by Roger Weston
He closed his eyes and waited. He had to give the hunters time to move down to the end of the hall and turn the corner. After a minute, he was starting to get up when he heard footsteps. He lay back down as the door opened. Then the door closed and he heard footsteps in the lab, walking toward the bookshelves. When they got really close, Chuck kicked over the shelves. Thrust outward, they knocked down the gunman, crushing him. One of the killers’ hands protruded from the avalanche of books and finished oak. The hand was moving, and it clung to a pistol. Chuck twisted the gun away, breaking the trigger finger as he did so. The buried man screamed.
A great man of compassion for wounded killers, Chuck lifted the bookshelf off of the assassin.
“My arm,” the killer moaned. “It’s broken.”
“Let me help you,” Chuck said. He kneeled and pistol whipped the reprobate. Now that the CERBERUS killer was unconscious, Chuck checked his pockets and took his keys. Then he set the bookcase back on top of the man to keep him trapped once he awoke.
Chuck looked out the door into the hall. He saw a patient coming his way, the same one that the hunters had ignored earlier. Chuck waved him over.
“Come in here. I’ve got something for you.”
He was a disheveled man with hunched shoulders and long dark bangs that covered his left eye and half of his face.
“What’s your name?”
“I didn’t do nothing. I followed the rules.”
“What rules?”
“I didn’t go outside. I didn’t go on the roof.”
“What other rules?”
“I didn’t attack nobody. I didn’t hurt no one.”
“Are you sure?”
The man recoiled. He backed against the door. His eyes got panicky. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“You could be in big trouble.”
“I ain’t done nothing, I swear. Don’t punish me, not again.” He began gnashing his teeth.
The building shuddered as the wail of the storm raised in pitch. The lunatic looked up with fear in his eyes.
“Punishment,” Chuck said.
Fear grabbed the patient’s attention. He gasped and looked at Chuck with horror. His face twitched.
“You don’t have to be punished. There is a way out.”
“What way?”
“I need your clothes.”
Once again he gasped. His head turned left and right as if looking for an escape route.
“No trick,” Chuck said. “I need your robe and eye patch.”
“Then you won’t punish me?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay.” He took off his robe and handed over his patch. He stood there in nothing but boxer shorts.
“Now go back to your room,” Chuck said. “Where’s your room?”
“Upstairs.”
“Is that where all the patients are?”
“Most of them.”
“Why are you down here?”
“They let me out to get my meds.”
“Let them go.” Chuck reached out, handing him the key.
Fear in his eyes, the patient cringed back as if he expected a beating.
“It’s okay. Just take the key.” Chuck opened the door for him. “Go back upstairs. Let the others go free. Then you won’t be punished.”
The lunatic nodded and left.
Chuck put the robe on over his clothes. He adjusted his bandana and put on the eye patch.
He shot a look out into the hallway. A couple of patients were wandering aimlessly, but he saw no CERBERUS thugs.
He continued on down the corridor. He came to a door that said Security. He knocked on the door, but got no answer, so he picked the lock. Two minutes later, he was inside a room that had two bucket seats facing a wall of television screens. He saw a dozen screens with angles on hallways. Most were empty, but a few had aimless patients. Several monitors pictured empty lounges. No sign of Erica. The exterior storm shots were vague because it was starting to get dark. He could still see the hurricane rolling over the island like a freight train, bending trees. Two horses had been left outside of the wall. They were tied to a tree. Very inhumane treatment.
The hurricane wasn’t as bad as Chuck had thought, however. It might soon be downgraded to a tropical storm. One television monitor caught his attention because it revealed that another CERBERUS death team had shown up. They were searching rooms. Clearly, they were hunting for Chuck. Another screen showed something unbelievable.
CHAPTER 12
The scene on the security monitor had caught Chuck’s interest. The cafeteria was set up like there was a court proceeding going on there. A judge was seated at the front. Over a dozen people were sitting there facing him. Chuck turned up the volume, settled into one of the bucket seats, and watched the proceeding. He could see a nameplate in front of the judge that said “Justice Hackworth.”
