Rust: Two

by Christopher Ruz

  But it had to end, in time. Fitch and Kimberly pressed down into a drainage culvert, the rainwater up to their knees, breath steaming as the night watchman emerged from behind the warehouse.

  The flashlight beam was a metronome. Fitch hissed every time it passed over their hiding spot. Beside him, Kimberly's teeth were chattering. She still clutched the bolt cutters against her chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight.

  Finally, mercifully, the night watchman turned away, headed for the main road that ringed the complex. Fitch tapped Kimberly on the shoulder. "Before he comes back, yeah?"

  Kimberly exhaled in one long, shuddering breath. "I almost shit my pants. How do you do this?"

  "Easier than getting a job. Didn't think you'd take to this so well."

  "Alex always said I was full of surprises." Kimberly's brow furrowed. "Or was that Peter? Or..."

  The slap of footsteps faded. "Fuck it," Kimberly said. "Let's move."

  The roller door was sealed with a simple padlock, too heavy to bust off with a crowbar but no great challenge for the bolt cutters. The door squeaked and groaned as they lifted it, working at each end to overcome the grind of rusted gears. The noise was muffled by the rain, but only barely, and Fitch expected the night watchman to return at any moment with his walkie-talkie in hand, summoning backup or cops or worse.

  But they closed the roller door behind them without any trouble, and when the footsteps of the guard passed by they did so unhurriedly, splashing through the puddles with a who-gives-a-damn attitude.

  Fitch exhaled and flicked on his pocket flashlight, casting a thin beam across the warehouse, ending in a circle no larger than his palm. He passed it over shelves stacked with round plastic barrels, rows upon rows piled eight or nine high, all the way up to the arched ceiling.

  He figured maybe thirty rows, a hundred and fifty barrels long... that made for over four thousand barrels. Ten or twenty gallons in each made for a lot of profit.

  And somewhere, buried among the tubs of acid and petrochemical sludge byproducts, were a couple hundred sealed barrels of pure, poisonous benzene.

  He only needed one. They'd never miss it.

  Kimberly blinked as she took in the enormity of the warehouse. "Which one is it?"

  "I'd wager the one that says benzene." The barrels - all with their lids vacuum-sealed and clamped down - looked like funeral urns. Each just large enough to fit an adult if you squashed them down good. Funny how much space a body could occupy. Seemed so small walking around and then once they were dead they became bunches of spindly spring-loaded limbs, flopping everywhere you didn't want them to be, slapping you in the face with their cold palms as you hustled them into the grave-

  He shoved his left hand into his coat pocket and grabbed the chittering thing, shuddering as damp pseudopods lapped across his knuckles. It burbled and spat into his palm as he kneaded it. Squeezing the bad thoughts away.

  It wasn't the time. Not here, not now, not when they had so much to do. He needed...

  "Ah." Third row along, second from the bottom. The barrels were bright green and stamped with black text: CYCLOHEXA-1,3,5-TRIENE/BENZENE/C6H6/DO NOT MOVE WITHOUT FORKLIFT, followed by a series of black-on-yellow safety illustrations showing chemicals leaching through skin, burning eyes, invading lungs.

  No little diagram that showed a man dying painfully of cancer over a period of years, but Fitch supposed they had to keep it snappy. "We only need one," he whispered, clambering atop a shipping crate in an effort to wrestle one of the benzene barrels to the ground. "Christ almighty, this is heavy. If the lid pops off, run. Don't breathe it, don't let it on your skin, don't-"

  "I've got it, I've got it." Kimberly's breath was shallow and panicked but her hands were steady as they levered the barrel down to the ground. It thudded hollowly on the concrete, and Fitch found himself doing mental calculations. The barrel was one of the smaller ones, only ten gallons, but at a five percent mix... He'd be throwing napalm-molotovs from now until the day he died.

  Which would be soon, if they didn't get back to the car ASAP.

  Kimberly was up against the roller door, listening for the passage of the night watchman. "I swear it's not supposed to be this easy," she whispered.

