The Shadows of Death inched through the city like a rat burrowing through the ground, like a rat spreading disease through its fleas and its bites.
The dying lay screaming. Those left somehow living, terrified beyond words, not knowing why they were spared, or for how much longer.
Death, out of control, was winning. The human race, as had nearly happened many times before in the far distant past, was back again on the path to extinction. And this time, for the first time, it was not the fault of mankind.
Not the fault of all mankind, anyway. Just four, otherwise nice, teenagers.
Who were now separated, trapped, and accused.
And unable to agree on what to do next to stop the killings.
The pounding at the door sounded like a rhino attacking the building. The two men in suits closest to the door yanked out their Glocks and gave each other a puzzled look. The man with the short blond hair stepped to the right of the door, his back against the wall, his gun raised at the height a person’s head would be if the entered the room. The second man, bigger and with a black goatee, jammed his finger into the intercom button.
“What is it?”
“We need help!” Someone’s voice crackled over the speaker.
“We’re closed,” goatee said, peering at the video feed. He couldn’t see anyone. There was a small blind spot from the cameras, if you stood an inch from the door. Goatee tried to see if there was a shadow being cast or any other indication as to who was at the door and how many “who” was.
“My friend,” the voice on the intercom chirped back, “he’s really sick. I think he’s dying.”
The two men shook their heads at each other. Amateurs, they each were no doubt thinking.
Blondie said, “Shit, we’re just barely back from lunch and now we gotta deal with this. Let ’em in.”
Goatee hit the buzzer to unlock the entrance. “It’s open.” Then he stepped to the other side of the door, his gun raised.
The two men waited as the sound of someone groaning loudly and with much exaggeration filled the hallway space.
“Help! This is serious.”
The door pushed open, and a kid wearing a White Sox jacket, doubled over and moaning, entered. He was being propped up by an Asian kid wearing a mock-leather, mock-motorcycle jacket. Two teenagers? What the fuck?
The butch blond started thinking, well, maybe this is legit. It’s two kids, fercrissake. All the same, he placed the barrel of his gun on the crown of the Asian kid’s head.
“That’s far enough,” blondie said.
Conner stopped in his tracks.
“Mister, I’m really sorry if you’re like a drug dealer or something? We didn’t see a thing. My friend just fell over on the sidewalk puking. This is the first place I saw. We’ll leave right now.”
“Stay put,” the man said, leaving the gun barrel right where it was. “Jackie, call upstairs. See what the boss thinks we should do.”
The man with the goatee pulled out his cell, hit a button. “’Mr. Geist?’ Yeah, I’m downstairs. Yeah. Okay, okay. Just needed to ask you a question. Okay, handle it. Got it. Consider it handled.” He hit a button on the phone and put it back in his suit jacket pocket. “He says we need to handle it.”
“Okay, then, help them over here.”
The downstairs consisted of an empty waiting room and an abandoned reception desk. A couple of chairs sat against the wall. Today’s newspaper lay scattered on the floor. Half-drank take-out coffee cups littered the reception desk. A cigarette smoldered in an ash tray there as well.
“Put your friend on this chair,” blondie said.
“Sal, should I call an ambulance?” asked the goatee.
“No, Jackie, you should not call an ambulance. We don’t want anybody in here. Let’s get these kids comfortable.” As Ricky and Conner sat, still acting it up, Sal turned to Jackie. “Tell you what,” he said. “Head down to the corner, to the drugstore. Get some stomach medicine. I’ll call a cab in the meantime. We’ll get these two to the corner, too, once they can walk. They cab can pick them up there, and that will be that.”
“I like the way you think. Okay, I’ll be back in ten.”
After he left, Sal went to the men’s room to wet some paper towels for Ricky Martin’s face.
“This is it. We won’t get a better chance,” Conner said. There was a set of double doors facing them where they sat. A security scanner of some kind was on the wall next to the entry. Conner jumped up and gave it a better look.
