The ends of the tubing were still wrapped up in Karl’s hands, his knuckles and fingers white. Karl was panting, his bed-sore muscles at the limit of their strength. But without hesitation he leapt at the doctor, whose red face was set into a scowl.
“K-Kar—” he began to shout in a rough voice, before Karl’s giant hands were grabbing and punching him.
Doctor Freeman got off a few blows before he fell, his nose exploded open, and began scrambling on his hands and knees for the door. His foot kicked a small, cylindrical vial as he fled, and the item rolled fast under the bed. Karl reached out and grabbed the doctor’s foot, yanking him back into the room. The wound on his side screamed in pain, but he held on, battling a man who was fighting for his life.
Karl kicked the door closed and drew his sidearm.
They paused for a moment, both men breathing heavy. Doctor Freeman lay on the ground, looking up at the pistol. A smile broke out on his face, a trail of blood and drool dripping down his cheek. “Go on,” he said. “Pull the trigger.”
Karl grabbed the gun by the barrel with his right hand, and with his left he moved in, grasping at the doctor’s flailing arms while he brought the pistol hammering down. After about a dozen whacks, Doctor Freeman’s thrashing subsided. Karl stood up tall, his pistol hand warm from the splatters of blood.
He was so out of breath that his vision pulsed dark circles in his periphery. But before he could relax, he knelt by the bed and felt underneath until his fingers grazed the slick side of the medicine vial. The doctor was making deep grumbling noises, and his limbs twitched sporadically. Karl patted Doctor Freeman’s pockets and felt a long, skinny object, like a thick pen. He pulled out the syringe, tore open the sterile wrapper, inserted it in the vial stopper, and pushed the needle into the crook of the man’s arm.
The doctor stared up at him and his mouth opened to speak, but then his eyes rolled up in his head as his eyelids shut.
Karl knew nothing about the medicine, but judging from his own experience, he had several hours before the doctor would come around. After a lengthy time spent sitting on the chair, exhaustion making the smallest movements difficult, he stood back up and grabbed Doctor Freeman under his armpits. He hoisted the man onto the bed and patted down all his pockets, before using the two split pieces of the IV cord to tie his wrists to the bedframe.
He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Brahms was still playing, and he called out, “Greg! Greg!” through the music, but there was no response.
Going down the hallway in a direction he had not yet ventured, he opened each door in turn, finding nothing but empty rooms with drain holes in the center. One room still had two crime scene markers on the ground, small yellow B and C photo tents. At the far end of the hallway was the famed incinerator. The cast-iron behemoth sat cold and sinister. Karl turned and continued, opening doors on the opposite side, going closer to the room bellowing the orchestral music.
The next room had a large queen-sized mattress. The sheets had been smoothed over, and on a dresser sat Doctor Freeman’s briefcase. His leather binder was open on the nightstand, a piece of charcoal in the crook of the opening. Detailed sketches of a leg being dissected were shown in various poses throughout the page. The flesh ended below the groin in a neat, round stump, and beyond was the skeletal kneecap, shin, and foot. Various sections of veins and muscle were separated, displayed, and labeled.
Karl left. The next bedroom was identical to his own. The sheets there were unkempt, and Greg’s jacket and rifle hung from the back of the chair.
Karl took the rifle and walked up the hallway, until he arrived at the doorway to the doctor’s office. He closed his eyes, sighed, and turned the handle.
The light was on, bright, and inside the music was much louder. He knew what he was going to witness before seeing it, but still, the sight was horrific.
“Jesus,” Karl said, shaking his head. “You’ll never change, Doctor.”
Greg lay on the stainless-steel gurney in the center of the room, stripped naked and tied around the chest, arms, wrists, and one leg. The other leg was an exact duplicate of what he’d seen on the pages of the sketchpad. Various bags of medicine hung from stands, and tubes snaked to each of his arms. Greg’s face was white, nearly blue, and a ball gag was stuffed in his mouth.
