by Bob Williams
Feazel passes out straight away. Shields sees us amidst the rubble at the bottom of the stairs and screams.
“Cole! Get over here, now!” Cole sprints over immediately.
“What do I do? What do you need?”
“Grab his arm and squeeze it as tight as you humanly can.”
She extracts Feazel’s knife from its sheath, cuts away a decent-sized strip of his shirt, and applies a tourniquet. She takes off his vest and puts it under his head. It takes me a minute, considering what I’ve just witnessed, to notice there are twelve to fifteen Freaks lying in numerous states of death.
Shields turns, replaces the katana, and looks at me. She isn’t sobbing by any means, but her eyes have glazed over. I walk over and embrace her.
“You did good, Laura. Real good.”
“He got bit. There wasn’t anything I could’ve done to stop it. Removing the contaminated limb was all I could think to do. Hopefully it was in time. Let’s get upstairs.”
I check both my clips and feel joy. Cole and I didn’t fire that many bullets. He keeps the Mossberg and gives one of his 1911s to Shields. That leaves them both with two odd guns each.
“Okay, then. Let’s go. I’ll take point.”
“Let’s go,” says Shields, and she heads for the door. She stops suddenly and looks at herself, then back at us.
“Why are you barefoot? And why are you both wet?”
“Well,” I say, “you’ll never believe it, but it turns out Freaks like hot tubs, and Cole—”
“Never mind. Tell me later.” And off she runs.
Cole and I slip and scramble to catch up. Down the hallway we trudge, Shields and me facing front, Cole basically moonwalking while protecting our backs.
We glide up the staircase without any trouble.
“Come to think of it,” I say, “I haven’t heard jack shit from up here since those screams we heard earlier. Be aware.” We come to a halt at the top, and I point left. We proceed halfway down the hall before turning back at four successive pounding, smashing sounds. From all the way down the other end of the hallway, a hand sticks out and hurls an object at us. The lighting isn’t up to snuff, but unfortunately I still can tell right away it’s a human head. It rolls like a busted-up wagon wheel toward us, coming to a stop well short of our position. It was pick-em as to who it belonged to.
“Fuck this,” I say and break toward the head. Nothing emerges from the room where the head came from, so I meet it about halfway and scoop it up.
It’s Betty. Shields and Cole cover me as I run back to our position. Betty’s ponytail has whipped around across his face, and the way I have it cradled in my arm makes it resemble Kurt Russell from Tombstone.
“Dammit. Probably doesn’t bode well for Leonberger and Merkle,” Cole says.
“I’d have to agree,” says Shields. “Prescott, what’s the plan?”
Before I can answer, that sound is back. What the fuck is that? It’s a gross, repetitive, smacking sound. SMACK! ... SMACK! ... SMACK! ... SMACK!
“I aim to misbehave,” I say. Drawing both Glock 9mms, I walk down the hallway with the intention of causing pain and death.
The three of us have our backs to the wall, my shoulder kissing the doorframe. There’s a loud commotion and it sounds like cheering.
SMACK! ... SMACK! ... SMACK! ... SMACK! ... SMACK!
I can’t stand it anymore. I blow through the doorway and into the room with both guns ready to light up the first Freak that looks at me. What I see. Omigod. I will never forget. Omifuckingod.
“Holy fucking shit! Holy fucking shit! Prescott?” screams Cole.
Shields says nothing.
I say nothing. There are no words for what we see.
There are eight of them. Freaks. Merkle is already infected and in the act of a fully invested break. The blood is everywhere. It seems to flow from every pore of his body. And he lets loose a scream that scares the everlovin’ shit out of me. His new friends are all broken as well, their eyes bloody red and streaming. Blood seeps from the ears, and drool mixed with spittle decorates their collective hysterical grins.
Brett Leonberger is dead. Thank ye gods. Merkle holds Brett’s arm by the wrist. At some point he had removed the arm at the torso and beaten Leonberger’s face into a crater of human hamburger. And he kept striking it over and over again until the skull literally disintegrated into bits of flesh and bone. The remaining members of the horde are feasting on various other sections of the body.
“Stop!” It’s all I can manage.
