“Stop! Stop, goddamnit!”
But the Weisshemden seemed unable to stop. Like someone had rung a bell that couldn’t be unrung, triggering them to their bloody compulsion that wouldn’t cease until the corpse had been ripped to shreds and distributed like a treasure of flesh among pirates.
How much blood can one human body have in it? Marsten wondered.
“Cackler, help me here!” yelled Simpson.
No, not a bell, thought the Maestro. A teapot.
That damned teapot was still screaming.
Would someone please take that damned thing off—
Then he realized what he was hearing and turned to stare at the stall. The woman whose fate was spared by the intervention of the now-dead officers lay on the cold, tile floor in a fetal position.
No, not a teapot at all.
Her eyes were fixed, unable to unsee the horror show in the hallway. Her mouth was locked open, and she was screaming still, impossibly long shrieks that seemed to need no break for breath.
The Maestro walked over to her and raised the axe, determined to put an end to the noise once and for all. But even with him standing over her, any hope of rescue now lost to her, the woman took no notice of this, just stared straight ahead, unwavering, at the carnage in the corridor.
That gave Marsten pause. He couldn’t dispatch her, couldn’t send her to meet the little girl and her family and all his other victims without her proper appreciation. But that goddamned screaming was just about to sever his spine.
Flipping his axe around, Marsten aimed the flat end of the handle’s knob at the side of her skull and knocked her out with one, quick golf stroke of his wrist. Then the Maestro reached down, grabbed her by the hair of the head, and dragged her roughly out of the stall. The ill-considered action sent electric shockwaves through his thigh.
The bullet. The battle fever was wearing off.
“Boy, she was a squealer, huh? But you never get tired of hearing it, you know? I mean, it’s like the payoff, the money shot, the coup-de-gracie, the…”
Cackler, who’d come up behind Marsten to see what all the noise was about, broke off as the Maestro cast his cruel eye upon him. Seeming to shine impatient judgment onto whomever it touched. Cackler, as always, dropped his eyes immediately.
“Caw, caw, caw! Caw, caw, caw!”
In the distance, Marsten could hear the Weisshemden continue their mission to secure the rest of TranStar, overrunning the police presence easily from the sound of it. From the screams, shouts, and random reports of gunfire, dozens of scenes like the one in the corridor were being repeated facility wide. And always, there was the constant “Caw, caw, caw!” of the whiteshirts as they scoured every office on every floor.
Following the teapot’s screaming, their constant crowing made Marsten’s ears ring. He stared at the useless scarecrow that invented the damned noise and was tempted to end Cackler right then and there, simply for the moment of satisfaction it would bring him. But that wouldn’t stop the noise, now would it?
“Help your boss with his business,” Marsten growled, dragging Iris out of the bathroom by her hair. “Get it done and shut those fuckers up.”
* * *
Securing the building took less time than Simpson thought it would. The whiteshirts simply overwhelmed any resistance they found. The first ones in took the bullets, while those that followed swarmed the shooters. Only a few of the Black Hand had bothered to use the guns secured for them in Conroe. Most seemed to prefer ripping apart their targets with their bare hands.
Their lack of control worried Simpson. A mob wasn’t an army. And there wouldn’t be any army if their first recruits killed all the prospective draftees. They’d need to fix this problem and fast, if the plan he laid out for the Lady was to work.
He glanced around TranStar’s central control center. Dozens of computer terminals lined the main floor, many with multiple displays for monitoring Houston’s millions of daily commuters. Large displays on the walls, split into dozens of smaller screens, showed whatever part of the transportation network was under scrutiny. The layout looked almost exactly like NASA as he’d seen it portrayed in the movies.
Simpson stood behind a woman sitting at a terminal, her fingers trembling as they danced over her console. Her fear was good. He needed her compliant. She was their key to tapping into the Emergency Broadcast System. Another vital component if his plan was to work.
“So, when you send this message out,” said the Maestro to Simpson as Maggie prepared to cut the blue jeans away from the bullet wound in his thigh, “people will just come here? Why?”
