by Kirk Alex
The cleaver came down. Missed the bird and plowed into the wall hard enough so that there was daylight. It was a good beginning. Weak, as far as light went, but it had potential, thought Cecil. The fact that smoke was evident and would soon be getting worse did not help the dire straits he felt he was in. Then, too, you had Monroe Perez and his cronies crazed with bloodlust yelling out there trying to decide which of the rooms he was holed up in.
Cecil had to forget about that part of it, and concentrate on Norbert Fimple.
“Do it again, Norbert.”
Patience was adamantly against it and stated thus.
Norbert raised the cleaver, needing to focus and aim. Took another whack at the chicken, missing and leaving the wall with another hole in it. Things were looking up, thought Biggs.
CHAPTER 611
Space under the stairs hardly yielded adequate protection. Left him way too vulnerable. Reconsidered that same door around the corner on his right.
Smoke drifted out. Clouds of it. Perez stuck his head in. Room full of stained and shoddy mattresses and a male body on the floor not far from where he stood. Nothing on but a blood-stained, rhinestone-studded jockstrap and a pair of scuffed and badly worn snakeskin boots.
The mattress in the center of the room had evidently been doused with motor oil and set on fire. The handle of a large paint bucket had been tied to one of the chains hanging from the rafters. If it was the same type of set up as the one out there by the bookcase, and it clearly seemed to be, this bucket had ammo in it and wouldn’t be long before bullets started flying in all directions, flames rising from the mattress that heated the bottom of it would see to it soon enough.
Smoke was too much. He ducked back out. Where else to go? Beside this room, to the left of it, was a much smaller one. Door partially open. He stepped in briefly. A barren cell with a honey bucket. No fire in this one, only waste. Blood on the floor, crusted vomit. And stench. There was always the stench. Excreta on the floor in and around the paint can. Cockroaches and rodents. Some dead, while the rest scrambled to escape a similar fate.
To the left of this cell was another. Smaller. Possibly a storage closet. Door was locked. He kicked it in.
Shelves full of clothing and folded towels, hair shampoo and rinse, shaving cream containers, used toothbrushes jammed in tight in a plastic tumbler, rows of generic bar soap and detergent, bleach, men’s and women’s underwear, boxes of Depends, stacks of cloth diapers, T-shirts, skirts, dresses.
He grabbed a terrycloth towel and held it over his mouth and nose. He moved on.
Room to the left of this one still, in fact, directly across the way from the room with the mattresses and chains hanging from the ceiling, had fires going throughout, most of which were mini, on the floor, the noteworthy one being a ten gallon paint can that had been placed directly under a butcher’s block.
He glanced at the wall on his left as he paused there in the doorway. It was a type of rectangular torture board hanging on the wall and it had nylon ropes hanging from eyebolts in the upper and bottom corners, as well near both edges at about the middle.
A bullet went off, then another, coming from the bucket, that made him decide against lifting the board and taking it with, which appeared to be thick enough, and he would have used as a shield. He ducked back into the room with the blood-stained mattresses and chains and tripped on the dead cowboy on the floor.
CHAPTER 612
“Be a mensch, Fimple. Leave the chicken killing to experts like me. For now. We’re being shot at. They’d like nothing better than to see us bite the dust. They don’t get our kind. They refuse to accept the fact the reason we are the way we are is because they made us this way. They turned on us first. We struck back. And they don’t like it. They fuck with us—and when we fuck them back they get their hackles up. Well, too bad. This is survival. Don’t you get it?”
The former used car salesman acted like he wasn’t interested in hearing a sermon. Pretty much discounted what Brother Trusty had to say. Then Norbert got the idea he might like to use the cleaver on the oppressor who made him do time in the pit just because he felt like it and for no other reason. None of the excuses he had been given played. He recalled the days spent in total darkness in “Siberia” and left with dog biscuits and water to exist on and a paint can for a toilet.
