Worthe's Village

by Ron Ripley

  “Of course, sir,” David replied.

  “Excellent,” Abel said. “And, if you could have a clean-up team in there as soon as possible, I would appreciate it.”

  “Of course, sir,” David said. “Is there another subject coming in soon?”

  “By the close of business tomorrow,” Abel said, chuckling. “The subject and the room have been obtained. The set-up teams should be in Greeley House by five in the evening. I hope to awaken Subject B by nightfall, dependent, of course, on how much sedative was required to bring him along.”

  “Understood, sir,” David said. “We will turn off the power now and clear the room for the next test subject.”

  “Excellent, David, excellent,” Abel said, relaxing into his chair. He ended the call and smiled. For months, men and women were run through the Village. No one of any real interest. No one worth recording.

  Appetizers, of a sort, Abel thought, chuckling. Little tastes to help my ghosts work up an appetite. Subject A didn’t last nearly as long as I thought he would. Hardly longer than the derelicts we picked up from the soup kitchens in Philadelphia and New York City.

  Subject B, he hoped, would be far more interesting.

  Chapter 9: Property Placement

  David Paul McNamara stood with his arms folded over his chest, which was an effort considering the amount of personal protection he wore. The fitted clothing was laced with strands of iron filament, the body armor consisted of slim iron plates that totaled 50 pounds of additional weight. Slung over his shoulder was a modified Streetsweeper shotgun with a drum-barrel magazine.

  And where had the Boss gotten those? David wondered, not for the first time. The awkward weapon fired less than lethal bean bag rounds, and David had a modified pouch on his utility belt that carried a spare drum. Strapped to his right leg was a specially designed revolver, one that David himself had worked on. The pistol had a five-shot cylinder, and each cartridge contained rock-salt.

  His hand dropped down and rested on the pistol grip, the sense of the weapon through his gloved hand helping his heart to slow its rapid beating.

  The installation of a new house always worried him.

  We’ve lost more than a few people on these jobs, he thought, his eyes locked onto the home as workmen went through the process of ensuring the structure wouldn’t collapse.

  Movement caught David’s eye, and he looked to the left. A pair of runners, young women, were sprinting up the street, their black boots seeming to barely touch the cobblestones. The runners didn’t wear the heavy, protective armor of the installation teams. Instead, they wore only the formfitting, filament clothing, slim gloves, and small helmets equipped with the polarized face shields.

  As they came to a stop, both women unlocked their visors and raised them. Their faces were slightly flushed with the exertion of the run, but there was no panic in their eyes.

  Good, David thought. That’s why they’re my runners.

  “Yes?” David said, addressing the taller of the two.

  “The generator’s on high,” she said, “but we’re drawing all of them today.”

  David frowned. “All of them? You’re certain?”

  Both women nodded, and the shorter one stated, “We even saw all six from the Eddings’ house.”

  “Alright,” David said. “Go to the gate, tell Ms. Vizzi to send in the quick reaction team and to activate the standbys from second and third shift. Tell her I want another runner team with you as well. And do not, I say again, do not get within 50 meters of the generator now. I don’t care if they blow the damned thing out. Is that understood?”

  The young women nodded, closed their face shields and took off at a run for the main gate.

  David glanced at the Edding’s house, the first and largest of the homes that the Boss had collected.

  First, largest, and worst, David thought, loosening his pistol in its holster. Let’s hope they stay at the generator until this is done.

  ***

  Mike Torrence wasn’t sure if he liked his job or not.

  At first, he had loved it. Room and board for a year, plus a spending allowance and a significant salary dumped into a bank of his choosing. His part had been simple enough. Sign a non-disclosure agreement, show up on time for his shifts, and do exactly what he was supposed to.

  His job was to patrol the perimeter of a massive enclosure protected by wrought iron fencing with guard towers. There was only one gate into the enclosure, and all he had to do was make sure no one went in.

  And that part had confused him.

