Frankenstorm: Category 8

by Garton, Ray

  Then his lungs of ice shattered and he gasped for air as he rushed to the couch, arms outstretched, saying in a high wail, “Jesus Christ, what did you do?” He dropped to his knees beside Jodi, reached both hands out to touch her, but he couldn’t do it. His trembling hands stopped a fraction of an inch from her body, then pulled away. He turned to find Ram towering over him, the light on his face.

  “You changed your mind about her, did you?” Ram said. “Since we last spoke? Huh?”

  “Changed my—”

  “Because you came to me, remember. You came to me with that story about how your wife was endangering your son. Isn’t that right? Am I misremembering that?”

  “No, no, you’re not, buh-but I-I-I didn’t want to—”

  Ram hunkered down and leaned his forearms on his spread knees, hands dangling between them, the flashlight’s glow coming up from the floor. He leaned close to Andy and whispered, “You can’t let the cunts get away with that. You just can’t, Andy, because if you do, they’ll just keep it up. And in the process, they fuck up the kids. I see it again and again.”

  Andy felt like he was sinking. Like the floor—even the earth under the floor—was dissolving and he was sinking down into the kind of nightmare from which it is impossible to wake up.

  “But the whole world’s against you, Andy. The laws, the courts—everything’s against you. Because this country’s turned into one big, fat, stinking vagina.”

  Andy thought of all the times he’d seen Ram with his family—a lovely, plump, blond wife, two blond kids, a boy and a girl—in town shopping, or sitting in a restaurant, or coming out of their church on Sunday as Andy drove by. While Ram might no longer have his youthful good looks, they made a handsome family, the kind of family you might see in a travel brochure, or in a prescription drug commercial. But the Ram Andy had known did not fit into that picture, so each time he saw them, Andy had told himself that Ram probably was a rotten husband and a nightmare of a father, that he probably cheated on his wife and treated her like a slave, and took all of his problems out on his kids.

  “So you gotta look out for yourself. I’m tellin’ ya, Andy, you gotta. Nobody else is gonna look out for you. Unless you happen to be one of those lucky few who has a friend . . . a real friend . . . who has your back. I was trying to be that kind of friend, Andy.”

  All it had taken to change Andy’s mind was that single, brief meeting with Ram in the courthouse. That had convinced him that Ram the hateful, sadistic boy had grown into a responsible man. Ram was so friendly and genuine, he’d made Andy want that to be true. He wanted to believe that the monster of his youth had been melted down into a decent, friendly human being.

  But Andy had been right the first time.

  “I wanted to be the kind of friend who would look out for you. To . . . well, like I said . . . to make up for the way I treated you in school.” He rose up to his full height again, extended his arm, elbow locked, and held his gun a couple of inches from the top of Andy’s head. He shouted at the top of his voice, “Are you tellin’ me I made a fuckin’ mistake?” The corners of his mouth were pulled down and he glared at Andy.

  Hey, mommy’s boy!

  Andy’s mind, barely coherent, babbled at him: Go along just tell him go along what he wants to hear go along with whatever he says!

  “No, Ram, no, no, no.” He repeated the word “no” quietly, over and over, as he slowly got to his feet, holding up his left hand, palm out. “No, you didn’t. I’m, I’m—” For a moment, the words caught in the soft, moist tissue of his throat like shards of glass. He coughed once. “Grateful, really, I’m grateful for what you’ve done. Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  Ram slowly lowered his gun. He seemed confused by Andy’s response. “Uh, no. They didn’t hurt me.”

  “Good, I’m glad. We were worried.”

  He frowned. “We?”

  “Donny and me. Out in the car. We heard the gunshots and we were worried.”

  “About . . . me?”

  “Yeah. Donny’s still out there and the storm’s getting worse. Don’t you think we should get out of here?”

  Ram thought about that for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Yeah, we should go. We should. It wouldn’t be good to stick around here.” Still nodding, he said, “Hang on just a second.”

  Ram turned and walked back over to Anton, who still lay on his side, unmoving. Pointing his gun at Anton’s head, arm rigidly extended downward, Ram leaned forward slightly and fired. Then again. He stood upright and turned to Andy.

