Reincarnage

by Ryan Harding

  “Can’t believe after all this we’re back where we started.”

  Why don’t you whine about it? Damn!

  “Why are you snapping at me?”

  The bad energy wasn’t draining into Eliza anyway so Annette put her hand on her mouth.

  “Nothing,” she answered through her fingers.

  They traveled a few yards further before a new burst of cramping nearly bent Annette over. An adjustment to a one hundred and forty degree angle eased the pain.

  “We’d better hurry,” she said and her tightly-pressed fingers obliterated the words.

  Annette walked faster. The friction of her legs within her pantsuit renewed the body temperature problem. The inferno returned, worse than ever.

  “Shhh!” Eliza warned. She put a hand on Annette’s back, which only added to the discomfort by concentrating more heat between her shoulder blades. Like Eliza was transferring back the pain she took earlier.

  She began unbuttoning the bodice of her one-piece pantsuit to give herself a head start.

  “You okay?”

  She burst into the lobby, looking for a restroom sign.

  “That’s Eliza coming through the door,” Patrick said, “and this…”

  Annette flew past him, elbowed him aside. The Gin and Adam dual power-walk suddenly seemed less funny as she pounded across the lobby. She smashed into the door to the men’s room since it was the closer of the two, revealing a dim preview of the facilities. She bolted for the first stall. Darkness reclaimed the room as the door eased shut behind her.

  “…that was Annette.”

  Ten

  Gin wasn’t surprised to find Annette sprawled on an old couch, tended to by Eliza, who lacked only a palm frond to fan her queen of social faux pas and survival sabotage. Lee watched them with both hands atop his head as if he wondered what the hell he’d stumbled into.

  He noted her return and murmured, “FYI, avoid the men’s room.”

  “Oh, thanks, I was totally on my way there right now,” Gin said.

  “Your funeral. Hella disaster in there, though.”

  They had righted the sofa and returned two of the three seat cushions to allow Annette to recline. In the gap where the missing cushion would have gone, Eliza sat cross-ways as she massaged the cramps in Annette’s legs. Of course Annette couldn’t keep the pain to herself. She moaned and squeaked, echoing through the cavernous lobby of the lodge. The intermittent air raid sirens at least blasted once again for camouflage. They still made her uneasy, but Orange’s first appearance afterward had been coincidence. It had to be a timer.

  Patrick walked over from elevator doors he had pried apart and wedged open with a chair. The shaft inside was oil slick black but for something which gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Patrick asked Adam, truly ruffled for the first time. Adam opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words.

  “He was—”

  Patrick cut her off with a raised hand, glass crackling underfoot. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Don’t run off like that again. We’ve enough worries without adding to them.” He winced when Annette let out a sharp little scream.

  Now that Patrick was close Gin could smell gasoline.

  “They shut off the electricity while we were away,” he explained. “It will be dark soon and the woods will be darker first. Our chances of cutting straight through them to Morgan with all our limbs intact are slim to none.” He looked Gin up and down. “Although it looks like you’ve already been there.”

  Gin’s jeans were muddy and still soaked from the creek. Water had never tasted so good.“Sorry,” Adam said to Patrick. He cleared his throat. “For running off like that.”

  “It’s done. Don’t dwell on it. As an aside, both of you would do well to avoid the men’s room.”

  “What gives?” Gin whispered.

  Patrick looked pointedly toward the couch with Annette and Eliza. “Don’t ask.”

  Lee held up a finger as he approached. “I already told them.” Rock Star Lee as Adam had dubbed him, and it was hard for Gin not to laugh.

  “Let’s try to keep our distance from the front windows, too,” Patrick added.

  On the couch, Annette let out a loud moan. The tanning bed sheen of her skin had paled considerably from only twenty minutes ago. It was like this place peeled away several layers of her carefully crafted persona and she carried on like this unmasking was more of an existential crisis than Agent Orange.

