Battle Axe

by Alan Spencer

  Boyd didn’t want to ruin the moment. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and kindly explained himself. “I’m sorry, but I’m in the same predicament that you’re in, Cindy. I was almost killed myself out there. I'm not the rescue party. Who put you in here?”

  Cindy was bitterly disappointed. Cindy threw his question right back at him. “Who put you in here, buddy?”

  Boyd was afraid to tell her his history and incarceration. It wouldn’t do him any good to lie either, he reasoned. They were two people alone. In a population of two, it would be harder to judge the other—or so he hoped that philosophy proved true in Cindy’s case.

  “There’s a lot I don’t know, Cindy, but this is what I do understand. I was transferred from Hutchinson Correctional Facility. Does the name Boyd Broman mean anything to you? Think about it.”

  Cindy’s pale face turned pale. “I thought you looked familiar. You were all over the news. Your trial, the murder… your death.”

  Boyd braced himself on the desk to keep his legs from buckling. “My death?”

  Hayden Grubaugh was reported dead in the news, and the man was supposedly in the facility. Why wouldn’t they do the same to him? His hope for freedom was false, and he knew that much, but what was he being set-up for? Would they leave him in this hell-hole after he returned Hayden to them, or did they have different ideas?

  “How did I die?”

  “You hung yourself in your cell. A prisoner arranged for you to get a rope, and you took your life. I saw your mug shot on TV, and it looks just like you.”

  Cindy snuck to the opposite side of the room and stared at the Glock. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

  Boyd placed the gun on the desk and scoffed at the idea.

  “You take my weapon if it makes you happy. I’m not who you think I am, and if you don’t believe it, I guess I can’t blame you. I’m going to say it, whether you understand or not. A man named Samuel Tyson broke into my house. He tied up my wife, and my two girls, who are ten and twelve years old. I swear to you, Samuel, that bastard, was about to shoot them dead in my basement.

  "But I scared him away. I recognized Samuel from recent police postings. He’d committed three robberies in the past two months in a similar fashion. He’d tie the families up, rob the place at his leisure, and then shoot them dead before he left.

  “I didn’t want Samuel to escape, so I chased him, but I followed him in my car, you see. I stayed on his tail. When we reached the highway, the man hit his brakes. Samuel’s car fishtailed. We were both going seventy miles an hour, at least. So I crashed into his back end. His car flips three times. He’s thrown from the vehicle, because he's not wearing a seatbelt, and before my car could stop, my front wheels crushed him.

  "It was an accident, and I agree with part of the verdict, Cindy. I had no right to tail him, and I should’ve called the police, because I was off-duty, but I didn’t want him to get away. The bastard would do it to another family. He'd kill again.

  “I was scared for Karen and the kids, and I was angry too. I can’t explain what came over me, but the verdict shouldn’t have gotten me into prison. Okay, maybe a few years and probation, not twenty years without parole. And because Crawford County has been under fire for recent police brutality allegations, the judge was harsher sentencing me. The media turned it into me speeding up my car and rolling over Samuel ten times to ensure he was dead under my tires. None of it’s true, Cindy.

  "I lost my wife and kids, and now my life. I don’t want sympathy; I want understanding. My trial and hearing came so fast, it’s unreal how the system worked double time to shove my ass into prison, and then into this place. And if you don’t believe what I’m telling you, then think about what we’re doing here, and why the system lied to everyone about my death.”

  Boyd cleared the tears from his eyes. He’d recounted the story to his lawyer, the judge, and every media person, and this time, the words struck true to Cindy.

  And there was a reason for that, he would learn.

  Boyd explained the bus ride and his experience up to the point of the phone call.

  "The phone rings, and I pick it up. It's a man telling me that Hayden Grubaugh, a cannibal killer, is here, and if I want my name to be cleared, I have to deliver him to the front gate into custody. More of his bodies have been found, and the police want to question him. I’m here to capture him.”