“I’m not like the defenseless hen. I fight back—and hit hard. I may be hurt, I can still stop your ass. Next time you get dropped in the hole for therapy, you’ll be shocked until you resemble a strip of fried bacon.”
The behemoth glowered at him. Contemplated risking life and limb for a shot at the man who had been so eager to punish him for the slightest infraction.
“Try me, if you don’t believe what I’m saying. . . .”
Fimple decided he had better things to do: Like go after the yardbird that he was desperate to slaughter. Seemed he had it cornered good this time, somewhere to the right of his right foot.
Stood still, while slowly, gradually raising the cleaver above his head. Chicken wasn’t going anywhere. Had no place to run this time. Left flank was blocked by overturned bunks, the right by Cecil; back of the chicken gashes hardly large enough for any dumb yardbird to be able to flee through, or so he had himself convinced.
Door was closed. Had that covered, should it be able to get past the cleaver-wielding lunatic. Front was double-blocked by Fimple and Biggs, who stood to the right of Mr. Fimple’s right arm.
Easy meal. Rest of the chaos taking place in the basement mattered zip. Norbert was salivating. Drooling practically. Eyes glazed with bloodlust he had for the chicken whose head he was about to lop off.
He swung down with vicious force. The hen leapt directly up, and Fimple missed by a mile, and managed to chop off not only the big toe on his right foot, but parts of the other toes next to it. While he was busy throwing his head back and howling like a Goliath, the hen landed and squeezed through one of the holes in the wall behind it and was now in the Furnace Room.
Cecil had hoped that Fimple would give up the cleaver. Only it was not happening. Disregarding the pain, Mr. Fimple recovered soon enough. Made like he was about to take a swing at Biggs, to make certain that he knew he did not wish to be fucked with.
“Calm down now. We’re on the same team.”
Cecil stepped back. Fimple turned away from him and faced the wall. Had his head bent forward, and plowed through into the Furnace Room. Staggered in, tripping on blood and bodies on the floor. Went down hard, banging his right temple and cheek against the steel edge of a foot rest on the wheelchair, that knocked him, for all intents and purposes, practically unconscious.
Patience went in pursuit.
“Chicken’s got more lives than a cat.”
No sooner did Cecil step through the hole himself, both hen and Patience were running back out through the same opening in the wall. The mattress that Norbert had blocked the other gap with, the one on the john side, had folded over to reveal a large enough escape route for the chicken to take advantage of, and the nutjob followed it into the john.
CHAPTER 613
Perez collected himself. Wiped off crud and blood. The chicken and that loony woman rushed past the open doorway in back of him. Not much to be done there, other than to grab her around the waist and literally carry her up the stairs, which was something he did not have the time for, nor the strength; least of all: inclination—if truth be told. Later, in a minute, situation permitting, he would reconsider. Couldn’t think about that right now.
There was a coffee table by the wall in front of him, below and to the right of the sealed off window. Flimsy. Table looked flimsy.
What would he do? Break the legs off it and use the tabletop as a shield—the way he had considered using that door back there? Too thin and narrow. Doubted it would serve his purpose.
What about the door he just walked through? Couldn’t very well take it off. Door might have worked. To some degree. Would have been better than nothing. How would
he even be able to hold it up? Using both hands and still be able to fire his gun?
There were other mattresses on the floor. Most of them singles or doubles and way too thick to do anything with. There was one, a type of bunk bed mattress. About one third as thick as the others. If he could wrap himself in it. Roll it together. Roll it into something like a tamale, or barrel. Hated the idea, but he was desperate. There was that customized door hanging from the wall in that room he’d just ducked out of that he couldn’t quit thinking about.
He yanked his leather belt off. Got his hands on one of the chains dangling from the rafters. Pulled. Wouldn’t do.
