THE DAMNED

by William Ollie

  “The bullet hole gave him away, that and the fact I was about the only one to get a decent look at him this morning. But the bullet hole cinched it. I just wanta know why. Why’d you turn him loose?”

  Karen said nothing. She looked at Scott, who lay moaning on the floor, looked back at Teddy and he grabbed her around the throat. His grip tightened; her eyeballs bulged and her mouth flew open. He shoved her against the wall, his hand still tight around her. A croaking rasp escaped her lips as he said, “At least you won’t have to worry about Jet anymore.”

  It was over. She’d gone this far but would go no further. Her breath would leave her, and she would take to her grave the cruel image of the monster who stood leering before her. She could feel the crush of his thumb against her windpipe, the hard surface of the wall against her back. Her face went red, then purple. The lights dimmed until she could see only a vague outline of his face. Her eyes fluttered shut, and darkness folded itself around her. Somewhere in the distance came a cry of pain. The pressure left her throat and she dropped to the floor. Her breath began to come back; harsh, painful gasps of air filled her lungs as she swam up from the darkness to see Teddy on the floor beside her, blood seeping from a ragged gash in his side while Roger stood over them, clutching a blood-stained knife in his hand. Now the rasping croak was coming from Teddy, a sound Karen had heard many times before, that last dying gasp before the body shudders and the eyes flutter shut. And then they did: his body tensed, his eyes closed; one final breath rattled across his lips and he lay motionless.

  She struggled to her knees, then up to her feet. Roger stood before her, the bloody knife still in his hand, Scott on his knees behind him. He asked if she was all right, and she said, “Yes.” Her throat still hurt, but she knew she would be okay.

  Karen took the knife and dropped it to the floor. “Looks like we’re even,” she said. It was supposed to be a humorous quip, like others heard in countless action movies she had seen over the years, where the hero saves the girl and the snappy dialogue begins, the credits roll and the happy couple strolls off into the sunset. But the words came out in a frightened squeak. Death had touched her; she’d felt its cold grip in the darkness, and now she sensed it lingering in the air around her. She had survived its icy embrace, but she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Teddy had stumbled upon them. For all she knew, Dub or one of his giant sidekicks would be next.

  She took Roger by the hand. “C’mon, we need to get you back to bed, get your IV back in place.”

  “What about him?” he said.

  “We’ll just leave him there. Anybody asks, you act surprised. You’ve been passed out most of the day. You don’t know anything.”

  Scott, who had finally made it to his feet, stepped up beside them. Together, he and Karen got Roger back into his bed, the IV reattached. Karen leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Take care,” he told her.

  Then she and Scott went back to the clinic. There was a gun protruding from Teddy’s waistband; Scott grabbed it and slid it into his own. “What do you think?”

  “They’re going to know we did it, because we’re both going to be gone. And that’s what we need to do—get in one of those SUV’s and leave this city far behind us.”

  “What about…”

  “What, your wife?”

  “I can’t just leave her there.”

  “What’re you going to do, wade into an army of bikers like Bruce Willis or something? You won’t last three seconds.”

  Three seconds.

  “What?”

  “Nothing… let’s just… get out of here.”

  They stepped out into the hallway, and down the long corridor they went, until they found themselves standing in front of the door that would lead them into the jailhouse lobby. Loud, raucous music echoed around them as they paused at the entryway. They threw the door open and stepped into the crowded room, and, just like Karen said, passed through their own little valley of death as if they owned the place.

  Soon they were standing outside, where the tantalizing smell of grilled meat set a gnawing pang of alarm tripping in Scott’s gut. He wanted to stop and eat, but he didn’t dare. They kept going, down the stairs and through the crowd, past the smoking grills. They were in the middle of the street when a motorcycle roared around the corner. A conical beam of light swept over them and they ran from the street, across the sidewalk to the parking lot’s edge. The bike swerved to a stop and Dub jumped off it.

  “The fuck is this!” he shouted.

  His gun came out as he dragged Sandi along behind him—Scott pulled his and Dub used her for a shield. “She started whining after they took your ass outa the Ambassador, going on about how she loved you, beggin’ me to let you live. Next thing you know she’s calling me a scumbag. Snorted coke off the end of my dick after I ass-fucked her, and she’s calling me a scumbag. Rich, ain’t it?”

  Scott said nothing. He followed Karen’s lead, backing further away until they were standing between a light green SUV and a Ford pickup. They were seventy-five yards away from the jailhouse, thirty yards away from Dub.

  Dub pressed the barrel of his .9mm against Sandi’s temple. “Where you going?” he called out. “You don’t want me to kill her, do you?”

  Scott stood beside the SUV, Karen behind him as he pointed his gun at Dub. The keys were hanging from the ignition. He steadied his hand and aimed at the smiling face of the biker, who laughed and said, “Go ahead, Scotty, if you got the nerve.”

  Scott stood frozen in place, the gun wavering in his shaking hand.

  “If your gun isn’t on the sidewalk by the time I count to three, your wife’s brains will be.”

  He waited a moment before calling out, “One!”

  Scott told Karen, “The keys are in the ignition.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Two!”

  “Jump inside and haul ass when I toss my gun.”

  “Scott.”