  As far as Mike could see, the only items beyond the iron fence were houses. Old ones, but not even that nice looking. The whole place, he had decided, looked ancient and run down. There was even a cobblestone street that all the houses faced.

  He had tried to get some of the older employees to talk about it, but they wouldn’t.

  Like it’s some sort of state secret, he thought, lacing up his boots. Oooh, don’t tell the new guy anything. He might think he’s special.

  Mike scoffed and shook his head.

  He had spent most of the night arguing with himself about whether or not he should quit.

  But quitting would mean going back to Buffalo, and he didn’t want to listen to his friends ride him about leaving another job.

  Especially, Mike reminded himself as he stood up, when it means I can buy that new Dodge Charger when I’m done. I just need to keep focused on that.

  Mike left the room he shared with two other men and walked down the narrow hallway.

  “Torrence!”

  Mike turned and looked back. Melanie Waters was striding toward him.

  “What’s up?” he asked her.

  “I need you to get to the gate,” the large woman said. “Grab your gear. Nate O’Neill is on the gate and I need him to replace a QRT member who’s down with the stomach bug.”

  “What?” Mike asked in disgust. “I haven’t even had my dinner yet.”

  “This is non-negotiable,” she snapped. “Draw your gear, get to the gate. Now.”

  The words came out in a sharp staccato, almost as if she was firing a machine-gun.

  “Fine,” he grumbled and turned away. He muttered under his breath as he stalked down the hallway, his boots thundering on the stairs. As he neared the equipment room, he hesitated, glanced at it, then over at the cafeteria. His stomach grumbled, and Mike made his decision.

  He turned away from the equipment room and went in to grab something to eat.

  In less than two minutes he was out, his pockets stuffed with two sandwiches and a bottle of Coke. He heard Melanie’s loud, authoritative voice and realized he didn’t have time to get his gear. Popping a cookie into his mouth, Mike left the barracks at a jog, chewing as he went.

  Once in the yard, he caught a ride with one of the Mules, clambering onboard the small, four-wheel vehicle as the driver headed out onto the main road that would lead them to the gate. Off to one side, Mike saw the QRT gathering, the men looking like soldiers out of a science-fiction movie.

  The rifles they carried didn’t look anything like the retro-fitted street sweeper shotguns the guards were issued.

  Bet they don’t fire bean bag rounds either, Mike thought with a shake of his head. How are we supposed to keep people out with non-lethal rounds? Who the hell is going to be afraid of a bean bag?

  His thoughts faded away as he focused on one of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he had grabbed. By the time the Mule pulled up to the gate, Mike had finished the sandwich.

  Only one guard stood at the gate, and Mike asked, “Hey, where’s the guy I’m relieving?”

  The guard, a man named Rob Robicheau, looked at him with mouth agape. After a heartbeat, Rob went, “Where’s your gear?”

  “Didn’t have time,” Mike said, pulling the bottle of Coke out of the cargo pocket of his pants.

  Rob shook his head as if he couldn’t understand what Mike had said. “Dude, you need to get back to the barracks and get
your gear. You never, never come on duty without all your gear on. You know that.”

  Mike shrugged, opened the bottle and held it at arm’s length as the soda sputtered up and out of the mouth. He slurped some of the foam loudly before he said, “Rob, come on. Nothing ever happens.”

  A figure appeared from between the first two houses, and it took Mike a moment to realize it was a runner. The woman’s polarized face shield was cracked, and she staggered as she neared the gate.

  “They’ve trapped her!” the unknown woman screamed.

  “Damn it!” Rob turned, looked at Mike and said, “Do not open this gate for anyone other than the QRT force, understood?”

  Before Mike could reply, Rob pulled the gate open enough to slip through and then slammed it shut behind him. Dumbfounded, Mike watched Rob and the runner race off.

  It took Mike almost a full minute of silence to realize that Rob had drawn his sidearm as they had left.

