The Smiling Man Conspiracy (Evils of this World Book 2)

by C. J. Sears

  “For our sake, I pray He is.”

  Readying herself for the journey ahead, she turned to face Llewyn. Kasey waited beside the door.

  “Hey,” he said, reaching for Donahue’s hand and squeezing it, “come here.”

  He clumsily pulled her into a kiss that lasted several seconds. She was torn between his welcoming lips and her awareness of Pastor Hartman’s presence.

  When they parted, she gazed into his eyes, looking for the answer to an unspoken question.

  “It was my turn.”

  Donahue said goodbye. Difficult as it was to rip herself away from him, it was the right choice. The only choice. After Lone Oak, she knew better than anyone that taking down an insane man with delusions of grandeur was a two-person job.

  BAD JUJU

  “Step on it!”

  Donahue didn’t need to be told twice. She jammed her foot on the accelerator. The Charger burst forward, skidding on the flooded highway.

  When the white Humvee emerged from behind the billboard at the last turnoff, she knew it was bad juju. There were plenty of military bases in the D. C. area, but they didn’t send vehicles out on joyriding detail.

  Or open fire on civilians. Kasey shot back, aiming at the tires, knowing it was pointless to target the armored plating.

  “Do you think they know where Llewyn is?” she asked the blonde.

  Kasey shook her head. “No. They’ve been camped there since we left the apartment. They missed us on the way out.”

  She reloaded her weapon, having missed with the first volley of shots.

  “I’m glad they don’t have a turret,” Donahue shouted.

  “You and me both,” Kasey yelled back, lining up the sights of the pistol, an almost impossible task the way the rainstorm obscured her vision.

  In all her time as Lone Oak’s sheriff, Donahue had never been in an honest-to-God car chase. In spite of the cold, she was sweating bullets.

  It wasn’t enough they were outgunned. Their pursuer had practice driving a heavy car on a slippery road.

  And their guns were loud. Somehow, the constant shower and roar of the Charger didn’t drown out the sounds of their firearms. That she wasn’t deaf by now was a miracle.

  Donahue glued her eyes to the road. On a wide stretch like this, the Humvee’s driver could keep up with little trouble. The Charger was faster but even the hail of gunfire couldn’t make her go over fifty. Not when the roads looked like a kid’s slip-and-slide.

  “I can’t hit a damn thing,” Kasey complained, jerking her sopping wet head back into the car. “We have to lose them.”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do here?”

  She couldn’t lure their assailants into traffic. She needed to trick the Humvee into following them on a narrow offshoot. That could work.

  Except there were no dirt roads ahead, not for miles. But if she turned around—Donahue whipped the steering wheel as the Humvee bore down on their car, clipping the rear. The occupants leaned out, firing and shattering their back windshield.

  The Charger spun, splashing the men’s faces, sending them floundering backward into their seats. Kasey gripped the handle above the passenger door, her eyes closed and mouthing something Donahue couldn’t hear.

  She bowled down the highway toward Fox Creek. For a brief moment, she glanced in the rearview mirror. The Humvee had come to a sudden stop. They hadn’t expected her to try that maneuver.

  Donahue grinned. Maybe she wasn’t that bad as the wheelman. Not that she wanted to make a career out of it, but she deserved a gold star for the effort.

  It could’ve gone much worse. If she’d acted a half-second later, who knows how much damage would’ve been done to the Charger. To them. At least she hadn’t overturned the car.

  She had no time to celebrate.

  The Humvee rumbled. The tires struck loose asphalt and water as the driver reversed.

  Donahue shifted gears and sped off. The exit she wanted was four miles away. It’d be close, the Smiling Man’s goons would be right on their butts, but by God she was determined.

  “Come on, come on,” she urged the Charger, pleading for it to get them there in one piece.

  The men in the Humvee were careful this time, not firing their weapons or getting too close as the massive vehicle rattled along.

  “We’re almost there.”

  She swiveled the car left, bouncing off the highway onto the mud. Trees arched overhead, darkening the road. The road was wider than she thought; the Humvee would have no problem tracking them.

