by Amy Cross
The Dead and the Dying
by Amy Cross
Kindle Edition
Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved
http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com
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Prologue
The Hollow Man came again last night, to pick up his money from "Daddy". I pretended to be asleep. I think some of the others were just pretending too.
I was listening to Daddy talk to the Hollow Man about their deal. That's all they ever talk about. The Hollow Man is usually the one taking money from "Daddy" in exchange for giving him some packages that he removes from the hollow panels in his arms and legs. It's always dark when the Hollow Man comes, so I can never properly see what's happening, and it also depends where I'm chained; if I'm near the front, it's easier to see what they're doing, if there's enough moonlight.
But I have to be careful, because I've seen what happens if "Daddy" and the Hollow Man catch on that one of us is awake. That's what happened to Thomas. I don't know exactly what they did to him, but we never saw him again after they dragged him out screaming late one night. It's a shame. I liked Thomas, he was the only one who ever talked around here. He said we needed a plan, that there were nearly fifty of us and all we had to do was overpower "Daddy" while the Hollow Man wasn't here. But we never worked out a way to get out of the chains. And then one night, Thomas was caught watching "Daddy" meeting the Hollow Man, and they took him away...
Sometimes I think Eric was the lucky one.
1. Five Years
I've shot plenty of people over the years, of course. But I'd never been shot until this kid came out of nowhere late one night and fired ten rounds straight at me from about thirty yards away. Nine of the bullets missed me, but one went straight through my chest and out the other side. I don't mind telling you, I went down fast and heavy. And you know what? Everything went silent and slow-mo, just like in the movies. I guess I watch too many movies. But I knew I was hurt bad. Real bad.
And that's how I ended up here.
Five years. Five fucking years. Jesus Christ...
"It's ironic," says Dr. Fibes, sitting behind his desk and glancing over my charts. "That bullet really saved your life, didn't it?"
I stare at him. Is he serious? "I'm still dying," I say.
"You're a 40-year-old man. I'm 45. We're both dying. Everyone's dying. It's just unfortunate that you're doing it faster than the rest of us". He holds up an X-ray of my chest. I've seen that same image a thousand times. I know what it shows. I know that little white mass like I know the back of my own hands.
"Five years?" I ask again. I've been asking everyone that same thing, all day. Nurses, receptionists, lab technicians. Five years. Five years? Seriously?
"Give or take," Fibes says, putting the charts on his desk. "It's not possible to be exact, as you'll appreciate. Five years would be good. Four would be a little low, six would be excellent. Expect four to five, be grateful for any extra".
I smile for the first time in weeks. "The way things have been going lately," I say, "I'll be grateful to make it as far as lunch".
Fibes stares at me. "It's good that you still have your sense of tumour". He waits for me to laugh. "That was a joke, obviously," he says finally. "But a sense of humour is very important. You'll need it as your body starts to shut down. I'm not going to lie to you, it's going to be-"
"Lie to me," I say.
"I can't. As your doctor -"
"Lie to me," I say. "Come on. As a favour. We've known each other a long time. I'm going back to work in three days. I could use some good news. Please? Lie to me".
Fibes opens his mouth to argue, but then he seems to think better of it. "Everything's going to be okay," he says, trying his best to lie his face off. "Everything's going to be okay, and nothing's going to hurt".
I smile. "Thanks, Doc".
I ask for the bullet. It would be a macabre keepsake, something to keep by my bed, something to offer prayers to in times of need. "Can I have the bullet?" I say at the reception desk as I sign out.
"I don't think we have it," says the receptionist, a really hot young blonde, barely out of her teens. She scans some paperwork. "I guess the cops still have it".
"I'm a cop," I say.
"A bullet's maybe evidence or something," she says, smiling faintly. "I dunno if they'll give it to you".
I nod. "Okay," I say. "By the way, I'll hate myself forever if I don't ask. Do you have a boyfriend?"
She stares at me, clearly surprised and a little awkward. "Er... no, I don't".
"Good," I say. "Do you want to meet up some time and have really, really good sex?"
She nervously looks around to see who might have heard. "Er... no," she says. "Thank you".
"Okay," I say. "Sorry. I just have a bet with a friend. He reckons if I ask a hundred random girls to have sex with me, one of them'll say yes eventually. There's a damn good case of whisky riding on it".
She looks really awkward, and she's blushing so bad I almost ask her again. "Good luck," she says finally, without looking back up at me.
"Thank you," I say as I turn and leave. One down...
Five years. There's a lot a man could do in five years. It took Van Gogh four years to pain the sunflowers. It took Shakespeare three years to write Romeo and Juliet. It took Da Vinci two years to write that book about the Louvre and the code. In five years, a man could create a masterpiece of art, or he could travel the world and fuck easily a hundred women, maybe five hundred. Or he could find a better kind of woman, settle down, have a couple of kids and just about have time to get to know them before falling off his perch. Or he could drink gallons and gallons of beer. Or all of those things, and more. Trouble is, most of that stuff takes money, and dedication, and willpower. Still... five years, eh? Surely I can do something a bit special with five final years?