  "You forget where we are." Fitch grunted as he rolled the barrel the last few yards, parking it in front of the roller door. "Small town plants don't worry so much about security. Especially when there's not many who'd take a job that puts them out in the rain at midnight. Sure, people round here don't notice the bad stuff as much as they should. All of them have blinkers. But they know real deep down that walking around in the dark isn't healthy. That sucker out there, he's brave."

  "Maybe just desperate." Kimberly pressed her ear to the roller door. "Shhh... he's almost... Go!"

  They yanked the roller door up and rolled the barrel into the night. Rain plinked off plastic as they angled for the hole in the fence. It was a clear run all the way to the car, nothing in their way, but Fitch couldn't help glancing over his shoulder at the warehouse. There had to be more than one night guard, had to be some alarms, some cameras...

  Nothing. Not a word of protest as they eased the barrel through the hole in the fence and shunted it down the slope towards the Audi. The plastic barrel made a gentle zipping noise against the asphalt, like the buzz of nylon stockings rubbing together.

  Fitch grinned at Kimberly. "Too easy, huh?" She didn't reply, her lips pursed in concentration. "I'll buy you a beer when we get back. Gotta celebrate the little victories-"

  "Hey!"

  A light bobbed behind them. The night watchman, arms pumping frantically as he tried to catch up. "Hey! Police! You stop right there!"

  "Go go go!" Fitch shoved the barrel so hard it almost got away, skipping over the rough surface of the back-country road and bouncing up against the rear bumper of the Audi, leaving a dent the size of a dinner plate. He scrambled to open the trunk but the keys slipped in his sweaty palm. "Not now, not now, goddamnit-" The key socked home and the trunk creaked open. "Get it up!"

  Easier said than done. The barrel weighed about a hundred pounds and was smooth and round from top to bottom, the only real lip or crease being the clamped-down lid. No way was Fitch gonna lift it there and risk spilling cancer-juice all over their shoes. "Other end," he grunted. "Lift with your knees."

  Kimberly was panicked, panting. "We don't have time-"

  "Just lift the damn thing!"

  For a moment it didn't seem like they were going to get it high enough, but the barrel finally thudded into place. The night watchman was through the fence now, two hundred yards away and gaining fast. Fitch slammed the trunk shut and threw himself into the driver's seat, already pumping the gas. "Lady, will you move-"

  Kimberly tumbled into the car and snapped her seatbelt closed. "What're you waiting for?"

  The tires whined, skidded and finally caught, but the night watchman had closed the gap. He slammed his flashlight against the trunk. "Get out of the vehicle. Get out of the vehicle, you hear me?"

  Fitch replied by goosing the gas. The night watchman swore and lunged for the door handle. "You assholes!" His fingers squeaked on the rear window. "Stop!" His flashlight clattered against the door and fell away, bouncing off asphalt, the beam of light blinking as it tumbled into the bushes by the side of the road. "Stop!"

  Fitch pressed his middle finger against the window and floored it.

  The night watchman shrieked and cursed and finally stumbled over his own feet, falling on to hands and knees on the roadside. The Audi bounced hard off potholes until the night watchman was only a shimmer in the rear view mirror, moonlight curving around the brim of his cap. Then even that was gone.

  Fitch exhaled in a rush. He was gripping the wheel so tight it hurt to let go. "Better hurry back. He's gonna call the cops, no question. Jesus! Didn't think we were going to make it for a while there."

  Kimberly's reply was so quiet he barely heard it. "We were always gonna make it."

  "Bullsh
it. Tell me you weren't scared of going to jail."

  Kimberly turned away, staring out the window. They whipped past leaning pines and rocky outcroppings kissed by moonlight. Clouds growled just beyond the peaks. Thirty minutes from now, the storm would truly break and Rustwood would be half-underwater.

  "I'm already in prison," Kimberly said. "No big deal."

  But he saw how her fingers shook, trembling against her legs, like a butterfly trying to find a safe place to land.

  The street was empty when they arrived back at the theatre. Kimberly helped Fitch carry the barrel from the car and they rolled it up the stairs together. "Have to find somewhere out of the way to store this," Fitch grunted. "I'll get us some safety equipment from Dusty's. Don't need you poisoning yourself right before you get back to New York. And shit, have to hide the car, and set up some wards, and put a new lock on the door..."