The judge’s long face and chin drooped down like a big old lump of sagging bread dough, yet he had hollow cheeks. His long straight blonde hair framed a corrupt face. His devious, shrewd eyes threw suspicious, nervous looks around his court as if he feared gunmen would make an appearance.
The judge said, “I think the members will be pleased because we have been talking about this for so long—our doctrine of Fairness and Equality. Most of you are familiar with the main tenets. I will name a few that will be implemented right away. Jobs in Venezuela will henceforth be assigned by authorities in the local political offices. Incomes will be paid by the state. There will be lower—yet equal incomes for all citizens; everyone gets an equal handout. Most models of cars will be phased out. Everyone will drive the same economy car—one per household. There will be a minimum of two families per home. Middle class status will be eliminated. Food and healthcare will be rationed. Equality will be enforced by the police. Equal rights for all.”
Someone in the audience said, “In the old days they called it equal suffering.”
The members laughed.
Hackworth continued: “Education will be free; nobody will have enough money to pay for it anyway. Every citizen will receive thirty days of required free education. Call it propaganda if you like. Call it re-education camp. It will be largely brainwashing in the benefits of universal equality and values. The only history taught will be the history of inequality and racism. This will keep the people divided and ensure that they cannot unite and rise up against us due to exploitation or our opulent lifestyles.”
The members clapped. A former secretary of state started to stand but then sat back down.
Hackworth took a drink from his cup then continued: “The political class will get a few extra benefits and stipends in exchange for running the economy. Call it a subsistence income. Someone has to do the work, but nobody will get enough to cause rampant envy among the hungry masses.”
Hackworth stood up and gestured to the members with a broad sweep of his arm. He said, “To the victor go the spoils. Ut victor ire bellis et manubiis.”
This brought the audience to their feet in fervent clapping.
After they sat down, Hackworth continued. “Naturally, as architects of the revolution and members of the Immortals, we will divide the spoils of revolution. We will live by the divine right of royalty—as it should be.
“Everyone else in Venezuela is our subject. Since all commoners will receive a universal handout, we will have to ration everything. Under the guise of “leveling the playing field” we will seize all private property. We will nationalize industry and property, but as leaders, we will also cherry pick the best assets as spoils for ourselves. Gentlemen, the prizes will just keep getting bigger and bigger. We will use Venezuela as our test case and work the kinks out the system. Then in twelve months we will duplicate the model in the USA.”
All members rose to their feet again. They clapped and cheered. Some of them pumped their fists in the air.
“Thank you,” Hackworth said, “thank you. Now please be seated as we proceed with a critical matter.”
Chuck muted that monitor and focused on another. On the third floor security feed, he saw the lunatic with the master key freeing all the patients. Chuck also watched CERBERUS henchmen on two screens, and it was giving him a sense of urgency. He looked at a map taped to the desk with the locations of the monitors marked. One of the CERBERUS teams was heading his way and would soon turn the corner. He’d been lucky last time he was trapped in a room. He wouldn’t push his luck twice. There was no place to hide in this little room anyway.
Casually, he stepped out into the hall and started walking. He heard voices but ignored them. Then a voice shouted, “Hey, what are you doing out of your room?”
Chuck turned and waved. He moaned out loud like a madman. He brayed like a hungry cow.
One of the guards cursed. He shoved open a door and resumed his search, unconcerned that another lunatic was in the hall. Just then, however, another armed man turned the corner up ahead. He glanced at Chuck and looked away. But then recognition flashed on his face. His eyes opened wide. As he raised his gun, Chuck slammed into him. The thug crashed back against the wall. His head came down on the floor like someone had dropped a light bulb. It didn’t shatter, but the crack sound was loud, and Chuck was sure he’d cracked his skull. Either way, he was out cold.
“Stop right there!”