  “This was a good thing we did here tonight.”

  Jesus Christ, we?

  Andy wondered vaguely if Ram had always been like this, or if something had triggered it. If he did this sort of thing with any regularity, it seemed he would get caught. He had killed everyone in the room—did he expect to simply walk away and be free of any consequences? As a cop, he should know better. He didn’t seem to care if he got away with it or not. He didn’t even seem to be considering that.

  “These people wouldn’t have changed,” he continued. “They don’t rehabilitate. They just reproduce.” He released one cold, steely laugh. “These won’t. Now, your boy is with you, and that cunt, that traitor to her own son, is gone. I know it’s harsh, Andy, but it’s the only way to deal with them. I know. My wife was gonna take our kids. She was gonna take ’em away from me. That fucking cunt was gonna take our kids and leave town and divorce me and keep me away from my own fucking flesh and blood.”

  His voice was getting tighter and his upper lip began to pull back as he spoke. He was making himself angry.

  “She’s been fucking somebody else. Can you believe that? Some other guy, some cocksucker. I don’t know who yet, but I’m gonna find out, and I’m gonna take care of him. But I had to take care of her first. And I did.”

  He winked at Andy and suddenly broke into a bright smile.

  “Took care of her tonight. That cunt ain’t gonna pull that shit with me, nofuckingsiree. So I know what I’m talking about, Andy. From personal experience. There’s only one way to deal with them, and it’s harsh, but when it has to be done, you’ve just gotta fuckin’ do it.” He turned and headed for the archway. “Let’s go, Andy. Let’s get you and your boy home.”

  Andy was afraid his legs would collapse beneath him, but he tried to move with confidence as he followed Ram. He had to keep himself steady, stay calm, and play along until he and Donny got home. Somehow, he would have to signal to Donny to say nothing once Ram was behind the wheel.

  As they went out into the storm, he feared for Ram’s wife and children, hoping they were safe. And he feared for Donny, and for himself. Because Ram was clearly insane.

  9

  “Get it off me!” Corcoran screamed. “Get it off me!”

  Fara pressed her back to the wall and watched Corcoran struggle under the angry man punching him in the back of the head. She looked around at the others. No one would move. They were all thinking the same thing, she was certain—that the blood on that crazed man could infect them.

  Everyone was frozen in place, in a position that suggested they were trying to back away even farther.

  Corcoran struggled and screamed.

  Fara thought, I should do something. This is my responsibility. I should help him, but I don’t know how, and I’m afraid, holy shit, I’m so afraid.

  All she wanted to do was run from the room, run to her car, and get as far away from Springmeier as possible.

  Time seemed to stretch like warm taffy as they stood there and watched that angry, bloody man pound on Corcoran’s head forever and ever.

  But only seconds passed, just under three, and the man Emilio called Ollie stepped forward confidently, pulled back his right foot and kicked the bloody man in the ribs. The man grunted and fell off of Corcoran, landing on his side, but he did not let go of him. Ollie stepped over Corcoran’s legs and kicked the man in the back. He cried out in pain and lost his grip on Corcoran.

/>   Ollie nudged Corcoran with his toe and said, “Get up, get up.”

  Corcoran crawled on hands and knees away from his attacker, straight toward Fara. He got to his feet and turned around as the bloody man was trying to get up.

  Ollie aimed his gun at the man’s head and fired. He dropped flat and stopped moving. Ollie stood there and stared at him for a long time, his back to the others, head down, arms at his sides.

  No one moved. Fara, Emilio, Corcoran, Ollie, and his two men—they all stared at the dead body. Fara felt something new in the air, something that hadn’t been there just a moment ago: dread.

  A life had just ended in front of them because of all this, and suddenly, it became real, the scope of the threat became real, and they were all in great danger.

  Ollie turned around and locked a withering gaze onto Fara, then Corcoran.

  “I knew that man,” he said in a quiet, trembling voice. “Killing him has not put me in a good mood, so I don’t want any shit from you two. You got some kind of antidote to this?”