  "Welcome to adulthood," Kimberly said. "A never-ending list of chores."

  "Used to it," Fitch replied. "In fact, don't think I ever was a child."

  "Oh, come on..." Kimberly stopped when she saw the look on Fitch's face. "No shit?"

  "You'll feel the same after a couple months. Unless you fight it."

  "The forgetting?"

  "Yeah. And worse, remembering. Ah, this isn't the time. We got any of that takeaway left? I could eat a horse down to the hooves."

  They hid the barrel in the theatre's cloak room, and Fitch made sure Kimberly scrubbed her hands afterward in case there was any residue on the tub. The last of the fried chicken they'd bought that afternoon was eaten in silence.

  All that was left to do was sleep.

  There were no beds in the theatre, and a mattress they'd found backstage - presumably used for practising tumbles - was so torn up that the rusted springs jutting through the fabric were more a health hazard than a comfort. But the seats in the mezzanine were comfortable, and they reclined back far enough that you could almost pretend you were flying first class.

  Kimberly was already nodding off. Fitch didn't blame her - it'd been one hell of an evening for a woman not used to break and enter. Good partner, though, even if she was rough around the edges. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to work with someone by his side.

  Fitch closed his eyes and tried to drift into sleep.

  He was dreaming of backpacks with busted zippers and school lunches packed in tin lunchboxes overflowing with mould and scribbles on a blackboard four foot high, his own name written in red pen on a test printed on yellowed carbon paper, his own true name but he couldn't quite read it no matter how he squinted, and-

  Three hollow knocks.

  Fitch sat upright, the dream bleeding away. "Did you hear that?"

  Kimberly was only half awake, her voice muffled by exhaustion. "Thunder?"

  "No, like-" There, again. Three hard thuds. Someone was at the door. "Kids looking for a place to shoot up, probably. Wait here."

  "I still don't hear anything-" Kimberly mumbled, but Fitch already had the boltcutters in hand. He tiptoed down the mezzanine stairs and crept to the double-doors that fronted the theatre. He pressed one ear to the wood, but there was no sound on the far side.

  Kids had probably left dog shit in a bag and run. But he opened the doors anyway, bolt-cutters cocked back and ready to bust a skull, and peered out into the gloom.

  "Fitch, old friend. How's the lonely life treating you? Or did you finally bring a lady home for the night?"

  Fitch tried to slam the door but his arms were frozen in place. Every muscle from his eyebrows down to his toes had seized, the pain of the cramps forcing a scream between his teeth. He wanted to call for help but his tongue was dead weight. His teeth ground together so hard he could feel the bone beginning to split.

  "No need to answer," Gull said. "I can hear her. Could hear every breath from a mile away, to be honest. She sends off sparks, did you notice? A real force of nature, that one. I wonder if you even know what an asset you've got there?" He cocked his head, that slick grin growing wider by the moment. "My my. You didn't think the beast was after her just for her looks, did you?"

  Last time he'd seen Gull was at the man's house, that queer little bungalow behind black iron gates, the weather vane atop the attic peak spinning so fast it was sickening to watch. Gull had offered to locate Kimberly when she was trapped in the depths of Bo Tuscon's basement. A ceremony of bowls and blood...

  He'd thought he'd left Gull behind. But here he was on the theatre doorstep, dressed in a pressed linen suit and an oilskin coat so long it brushed the wilted grass, grinning like he'd just licked the last traces of cream from his lips.

  It took every bit of strength Fitch had to force the word out. "Please-"

  Gull's eyes widened, as if offended. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not here to kill you. Or her, for that matter. I just popped by to remind you of our little arrangement. You hadn't forgotten, old friend?"

  "I-"

  "I found her for you when you were casting out blind. I opened myself to the beast. You think I did that for fun? You owe me, Fitch. But don't worry. I know a way we can even the scales. Real neat and easy, too. I think you'd appreciate the simplicity of it all."

  Faintly, echoing, from deep in the theatre: "Is something wrong? You get rid of those kids?" A pause. "Hello?"

  Fitch was sweating but he couldn't wipe it away. The drops ran down his forehead, pearled on the end of his nose, and splashed on the concrete steps between his feet. He could smell his own fear, a ripe salty stink that made him feel five years old again. If he could've cried, he would've.

