J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. But it is delicious. You’ll also be able to taste it for yourself, when I use the branding iron on your lips.”

  Torble went back to the stove, and Tom felt a scream welling up inside. A scream, if let out, would continue until his voice was gone.

  “Mr. Torble, you’re needed immediately.”

  Dr. Forenzi had come back into the room. He appeared agitated.

  Torble’s eyebrows furrowed. “What for?”

  “We have some intruders, and they’re causing some problems.”

  “How about all your super military killing machines? Why don’t you get them to help?”

  “Everyone is helping, Mr. Torble. Now please come with me.”

  Torble blew Tom a kiss, then followed Forenzi out of the room.

  Tom let out a sob, and then considered his options. As far as he could tell, he only had one. Try and use his feet to pull one of his IV tubs out of the dialysis machine, and then hopefully bleed to death before Torble returned.

  A pretty shitty option. And though it was preferable to being tortured to death with a branding iron, Tom wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. Where there was time, there was hope. If there were even a slim chance he might get out of there alive, and see Joan again, he had to take that chance. Even if it meant days of unbearable agony.

  What the fuck am I thinking?

  Tom kicked out, grabbing the tube between his toes, yanking it free. Then he began to hyperventilate so his heart beat quicker, pumping blood out of his body at a faster rate. If he got lucky, he’d be in hypovolemic shock before Torble returned.

  “Tom!”

  He looked at the doorway, and saw Moni, Frank, and Sara.

  “Oh my god,” Moni cried. “You’re bleeding all over!”

  “Good thing you got here in time,” Tom said. “Hurry up and cut me down.”

  No one had a knife, but Tom told them his original idea of burning the rope with the branding iron. Moni was able to untie his hands and remove his IVs, and Dr. Belgium offered him heroin.

  Tom demurred. “I’m good, Frank. Where are the others?”

  “We lost Deb. Mal went off to find her.”

  “Okay, we look for them, then get the hell out of here.”

  Much as he loathed it, Tom took the branding iron as a weapon, and they crept out into the hallway so search for survivors.

  Fran

  Woof took the lead, sniffing down the hallway with Mathison jockeying him, and Fran followed two steps behind. She’d mounted a flashlight on the rail of her AR-15, lighting the way as they pushed into the bowels of Butler House.

  The house was creepy, that was for sure. Mal and Deb continued to contribute snippets as to what had gone down that night, and Fran was happy she’d missed that particular party. She also wondered what possessed these people, who seemed smart and capable, to come here in the first place.

  Then again, Fran and her family had shown up as well. Better prepared, perhaps, and playing by a different set of rules. But Fran came here to exorcize her past demons same as the Dieters did. She just brought bigger guns.

  Woof stopped, growling. The dog could track, but hadn’t ever learned to point. That was okay, because Mathison did point, directly at a hallway door opening up.

  Fran dropped to one knee, giving Josh a clear shot over her head.

  A man stepped into the hall and faced them. Tall, thin, wearing a dirty white jacket and holding a leather bag and some sort of saw. Like the four-armed man in the great room, he also had eyes that were completely black.

  “Colton Butler,” Mal said.

  Fran shivered, memories of Safe Haven pushing into her head, of the fear and helplessness, and then she returned to the here and now and sighted the target’s head.

  “Drop the weapon,” she ordered. “We have real bullets.”

  Colton Butler rushed at them.

  Fran wasn’t sure who made the head shot, her or Josh, but the wannabe ghost went down in a pink mist of blood. When he hit the floor, the top of his skull gone, what was left of his brains spilled out like a tipped bowl of oatmeal.

  Fran had experience trying to kill enhanced psychopaths. They didn’t die easily. But that was so simple it was almost unfair.

  “They can hear, right?” Fran asked.

  “I think they’re on a drug that eliminates fear,” Deb said. “That’s what they’re making here.”

  Fran got up from her crouch. A drug that eliminated fear. On one hand, something like that could be a huge benefit to mankind. On the other, Fran didn’t relish the idea of an entire army made up of kamikaze pilots and suicide bombers.

