by DL Barbur
Brody gave a little groan and stirred. Great. He was waking up. It looked like I was going to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory here.
A moment of inspiration struck. I pulled the Confederate flag off the wall and dropped the baseball in the center. I gathered up the four corners and now I had an improvised flail.
If Dolph really had been an MP, he forgot the part of his training about how to enter a room. Instead of nutting up and bursting in, clearing the fatal funnel of the doorway as quickly as possible, he hesitated, creeping in and sticking his gun out in front of him. As he minced forward, I saw a big shiny magnum revolver. The hammer was cocked and his finger was on the trigger.
I swung the flail down as hard as I could. The baseball hit the top of his wrist, right behind his thumb. The gun discharged, abominably loud in this tight space, and flew out of his hand.
I stepped out from behind the door and got a glimpse of Dolph’s beady little eyes before I swung the flail for all I was worth. The ball hit him square between the eyes and he stumbled backward into the hallway. I swung back to hit him again, but the cloth of the flag gave, and the ball bounced out of a big hole torn in the center. I succeeded only in smacking him in the face with the rolled up flag.
Dolph swatted at me like he couldn’t make up his mind if he wanted to punch me or grab me. It was pretty clear that his whole plan revolved around having a gun in his hand, and without it, he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I blasted a front kick into his groin and he bent over double against the wall of the hallway, clutching his balls and moaning.
I hadn’t consciously decided to kill Dolph, but unlike Brody, I hadn’t consciously decided not to either. All the fear and rage I’d been bottling up while I was zip-tied to the chair came to the surface like a geyser. I slammed Dolph to the ground and wrapped the rolled up flag around his neck. I crossed my hands and pulled. At first, he bucked wildly, then I felt his trachea collapse, like a beer can crushed in a fist. The back of his bald head turned bright red, and then he was still.
For a long moment, I couldn’t make myself let go of the flag. All I could think about was that moment where he’d brushed up against me. Then, finally, my arms couldn’t maintain the pressure anymore. They felt rubbery, and I was a little light-headed. I let go of the flag and Dolph slumped to the floor.
Mindful of my previous mistake, I made myself look and listen. I looked down the narrow hallway to the living room and saw nobody. My ears were still ringing from the revolver’s discharge in the tiny bedroom, but I didn’t hear anything either. At this rate, I was going to be deaf before I turned fifty.
I stepped over Dolph and went to check on Brody. Hopefully, I could reason with him. I didn’t feel up to another fight.
Brody was still. His brains were all over the floor of the bedroom. When I’d smacked Dolph’s wrist with the flail, the bullet from the revolver had hit him in the back of the head as neatly as if it had been carefully aimed.
“Well shit,” I said. “I tried.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I wanted a phone and clothes, not necessarily in that order. I was tired of being naked and feeling vulnerable. Dolph’s clothes weren’t going to fit. I looked around the bedroom. Everything was covered with flecks of blood or brain matter, including, I realized, my lower legs. I almost vomited when I saw the pink and white chunks on my calves, but managed to hold it back.
“Fuck it,” I said. “And drive on.”
I scooped Dolph’s big revolver off the floor. It was ridiculous, nearly as long as my arm, and polished like a mirror to boot. These skinhead assholes had a thing for hand cannons. I didn’t need an advanced degree to guess they were compensating for something.
I left the horror show in the bedroom and walked deeper into the trailer to the master bedroom at the end. I guessed this was Curtis’s room. It was a little neater and featured an honest-to-God waterbed with a mirror mounted on the ceiling, a big screen TV and a large collection of pornographic DVDs. The only clothes I could find that didn’t smell ripe were a pair of stone washed jeans and a Lynrd Skynrd t-shirt. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I stuck the horse pistol in the back of my pants. The best thing I could say for it was the heavy, double action trigger pull wouldn’t fire by accident and blast my ass off. I went through Dolph’s pockets and came up with a wallet, car keys, a handful of extra rounds for the gun, a sales receipt and some condoms. I read the receipt and saw he’d just purchased the condoms a few minutes ago, which I didn’t want to think about too much.
“No phone,” I said out loud. I took the keys and finally found what I wanted on the table in the living room. Next to the chicken bucket lay a cell phone.
It wasn’t locked so I dialed the watch officer phone number.
Casey answered on the second ring.
“Casey, it’s Dent.”
“Dent! Oh man! We thought they took you. Where are you?”
“I’m not sure. They did take me. I think I’m somewhere in Washington County. I’m in a crappy single-wide trailer.”
I craned my neck and looked out the dirty, fly-specked windows. There were piles of junk, construction debris and half-disassembled cars everywhere. I could see several outbuildings, but thankfully, no one moving around.