  Their bulky nemesis cruised past, traveling too fast to make the turn, but they had to have seen the Charger go in.

  She slowed to a halt. Kasey stared at Donahue like she’d urinated in her soup broth.

  “They’re coming back,” she said. “Why are we stopping?”

  “I’ve got a plan. We let them.”

  “That’s not a plan,” Kasey said, worried. “It’s not even a percentage of a plan.”

  “Trust me,” Donahue said. “This will work. Just hold on tight.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  Seconds later, the Humvee arrived. The driver saw their car and revved his engine.

  He advanced down the road, smearing the white vehicle with chunks of tossed mud.

  Donahue locked eyes with Kasey. “Hold on.”

  The hum of the military vehicle quickened. The rigid, reinforced bars of the grill were like the venomous fangs of a basilisk. The golden headlights were its terrible eyes, capable of withering and paralyzing victims.

  But on this day, Donahue refused to be its prey.

  The driver propelled the Humvee through the muck. She changed gears again, backing into its path.

  The Humvee didn’t waver.

  Seconds before impact, Donahue swung the wheel, sending the Charger careening into the forest clearing.

  The driver of the Humvee couldn’t do a thing as he plowed into the deep, muddy waters that rose to the windows. He was stuck.

  Kasey breathed again. Her palms trembled as she let go of the roof handle.

  The adrenaline rush was over. Donahue relaxed her hold on the wheel as she drove away from the sputtering, sinking white serpent.

  *

  The warmth of the covers should have coaxed Wayland Zachary back to sleep, but here, now, he knew something was wrong.

  For the past two months he remembered waking up in a meager underground cell. An unnamed caretaker left him food every morning: a plate of scrambled eggs, burnt toast, and a glass of water. He supposed it was about as fulfilling as an old-timey jail meal.

  Zachary had no memory of his capture. He guessed they’d drugged him but the why of it escaped him.

  Maybe terrorists or spies? He was the editor of the Lone Oak Gazette; what classified information could a man from a hick town offer? None that he could recall.

  No, some whacko out in the boonies must’ve taken a liking to him. His skin would make a well-moisturized coat of human leather. Morbid, but his thoughts always turned pessimistic when he was in danger. Where was Clarice Starling when you needed her?

  But that wasn’t what was wrong with his current predicament. No longer was he incarcerated in a lonesome cell. The room he found himself in now was larger, decorative, and must have once belonged to a little girl—the rainbows and fluffy clouds gave it away.

  He’d grown accustomed to the damp depression of the cell. This kiddie room was jarring and creepy and not at all what he expected to see when he opened his eyes. But at least he had room to maneuver.

  Zachary tried the door first. Locked. Of course. He was foolish to think it wouldn’t be. Sighing, he swiveled on his feet and surveyed the room.

  There were no windows to speak of, not even barred. Scattered dolls and toys littered the floor and miniature shelves. A plastic white horse rocked in the corner. The screech of its rusty spring grated on his ears. At least it wasn’t a clown. He hated clowns; they had scared the hell out of him
since that Poltergeist movie.

  Suppressing the memories of a younger man, Zachary continued to sweep the room with searching eyes. The wallpaper he’d noticed earlier was a bright shade of pink, but that wasn’t what caught his attention.

  Splattered on the wall in black paint were two words: YOU ARE. He had the strangest sense of déjà vu.

  What the hell did that mean? Zachary shook his head. Whoever had kidnapped him in those woods was screwing with him, trying to get inside his head. Same reason someone stuck him in a child’s bedroom after letting him rot in a cell for two months. Bullshit mind games.

  He checked the floor below the door. No food this time. Great. He couldn’t even count on that to get him through the day. Was it even morning? Without a watch or a window, he had no way of tracking the time.

  The bed invited him to return to dreamland. What else could he do? He had nothing to eat. He doubted he could bust the door down. It looked sturdy, and he was in no shape to try.

