Lou thought for a minute. “How 'bout…what do we have left for snacks?”
“Chips and cookies.”
“What kind of cookies?”
“I don't know…chocolate chip.”
“We'll play for cookies, then.”
“Okay,” Mike said, “your deal.”
Biting his lower lip, Lou dealt the cards, wincing at the sound of thunder as it stampeded across the valley. It sounded as if the earth would split in two. The window panes rattled, and the rain fell harder, hissing down from the eaves. The cabin trembled on its foundation, as if in anticipation of the events that were about to unfold.
~Forty-Two~
Fueled by rage, Max sprang to his feet. “You wanna shoot me? Go ahead, you cocksucker! Shoot me! C'mon, you pussy, you piece of shit! You don't have the fucking balls!”
The Hacker retorted with a bullet.
Max suddenly found himself looking at the sky, and then the earth crashed against him, knocking the wind out of him. It was only after he had caught his breath that Max realized he had fallen. Moaning, he tried to get up, but his body betrayed him. It felt as though someone had set his right leg on fire. Oh, shit! Max thought. Oh, shit, what happened? But he knew what had happened. He'd been shot.
He looked down and saw the dark stain on his jeans. There was a small hole in his pants just above the knee where the bullet had entered. Wincing, Max stuck his fingers into the hole, and ripped it open. What he saw was not a bloody knee, as he had expected, but something that looked like a smashed tomato. Jeezus! thought Max. That's my fuckin' kneecap!
Suddenly the Hacker was standing above him, kicking him over and over until the bloody boy lay still.
“Is that all you've got?” Max snarled through a mouthful of blood. He looked up and saw the Hacker grinning, and the very sight of it made his stomach turn. Max rolled over onto his side and vomited in the wet grass.
“I'm gonna let you suffer for a while…for all the trouble you've caused me. Then, after I'm done with the rest of you little bastards, I'm gonna come back here, and I'm gonna cut off your feet, and then your hands, and I'm gonna throw you in the river.”
The Hacker holstered the Glock and drew a medium-sized hunting knife from his back pocket. Skillfully, he flicked open the blade, and ran its razor-sharp edge along the side of Max's face in a thin red line.
Max gritted his teeth to stifle a scream. Before, he'd been angry. Now he was terrified.
The Hacker, still smiling, licked the dark blood from the wet blade. Then he turned and headed off in the direction of the cabin.
The way to The Truth was near. The pool would soon be satisfied. And the Punks would finally be still.
Max lay on his back in the tall grass, staring up into the falling rain, wondering if he would be lucky enough to bleed to death before the Hacker returned. He could see the Hacker sneaking around the cabin, peeking in windows, searching for a way to get inside undetected. Watching this, Max was torn. It was a Catch-22. If he attempted to warn his friends, they would step out of the cabin and into an ambush. And if he didn't warn them, the Hacker would sneak in and attack them from inside the cabin. Max's own sense of helplessness was far more painful than his actual wounds.
Not wanting to see what he knew was going to happen, Max closed his eyes. The rain was cold against his flesh, but it was almost comforting. His leg was beginning to throb with pain, like a giant heartbeat, giving him the sensation that he was falling. And his ribs, several of which were broken, seemed to grind together as he breathed; in itself, a task that was becoming harder by the second.
When he finally opened his eyes he thought for sure that he was dead, because Rick was kneeling over him like an angel of mercy.
“Max, it's me…Rick,” he whispered. “Say somethin', damnit.”
“Are we dead?” Max asked. Spittle flew from his mouth and he began to cough heavily, trembling with every breath.
“No, man. No one's gonna die.”
Max looked up and saw a dark river of blood running down Rick's side.
“Oh, shit…you too?”
“Yeah. It hurts like hell. Can't move my left arm…but my right's still good. How're you doin'?”
Max tried to sit up, but was unable to muster the strength. “Me? I'm just dandy,” he said with a worried smile, and the gash on the side of his face opened and closed like a gill. Blood streamed down his cheek.
“You just sit still, man. You'll be okay?”
“Rick?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“I'm pretty fucked up, ain't I?”
“No,” Rick said, shaking his head. “No, Max, you're gonna be alright.”