  She changed her magazine, snapped her fingers, and Woof continued to sniff his way down the hall.

  “Entrance to the tunnels is up ahead,” Mal said.

  Woof was already on it, scratching at the door and whining. Fran opened it, illuminating the stairwell.

  “It’s a maze down there,” Mal told her. “We’ll need a string to find our way back.”

  Fran hadn’t packed a string, but she and Josh each had a sack of reusable road flares. She took one out, flipped the switch, and dropped the red light on the top stair.

  “I got point, Woof.”

  The dog looked at her, wagging his tail, and Fran descended the stairs first. Rather than the expected basement, Fran found herself in a tunnel. She dropped another flare and whistled for Woof. Once again the beagle took the lead.

  “Time?” Fran asked.

  “Duncan is thirty seconds late,” her husband answered. Fran listened to her walkie-talkie click three times—their signal for Duncan to respond.

  There wasn’t an answer.

  “Duncan, come in,” Fran said into the radio.

  Her son didn’t reply.

  “I’m going,” Josh said, turning around and breaking into a run.

  “Mathison!” Fran said. “Find Duncan!”

  The capuchin monkey hopped off Woof and scrambled up the stairs, faster than Josh could move.

  “Duncan, are you there?” Fran said again.

  Still no answer.

  Fran’s mind tortured her with nightmare scenarios. She and Josh had fought over whether to bring Duncan along or leave him in Hawaii. They’d ultimately decided to take him in case those fake feds came back. Fran figured she could better protect her son while she was with him, instead of him being home alone.

  But now she regretted that decision more than she’d ever regretted anything. Could someone have taken her son? Could someone have hurt him?

  Killed him?

  “Duncan, it’s Mom. Please answer me.”

  Then the radio exploded in Fran’s hand, and three more bullets peppered her back and she fell to the ground.

  Duncan

  The scalpel poked at Duncan’s bulletproof vest, four times in rapid succession, and then Duncan lashed out to swipe at his attacker and got stabbed in his palm.

  He recoiled, batting at the blade blindly, and then something was in his lap, something Duncan recognized instinctively, and when he reached for it his hands locked around the waist of a monkey.

  Mathison?

  No. This primate was bigger by a half, its fur different, rougher. Duncan grabbed tight and pinned it to the steering wheel, hitting the van’s horn. In the glow of the van’s interior light, Duncan saw this was a much different animal than Mathison was. Besides being larger, it had huge, red eyes, almost like a lemur.

  The monkey screeched, poking with the scalpel, digging it into Duncan’s forearms.

  Duncan managed to throw the little monster into the back seat, and then he fumbled for the door handle and tumbled out of the vehicle, landing on his back.

  The monkey pounced on him, landing on Duncan’s chest, bringing the scalpel up to the boy’s bare throat.

  There was a screech, loud and shrill and—

  —coming from the front of the van.

  Mathison!

  The little capuchin stood there, wearing his si
lly little plastic GI Joe helmet, his teeth bared.

  The monkey on Josh screeched a reply.

  Mathison gave him the finger.

  Josh’s attacker hopped off and howled, stretching out its long arms, the scalpel glinting in the van’s interior light.

  Mathison calmly removed his helmet, and took out the C1ST miniature revolver holstered inside of it. The smallest handgun in the world.

  The psychotic primate charged at Mathison.

  Mathison stood his ground and fired five rounds of 2.34mm ammo, each shot hitting home.

  His opponent spun, facing Duncan, who saw that Mathison had put rounds through both of its oversized eyes. The monkey flopped over, dead.

  “Mathison!” Duncan yelled, overjoyed. In sign language, the boy told his friend, “Thanks. I love you.”

  Mathison put the revolver back under his helmet and signed back, “Stupid simian. Brings a knife to a gun fight.”

  Then he hurried over and gave Duncan a hug. Duncan hugged him back.

  “Duncan!”

