A Bomb Built in Hell

by Andrew Vachss

  “How’m I going to find the answers?”

  “I don’t know. They’re not all in books. And don’t be listening to all kinds of silly motherfuckers ... test them all. You got enough money to hole up fifty years if you have to, right?”

  “Yeah. How’m I going to bury you, Wesley? I don’t want the—”

  “The State birthed me—the fucking State can bury me. Just watch the TV real close tomorrow. You’ll see me wave good-bye.”

  84/

  They both went back into Wesley’s apartment and, after Wesley told the dog to stay put, he showed the kid all the systems, where everything was. It took several hours. Then Wesley stood up. “I’m going up on the roof, kid. Get everything ready—I’ll be pulling out around ten tomorrow.”

  Wesley smoked two packs of cigarettes on the roof, thinking. The News only reported the “heart attack” death of the desk clerk because it was in the same hotel where a half-nude man was found shot to death—a bullet in his chest, one in his eye, and another in the back of his neck. A low-yield explosion had blown out most of the room.

  He thought of calling Carmine’s widow to tell her about the fifty thousand in the basement, but decided to tell the kid about it instead.

  He spotted a tiny fire out on the Slip—it was getting cold again and the tramps would have to make their usual arrangements. Wesley realized that he wasn’t sleepy. And that he’d never sleep again.

  85/

  By 10:30 the next morning, everything was ready. The dog sat on its haunches in the corner of the garage. It ran forward and leaped into the truck’s cab when Wesley snapped his fingers. Wesley started the engine; it rumbled menacingly in the sealed garage.

  He looked down at the kid, who was looking up.

  “How old’re you, kid?”

  “Twenty-eight, I think.”

  “I don’t want to see you for a lot of years, right?”

  “I’ll be here, Wes.”

  “You got your own brain, but you’re my blood. All my debts are cancelled—the only reason you out here now is for yourself, right?”

  “For all of us.”

  “If something fucks up, I’ll get across the Bridge before I let go. You know what to do if they come here?”

  “I always knew that.”

  Wesley pressed his hand against the window glass, palm out—the kid’s palm flattened against his.

  86/

  The kid turned and hit the garage button. Wesley released the clutch and the big truck rumbled out onto Water Street. As the truck headed for the Bridge, Wesley spoke to the dog. “Keep your fucking head down. As ugly as you are, they’d see something was wrong for sure.”

  The dog sat on the floor of the cab on the other side of the gearshift lever. The thermometer on the dashboard, calibrated in centigrade, read a steady fifty degrees, the speedometer an equally steady forty-five.

  Wesley remembered not to take the exact-change lane since he had a truck this time. He paid the Whitestone toll and motored sedately onto 95 North. The big truck moved through New Rochelle without problems. It wasn’t the only rig on North Avenue.

  It was almost 11:30 when Wesley turned onto Pinebrook Boulevard. A squad car passed him by without a glance. By 11:45, he was turning into the school parking lot.

  Wesley drove the truck right up to the front entrance of the huge building. He got out quickly and threw a series of switches. The carbon monoxide hissed into the giant tank with the nickel bars, a heavy-voltage current shot through all the hardware holding the truck doors closed, priming the system to release the explosive at the same time.

  Wesley drew a couple of curious glances, but nobody said a word. He opened the cab of the truck and snapped his fingers for the dog to jump down. Then he pulled two large suitcases and a heavy canvas duffel bag from the cab. He reached back inside and pulled what looked like the choke cable. A tiny, diamond-tipped needle slammed into the plastic distributor cap and five cc’s of sulfuric acid ran into the points; nobody could hope to start the truck now, even with a key. A quick twist on the valve of each tire sent a similar needle slamming home and the tires started to drain—the hiss was audible only if you stood very close.

  Wesley shouldered the duffel bag, grabbed a suitcase in each hand, and walked up the flower-bordered concrete to the main door, the dog trotting along behind him as silent as a fish in clear water. Students and teachers looked at him curiously, but the elderly lady didn’t seem surprised when Wesley stopped in front of her. “Pardon me, ma’am. Could you direct me to the auditorium?”

  “Certainly, young man. It’s just down the end of this corridor,” she gestured with a ringless left hand. “You’ll see the signs.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Wesley turned and began to walk down the corridor. A teacher who looked like a college kid, with long brownish hair, a red shirt and a silly-authoritative face stopped him. “Can I help you?”

  “The auditorium,” Wesley replied. “Gotta go fix the lights.”

  The young man looked at Wesley critically, but finally shrugged. “It’s straight ahead,” he said, and went back to his dreams of a marijuana paradise where all men were brothers.