Max was looking up into the rain. He wondered if he would be there soon, up in the sky, or if he was going to that other place.
“I've been an asshole all my life, and I'm sorry,” Max said, starting to cry. “I love you guys. I don't know what I would've done if I hadn't met you. Tell them that.”
“Don't you talk like that,” Rick said reassuringly. “You're not going anywhere.”
Max shook his head. He blinked slowly. “I…”
“Look at me,” Rick said, and Max turned his glossy blue-gray eyes towards him. “You're not gonna die.”
“You gotta help the others! He's gonna get inside the house!” Max exclaimed suddenly, again trying to get up, again failing. “Where's the shotgun?”
“Right here,” Rick answered. He held it up so that Max could see it.
The gun held three shells. Three chances.
Max grabbed him by the arm, grimacing with pain. His teeth were stained with blood. “Kill the muthafucka!”
Lightning fractured the sky, and in the yellow-white flash the two gave each other a solemn look. In a sense, Rick knew, they were bidding each other farewell. He didn't like it. But they needed to. Just in case.
Rick nodded and gave Max's hand a squeeze.
He had three shells. Three chances.
There was little room for mistakes.
As he hobbled across the meadow, Rick prayed that the shotgun, soaked from his fall into the river, would not fail him.
He only hoped that God was listening.
~Forty-Three~
After searching around the back of the cabin for a way to sneak inside, Alan Moriarty discovered the wooden ladder Max had used to gain access to the roof earlier that day, and slithered in through an open window and into the upstairs bathroom. Raindrops pelted the thin glass windows, tap-tap-tapping against the roof. Hunting knife in hand, he hid in the darkness, waiting.
Through the crack below the bathroom door, he could hear the voices of the Punks downstairs, ranting on about the insignificant things that Punks always talked about, and he couldn't help but smile at their ignorance. Among them, he could hear the sweetly seductive voice of the auburn-haired girl, the one who had escaped him.
“Soon they'll be quiet,” he whispered to himself. He would bring the girl back to the pool and finish what he'd started. And I'll be in that other place, because they promised me salvation. The Truth. They promised me The Truth, and soon I'll have it.
He waited, grinning.
Downstairs, Stacey Mackinnon finished making lunch, knowing that Rick and Max would soon return with their healthy appetites.
“Are all the upstairs windows shut?” Mike asked as he dealt another hand. He was already growing weary of Scat, but it was the only game Lou knew how to play.
Lou stood up. “I think so. I'll go check.”
“That's alright,” Mike said, laying his cards face down on the floor. “I'll do it. Just make sure you don't peek at my cards.”
Karen went to the stairs and paused with one hand on the railing. “Sit down and finish your game, you two. I'll do it.”
She began upstairs.
“God, I'm still starvin',” Lou said, warming his back near the fireplace. He rubbed his stomach, which rumbled in agreement.
“Me too,” Mike said, watching Karen go.
“Mmmm…this is sooo good,” Stacey said, sucking a glob of peanut butter from the tip of one finger. She pulled the wet finger from her mouth, and added: “Don't worry guys, the sandwiches are almost ready.”
“Thanks, Stace,” said Mike. Then, to Lou, “Okay, let's see what you…”
Suddenly there was a shrill scream, and Karen Sloan came toppling head over heels down the stairs. At the bottom, her head smacked the hardwood floor with one final, definitive thud, and then she was motionless, lying in a crumpled heap across the foyer.
“Oh, Jeezus!” Mike shouted, and ran to his lover's aid.
From the other side of the kitchen, Stacey let out a cry of surprise. “Oh my God! Karen!”
Mike was already kneeling by Karen’s side, pressing her limp hand against his face. Stacey was rushing over to join him when a sudden peal of maniacal laughter stopped her dead in her tracks. Her mind went haywire. Her hands trembled. Her feet froze. She couldn’t breathe. She could not even will herself to close her eyes against the waking nightmare that was unfolding before her.
“Mike!” Lou cried out, but Mike didn't hear him.
Mike was still gripping her hand, shouting deliriously, trying to bring her around. When that didn’t work, he lifted one of her eyelids, saw that the eye had rolled back like a big white marble. Then something on her midsection caught his eye.