  Josh ran up, gun at the ready. He stared at Josh and Mathison, and at the dead monkey.

  “We’re okay, Dad.”

  Josh spoke into his radio. “He’s fine, Fran.”

  Mom didn’t respond.

  “Stay in the van, lock the doors,” Josh told him. “Mathison, stay with him.”

  The monkey saluted, and Duncan’s dad ran off, back toward Butler House. But before he reached the doors, two men in gray suits walked out and began shooting.

  Tom

  He had no idea where he was going, but Tom somehow had taken the lead, wandering through the endless underground tunnels without the slightest idea where he was going.

  “That’s new.”

  Sara pointed, with her good hand, to some steel doors.

  Tom went through first, clenching the branding iron. It was a lab, lots of equipment on various counters, a table in the corner of the room, and standing next to the table—

  Dr. Forenzi.

  Tom set his jaw and raised the branding iron, beelining for the son of a bitch, when something he saw stopped him in mid-stride.

  Strapped to the table. Shirtless. Bleeding. Hooked up to one of those dialysis machines.

  Roy!

  His friend had so many wounds he looked like he’d been pecked to death by dozens of birds. But he wasn’t dead. He was breathing.

  Forenzi quickly took a revolver from his coat pocket and pointed it at Roy’s head.

  “That’s close enough, Detective. Drop the weapon.”

  Tom released his grip, letting it clatter on the tile floor.

  “You and your friends have proven extremely resourceful,” Forenzi said. “I’m impressed. But your little coup d’état has failed, I’m afraid. If you take one step closer I’m going to shoot your partner and—”

  Moni ran straight at Forenzi, smacking him upside the head with her metal bar. Forenzi fell to the floor, and she continued to hit him until Tom pulled her off.

  “Let him stand trial,” Tom said. When he was sure she’d calmed down, he pocketed Forenzi’s gun and went to Frank and Sara, who were doing their best to release Roy each using only one hand.

  “Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

  Roy mumbled something, but he was completely out of it. He needed immediate medical attention. Tom helped them undo the straps binding his partner, and then they helped him off the table.

  He couldn’t even stand.

  Tom looked around for a wheelchair or a gurney, and saw Moni in the corner of the lab, spilling chemicals onto the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  Moni smiled, lighting a match. “I’m burning this fucking place to the ground.”

  “Moni! Don’t—”

  She dropped it, and there was a WHOOSH! of flame, spreading out across the floor.

  “Everyone! Move!” Tom ordered. With Sara and Frank’s help, they dragged Roy out of the lab and into the tunnels—

  —where Torble was waiting with a gun.

  Before Tom could draw, Torble fired, shooting Frank Belgium in the chest.

  Tom fired back as Torble ran off into the darkness.

  Frank was down on his back. Tom set down Roy and knelt next to Frank, ripping open his shirt.

  The bullet hole was near his heart, gushing bubbles of blood.

  Sara was crouching next to Frank, her good hand holding his. “Frank, oh Frank, oh god.”

  Frank stared at her. “It’s okay. I don’t don’t don’t feel anything.”

  Sara looked at Tom, her eyes imploring. “Don’t let him die. Please.”

  “Hold your hand here,” Tom said, placing it on Frank’s wound. “Keep pressure on it. Moni?”

  “Yeah?”

  “My room. The first aid kit in my suitcase.”

  “I’m on it.” Moni ran off.

  There was another gunshot, from the opposite direction. The bullet pinged into the metal door, inches from Tom’s head.

  Torble.

  “I’ve got to go after him,” Tom said.

  Sara shook her head. “Don’t leave!”

  “If I don’t, he’ll stay in the shadows and kill us all. I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on my partner.”

  Then Tom ran after Torble, plunging headlong into the darkness.

  Forenzi

  Dr. Forenzi smelled smoke and opened his eyes.

  Smoke had indeed filled the lab, and he was surrounded on all sides by fire.

  His head hurt. So did his chest. But those pains paled next to the abject terror he felt by being trapped in a burning room. Everywhere he looked the flames stretched to the ceiling. There would be no escape.