Fire from the mattress in the center of the room kept rising, licking the ceiling practically. He kicked at it, then adjusted the mattress with his hand, to no avail. Gripped one end of it, moved the mattress so that he had it positioned under the rafter he was after, the rafter that one of the chains hung from. The flames did the rest. Wood was beginning to catch on fire. The chain would be on the hot side. He had to risk it.
Had no choice but to continue pulling, yanking, this way and that, until he had the iron hook the chain was attached to out of the rafter.
Laid the chain down on the floor in a straight line. Dropped the thin mattress over it, rolled it, then tied the ends of the chain together. It was still way too loose for his needs. The leather belt solved that problem for him to the extent he needed to have it solved. Ran the belt through one link all the way to the buckle, then ran the other end of the belt through a link in the other end of the chain—and brought them together by tying the belt together as tight as he could make it.
He took his pocketknife and stabbed at the mattress to make a large enough hole to be able to see out of. He cut a hole somewhere in the middle for his right arm. Cut another on the opposite side for the left one. It wasn’t perfect; in fact, far from it.
He held the rolled mattress up. Let it slide down over him. Trouble was his lower legs were exposed, as was the top of his head. Too bad. He’d have to lift the mattress up some, and did. Felt like a Hollywood actor in a fat suit. All of it seemed awkward and pathetic even.
He didn’t give a damn how ridiculous it seemed, so long as the mattress provided him with some protection from the stray bullets long enough to go after Cecil Biggs. That was the intent. His sole reason for doing this. Nothing else mattered.
Only it didn’t work. Wouldn’t serve his purpose. Wouldn’t be able to hold it up properly, or long enough, and still be able to function with the hand he had the gun in. He slid it off of him out of frustration. Glanced around. Got the idea to yank one of the other chains down. Stabbed a hole near the top of the mattress. Approximately ten inches to the right of it he stabbed another. On the opposite side, directly across these two holes, he created two additional perforations. Ran the chain through the dual holes on the one side of the mattress, and out through the opposite holes. Tied the chain ends together so that there was zero slack. Slipped this protective barrel of a cocoon over again. His very own “bomb suit.” The length of chain on either side of his neck rested against either shoulder; held the mattress up well enough. Yes, as before, his head remained exposed; his legs, too. Figured he’d always be able to lift the bunk bed mattress up periodically, and simply leave it to rest/hang from the shoulders and upper body whenever too tired or preoccupied to hold it up. It was nothing more than a temporary solution. Part of a plan. He wanted to get his hands on that door hanging on the wall back there for added protection.
All he had to do now was return to the room with the butcher’s block. Get his hands on the door on the wall, tie the top strips of rope together and he’d have a way to hold the door up, keep it in front of him.
He glanced at the ceiling. Rafters could be coming down pretty soon. How much time did he have left to get his hands on the butcher?
He took a step in the direction of the door-way, and got shoved back into the room by Patience McDaniel, in pursuit of that unpredictable and harebrained chicken, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“You’ll die in here chasing after it.”
Woman didn’t seem to care. She chased the hen around the burning mattress. Hen would have gone out the door, except Perez happened to be standing in the doorway, unintentionally blocking its path.
“Look, lady, if you stick close to me, I think I can give you enough cover to make it to the stairwell.”
“Milk the moose, I heard someone once say.” Her eyes stayed on the bird as she spoke. “They put their dicks in my mouth at the, at the . . . place. I was gang-raped repeatedly.”
How did one respond to something like that? Especially at a time like this?
“Ceiling is about to drop down on us.”
“They wore white suits, so you couldn’t see the cum stains very well. One of them kept saying: Milk the Moose. I heard somebody in here say that more than once: Milk the Moose cock.”
The chicken ran through the opening between his legs. He stepped aside just in time to keep from getting knocked over by the troubled woman and let her go through as well.
Bullets in that honey bucket out there by the bookcase kept going off, other bullets in that room across the way with the old style copper tub and butcher’s block exploded spasmodically.