  Patrick kept his voice low, barely audible enough for the three of them so it wouldn’t carry to the couch. “I’m surprised she’s lasted this long. She’s coming off a dozen meds, most of which weren’t officially prescribed to her. She rattled off shit I’ve never heard of. I’d say she’ll become increasingly erratic—”

  Gin opened her mouth to say something, but Patrick saved her the trouble. “Yes, even more so. She’s cramping, which won’t do her any favors if Agent Orange catches up. And there’s a greater likelihood of that with her weird behavior making stealth a fifty-fifty prospect at best. She’ll be a potential danger to the group.”

  Gin opened her mouth again.

  “Yes, I know, she already was,” Patrick said, “and our situation is admittedly not too dissimilar from before.”

  Gin thought it a little unfair to have this discussion without Eliza, who ran the biggest risk from Annette’s antics, but even she appeared to be tiring of all her self-involved bullshit. Maybe she’d come around before it was too late.

  Patrick’s volume approached something more conversational. “The equipment in the shaft isn’t the original lift system; it’s defense contractor work designed for silent use. The car is a level below us, probably to block access to any lower levels they may have added to the building.”

  Adam’s eyebrows jumped. “Can’t we go into it through the ceiling?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Try it and you won’t need Agent Orange to kill you. The security here was designed to keep out something far more formidable than us. I shouldn’t have even gambled on prying open the doors.”

  “Gotta jet, folks,” Lee said. “Whoever’s ready is ready. This waiting around shit is gonna get a mug straight up killed, you feel me?”

  “Yes,” Patrick answered, giving Gin a look she couldn’t identify. “Lee, Eliza, and Annette intend to find a military checkpoint at the wall. Lee says there’s a road from the rear lot that may take you there.”

  “Oh, it’ll take you there. The wall wouldn’t be more than a few miles away and it’s mostly downhill,” Lee said. “There’s even a Chicken Exit on the way so I can order ahead for pizza.”

  Lee looked at Gin to gauge her reaction and when she didn’t pass the test, she earned a sour look that seemed to say fucking bitch doesn’t like me, screw her. She’d seen that one a lot when she hadn’t let a guy have his way or refused to stroke an expectant ego.

  Patrick looked at Adam. “Will the road take you to the wall?”

  Adam nodded. “Yeah, that’s about right according to the Thirty Year…uh, the map I saw. There could be patrols, too.”

  Lee laughed. “You need a little less video game in your reality, son. The military doesn’t patrol with Humvees and boats and shit. Other than rescues, they only come in here when spotters have Orange in sight on the other end of the Kill Zone, and even then it’s just for road clearing and routine maintenance. What can I say? I was into this shit. Once a boy outgrows trains and dinosaurs, then it’s Agent Orange, cars, and quim.” He winked at Adam. “That’s British for ‘girls’.”

  “No, it’s Asshole for ‘pussy’,” Gin told Adam.

  “It explains why the roads are clear of fallen trees,” Patrick said. “They’d keep them like that for future operations.”

  He pointed out logs on the roadside during their trip from the lake house, but Gin hadn’t understood the significance. So she’d seen the smooth cut of the log but hadn’t actually identified it as anything ou
t of the ordinary for a place which shouldn’t have any public works upkeep. Maybe Patrick saw the trap at the creek, too. Gin usually picked up details, but this place was so out of her element she didn’t know what to look for, much less know it when she saw it.

  “But it’s the law,” Eliza said. “The military is supposed to patrol for trespassers and prevent suicidal people from getting in here.”

  Gin was a junior in high school when the son of a prominent Washington insider found himself deep within the Kill Zone with a bunch of friends looking for the thrill of a lifetime. It went from thrilling to killing with the swing of a machete when Orange found them. The outrage against the laissez-faire military policy reached its apex with the release of the young man’s recorded Chicken Exit pleas for help. With bipartisan momentum, a law mandating greater military presence, increased patrolling, and more preventative measures passed through Congress and the Morgan Falls Protection Act was signed into law by a president eager to salvage a middling approval rating during a politically poisonous year.

