The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  He walked through the doorway and descended two flights of stairs, jumping onto a hard concrete floor. The sound of footsteps in the distance grew louder and more urgent. The assailant pushed open the door just as Munoz reached the bottom of the steps. He looked up and saw the man on the landing, and they regarded each other for a long moment. The man reached inside his jacket.

  Munoz ducked behind a large group of pumps that were attached to 30-inch iron mechanical elbows, insulated with calcium silicate. A muffled shot rang out, barely audible above the loud whine of the turbine engines. Sparks sprayed off an adjacent pipe. Munoz’ breathing quickened as he scanned the boiler room. He left his weapon in the car fearing it would be discovered when he tried to board the aircraft. Even the cargo terminal had metal detectors for personnel protection.

  He waited until the sound of the hard leather soled loafers reverberated off the metal stairs. The assailant’s aim would be compromised as he descended the two flights to the ground. Munoz accelerated as quickly as his legs would allow, moving deeper into the bowels of the facility. He dropped down to avoid detection and crawled along the dirty floor until he found refuge behind a cement platform.

  Slowly getting to his feet, the detective looked around the perimeter of the room. A doorway adjacent to a large boiler was identical to the one Munoz just used to enter the facility. Based on the layout, he believed that he could make it to the cargo terminal if he was able to reach the landing.

  He poked his head out and looked around. The loud whine of the pump motor was deafening and added to the enormous stress of the situation. Moving through the rows of pipe racks, Munoz tried to stay hidden as he crouched and scuttled through the aisles. For a moment, it looked as though he would make it unimpeded to the stairs, but as he turned the last corner, he came face to face with the attacker.

  The two men stared at each other in stunned surprise. The confrontation occurred through random circumstance. They moved down separate aisles and had unwittingly taken different paths to the exact same location at an intersection of chilled water risers standing about two feet apart.

  Munoz looked directly into the eyes of the antagonist. His gaze was met with a mixture of anger and surprise as the law enforcement agent realized he would not have time to raise and fire his weapon.

  Munoz bull rushed the man and rammed his shoulder directly into his opponent’s solar plexus. There was an audible grunt as both men went tumbling onto a grated metal service walkway. The gun slid away, clattering on the perforations of the grate. Munoz called on the hand-to-hand combat training he learned in the military and perfected at the police academy. He brought his forearm down on the man’s neck, hoping to restrict the blood flow to his brain.

  Unfortunately, his opponent was obviously well-schooled in martial arts as well, and he unleashed a solid uppercut into Munoz’ flabby midsection. The detective winced, and the attacker seized the initiative by breaking free of the arm bar and slamming his other fist to the side of Munoz’ head.

  From a crouching position, Munoz stumbled backward. His ear felt hot, and there was a loud ringing in his head. White spots twinkled in his left eye like so many shooting stars. The cop rose to his feet slowly, one hand clutching his stomach, the other rubbing his neck.

  They both reached full height simultaneously and looked at the gun, which lay in full view some ten feet away. The adversary lifted one hand while reaching into his pocket and extracting what looked like a leather billfold with the other. He allowed one side of the wallet to drop, which revealed a gold embossed badge.

  “My name is Todd Handleman. I’m with the FBI, and you are under arrest.”

  Munoz smiled as he continued to breathe deeply. “I’m Detective Sergeant Jose Munoz of the Seattle PD, and you sir, are under arrest.”

  “Are you aware you are wanted on several federal warrants, Detective Munoz?”

  “I’m aware that there’s an ongoing conspiracy to destroy the human race, Agent Handleman, if that’s even your real name. I also know the Director of the FBI is involved.”

  The agent regarded Munoz cautiously. “I assume you have proof of these allegations?”

  “In fact, I do. If you’ll allow me to get to your weapon, I’ll show you a list of names from a database I confiscated, which will give you the proof you need to investigate further.”

  “I can’t let you hold a weapon, Detective. You’re a wanted man who is considered extremely dangerous. However, if you surrender to me, I’ll make sure that whatever evidence you have is properly reviewed.”