A tiny rosebud had appeared upon her shirt. To Mike’s horror, its crimson petals bloomed into a shape the size of his open hand. Praying silently, he lifted her shirt to reveal a deep and bloody puncture wound. He was about to call for a bandage, a blanket, a rag, anything—
Then came a wrathful voice—no, it was more of a primal sound, a growl—like the sound of a wild animal, chomping at the bit.
“I've come a long way to kill you little bastards.” Wet shoes squished as the Hacker came down the stairs. “You should have stayed in Hevven, where you fucking belong, and this would have all been short and sweet. Now, it's gonna be messy…”
For some reason, upon hearing that voice, the image of a man with the leering face of a clock flashed briefly through Lou Swart's mind, and he knew that his nightmare was unfolding before his eyes.
Time had finally caught up with them.
Mike didn't know whose voice it was, but he could guess. He grabbed Karen by the arms and dragged her away from the stairs, into the kitchen. Pressing his hand over Karen's wound, he listened closely to the voice of the man; it was hellishly familiar.
A hulking figure wearing a police uniform appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his face barely visible in the dim firelight, but Mike recognized him just the same. Back in Hevven, Chief Moriarty was the leader of the Punk Catchers. Of course, Mike did not know that this was not the Chief himself but his brother, though the family resemblance was enough to jog his memory.
“Ahhh, Lucien Swart, I presume. I really gotta thank you for leaving me your wallet the other night. It came in handy. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here right now.”
Lou stood near the foot of the stairs, trembling in fear as he looked up at the figure in the gloom. But in Lou's mind it was not a man he was looking at; it was Death incarnate.
With calculated coolness, Alan Moriarty withdrew his Glock from its holster and pointed the muzzle at Lou's head. “Don't be afraid, my little friend. I want to save you. I want to wash away your sins.”
Then he looked away from Lou, towards Mike and the two girls. “I'm gonna take all of you back to Hevven,” he said, his voice rising and rising. “BACK WHERE YOU BELONG!”
Nostrils flaring, the Hacker turned his attention back to Lou, whose unspeakable fear had nailed him to the floor. The young boy's fear made the Hacker grin.
Mike stood up now, knowing if he didn't act quickly his little brother was going to die. From the corner of his eye, he saw Max's Dumb Ass Hot Sauce bottle resting on the counter, beneath the kitchen window. All at once, it was as if someone had flicked a switch in Mike's mind.
You know what to do, Mikey, the giants whispered. Their voices were matter-of-factly, surprisingly rational in light of the chaos that was taking place before him. You've been here before, remember?
And suddenly it occurred to Mike that he had been here before. Not here, exactly, but in similar situations on the football field behind Hevven High School; fourth-and-goal, when the odds were stacked against him, and his only chance of winning was to throw a 20-yard rocket into the end-zone, risking it all on hope.
Mike snatched the bottle in his hand and cocked his arm behind his head. This was not a game. There were no time-outs. There were no blockers to protect him. Just a wide-open field. The outcome of this moment relied entirely on him, the quarterback. But Mike had never been one to buckle under pressure. (He was a leader. A warrior. A goddamn hero in the pocket.)
His arm snapped forward in a blur. It wasn't the perfect spiral, but its aim was true.
The bottle smashed against the side of the Hacker's face, dousing him with the potent red liquid.
The Hacker howled in anger as the hot sauce scorched his eyes. The impact of the bottle had unhinged his prosthetic cheek, which peeled away from the raw cavern of receding flesh that surrounded one corner of his mouth and jaw, and curled downward toward his collar, still loosely attached to an invisible strap behind his neck. But the effect was only temporary. Though his vision was blurry, the Hacker's ears quickly relocated his whimpering target. He turned toward Lou and raised the pistol. Mike watched helplessly from the kitchen as the Hacker grinned. Pulled the trigger...
He was still grinning when the cabin door imploded. The force of the blast pushed him back against the stairs, the pistol falling from his hand, as a thousand splinters attacked him like a swarm of angry wasps.
As Mike covered his eyes against the raining shrapnel, he saw Lou looking down at the place where the bullet had thunked into the floor between his feet. Thank God, thought Mike.
