned back to the screen and put his hands on the virtual keyboard. She watched as he studied the patterns on the monitor, as if trying to figure out where he had left off. Finally, his fingers were moving again.

  “Jay? Aren’t you hungry yet?”

  “I’m good,” he replied without stopping.

  “You know,” she continued, “I was reading some Polish recipes I’d like to try. Could you take a look? I can’t seem to decide what to make for breakfast.”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you do it now, please? Or do you think I’ll magically whip up breakfast when you tell me you finally got hungry?”

  He stopped working and turned around to stare at her.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to be helpful while you’re sitting there in your birthday suit, pretending to be working.”

  “I am working,” he bellowed. A large vein was bulging on his forehead, pulsating as if an angry alien were burrowing through his skull. “Why are you acting out today? You know what I do is important. I can’t afford to make any mistakes—people’s lives depend on it.”

  “And what exactly do you do?” she insisted. “All I see is some gibberish on that screen. For all I know, that is all it is—nonsense.”

  His massive fist slammed the glass surface of the desk with a sound as loud as a gunshot. The coffee cup jumped and danced precariously, the fragrant dark liquid splashing around the glass. Jay stood up, moved the chair aside, and took a couple of steps toward her before stopping.

  “What? What were you going to do? Why did you stop?”

  He glared at her for a few seconds, his massive hands clenched into fists the size of a soccer ball. Finally, he relaxed. His entire body seemed to deflate. He still looked furious, but he no longer resembled a live grenade with a burning fuse.

  “I’m sorry, Jay,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. All I do is try to make you happy, and it’s never enough.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. He walked to the kitchen, picked up a towel, and went back to his desk. “I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

  She watched as he cleaned spilled coffee off his desk and took the cup to the kitchen. His shoulders were slumped, and the way he dragged his feet indicated that he was experiencing shame over his outburst.

  She stayed quiet as Jay came back and opened a wardrobe. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants, put them on, and went to the exercise corner of the suite. He walked past the weights and resistance machines, straight to the man-shaped torso training dummy.

  “You said you needed to work,” she said. “Why don’t you work out before lunch?”

  He ignored her. He closed his eyes, and then he took a long breath. He held it for what seemed like a minute and then slowly exhaled, his body visibly relaxing. When his eyes opened, they seemed devoid of any emotion. Then he exploded. The dummy rocked back and forth as the flurry of powerful blows landed on its chest and head. Jay danced around the punching bag, his feet moving with a lightness that would draw awe from a professional ballet dancer all the while his fists continued to pummel the rubbery surface.

  “This is not a workout,” she said loudly. “This is you redirecting your aggression, that’s what it is. You wanted to hit me, but now you’re punching the dummy.”

  His hands were moving so fast now, they were almost impossible to see. He was incorporating some kicks now, too. Powerful combos knocked the dummy back and forth—two jabs, a cross, and then a devastating knee strike followed with a roundhouse kick to the head.

  “Stop it, Jay,” she yelled. “Stop it, right now.”

  He spun like a top, placing a high kick to the dummy’s head. The rubbery face with unblinking eyes came right off, in a fountain of sand spilling around the base. The fake head flew across the suite like a soccer ball, missing the top of the screen on the computer desk by an inch, bounced off the wall, rolled back, and finally came to rest on the kitchen floor.

  “Why am I doing this, Cal?” He was staring at her now, but she was surprised to see confusion in his eyes, where she’d expected to see rage.

  “You wanted to hit me, that’s why,” she snapped. “You’re out of control. It doesn’t matter what I do—you want to find a reason to be mad at me. I’m afraid that one day you won’t be able to control yourself and I’ll end up like that punching buddy of yours.”

  Jay looked at her for a few seconds without saying a word and then looked down at the palms of his hands. He turned them this way and that, as if he were seeing them for the first time in his life.

  “That’s not what I meant, Cal.”

  “Of course that’s what you meant. Don’t think for a moment I’m going to buy your lousy explanations.”

  “No.” He lifted his right hand as if stopping her. “I’m not trying to explain anything, nor am I apologizing. I’m asking you for help.”

  “Help? What kind of help? I help you every day. I cook. I clean. I make sure you’re not disturbed when you are working on your project. I satisfy all of your needs. But all I get in return is this. Rage and annoyance.” It was her turn to be confused. “I don’t understand what you are asking me.”