  Early in his imprisonment he’d tried to stay awake, hoping to glimpse his captor. But he couldn’t manage it. Age and fragility overwhelmed him and he fell asleep before his mysterious jailer arrived. Toothpick thin, his hair flecked with gray, Zachary didn’t set an example for future generations. In times like this, he wished he’d been a bodybuilder instead of a newspaper man.

  He sagged against the door. Sleep sounded wonderful but if he ever wanted to get out of this room, he needed to be aware of movement. At least this way if the asshole came back to feed him he’d have to shove the door open to do it, giving Zachary plenty of time to react, maybe try to escape.

  The irritating repetition of the rocking horse kept him alert. His wandering eyes probed the corners of the room. If there was a secret passage or something, his keeper wouldn’t have to come through the door at all.

  He wasn’t sure why his mind jumped to the conclusion that there might be alternative entrances to the room. Zachary had too much imagination and false hope. But he wouldn’t put it past a kidnapping creep to install a trapdoor or other fancy mechanism. Truth and fiction blended into the reality he faced.

  The blinking red light above his head was barely visible against the bubblegum walls of the room. A security camera? Zachary stood and craned his neck to get a better look. Retractable lens, wall-mounted casing, wires feeding through the roof; it was a camera all right.

  Someone was watching.

  *

  Good. The fifth subject was awake. Preparation had taken longer than expected, but now the plan could proceed.

  On the series of monitors above the desk, three other men and one woman, isolated in similar rooms, paced with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Doubtful that they had a clue what perils awaited them. But the time was now. He could wait no longer.

  He pressed a key on the board and leaned into the microphone to speak.

  “Attention, Subjects KC, JO, MK, ER, and WZ. You are about to be part of an illuminating and exciting series of tests. I trust you’ve enjoyed my hospitality.”

  “Go to hell,” said the girl. Subject ER was feisty. Her fellow subjects would soon discover whether that would be helpful or a detriment.

  “My lady,” he said, “you’re already there.”

  “Who are you?” asked Subject WZ, inquisitive as ever. The group would find his talents invaluable.

  Clicking a button on the console, he answered, “I am no one. But you may call me the Overlord. That is all you need to know. Now, proceed through the unlocked door into the next room. You have thirty seconds.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, pendejo,” said Subject JO. Filth. He wouldn’t last long in the Overlord’s opinion. But the orders were clear: five subjects, three tests, one result.

  “You may be right. If you don’t leave the room, you embrace sweet death. A toxic nerve gas is being filtered through the vent as we speak. Twenty-four seconds and your insignificant life will be snuffed out.”

  That got the subjects scrambling to leave their confines. The Overlord smiled. He could do little else. Knowing what fate awaited them, the journey they would endure; he fed on their fear and anger like a parasite. All he had ever wanted was within his grasp.

  So what if he had to torture five souls? A worthy sacrifice for the greater good. With a grin, the Overlord clasped his hands behind his head and reclined in his chair to enjoy the show.

  *

  Michael Kaposi found it comforting to put a name to a face. Well, not a face, but a voice. Knowing something about his tormentor and part-time caretaker empowered him. His goal was clear: find the Overlord and kick him square in the nuts as many times as he could muster.

  Was the Overlord a he or a she? The voice sounded masculine, but there was enough static and distortion that it could’ve been a woman. Not that it mattered. Groin abuse was inbound on the douchebag either way.

  He left the confines of the bedroom with his fists balled and his jaw clenched. With any luck, he could get revenge on the masked men too, the ones that had captured him and his girlfriend in Lone Oak. Those bastards had played the heroes and fooled both of them.

  They separated Evelyn from him the night of their arrival. That much he remembered after the needle in his neck. What had they done to her? Was she part of the experiment like him? It felt shitty, but he hoped she was. Mike needed to see her, to tell her everything would be okay.

  He needed her to tell him that.

  The door behind him sealed with a loud click. No going back. Not that he wanted to if the Overlord was telling the truth about poison gas. It was a bad way to die, even if the present situation wasn’t much better.