  Munoz shook his head. “For all I know, you’re involved in the conspiracy.”

  The whine of the turbines consumed the ensuing silence. “Well then, I suppose we don’t have much else to discuss.”

  Handleman moved quickly toward the gun, but he was only a fraction of a second ahead of Munoz, who anticipated the move. The FBI man grabbed at the weapon with Munoz on his back, clawing at the arm that held the Beretta. Munoz used his other hand to pound the back of Handleman’s head at the base of his skull, knowing the blows would disorient the agent.

  Handleman tried to point the weapon, but Munoz held his hand in a vice-like grip. Two shots were fired that ricocheted harmlessly off the concrete walls. When he realized his strategy was not working, Handleman dropped the gun and turned his attention to Munoz, who still clung tightly to his back.

  In one quick motion, Munoz used Handleman’s arm to sweep the gun away and then brought his cocked elbow down upon the assailant’s neck, triggering spasms in his spinal cord. Handleman placed both hands on Munoz’ forearm and pulled weakly, but his muscles betrayed him as the brain circuits were disrupted. He thrashed about wildly for a brief moment while trying to disengage himself from Munoz. Yet, this was one instance where the detective’s girth served him well. He laid his full weight on the smaller man and placed his head in a vice-like chokehold.

  They lay in this position for what seemed like an eternity until Munoz felt Handleman’s hands grow flaccid, and his struggling subsided. The man’s face flushed and swelled until it became purple and distorted. Munoz continued to apply pressure until he was certain the agent was unconscious.

  When he relaxed his grip, Handleman slumped to the floor like an overstuffed rag doll. Munoz rose unsteadily to his feet and tried to smooth his rumpled clothing. Briefly glancing at his watch, he realized he had about five minutes before the plane departed.

  The detective made his way to the service entry and opened the door cautiously. He quickly walked back onto the concourse where he found a people mover traveling back to the cargo terminal. The boarding area next to the service counter was empty except for the guard he argued with earlier. The disheveled man rose from his chair when Munoz approached, eyes wide with apprehension. “Yes sir,” he said. “Your seat is waiting. We were getting worried something had happened to you.”

  Munoz knew his appearance might cause alarm, so he smiled and ran his hand through his hair. “Please, no questions. This is serious police business. I would just like to board the plane now.”

  “Of course, sir. Of course. Please follow me”

  ***

  Sarah lowered her arms and leaned against the back bench seat. Her eyes were glazed over, and her skin looked almost translucent. Anston sighed and grasped the wheel with one hand while wiping smears of blood from the scratch marks near his eyes and forehead.

  They drove for another half an hour over a stretch of road that grew uneven and pockmarked. After another five agonizing minutes, they finally reached the narrow bridge that spanned the “Burro Creek,” signaling an entrance into the town of Desolation. The battered welcome sign hung unevenly; weather and rot had worn away the lettering, and the peeling paint left it barely discernible. Anston slowed the car as they moved across the ancient wooden bridge through two massive overhung mesquite trees and onto the leading edge of the city proper. As they finished crossing, the car stopped suddenly. Anston grabbed Zach’s arm to gain his friend’s at
tention. “Zach… what the?”

  Zach swung his head around and looked up to see the road symmetrically lined with people. Their heads were collectively cocked, and they stared intently at the approaching vehicle. It felt as though their arrival was expected.

  “What do you make of it?” said Anston.

  “I don’t know. A welcoming committee of some sort I suspect.”

  “Should we keep going?”

  A small voice from the back croaked eerily, “It’s too late to go back, you fools. They won’t allow us to leave.”

  Anston and Zach looked at each other and again back up the road. “Let’s go, Jarad,”

  The unusual location of the town, which was somewhere in the middle of scrub and bone-dry dirt, was unsettling. The earth was scorched and cracked from a lack of moisture, and everything was angry from the sharp needles protruding out of the vegetation to the poisonous vermin that inhabited the inhospitable land.