  Wesley found the auditorium. It had three doors across the back and an entrance on each side—five in all, too many to cover. The floor plan had been accurate. It was empty. Wesley walked down the center aisle to the front row. He threw his equipment up on the stage and opened the duffel bag. He pulled out a pair of holsters and cartridge belts and strapped them on, sticking an S&W .38 Special with a four-inch barrel in one, the silenced Beretta in the other. He pulled out the grease gun and bolted in the clip. The stopwatch on his wrist told him four minutes had elapsed—ten minutes to go to be safe.

  Wesley pushed all the equipment toward the back of the stage and tested the PA system to be sure it was working. He climbed off the stage and started to walk back up the aisle when the young teacher with the long hair came running down the aisle toward him.

  “Hey, you! I just called Con Edison and they said there wasn’t any—”

  Wesley’s first shot with the Beretta caught the young man in the chest, knocking him over two rows of seats. There was no reaction to the muffled sound. Wesley kept walking unhurriedly toward the auditorium doors. The Permabond went all around the openings of both doors, leaving the middle one open.

  Wesley checked his watch—no more time. He snapped his fingers and the dog rose from where he had been resting. Wesley pointed toward the left-hand side door, said, “Guard!” and the dog trotted into position. Wesley quickly bonded the door and switched positions with the dog again, finishing the other one.

  Leaving the dog lying down near the center of the stage, Wesley walked through the middle door toward the signs that said ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES.

  The walls were all glass, floor-to-ceiling. Students were hanging over the long counter asking questions about clubs and transcripts and bickering over their schedules when Wesley walked in and swept the entire field with a long, screaming burst from the grease gun. In seconds, the whole giant room was red and yellow with human death. Wesley walked quickly around the counter and into the big office marked PRINCIPAL. A nice-looking woman, apparently the man’s secretary, was seated at a kidney-shaped desk with her mouth wide open. No sound was coming out. Wesley shot her in the stomach with the unsilenced piece and kept walking.

  A chubby man was in the office, crouched down behind a desk. A solid-looking older woman was frantically speaking into a phone. “Florence! Florence, get the police! Florence...?”

  Wesley walked in and they both fell silent. Wesley looked at the man. “You the principal?”

  The lady stood up to her full five-foot height. “I’m the principal.”

  She didn’t look frightened. Good—maybe she’d do what she had to do. “Get on the PA system and tell everyone to get into the auditorium,” Wesley snapped at her. “Tell them there’s been an emergency and to get a move on—”

  “I won’t
do any such thing! Those children are my—”

  Wesley ripped her open with a short burst from the grease gun, thinking, Fucking women and children—I should’ve known. He spun the gun’s barrel into the face of the crouching man. “You do it. Do it fast!”

  The man’s fingers were wet and trembly as he pushed the button for the PA system, but he couldn’t make himself talk—only spittle came out. Wesley shot him with the revolver and grabbed the microphone.

  “Attention, please!” He heard his voice echoing and knew the man must have turned it on correctly. “There’s been an emergency. All students and teachers proceed at once to the auditorium. Enter only by the middle door from the back. Repeat: This is an emergency—we are under attack! Proceed to the auditorium at once!”

  He stepped out into the corridor just as he heard the police sirens in the distance. His watch said six minutes still to go before the gas was sure to be ready. Wesley stepped over the bodies in the outer office and sprinted back toward the auditorium. The frightened students seemed comforted by the sight of the man in military gear, obviously armed to protect them. They were already milling into the auditorium as he rushed into the side door, smashing a path with the butt of the pistol. The dog was patrolling in front, keeping the students away from the stage.

  Wesley ran to the stage. He turned to see a mob of terrified students streaming in through the middle door. A tall cop was trying to shove his way through to the front—Wesley waited until the cop almost got through and shot him in the face with the loud gun. The screaming got worse. The auditorium was nearly full of students and teachers, with all the others trying desperately to get inside—to safety.

  Wesley aimed the grease gun at the middle door and screamed, “Get the fuck away from that door!” and cut loose with another burst before he switched clips. Bodies went flying out into the hall and the screams from the kids already inside made it impossible to hear anything else.

  Wesley charged the one open door. The dog followed. Wesley cleared out what was left of the remaining people with the grease gun, jacked in his last clip in one motion, and ran forward. He managed to slam the door even against the frightened tide—they fell back when they saw Wesley and the gun.

  The dog went berserk, mouth foaming, snapping, keeping the remaining crowd away from Wesley. Students ran to the side doors, now trying to get out—it was useless. The Permabond went around the middle door in seconds and Wesley turned and ran back toward the stage. He leaped up and grabbed the microphone with one hand, firing another burst into the ceiling. “Shut the fuck up! Keep quiet or I start blasting again!” and the place quickly silenced except for occasional whimpers. One kid was crying and couldn’t stop. Wesley looked out at the horrified crowd, the grease gun still threatening the room.