  Corcoran did not seem to notice Ollie. He continued to stare at the dead body. His lower lip trembled and his eyebrows pressed together above wide eyes.

  “No,” Fara said.

  Ollie squinted at Corcoran as he approached them slowly. “The hell’s wrong with him. Is he sick?” He looked at Fara. “Does it kick in this fast?”

  “I’m sure it’s drugs.”

  “Drugs?” Ollie’s eyes were disbelieving. “What kind of drugs?”

  “Who knows. Pills, cocaine.”

  “He’s been running this place on drugs?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The quivering in Corcoran’s lower lip spread over his face and he appeared to be near tears. He was shaking all over as he continued staring at the dead body.

  Ollie turned to Corcoran. “How many are there?”

  Corcoran’s head began to turn back and forth, slowly at first, but steadily faster.

  To Fara: “Do you know? How many of these test subjects are there?”

  “I’m not sure. At least a dozen, but beyond that, I don’t know.” She turned to Corcoran. “Dr. Corcoran, you need to snap out of it,” she said firmly. She stepped in front of him, closed her fists on his scrub shirt, and shook him, saying, “Goddammit, snap out of it!”

  Corcoran pushed her away limply, turned and staggered to the couch, where he dropped down into a slumped position, a look of pain and terror on his face.

  “A dozen upstairs,” he said, his voice a croak.

  “What about the survivors?” Fara said.

  He looked as if speaking were painful. “Nine.”

  “Where are they? Where are you keeping them?”

  “The subbasement.”

  “How did you get them down there?”

  “I . . . had help.”

  “Who? Who else knows about them?”

  “Just . . . Holly. And Caleb.”

  “Tell me something, Ollie,” Fara said. He flinched at her use of his name, but she ignored it. “Do we have any security team left?”

  “They were very aggressive, and we were very determined. There may be some still alive, but they aren’t functioning.”

  “Then this is going to be up to you and your guys.”

  “What is?”

  “We can’t let those people get out of the building. They are going to be angry and violent and irrational.”

  “Those are the people we came here to help.”

  “Yes, well, that wasn’t a very good idea, was it? Now you’re going to have to help everybody else by finding them and killing them. Maybe next time you want to raid a facility like this, you’ll give it some thought first.”

  Ollie’s eyes stared icy daggers at her for a moment. He said, “I need to borrow somebody’s cell phone. I lost mine upstairs.”

  Fara took her purse from the couch, got her phone out of it, and handed it to Ollie. He took it and punched in a number, then turned away from her.

  “You hearing that storm out there?” Emilio whispered to her.

  She listened for a moment. The wind roared outside the walls like an army of banshees. She heard the faint crash and clatter of things blowing around outside, slamming into the building.

  “I think Quentin has arrived,” Emilio said.

  Ollie finished his call and said to Fara, “I’m gonna have to keep this phone while I’m here.”

  She nodded.

  “Are the only exits in the rear?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Everything is locked up pretty tight except for the entrance and one emergency exit in the rear.”

  “Okay, I got a couple of men on that.” He turned to the two masked men, waved toward the door, and started to lead them out. He stopped and turned to Fara and Corcoran, mouth open to speak, but an explosion went off somewhere in the hospital. Everything shook and the explosion dissolved into the sound of heavy things collapsing, sounds of destruction and collapse.

  After that, the storm somehow became louder.

  10

  Hurricane Quentin arrived on the northern California coast at 9:14 p.m., more than thirteen hours earlier than originally forecast. The storm already in progress suddenly became infused with malicious intent as its strength doubled, then tripled as Hurricane Quentin roared into Eureka like a demon. Trees bowed to it, and some snapped and went down forever under its force.

  The Pacific Ocean seemed to take notice of Humboldt County for the first time in recent memory and rushed in to see what these industrious upstarts were up to, do a little damage, put them in their place.