  As the car moved past the unusual grove of trees, the bystanders continued to follow in unwavering unison. The lumbering crowd intentionally impeded the vehicle’s progress just enough to ensure they could continue to walk beside it. Moving through what must have served as the main thoroughfare, dirtied faces approached as the car stopped at the end of the street near a dilapidated fueling station. Overrun with tumbleweeds and rusted metal, one aged gas pump stood alone on a crumbling cement island.

  The steely gaze of the townspeople, with eyes expressionless and silent, remained locked on the car’s occupants. Zach found the blank stares from the children unnerving and especially chilling. Their irises were much too wide, and the pupils were empty in almost a comatose way. A freakish similarity carried through from one child to the next.

  The entire gathering moved closer to the car as a single mass. In unison, they began motioning for the trio to exit.

  “Sarah, what do they want?” Zach asked.

  “We’re here, all hope is lost. We should get out of the car now and let him do as he wishes. Hopefully, he’ll allow a quick death.”

  Zach turned toward the back seat and looked at the piteous figure crouched in the corner. He continued to stroke the various lobes of her brain, but she was unraveling, almost as though her sanity was peeling away from her consciousness. “Sarah, we’re not going to die, and he won’t harm you. I won’t let that happen.”

  She turned and looked at him blankly. A small smile spread slowly across her lips. “Zachery, you never really understood, did you? It’s not your fault.”

  To some degree, Zach had to acknowledge she was right. The presence of the Dark One was overpowering, pushing down on him with relentless pressure. The air seemed to be thicker and more pungent as they approached the center of the town, and Zach’s lungs grew heavier with each breath.

  Black spikes of thought hammered at the shield Zach erected around the vehicle. With increasing frequency, they penetrated the perimeter and stabbed at the car’s occupants. Zach could see Sarah flinch every time a tendril struck at her.

  Anston’s brow was furrowed, and his eyes were wide with apprehension. “Well—what now, Zach?”

  Zach shook his head and gave no answer. Instead, he grabbed at the door handle and opened it tentatively. He stepped out of the vehicle, his shoes sending up small plumes of dust as his feet met the dirt road. A small man with a deformed face stood before him, revealing a toothless grin.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Hello,” said Zach.

  “I’m Hefe the concierge. Welcome to our city. I will show you your rooms.”

  “We don’t need any accommodations, thank you. We've come to meet the person you call the ‘Benefactor.’ The sooner we can meet with him the better.”

  Hefe’s smile widened. “I’m sorry, but the Benefactor does meetings right now. He’ll be gone for a while. You wash up. Hefe give you clean towels.”

  Zach swiveled his head to get a panoramic view of the stink hole this man called a “city.” Besides the shuttered service station, he saw several old and decaying buildings, windows broken and frosted over with accumulated dirt and debris. Wooden siding was charred and warped; gray paint from decades ago hung in small shards from the decaying framework. A group of shanties dotted the landscape, which was unusually void of vegetation even for the desert. In fact, there was only dead scrub that stretched endlessly over the horizon.

  “There doesn’t seem to be much to explore.”

  “Please,” said Hefe while motioning to Zach. “You follow me.”

  Zach opened the passenger’s door and leaned inside. “It seems like we’re being asked to wait for an audience. This guy wants to show us to a room. I don’t know that we have much choice.”

  Both Anston and Sarah exited the car and walked alongside Zach. Hefe’s grin evaporated as he faced Johansen. “Hello, Sarah,” he said.

  “Hefe,” she replied in a dead monotone. Sensing her rising panic, Zach intervened directly, bolstering and propping up the centers of her brain that controlled confidence while tranquilizing those areas that promoted fear. He was aware that the task of keeping her together mentally was becoming almost impossible. Her primal fear was raw and overwhelming and continued to break down her rational thought.

  The smile returned as Hefe focused his attention to Zach. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Zach Randall, and this is Jarad Anston—but I suspect you already knew that.”