They stop their psychotic, violent Lord of the Flies bullshit simultaneously.
I hear Cole behind me. “Waste these sick fucks, Prescott!”
All eight of the blood-and-human-remains-soaked Freaks look at me. Oddly. No, they stare at me.
One of the Freaks had removed Leonberger’s boot and had been crunching loudly on the bones of Brett’s ankle when I walked into the room. He looks me over from head to toe, cocking his head slightly from side to side.
He stands up, picks some kind of foot bone shard out of his mouth—or something, look, I’m not a fucking doctor—and steps forward, over the Freak buffet. I inhale deeply; the smell is like an uppercut from Ivan Drago coupled with the dumpster aroma from behind the worst Chinese restaurant you’ve ever been to. My knees buckle slightly before I gather myself and step toward him, ready to blow his fucking head off.
“Mmm ... He wears the tie. He wears the tie,” it says.
That stops me like I just drove my Jeep straight into a brick wall. “What?”
“Mmm ... the Master said you would come. You are the one called Prescott.”
Creepy fucker better shut his piehole.
Cole snorts. “Son of a bitch! Why does it not surprise me that these assholes know you?”
“I have no idea!”
“Focus!” warns Shields.
I turn toward the leader. “Okay, yes. I am Prescott. Who’s your master?”
“Mmm ... The Master is the truth. THE MASTER IS THE LIGHT! THE MASTER IS THE GIVER!”
“Okay! Okay! Got it. What’s his name?”
“Mmm ... He is the one called Admiral Shen. He is the one who wishes for me to deliver this message to the one who calls himself Prescott, who always wears the tie.”
“That’s one giant run-on sentence, asshole,” says Cole.
“Will you shut the fuck up? I’m the funny one. You’re the head case.”
“Dammit, Prescott,” snaps Shields. “Will you please get your head in the game?” She is doing that pissed-off whisper thing.
“Yes,” I say. “Again. I am Prescott, who always wears a tie. Your master, Admiral Shen, has a message for me. I’m ready to listen.”
“Mmm ... The one who is Admiral Shen wishes for Prescott, who always wears the tie, to know that you have the knowledge.” He steps across the room and stands directly in front of me. I hear the katana come out of the sheath. “You have the knowledge and the ability to give my Master, the one who is called Admiral Shen, what he wants. He wishes the one called Prescott, who always wears the tie, to meet him in Columbus, Ohio. Where you will give him what he wants. Mmm ... My Master, who is called Admiral Shen, wishes you to make haste. For he intends to cause the deaths of many until you arrive to give him what he wants.”
“Wait! What does he want? I only just heard of Admiral Shen a few days ago. How could I have knowledge or anything that he wants?”
“Mmm ... My Master, the one who—”
“We know your asshat master’s name, you fucktard!” yells Cole.
“—is called Admiral Shen, will cause the pain, anguish, and death of many unless you meet him in Columbus, Ohio.”
“Shit. Fine! How long do we have again?”
“Mmm ... Make haste. My master, the one who calls—” I shoot both of his eyes out the back of his fucking head.
I sense Cole and Shields come up on either side of me, and together we annihilate the entire lot. Once it’s over, I go up a
nd shoot Leonberger in the heart. You just never fuckin’ know. Then I tag Merkle in the heart and head.
“Road trip. We have work to do.”
The three of us perform a search of the attic, which is fucking ridiculous in size, but alas, Freak free. We then go downstairs and break the news to Feazel. He took it rather well and wasn’t too pissed off we left him there to go kick ass.
“They will be remembered for paying the ultimate sacrifice. But they all knew the risks. Let’s get y’all back to Temp-Base. I’m sure Commander Garner will want to thank you in person for what you all have helped us do here today.”
“Cole, Shields, either of you want hang around and see if there might be anything in here of use to us? Or them?”
“No, Prescott,” they say in unison. They both want to get back, shower, and decompress.
“Cole, sure you don’t want to hang around and talk? If you need to,” I say gingerly.
“Eat a dick, Prescott. I’m fine.” He turns to walk out of the room and almost makes it before turning back. “Thanks, though.” And he leaves.