Karl walked past him, trying not to look at the leg. He tried not to think of Greg’s torture, of Doctor Freeman using the tools he saw glistening and polished on trays beside the table. Tried not to think of Greg being eaten alive …
… of his own meals …
… the deer …
His stomach twisted, but still he pressed on, finding a satchel bag in a cupboard, and began swiping handfuls of the medicine and supplies. He searched the depths of his drug-induced subconscious from the past several days, and found that somewhere deep down he had known all along what was happening to Greg—what he was eating. But hunger is strong, and denial is even stronger. As he turned to leave, he heard a noise. He froze, and then turned, making eye contact with a barely conscious man. Greg stared at him through unfocused eyes, as if he were drunk, and attempted to speak through his gag.
Karl shook his head.
“Greg, ol’ sport. You’ve seen better days.” He picked up a slender scalpel from the examination tray. “Doctor Freeman’s a tricky one. I don’t blame you for getting caught.” Greg’s head was shaking back and forth.
Karl swiped the blade and tossed the knife back onto the tray. He turned and left.
***
When the doctor regained consciousness and his stare searched around the ceiling, Karl was there, sitting beside him. It seemed to take a moment for the man to realize where he was and what had happened. Then all at once his body tensed, pulling against his restraints, which Karl had reknotted, using rope he’d found in the examination room.
“Doctor Freeman,” he said.
The doctor licked his lips. “Water,” he said.
Karl took a glass from the nightstand and fed him sips.
Once the glass was drained, Doctor Freeman lay back down, his eyes closing.
“Jesus, what have you done to me? My face …”
Karl sighed. “We’ve walked a long trail together, have we not?”
The doctor didn’t answer.
“Hell, our friendship has lasted longer than most marriages … back when there were such things.”
The doctor swallowed, and asked, “What are you going to do to me?”
Karl sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I … don’t know. I found Greg, down the hall. I regret to inform you that he’s on the way to becoming spoiled. I have a few questions, and please tell me the truth. I’ve thought over every conceivable answer and lie in my head, so don’t explain that you were just keeping me sedated so you could feed me human flesh unaware to get my strength back. Tell me; were you planning on offering me the same treatment as you gave to Greg?”
The doctor stared at the ceiling, and after a pause, he said, “I don’t know.”
“No?”
“No. Before I was apprehended in Texas, I was careful, meticulous in my abductions. But now, with death an everyday occurrence, I’ve learned to follow whatever avenue will offer me the best chance for survival and reward. When you came to see me in the recesses of Haddonfield, I had no inclination of joining your band of mercenaries. I’m not a fighting man. But then I went over my options, and the choices you presented. In the basement, my food would have run dry, and I’d have been forced to face the dismal world alone. With you, I could live how I always wanted—free, and encouraged to do as I pleased. All I had to do was fix the occasional soldier, and fixing people brings me almost as much pleasure as taking them apart. In exchange, you gave me the liberty to keep any prisoner I wanted. With you, I had a better chance for survival and happiness.”
“But now, you’ve turned your back on me?”
“No. I don’t know. This is circumstantial.”
“But you might
have killed me, stripped me of flesh like ol’ peg leg?”
The doctor shook his head. “Maybe. I can’t control it. This thing that I do, it commands my life. I’ve given it my soul.”
“It is you, Doctor. Don’t kid yourself. If I let you go, would you still try to kill me?”
“I … no. I’d want to join you for the rest of the journey. Whatever I was doing to you, to Greg, it’s over. I’m a calculating man, and judging by my current position, my chances for survival are greater obeying you rather than fighting you.”
They were silent for many minutes, then Doctor Freeman said, “I’m not afraid of dying. To be honest, a part of me yearns for it. I want to feel my blood flow. I want to see my reflection, my own eyes stare back at me as my life fades. So if you’re going to do it, get on with it.”