“Because that is what sheep do, Maestro,” answered Id. She’d had a couch brought in from one of the private offices and placed on top of a conference table. Gazing down upon her acolytes, she lazed on it like a queen of the ancient world, who expected grapes to be dropped in her mouth upon command. “They flock where the shepherd—or in our case, the wolves—herd them.”
“And then we just touch them in their special places and the Black Hand expands,” said Maggie, ripping the denim from Marsten’s skin with gusto.
“My concern is what the whiteshirts will do,” muttered Simpson. “Controlling them seems to be … an issue.”
“I thought they did just fine,” said Marsten with a grin. It jerked into a grimace as Maggie tightened a tourniquet above the wound. Simpson saw the flash of anger cross Marsten’s face, as he’d seen so many times before. He knew the Maestro was tempted to cuff Maggie upside the head. But for some reason, he didn’t. This time. “And they didn’t kill everyone,” growled Marsten. “Just most everyone.”
The Lady sighed. “Your species is so easily reverted to its primitive roots,” she said dismissively. “You think your history is long and vast, replete with triumphs fed by technology. Warming your furred nakedness with fire, but really you were ever only one spark of inspiration beyond the rest of the animals on this planet. Rolling forward into the future on a wheel, first made of stone, then of wood, then of rubber. Deciding the stardust that makes you who and what you are is imperfect … and constructing tiny, invisible gods to rewrite it for you. In truth, you are all walking apes, only one natural disaster away from feeding on one another. As we have seen. At best, pets. At worst, a waste of air and water and food.” She reclined on the couch and sighed, as if pondering the notion of humanity’s existence vexed and fatigued her beyond measure.
For a moment, no one said anything. Then a grunt came from Marsten in response to Maggie’s probing in his thigh for the bullet. She’d secured a fingernail file from a woman’s purse and a bottle of bourbon from one of the office desks.
“Ready, baby?” she asked.
“Do it, bitch, just do it,” replied the Maestro.
Simpson noticed the flash of fury pass across Maggie’s face in response to Marsten’s slur, then the gleeful look as she poured the bourbon. Marsten made a heavy, extended grinding noise from deep in his throat as the alcohol washed over the wound.
Walking over to the raised dais Id had erected for herself, Simpson said, “Lady, what you say might be true, but the fact remains—to conquer first this city, then the world … we need an army that—”
“Thinking too much,” sighed Id, sitting up on one elbow. Even on her side, Simpson noticed, her breasts seemed to defy gravity. “That’s your species’ problem. Your Maestro has the right of it. My Black Hand has performed magnificently. They did precisely what your science and my … extension of its potential … created them for.”
“Anarchy?” asked Simpson. His incredulous tone once again quieted the room. Maggie stopped her digging and glanced over her shoulder at them. Even Marsten stared his way, a curious expression of surprise and admiration fighting for real estate on his pained face. The room caught its collective breath, waiting to see if their goddess would smite her defiant general.
Instead, she merely smiled at Simpson, beckoning him to her with a teasing tendril of her auburn hair. His feet moved forward
of their own volition, his expectant face staring up into her fiery green gaze. It burned a little brighter as she reached out with her hair and stroked Simpson’s jawline, tracing its firm bone structure. His eyes closed involuntarily as his body demanded he take a moment and experience the sensation that moved like an electric current along the surface of his skin. Longing coursed through his being. An orgasm of touch began to boil his blood.
“Anarchy indeed, child,” she breathed, a heavy wet sound that could stiffen lust back into a corpse. “Now, at last, you begin to understand.”
Chapter 14: Wednesday, early morning.
They were almost there, Lauryn knew. The mechanical voice on the radio spouted the latest public service announcement on a low-band AM channel. Sounded like the authorities were concentrating on opening roadways to allow FEMA and other agencies access to help relieve those suffering in place without electricity or fresh water. Fear not, the robot announcer assured its listeners. The military was coming.
The sooner, the better.