Chuck looked back the way he’d come. The two hunters were jogging toward him. One raised his pistol and fired. Bullets hit the wall nearby as Chuck dashed around the corner. He sprinted down a corridor and slowed to a walk as he approached a crowd of patients emerging from the stairwell. He pulled off his bandana.
A voiced yelled, “Which one is he?”
Chuck entered a stairwell then started running. He practically flew down the stairs, but he heard shouting not far behind. At the landing, he opened a door and darted across the courtyard. It felt like he’d just gotten into a warm shower. Thick rain was soaking his patient’s gown within seconds.
He threw open a wooden door in the stone wall and stepped outside into a gloomy, darkening world. Wind hit him like a car, knocking him against the wall. He spotted the horses thirty yards away. Gaining his footing, he took off. His knees and elbows pumped like the pistons of an internal combustion engine. Rain whipped across his face as he sprinted for the horses. One gust hit him hard, knocking him down. He rolled in the soggy grass, but got back up fast and ran.
He loosed the lead line for one of the horses and swung up on its back. Giving the horse a sharp squeeze with his feet, the beast took off in the big winds. To avoid being blown off, Chuck lay forward, hugging the big neck, a handful of the horses mane pressed against his cheek. Within a couple of minutes, the horse had carried him to safety, half a mile down Magnus Road.
But then he came to the end of the road. The rising sea had swallowed his escape route. The distant village was submerged under eight or ten feet of storm surge.
Chuck figured he needed to double back to the asylum now and resume his search after having lured the hunters outside.
He looked around and saw that a few open boats were tied to trees on long ropes, probably in case of rising waters.
Just then he heard the blast of a rifle. A bullet took him square in the back. He lunged forward off the horse, splashing down in the water.
CHAPTER 13
Forty minutes later
Back at the shadow court, a CERBERUS sniper announced that Chuck Brandt was dead. There was cheering. The sniper was congratulated by great men. Even Justice Hackworth shook his hand.
The sniper said, “I didn’t take him out for recognition, Hackworth. I’m here to collect the bounty.”
“I didn’t offer the bounty. It was offered by Maroz—and he’s dead.”
The sniper grabbed Hackworth and shoved him against the wall. “You will get me my money or pay with your life.”
CERBERUS bodyguards rushed the shooter and fought him to the floor. “What the hell are doing, Smitty? Get ahold of yourself!”
“Let him up,” Hackworth ordered.
“What?” Kevlar raged. “I’ll put a pound of buckshot in him!”
“You heard me. Let him up. If he didn’t fight for his money, he would not be worthy of CERBERUS.”
They let him up, but two thugs held his arms to protect Hackworth.
The judge walked several steps then turned to face his attacker.
“I didn’t do anything to you, Smitty. Maroz offered the reward, but I’ll tell you something. I’ll help you collect.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Why wouldn’t I help you? I have nothing against you. I value the services you rendered on our behalf. The fact that it was Maroz who offered the reward doesn’t mean I don’t want you to have it. The fact is, I don’t have the money. A lawyer in Washington State has it. I’ll do everything I can to see that he delivers the money to you. I will need a body, however.”
The sniper pulled his arms free and threw warning glances at his peers.
He said, “I shot him off a horse, and he fell into the flood waters.”
“Well now, that complicates things. How can I collect for you if you can’t give me proof that Brandt is a corpse?”
The sniper grimaced. “If you don’t collect for me, there’ll be more bodies.”
A CERBERUS thug punched him in the kidney. Smitty bent over and groaned in pain. Slowly, he stood up straight again.
Hackworth said, “I’ll talk to him, Smitty. No guarantees, but I’ll talk to him.”
“Good, let’s do it now. I want to hear this.”
“We don’t have a phone line now because of the storm.”
“Don’t mess with me, Hackworth. I can take you off that bench just as fast as you got promoted.”
Hackworth walked up to him but looked at the CERBERUS thug. “He just threatened me. Take care of him—permanently.”