I exit the house in good spirits. I am protected, apparently, but it still feels good to come out alive. I watch for Lexi’s head to pop up as soon as the Jeep comes into my line of sight. It’s a sight that always makes this jaded motherfucker smile. Lexi is halfway out the window when I catch sight of her, and then she’s barreling toward me. We always have a cheerful reunion when I come out of a job. I think we’re both secure in our emotions.
I remove the gore-encrusted protective gear and several layers of clothes, and Lexi and I return to the house. I imagine, before the Descent, if an eighty-pound dog and a man wearing nothing but a faded Doctor Who T-shirt and boxers walked into a stranger’s house, there might be a problem.
Not anymore, motherfuckers.
I have a grand plan to walk all over the house and really look for goodies, but I am stopped cold by one amazing sight.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Lexi, old girl?”
She barks.
“That’s right. Music!”
The shelf unit is fucking nuts. It must hold over a thousand CDs. It’s been so long since I’ve listened to any new music, I’m actually feeling a little emotional.
I walk up to the case and grab about twenty with the intent to search through them when a sound from behind stops me cold. I slowly turn to see a wiry Freak that’d managed to somehow not get killed upstairs.
“I gron’t frink dose grefroth du you,” says Beetlejuice.
“More importantly,” I say, “can you believe I understood everything you just said?”
“Rhi … Pruff fros …”
“Tell you what. I’m over this bullshit. My friends and I are due in Columbus. I don’t even know what I’ve got here in in my hand, but I’m taking it. And I challenge you, you fuckin’ all-shot-up, broken-ass, smelly-as-shit, fugly-as-hell bag of dog shit, to do something about it.”
“Frits Gonr!” he shouts and he kind of starts to run toward me quite unsuccessfully. Picture the big dude swirling the sword around in the crowd right before Indiana Jones shoots him dead. I even have time to take off my Doctor Who shirt before he gets close enough to fight.
“Lex! Off and away!” Her ears pin back and she runs about twenty paces, turns and watches me.
Beetlejuice throws a punch, which I catch with my hand. I then turn and swing him around so I can get a grip on the back of his neck.
“You, sir, are a fucking party pooper, and if the music I’ve picked sucks it’s your goddamn fault.” I swing him violently around and send his head through the flat screen TV sitting on a large oak entertainment cabinet. I then pull the bloody Freak from the TV and rock his face violently with punches till his cheek and eye socket cave in. I pick him up off the floor and hurl his ass right into the giant wall of CDs. It comes crashing down. And that’s the end of Beetlejuice.
“I’m your huckleberry, motherfucker.”
I grab my CDs, my shirt, and my dog and walk out of the house. My boxers have fallen well below the waistline and I am showing the world the moon as I walk out, but to be honest, that’s about how I feel about Fort Wayne at this point.
Lexi and I get into the Comanche. I put on my sunglasses, roll down the window, and fly the bird all the way back to base.
Adios, Fort Wayne!
ON THE ROAD
Commander James Garner more than appropriately thanks us for our efforts and lauds Commander Jay Rives and the Normal Safe Zone for “doing it right” in a post-Descent world, and for “loaning” us to Fort Wayne. That isn’t actually true—we’re more free agents—but I’m not going to correct him. Mainly because that would require more conversation, and I am looking to get the fuck out of Dodge.
Cole loses a rather intense game of Rock, Paper, Scissors and is the first-leg driver in our new quest to reach Columbus. I’m not gonna lie: Cole is a very poor loser who also doesn’t know when to quit when he’s ahead. He loses a close match of five out of eight.
Pulling out of Rolling Hills, I have one bar on my trusty Samsung Galaxy S3. I’m barely able to determine that Columbus is one hundred and fifty-eight158 miles from our current location. A hobby of mine in the last couple of years, when possible, has been to figure out the pre-Descent travel time to anywhere I’m going. In this case it used to be a pleasant two hours and forty-four minutes. Now, who fucking knows how long it will take us to get there.
I take this opportunity—as the roads and area immediately surrounding the Fort Wayne Safe Zone are clear—to check out the CDs I’d grabbed from the house. I could’ve looked them over before but I had stuffed them into a bag and decided to wait until we were travelling.