  Mike had never seen anyone draw their sidearm. Not even in training.

  He blinked, tried to gather his thoughts and drank his Coke slowly. After several minutes, he fished out his other sandwich and ate it. Distantly, he heard yelling, then the sound of weapons being fired. Farther off, he heard the roar of a diesel engine.

  “Help me.”

  Mike jerked around, dropping his soda and coming face to face with a little girl on the opposite side of the gate.

  She wore a ragged jumper, the hem frayed and the weave showing through in several sections of the faded blue corduroy fabric. Her thin face was dirty, and tears had left muddy trails down her cheeks. The child’s eyes were the color of the Atlantic on a cold day, and her wispy blonde hair looked as if it might blow off her head in a strong wind.

  Her feet were bare, the bones of her feet pushing against her paper-thin skin.

  “Help me,” the girl said again, her voice wan as she wrung her hands in front of him. “Oh please, mister, won’t you help me?”

  “How the hell did you get in there?” Mike asked, hastily capping his soda and putting it on the packed earth of the dirt road that led into the compound. He hurried to the gate and began to push it open.

  “I don’t know,” the girl said, her voice hiccupping with anxiety. “I’ve been here a long time. Hiding. I’m so hungry.”

  You look like you’re starving to death, Mike thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. “Hold on. This gate’s heavy as … well, it’s heavy.”

  The little girl nodded and took a step back.

  Mike managed to get the gate open enough for him to slip through, and as he did so, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of wrapped cookies he had been saving for later.

  “Here, kid,” Mike said, tossing the cookies to her. “I’ve got to close the gate and–”

  His voice trailed off as the girl tried to catch the snack.

  She would have caught them if they hadn’t passed through her hands and her body.

  The girl’s expression was one of horror and Mike felt a dull surprise settle over him.

  Behind him came the roar of a diesel engine and as he watched, the emergency motor of the gate whirred into life, the iron clanging home into its lock.

  “No,” the girl said in a low voice, shaking her head. “No. No!”

  The last word came out as a piercing shriek that drove Mike to his knees as he clasped his hands over his ears. He heard the sharp report of pistols, but if the QRT members were firing at the girl, it was no use.

  She was too close to Mike.

  The fury on her face caused his stomach to drop and adrenaline to pump into his system. He started to stand up, but the girl was there, a snarl on her face.

  “I’m hungry,” she hissed, “and my belly will never be full.”

  Before he could reply, the girl drove her fingers into his eyes and Mike shrieked as sharp spikes of cold pierced his brain.

  Chapter 10: Containment

  “Who was he?” Mr. Worthe asked.

  “An idiot, sir,” David replied. He sat in the front passenger seat of the QRT’s armored Humvee, the radio in his hand. On the other end, Mr. Worthe chuckled.

  “Evidently,” David’s employer said. “You always sum up a situation succinctly, David. I do appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” David replied, pleased with Mr. Worthe’s rare compliment.

  “The situation, where do we stand with that?”

  “We have the residents contained, sir,” David stated. “I’ve withdrawn all of our personnel beyond the gates, should the residents leave their homes again.”

  “Excellent.” There was a brief pause, and David waited patiently for Mr. Worthe to continue. “114 Broad Street is prepared?”

  “It is, sir,” David said. “We are ready to engage with the resident of the house if you wish it.”

  “No,” Mr. Worthe stated. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’d rather see this one interact directly with the subject. I will give the go-ahead to acquisitions, and I am hopeful that we will see the new subject engaging with the residents soon.”

  “Very good, sir,” David said, “is there anything else you need me to do at this time?”

  “No, I believe we’re in an excellent place. Get some rest, David,” his employer said. “You’ll be busy again soon enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” David agreed and put the radio down. He looked out the bulletproof windshield of the Humvee as a pair of men passed by with the bagged body of the dead man.

  Stupid, David thought, frowning. The easiest job in the world if you pay attention to what you’re doing.