  Cindy was next to the window, but she didn’t adjust the blinds to look out. “I guess you want to know why I’m here too, huh? It’s only fair, and what else are we doing besides buying time? This place is driving me crazy, Boyd—ghost, whoever you are? And our circumstances, I wouldn’t be surprised if the world thinks I’m dead as well.

  "Yes, I believed what they said about you, but your wife was interviewed, and she defended you tooth and nail. Your fellow officers defended you too. They said you were upholding the law as a public servant, and that you weren’t acting as a criminal or a murderer. I guess it doesn’t matter whether we’re guilty of what we’ve been accused of, or not, sometimes. The courts decide.”

  Boyd sat in the office chair. “Were you thrown into prison?”

  “No. My case wasn’t blown up for public consumption. I dated Brett Anderson, the Crawford County district attorney. It was more of a fling on the side for Brett, because he was married, and I should’ve realized he wouldn’t leave his wife for me. His reputation can’t be ruined, even if it deserves to be. We dated, and I might sound like a whore, like you sounded like a killer—and I believe you, now that I can weigh our circumstances together—but I thought I had a chance with him. I was in love, and it made me dumb. I kept sleeping with him, and meanwhile, I hoped he’d change his mind about us.

  “Our relationship was fine until my period’s late. I go to the doctor’s, and he seals my fate. I tell Brett, and he immediately drives me to the abortion doctor—performed in an empty house, might I add.

  "Once the operation was completed, a set of men forced me into a Jeep. They drive for what felt like hours, but before I can do anything, they pull out a syringe and inject me with a sedative. I woke in this building, Boyd. I was sitting in this office. There were directions on a pad of paper telling me where to find food and to stay out of sight. I’ve been here for eight days, and those instructions are the only reason I’m still alive right now.

  “The note also warned me not to look out the window or venture outside, and of course, I did. I pulled aside these blinds, and outside, I saw them roam. Those dead people. There’s things I’ve also seen in this building, things I have to show you. Your story alone, Boyd, wouldn’t have convinced me that what you’re saying is the truth, but I know something very wrong is going on here, something not even the government or military can control, and we’ve both been thrown into it."

  “Do you know who put this together?"

  “There’s something you need to see first. I’ve been too scared to check it out myself. It might answer your question.”

  Boyd was puzzled by her response. Why someone would throw Cindy into this facility made him press the question further.

  “Did you know something that Brett didn’t want you to tell anyone else?”

  Cindy bit her lip.

  “I shouldn’t have been nosy, but on his cell phone, there were numbers in his directory that were government. I called one number, just curious, and the person answered to the name of “Red Heron". I asked him who it was, and he said he was an old buddy from the Marines. Brett kept a lot of his life private. In fact, I never saw his work office. I was his secretary on the job, and I took calls, but I never saw Brett’s real office.”

  “Or found out what he could be doing as a side job, huh?” Boyd balled up his fists. “This makes you wonder how many people have been falsely reported dead. How many cases are there like ours? There are piles of street clothes and shredded up military uniforms scattered about this town. We weren’t the first ones in here.”

  They both were quiet. A new
stink carried in the air. A window in the corner was partly cracked open. He peered out of the slit, careful not to be seen from the outside. Boyd had a view of the restaurant. Smoke billowed from the back in a gray cloud.

  “What is it, Boyd?”

  Boyd pointed at the restaurant. Cindy lowered down to peer through the crack of the window.

  “You see the smoke? I think Hayden’s in there. I’m sure you noticed the charred leftovers of bodies in front tied up in chairs. The man’s a cannibal, and I’m sure he’s living it up. I guess he’s a ghost, like me. A man like Hayden, he’d prefer to disappear.”

  “Wasn’t that fucking pervert killed in prison?” Cindy’s face bent in disgust. “He ate those hookers, right?"

  “I arrested the man. That’s why they sent me here to capture him. Why send anyone else? My situation is rather unique, because of Samuel Tyson’s death. I’m exploitable.”

  “Just like a woman after an abortion.” Cindy sneered. She was near tears. “Forget them. They’ve won their battle. We’re stuck here. There’s no use lamenting about something we can’t fix.”

