Creepers

by David Morrell

  “Only us ghosts.”

  “I want all of you on the floor,” a voice said.

  “You heard him! On the floor!”

  Vinnie groaned and fell. Then the professor, wailing in pain as he landed, no one there to hold him up.

  “Take off your knapsacks,” the first voice ordered.

  “Stop touching me!” Cora yelled.

  “Do what you’re told!”

  Balenger heard the rustle of knapsacks being removed.

  “You, too, hero,” the first voice said.

  A metal object tapped Balenger’s shoulder. Moving as quickly as his injured stomach and side would allow, he slipped off his knapsack.

  “Let’s see what we got,” a voice said.

  Balenger heard zippers being opened, objects dumped on the floor.

  “Rope, duct tape, a crowbar, a Leatherman tool, equipment belts, a hammer, walkie-talkies, hard hats, headlamps, flashlights, tons of batteries. I have no idea what these meters are for. Hell, a person could open a hardware store with all this stuff,” the third voice said.

  “A first-aid kit. Candles. Matches. Look, candy bars.” The second voice sounded excited.

  Look? He said look. Balenger began to understand. He heard a wrapper being torn open, a bar being chewed noisily.

  “Water bottles. But what’s in these other bottles?”

  Balenger heard a lid being unscrewed.

  “Smells like…piss. These dummies are carrying piss around in bottles in their knapsacks!”

  “Found another gun!” the third voice said. “What kind of…This thing’s not real. It’s a damned water pistol.”

  Balenger heard someone sniffing.

  “Vinegar?” the third voice asked. “Is that what you’ve got in here? That’s as stupid as carrying around piss.”

  “Piss and vinegar,” the first voice said.

  “Knives. Got plenty of knives.”

  Balenger felt a hand at his jeans. Before he could resist, his knife was unclipped from his pants pocket. His spare pistol magazine was yanked from a pouch on his belt.

  “Yeah, a hardware store,” the first voice said. “Or a knife-and-gun store.”

  Hands pawed and poked him, searching. “Found a cell phone.”

  “Me, too. They’ve all got one.”

  “Stop touching me!” Cora said.

  “Hey, we gotta make sure you don’t have weapons.”

  “In my underwear?”

  “Leave her alone.” Rick suddenly groaned. “Oh, Jesus, my nose. I think you broke my nose.”

  “That was the idea,” the third voice said. “Anybody else got something to complain about?”

  Except for the shriek of the wind far above them, the landing became silent.

  “Finally, a little cooperation,” the first voice said. “Okay, everybody, put your arms out in front of you.”

  Balenger heard a few hesitant movements.

  “Hey, don’t make me say it again!”

  The movements became rapid. Balenger put his hands out. His right one hurt where it had been struck, but at least nothing seemed broken.

  “Now press your wrists together,” the first voice said.

  Balenger knew what was coming. He’d suffered through an ordeal like this before, except that the darkness had come from a sack tied around his head. He still had nightmares about it. He wanted to scream, to fight. But he was powerless. Sweat soaking his clothes, he struggled not to hyperventilate.

  Footsteps approached. He strained not to wince, anticipating a blow to his head. Instead, he felt duct tape on his wrists, heard the sticky sound of a strip being pulled off a roll. The tape got tighter and tighter.

  “That’ll hold you for a while,” the second voice said.

  The footsteps went away.

  “What are you doing?” Cora said in alarm.

  “Shut up and keep still, or I’ll shove my hand in your pants again.”

  The only sounds became Cora’s harsh breathing and the unpeeling of duct tape.

  “Who’s next? How about buddy boy with the broken nose?”

  The tape made a repeated tearing sound.

  “Now you, pal.”

  Balenger didn’t know whether that referred to Vinnie or the professor.

  “Hey, this old guy passed out,” the second voice said.

  From the pain when he fell and his leg hit the floor, Balenger thought. His fury helped distract him from his increasing fear, the terrible suffocating impression that he again had a sack tied around his head.

  “Banged up as he is, he can’t hurt us,” the third voice said.

  “Tape his wrists together anyway.”