  “I have to—I can’t let him kill her.”

  Scott tossed his gun and Dub said, “Three!” The gun bucked in his hand and Sandi’s head rocked sideways, blood and brain and bits of skull painting the asphalt as Dub walked forward, blowing out the driver’s side window when Karen snatched open the door. She hurled herself onto the seat and Dub kept firing, punching holes into the windshield until the gun was emptied and the safety glass torn nearly completely away.

  Dub pulled fresh ammo from his pocket, ejected the spent clip and slammed the new one home. He was twenty yards away, smiling and walking slowly forward while Scott ran to the rear of the vehicle and, Karen, still lying across the front seat, twisted the ignition. The SUV purred to life and Scott jerked open the hatch. Dub fired four more times, stitching a line of jagged holes across the grill. Smoke rose from under the hood as Scott stared down at a faded green metal container in the rear compartment, two feet wide and three feet long. Beside it was a hand-held antitank weapon. He fumbled open the container. One side was empty; the other held a missile, its green paint as dull and lifeless as the container housing it.

  Dub said, “You’re going back to your cell, Scotty. Your girlfriend there, well, she’s dead as soon as I get to her. Sit tight and I’ll march your ass back. Run, I’ll shoot you in the leg and drag your ass back. Either way, you’ll be on that cross come sunrise.”

  Scott picked up the launcher, grabbed the missile and locked it in place. He’d never held one before, didn’t even know if it would work. He hefted it to his shoulder and stepped around the side of the SUV. Dub raised his pistol and Scott squeezed the trigger, launching the missile directly at the biker leader, who barely had time to register his surprise before the rocket exploded, leaving a shower of blood and bone and chunks of meat where he had been standing.

  Karen rose up and looked out through the shattered windshield. “What was that?”

  Across the street, the gathered crowd stared out at the parking lot.

  Scott dro
pped the launcher, hurried to the sidewalk and picked up his gun, went back to Karen and said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  They climbed into the pickup, where Scott laid his weapon on the floorboard. He was about to start the engine when headlights appeared on the roadway. He looked up to see a line of vehicles approaching from the west, several Hummers led by a cherry-red Corvette. They pulled to a stop directly in front of the pickup. A guy got out of the Vette. He had short black hair, a black leather jacket and dark pants. He stood next to one of the Hummers, looking out at the jailhouse, at the crowd of people staring back at them.

  Scott could hear them through the open window:

  Somebody inside the Hummer said, “What happened here?”

  “The fuck should I know?” the guy said, then, “Ready?”

  Then, “Light it up.”

  A series of explosions rocked the refrigerated trailer; seconds later came a deafening roar as the tanker truck exploded into a fiery ball that rose like a mushroom cloud, disintegrating the army of bikers crowded onto the sidewalk while the entire front of the jailhouse collapsed in an avalanche of fire and dust and falling sheets of wire and concrete.

  The guy stood by the Hummer, staring out at the destruction. The refrigerated trailer was gone, as was Dub’s rolling fuel depot, nothing left but a burning black hole where the front of the jailhouse used to be, dust and ash and charred bones, smoldering bodies and the disgusting scent of burnt flesh. No people, no sign of life anywhere. He got back into his red Corvette, started it up and pulled away from the curb, leading his convoy of Hummers back in the direction from which they had come.

  Karen looked at Scott, who looked back at her and said, “Who were those guys?”

  “Last night Dub was bragging about blowing up a bunch of gangsters. Said it would pave the way for him and his army to take over. Looks like the gangsters had ideas of their own.”

  “I’ll say.” Scott started up the truck, snapped on the headlights and looked down at the dashboard. He had a gun and a tank full of gas, and no idea of what to do next.

  “Where to?” he said.

  “Anywhere but here.”

  He put the truck in gear and stepped on the gas, jumped the curb and roared off down the street. A right and a left put him on the main drag. Somewhere in the distance came a thundering explosion. Gunfire and the staccato sound of automatic weaponry erupted in the night as Scott turned away from the noise. He was heading east toward the expressway when the traffic lights lining the boulevard came suddenly to life.

  “My God,” Karen said as Scott pulled to a stop.

  They were sitting in front of the burned-out shell of a pawn shop, the display window long ago shattered into pieces. Karen gasped and pointed at a lone television on the window’s shelf, a bullet hole centered in its screen. A wild-eyed hermit as old as Moses himself flashed across a spider web of cracked glass, ranting and raving and shaking his fist.

  Scott reached for the radio but Karen grabbed his wrist.

  “No,” she said. “Please. I don’t think I could bear it.”

  He pulled away from the pawn shop. Minutes later they were rolling down the expressway, toward what, Scott did not know.

  Lightning flashed in the distance.

  A light rain began to fall.

  Scott wondered if it had just been predicted on a dead television with a bullet hole in its cracked and shattered screen.

  Other books by William Ollie

  Killercon: http://www.amazon.com/Killercon-ebook/dp/B0057GG9IO

  Sideshow: http://www.amazon.com/Sideshow-ebook/dp/B003WJRNHO/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_2

  Lord Of The Mountain: http://www.amazon.com/Lord-of-the-Mountain-ebook/dp/B004WWWJVA/ref=ntt_at_ep_edition_1_3?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2