by Kirk Alex
Monroe Perez, a former military man, reminded them to use the lights sparingly, as they made them instant targets, and to be aware of the motor oil and shortening that the stairs were smeared with. The fire and heavy smoke did not make things any easier, either, as they proceeded to make their way down.
What had not made any sense to Perez was why Biggs would want to get himself trapped in the basement. This was the question that nagged at him—and there was no time to give it any real thought, only time for action, quickly—and cautiously.
Get your hands on him. That’s what you have to do. Alive, if possible. But get him. Witnesses: Wilburn Flinger and others, had spotted Biggs scramble into the basement through one of the windows on this side of the house—and that’s what they all had to do now: get the sick bastard to give it up.
Monroe was about a third of the way down. Paused briefly. “Show yourself, Mr. Biggs. Your one chance to get out of this alive.”
Cecil Biggs’s “response,” if indeed he had sought refuge in the basement, was one of silence.
“Have it your way. Breathing or not. Don’t matter to us. One way or the other.”
Shots were fired at Monroe Perez and his people. Monroe’s instinct was to duck. He lost his footing and balance in the process and found himself tumbling to the bottom, picking up his share of shards and nails. By the time he hit the cement floor, he had enough perforations and lacerations and pain to contend with to make him wish he were out of it for good. Only no such thing happened, nothing to spare the misery, keep his throat from choking and eyes from watering, while Cecil Biggs kept firing—at least he reasoned it was Biggs. Couldn’t be certain. Could have been him, in a Brother Trusty guise, kneeling back there by what looked like a bookcase to the left of some kind of round table and firing. The thick smoke billowing from a can a few feet in front of the bookcase, and all the smoke rising from the pit made it difficult to make out. It also seemed a shot or two had their origins somewhere in the front part of the basement, the street side. Hard to pinpoint, hard to tell. Smoke grew thicker and blacker. Perez slammed back a couple of shots anyway in the general direction of where the patio type table was. It was nearly impossible to see much. Members of his group pumped rounds in that same direction. All heard a thud, something drop. A gasp.
Was it Biggs? Was it the killer clown? They couldn’t tell. Did not know. A second gasp followed, and then something like a snicker—but not quite—that sounded like Cecil Biggs. It could have been.
About the only sound that was easy enough to discern was the manic clucking of the crazy chicken.
CHAPTER 606
They were coming down and they were firing. Low IQ, illiterate slugs were practically upon him. What was new about that? Someone was always after him, out to ruin his day.
There was no way at the moment for him to select the proper key to the tunnel door, even if he were able to deal with the body that hindered him from being able to slide the bookcase over.
Duffel was there still at least. Can’t leave without the duffel, no matter what. No matter what. Items inside the duffel were irreplaceable—in that they had sentimental value. True enough. It was also true the bullets in the bucket would be going off any second. Should have waited until the very last before tossing them in. Too late now to think about that. The other thing was also certain: something needed to be done about the Trusty guise. Plan B had to be implemented. No choice. He yanked two of the Parfrey masks from inside the duffel and jammed them in one of the jacket pockets.
Reminded himself he had boxes of ammo in the duffel. If the bullets in there ever started to blast while he lugged it with, he’d be up a major creek—as if he didn’t have enough crap to contend with already.
He rushed to the Furnace Room door just as the hen flew past him, followed by Patience, then Norbert. Two loons and a psycho chicken. Headed where? What difference did it make?
Pushed in on the Furnace Room door. Could hardly budge it. Something was braced up against the door. He stuck his nose in. Had the door ajar enough to be able to do this. Yes, the dead were in his way; they always would be. Pulling him down, preventing him from moving forward, preventing him from realizing his full potential.