Lauryn thought of the thousands of prisoners as she and the others drew nearer by the minute. They’d just passed through the neighborhood of Woodland Heights and over the thin ribbon of White Oak Bayou. TranStar was minutes away. And dawn wasn’t far behind it.
And then what? Lauryn wondered. Stavros—Eamon, she reminded herself with some effort—claimed to have a plan. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing when he’d filled his shopping list at Walmart. He’d explained in detail everything he was gathering, and why he needed it. Mason jars, firecrackers … she had to admit, his knowledge of how to weaponize every day, household items was impressive. And a little bit scary.
Once again, chemistry proves itself relevant in real life, she thought, recalling how she met Mark and their mutual disdain for that particular subject in college. Who knew?
“—opening roads along Loop 610 West and U.S. 290—” droned the radio.
“Why did you quit the force?” asked Megan.
Washington Avenue was coming up. Though the street sign was shrouded in darkness, Lauryn could see Washington as it branched off the feeder road they were creeping along.
Almost there. Wait, what?
“What, babe?”
“The police. Before the prison, you were a real cop. Why’d you quit?”
Megan and Eamon had exchanged seats after the stop at Walmart. He’d moved to the back to build his homemade arsenal with Colt, and now he was dictating into that recorder of his. Megan moving up front suited her mother just fine. Less glancing in the rearview mirror that way.
“Your father and I decided…” Lauryn half-smiled, but she kept her eyes on the road rather than spare her daughter the look her heart wanted to share. “We decided it was too dangerous after I got pregnant with you. Sounds funny, I know, given where we are now.” Her argument with Eamon about coming on this quest briefly flashed in her mind. She wondered how much of her reluctance was fueled by memories of Mark’s old arguments persuading her to give up the force after she’d become pregnant with Megan.
“They wouldn’t give you a break? I mean, don’t they have to do that when you get preggers?”
The lights of TranStar glowed in the distance now. It was the only thing lit up for miles. Its very luminescence seemed to be drawing them to it. Like Icarus to the sun, she thought. Or moths to flame. Pick your ominous metaphor.
“I had FMLA—the Family Medical Leave Act—going for me, and HPD would’ve given me modified assignment.” Lauryn adopted a wistful tone. “But I kinda lost the fire in my belly after you took up residence there.”
“What, it’s my fault you quit being a cop?” asked Megan.
Defensive. Offended. The patented teenage tone of best-defense-is-a-good-offense that erupts out of nowhere.
“—are directed by Harris County to make their way north and west—” stated the radio. A voice more insistent, more commanding and less robotic, replaced the dry, informative tone. The teen reached over and turned the buzzing down. She wanted to hear her mother’s answer.
“No, honey, that’s not what I meant. My priorities changed. When I was younger, being a cop was all I wanted to do. Help people, you know? Protect them. That’s what I wanted my future to be. But then you were my future, and a paycheck and staying safe for you were more important. And I still made a difference as a corrections officer. Sorta.” Lauryn did pull her eyes away from the road then to focus on Megan for a moment. “It’s not something I regret.”
The teen’s mask of affected trauma melted away. “And Dad? He didn’t mind?”
In the distance, lined up like a nighttime field trip had just arrived, Lauryn saw the school buses parked along Katy Road. They stood, grill to tailpipe, in perfect symmetry outside the security fence surrounding TranStar.
Lauryn pulled the truck to a slow stop several hundred yards from the facility. Flashes of individuals wearing white jumpsuits reflected the moonlight. Prisoners on watch outside the front door. She turned off the ignition.
“No, he didn’t mind. Your dad wanted me off the force. He hated it when I was on the streets. He hated Houston, pretty much. But he had a job here, and he thought he was making a difference too, in his own way. So—”
“Then why did y’all break up?”
Megan’s voice wasn’t petulant. It didn’t carry the knowing wisdom of the sage, nor was the smug entitlement of a teenager present. But the pain of a fatherless girl was there. The need to know why her family had been torn apart. Why they’d come to be where they were, even before the world went to shit.
