Savage Nights

by W. D. Gagliani

  Zimmerman was near crying now, growling and gasping as he advanced on his knees a couple feet only to find himself further enmeshed and more tightly held by the darkness and the space.

  "What do you know about fear, you sonof-"

  "I know your heart feels like it's getting squashed in your chest, Zimmerman. I know it's like Cu Chi, when I had to save your bacon in front of your men and watched you wash out like the loser you were. I know it's like the money you take to turn your eyes from what the Serb's been doing right here under your nose because you're too much a coward to do the right thing…"

  Brant maneuvered like an eel around more obstructions, burned his knee and the palm of one hand on a hot funnel pipe and hissed in pain, then continued squirming away from the cop, whose voice had become desperate and whose movements had slowed. Perhaps his own movements had slowed as well, but Brant wasn't sure yet. "There's no way to softball it, Zimmerman, you're a bad cop and you've got blood on your hands – the blood of innocent young girls-"

  "Sluts, all of'em sluts and whores-!" By the sound of it, Zimmerman was trying to bull his way past whatever held him in its grip, but he tripped and fell forward, again crying out as his face or other unprotected skin came close to the heated pipes. It sounded as though his gun almost went skidding. He managed to regain some of his composure, swallowing audibly and gasping out words as if they were painful jabs in the eye. "They were nothing to me, nothing to anyone around here, and the Serb's information was gold-"

  Brant visualized Zimmerman, half-lying across piled up crates, his clothes a wreck, his face painfully close to the low ceiling, his cheek scorched by the funnel stack, his hand trembling and threatening to send the service Glock skipping like a blunt instrument into the darkness.

  "No, Zimmerman, it was silver, like the silver they gave Judas. You signed on with the wrong people, you asshole, and you let these criminals maim and torture and kill people in your city who trusted you to protect them."

  Zimmerman whimpered, caught between his conscience and the claustrophobia that held him squarely in its grip. He blubbered words Brant couldn't decipher, punctuating them with gasps for air as the darkness and obstructed passage worked on him. Brant listened carefully and caught what seemed like the desperate scraping of a knee.

  "You're pathetic, Zimmerman, and what's worse is you know it. You've been somebody's stooge for years, watching Goran's back while he and his monster daughter carved their way through hundreds of runaways and kidnap victims. You make me sick."

  Zimmerman roared. It was as though he'd gathered his courage and his voice and then forced the sound from way deep inside his chest. It was rage, it was fear, it was knowing the truth. The pistol flared twice more, rounds bouncing around and echoing endlessly in the metal coffin of the funnel stack.

  Brant ducked flat, trying to avoid getting himself wounded on a lucky shot. One of the slugs whistled past his left ear. He thought he'd been hit for a second, the roaring ratcheting up the pain in his head. Sound on that side came in muffled as if it were submerged in oily water. His heartbeat thundered through his cranium with the roar of a wild wind behind it.

  Then his hearing cleared a bit, and the dull sounds retreated behind whatever was happening behind him.

  Zimmerman was speaking in tongues now.

  Brant wasn't sure what that was supposed to sound like, but he imagined this was it. Different voices, tones, muttering and laughing. Crazy whimpers. It sounded like a parody of Tourette's Syndrome. Was Zimmerman faking? Or had he snapped?

  The tunnels.

  Brant suspected whatever was happening to Zimmerman was the culmination his claustrophobia added to all those years of shame and humiliation, compounded by the grotesque covering up of Goran's criminal activity. And for what? Ultimately, who had benefited from protecting Goran's operation, besides Goran? Some entity in Washington, perhaps some officials scattered throughout various agencies. Perhaps no one else had benefited. But a whole lot of people had suffered.

  Brant edged back the way he'd come, crawling backwards as he'd had to do in some of the damned VC tunnels. He was sure there would be a corresponding hatch at the other end of the passageway, and that was where he had been aiming. But first, there was something to attend to.

  Unfinished business.