I reach down and pulled the backpack up from between my feet and reach in. I pull out the seven CDs and start to sift through them.
Back to the Future Soundtrack. Huey Lewis and a couple other songs. Not bad.
Dispatch: Gut the Van. What the fuck is Dispatch? Never heard of ‘em.
The Greatest Hits of Andrew Lloyd-Webber. Fuck me.
The Refreshments: Fizzy Fuzzy Big and Buzzy. Nice cover. Don’t know ‘em.
N.W.A: Straight Outta Compton. Better.
Amy Winehouse: Back to Black. At least she missed the Descent.
And finally—
The Very Best of the Blues Brothers. I can tap my toes to that.
“I got a pile of shit here, guys.”
“Really?” says Cole. “You idiot. You had one job.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Call it out.”
I read out loud the CDs I retrieved. Not much of a reaction until I reach The Refreshments: Fizzy Fuzzy—
“...Big and Buzzy!” says Cole “Nice! I used to love that album. Of course, they broke up like all good bands do. The lead singer formed his own band and called it Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Trust me, Prescott, you’ll dig it, man. Put it in.”
I do as I’m told and slip the disc into the player. The first cut is a song called “Blue Collar Suicide” and yeah, it’s pretty good.
We’re cruising along and it feels pretty good. Almost ... normal. It’s nice. Cole is singing along with the songs and his smile is back. At least for now. I’ll say it again. It’s nice. Cole needs reasons to smile, and I do what I can to provide those. God knows he’s seen a lot of shit. Pre- and post-Descent. What we saw in Fort Wayne I thought might make him crack. But he rallied. The run-on sentence line was a good one.
Shields sleeps comfortably in the back.
We go through Bizzy Wizzy Fuzzy Wuzzy or whatever the fuck it is two times, and while I’m enjoying it, I tell Cole it’s quiet time.
“You were right, Michael. That’s a damn fine CD. Crazy, isn’t it? How great music can be out there in the wind and you never hear it.”
“If Roger Clyne survived the Descent and I ever see him, I’m gonna tell him the world literally had to collapse for my friend to hear his music.”
“Nice. Now put on the Doctor Midni
te channel and turn up the static. Maybe today’s the day.”
Shields, in a whisper, says, “I hope.”
The radio squawks. Then it makes that noise, you know, the kind that sounds like a signal is fighting to break through. I sit up so fast my seatbelt grabs me and it feels like I rip every known and unknown muscle in my neck. I reach for the radio dial and start screwing it left and right to help find a landing strip for the signal. We need this. WE—ALL—need this.
“... you ... ear ... me?” Another slight tweak of the knob.
Some ear-shattering feedback and then …it’s Doctor Midnite. As if on cue. My heart starts racing.
DOCTOR MIDNITE RETURNS
Do you hear my dulcet tones? Do you hear me in the pit of your stomach, calling out to your very soul from the far reaches of Nevada? The last free man living in a bunker, an overeating African American gentleman and his mother. I mean my mother, I mean, I’m Doctor Midnite, and I’m back. Yes. Three months have passed because I made it that way. The rats were chewing their way closer and closer, ever so close. We could hear them at one point ... drills in the night, trucks passing this way and that through the desert, spotlights at a distance. So close.
They almost got the signal. But the signal will never end! It may pause and rest, but it will always live as long as liberty lives in this bunker and the gin supply remains near infinite for a man of such eager tastes as myself. No. It will not end. Midnite keeps talking. Midnite keeps singing. And eating. And beating Crissman at Risk. And sitting on enough explosives and guns that any two-bit son of a bitch with the mind of a rapist and the spirit of a disturbed child would be blown all to hell. Castle Midnight remains unfound and intact in its desert womb. Yes! It is prophecy.
Take it back!
There’s more work to be done. Admiral Shen is our new bête noire. Ripped through a safe zone in Fort Wayne, friends and kitties. The field mice say it was ugly, but of course in this day and age, what does that mean? Ugly? Ugly how? What is more brutal in today’s circus world? Ugly defines nothing anymore.
Take it back!
Take it back, people. It is prophecy!