Five years. 1,725 days. 41,400 hours. 2.4 million minutes. 149 million, 40 thousand seconds.
149 million, 39 thousand, 99 seconds.
149 million, 39 thousand, 98 seconds.
Fuck this.
I step out of the hospital and into an impossibly bright and sunny day that takes me completely by surprise. Miami. Seagulls, huge boats I'll never set foot on, beautiful girls walking in both directions, and long, vast roads leading out of the city and - eventually - clear across the whole damn country. It's tempting to just get lost, to just disappear from the world. As I stand and stare at the cars whizzing past, I realise I'm not leaving town. For one thing, I have nowhere in particular to go and nothing in particular to do. For another, I'm a cop through and through, so this is where I belong. For another, I'm pretty sure Tepper is standing right behind me.
"I'm sorry I didn't come to see you," she says as I turn to face her. "I just got a new girlfriend, so... I haven't had a lot of spare time". She's squinting in the sun as she looks at me. If you want to know what she looks like, I'll tell you: she has a kind of Sophie Marceau vibe about her. I've asked her a number of times if she's sure there's no French blood in her, but she says there's not a drop. And to be fair, she has a pretty perfect Virginian accent, which is where she grew up. She's a beautiful woman, but she never wears shades. In Miami, that's pretty unusual.
"It's okay," I say. "It's the thought that counts".
"Exactly," she says. "And honestly, I did think a lot about how bad it was of me not to come and see you. Car?"
>
In the two weeks since I got shot, Tepper's driving abilities have - if anything - deteriorated further than ever. I half suspect she's going to classes to help her deteriorate as fast as possible. How else to explain the fact that she just gets worse and worse? She stalls twice as we attempt to leave the hospital parking lot, and as we join the freeway we're going so slow that I can't help wondering if we'll get pulled over.
"Distract me," I say, the wound in my chest still sore and itchy.
"My new girlfriend's name is Head," she says, (thankfully) keeping her eyes on the road. "Seriously. Head. That's her surname. I don't love her, yet, but I love her name".
We sit in silence as we drive on.
"That worked," I say after a while, shifting a couple of times in the passenger seat.
"Where'm I taking you, anyway?" she asks.
"Home," I say. "Then a bar. I need to be in a bar".
"You okay?" she asks. I don't answer. "They got the bullet out, right?"
"Yeah".
"So there's no permanent damage? You're gonna be okay?"
I nod. "I'm gonna be fine". I don't see the point in burdening her with talk about tumours and life expectancies. That's a whole separate thing.
Two squad cars race past us, sirens blaring. Tepper and I exchange a glance, and I reach over and switch on the network radio. It takes a moment for the fuzz and static to settle into something intelligible.
"...this him?" asks a voice that I don't recognise.
Static.
Another unfamiliar voice: "...cargo containers... round the back, I don't see any way he can..."
More static.
"...units to respond. Arsenio Felipe Cruz, armed and dangerous..."
"Cruz!" says Tepper. "Seriously? The Hollow Man?"
I grab the radio receiver and switch it on.
"Car 57," I say. "Where's this happening?"
Static for a moment. "John? Is that you?"
"Where?" I shout.
Static. "...Lombardo shipping yard..."
I put the radio down. "Get us there," I say.
"You're not in any state for this," Tepper says.
"Get us there!" I insist. There's no point messing about. You fall off the horse, you get straight back on. Even if there's a burning pain in your belly, caused by a tumour that just won't stop growing.
2. Hollow Man
They call him the Hollow Man because over the years, thanks to a series of operations, he has had cavities hollowed out of his bones. In these cavities, he hides quantities of cocaine or any other hard drug you care to mention. Why? For undetectable transportation into the United States. To find these packages, you would literally have to take the man's skin and bones apart. You'd have to unscrew his whole body. No-one has ever been able to catch him, all we ever had was a name - Arsenio Felipe Cruz - and the description given by one of Cruz's former doctors, who said the man's entire body was like a bureau, with little cupboards and hidden hiding places all over. We've been hunting this guy for nearly a decade.
And now we've found him, apparently. He was identified downtown and, after a chase, he's corned in the Lombardo shipping yard. More than two hundred cops are swarming all over the scene, radiating out from a single office building in which Lopez is reported to be hiding. The whole place is covered. Every window, every door. Someone even ran down to City Hall to dig out the blueprints of the building to check that there's no basement exit. But no, it seems he's really cornered this time, even if he's not quite ready to give up: he has a hostage, a woman who works in the office. So far he's issued no demands, hasn't communicated with the outside world at all. He probably thinks he doesn't have to. He knows that we know that all he wants is to get out of here. He also knows that we won't let that happen. So he knows he's probably going to die. All this, the hostage and the rest of the crap, is just him going through the motions so everyone knows later on that he made one last stand.