  Zimmerman's mumbles were even more incoherent now, his whimpers fading into each other. None of his words made sense any longer. Brant shuffled as silently as he could back toward Zimmerman's prone body. His eyes had adjusted to the pitch darkness of the funnel stack, and though he couldn't pick out what everything was, he could spot the mounds of stored goods and pick his way through them, mostly following his own torturous path. In just a couple minutes, he could see part of Zimmerman's form, prone in a sideways sprawl, his arm outflung and his Glock lying near his hand. He was trapped by low-hanging cable snakes above, the heated stack on one side, and great spools of cable and rope on the other.

  Brant inched closer, still hearing Zimmerman's nonsense whimpers. He reached the paralyzed cop and squeezed in as close as he could manage. Zimmerman had gotten himself tangled and wedged into a particularly narrow and low passage and his forward progress had been completely halted. If he'd held it together, he would have had to back up and reconsider his route through the passageway. But it was too late for that.

  In one smooth motion Brant scooped up the Glock 17 and knew from its weight it still held rounds.

  He saw open, staring eyes. He saw what he needed to see.

  He whispered. "For Digger and Smitty. For Kit and my brother. For Colgrave. And everybody else you fucked over…

  Carefully he touched the pistol to Zimmerman's head and squeezed the trigger once. The blast was deafening in the enclosed metal space. At point-blank range the damage wrought by the slug was catastrophic, and Zimmerman's voice was shut down forever.

  Brant wiped and smeared the gun as best he could, then made sure to place it in Zimmerman's right hand. There was plenty of powder residue there already. And everybody knew Zimmerman was claustrophobic. The analysis results would be enigmatic at best.

  Trapped by Zimmerman's body, he had only one direction open to him. He retraced his crawling and sliding steps and headed for the hatch opposite the one he had entered, finding it a few minutes later. Rust flakes fell off the rarely used hatch as he pried it open. The cold breeze ruffled his hair and chilled his sweaty body to the bone.

  Far down South Lincoln Memorial Drive, there was a long line of police blue and red lightbars and revolving strobes, and the sirens were just now beginning to reach him. They'd be able to drive right up to the gangplank.

  Brant headed forward from the base of the funnel stack-

  Zimmerman's final resting place…

  – and found Kit and Colgrave shivering, huddled below the railing next to the bridge.

  "Hurry, Uncle Rich, I think she's about to pass out."

  "Thanks, Kit." He looked at her and realized that he was as full of love for this tough, smart girl as he had been for Abby. She was helping Colgrave to her knees, her arms around the stranger's waist. She was wearing next to nothing, but her adrenaline seemed to be trumping the cold. For now. She caught him watching and half-smiled. Tough.

  Colgrave was woozy, losing consciousness almost as fast as she'd lost blood.

  Damn it, he'd have to call Kampmann and see about a safe doctor. But first they had to get off the ship. And their way would be blocked by at least a hundred cops, judging by the number of lightbars. It was an impressive convoy.

  Brant herded them aft along the open deck and then up the narrow ladder from the bridge level. They couldn't see where he directed them. Kit helped a stumbling, unsteady Colgrave, while Brant went up ahead. He stood for a moment, swaying, measuring, then twisted open the three latches on the rear hatch of the bright orange Norsafe lifeboat sitting coiled in its cradle. The boat was aimed down and away like an arrow nocked in a huge metal compound bow. Colgrave chose that moment to open her eyes. Her
voice was weak, but still conveyed her shock at what he intended.

  "Jesus, Brant, you gotta be kidding…"

  "Only fast way. Gotta be done."

  The women both looked at him with open doubts as he held the hatch open, gesturing for speed. They ducked inside the enclosed one-piece fibreglass cabin. Colgrave was trailing a line of blood down one leg.

  "They'll have blocked off the streets," said Brant. He pointed at the built-in seat shapes. "My car's disposable – not registered under my name. Even if they check it out, it's just another parked car. Birders park here to get to the wildlife pond a half mile away. No worries. But we have to get off this ship before they throw up a perimeter and trap us."

  Just then, he spotted two shadows creeping past the wheelhouse on the bridge deck. The sirens were still a ways off, under the Hoen Bridge. A couple of Goran's or Irina's men, then, who had managed to avoid the shootout. They were armed, and they were coming fast, having heard the voices.