  Boyd disagreed. “We’re escaping. I’m not staying here to die, and neither are you. We're getting our lives back."

  “This won't end well. I just hope you’re brave enough to crawl inside the room, and find out what’s on the other side.”

  Boyd hoped she’d clarify her statement.

  Cindy didn't.

  She led him out of the office to a short staircase. Boyd was directed to a short hall. A door was open at the front. It was a break room. There was a refrigerator, Coke machine, and a vending machine that was half empty of snacks. Cindy stepped into the room, and clearly wanted Boyd to follow.

  “Are you hungry?” She pointed at the vending machine. “You’ve got some quick energy, or if you’re interested in something more fulfilling, there’s canned goods in the cupboard—mostly baked beans and Spam.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t eat right now. My insides are twisted up in knots.”

  Cindy popped open the fridge. “And I forgot to mention, there’s stockpiles of beer. Here, take a bottle. Anyone who managed to survive out there long enough to find me deserves a strong drink.”

  Boyd accepted the bottle. The beer was cold enough to ease his throat, but his mind remained in turmoil. He was a dead man. That meant his wife was consoling his death, and trying to move on. Was there a fake funeral? He imagined a small group of people at a cemetery plot, and wondered what was really inside the coffin. It saddened him to imagine his family's last memory of him as a criminal.

  He finished the bottle without realizing it.

  Cindy was already finished with hers. “There’s harder stuff in the cupboards as well. You might turn to that later. I know I have. My nerves are about shot at this point."

  Boyd turned the bottle in his hands. “My uncle taught me how to stay calm in deadly situations. Uncle Ryan served four tours in Vietnam. He said you have to have a view of death. A stance. How can you fear death, or conquer it, if you don’t have an opinion of the other side?”

  “What did your uncle think death was?”

  “He said death was a cycle of your favorite memories.”

  Wendy's brow bent. “Like a greatest hits of memories?”

  “Exactly. That’s what I think death is. You live your favorite memories over and over again. So knowing that, all I have to look forward to is the best if I die.”

  “I’m fucked then, because I’m an agnostic.”

  After Boyd finished his beer, he wanted to see the room Cindy was talking about earlier. Cindy pointed down the hallway, and said, “There’s a bathroom and a pair of showers that way, but there’s also one room in the very back, Boyd. That's want I want you to check out.”

  At the mention of bathrooms and the stockpiles of food, Boyd analyzed the purpose of the strangely set-up library. Why was the library like an outpost or a survival station?

  Boyd raised the Glock. “Should I be on the alert to shoot something?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Then what is in there that concerns you so much?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Boyd approached the closed door. It wasn’t boarded up. No blood or shredded clothing to be seen.

  “Have you been in the room yet?”

  Cindy hesitated to answer. “I opened the door and thought it was more supplies, but I was wrong. Way wrong."

  "Okay then. You can stand back if you want.”

  Cindy stayed behind Boyd. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The Room

  Boyd opened the door into the unknown room. Inside was the last image Boyd expected to witness. The room was a janitor’s closet. The room was so long and narrow that he couldn’t see to the back—not through the hundreds of long strings stapled into the walls laced with razors. It was a cobweb of sharp edges, like make-shift barbs.

  “I think someone set these up, and once they were done, they stayed back there to protect themselves,” Cindy said. “I’ve looked hard into the room, and I didn’t notice it at first, but if you get on the ground and look, there’s a pair of feet. And they’re not moving.”

  Boyd lowered to the ground. He stared through the strings of razors that were about seven inches up from the ground. He spotted a pair of black boots. They stuck out from behind a utility shelf.

  “So you want me to crawl to the other side and find out who that is?”

  "I won’t blame you if you don’t, but it might help us figure this place out better.”

  The room didn’t smell, and the owner of the boots didn’t move. “Hey, are you okay in there?” He looked back at Cindy with a crooked smile. “Hey, I had to try.”

  Boyd crawled onto his haunches, convinced he had to investigate.

  “Be careful. Those razors are sharp.”

  Crawling into room, his back brushed up against the strings, and the back of his neck was nicked. The sting was doubled by the sweat beading from his skin.