  Michael sniffed the air, hoping it was fresher than the mold of his cell or the sterility of the bedroom. He was disappointed. Putrid and rotten, it was the stench of his last day in Lone Oak all over again. At least no one here was trying to kill him—except for the Overlord.

  A pair of arms and a kiss smothered the smell of death. Evelyn. He returned the kindness, grateful that she was alive but wary of another life-threatening scenario.

  “Are you okay?”

  He felt dumb for asking. She wasn’t okay. Physically, sure, they could pass a wellness test. Slim pickings for breakfast didn’t mean they were malnourished. But mentally? Emotionally? They were screwed six ways to Sunday.

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “Yeah, that’ll help us get out of this dungeon. Kissing. Maybe if we offer this Overlord guy a special favor, he’ll let us go home.”

  It was some muscle head Michael didn’t know. He stopped hugging Evelyn and looked past the thug. Another bedroom that looked remarkably like the one he’d left. The Overlord must have contained them in similar rooms. Why?

  “You’re just jealous, Supes,” said a short Hispanic male with cropped hair. “The only action you get is from your hand.”

  Great company. He and Evelyn were trapped in some dipshit psychopath’s funhouse with a pair of comedians.

  Another man walked over to the group while sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. He was older than the two jokesters. The prison uniform he was wearing—that they were all wearing—was initialed WZ. His hair was longer and matted with dirt, but Michael recognized him.

  “Wayland? Wayland Zachary?”

  “Yeah. Do I know you?”

  Zachary’s memory never was worth a damn. “It’s me, Michael Kaposi. My dad worked with you at the Gazette.”

  That was before Zachary forced him out, claiming his father had no journalistic integrity. But Michael let that slide.

  His face lit up. “Little Mikey? I haven’t seen you since you were in junior high.”

  “We all grow up.”

  Zachary turned his head, saw Evelyn at his side. “You look familiar. Your mother used to bring donuts to my office, I think. Isn’t that right? What was the name? Roper?”

  “Rogers. I’m Evelyn.”

  The beefcake rolled his eyes. “Touching reunion. But too much sugar fattens you up. I’d rather
leave this hole, if you don’t mind.”

  Michael, Evelyn, and Zachary stopped talking. “Supes” was right. Now wasn’t the time for catching up or old grudges.

  He saw a row of bracelets—no, not bracelets, watches—on a shelf between two sets of massive metal doors. There was a split down the middle. Elevators. Locked, he bet, until the Overlord decided it was time to play.

  Michael still couldn’t trace the source of the smell, but it had to be close. A skunk would’ve been less nauseating.

  The Overlord decided it was his turn to interrupt. “Now that we’ve all met, let’s start the party. You may have noticed a lineup of smart watches with different identification letters—yours. Put them on. These monitors will measure your heart rate as you undergo the tests. There are…other functions, but I’ll leave those as a surprise.”

  “And if we refuse?” asked Zachary.

  “You die. Painfully. But perhaps you need assurance? Have you tried looking up?”

  An untold number of spikes jutted from the ceiling. It was descending. Michael saw the flaps of torn skin and crunched bone wedged between the sharp iron barbs. He knew where the odor was coming from—the Overlord’s previous playthings.

  “You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Michael said.

  The Overlord’s laughter was cold and uninviting. “Perhaps. But I’d rather be sick than dead. Hurry and take your monitor.”

  Michael and the other four grudgingly raced to the watches and strapped them around their wrists.

  “Now what?” Zachary asked, eyeing the fate that awaited them if they didn’t leave this room.

  “Either lift will provide transit to your next destination,” said the Overlord.

  Next to the elevators, a light turned green. The doors retracted. The ceiling shifted closer, a threatening promise of pain and blood.

  “However, they have weight limits. Too much and the cable will snap, leaving you crushed at the bottom of the shaft. You must split up.”

  Michael, Evelyn, and Zachary headed toward the elevator on the left.

  The Overlord would have none of it. “No, no. That’s too easy. Can’t have you getting all chummy. Little Mikey will go with Ortiz into the lift on your right. Evelyn, Cranston, Zachary: you take the left. That should keep you on your toes.”