What was it exactly that kept him from being able to push the door in? Glanced down. Betty Lou’s wheelchair. On its side. Marvin Muck in a pool of blood and vomit. Serves him right. Dead Betty Lou herself. Wouldn’t be bitching about her anal warts anymore, it was safe to say. Mildred, Greta—who knew who else? Didn’t matter, because they prevented him from being able to force the door open wide enough for him to be able to squeeze through. This was the thanks he got for helping all of them out. Provided Kool-Aid and Pop-Tarts. Paid him back by letting him get shot up.
The only reason the firing had stopped for the time being was probably due to Patience running around. Perez didn’t want to risk hitting her. Nice guy. Paragon of virtue. Bunch of bottom-feeders, reasoned Cecil Biggs. Closer to the truth.
He glanced to the left long enough to see Patience run inside the john, with Norbert going in right after.
Try the other door, thought Cecil. Bunk Room door. Once you get in there you can always break through the wall that separates it from the Furnace Room. Don’t forget the duffel. Once you reach the tunnel door. In a minute. Once you are able to get to it. Your duffel and valuables. Precious photo albums and items of some worth, mementoes. Too bad you can’t get inside the walk-in for some of those skulls and Ding Dongs. Then thought: fuck the Ding Dongs. Just save your ass. You can always buy Ding Dongs once you’re on the outside. This is not the time to be thinking about the walk-in. Forget the walk-in.
CHAPTER 607
He was inside the Bunk Room, and so was the hen. Had made it through the hole in the bathroom wall Mr. Fimple had been responsible for earlier. The hen was running around, under the bunks and toward the front. He slammed the door shut quickly enough. Chicken ran into his feet, freaked, and ran back toward the rear.
Forget the chicken. All he had to do was kick a hole in the wall on the Furnace Room side. Walls for the most part were Sheetrock and boards, with the exception of the wall along the back which was cinder blocks.
He had his back against the wall on the Furnace Room side and gave it a mule kick. It was going to take some doing. The strength wasn’t there, not the kind it would require.
There was hammering, pounding. Norbert whacked away at the opposite wall with his cleaver, the wall on the john side, just above the hole that the hen had hopped through a moment ago.
It wasn’t long before Fimple had it large enough to be able to force his way through. This was the “foyer” part of the Bunk Room, and Fimple punched his way through drywall and boards. Patience didn’t waste her time, either. Followed.
Chicken ran under the row of billets on the left side of the room. He saw Patience crawling under it. Watched the hen skip out and go underneath the other row of bunks.
“You’ll get us killed, Patience. Let him have the damned chicken, will you? Can’t you see it’s nothing personal? It’s all about appetite. He’s always been that way. Doesn’t matter to him that we’re about to be slaughtered like generic vics here.”
Patience paid no heed. Neither did Norbert. With those huaraches he had on it was only a matter of time before the clumsy ox buried that cleaver in an ankle or foot.
“Make a hole in this other wall, Norbert. That’ll put us in the Furnace Room. From there it’s only a step or two to the tunnel.”
Fimple was not inclined to listen to anything Cecil had to say. He was focused on one thing.
Biggs gave the plasterboard a couple more kicks. Made dents. It was not easy going. He opened the door a crack in order to peer through and was shot at. He returned fire. Heard a loud grunt, and ducked back inside.
Good, he thought. Capped another one. Hoped it was Rudy’s brother.
CHAPTER 608
The wounded man, panic-stricken and coughing up blood, had to be carried up the slippery
stairs. It was a challenge. They did their best. Monroe was helped up by others and guided to the john area for cover. He was hurting, but that didn’t change anything. The rage wouldn’t be quelled until Brother Trusty had either been caught or killed. The few guys who had remained were quick to scramble and collect there as well, ducking bullets that came at them from various parts of the basement. They had rags or hankies or their sleeves over their mouths and noses to block out the heavy smoke and unbearable stench.
“Let the cops take over from here.”
“They out there?”
“On the way. We’re not cut out for this, Roe. Asshole disabled phone lines up and down both sides of the street.”
“Leave, then.”
“We been hit, hit hard. We’re not the Law.”