  The professor moaned.

  “Good,” the first voice said. “Now let’s have some light.”

  Balenger felt air move against his face. A hand reached for his headlamp. Its sudden beam made him squint. He found himself looking at a large belt buckle. A piece of pipe was tucked under the belt. Must be what he hit my arm with, Balenger thought. Dirty black pants. A grimy denim overcoat.

  Except for the professor’s, the other headlamps came on. Beams zigzagged across the balcony, revealing three young men. As Balenger raised his eyes toward the one before him, he heard Cora gasp. Then he saw what made her do so and felt as if an icy needle touched the back of his neck.

  The men wore night-vision goggles, making them resemble characters in a science-fiction thriller: bulky binoculars that seemed to grow from their faces. At home in the dark. We like it here. Look, candy bars.

  “Surprised?” the first man asked.

  Balenger was surprised, but by something else. The first man was tall and muscular, a build that reinforced his cyber appearance. His scalp was shaved. It and his face and the portion of his neck that showed above the overcoat were red, blue, purple, and green with tattoos, a swirl of unrecognizable forms.

  “What are you staring at?” the first man asked.

  “The goggles,” Balenger lied.

  “Yeah, clever, huh? I hear ten years ago they cost a fortune and the army kept control of them. Now you can buy them cheap in any military-surplus store.”

  “You can use them to hunt Bambi or spy on your neighbors,” the second man said.

  Balenger swung his gaze to his left and saw a slightly less muscular guy in dirty dark clothes taking off goggles. His left cheek was covered by the whorls of a burn scar almost as white as the five-legged albino cat. This young man—around twenty, Balenger estimated—had his scalp shaved, also. But no tattoos.

  “All things are revealed,” the third man said, removing his goggles. They left red marks around his eyes. Standing between Rick and the professor, he was well built and yet seemed almost skinny compared to his companions. He was also shorter than the others, who seemed to be over six feet. Unlike the others, his scalp showed hair, a close military-style cut. “Let’s own the night.”

  “Kind of cool. Makes everything look green.” The first guy’s swirling tattoos extended almost to his eyelids. “Reminds me of that song.” He started humming “It’s Not Easy Being Green.”

  “Those were the days,” the third guy said. “Watching Sesame Street. Not a care in the world.”

  “When the fuck did you ever watch Sesame Street?”

  They’re talking so fast, are they high on drugs? Balenger wondered. He fought to control his trembling muscles. Like the last time, he thought. If I let fear get the better of me, I’m done. Passive means I lose.

  “Time to get acquainted,” the first man announced. “So our new friends here can try to bond with us the way it happens in, what do they call it, the Sweden syndrome. Isn’t that what they call it?” he asked Balenger on the floor.

  “The Stockholm syndrome,” Balenger told him.

  The first guy kicked his left leg.

  Balenger clutched it, groaning.

  “Who the fuck asked you?” the first guy said. “I’m sure they called it the Sweden syndrome in that Kevin Spacey movie we watched the other
night.”

  “The Negotiator,” the second guy said.

  “Was that the title? All I remember is the hostages kept trying to make pals with their captor. Or maybe it was another movie that had the Sweden syndrome in it. It is the Sweden syndrome, right?”

  “Right,” Balenger said.

  “Sure, it is. So let’s get acquainted. My name’s Tod. And this is…”

  “Mack,” said the man with the burn scar on his cheek.

  “Call me JD,” the younger man said, the one with the military haircut. He looked to be about eighteen.

  “And you are…?” Tod asked Balenger.

  “Frank.”

  Tod looked demandingly at the others.

  “Vinnie.”

  “Rick.” Rick’s broken nose made him sound like he had a terrible head cold.

  “What’s your name, Sweets?” Mack asked Cora. He rubbed the top of his shaved head as if it gave him erotic pleasure.

  “Cora.”

  “Cute name.”

  “And the old guy?” JD asked.

  “Bob. His name is Bob.” Balenger looked with pity at the half-conscious professor, duct tape wrapped around his bare leg, his blood crusting.