  Seconds, maybe thirty.

  He remembered the stun grenades and grimly plucked one from his belt and held it, waiting.

  Counting.

  Then he pulled the pin and chucked it at the approaching shadows, both of whom hit the deck, firing wildly in all directions. Slugs splattered throughout the metal deck and companionways.

  Brant slammed the lifeboat door shut and bolted it. The crump of the grenade blast was muffled by the boat's hull, but still felt like a pair of hands squashing his head into a cube.

  Enough of that. The thugs would be too blinded to do anything but hurt themselves by now.

  He made sure Kit and Colgrave were belted into the rear-facing bucket seat-shaped wedges, then climbed into the helmsman's molded seat, slipped into the harness, and pulled the clearly marked lever. The red lettering spelled out the words FAST LAUNCH.

  And fast it was.

  The simple mechanism release cut the boat loose from the davit. Gravity did the rest, as it was intended to do. The boat sank into the harbor at a forty-five-degree angle, its pointed bow cleaving through the slick water like a hatchet. Inside, the three passengers were tossed about into their harnesses, but were generally able to withstand the impact with only minor belt-related pain. Brant couldn't estimate how deep the lifeboat sank before its natural buoyancy yanked it back toward the bubbling surface, but by then he was turning the electric key starter on the diesel engine. He heard the engine whine and then catch, propelling the craft forward even though it was still half-submerged. In the tiny windshield inset just in front of his seat, Brant saw the water recede with a toilet-like gurgle. The steely night sky appeared for a second, then disappeared as the bow of the craft bit into Lake Michigan.

  FORTY

  In the dark moonless night, the orange lifeboat was almost black. The boat did six knots, according to the gauges. Brant looked through the tiny window again and could make out little other than darkness, but their launch had aimed them away from land and he'd held her steady. The Norsafe was doing its maximum cruising speed now, and slowly Brant's vision adjusted and he could see a slight separation between the sky and the water's surface. They had cleared the pier almost immediately. In a minute or so, he steered the lifeboat through the lit opening of the long breakwater and onto Lake Michigan's open waters. The compass was an inky yet luminescent dome over the steering, showing a heading due east. He began a wide swing south.

  "Where are we heading?" Colgrave looked sicker, weaker. The blood loss had drained her of color and any strength she had left.

  "South Shore Yacht Club. There's a wide boat launch ramp. I could beach the boat on that. Or I can slide us into somebody's empty slip and they won't find this thing until daylight. They'll figure we headed north. They'll get a helicopter up, but it'll take a while to get here and they'll want some daylight first. Plus, the crime scene's a mess – it'll take some good police work to figure anything out."

  Kit and Colgrave exchanged glances. It was crazy, being on the lake in December, in a lifeboat.

  "They'll call you, Colgrave, when Zimmerman goes missing."

  She didn't answer.

  "And they'll call you again when they find him."

  Still no answer. Worriedly, he ducked down toward the main cabin to see if she was all right. But she was. Kit had left her seat and now hovered over Colgrave, whose eyes were open and blinking. The two women were whispering. He shrugged his phone out of a pocket. Kampmann would see to the wipe. They'd need a spinner, too. Someone who would make logical sense of the crime scene for the locals. It was an art, but Kampmann had the best in his employ. Even in the new script, Zimmerman would still be a hero. Either victim of his own human fears or a murdered cop, but a hero. Because there were bound to be other girls, and now they'd be free. And Kampmann would set up a safe doctor, too. Both Colgrave and Kit needed one, and Brant suddenly felt a warm trickle of wetness under his jacket that told him he did, too.

  It was Christmas, and a faint curtain of light began to swirl in the east, over the purple lake.

  Brant aimed for the dark shoreline, trusting his memory. It was there, somewhere, a small yacht club full of empty slips. He sat back and let the quiet engine do its job. He dialed and started talking as soon as the elderly voice answered. It was a long conversation.

  Not far from where he sat, the two most important people in his life huddled together for warmth.

  The sky seemed to be lightening swiftly, bringing the new day sooner than he expected.

  Christmas, indeed.