“Go on. Get out.”
This was Perez’s attitude and advice to anyone else who felt the same, and he ducked behind the stairs. About the only other place in the immediate area that provided a degree of protection from whomever was doing the shooting. The drawback was the smoke generated by the fire in the pit. There was distance between the pit and the stairwell, but not enough. He wished he were elsewhere and was better positioned.
There was a room on his right. Smoke wafted from its open door, shooting, just as there was shooting in the cell, or room, across the way.
Bullets exploded in that bucket out there. Sounded like it. Someone operating small arms, or else something else going on. No matter. Biggs had to be flushed out. He had started the fires and probably littered the basement with bullets. Had to be forced out, or dealt with. Captured alive, or destroyed.
“Give it up, Mr. Biggs. You can’t con your way out of this.”
A shot was fired at him from two doors to the left of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase.
Monroe responded with shots of his own. The first missed. One hit Biggs in the chest somewhere. Another in the left hip, maybe upper part of the leg. Couldn’t tell exactly. All Perez saw was someone, a male figure in repulsive clown makeup, drop back and slam the door shut.
CHAPTER 609
Norbert Fimple continued to wave that cleaver around inside the Bunk Room.
Cecil was fairly convinced he had been shot more than once, only he couldn’t tell exactly where. The lead he had taken in the leg didn’t require guess work. What about the other? Where did the second bullet get him? Then he had the other concern: it was more than evident: the Trusty facade had worn out its usefulness. What was he going to do about it?
“Grab one of those sheets.”
Good luck trying to communicate with Norbert. Cecil was still trying to determine where the bullet had struck. Where was it? Back somewhere? Chest? Norbert wasn’t paying attention. Bishop may as well have been talking to the leghorn, for what good it did.
The bishop yanked a sheet off one of the bunks, and tore it into strips—only he had trouble finding where the mysterious bullet had entered. There were too many cuts and bruises all over his body that caused too many aches and pains and made it impossible to pinpoint where the second round had penetrated.
He happened to look down the front of his jacket. His eyes caught what seemed like a bullet hole. He unzipped the jacket, to discover the spent slug buried in the Kevlar vest.
He wrapped a wide enough and long enough strip of cloth around his upper thigh, tied it. Wrapped a shorter strip around the hand he’d accidentally cut on glass and his knife that happened during his scuffle with Flinger earlier.
He did what he could. If only Norbert were capable of thinking along those lines. Instead, the homicidal clod engaged in everything but the one thing Cecil needed him to do: and that was go at the plasterboard with the cleaver.
Biggs urged that he knock a hole in the wall so that they would be able to get inside the other room, therefore be closer to the entrance to the tunnel.
Norbert didn’t care. It made no difference to him. He was after the chicken. Wanted nothing else.
He swung here and there with the cleaver, even though Patience pleaded that he stop. Norbert wouldn’t listen to her. More than once even, she stepped right in front of him, between the chicken and Fimple himself—and for some reason Fimple held back with the cleaver. He swung down halfway—and stopped himself in time. Surprised even Biggs himself. Wondered what was going on?
Instead of plowing the cleaver into her skull, Fimple shoved Patience aside with his free hand, and brought the cleaver down, missing the hen, and the cleaver dug into the wall on the Furnace Boom side and left a big enough gash in it.
Leghorn hopped up and down, skipped back and forth, with Fimple swinging every time—missing, and creating additional holes in the same area.
Cecil didn’t give a damn what became of the chicken, so long as he got ever closer to the tunnel this way. The idea was to break through the wall that separated the Bunk Room from the Furnace Room. If only there were a way to convince Norbert to concentrate on it.
CHAPTER 610
Didn’t think the bullet he’d taken in the left leg penetrated bone. If it had, he’d have known it—as it was, the pain was bad enough, slowed him down enough, weakened him enough.
