Devil's Pocket
Page 1
Table of Contents
Dedication
Contents
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Praise for Phoenix Island
WINNER OF THE Bram Stoker Award
FOR SUPERIOR ACHIEVEMENT
“Fast-paced and thoroughly engrossing—I could not put it down!”
—Lissa Price, internationally bestselling author of Starters
“Lord of the Flies meets Wolverine and Cool Hand Luke. A tribute to the indomitable human spirit that challenges the mob and chooses values over expediency.”
—F. Paul Wilson, New York Times bestselling creator
of the Repairman Jack series
“Fast-paced, exciting . . . This action-packed novel combines adventure with extreme violence. . . . Dixon’s page-turner will keep readers of all ages enthralled.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An unusual premise makes Dixon’s thriller debut a welcome series kickoff. . . . The pacing and smooth prose will have suspense fans waiting for the next book.”
—Publishers Weekly
“100% great!”
—Cemetery Dance magazine
“A thrilling adventure story.”
—Philadelphia Weekly
“A fast-paced read on its own terms, gritty, grim, sometimes unrelenting, but always with an underlying theme of hope. Odds are, you’ll want to see what happens next.”
—Blogcritics
“A crazy fun ride to read . . . Packs quite the wallop.”
—The Hub (YALSA)
“Phoenix Island is one of those rare books that stay with you. I couldn’t stop thinking about it long after I had read it. I loved the characters, the action, and the world.”
—Tripp Vinson, executive producer of Intelligence
“Fantastic . . . superbly suspenseful . . . unpredictable and frightening. Welcome to the next big thing. Phoenix Island will blow you away.”
—Mark Sullivan, New York Times bestselling author of Rogue
“Dixon brings Carl’s world to life with an entrancing mix of color and violence that will leave readers weary, yet desperate to turn another page.”
—The Daily Quirk
“This is Peter Pan’s Lost Boys on steroids, trapped on the Island of Dr. Moreau, with a psycho drill sergeant pushing them beyond their limits. . . . The novel is fast-paced and the writing is so descriptive you feel that you are experiencing all the horrors of the island for yourself. . . . One of those books you just can’t put down. . . . Taut, gritty, and a real shot of adrenaline.”
—The Qwillery
“Filled with both menace and heart, Phoenix Island stands out in all the right ways.”
—Melissa Marr, New York Times bestselling author of Carnival of Souls
This book is dedicated to my wife, Christina,
who always believes in me, and also to my mother, Doris Dixon, who didn’t live to see me publish . . . but who never doubted that I would.
My undying love to you both.
Contents
* * *
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Acknowledgments
If you’re going through hell . . . keep on going.
—Unknown
And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
That age produced a sort of men, in force of hand, and swiftness of foot, and strength of body, excelling the ordinary rate and wholly incapable of fatigue; making use, however, of these gifts of nature to no good or profitable purpose for mankind, but rejoicing and priding themselves in insolence, and taking the benefit of their superior strength in the exercise of inhumanity and cruelty, and in seizing, forcing, and committing all manner of outrages upon everything that fell into their hands; all respect for others, all justice, they thought, all equity and humanity, though naturally lauded by common people, either out of want of courage to commit injuries or fear to receive them, yet no way concerned those who were strong enough to win for themselves.”
—Plutarch, The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans
ONE
GUARDS STEPPED ASIDE, and Carl strode into Training Base One. New recruits stood in ranks near the loading bay of an equipment shed, their freshly buzzed scalps shiny in the bright sunlight and streaked red by the clipper blades. The formation vibrated with fear.
Drill sergeants lurked, scowling.
At a glance, Carl noted injured sergeants—split lips, bloody noses, the red O of a bite mark on one forearm—and a massive kid sitting on the ground with splayed legs and his back to the loading-dock wall. The kid stared straight ahead, looking stunned, holding his nose.
Had this huge newcomer gotten into it with the sergeants? No. He wasn’t restrained, and no one was eyeballing him. Not him, then—someone else.
Bang-bang-bang.
The metal shed door rippled with impact. It sounded like a mule was trapped in there, kicking its way out.
Someone had knocked it with the big kid and the cadre, and now they had him locked up in there.
And Carl knew in his gut who it was.
Dubois. The exact individual Stark had sent him to “check on”—Stark saying it the way he said so many things, giving Carl an order but not really explaining it.
Carl, of course, had agreed. During the six months since he’d surrendered his freedom, he had played the willing apprentice. Soon, he would have what he needed to burn this organization to the ground, but for now, he continued to play his role.
The loud pounding stopped, and muffled shouting started in the shed, curses and threats.