  The End

  * * *

  End Note

  I am greatly indebted to the following sources for invaluable background information and history used or alluded to in this work of fiction. Any factual error or distortion is either my fault or artistic license for which I hope to be forgiven.

  Tunnel Warfare (The Vietnam War Volume 6), by Tom Mangold and John Penycate. Bantam Dell (New York: 1987).

  The Tunnels of Cu Chi, by Tom Mangold and John Penycate. Berkley Books (New York: 1985).

  Stolen Lives - Trading Women into Sex and Slavery, by Sietske Altink. Scarlet Press (London: 1995).

  The Natashas - Inside the New Global Sex Trade, by Victor Malarek. Arcade Publishing (New York: 2003).

  An Operators Manual for Combat PTSD, by Ashley R. Hart II, Ph.D. iUniverse (Lincoln, NE: 2000).

  * * *

  Dear Reader,

  Thanks for reading Savage Nights. I hope you enjoyed it, and that you'll give my "North Woods noir" novels a try: Wolf's Trap, Wolf's Gambit, Wolf's Bluff and the fourth, Wolf's Edge, which was published in 2011 by Samhain Publishing. I also hope you'll check out my short story collection, Shadowplays, and the mini-collection Mysteries & Mayhem, which was co-authored by David Benton.

  Howl on,

  W.D. Gagliani

  About the Author:

  W. D. Gagliani's Wolf's Trap was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award in 2004. His novels Wolf's Gambit, Wolf's Bluff and Wolf's Edge (Samhain, 2011) also feature Homicide Detective Nick Lupo. He is the author of numerous short stories published in anthologies such as Robert Bloch's Psychos, Dark Passions: Hot Blood 13 (with David Benton), Wicked Karnival Halloween Horror, Small Bites, The Midnighters Club, and More Monsters From Memphis, among others. "The Great Belzoni and the Gait of Anubis," also a werewolf tale of sorts, is also available as an ebook in all formats. His stories have appeared in e-zines such as Dead Lines, Wicked Karnival, Horrorfind, and The Grimoire. Many of these stories are available in the collections Shadowplays and Mysteries & Mayhem (with David Benton). His book reviews are published regularly in Cemetery Dance, the Bram Stoker Award–winning Web site Chiaroscuro (www.chizine.com), the Web site HorrorWorld, and others, and his nonfiction has been in The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, BookPage, BookLovers, The Scream Factory, Horror Magazine, Science Fiction Chronicle, and various others. When not writing, reading, or reviewing books, he listens to old and new progressive rock, plays with vintage synthesizers and his Theremin, and collects interest
ing weaponry. Visit him at www.wdgagliani.com, www.facebook.com/wdgagliani, and on Twitter at @WDGagliani.

  PRAISE FOR WOLF'S BLUFF

  "In Wolf's Bluff Gagliani once more proves that werewolves are scary as hell. The book is fast, vicious and thoroughly satisfying."

  – Jonathan Maberry, Stoker Award-winning author of The Wolfman

  "Wolf's Bluff will keep you biting your nails right up to its blood-drenched finale. Gagliani sets a relentless pace from the first page and never lets up."

  – John Everson, Stoker Award-winning author of The 13th and Siren

  "Wolf's Bluff is arguably the best novel in Gagliani's werewolf series. It's creepy, sexy, fast-paced and brimming with humanity."

  – Gary A. Braunbeck, Stoker Award-winning author of Far Dark Fields

  "Gagliani hits another homerun with Wolf's Bluff, a sexy, fast-paced novel that keeps you reading at break-neck speed. You simply won't want this story to end!"

  – Deborah LeBlanc, author of Water Witch

  PRAISE FOR WOLF'S GAMBIT

  "Superb characterization brings protagonists and villains to life in this desperate game of survival... Wolf's Gambit is one of the most powerful lycanthrope novels to come out of the horror genre in decades and one no fan of werewolf lore will want to miss. Fantastic!"

  – Joan Turner, Dark Scribe Magazine

  "Wolf's Gambit is a well-written piece of fiction that contains scenes of real horror. With well-realized characters and a plot that's tight and sharp, it's a very pleasurable read."