  “Yes,” Patrick said, “true to their name, Congress passed a law that led to the opposite of progress for all but the bureaucracy. What no one noticed about the bill is that it took the Chicken Exit away from the 911 system and put it under the control of Homeland Security. The recorded calls and transcripts went from public records to privileged national security documents. Have you not noticed the decrease in news stories about these incidents?”

  “But I’ve heard calls since then,” Eliza said. “On the news. They rescued a teen last year.”

  “And your point?” Patrick asked. “They’ll mollify the public with a story around the anniversary of Thomas Smith’s death and give the media a reason to say ‘MIFPA,’ but they control the information, so meanwhile probably more people than ever are dying in here. Enter: us.”

  “If they really cared, they’d keep him cryogenically frozen or chained up somewhere,” Gin said.

  “Oh, they tried all that,” Lee said. “They’ve probably still got dude’s head on a shelf with Walt Disney’s, but soon as they froze him, his ass showed up here like a video game save point and you know what happened next.” He mimed a stabbing motion several times.

  “Then why don’t they chain him here?” Eliza asked.

  Lee shrugged. “You think a guy who’s killed that many people can’t do himself? Just swallow his own tongue and before you know it he’s back in Morgan with a brand new body and an axe to grind; reincarnated, but more like reincarnage. So yeah, the military’s about as successful with him as the actual Vietnam War. Sick burn from irony. ”

  “But they’re still supposed to help us,” Eliza argued. “If we get to the—damn it, I am massaging, stop kicking me—if we get to the wall, they have to help.”

  “Obviously you’ve never heard of ‘selective enforcement,’” Patrick said.

  Lee sighed. “We finished with the civics lesson? We show up at the wall, the least they can do is open that shit up and let us out. Who’s with me, ‘cos the bus to Getdafuckouttahere is revving up.”

  Adam and Gin looked to Patrick, who said, “I’m staying behind. He may pass through here, and if he does, I’ll lead him in the wrong direction.”

  “Let’s go,” Annette said. She swung her legs and dismounted the old sofa, much spryer than her earlier mewling indicated.

  “She should stay with you,” Annette added and Gin was surprised to find Annette pointing at her. “Yeah, you, Hanoi Gin. He wants you the most. You’ll make a target of any group you’re with, but he’s saving you for last.”

  Patrick put a hand on Gin’s shoulder but it didn’t calm her any. “Hanoi Gin? I’m Korean, you fucking psychotic pillhead.”

  “Like anyone can tell. With those beady little goggles, you plenty VC to him.”

  “This is like playing Russian roulette watching The View.” Lee made for the exit and took a good look around before he eased through the doorway. “Talkingest bunch of people I ever did see. Fuck.”

  “If you’re coming with us, keep your mouth to yourself,” Eliza told Annette. She turned to Patrick and said, “Thanks. Good luck, you guys. If we’re rescued we’ll send help.”

  Undaunted, Annette continued, “He’s saving her for last. He’ll probably take a day to kill her. If she cared at all about the well-being of the group, she’d be the one sacrificing herself to lead him away.” Before she followed Lee out the door, she turned back for a parting shot. “Also, she’s not going to suck your dick, jailbait.”

  “Screw that bitch,” Adam said, though waited for her to exit first. His face had turned a deep shade of crimson. “Don’t let that stuff bother you.”

  “I don’t,” Gin lied. There were brass pillars for a circuit of velvet ropes by the front desk, and she ached to swing one upside Annette’s crazy head.

  “Place yourself in the middle of the pack,” Patrick said to Adam. “You’ll stand a better chance if we fail to draw him away.”

  We?

  Gin looked at Patrick, who nodded. Adam’s eyes followed the departing Eliza and Annette as they cleared the last window along the car port outside. Patrick took the distraction as an opportunity to mouth the words “Trust me.”

  She certainly didn’t feel safe with Annette, but wasn’t sure she felt any safer with Patrick if he planned on playing decoy. Maybe that wasn’t his plan at all, which seemed cut throat and duplicitous with the life and death stakes. On this account alone she didn’t want Adam involved in a ploy to buy her and Patrick time.