Karl sighed, and stood. He picked up a backpack and swung it over his shoulder. The rest of the rifles and ammunition were near the stairway. He reached into his pocket and removed a syringe, then dug in for three small vials that clanged in his palm. He drained the fluid from all three into the one needle, and put the hypodermic in Doctor Freeman’s hand.
“I believe everything that you’ve said. If I set you free to join me once again, I believe you wouldn’t do anything to harm me … as long as I kept you happy and fed. But one day, a month from now, a year, things could change. You are indeed a calculating man, and I cannot foresee what the future will hold. Unfortunately, I can’t trust you to not repeat this episode. So, I am leaving now, and your binds will be kept in place. In that vial is enough morphine to kill five men. You hold your own destiny.”
Karl turned to the door and flipped the light switch. He looked back at his old friend on the bed, cast aglow in the hallway light.
“I’ll turn the music on for you. You’ll have a few hours before it’s quiet. Goodbye, Doctor Freeman.”
He turned and left. In the examination room, he found the stereo and hit play. Blood still dripped in long, lazy trickles from Greg’s gurney to the floor. Karl turned off the light and went down the hall, flipping switches as he went. When he passed the kitchen, he reached in for the light, not wanting to look at the refrigerator.
At the end of the hallway, he gathered the rest of his belongings, shouldered the rifles, and kept his finger hovering over the last light switch as he peered up the stairway, imagining the great open world beyond.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Fire Blind
Two full days after leaving the bunker, the fresh, warm breeze felt miraculous. Sitting at the bank of a small pond, Karl vowed that he’d die before ever sleeping below ground again. Humans required sunlight and fresh air, much the same as plants.
There had been no sign of Alice’s or Hightown’s soldiers, and after the progress he’d made going it alone with his strength renewed, he felt confident that the enemy patrols had ceased. He put himself in their position, in their heads, and could see no reasonable benefit in continuing to send large patrols so far from their settlements. By now, all of his own fleeing men were either long gone, captured, or murdered …
… oh, those smug peasants down south, controlling the fuel and water. They probably held a huge victory celebration, the men sharing battle stories, drinking the night away as the officers gave speeches, and his own fierce Red Hands were brought before them, wrists bound, and executed to the crowd’s jubilation …
Since leaving the bunker, the past days offered him the first opportunity to dwell on his defeat with a clear mind, unhindered by injury or clouded by drugs.
The loss of his men’s lives was something he could deal with. He’d lost many before. In war, nothing was certain, and the lives of even the most experienced and valiant soldiers were gambled upon. Bullets held no deference.
What bothered him was that the sheer number of his lost men meant his efforts would have to be doubled to see his force rise again. But they would rise again …
What about Dietrich and his army?
He knew the answer.
Dead … all dead …
Sitting beside a pond to fish, Karl picked up a twig and tossed it in the still water, watching the circular ripples as the twig floated off. The bobber on his fishing line rebounded over the disturbance, then settled back to floating. He’d wait another ten minutes before continuing on.
To pass the time, he’d been flipping through Doctor Freeman’s journal, being careful of the crisp leaves and tree specimens that were pressed between pages, and scanning the intricate sketches and descriptions. He put the journal back in the bag, and unfolded his battered map and inspected the terrain he’d soon encounter. If his pace stayed the same, he would be at the docks in a little over a day. And aside from the gnawing hunger, he felt better than he had in days. Since … the explosion in the basement in Alice. The wounds had all closed up, and he was planning to remove most of the stiches before arriving at the docks.
All the medicine vials from Doctor Freeman’s laboratory were stuffed in a pouch in his bag. Four of them were powerful amphetamines. If he took one at nightfall, he could march straight through to dawn; and if he stuck to the roads, he could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t trip and break a leg in the darkness.
But maybe he’d hold back on taking the amphetamines. If he wanted to enter the docks with any degree of sensibility and strength, he’d need to take the journey slow, and rest when possible.