If only he could have liberated Fimple from the cleaver and taken a few whacks at the wall himself. . . . All Cecil could do was make sure the Bunk Room door stayed shut in order to keep the hen within its confines. It ran about in there, as before, back and forth, under the bunks: one side, then the other. Did Cecil no good at all. He needed that chicken to remain in the area to the right of the door as one entered, this area that was free of bunks—and he needed for Norbert to chop away at it and miss the chicken a few times and bury that cleaver into the plasterboard.
It was not happening and it was frustrating. To make matters worse, Patience continued to get in the way of things. Chicken would be within Norbert’s swinging distance and Patience would step in in time to prevent the big slob from following through and accomplishing anything.
“Give up the chicken, Patience. Those things don’t rate; they don’t matter. Yardbirds are practically at the bottom of the chow chain. They’re dumber than rats. Let him have it, let him kill it. I need his cleaver so I can chop a hole in this wall over here. We should be in the Furnace Room. From there it’s but a couple of short steps to the tunnel door—and freedom. Otherwise, we fry.”
Due to a series of screwy circumstances, she was able to get her hands on the chicken and had managed to scale the billets on the right. Made it to the top bunk at the far end, below the tv. Was able to clamp her hands about the hen only because Fimple had been leaning against the bunk with his paws out, reaching for it himself. Chicken had ducked back and made it possible for Patience to grasp it. Hold it to her bosom.
Out of sheer frustration, Norbert yanked on the dangling tv cord that brought the television down from its shelf and slammed against the left side of his face and neck, knocking him back against the wall that was cinder blocks and cement, and down to the floor. Left him dazed. Took him a moment to recover and realize that Patience was still up there, peering over the top bunk with that pesky hen still in her arms.
He picked up the tv with the now cracked screen, rose, raised it over his head. He had Patience cornered and they both knew it. . . . All she had to do was let go of the hen. She refused to. Even after Cecil had encouraged her to do so.
“No need for that, Norbert. She can be of help to us. Monroe and his gang won’t hurt a woman. Hear me, Norbert?”
Norbert stared in silence. TV aimed at her. Snarling and shooting daggers with that glare.
“We make it to the tunnel the finger-lickin’ fowl is all yours. I won’t try to stop you. No one will. We’ll be home-free, practically.”
Fimple hurled the tv at the wall to the right of her, smashing the set all to hell. It had been deliberate, the idea his own, and nothing to do with Cecil. Got his large, beefy hands on the top bunk, rocked it back and forth; in fact, was rocking the entire row of six bunks this way; he possessed this much brawn
, knocking Patience clear across to a top bunk on the other side of the room that caused her to lose her grip on the chicken—and off it went, running toward the front. Fimple didn’t stop the rocking until the line of bunks tipped over. Then hurried after the chicken. Swung as it hopped to the right. He pirouetted, and decided to pull the other row of bunks down, no matter that Patience still remained up there.
Fimple yanked and pulled at the top berth, stayed with it, until the bunks toppled over, sending Patience flying back into the wall on the other side. She dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, where she remained momentarily, stuck between a section of the upturned bunks and the wall itself.
Norbert propped a mattress, length-wise, to block the massive hole in the wall on the john side, dropped another across the bottom to reinforce it. Chicken was trapped now, cornered in the area that was free of bunks.
Norbert had minded Cecil, for once, and it paid off. The only possible out were the perforations at the bottom of the wall on the Furnace Room side, but Biggs wasn’t worried. Holes were hardly large enough for the chicken to be able to burrow through insulation and boards. That beak wasn’t going to do it much good this time.
“You got it boxed in.”
The bunks Fimple had turned over prevented the chicken from hopping off to the back, and it had too much fear to make it past Fimple’s feet this time. Biggs stood his ground on the chicken’s left, while Norbert blocked its right flank.
“Swing it. Make it a grand slam this time. Like Babe Ruth, Norbert. Better yet, a Pete Rose line drive would be more suitable. Don’t let that Pollo Loco outsmart you.”
