He can feel the long, soft, rotting trunk of a felled tree lying diagonally behind him.
Above, he can feel the chaotic tangle of torn brush.
Below, shelves of ice lying atop one another like shattered mirrors.
Help me.
He doesn't say the words. He doesn't even think them. He's beyond that now. But even so, the impulse behind those words, the raw need they express, pulses out of him like the cry of a bat. And like the cry of a bat it bounces off the jagged teeth of the boulder, the soft line of the fallen trunk, the crown of brush above, the broken ice-glass below.
Help me.
Help me.
Help me.
The pulse goes farther, faster, as his other senses fade. It travels all the way up to the surface, where snow swirls in a helix and the pale orb of the sun hangs above it like the ghost of heat. The pulse travels all the way down, far below the panes of ice, through endless strata of stone and earth and ice.
And it is there, miles below him, that the pulse finds purchase. Where, for the first time, it is not reflected, but absorbed. Reaches something far below that wakens, takes notice. That stirs. Uncoils. Grows attentive.
He can't feel its shape . . . or weight . . . or nature. Only that it is very old, very dense: is somehow compact—somehow folded in upon itself many, many times over. And it's very far down. So far down that if it were left alone, it would almost certainly stay put. Stay buried. Maybe forever.
Help me.
That final pulse hits home. The thing far below responds, begins to ascend. Sluggishly at first, then gathering force. He can feel it slowly spiraling upwards, its shape shifting like the shadow of a cloud.
It draws nearer to him, eager now, homing in like a flock to a tree, a swarm to a hive. Clearly, he's drawing it to him. But is he drawing it intentionally, like a fly fisherman luring a trout? Or unintentionally, like a bucket of chum drawing a hammerhead?
He can't tell.
But he can sense it draw closer, closer, until it's close enough to make a pass, then another. Feints away, then closes in.
Now it is in the ice with him.
Now it is on him.
Now it is in him.
A gasp—and Matt can breathe again. His lungs expand, contract. Not much, but enough.
The red sparks dance before his eyes again.
Again he feels his right hand, but it's a little less painful, and his teeth are a little less loose.
He draws another breath, but strangely, it's a double breath.
His heart pounds, but with a double beat.
His brain forms a single thought: Alive!
And promptly falls into a deep, dreamless sleep, to the sound of faint, echoing laughter.
RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK
"Stop it, stop it," Maloria was yelling. "We was just told to hold him here. Now they ready for him, and you gonna fry his ass 'til he can't take a step? I ain't answerin' for that!"
Though Matt's mind was foggy with pain, and his vision blurred, he could see Hirotachi's face grow strangely blank. "Listen to me, nigger." She pointed a finger at Maloria, whose mouth had fallen open. "For the last time, shut your South-Side-of-Chicago, ghetto-ass piehole. I run this shift. And if I wanna fry this boy like a day-old wonton at China Buffet? I'm gonna do it. So: Back. The Fuck. Off."
Jaw locked, Maloria bent over, pretending to rummage through her purse.
Hirotachi turned back to Matt. "You like Emeril, Lover Boy? I do. Watch his cooking show every day. And he's the one that taught me what I'm about to teach you: that to make a good impression, you've got to kick it up a notch."
She turned a knob on the console all the way to the right.
Took the switch in hand.
And then Matt watched in amazement as Hirotachi—as if to demonstrate what he was in for—snapped upright, hands clenched pharaonically across her chest. She clacked her teeth together, stared bug-eyed at him, and made a hissing sound.
Then teetered from foot to foot . . . and toppled forward, trailing a line of wires that extended from the center of her back to the yellow plastic gun in Maloria's hand.
"Paid three hundred twenty-five dollars for this shit, bitch—and WORTH EVERY PENNY."
CHAPTER NINE
It took Maloria only a few seconds to unbuckle the straps that held Matt in five-point restraint. He needed her help to stand, and even then it took a few tries. His legs were jelly.
"Boy, I wouldn't a' helped 'em out, but they so crazy—"
He waved her off.