  Please. Don’t let me burn. Not like this. Anything but this.

  Forenzi had never been badly burned, but he saw the pain and fear it caused in his patients. Torture with fire was one of the most effective ways to harvest metusamine.

  Now that he was surrounded by fire, about to be roasted alive, the irony wasn’t lost on him.

  But maybe I don’t need to be afraid of it.

  Next to him on the floor, like an answer to a prayer, was a syringe of Serum 3. Forenzi had never used it on himself, but now seemed like the perfect time.

  He bared his forearm and expertly gave himself an injection of his life’s work.

  The effect was immediate and stunning.

  His fear vanished instantly, to the point where Forenzi couldn’t even remember what fear felt like. It was replaced by an overwhelming sense of well-being.

  He stood up, chin raised, chest out. The flames closed in around him, but Forenzi didn’t care one bit. Even as his coat caught fire, it didn’t matter to him. Forenzi felt invincible.

  But in short order, it did begin to hurt.

  Quite a lot.

  As he burned, Forenzi wasn’t frightened at all, even when the pain became intolerable. And it occurred to him that being scared might actually be a good thing. Soldiers without fear would rush blindly into a firefight without taking the proper precautions. Nations without fear would hit that nuclear launch without considering the consequences.

  “Maybe this wasn’t my best idea.” Forenzi thought as the flames ignited his hair.

  Then his brain boiled and he didn’t think about anything anymore.

  Fran

  She hit the dirt, falling onto her chest, bringing up her rifle and not bothering to check if the shots had penetrated her vest or not. Fran quickly sighted the targets, all armed with handguns. An Asian man with black eyes, a woman dressed as a gypsy, also with black eyes, and a guy in a gray suit.

  None of them were even attempting to take cover. They walked up the hallway, guns extended, acting as if they were bulletproof.

  They weren’t. Fran took them out with three quick head shots.

  “Clear!” she yelled to Mal and Deb, who had all fallen back.

  Then she checked herself for damage. The Kevlar had stopped the rounds, but it still hurt like hell. Like someone h
ad worked her over with a sledgehammer.

  “Help! Help!”

  Fran raised her weapon, saw a woman coming at her. She had at least a dozen bleeding wounds on her, and appeared unarmed.

  “It’s Moni,” Deb said. “She’s with us!”

  Fran covered her anyway.

  “Frank got shot,” Moni said. “Sara is with him. There’s also another man who needs help. I’m getting a first aid kit. Also, someone may have started a fire.”

  Moni ran past. Fran got off the ground and followed Woof as he led them down two turns and straight to the wounded. There was smoke, and it was quickly filling the tunnel.

  Fran glanced at the man who was shot, and the other man, who looked like he’d been dropped in a blender on puree.

  She didn’t see how either of them were going to survive.

  But she shouldered her rifle and helped just the same.

  Moni

  She wasn’t quite sure where she was going, but she was in a damn big hurry to get there. It didn’t help that the only light she had was the matches she’d found in the lab, and she had to stop constantly to light one to see where she was.

  By some extreme stroke of luck, she found the stairs to the upper level, and less than a minute later she was opening the door to Tom’s room.

  Her match went out as soon as she entered. As Moni began to strike another one, she heard something that scared the shit out of her.

  “Hee hee hee hee.”

  Lighting the match, Moni saw she was standing next to a bloody guy with a gas mask on, holding a huge meat cleaver.

  “Hee hee,” he said.

  Moni cracked him upside the head with her iron bar, and when he fell she kept beating him until he stopped moving.

  “What’s so goddamn funny now, asshole?”

  She lit one of the candles in the room and held it while she searched, finding Tom’s suitcase open on the bed. The first aid kit was on top, and Moni grabbed it and ran out of the room—

  —right into that psycho who shot Frank. The one who smelled like barbecue.

  She swung the metal bar, but he ducked and came up behind her, getting Moni in a choke hold. He pressed the gun to her temple.