  With a sigh, he climbed out of the Humvee and went to inspect the towers one last time.

  Chapter 11: No Rest for the Weary, Norwich

  Marcus Holt turned his light off at 9 PM sharp every night. He had done so since his discharge from the Army in 1976.

  Lying on his back in the narrow confines of his twin bed, he stared up at the ceiling briefly, then closed his eyes. He folded his hands over his stomach and breathed deeply, encouraging his body to rest, knowing that his mind would not.

  It was a rare night that Marcus fell asleep before one in the morning, but each evening he tried.

  Hubris, he thought, rubbing at a rough spot on the back of one knuckle. Either that or I’m slowly going insane. Or am I already insane?

  He chuckled at the thought. Against the backdrop of his eyelids, memories played.

  He saw his bunk in his basic training barracks. At times, when he was closest to sleep, he could even smell or hear the sounds of his memories.

  Marcus watched as young men he had known as an 18-year-old draftee passed by, all wearing the fearful expressions of new recruits, whether they had been volunteers or subjects of the draft. The bitter memory of that fear settled into his stomach, and soon it drove him to sit up in bed.

  Cold sweat clung to the back of his neck, and he loosened the button of his pajama top, trying to relax.

  Why am I remembering that now? he wondered. I haven’t thought about basic training in years.

  Realizing that unbuttoning the top wasn’t enough, Marcus removed it. He stood up, draped the shirt over the back of a chair and walked to the bathroom. After 35 years in the same house, Marcus didn’t need the lights to see where he was going, or to know where everything was.

  Once in the bathroom, he turned on the water, placed his hands beneath the cold stream and splashed the liquid on his face.

  Better, he thought, leaning over the sink and letting the water drip from his face back to the porcelain.

  He turned off the faucet, dried his face with a hand towel, and then froze.

  A soft creak had broken the stillness of his home.

  Marcus knew the sound.

  It came from a loose piece of subflooring in the kitchen. Three strides in from the back door.

  Someone was in the house.

  Marcus didn’t own any firearms, and the largest piece of cutlery he had was a butcher’s knife, which
was in the drying rack after having prepared dinner.

  He pulled the door to the bathroom back until it was only slightly ajar. Quietly, he opened his medicine cabinet several inches, cautious not to allow the old hinges to squeak. Deftly, he removed a pair of long-handled barber’s scissors he used to trim the hair above his ears. From the shelf in the window, he took down a can of air freshener.

  Marcus kept the can in his left hand, finger on the dispenser. In his right hand, he reversed the scissors, so the points protruded from the bottom of his closed fist. Marcus wasn’t a knife fighter, would never pretend to be one, but there had been an Alpha team of Special Forces soldiers who had taught him and some of the others in his platoon the finer points of using a knife.

  All the lessons exploded from his memory, and Marcus remembered a wiry sergeant named Allen.

  Killing with the point’s got no art to it, Allen had said. But when it comes down to it, you drive that badboy home and finish the job any way you can.

  Marcus took several deep breaths, listening to the ominous creaks and whispering feet of the intruder, and it was then that he realized there was more than one.

  They won’t come in the bathroom, Marcus rationalized. There’s no need for it. My life is not worth the few valuables in the house. I will wait here for them to leave. And when they are gone, I will call the police.

  From his position in the bathroom, Marcus could look down the hall to the open door of his bedroom. Soft light from the street lamps filtered in and offered him a view of the intruders when they approached his room.

  He counted four of them, and he was shocked to see they were dressed in black and wearing night vision goggles. They didn’t carry any weapons he could see, but they moved with a precision and confidence that reminded him of predators on a nature show.

  They’re not here to rob me. The realization struck his mind with the force of a blow, and Marcus understood that remaining hidden in the bathroom would not be an option.

  They’re here for me.

  As that thought settled firmly in the forefront of his mind, one of the intruders peered into the bedroom. Marcus saw one of the men gesture, and as one they turned to face the bathroom.