"Gotta . . . gotta call the police," he croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper.
"Yeah, I'm all about that. Only I left my cell phone in my car, down the driveway. And Admin's crawlin' with night shift."
"I'll go with you." He took a few experimental steps. Stayed upright. "But we've got to bring the girl with us."
"Annica. Huh-uh." She shook her head, eyes big, pulling him towards the door. "Too late for her. She already at the Ring."
He stopped, pulled away. "The Ring? What the hell is that?"
"It's that stone circle they got, where they put on they plays, up the meditation path. C'mon!" She left the room, waving him to follow.
He did, his joints aching with every step. "But what's going on there tonight? What are they going to do to her?"
"No idea, and I don't intend to find out." They were in a dimly lit hallway. She opened a door marked "Emergency Only" and led him up a short set of concrete steps to another door, which she pushed open.
Together they stepped out into the foggy night.
Matt looked around. They had come out of the lower level of Module Two. To their left, the meditation path led into the woods. Through the fog, Matt could see the faint glow of lights among the pines.
To their right was the Admin Building, and beyond it, the driveway leading to the highway: deliverance.
"We'll go round the loading-dock way," she said, starting forward. "Where we met before. Just stay close together, and— Hey! Where you goin'?"
But it was obvious where he was going. He was going to the Ring.
"Get back here! You crazy!"
"Go get your phone, Maloria," he said without breaking stride. "Call for help."
"You ain't gonna need help, boy! You go up that path, all you gonna need is a pine box! Don't you understand yet? They is crazy ma'fuckahs!"
"So am I," he said. And meant it.
# # # # # #
He left her. Found the path. Passed the birdbath. Felt the long, wet, unmowed grass give way to pine needles. Smelled the pines. Felt his heart thump in his chest.
He didn't want to go into the woods. When Maloria had pulled him towards Admin, he'd wanted to follow. But he couldn't.
Matt had mostly forgotten those moments with Janey on the bridge and in the hospital, until Hirotachi had shocked him. They were too painful to think about, so he hadn't. But now, for the first time in months, he had. And not just thought about them: relived them. He had seen Janey's face. Heard her voice. So real . . . it was like, for a few moments, she had been with him. He couldn't shake that feeling. Didn't even want to. But part of feeling close to her, feeling like she was standing just at his elbow, meant that he couldn't follow Maloria and leave the blonde with the night shift. What would Janey say about that? He knew what she would say. And if it was true—even a little true—that he still carried her with him, how could he face her—or even the idea of her—if he left a young girl in the hands of these monsters?
He couldn't. That was all there was to it.
He went up the path as fast as he could.
But even as Matt got closer to the amphitheater, things started to go south.
His plan—what little he had of one—was to creep up, unnoticed, and spy on whatever was going on at the end of the meditation path. Take them by surprise, if there was any threat to the girl.
But that wasn't how it fell out. To begin with, as soon as he hit the path, he glanced over
his shoulder and saw two figures following him. He sped up, forcing his wobbly legs to carry him more quickly over the damp needles and pinecones. But from the corner of his eye he saw shadows pacing him, parallel to the path: on both sides of the path. Sometimes they'd pass through a shaft of moonlight, and he'd see something glinting in their hands. Whatever it was, they all seemed to have it.
By the time Matt got to the boulder covered in black moss, they began to converge behind him, driving him around the corner, past the glowing horror of the Head Tree and its many obscene ornaments.
Until at last, heart thundering, he stood at the lip of the stone amphitheater.
Jesus Christ, he thought. What have I gotten myself into?
# # # # # #
The amphitheater wasn't big. Built into the hollow of a hill, it consisted of eight levels of stone-slab seats arranged concentrically around a sandy pit dotted with pinecones. Besides being lit by the ghostly light of the Head Tree, there were four halogen lights on poles focused on the center of the pit. About a dozen men and women sat on the bottom ring of stone slabs, completely encircling it. All of them had faces ravaged by rot and disease. It looked like a leper convention. Smelled like one, too.
But from this evil throng, three individuals stood out.