  “Pleased to meet you. We’re so glad you could join our party. Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Come on. I’m sure you’ve got questions. This is the time. Ask me anything. I don’t bite.”

  Mack and JD snickered.

  “Frank,” Tod said. “Ask me a question.”

  “You watched us go down the manhole?”

  “Yep. We’ve been trying to figure how to get into this building. The damned metal doors and shutters won’t budge. The walls are so strong, we’d make so much noise chopping through, even people who normally mind their business would notice. The next thing, they’d find any hole we made. They’d break in and steal stuff before we could.”

  “Or that guy who comes around would notice,” JD said. Of the three, his was the only face that didn’t give Balenger chills.

  “Guy?” Vinnie asked.

  “Aha, see, the atmosphere’s thawing. We’ve got another question. Yeah, a guy,” Tod said, his tattoos rippling.

  “Two different nights he came by,” Mack said, taking his gaze from Cora.

  “What was he doing?” Balenger asked. Keep them talking, he thought. As long as they’re talking, they’re not hurting us.

  “Just walked around the building. Checked the walls and the possible entrances. We used our goggles to watch from the weeds down the street. He seemed to be making sure everything was buttoned up.”

  “Maybe he’s a security guard.”

  “In the beach area of Asbury Park?” Mack said. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “But he wasn’t like us,” JD said. “This guy had a suit and tie. Overcoat. Straight as can be.”

  “Then maybe he works for the salvage company,” Balenger said.

  “That stupid story was true?”

  “In a week, this place gets stripped. Then the wrecking ball finishes it off.”

  “Guess you showed us how to get in here just in time. Any more questions? Now’s your chance. Questions? Questions?”

  Balenger indicated the professor. “Can I go over and check him?”

  “No. What could you do for him anyhow?”

  “Well, for starters, if he was having a heart attack, I could give him CPR.”

  “Blow in his mouth and all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a braver man than me.”

  “At least, I could make him comfortable. He’s lying on his hurt leg.”

  “Turn him on his back? You think that’s the thing to do?”

  Balenger didn’t reply.

  “Hell, if that’s all you’re worried about…” JD went over and rolled the professor onto his back.

  The professor moaned. The movement having roused him, he slowly shook his head from side to side. He opened his eyes and squinted at the three men, focusing his perceptions, terrified.

  “See, that took care of the problem,” Mack said.

  “Questions? Questions?” Tod said. “No? Fine. You had your chance. Now it’s my turn. Here’s my question. Are you ready? It’s a tough one. Are you sure you’re all ready?”

  Silence.

  “How are we going to decide which one of you to kill?”

  Balenger stared at Tod’s watch, trying to disassociate, to distance himself from his emotions. It was an athlete’s watch, the kind with several dials. Black rubber coated the case. Tilting his head, he was able to see that the time was a little after one. His heart pounded so fiercely, it seemed to fill his chest.

  “Who’s it gonna be?” Tod asked. “Anybody want to volunteer? No? Then I guess it’s up to JD to decide.”

  “Tough choice,” JD said. “Let’s see now. Eenie, meenie…Moe!”

  JD yanked Rick to his feet, jammed a hand behind his neck, clutched the back of Rick’s belt, and rushed him toward the balustrade.

  “No!” Cora screamed.

  Rick wailed. Just as he was about to fly over the railing, JD pulled back hard on Rick’s belt, spun him, and threw him onto the floor.

  Cora’s duct-taped hands were raised to her mouth in terror. Rick’s face was ashen. His chest kept heaving as he hyperventilated.

  “Did that get everybody’s attention?” Mack asked.

  The alternating heat and cold in Balenger’s stomach made him nauseous.

  “If we give you a few simple instructions, do you think you can follow them without making trouble?” JD asked.

  Rick nodded weakly, blood dripping from his nose onto his Windbreaker.

  “Then here’s the drill,” Tod said. “All of you are going to come slowly to your feet. No quick moves. Nothing to make us think you’re attacking us.”

  Unable to use their hands to push themselves off the floor, they shifted to their knees, wobbled, raised one foot, then the other, and stood.