  “Don’t let them get too far ahead,” Patrick said.

  It wrenched her to think of the trio within the group breaking apart. It didn’t feel right. They had avoided catastrophe together, and maybe she was superstitious about disbanding a proven inner circle.

  “I’m not leaving Gin behind.”

  She smiled at him until she realized this didn’t mean they were any less screwed given the circumstances.

  It could prove fatal to Adam to stick with them if they really did plan to serve as decoys. Patrick might be keeping her around only as a way to buy himself time if Agent Orange came for them.

  Life or death stakes.

  “You’re not doing her or yourself any good staying here,” Patrick said, but he apparently knew the futility of appealing to a teenager’s better sense so he turned to Gin and quietly added, “You need to nip this in the bud. Don’t lead him on.”

  Gin said, “What? I’m not—”

  “Letting him think he has a shot is on you. This isn’t the time or place for silly high school games with some kid.”

  Patrick’s ultimatum made no sense. What purpose did it serve to send him off with rejection on top of the loss of his parents? Adam was the only person she truly trusted. He was smitten with her, for whatever reason. He seemed like a good kid, “kid” being very much the operative word. If they made it out of here alive she’d “nip it in the bud,” but if he continued thinking Gin might be his girlfriend one day, what could it hurt? He needed to feel accepted now, not alone. Besides, he wasn’t pushing his luck, obviously afraid to find out “what if” was more like “as if.”

  More importantly, why was Patrick so desperate to ditch Adam?

  Patrick and Adam stared at her expectantly.

  She grabbed Adam’s arm. “He’s with us.” She could have made her point less dramatically, but Patrick brought this into the open anyway so what did it matter now? And it wasn’t as if she’d flirted with Adam or actively led him on. What the hell was she supposed to do, qualify her statements with “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we make it out of here alive,” or “Let’s get some water from the creek; you know this isn’t a date, right?”

  If Patrick was pissed off, his face didn’t show it, but he said, “Old habits die hard,” which left little doubt he was upset with her.

  “He’s not Hoon and you don’t know me,” Gin snapped.

  Asshole, let me deal with this my own way!

  Patrick was
the first person Gin ran into, minutes before they found Lawrence. When none of them could figure out how or why they came to be here, Patrick asked two very interesting questions: Who would want to hurt you? and If you disappeared, who would the police suspect? Only Gin had a ready answer and his name was Hoon Kim (Anni, anni, Kim Hoon or Hoon-ah or maybe…Oppa, he would say). Introduced months ago by mutual friends, Hoon took such an obsessive interest in her that a restraining order hadn’t breached his impertinence. Apparently Patrick’s amateur psychological profile found parallels between her treatment of Adam and the creation of a stalker—more of the “you brought this on yourself” bullshit she’d heard from some of Hoon’s friends. The threat to her life here didn’t keep her from bristling any less over such an infuriating assertion.

  “Sorry,” Patrick said. “The three of us, then.”

  “Are we really creating a distraction for the others?” Adam said it in a low voice.

  The sirens had stopped again and this was the second or third time Gin had not noticed until minutes after the fact. Had she grown so accustomed to the sounds of the Kill Zone?

  “Distraction? Somewhat. Gin, could you keep watch for our homicidal host?” Patrick pointed to the desk and spoke to Adam. “And can you gather whatever flammable items are behind the counter, please?”

  Patrick went to the ratty sofa and slid it across the floor toward the elevator. Gin cringed at the echo of the loud sliding through the lobby; this would definitely draw attention.

  She looked for Agent Orange but the lot was empty other than his trophies. Their shadows stretched to funhouse mirror lengths in the weakening daylight. Only a couple hours remained at most. Her eyes tracked to the shell of the military truck. How could Agent Orange fight against soldiers? Did he have weapons more substantial than a bow and machete? If so, did he consider it merely unsportsmanlike to attack unarmed people with guns, kind of like the alien hunter in those Predator movies? Or maybe guns made the killing less personal? Yet, if that were true, why would he set up traps? It didn’t get more impersonal than that.