  “What am I doing, Cal?” He made a sweeping gesture around the suite. “Why am I here?”

  10

  New York

  Mike Connelly spotted Bones, as he mentally called the man with a human phalanx on a chain around his neck, at the corner of Hicks Street and Grace Court. Bones built a nest out of cardboard and some gnarly-looking rags on the sidewalk by the church. Another cloth was wrapped around his face, covering his eyes, making him appear blind. An empty soup cup was set in front of him next to the hand-written sign: “See the light—feed the blind.”

  “Asshole,” Connelly said to himself as he watched the man from the other end of the block, staying out of sight. It was getting dark, and the not-so-blind Bones would have to move sometime soon.

  After a few more minutes, the church door opened and the priest, an older-looking man, wearing a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeved shirt with a Roman collar insert, stepped outside. Connelly could hear the keys jingle as the man locked the doors to the building. The priest pocketed the keys and started down the steps when he seemed to notice Bones. He paused on the last step, still half-turned away from Bones, as if hesitating.

  “No. Don’t,” Connelly said under his breath.

  The priest turned to the homeless man, crossed the distance between them, and bent over to put some coins into Bones’s cup. Connelly sprung to his feet, but he was too late—the priest cried out in pain and collapsed to the sidewalk. Bones snatched something off the fallen man’s body and sprinted away.

  Connelly dashed to the church, keeping the row of parked cars between himself and Bones’s line of sight.

  He knew he was out of luck the moment he saw the priest. The man was still alive, but his hand was clutching his throat, and the blood pulsated through his fingers and onto the ground. His Roman collar was smeared with red.

  “Shit.” Connelly kneeled next to the priest, taking the man’s hand in his. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

  The dying man didn’t answer, and a few seconds later, his body relaxed, his eyelids fluttered, and his fingers stopped gripping Connelly’s hand. There wasn’t anything else that could be done.

  Connelly closed the priest’s eyes, got up, and started to run. The killer’s skinny silhouette was still visible, and he sprinted after him. He caught up to him after a few blocks when Bones turned onto Clark Street, heading toward the subway station. He wasn’t running anymore, and Connelly had to slow down and drop back to make sure the man didn’t notice him.

  He watched Bones go down the stairs and jump the turnstile as the Bronx-bound train approached the station and Connelly followed suit, getting into the next car right before the doors closed.

  He
thought the homeless man was taking the train farther uptown, but Bones got off the subway at Times Square and started on West Forty-First Street toward the Hudson River. It was a puzzling direction. This part of the city, right next to the Lincoln Tunnel, was an eclectic mix of modern high-rises and old commercial buildings occupying the litter-covered streets. It was undoubtedly a seedy part of town, but it wasn’t a known hub for the homeless population. At least it wasn’t common knowledge. But Bones, whose gait was now relaxed and confident, strolled down the street with an air of a person who knew where he was going.

  A few minutes later, the man made a turn to Galvin Avenue and slowed down, prompting Connelly to fall back even farther and cross the road to the other side of the street to stay hidden. Bones sat down next to a shoulder-high brick wall, pretending to be fixing his shoes, and looked around. Without warning, he jumped on the wall, pushed himself up and climbed over it. Then, he disappeared into what seemed to be a gap between the glass-brick wall of the building and the stone barrier.

  Connelly sprinted across the street to the spot where he saw Bones and looked over the wall. There was indeed a two-feet-wide gap between the barrier and the wall, and he could see the rocky floor of an entrance to a tunnel eight or nine feet below.

  He waited for a few seconds to make sure Bones wasn’t too close to hear him and vaulted over the fence. It was dark, but it wasn’t pitch-black as he’d expected. After he cleared the relatively low entrance, the tunnel opened up into a large, cavernous space. A pair of old railroad tracks ran in the middle, splitting it in two. A few faint wavering lights that looked like bonfires could be seen in the distance. They seemed far, but their glow illuminated the path well enough to see the ground in front of him and graffiti-covered walls on the sides.

  Connelly pulled out the .45 caliber HK Mark 23 with a suppresser, flipped the safety off, and started down the path toward the bonfires. He could smell the camp long before he could see it—the sweet, gut-wrenching stench of rotting flesh and human excrement mixed with smoke. As he got closer, the rocky floor was gradually replaced by the mountain of rubbish. Loose papers, plastic, and jagged pieces of broken glass littered the ground.