  “You’re almost there. Three more feet. Watch out, I don’t know what’s back there.”

  And neither do I.

  A razor sliced into his scalp.

  I better not need stitches. Whoever did this had the right idea. Nobody would be crazy enough to sneak through here, except for me.

  Boyd cleared the gauntlet. He turned his head in each direction to assure his safety, and he gasped at what was slumped up against a shelf of cleaning supplies. A green uniform, black boots, and a beret, all of it sheltered a skeleton. The flesh was gone. No internal organs. The abdominal cavities were ransacked. The vent on the opposite wall was open.

  After all that work, and one hole in the wall got you killed.

  There was an M-16 loose in its bony grip. He searched the pockets and retrieved two clips and a grenade. A walkie-talkie was clasped in the corpse’s stick-finger grip. Boyd spoke into it. The device issued a sharp crackle.

  “Is anyone out there?” He read the man’s name badge. “This is Lieutenant Meyers. I need assistance ASAP.”

  No response.

  “Who the hell are you talking to?” Cindy called out, confused. “What’s back there?”

  “Just a second.”

  He continued. “Please, I’m Lieutenant Meyers, I need help. I’m injured. Can anyone send assistance?”

  Boyd gave up. He slid the walkie towards Cindy. “Keep track of that, will you? I’ve found a bag of bones that belong to a Lieutenant Meyers. I also have a better weapon.”

  He slid the machine gun and two clips at her. “I’m coming back. Give me a second."

  Boyd returned to the hallway. This time, he successfully avoided the razors.

  Cindy held the M-16. “It’s a nice gun. I like it."

  “I’d prefer if we didn’t have to use it, but it’s a big possibility.” He pointed at the walkie in her other hand. “I tried to call using the lieutenant’s name, but no one’s answering. It's just fuzz.”

  Cindy gu
ided him back to the break room. She opened the cupboard and grabbed a bottle of vodka. “I don’t have shot glasses, but drinking it straight from the bottle works just the same.”

  Boyd was second to drink after her.

  Cindy noticed his cuts. She placed a cloth over the sink, soaked it in warm water, and cleaned the wounds for him.

  “The cuts aren’t deep. I think you'll be okay. So what the hell do we do next?"

  “It’s come down to Hayden and me. I want to see their faces and know who is running things. I have a machine gun and a handgun, and a grenade. I can put up a fight if they try and abandon us.”

  He pulled the grenade out of his pocket and showed her.

  “That’s some serious shit,” Cindy laughed. She was tipsy. “You could seriously blow someone’s ass off with that thing. Seriously, Boyd, what are we doing? It’s like you want to wage a war against an enemy we haven’t seen. They control everything, whoever they are.”

  “Why can’t we fight them? You’re content in making that office your bedroom for the rest of your life, and that’s if those monsters out there don’t break in here and turn you into an organ donor. Lieutenant Meyers was attacked through an opening in the ceiling. They could be in here right now, and we wouldn’t know it. Hayden’s survived this long out there, and so can we. I have to see my wife and kids again, and I will.”

  Cindy frowned. She was unconvinced. “You’re a dead man, and I’m probably dead too. We have no place out there beyond those walls. They made it a point to be rid of us. We got mixed up with the wrong people.”

  “Don’t give up your life." Boyd stole the bottle out of her hands so she couldn't steal another nip. “I’m sure there are more guys to fall in love with beyond that district attorney asshole. Good people. We’re both good people too, and as long as we believe it, someone else will. We’re war-criminals without rights, or freedoms, or even a single phone call. We’re on the wrong end of the Patriot Act, Cindy.

  "Hell, we don’t even know where we are. Do you want someone else to be taken advantage of, Cindy? I died on paper, and you can’t punish a criminal again once they’ve died, right? It’s double jeopardy. What law says you can put a dead man on trial again, or lock him up in prison? I have a wife and kids, Cindy, who think I’m dead, and their memory of me is not very flattering. You don’t want that for yourself before you’ve even started a life.”