He glanced behind him and saw Stacey huddled protectively over Karen. As the smoke cleared, he looked up and saw a stranger standing in the empty doorway. For a moment, Mike believed, actually believed without a doubt, that Uncle Jack had returned from the grave to save them from the Hacker.
Lightning flickered outside, temporarily illuminating the cabin. It was then that Mike recognized his battered friend.
Rick Hunter's clothes hung from his body in tatters. His bare legs were crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions. His dark, vengeful eyes peered out from behind a helmet of mud-caked hair. In his filthy hands, the shotgun gleamed murderously.
The Hacker wasn't grinning anymore.
He was sitting upright on the steps, looking for his Glock, which in the blast had landed somewhere by his feet. A long splinter, roughly the size of a broken pencil, protruded from his right eye. Blood and hot sauce trickled from his forehead and over his rotten, half-skeletal face. Finally, with one blurry eye, he saw the butt of his pistol gleaming in the firelight, and he snatched it up with a roar of triumph.
Crossing the threshold, Rick raised the shotgun and took aim, using his left elbow to level the barrel, as a thousand spots danced before his eyes like fireflies. He was about to black out. Don't go out, he told himself. Don't go out. Don't go out. Nauseous with pain, he squeezed the trigger.
Blood sprayed every which way as the Hacker fell backwards onto the stairs, his chest exploding into a maw of ravaged flesh. He fired his pistol one last time, into the ceiling, before it tumbled from his enormous hand. Then, looking up at the boy who had shot him, he smiled hauntingly. He began to laugh, gargling on his own blood. The way to The Truth was so very near.
Badly weakened by his plunge into the river, the recoil of the shotgun had sent Rick stumbling back, where he eventually lost his balance and toppled to the floor of the porch. Trembling, he used the shotgun as a crutch as he struggled against gravity. Ears still ringing, he paused a moment to catch his breath, waiting for the spots to go away.
Don't go out! Don't go out!
Suddenly, time itself seemed to slow down. Rick looked to his right and saw Mike and Stacey kneeling on opposite sides of Karen's crumpled body; Stacey was running her fingers through Karen's long dark hair in a loving, sisterly fashion. Her bottom lip trembled, her eyes leaking an endless stream of tears, trying to speak, but only cries could express her anguish. Mike sat in a trance, his hands held out before him, staring at his palms, which were covered in the blood of his lover. His mouth was open, screaming silently.
Rick looked to his left, and found Lou cowering in the corner by the fireplace. He was hugging his knees, mumbling to himself, eyes burning with hatred as he stared fixedly at the Hacker. It looked, to Rick, as if the boy had gone insane.
Teeth clenched, Rick aimed the shotgun at the Hacker's grimacing one-eyed face. But there was something in the Hacker's frozen fun-house grin that made him hesitate. It was as though he were saying: I'm far too evil to kill. But I dare you. I dare you to try it, anyway.
Then Rick heard Max Kendall's voice, whispering in his ear, which was impossible, because Max was still in the meadow, trying to crawl toward the cabin. Nevertheless Rick heard him. Right there in his ear, just as plain as day.
Kill the motherfucka, Max told him.
Rick envisioned Max lying on his back in the rain, his face slashed, leg bent at that peculiar angle, his knee reduced to a bloody pulp. His eyes—Max's wild blue eyes—as wide and violent as ever, and his bloodstained grin. I'm gonna die, Max had told him.
Kill the motherfucka!
“Do what you're friend said, and kill me,” the Hacker taunted, but Rick could not hear him. He could not hear anything, or anyone, but Max. “Kill me,” the Hacker growled, spitting a dark glob of blood by Rick's feet. “Kill me, now, you worthless piece of shit.”
No other sound but Max's voice: Kill the motherfucka!
Rick Hunter's final shot cracked the upper half of Alan Moriarty's skull apart as if it were a coconut, pitching the debris—fragments of bone, bloody clumps of hair, grayish chunks of brain matter—back against the stairs with a sickening splat. The body twitched in violent, dying convulsions, hands and feet shaking rapidly, and then fell still. What was left of his head was tilted upwards, towards the ceiling. Although most of Moriarty's features had been eradicated, Rick could've sworn he was still flaunting that crazed, crooked-toothed grin.
Rebel Angels Page 25