“Takes a card, not a code. That’s good. We gotta get one of these guy’s cards, then.” Conner paused, thinking. “Sal’s card. Has to be. We can take him, two on one, maybe. We have no chance against the two of them together.”
“Okay, so then how do we do this?”
“He thinks you’re sick as a dying dog, right?” Conner said.
“Correct-o-mundo.”
“So, get something to hit him in the head with. Nice and heavy. Then go back, sit down, lean over, and wait.”
“Okay,” Ricky Martin said.
“I’ll get him to focus on me. When he does, BAM!”
“BAM. Got it.”
“Good,” Conner said.
“Except for the ‘BAM’ part,” Ricky said.
“What do you mean?”
“What’s the ‘BAM’?” Ricky said, ducking his head a bit.
“‘BAM’? That’s the sound of you hitting the guy in the back of the head with something heavy and preferably metal.”
“Right, right. On it now. Let’s see . . . ” Ricky looked around behind the desk. “Nothing.”
“How about the phone?” Conner said, noticing the heavy office phone on the desk, the type with multiple buttons running down one side, some lit orange, some not.
“Who would I call? You mean the cops? Great idea.”
“No, no. Use the phone as a weapon. Pull it out of the wall and get back in your seat.”
The door swung open and Sal walked in.
“What the fuck—?” He looked at Conner at the doors and Ricky behind the reception desk. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Things are not as they first appeared.” He smiled what could only be called an evil sneer. “You want to get inside? Fine, lets get you inside.” He reached over and swiped a card through the card reader. The card vanished into his coat jacket as quickly as it had appeared.
The doors beeped, and Sal pushed one of the doors all the way open.
“After you, gentlemen. There’s someone that I want you to meet.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hey, You’re Just Gonna Have To Trust The Guy
The Shadows swooped through the little town of Kantaby, flying above the grids of streets and small tracts, with little houses on each. Some had pools, some carports, some driveways. Some RVs in the yard, others boats, others multiple cars and trucks. A Shadow or two would dive-bomb a given house, chosen totally at random. When they returned, someone in the house below was dead. Maybe everyone in the house. The Shadows moved this way from neighborhood to neighborhood, block to block, house to house. Sometimes dropping down, sometimes drifting past. Always arbitrary.
One house they dropped down on was the house owned by Flower Gardener’s parents. Her parents weren’t home, but their Dachshund was. It was a weak dog, getting old. It choked to death on kibble, falling to the ground just by the kitchen door.
But this was not a satisfying kill for the Shadow who next entered the home where Ricky Martin lived. So, it decided to wait. Wait for more victims—human victims. It slid into the shadows at the back of the den, blending in between the curtains and the large screen television. And it waited. With enormous, unending patience.
Meanwhile, another Shadow had decided to do something along the same lines at Conner Croyant’s house, just a half a mile or so away. This Shadow waited in the basement, under the old pool table where the shadows were the darkest.
A final Shadow, of the Shadows which had landed in this neighborhood, waited in
the trees outside the Fuerza home. It waited, still and hungry, as a light breeze blew the branches from side to side. The night was young. There was still plenty of time for killing.
“These the two you phoned up about?” ’Mr. Geist’ asked.
“Yes, sir.” Blond Sal gave Conner and Ricky a shove with his gun hand. The two boys stumbled a step or two further into the office.
“What are you doing here? Why have you come? No lies.”
Ricky Martin looked at Conner and then back at the man. “We’re sick. I mean I’m sick.”
“Ricky,” Conner whispered.
“I believe we’re beyond that, aren’t we boys? Some honesty now.”
“We’re looking for a friend of ours,” Conner said.
“And who might that be?”
“My mom,” Ricky burst out. “My mom.”
“Your mom is here? What are you talking about? Does she work here?”
“What? No,” Ricky said. “She’s, um. She came in here to talk to somebody. We’re on our way to get dinner. Pizza pie. She was taking too long.”
