The figure was gone.
He spared a single forlorn look back toward the place where he’d thrown his shoe, then resignedly turned his attention back to the hallway.
A thin strip of light glowed beneath a door twenty feet ahead on his right. His feet made muffled slaps as he found the door and tried the handle. He pulled and it stayed stubbornly shut.
He turned and looked back down the aisle. Maybe he had time to run back down the escalator. Maybe it wouldn’t see him.
Or maybe it was just a sick mind game to lure him out of hiding. Maybe it would simply be waiting for him at the bottom of the steps with a mouthful of needle teeth and razor claws.
That was when he heard the scream. It was a sound of pain, simple and un-distilled.
In his fear, his hand reached out and grabbed the handle one more time, this time his finger instinctively finding the latch-release button beneath and pressing.
There was a satisfying sound of metal retracting from metal and the door swung open.
Owen gasped and looked behind. The dim blue beam of morning sun filtered down from above and he threw himself toward it like a suffocating man at an open window.
At the third floor, he gazed up to see a sealed sky light casting a spot of morning light down into the stairwell like a taunting vision of an oasis.
But maybe there would be a fire escape on the top level.
He rushed up the last flight and pulled open the final door.
The fourth floor of the JC Penney stared back at him.
30
When he had heard the distant voice, every muscle in Albert’s body seemed to tense at once and he felt a substantial weight settle back into his bones. Teetering unsteadily on his feet, he quickly realized the Voice had relinquished control. He stumbled forward a few steps, like a sleep-drunk man just stepping out of bed, and began to trot slowly forward, speed steadily increasing as his strength and confidence returned.
When he reached the escalator, Albert bounded down the frozen steps two at a time, conscious with every footfall of a dull ringing pain in his mouth and hands. He knew without a doubt that the distant voice he had just heard was the other skater punk, the one who had spray-painted that filth about him on the tram. In his excitement to get down to him, he never saw the first crossbow bolt slice the air about two feet over his head.
Then as he cleared the second floor landing and had a clear view of the perfume department on the first floor, he saw him, standing there in the plain sight with a huge dumbass smirk on his face.
Just standing there.
Wait-a-goddamn-minute, he thought in utter confusion. It’s that other dark-skinned Mexican punk.
But how..?
Albert came to a halt, sucking in a lungful of air, sparks dancing across his eyes for a moment. Then the kid was gone. The first floor below was empty.
He heard a faint zip like the sound of a shower curtain thrown open and he felt a stab of the most intense and brutal pain he ever experienced. When he looked down, he saw a long shiny object resting half inside and half outside the side of his uniform, darkness blooming around the exit point like a burst ink pin. For a brief instant, he wondered who could be throwing ink pens down at him when the pain wiped rational thought from his mind.
Turning around, he began to scream and wave his hands over his head.
“Wait-wait-wait,” he bellowed like a child imploring a bully. He gazed up and caught a glimpse of sneakers clearing the railing between the up and down escalators that crossed at one point directly halfway between the two and realized with mind-blurring fury that he had been ambushed from behind.
The steps of the escalator swam before his eyes, and he realized, as he lost his balance and began to fall backwards, that he was passing out high atop a stairway. For one brief moment of clarity, he was grateful that he wouldn’t be troubled by the white-hot pain gnawing a hole in his side, before he folded to one side and felt one of the sharp metal steps stab relentlessly into his shoulder.
He peered up drowsily and saw a shadow and an indistinct face hovering over him.
Payback’s a bitch, Pig!
As he had previously allowed the Voice to take control, Albert graciously let oblivion envelop him in its suffocating embrace and he lost consciousness altogether.
31
Tucking the crossbow to his side, Chance slid away from the railing of the down escalator and sought cover by dropping back down onto the steps into a sitting position. He pulled the butt of the crossbow snug against the crook between chest and arm and used all his strength to pull the steel bow back until it locked into place. Sliding two darts from the holster around his waist, he loaded them into position with shaky fingers.
This thing was a helluva lot easier than the one he and Jesse had fired over in the woods behind the school. That crossbow—one that used to hang on the wall above his big brother’s stereo before he went away to college—had been ancient and nearly impossible to set. This one was so freaking simple to use that a ten-year-old could manage it.
Speaking of a ten-year-old, he wondered if he’d gotten here in time. He had heard that fat ass goon calling out to the kid, and that cock-sure tone of his voice had driven him almost manic with righteous anger. In his fifteen years, he’d never wanted to hurt another living person more. And now he had, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d even killed the bastard!
His heart galloped in his chest.
There was no sound from below. The screaming had stopped and he could hear no footsteps.
Surely it was a trick.
Slowly, Chance used his elbows to walk himself backwards up the steps, keeping an eye on the spot where the escalators crossed, waiting for the crazed security guard to pop up like a deranged jack in the box.
When he reached the top, Chance crawled cautiously around the corner and checked one way then the other. It appeared to be clear of lunatics.