Drill Sergeant Rivera s
aw him and came away from the formation, smiling. They shook hands, Carl genuinely happy to see the man. The other drill sergeants eyed Carl like they might a Bengal tiger. Now the recruits were staring, too, their eyes going from Carl to the drill sergeants and back again to Carl.
Good. Let them wonder. Let them fear.
“Freeman,” Rivera said. “Glad to see you.”
“You, too,” Carl said, speaking casually with Rivera—a sharp contrast to the contempt with which he habitually addressed other sergeants. “What’s the sitrep?”
Rivera glanced toward the metal door. “We got a bobcat caged up in there.”
“His name Dubois?”
Rivera tilted his head. “How’d you know?”
“Is he armed?” Carl asked.
Bang. Bang. Bang. The pounding started up again, hard as hammer blows.
Rivera raised his brows. “Sounds like he picked up something.”
“Well,” Carl said, “I guess I better go in.”
“Your call,” Rivera said. “I’ll send these kids back to the barracks and keep a couple of drill sergeants here. Martinez worked on a CERT team, cell extractions, all that.”
“No,” Carl said. Even without thinking the problem through, he knew the answer. Strange, the way he understood things so intuitively now—a phenomenon that had nothing to do with the chip in his head and everything to do with Stark, the man constantly lecturing about leadership. “The recruits need to see this. And I’ll go in alone.”
Rivera hesitated only for a fraction of a second—even with his rapid processing and accelerated powers of observation, Carl barely caught the pause in his old drill sergeant’s eyes—and then nodded. “Lima Charlie, Freeman. Whatever you say.”
They climbed the stairs to the loading dock, drill sergeants stepping aside for them. Toppled chairs and electric razors lay on a many-colored carpet of freshly shorn hair. Feeling the hot sun on the back of his neck, Carl recalled his own day on the loading dock, Campbell trying yet failing to save his dreads.
Campbell.
Reflexively, Carl pushed his friend from his mind.
“Watch out,” Rivera said. “Dubois looks like a Chihuahua, but he fights like a pit bull.”
Inside the shed, muffled threats and curses joined the pounding. Carl glanced at the shaking door and wondered what was so special about this guy that Stark wanted Carl to check on him. Well, he’d find out soon enough. He motioned to Rivera and another soldier, and they unsnapped hooks at the base of the rolling metal door.
The banging stopped.
Probably waiting just inside, ready to clobber me, Carl thought, but this, of course, was of no real concern now that the chip was a part of him.
When he lifted the door a few inches, Dubois’s voice called from farther back in the shed, “Come on in, boys. I got something for you.”
Carl opened the door the rest of the way.
The kid stood maybe thirty feet away, looking small yet sturdy beneath a flickering fluorescent light. He had a grin on his bloody face, a broken mop handle in one hand, and the tall black pompadour of an Elvis impersonator. Ridiculous.
Carl stepped forward.
He and Dubois stared silently at each other. The light buzzed erratically overhead, and Carl smelled clean linen, a scent strangely out of place in this tense moment.
Dubois began pacing back and forth, slapping the stick in the palm of his hand.
Considering the damage the kid had done outside, Carl had expected someone bigger. And considering Stark’s interest, he’d expected someone more impressive.
Dubois strutted, eyeing Carl.
He didn’t look afraid. Carl had to give him that much. What he looked like, Carl thought—the guy rugged but short, maybe five-five—was a fighting rooster. He even had the comb, all that tall black hair piled on top of his head.
Turning to the sergeants, Carl said, “Close the door.”
One of the soldiers started to protest, but Carl’s glare stopped him. Rivera hooah-ed, and the door rattled down.
When Carl turned back around, Dubois had closed half the distance and stood there grinning. From a gash in his hairline, blood streamed down the middle of his forehead and forked at the bridge of his nose, drawing twin lines of crimson to his jaw. Between the hair, the grin, and the oddly symmetrical blood, he looked like a psychotic clown.
“Come to see the sideshow, boss?” Dubois asked with a country twang.
“Something like that,” Carl said, keeping his voice flat.
Dubois rolled his head atop his shoulders, a classic prefight gesture. “Guess you’re the breaker, huh?”
“Breaker?”
“You know, the resident skull knocker. You look like a breaker.”
Carl guessed probably he did. People back in Philly wouldn’t even recognize him. Several months ago, when he’d first arrived on Phoenix Island, he was five foot nine and weighed 152 pounds. Now he was six foot two and 205. During his time here, he’d been beaten and burned, sliced and shot. Add to this bulk and these scars his crooked fighter’s nose, his battered knuckles, and his Phoenix Forcer uniform—boots, cargo pants, tank top, and beret, all black, save for the flaming red phoenix on his chest—and yeah, he must look like the resident enforcer. “What if I am?”