“So, you decided to pretend there was an emergency situation? That seems rather overdone. Why didn’t you simply knock on the door and ask for her?”
“Um,” Ricky Martin hesitated. Then he decided to tell the truth. “She told us not to. No matter what, we were supposed to wait in the car for her.”
“I see. Stay out of trouble, that sort of thing?” ’Mr. Geist’ said, leaning back in his chair, rolling a single die in his hand over and over.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So who are you?” the man said, turning his attention to Conner. “Are you this woman’s son as well?”
“No. Just a friend. Of his,” he said, pointing his thumb at Ricky Martin. “We, um, hang out together a lot.”
“Ah. I believe I have the picture now. And what is your mother’s name?” ’Mr. Geist’ said, turning back to Ricky.
“Um, what?”
“Your mother’s name. You know, her name. What is it?”
“Her name?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, ’Mom.’”
“Good. We’ve established that, though, haven’t we? Now, what is her first and her last name? Once we have that, we can get to the bottom of the matter.”
“It’s uh—”
“It’s Sergeant Meehan,” Conner interrupted, seeing that Ricky was floundering.
“Sergeant Meehan. I see. Is your mother a police officer, Ricky?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What is your mom’s first name? Do you have any idea?” the man asked.
“Is it Mary?” Ricky said, flashing a weak smile.
“I don’t know, I’m asking you.”
“Then it’s Mary,” Ricky said.
“That’s unfortunate,” the man said, pulling Detective Meehan’s badge out of his desk drawer. “The only Detective Meehan I’ve got here is one Gloria Meehan, Detective First Class.”
“Yeah, that’s her!” Ricky shouted.
“Game over boys, I’m afraid,” the man said. “You want to see your ’mom?’”
“Sure,” said Ricky. “I do!”
Simultaneously, Conner, sensing that things had gone south, said, “No, not really.”
“Regardless, let’s get you all reunited. Sal, would you do me a favor and take these lads to see their mom? Off you go, boys. We’ll have a chat later.” The sham smile ’Mr. Geist’ had on his face turned to a scowl and the twinkle in his eyes went dark.
“That went well,” Ricky whispered to Conner as they were shoved back out of the office.
“How can you possibly think that went well?” Conner whispered back.
“We found Detective Meehan. And now we’re going to see her.” Ricky was pushed again from the back and took a stumbling step forward. “After that, it will be easy.”
“What’s easy?” Conner asked, his eyebrows low and his eyes squinting.
“Escaping.”
Conner was on the edge of exasperation. “How is that the easy part?”
“We just disappear into the night. Just like that!” Ricky Martin snapped his fingers and gave Conner a huge smile, as though that would cheer him up.
It had the opposite effect, however.
Conner became convinced Ricky Martin had lost his marbles.
Flower unhooked the tubes connected to the contraptions taped to to her hands. She undid the sensors pressed against her chest and temples. Then she stood up and waited for the dizziness to end. When it passed, she moved slowly, with a tremble in her legs, toward the door. She turned the knob and stepped into the hall.
She was in a basement room. Nothing but cinderblocks in both directions. The floor was cold and damp. She picked a direction and started walking, listening. There were no sounds at first. Then she thought she heard talking. Finally, she was sure of it. It sounded like a conversation, and it was coming closer and closer to her from down an adjacent hall. She trotted as best she could back to her room and shut the door. Breathing heavy and feeling weak, she pressed herself against the door with the hope of regaining her strength and continuing on to her bed before whoever it was got there.
But the voices moved toward her room and then beyond. She heard someone talking about “disappearing into the night, just like that” but not much else. She almost believed that she recognized the voice, too. But who would she know who might be working in a place like this?
Then she realized. Of course, that one-of-a-kind voice: Ricky Martin.