As they forcibly escorted him out, he was screaming, “Hackworth! Hackworth!”
After Smitty was removed from the cafeteria, Hackworth looked at all the other men. None bore the kind of malice as the sniper, so Hack said, “Gentlemen, get cleaned up. In an hour we’re going to celebrate. Drinks are on me.”
“What if he was lying? What if Brandt is still alive?” Kevlar said.
Hackworth was quiet a moment then he nodded at Kielce.
Kielce said, “I want a team outside. Find his body.”
CHAPTER 14
Chuck’s body was carried away in a rip current as pain splintered thorough his spine and his nerves. He clawed for the surface. As his face came out of the water, he hyperventilated. He sucked in a deep breath of air, then another, sure that a wave was going to roll over him and deny him of oxygen. That’s not what happened, though. Instead, he heard the loud thundering blast of a rifle. A little splash of water leaped just inches from his head. Even as the rip current swept him away, he dove down below the wave and swam. Pain crackled through him like bolts of electricity.
That’s good, Chuck thought. Pain means I’m alive. He knew it meant the bullet-proof vest had saved him. If he could swim, then he hadn’t been shot through the back. He’d survived it.
No! He’d fallen into a rip current. He would be carried away, never seen again.
He surfaced, now well confident that the sniper couldn’t see him in the wavy water. Then he saw a tree trunk and swam for it… In a deluge of rain and wind, he clung to the tree trunk for several minutes as waves washed over him. He kept his head mostly below the tips of the swells so that the sniper couldn’t tag him. It would be a hard shot in this wind, but the shooter was not far away—if he was still around. He probably had a night scope on his rifle too. If that all wasn’t bad enough, snipers were patient people. They could wait for hours, even days.
Chuck had one advantage. Nobody would think that he’d survived after being shot in the back and swept away by a rip current.
He clung to that tree for thirty minutes before he even tried to move. During that time, he studied the wave a
nd water patterns. He found that the currents had changed as the hurricane moved over the island. Now, he felt a current pulling at him and waves that would push him toward a line of broken off trees about twenty yards away. He decided to go for it before the currents shifted again.
To swim better he ditched his bullet-proof vest and the patient’s robe. He took off his shoes and tied them by the laces to his belt.
Waiting for a wave then shoving off the tree with all his might, he lunged outward. He swam like his life depended on it. His arms bashed through the water like weed-eaters. He kicked with fierce energy. With the waves at his back, he almost made it. Then the current shifted and no amount of exertion was enough to counter the pull of the ocean. He was swept sideways and saw that he was going to be carried out to sea.
But then just as quickly, the current shifted again, except he realized that he was on the fringe of a massive whirlpool. He was going to be sucked down into the ocean’s throat where there would be no chance of survival. He swam mildly while he was carried around a half circle, then beat and kicked the water with all his fury, breaking away from the pull of the whirlpool just long enough to grab a tree. He held on for a few seconds as the whirlpool moved away. Then it shifted back towards him. Chuck shoved off and swam like a man possessed. He made one tree then another. He went from tree to tree then finally crawled ashore, where he collapsed and lay on his stomach for about ten seconds. Then he put his shoes back on. He was mad. They’d framed him for assassinating the president of Venezuela. They’d abducted Erica. Now they’d shot him in the back. He was angry. He staggered to his bare feet and started back for the asylum. Somebody had to pay for their crimes.
CHAPTER 15
Chuck hunched forward as he ran through the storm, and darkness closed over the island. His wet pants clung to his thighs, making it awkward to run. When his foot hit a rock, he fell and rolled on the ground. Pain exploded in his back. The tactical vest had saved his life and stopped the bullet, but pain had stayed with him. Regardless of his general state of misery, he jogged through the pounding winds. He had to. He knew that he must find Erica to keep her safe. He had to find Maroz to save himself—to get evidence that he was innocent of killing the Venezuelan president.