The bobber still floated idly on the water, making gentle quavers in the heavier gusts of wind. Karl reached for the stick planted in the dirt and pulled in his line. The hook caught a ray of sun as he coiled the string, and a drop of water fell from the looped end.
Ol’ Greg’s not sounding so unappetizing now, is he?
Karl laughed out loud at his own remark, packed his bag, and continued into the brush.
***
I’ll be damned …
He stopped short, and knelt to touch the soil.
Footprints … two … three …
They were barely recognizable, on a portion of soft ground exposed from fallen leaves. If he’d not stopped to drink from his canteen he wouldn’t have seen them at all. Not boot prints, but definitely human. Like rounded half moons.
They trailed to his right, roughly in the same direction he was trekking.
He squatted low and pondered, listening to the rhythm of the woods, the birds and wind. There was no indication of a disturbance.
I need to get away. Continue due north.
Maybe they have food.
They’ll kill you.
I need to eat.
There were plenty of squirrels and small game all over. A family of raccoons had scurried near his camp the previous night. Karl walked holding a long, sharpened stick, so that maybe he could get close enough to one of the critters to spear it. But the chances were low, and shooting his rifle was still risky. He spent an hour scavenging a town he passed through earlier that day for a pellet gun, but the shelves of the small-town sporting goods store were wiped clean.
At some point in his travels, he’d been told that wild clover was edible, so he’d pinched and grabbed at the little three-leaved plants that littered the woods and lawns for two days, along with some of the tiny bright-yellow flowers that grew along with them. They offered nothing to satisfy his deep craving for nourishment, and after he ate his fill, his stomach cramped and he felt feverish for a short spell.
He was still processing his various choices when his fingers felt the next footprint over. Another smooth half moon. Then he lurched forward, squatting low, examining the ground for the trail of the prints. They were difficult to spot, but a scattering of leaves a few yards away told a telltale path straight across. The crisp groundcover had been broken, cracked into pieces.
In this manner he continued, and all the while his mind said things such as, You’re fucking crazy … No one can kill Karl Metzger … Turn back … I’m starving …
As the light dimmed into early evening, it was becoming difficult to see the t
racks. He had another hour, maybe less, until they would be impossible to decipher.
The warm breeze disappeared, replaced with a chilling evening, and Karl’s grime-covered fingers were absorbing the cold.
Then he smelled it, and stopped moving.
Smoke …
It was faint, yet unmistakable.
Using his nose as much as his fingers and eyes, he continued, each step slow and precise, making as little noise as possible. Soon, it would be too dark to walk without making a disturbance, and he’d have to stop and curl up in his sleeping bag. But there was light on the horizon, cutting through the thick bramble. Firelight. Warmth. People … food.
He stalked closer, hearing voices and laughter. The last rays of light helped guide him to take small steps past twigs and clutters of dead leaves. He removed his backpack and assortment of arms, taking one small assault rifle and a pouch of spare magazines that he attached to his belt. He crawled behind the girth of a fallen tree and peered out above it.
There they were … so close … three of them. Two were sitting before the campfire, one with his hands outstretched to the warmth. The other stood, poking at the cinders with a long stick. He could hear fragments of their conversation. “… about an hour’s worth of wood … I ain’t going … tomorrow …” He stayed there as the evening set to night, watching the three men add wood to the sparkling flame. They were in no worry about being seen. Whatever they were doing out there, they thought they were safe.
Karl readied himself to spring forward, and leaned the rifle over the top of the fallen tree. He peered down the sights. All three men were sitting, barely moving as they talked. His finger brushed the trigger, then paused … what did they say?
“…no, no, it was Dietrich … he did what? … some priest, don’t know …”
Karl’s heart beat fast against the side of the tree, and he wished now he’d taken the amphetamines, although his mind was swirling with so much adrenaline that he felt like he’d already taken them. He wanted to see their bodies explode with his wrath, feel the warmth of their blood on his hands, body, face …
Butcher Rising Page 20