On the far side of the pit—which couldn't have been more than twenty feet in diameter—was a sort of stone throne. It was built into the top level of seats. In it sat a thin figure in a black robe. He had dark, curly hair, and his face was covered with bandages.
At his feet knelt the blonde.
Her hair fell over her downcast face; he couldn't see her eyes. But he could see how she shook. He could see that her hands were bound behind her back, and there was a bad gash on her shoulder. Once again, she'd been stripped to her bra.
The third figure was the most arresting of all. In the center of the pit was a stool. Sitting on it, motionless, backlit by the glare of the halogens, was the giant, tattooed Ojibwe.
Not good, Matt thought.
And that was before he noticed that the Ojibwe's wrists were wrapped in the weird wood-and-leather cuffs he'd seen hanging in the kitchen.
Not good at all.
A rustle of black robes; a raised hand.
"Matt Cahill . . . come on down!"
The muffled words, delivered in the jolly cadence of The Price Is Right's Bob Barker, came from the bandaged face of the man on the throne.
Matt had no intention of complying until he heard a soft pattering behind him and turned to see a half dozen more aides closing in on him. Now he could see clearly what they held, what had been glinting in the moonlight: knives. Not pocket knives, either, but the long, thin steak knives that he recognized from the wooden racks in the kitchen.
They backed him into the ring.
Once there, he turned quickly and started towards Annica.
But halfway across the pit he stopped in his tracks as every one of the rotting assembly drew out a similar knife with a soft rasp.
Matt slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees. There was nowhere to go. The encircling stone seats were fully occupied, elbow to elbow, by the rot-faced aides. And every single one of them was pointing a gleaming eight-inch blade towards his heart.
"Matt Cahill," came the muffled voice of the man on the throne. "We've been waiting for you." He gave a low chuckle.
"Likewise. And seeing as we're doing introductions," Matt said, taking a step towards the man on the throne, "it's nice to finally meet you, Jesse Weston."
Silence.
The bandaged, black-robed figure stood up. There was no sound but the soft hum of the halogens. There was no other movement but the play of light on steel.
"Jesse Weston is dead," the voice hissed. "My name is Rotting Jack."
CHAPTER TEN
Matt swallowed. He knew if he backed down now, it'd be all over. "Well, I don't mean to argue the point, but I saw a video of Jesse Weston sliding around the ceiling of Module Two like an air-hockey puck. And no offense? But you're a dead ringer for the guy. And if you took off those bandages, so I could see your face . . ."
"My face," came the muffled reply, "isn't under these bandages."
"Isn't . . . ?" Matt didn't know what to make of that.
"No." The figure took hold of the lapels of his black robe and pulled them apart. "This is my face."
Matt stared, his mouth open. Jesse Weston had taken a knife to his bare chest. Dark scars showed where he had cut two large circles around each nipple, making them look like giant eyes. And beneath his navel a long, jagged set of jack-o'-lantern teeth had been carved into his belly. The effect looked like what a die-hard Packers fan might do to attract the attention of a game-day news camera. If that die-hard Packers fan worshipped an insane owl god.
Matt licked his lips. "You know, they have programs for people who cut. You just gotta ask."
"Rotting Jack does not ask, Matt Cahill. Rotting Jack commands. His servants fulfill his every desire. And right now, what he desires"—Weston brought his hands together in a loud clap—"is blood."
Immediately, three aides sitting behind the Ojibwe stood up and crossed to the silent giant. Two knelt on either side of him and lifted up his huge, tattooed arms. Then they pulled from their belts the two big butcher knives that Matt had seen in the kitchen. They slid the knife handles into the deep grooves built into the Ojibwe's leather cuffs, then tightened and buckled the straps. When they lowered his hands and stepped back, both of the Ojibwe's arms tapered off into twelve inches of tempered steel.
This, thought Matt, is going to be very bad.
The two aides backed up, leaving the third standing directly behind the motionless giant. He was holding something, too. He lifted it up, and there was a general murmur of excitement from the knife-wielding audience.