  “Ok, good, now you follow me.” Hefe began walking toward a decrepit two-story structure. The distance was short, and when they reached the door, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a padlock. He opened the door and looked tentatively inside while wiping cobwebs out of the frame.

  “Come. Follow Hefe inside.”

  They ascended a flight of worn and decaying stairs and moved past several boarded-up rooms before stopping in front of a freshly painted door. It stood in stark contrast to the faded, peeling veneer that covered everything else in the building. Hefe pulled out another key and turned the tumbler. Inside, the room had the smell of new paint. The linens were old, but they were recently laundered. There was no question someone had prepared for their arrival.

  While Zach and Anston explored the surroundings of the three bedroom “suite,” Sarah moved quietly to a far corner of the room and sat on the edge of the sofa, staring straight ahead with her hands folded and resting in her lap.

  Meanwhile, Hefe walked back to the door and positioned himself just outside the threshold. “Hefe go now. I come back in the morning. Maybe I see you then.”

  Before anyone could react, the small man closed the door. The familiar click of the tumbler confirmed the suspicion that they were locked in the room for the night.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The jet landed with a squeal at O’Hare and taxied to the freight terminal on the west end of the airport. The flight was uneventful, and the 12 passengers aboard the plane hardly spoke. They eyed each other suspiciously, afraid to reveal information that might cause them harm. These were extraordinary times, and one couldn’t be too careful. Paranoia reigned supreme, and casual conversation was potentially deadly.

  As they approached the terminal, Munoz was struck by the ghost town that O’Hare had become. The world’s fifth busiest airport was deserted with the exception of a smattering of towing and municipal police vehicles that moved slowly around the tarmac. As most of the planes were grounded, the occurrence of even a freight jet landing drew attention. As Munoz gazed out his porthole window, he saw the crews staring blankly at the approaching aircraft against the back drop of the terminal.

  The screech of the brakes signaled the airliner had come to a halt in front of the truck docks. A mobile stairwell was connected to the plane, and Munoz and the other passengers disembarked and walked to the hanger.

  The detective looked around suspiciously, recognizing he was probably the FBI’s most wanted criminal at the moment. The brooding man in the trench coat; the young girl in the pleated skirt; the old man
talking to himself in the corner; anyone of them could be a threat. There was no guarantee that O’Malley would even be here to pick him up. It was possible that Munoz might be traveling through Chicago alone.

  He entered the building, turned a corner, and moved toward the public phones. If no one was there to greet him, the detective would have to try and contact Chicago PD directly. It was a huge risk since local law enforcement was clearly compromised, but the detective was tired, hungry and for the first time in his career, terrified. He reached for the receiver when he heard a voice from behind.

  “Detective Munoz?”

  Jose stiffened and placed the phone back in the cradle. He turned to face a solemn looking man in his early 30s dressed in civilian clothes. His right hand was extended.

  “I’m Sergeant O’Malley from Chicago PD.”

  Munoz relaxed a bit. O’Malley was not in uniform, but the cut of the suit and drawn lines on his young face told the detective this was indeed a man of the badge. Perhaps he was just hopeful, but Munoz was in no position to question O’Malley’s credentials anyway. He held out his hand and managed a weak smile.

  “Pleasure. I’m Munoz.” Then as the hand shake ended he continued, “Ok, O’Malley, where do we go from here?”

  “I’m taking you to meet Captain Murkell. He’s at a secure location away from the station. If the detonation goes off at eleven o’clock our time as we suspect, we have less than four hours to find the bomb.”

  “Then I suggest we get to your vehicle.”

  O’Malley nodded, turned abruptly, and walked through the concourse with Munoz trailing behind. The detective felt comfort knowing that someone actually believed him and that he had an ally who was also invested in uncovering the conspiracy.

  Munoz allowed his mind to travel back to Zach and Anston. If the two of them had stayed at the safe house, they were probably in custody by now. In searching for Munoz, the Feds would eventually check every place he might consider hiding.