  Footsteps. Kimberly coming to investigate. Go away, he begged. Go away, hide, run-

  If Gull was worried, he didn't show it. "Watch this," he whispered, rubbing his hands together before him. Then he coughed and opened his mouth wide.

  He spoke in Fitch's voice. "Thought I heard a siren, but it's nothing. Coming back. Hey, don't look in my back pack, okay?"

  "Sure, whatever." A door slammed closed as Kimberly retreated to the mezzanine. Gull coughed again, and his true voice returned. "You like my new trick?"

  The pain of being locked in place was only growing more intense, but at least Mrs Archer was out of the way. It was a small relief, but enough that Fitch could keep the screaming inside. "Huh... how?"

  "Good old blood-magic. Not your best decision, leaving a whole bowl of it in my house, was it? Thing about blood magic is, it can't be stolen. You had to draw the blade yourself."

  He remembered standing in Gull's living room. The smell of burning toast as he drew the knife across his forearm. "Tricked me-"

  "Is that ironic, or just unfortunate? Don't worry, Fitch. I'd never use it for anything... untoward. Now, let's talk business. You're headed to the convent, aren't you?" Gull licked his lips. The tip of his tongue was forked, Fitch was sure. "Maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but soon. And I know what you're planning. No, I didn't read your mind. You're just too damn predictable, that's your problem. And you know if I can read you so easily, the beast can too. So. When you go in there, I want you to do me a little favour."

  The hold on Fitch's tongue was loosening. Maybe because Gull was getting tired... or maybe because he enjoyed gloating, and it wasn't any fun to gloat when your victim couldn't cry.

  He could've called for Kimberly. Could've warned her. But right then, with Gull close enough to kiss and the rain turning the lawn outside the theatre to mud and every muscle in his hands taut as wire, bending his fingers back so far he thought they'd snap, he still couldn't do it.

  He needed to know.

  "What?" he whispered. "What the... the hell do you... want?"

  If Gull's grin had been wide before, now it was obscene. His teeth were white and pointed and his jaw almost unhinged, like a jackal slavering over easy prey. And in the pit of his throat, God help him, something black and rotten squirming...

  Gull leaned in close, very close, until his lips were pressed to Fitch's ear.

  Fitch couldn't pull away as Mister Gu
ll whispered his demands.

  Chapter 9

  Fitch began mixing napalm at noon the next day.

  He set up his workshop in the women's changing rooms out back of the theatre, claiming that the bank of mirrors helped him see what his hands were doing. He didn't let Kimberly into the room, forcing her to watch from the sidelines as he stirred and measured and mixed.

  Kimberly didn't understand the particulars of the recipe Fitch was using. Most of what she knew of napalm came from TV during the final years of the Vietnam war. A spindly pre-teen with hair down to her waist, sitting in her father's lap during the nightly news, peeking at the screen through splayed fingers as if she could filter the horrors. Huge swathes of jungle reduced to black sticks. Villages left as a tangle of smoking mud and bone. Body bag after body bag after body bag dragged to evac choppers.

  She didn't know then that what she was watching was footage from almost eight years previous, before the US pullout. Canned replays of Vietnamese children doused in napalm and left to fry like fairground corn-dogs. Bulldozers shovelling corpses by the hundreds into long trenches of flesh. Easy fuel for McGovern's presidential campaign, fuel that proved as effective as spitting on the flames, culminating in Nixon's own evacuation and the endless beat of helicopter rotors during the fall of Saigon.

  She'd learned about napalm, those nights. The way it stuck to flesh and wood and stone alike, melting through layers of skin. Whatever Fitch was mixing - rubber gloves up to the elbow as he stirred benzene and styrofoam chunks into his petrol stew - would do the same.

  That thought left her shivering. If he or Rosenfeld were wrong about what was hiding in the convent... if they were planning to throw a handful of molotovs into the faces of innocent nuns, Jesus Christ...

  Then she thought of the clicker clawing free of Bo's throat, and how she would've felt if she'd had a fistful of fire when she'd been stuck down in that basement, and her doubts bled away.