  Balenger felt dizzy as blood rushed from his head. His stomach, side, leg, and forearm ached.

  “You kept talking about a vault,” Mack said.

  “According to you, a gangster put it in,” JD said. “Only three reasons to do that. Money, guns, or drugs.”

  “Six-ten.” Mack rubbed his bald head. “We heard you say that was the number of the gangster’s room. Move. We’re gonna check it out.”

  Balenger nodded toward the professor on the floor. “We need to help him up the stairs.”

  “No,” Tod said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  JD opened a knife. “Yeah, he’s the weak link. He’s the guy we kill to keep your attention.”

  “Wait!” Balenger said, his muscles cramping. “The professor did all kinds of research. He’s an expert about this hotel. He can help you get into the vault.”

  Tod, Mack, and JD exchanged looks.

  “What makes you so sure he can do that?” Mack asked.

  “Because that’s why he asked me to join the group.”

  Rick, Cora, and Vinnie straightened.

  “You’re not a reporter?” Rick said, glaring.

  Balenger shrugged. “I once watched All the President’s Men.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Cora said.

  “The professor lost his teaching job. He got to keep his pension but not his health insurance. As you saw, he has heart problems. But there’s no way his pension will pay for the treatment he needs. He’s desperate. So he asked me to join the group and learn how to get into the hotel and watch how the vault was opened. Later, I was supposed to return on my own, follow the route we took, go back to the vault, and grab what’s in there.”

  “And what exactly’s in there?” Mack stepped close.

  “If the professor’s information is correct?” Balenger hesitated. “Gold coins.”

  “Gold…”

  “The professor’s been teaching me a lot about history. In particular, about gold coins in the United States. Ten- an
d twenty-dollar gold pieces designed by…let me think a second. Augustus…”

  “Saint-Gaudens,” Vinnie said.

  “Yeah. That’s the name. The ten-dollar gold coins were called eagles. The twenty-dollar coins were called double eagles. Until the Depression, people used them as currency. But then Black Friday happened.”

  “What the hell was Black Friday?” Tod asked.

  “The great stock market collapse of 1929,” Cora answered.

  Balenger’s heart pounded less frantically. That’s right. Keep them talking, he thought.

  “Get to the point.” Mack rubbed the burn scar on his cheek.

  “In the early 1930s,” Cora told him, “the American economy was in such trouble, the government feared it would collapse. To keep the value of the dollar fluid, the government went off the gold standard.”

  “Speak English, Sweets.”

  “Prior to the Depression, the value of a dollar was linked to the value of the gold that the U.S. Treasury had in its reserves,” she said. “In theory, you could go to a bank, put down thirty-five dollars, and ask for the equivalent in gold. One ounce of it. But during the Depression, the government wanted to say that the dollar was worth whatever the government decided it was worth, regardless of how much gold the government owned. So we went off the gold standard. That meant gold could no longer be used as currency. Under the Gold Reserve Act of 1934, it became illegal for private citizens to own gold bars or gold coins. Except for jewelry, all gold had to be surrendered to the Treasury.”

  “The government stole the gold?” JD said.

  “People who turned in the coins and the bars got receipts that they could apply to their bank accounts,” Vinnie said. “Since then, the only way an American can own a gold coin is by treating it as a historical collector’s piece. You can look at it. You can hold it in your hand. You can buy and sell it at a rare-coin store. But you can’t buy a tank of gasoline with it.”

  “Certainly, these days, the face value of a twenty-dollar gold coin won’t buy a tank of gas,” Balenger said. Keep the conversation going, he thought.

  “What about the gangster?” Tod fingered the piece of pipe stuck under his belt.

  “Carmine Danata was a mobster in the Roaring Twenties,” Balenger said. “One of his trademarks was giving gold coins to his favorite hookers. When the Depression hit, he was sure the government was cheating everybody by confiscating the gold coins and gold bars. So he never surrendered his coins. Instead, he started hoarding them. Finally, he had so many hiding places, he couldn’t keep track of them all. That’s when he had the vault put into his suite in 1935.”