  The community of Samoa, in the northern peninsula of Humboldt Bay, was a collection of residential neighborhoods, with houses lined up in neat rows on clean streets. The hurricane slammed into them like the tantrum of a god. Fences were ripped out of yards and sent cartwheeling through the air. Trees were toppled and sent into empty, evacuated living rooms and bedrooms and kitchens. Tool sheds and pool houses were flattened. Lawn furniture and garbage cans that had not been put away traveled through the air like missiles.

  The vast, barn-red Samoa Cookhouse—the only authentic cookhouse remaining in the West, which had fed the workers from the Hammond Lumber Company at the beginning of the twentieth century and now fed hungry tourists who belched their eggs-and-sausage breakfasts as they wandered through the historic museum and gift shop after eating—was flooded by the storm surge, and the wind tore off great segments of its peaked roof, flinging them into the night.

  When the old man staggered through the front door, shouting, and firing his gun, Latrice turned and hurried back the way she’d come. As she put the living room behind her, she glanced at the love seat to see Jada still curled up on her side. Latrice found herself in the kitchen again, with Rosie scurrying in behind her, moving in short, staccato steps, her head down, as if she were ducking bullets.

  “You said there are kids in here somewhere?” Latrice said.

  “They’re in their rooms playing games.”

  “Well, Jesus Christ, girl, who’s taking care of them?”

  “They won’t come out. They know better.”

  “Fuck, what kind of people are you?” she said as she rummaged in her purse for her phone.

  There were two more gunshots in the living room and a lot of shouting.

  Latrice held her phone in a shaking hand as she pressed three buttons.

  “Who you callin’?” Rosie said.

  “The police.”

  Rosie’s gasp was loud as she lunged toward Latrice and reached with both splayed hands for her phone. Latrice stepped backwards, but Rosie’s hands latched on to the phone, one on each side.

  “No, you can’t do that!” she hissed. “Giff’ll be so pissed! Don’t call the cops, Latrice, please!”

  As she pleaded with Latrice, she tried to pull the phone from her hand.

  Another gunshot exploded in the other room.

  A man screamed, “No, goddammit!”

  A deranged cack
le rose and fell a few times.

  Another gunshot.

  Latrice feared the old man would run out of people to shoot and come in here.

  “Let go of the phone or I will fucking deck you,” Latrice said, her voice surprisingly calm as she struggled with Rosie.

  “No no no, you can’t he’ll be so mad please don’t—”

  She heard more screaming from the living room, a man shouting, “Jesus, no, get him off me, get him off me!”

  Adrenaline surged through Latrice and made her ears ring and her own terror overwhelmed her desire not to hurt Rosie. She punched her in the face.

  Rosie immediately stopped talking and collapsed to the floor like a skinny, multijointed marionette whose strings had been cut, limbs splayed, eye patch askew.

  When Latrice put the phone to her ear, a woman was already saying, “—your emergency, please? Hello? Is someone there?”

  “Hello, yes, I’m here. I need help. I’m trapped in a house where some guy has gone crazy and is shooting people.”

  “Where are you?”

  Latrice had memorized the address on the drive up and recited it.

  “Who’s shooting?”

  “I don’t know, some old man who—”

  Another gunshot startled Latrice so badly that she almost dropped the phone.

  “Is that more gunfire?” the dispatcher said.

  “Yes. I’m in the kitchen, he’s in the living room.”

  The dispatcher didn’t say anything for a moment and Latrice heard silence in the other room.

  The voice said, “I’ll have someone there in—”

  He came through the doorway, his dark clothes soaked, his face and bald head bloody, holding the gun in both hands, arms outstretched, elbows locked, and he ran toward Latrice shrieking.

  It slammed into Old Town and wailed down its narrow streets and alleys. Shingles leapt from the roofs of the shops and two of the decorative, sculpted trees planted along the sidewalk did a dance down Second Street, bobbing and tumbling.

  The Carson Mansion, constructed in 1886 by lumber baron William Carson for his wife, Sarah, stood in Old Town like an enormous Queen Anne music box, emerald green and intricate in its baroque design, ready at any moment to become animated as it played its delicate, tinkling tune. In a town filled with cakelike Victorian mansions, this one was considered to be one of the most grand in the world.