Matt couldn't tell what it was at first; it looked to be a triangular swatch of leather about eighteen inches by twelve, bound tightly to a wooden frame. Then he saw the single eye slit halfway up, and how, on the bottom, the tapered end was fringed with large, serrated shark's teeth.
It was the mask that he'd seen hanging from the FA's office wall.
As the two aides who'd attached the knives quickly returned to their seats, the third gingerly pulled back the elastic band behind the mask and laid it against the base of the Ojibwe's skull. Then—bracing himself for a quick retreat—he slid the shark-toothed, triangular mask over the big guy's face.
The effect was instantaneous.
As soon as the mask slid over his cross-eyed, jut-jawed features, the giant sprang off the stool as if electrified. The crowd roared as he swung his head searchingly to the right, then to the left, then looked straight ahead—caught sight of Matt—and shot forward.
Matt had seen a documentary once about alligators, and how their stumpy legs made them deceptively fast because, even though they could go only ten miles per hour, they didn't accelerate—they began at ten miles per hour. So if you weren't already retreating at top speed before they attacked, you probably weren't going to get the chance to do so.
In this, the Ojibwe resembled the alligator. His legs and arms were fantastically thick, but he didn't huff slowly into action like other big men Matt had known. Instead, he bounded for Matt with a roar, legs pumping, arms swinging, and the knives eagerly carving the air between them.
Matt turned to flee and saw a row of rot-faced aides behind him brandishing a dozen steak knives. He turned back just in time to leap away from a downwards blow that would have split him to the clavicle. But as he tried to shift his weight, the Ojibwe closed in, slinging the same arm in a furious backhand swipe. Matt misjudged the distance and lifted his hand just in time to avoid having the right side of his face sheered off.
But at a price: the huge butcher knife cracked into the bone of his forearm, releasing a spray of blood and making him careen backward across the pit.
The crowd screamed with bloodlust as Matt gasped, gripping his forearm, trying to staunch the blood. Th
e pain was incredible. But before he knew it, before he could even get his bearings, the tattooed giant had lunged again.
Pounding across the sand, the giant gave a weird, high roar from behind his triangular mask. His flame-red arms pumped back and forth like pistons on an engine gone berserk.
Again, the ring of blades prevented Matt's escape. In the two seconds before the monster reached him, he formulated a thought: If I jump aside again, the same thing will happen . . . so I'll do the opposite of what I just did.
Instead of jumping away, he stood his ground.
Instead of standing, he fell into a crouch.
When the giant was almost upon him, Matt faked a lunge at him.
Sure enough, the Ojibwe swung his right blade a second too early. Matt leaned back as the massive knife sheared the air between them.
When Matt stepped to the side, the giant did exactly as he had before: swung his right arm in an immediate backhand swing.
Only this time, Matt was ready for him. With both of his hands extended, he caught the Ojibwe's arm at the wrist. The blow drove Matt backward, but he went with the swing's momentum, added to it, and—feeling the giant lose his balance—slung him with all his might into the ring of knives.
A second later, the night shift's jeers turned into screams of panic as the Ojibwe crashed into the front row, swinging away. An aide with no jaw to speak of lifted up a hand in defense, and the blade caught it midpalm, sending five fingers flying overhead in a red mist.
But the Ojibwe was unstoppable. He flipped over, shoved away from the crowd, and regained his feet. In doing so, he braced a blade four inches deep into an aide's sternum. When he pushed his massive girth back into the ring, the aide toppled facefirst into the pit, vomiting blood.
The Ojibwe shot forward again, howling and weaving his red blades before him in a web of death.
Matt didn't wait: taking a big step, he dug the toe of his boot into the soft sand of the pit and then kicked upwards. A heap of sand and pine needles flew against the Ojibwe's triangular, sawtoothed mask.
The giant screeched, staggered. Some of it must have gotten into the narrow eye slit, because his charge became a stumble; he crossed one arm defensively across his face while the other made a wild, diagonal swipe that Matt dodged easily.
The Dead Man: Ring of Knives Page 7