You nailed that piece of shit, dude!
Chance snorted derisively, the sudden noise in the undisturbed silence, momentarily stunning him.
He slowly climbed to his feet and trotted around the corner to the opposite side where the up escalator let out.
Up-down. Same difference when it’s stopped.
Chance peered down into the darkness below. He couldn’t see anything past the halfway mark of the steps. A dark trail snaked down several steps before disappearing into the shadows.
Was that blood?
You should go down there and finish what you started.
Chance placed a foot gingerly on the first step and craned his neck. To him, the shadows seemed aware of his presence. It was the same feeling he used to get walking through the game booth alley at the Texas State Fair, feeling the keen awareness of the carnival barkers, staring a bit too brazenly at a potential mark, promising him all sorts of unimaginable dark treats if he would just step up to the counter at try his luck. Here was that same dreaded possibility.
Come on down and see, the shadows seemed coax.
No way I’m going down there, he firmly decided.
Listen to me, said the voice within his head--the one he knew to be Jesse’s-- in a clear voice. He’s hurt.
Good.
Yeah, that’ll get you a big fat cookie, Jesse replied. But he’s not dead.
Come on, a strange new voice rebutted the familiar one. Go on down and take a look.
Chance slowly backed away from the escalator steps and looked back for the first time.
A body lay in the center of the aisle.
It seemed to be missing its head.
32
Owen ran toward the grey morning light of the fourth floor entrance of the JC Penney, sliding to a halt in his socks when he saw the chain-link barrier hanging across the set of six doors. He stood immobile and indecisive for a moment, turning and looking back over his shoulder.
Should he go back?
Instead, he rushed up to the barrier and gave it a few good tugs before giving up. It was solidly locked do
wn and there were no switches on either side of the entrance, only a single compartment that demanded a key.
33
Chance had been speculating where all the blood on the floor had come from, when he heard the slap-slap-slap of the footfalls echoing down from the escalator shaft above. He rose from his crouch beside the decapitated silver Bot and started warily back. He craned his neck, searching the dark opening above him. The pace was too quick to be anyone but the kid.
“Hey!” he hissed, then gritting his teeth in frustration. Man up, you puss, he chastised himself. He cast a wary look down the escalator then lifted his head and called up in the more forceful voice, “Hey, kid!”
The footsteps stopped.
Silence.
“Can you hear me?”
There was a good thirty seconds, before he saw some indistinguishable movement from above, possibly a head craning over the edge of the fourth floor landing to peer down.
“He’s down! I got him!” But the words sounded shallow in his ears.
He thought he heard the dim echo of derisive laughter from below and couldn’t stop himself from checking the impenetrable darkness again.
“W-What’s your name?” he heard the shaky voice call out.
“Chance Summers.”
Silence as the other digested the information and mulled the options over.
“I’m Owen.”
“Look, kid, if you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life yelling up at you like this, you’re shit out of luck.” Just the sound of those mock words of bravado made him feel better.
Tentatively, he heard one step upon lonely step as the ten-year-old started down the escalator. Then he stopped. “Where is he…now?”
“First floor.”
“Are you sure?” came back the question.
Was he sure? That was the million-dollar question now, wasn’t it?
“He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he heard himself reply.
Within a few scant moments, he could see a diminutive shadow moving toward him from above.
Suddenly, a horrifying thought struck him. This kid thinks he’ll be safe with me. He thinks I have a plan. In fact, he’s betting his life on it.
The blood fled his extremities and Chance felt sick to his core. I just put another person’s life in danger. Isn’t one death enough for one night? What the hell did I think I was doing coming back here?
He reached the second floor landing and stepped off.
Chance listened with a sort of morbid fascination as the ten-year-old drew step-by-deliberate-step closer to him. He watched as if from a third-person perspective as he lifted the crossbow and laid it across his chest, casually heroic.
You poser.
Swallowing awkwardly, Chance dropped the crossbow to his side as Owen peered around the corner at him. He stared down at his shoeless feet.
“What’s that?”
“Crossbow.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Picked it up at a garage sale,” Chance quipped. “Where the hell do you think I got it?”
Owen smiled. He raised his flashlight and shined it in Chance’s face.
“Yeah. Great. Thanks for that. Now I’m blind.” Shielding his eyes, Chance next asked, “Where did you get the working flashlight? I went through about a dozen before giving up.”
“Upstairs,” Owen gestured. “None of the others worked though.”
Owen started closer, watching Chance with reverent attention as he stepped around the front of the up-escalator and pointed down.
“He’s down there.”
As Owen lifted the flashlight, Chance actually felt himself reach out and come within a hare’s breath of shoving it out of the way, almost as if to avoid seeing what he knew he had to.
Albert Lynch lay on his right side facing the wall of the escalator, his eyes closed. He looked normal, like any other sleeping adult man and for a moment, Chance was glad that he hadn’t been coerced into pumping more darts into him.
He was just some clueless doofus who had been handed unearned authority.