She opened the door again, as slowly and as quietly as she could. Looking down the hall, she saw some people as they turned the corner at the far end. She only saw backs and moving feet, nothing to confirm what she was guessing at—no, what she was certain of.
Flower closed the door again and waited. If they passed by coming back, she would open her door and confront them. In the meantime, it was probably wise to climb back into bed and pretend to still be unconscious, just in case someone checked on her again.
She re-hooked the tubes and reconnected the wires as best she could and then lay back down. She waited. She heard someone, a man’s footsteps, a lone man, pass by her door. Then, nothing again. Flower waited awhile longer, maybe twenty minutes. Then she figured it was safe, at least for the moment, and sat back up.
Before she knew it, she was already down the hall, listening, stepping lightly. Flower turned the corner and heard the voices again. Yes, definitely Ricky Martin. And that other voice? Conner! Yes, Conner Croyant.
But there was a third voice, too. A woman’s voice. A voice she wasn’t familiar with. Flower tiptoed up to the door and listened. She couldn’t really hear what was being said, they were talking softly so as not to be overheard. But there were certain words and expressions—“disappear,” “disintegrate,” “fly away,” and “Shadows”—she could just make out, although they made no sense without context.
Flower decided she could wait no longer, so she knocked.
“Ricky? Conner? Is that you?” she said, just above a whisper.
There was no response at first. Or rather, the response was complete silence. Then she heard Conner clear his voice to speak.
“Flower?” he said.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh, thank god,” Conner said.
“Flower, don’t go anywhere,” Ricky Martin said. “It’s me, Ricky. I’m going to get us out of here.”
“Ricky,” Flower could hear Conner say. “Will you please stop saying that?”
The day had been exhausting, carting her mother from one shopping mall to another, and then to the hair stylist, and finally to the garden center. Michelle Martin should have known it would have turned out this way. She was overwhelmed by tension at home, from the worry concerning Ricky, from all the horror that seemed to be happening everywhere around the globe. Her husband had suggested she get away for a bit, get out to the country and visit her mom. So, she had packed up and brought Olive up here for a few days o
f mindless relaxation.
But of course it’d been anything but.
Her mother didn’t drive, she knew that. But what Michelle Martin hadn’t counted on was that her mother had been keeping a much, much longer list of things she needed done—that is, places she needed to be driven—then Michele expected.
Michelle Martin was beat. After the third time up the stairs carrying her mother’s seemingly endless boxes of shoes, clothes, and supplies, Michelle was winded. Even lightheaded.
She was just about to reach the landing at the top of the stairs when something distracted her—she thought she saw someone moving on the landing. Darting by from one side to the other like a shadow. Startled, she missed that last step and lost her footing.
Mrs. Martin tumbled backward down the stairs, toilet paper and mouthwash and underwear flying through the air. She rolled in such a way that her neck snapped. By the time she hit the bottom by the front door, Michelle Martin was dead.
A dark shadow, almost imperceptible, drifted down the stairs, over her body, and out through the wall and into the yard.
Olive’s brief visit with Gramma was in that one second turned into an extended stay. Olive would stay in the guest room for a few days while other arrangements were being made.
While the man lay on the ground, out for the moment but for not much longer, Almira scoured the little room for anything that looked like a weapon. Failing to find anything with which to bash the bastard’s head in or slit his throat with—or for that matter, castrate him with—she gave up looking and went directly to plan ’B.’
Considering that she didn’t have a plan ’B,’ that was a gutsy move.
But then she noticed exactly what she needed. The handcuffs and chain on the ground, the key still in one side of it. Almira dove down and grabbed it, slapping one side on her attacker. She then gathered all her strength and, lifting with her legs as she’d been taught in Health class, dragged him inch by inch closer to the metal table. However, there was no way she could lift him, to weave the chain through the metal bar on the table top and secure him in place.
SHADOWS OF DEATH: Death Comes with Fury (and Dark Humor) To a Small Town South of Chicago Page 14