Lou Rich is the officer in charge. He's handling the megaphone and trying to work out where to position the snipers. God help anyone whose life ever depends upon the abilities of Lou Rich. He's nice enough, but pretty hopeless as a detective. In fact, I'm pretty sure you could make a decent career out of just doing the exact opposite of what Lou does in every situation. I can't believe I've been shout, and Lou Rich has never got so much of a scratch. If we're talking actors, think of Al Pacino method-acting his way through a performance as a short, plump, balding, bearded little asshole. The guy has a face like someone who's never fucked a woman who weighed less than 300 pounds.
"We have to work out what he wants," Lou is saying to no-one in particular as Tepper and I arrive. As soon as he sees me, Lou looks concerned. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard you've got Hollow cornered," I say, trying to act friendly.
"Yeah," Lou says, keeping an eye on me as I pass him. "But that's what I'm doing here. What are you doing here?"
I grab a flak jacket from the boot of one of the squad cars. Tepper helps me get it on. "I'm going in there to talk to him," I say.
"No you're not," says Lou, lumbering over and pushing Tepper away from me. "This is my operation -"
"And you'll get all the credit," I say, finishing putting on the jacket myself.
"Don't do this," says Lou. He leans in to me and whispers. "You're making me look bad".
"Play the card you're dealt," I say.
Lou stands up straight, then raises his voice. "Detective Mason, I am entrusting you with this mission because I need a man I can trust!" He stops to see if anyone is paying attention. "Don't let me down!" He leans in and whispers again. "Don't let me down, cocksucker".
"I'll try to stay alive," I say. "Just for you. Okay? I'm ready".
"I hope he shoots you in the head," Lou says.
"I hope so too," I say as I turn and start walking past the lines of marksmen, towards the office. Well, what's a better way to die? As a hero taking down a notorious criminal, or alone in some hospital bed after your thousandth does of chemo?
According to the 12-week initial hostage situation training program at the FBI, the first thing you should do is to try to establish a relationship with the suspect. Then, you should seek to locate some common ground. Then, you should try to reason with him. Then, you should try to get some of the hostages out of there. Then, you should see if you can capture him alive. But these things are supposed to be done in order, not all at once.
I push the door open and march straight into the open office.
"Arsenio!" I call out. "Come down, give up and let's cut the crap".
I'm met by a wall of silence. The office is a mess, the contents of all the desks strewn across the floor. The only sound is the occasional gurgle of police radios from outside, and the only movement is a series of dancing red dots coming in through the window and playing across the walls.
"Arsenio!" I shout again. "I'm not into formalities, let's get this over with. If you're gonna shoot me, shoot me. If you're gonna surrender, surrender. If you're going to blow your fucking head off, blow your fucking head off. But let's get it done quickly, okay? I need to pee".
Fuck it, I do need to pee. I spot a bin by one of the desks. Walking over, I unzip and relieve myself. Hell, I'm dying. Who cares anymore?
"You listening, Arsenio?" I call out.
Still nothing. Damn, I'm not even sure he's in here. It'd be typical of Lou Rich to surround the wrong office. But just as I finish up with the bin, tuck myself in and start thinking of heading back outside, I hear something from the next room. It sounds like someone sobbing.
"I hope that's the hostage!" I shout out. "Otherwise I have very little respect for you, Arsenio, if you're crying like a baby".
More sobbing. I walk towards the door that leads to the next room.
"This is boring," I say. "I've done dozens of hostage situations. They're all boring, and this one's boring. I expected better from you. I didn't know you were so... boring".
I'm about to step forwards, when a
gunshot rings out and the sobbing stops.
"Better?" calls a voice from the other room. It's an old, smoker's voice.
"You got any other hostages in there?" I ask.
"Thousands".
Great. He's clearly got no intention of trying to get out of this alive. The only question is whether he intends to take me, and perhaps the entire building, with him.
"You're a smart guy," I say. "How'd you get cornered like this?"
There's a sigh from the next room. "It's looking increasingly as if I was betrayed".
I step a little closer to the door. I still haven't got a visual on him, but I know he's somewhere in the next room.
"You okay with me coming in?" I ask.
"It's up to you," the voice says. "But you'd be better off spending your time looking in shipping container number 509. That's where the real action is".
"We'll get to that," I say as I walk through the door. On the floor, there's a freshly plugged body with a pool of blood still forming beneath the head. By the filing cabinet, there's a man in a badly-fitted black suit. He's oldish, in his 50s and smoking a cigarette. His hair - what little is left of him - is turning grey. "Assuming you're not going to let me take you alive, do you want to just shoot yourself right now?"
"You're right," he says. "I'm going to die today. But I need to think of a heroic way to go out. That's all I care about now".
"Tell me about it," I say.
"We could go together?"
I look at the dead hostage on the ground. "You didn't have to shoot him".
"I don't have to blow you up".
It takes me a second or two to register what he means, and then I turn and run. Heading out of the room, I clamber straight over a desk and charge out of the door. Ahead of me, I see a line of police cars, with officers staring at me. I don't look back, but I hear a tremendous boom and the ground starts to shake, and I find myself lifted up into the air as an intense heat rushes against my back. And now I'm coming back down, and I think I'm going to land head-first on that patrol car.