He’s a murderer, the voice rung loudly in his head, echoing there like a call from one person to another in an empty cavern, waiting and hoping for an answer.
“Is he dead?” the kid asked and for one split second Chance thought he was asking about Jesse.
“No.”
Owen stared up at Chance. “What’ll we do with him?”
Chance looked at him with an expression of confusion. “Do?”
“What if he gets up again?”
Chance gave a contemptuous snuffle. “You think this is a movie or something?”
The kid retrieved what looked like a box cutter from his pocket and stared long and hard at the body below.
Chance watched in utter fascination as the ten-year-old made, what looked like, a series of intense mental calculations. What did he intend to do with that, he wondered?
“I got this in the hardware section,” he murmured. “They got rope too.”
34
Holding her mother’s hand tightly, Cora stepped tentatively outside of the Sears store, glancing back warily.
“It’s okay, hon. I’m right here.”
Lara cast a look beside her at Simon, gesturing him ahead with her chin.
Simon stepped ahead of them both, sliding his head smoothly one way then the other. He made eye contact with Lara and nodded.
“Do you feel anything, sweet pea?” Lara asked her.
The little girl shook her head, staring up at the dim beginnings of morning light peeking through the glass ceiling.
“Okay then. We’ll just head north a little,” Lara stated, tugging her daughter out alongside her onto the empty street of the Mall.
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Cora whined. She blinked and yawned, her loose hand reaching up to rub an eye.
“Where’s the closest food court?”
“I suppose the closest one from us would be the center of the Mall on the second and third floors, but we really shouldn’t…”
“Center of the Mall it is,” Lara responded, releasing Cora and striding confidently forward. “C’mon, kiddo. Double-time. Chop-chop!”
Cora gave Simon a sleepy smile and repeated, “Chop-chop, Mr. Simon.”
Simon gave her a look, unsmiling. “Would you like me to pick you up, like Reggie did?”
She gave him a blank look and finally shook her head. “Nah, big girl’s don’t ride on shoulders,” she quipped without the hint of a smile. She started after her mother.
Simon followed her, taking small steps to match her pace.
Noticing this, Cora gave a giggle. She stared up at his face, expecting an ironic expression to acknowledge the joke he was playing, but found nothing there. “You don’t smile a whole bunch,” she stated.
Lara cast a look over her shoulder and smirked at Cora. Her daughter, usually so perceptive, was having trouble picking up on this one in much the same way she had trouble with Charlene’s dog.
“Maybe if you smiled more, I could see your color,” Cora suggested pertly before rushing forward to fall into step beside Lara, who began to call Owen’s name into the empty shopping complex which dawn had turned into a modern museum of consumerism.
35
When Albert awoke--
(came on-line)
…lying on his stomach. He realized that his wrists had been bound tightly behind him. He shifted his weight to one side and tried to slide a knee up to right himself but found that both his legs were inoperable as well.
The struggle set off a burst of raw, throbbing pain in his side that dizzied him, but then he realized that he couldn’t possibly feel what he thought he had. Only humans felt such things as pain and fear and hopelessness.
He was a simple machine with a simple program and his only goal was to see that program through to completion. Period.
Craning his head, he followed the tiled floor up until he found two pairs of feet pointed toward him: one pair of tennis
shoes and one pair of dirty socked feet.
The shoes rushed forward and planted a firm kick to his face.
Pain shot from his lips up, re-igniting his sore jaw.
Not pain, he decided. Maybe this is how you’re interpreting a signal from your CPU to your sub-systems that there might be potential damage. Not true pain. Simply a warning signal.
Lamia laid the side of its head against the floor and remained still. Why had this machine shot him with a crossbow and why did it just kick him in the face?
“You killed him, you son of a bitch! Didn’t you!”
Then he remembered what the Voice had told him: They were trying to deactivate him, because his program had been corrupted and he was a flawed machine.
He took a moment to consider his options.
Rope restraining arms. Restraining legs.
How tight?
He attempted to move his fingers. His feet.
“Why? Why did you do it?”
Lamia’s eye sensors sought the face of the accomplice of the one he had dispatched earlier, per his programming, but could only see just as far as his knees, now that he was standing a few feet from him.
“I did what I was designed to do.”
The young human-looking machine could only stand there, his raspy breaths flowing in, flowing out in rapid succession. Apparently, it was confused by conflicting programming. It didn’t have the clarity of purpose that Lamia had.
36
“C’mon,” Owen called in a tiny uncertain voice.
“How do we get out of here?” Chance asked, ignoring the other. And before he was aware he had intended to do it, he squatted, lay the crossbow aside, thrust his hands beneath the bulk of the guard, and with a strength enhanced by rage, managed to roll him over onto his back, revealing a dark red blotch on the carpet beneath him.
Chance could see the intake of breath in his cheeks and the squint of his eyes and knew he was in a world of pain. He found himself relishing it.
The Mall Page 18