But Lauryn had no answers for her. None they had time to explore, anyway. And she doubted Megan would understand how two people in a relationship can grow apart. How they can turn from soulmates to roommates seemingly overnight and not even notice the change until it’s way too late to turn back the clock.
“I suppose his priorities changed, too,” she said simply. She kept the snark out of her voice, but her mind couldn’t help thinking how a man’s dick too often pointed the way to a new priority. Then, immediately, she felt guilty for the thought. Mark was dead. And in the end, he’d earned her respect in dying, if not in the way he’d lived the final days of their marriage.
“—citizens not following these directives will be considered in violation of martial law—”
“Mom—”
“Wait…”
“But Mom—”
“Megan! Hush a moment!”
Lauryn turned up the radio’s volume. At the same moment, fingers rapped on the driver’s side window and Lauryn almost jumped out of her skin. Damn Stavros and his ability to sneak up on her. She pushed a button and the glass hummed down.
“Why did we stop?” asked the scientist as Colt walked up behind him, Jasper at his side.
“Quiet. Listen,” Lauryn answered.
“—repeat: Under authority of the federal government and FEMA, all citizens of the city of Houston are directed to make their way north and west in an orderly fashion, by zip code, along whatever routes might be available to them. The devastation of the recent hurricanes has forced the mass relocation of Houstonians to areas much further inland to facilitate distribution of food and water. The cities of Austin … San Antonio … San Marcos … and other urban areas across the state stand ready to receive survivors. Houston TranStar is coordinating this massive effort at its location at 6922 Katy Road. Detailed directions to this facility will follow this announcement. Citizens are directed to gather at TranStar in preparation to evacuate the city. Citizens not following these directives will be considered in violation of martial law. This directive will repeat following a list of affected zip codes and detailed directions to the facility—”
Lauryn reached forward and turned the volume down. “They can’t do that,” she said. “TranStar isn’t authorized to do that kind of thing. They manage traffic. They can’t order a mass evacuation of the entire city!”
“It’s not TranStar,” said Eamon. He turned his gaze o
n the brightly lit, three-story building a few hundred yards up the road. “It’s them.”
Lauryn, Megan, and Colt all looked at him.
“They’re luring the whole damned city here,” said the scientist. He sounded tired. Beyond exhaustion.
As are we all, thought Lauryn.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Colt. He remembered how tough it was to feed and manage a handful of people at the Farm on a regular basis. How much more impossible, then, to feed hundreds of thousands as they mass evacuated to this one small facility?
“They’re not trying to save people,” whispered Megan. The distant stare had returned. Her gaze was fixed on TranStar. “They’re rounding people up.” She looked at each of them in turn, at their open mouths and disbelieving eyes. “They want to take over the city. Some they’ll kill. Some they’ll turn, like they turned those prisoners.” Megan turned to Lauryn. “Mom, we have to stop them.”
This is crazy, Lauryn thought, closing her eyes. A moment ago, their mission was to help Stavros get his guinea pig. Impossible, maybe, but at least she’d gotten her head around it. Now, two-and-a-half million Houstonians were about to converge on a three-story building, and all she had were cryptic predictions from a fourteen-year-old girl whose main concern a week before had been keeping in touch with her friends on Instagram.
She leaned forward and rested her head on the steering wheel. It was all happening too fast. She felt overwhelmed, as she had in the gun shop. Her lack of sleep, the stress of the last week, the changes in Megan, Eamon’s mission to right the world. They wrapped the straps of a straightjacket around her psyche.
Somehow the doom of the world was now her problem. Megan, Eamon, Colt, the world itself—all seemed to be waiting on her to lead the charge to salvation.
“Saving the world it is, then.”
Her flippant words came back to Lauryn, mocking her. She was one woman—tired and hungry and afraid of being inadequate to the task—staring upward at a mountain of unconquerable circumstance. It would be so easy to simply turn the truck around. To drive away and make a life somewhere else with Megan, even in a world the way it was now. To let someone else handle the fate of the future.
Ironheart (The Serenity Strain Book 2) Page 12