  “Stay quiet! The next one moves or screams gets killed!” He could hear the sirens clearly now—cops must be all over the place. His watch said three minutes until the gas would be ready. Wesley’s eyes swept the auditorium. He stopped at a husky-looking kid in a letterman's sweater. The kid caught Wesley’s eye, too, and tried to look away.

  “You! Come up here! Quick!”

  The kid slowly climbed up out of his fear and walked quickly toward the stage. Wesley held the gun at the boy’s face. He spoke without the microphone. “Climb up to that ledge by the side and go out a window. Tell the cops that I got me a few hundred hostages. Tell them I got enough dynamite in those suitcases to level this whole fucking school. Tell them I want to talk. You got that?”

  “The windows don’t open,” the kid quavered “I—”

  “Break the fucking windows! Move!”

  The kid ran toward the side of the auditorium, causing a momentary stir. Wesley grabbed the microphone again. “Stay still! He s going out to get help for you!” and they quieted. The kid finally clawed his way out of the window and dropped to the ground. Wesley’s watch showed one minute still to go when he heard a familiar, bull-horned voice.

  “You inside! What do you want? You can’t get out!”

  Wesley grabbed the microphone—the volume was already boosted as much as it could go and he shouted at the top of his voice.

  “I want a helicopter to take me to the airport and I want a motherfucking 747 to take me to Cuba! You got that, pigs?”

  Wesley figured that sounded sufficiently like the usual revolutionary bullshit to hold the cops for the minute or so he needed. The voice came back immediately.

  “Let the kids go! Let the kids go and we’ll get you a plane!”

  Wesley didn’t answer. He flicked the switch on the transistor radio in his shirt pocket and the tiny earplug gave him the immediate public version. The announcer said that three units of the State Police as well as squads from New Rochelle, Larchmont, White Plains, and Scarsdale were all around a building where an unknown group was holding hundreds of children hostage. The people inside had demanded a plane to Cuba but, remarkably, they hadn’t mentioned a thing about ransom to release the hostages....

  Forgot the fucking ransom, Wesley thought, hoping his act wouldn’t appear too bogus. If they knew...? But his watch told him the time was up and he relaxed.

  The loudspeaker outside crackled again.

  “You inside! We’ve got the plane for you! Let all the hostages go and we’ll send in some cops to replace them. Unarmed, okay?”

  “How many cops you got out there?”

  “Too many for you, punk!”

  “Bring some more, motherfuckers!”

  The bullhorn was silent—they must have been working over the lame asshole who had screamed that crap about “too many.” A thing like that could make a man act crazy.

  When the radio told him that the TV crews were in place outside, Wesley checked his watch again—it was 12:03.

  He slipped the gas mask over his face and sprayed the auditorium with one final blast from the grease gun. He pulled out a stick of dynamite, then immediately rejected it in favor of six similar sticks all taped together with a long fuse.

  Everyone was screaming and crying and dying in the place. Wesley lighted the single stick and threw it with all his strength toward the rear of the auditorium ... it blew out half the wall, taking dozens of kids with it. Wesley bolted for the giant hole the explosion made, and the dog followed. They almost ran right into four cops stationed in the corridor. The dog covered the distance to them in a flash-second and was ripping out the first one’s throat as Wesley spray-blanketed the corridor with bullets. As he leapt over the bodies, he saw the dog was hit along the spine. The animal was trying to breathe—he didn’t have long.

  Wesley scooped up the dog in his arms and headed for the metal stairs leading to the roof. He gained the roof in seconds, and stepped out in front of everyone. He checked quickly—the screaming about the dynamite should have been enough to keep cops off the roof, but...

  The roof was empty.

  The TV cameras all focused on the single figure of a madman carrying a dog. Before anyone could shoot, or even react, Wesley knelt, gently lowered the dog to the roof, and pressed the transmitter button. The bottom and sides of the truck shot outwards. A huge, dense cloud of greenish gas started to billow out over the ground. The explosion was still echoing and everyone was running for cover.

  The kid was magneted to the TV in Wesley’s apartment, watching and listening to the announcer.

  “The unknown man on the roof has apparently detonated some sort of explosion on the ground ... people are taking cover and a squad of policemen has gone around the back to try and gain access to the roof. The darkness you see on your screen isn’t your picture ... apparently some type of gas has been released from the truck ... but we’re about five hundred yards from the scene so there shouldn’t be any problem bringing the rest of this to you ... the man is lighting something! It looks like a torch! He’s holding it high above his head ... he... Oh my God, he looks like the Statue of Liberty! He’s...”

  As the kid watched, the explosion darkened the picture screen and
the announcer’s voice faded.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: d4eece1c-00d9-49ff-9d47-e55b7d994924

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 28.5.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Andrew Vachss

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