Dubois took up a batter’s stance. “Then you got your work cut out for you, buddy.”
“Relax,” Carl said, and raised his hands. “I came to talk, not fight.”
The kid looked doubtful. “This ain’t my first square dance, boss. I heard that one before.”
Keep him talking, Carl thought. “You been a lot of places like this, ones with breakers?”
Dubois grinned, and Carl saw he was missing a tooth not too far back on one side. “They been sending me places like this since I could tie my shoes. I tell them, send me someplace with a revolving door, because they won’t keep me long, either. Shoot, I don’t even bother unpacking no more.”
Carl let a smile come onto his face, figuring he’d ease the tension. Stark told him to check on the kid, not crush him. What was so special about Dubois, anyway? So far, he seemed like one more 150-pound knuckle-tosser, fearless, sure, but the streets were full of kids with big mouths and bad haircuts. “Well,” Carl said, “you better plan on staying here a while. How old are you?”
“Sixteen and a half.”
Same age I was when I came here, Carl thought. “My name’s Carl Freeman.”
Dubois straightened, lifting his chin. “Texarkana Reginald Dubois.”
He pronounced it Doo-bwah, but what really caught Carl was the first part. “Texarkana?”
Dubois tensed with the question, and Carl thought, His whole life, he’s been carrying that name around like a KICK ME sign taped to his back.
“It was my granddaddy’s name,” Dubois said.
“I thought it was a place,” Carl said.
Anger flashed in the boy’s eyes. Whatever potential Stark saw in the kid, this hair-trigger temper would likely ruin it. “It is a place—and a name, kind of like Washington. You ever hear of anybody named Washington before, genius?”
Carl said nothing, picturing not someone named Washington, but rather someone from Washington. Someone with beautiful gray eyes and a streak of white in her hair . . .
Texarkana Reginald Dubois ran a hand over his pompadour, seeming to relax again. “People call me Tex. Hey, you got a cigarette?”
Carl shook his head.
Tex sighed. “Figures. Probably all out of beer, too.”
“Yup,” Carl said. “So what happened out there?”
Tex snorted. “See, I got a problem with people trying to push me around.”
Me, too, Carl thought, but said nothing.
Tex shifted the mop handle to one hand, leaned on it like a cane, and nodded toward the door. “You see that boy out there, kid about eight feet tall, built like a gorilla?”
“I think so,” Carl said, remembering the enormous recruit slumped against the wall.
&
nbsp; “Well, old King Kong’s been riding me since we climbed onto that bus back in Mexico. Hitting me in the back of the head, saying he’d never seen a white boy with an Afro, stuff like that.” Tex ran a hand gently over the thick mane like someone caressing a beloved pet. “I tried to ignore him, stay out of trouble, but then he started getting the other kids going, too. You don’t stand up then, someday you have to fight them all.”
Carl nodded, picturing it: Tex with his funny hair and his strut, not even five and a half feet tall, and with that country twang—exactly the type of guy some big, mean kid would push and push. He remembered his own start on the island—Davis, Decker, Parker . . . all of them pushing—and how difficult it had been, holding back.
Tex laughed. “We was formed up out there, waiting on haircuts. I knew what I had to do. Didn’t say a word, just turned around and gave him the old Texarkana haymaker right between the eyes.” He demonstrated, throwing a looping punch in the air. Not the greatest technique, but fast, and he shifted his weight with it. A strong punch. “Knocked him on his butt. He just sat there, blinking, and I told myself, ‘Texarkana, you got to fix this old boy right now and fix him good enough that everybody’ll leave you alone.’ So I grabbed him by the ears and put the knee to him.”
Carl let the hint of a smile creep onto his face. “The drill sergeants didn’t like it?”
Tex spat blood and grinned, one of his front teeth red. “Didn’t seem to, the way they hollered and put the boot leather to me.”
Carl laughed. Against all odds, he actually liked the kid. His guts, his sense of humor.
Tex said, “I knocked a couple of bulls down, too, but there sure was a bunch of them. They shoved me in here and locked the door, so I picked up this mop, broke off the handle, and here we are.” He shrugged, looking at the makeshift weapon. “Look, buddy,” he said, some of the tension going out of his muscles. “What are we doing here? You come to dance or fight?”
“I’m here to see you,” Carl said, and remembered Stark saying the same thing, a long, long time ago, when Carl was locked in the sweatbox, waiting to die. “We don’t have to fight.”
Tex nodded. “Guess I don’t need this anymore, then, huh?” And he tossed the mop handle across the room.
Good, Carl thought. Stark would be pleased that he had defused the situation.
“Say your name was Carl?”