He stepped out. Felt way too uneasy about having this flimsy mattress for a shield. He saw the woman go after the chicken into the room with the torture board on the wall. Shook his head. Was about to warn her about the bucket full of bullets in there. What was the use? You’re not going to reason with someone like that. Biggs was the one he needed to concentrate on. Biggs.
CHAPTER 614
The isolated mini fires progressed throughout the floor of the Fun Room. Bullets in the bucket went off periodically—that Patience McDaniel completely ignored.
The noisy chicken hopped to the right, circled the blazing honey bucket under the butcher’s block, ran under the table saw, and continued on toward the side of the room that the metal cabinet was on. Ran through the space between the wall and that end of the bathtub.
Patience saw this as her opportunity. Moved toward the backrest part of the tub. She would dive after the chicken. Had to.
Halfway into this maneuver, her foot slipped on oil and down came her jaw, hard, against the rim of the bathtub that resulted not only in a number of chipped teeth, but the frustration of nearly having had her hands on the chicken, only to see it bounce up through them, hop up her arms and into the tub.
Patience rose to her knees, then her feet, quickly enough. Unsteady, to be sure. Dazed and hurt. She leaned over the rim of the tub, arms extended, almost blindly reaching for the hen. The cobwebs in her head cleared at about the same time she managed to clamp her hands over the bird. The oil factored in again; it was also the awkward way she was positioned. She lost her equilibrium, and fell in, head first, the rest of her following. No matter. Because she held on to the flighty chicken that she was obsessed with. Did her utmost, too, to make certain that it was not harmed in any way while she turned over, repositioning herself in the tub, so that she was lying on her back at this point and was now able to hold the hen to her bosom.
She had finally done it. So relieved and happy that the joy of it had her near tears. She would care for it, give it water—provide, absolutely, but away from here, away from the noise and bad things going on.
The challenge presently was to climb out. Get herself and the precious bird out of the godawful nasty tub and as far from the chaos as she was able.
If Patience had so much as a small degree of genuine awareness of her whereabouts, she may at least have kept her head low enough, ducked down to protect herself. She didn’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t think of it.
As she lifted her right leg up, needing to negotiate it over the gooseneck spout and hand shower, another bullet, more-than-likely .22, popped inside the paint can. Entered her forehead above the eyes without penetrating the skull, traveled clear around within the scalp and skull—and exited at the point of
entry, slamming her back down against the bottom of the tub that left her stunned enough so that she was unable to maintain her grasp on the jumpy chicken.
Hen clucked frantically. Hopped about with greater fervor than ever—but lacked the ability to bounce high enough to clear the rim of the tub and flee its present predicament. Needed to make it up and over. Alas, not only was the tub cruddy and slippery, but the chicken itself had its share of motor oil on its “Adidas” that it couldn’t pull it off.
CHAPTER 615
Biggs looked about him now, taking stock where he was, needing to decide his next move. A frustrated Norbert sat up. Three-fourths out of it. Entirely disgruntled at not having been able to nail the hen that had evaded him at every turn and was now back out there somewhere. Could hear it still. Sounds were faint, but he could hear the clucking. Didn’t seem to bother him that his right eye was filling up with blood or that there was a nasty gash above and would soon be the size of a grade-A egg.
Biggs had the inside of the mask lined with Krazy glue and slipped it over Fimple’s skull. There. Would it work? And what kind of mileage could he expect as a result? The behemoth was too shaken to give the pig mask a second thought.
Biggs didn’t care. Mouth-breather was the least of Biggs’s worries at the moment. He had to make it to the tunnel entrance, slide the bookcase to the side, unlock the tunnel door, snatch up the duffel, and make a run for it. Hoped all the heat wouldn’t cause the shells in the army duffel to start blasting before he was able to reach the garage and get to the alley somehow. Had to give it his best shot. He drew one of the other Parfrey masks over his own head. Would it fool the enemy? He’d have to settle for it confusing some of them—if that was all it did.