“It’s on some property, at least a couple acres, with a trailer home. This place is a shit hole.”
My eyes fell on the chicken bucket and my stomach rumbled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
“Oh, and it’s super close to a place that sells fried chicken.”
“Uh. Ok. Keep the phone on. I’m tracking you down.”
I heard her tapping away at a keyboard, then talking to somebody in the background.
My stomach growled again. The chicken smelled wonderful.
I popped the lid off the bucket. There were biscuits. I loved biscuits. The inside of the trailer was gross though. Apparently fried chicken was a staple food here because there were discarded greasy buckets and plates of old bones everywhere. The smell of rotting food wafted from the refrigerator and overflowing trash can.
Holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, I grabbed the chicken bucket and pushed my way out the door. The cool, early evening air smelled much better.
“Dent?” Now it was Bolle’s voice on the phone. “Casey is narrowing down your location. Is there a place we can land the helo?”
Through the sagging chain link fence at the front of the property, I could see a field across the road. An underfed-looking horse stared back at me glumly.
“Yeah,” I said around a mouthful of biscuit. “Across the street.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Between bites on a chicken leg, I outlined the basic story to him.
“Ok. Sit tight,” Bolle said. “We’re on our way.”
“Whatever Todd is planning, I think it’s tonight. He took some of the Hammerheads, and I think some other people with him.”
“I want to investigate this compound you’re at. Jack is landing in the parking lot right now, then we’ll be there. Are you hurt?”
“Not that you’d notice. I could use some shoes though. They took mine.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Casey has your location fixed. You’re in far Washington county, but it won’t take long by air. Sit tight until we get there.”
He clicked off, and it was just me, the chicken bucket, and the two dead guys. I ate a little more. It seemed weird to be standing there eating fried chicken with two men I’d just killed inside, but I felt tons better with some food in my belly. You had to take care of yourself.
I made myself go back in the trailer, for a more thorough search. Neither Dolph nor Brodie had gone anywhere. I was hoping to find my shoes or weapons, but they were nowhere to be found. I also didn’t find a pair of shoes that would fit me. The general funk in the trailer was now overlaid by the meaty smell of blood and brains from Brody’s shattered head, and the odor of Dolph’s bowels letting go. I ste
pped back out on to the porch.
The property would have been a nice place if it hadn’t been for the trash and debris strewn everywhere. There was a chicken coop, and some mature fruit trees. Over near the fence line, I could see a big plot that had probably once been a productive garden. Now it grew only weeds. Growing up in Appalachia, I’d seen this story acted out dozens of times. I bet an older couple had lived here, paid cash for everything, and done as much for themselves as they could. It was usually the next generation that let things go to hell, usually because they got into drugs or something similarly stupid.
Sooner than I expected, I heard the rattle of helicopter rotors. I gingerly walked down the gravel driveway on my bare feet, vowing that I would go barefoot more often and toughen up my soles, and then vowed that the real solution would be to not let myself get ambushed and my shoes taken. I posted myself by a broken down pickup truck near the gate.
The Little Bird was flying heavy. Jack had installed the benches on the outside, and they were full. Two people rode on each side of the little helicopter’s fuselage with helmets and goggles down. Apparently, Bolle was no longer concerned about keeping a low profile. Landing the Little Bird in a field attracted attention. Flying it around with people sitting on the benches with rifles slung around their necks was probably going to get us on every conspiracy theory website on the Internet.
The Little Bird settled quick. The engine sounded like it was running at full power and then some. I knew that sound from back in the Army. It meant the pilot was carrying more weight than the bird was rated for. We did it occasionally in exercises, and often on real ops. The mechanics hated it. After not very long, the overloaded engine would need to be torn down and rebuilt.
Four figures wearing armor jumped off. They each took a heavy backpack from the back compartment of the Little Bird and started jogging across the street. Freed of its cargo, the Little Bird all but sprang into the air. Jack started circling the compound. He’d taken the doors off the helicopter to save a paltry amount of weight and was flying low enough that I could see him working the controls. I held up my empty hands and he nodded his recognition. I saw him key his radio mic.
The first pair through the gate were Eddie and Dalton. They took turns covering the compound while the other doffed the heavy black nylon backpacks. Eddie had a pair of combat boots around his neck, tied together by the laces.
“Present for you, man,” he said. “Socks are inside.”
“I could kiss you,” I said, sitting down on the tailgate of the truck and grabbing a boot.
“She might not like that,” Eddie said and pointed a thumb at the pair bringing up the rear.
I realized it was Bolle and Alex. She was wearing a bulky tactical vest, a black helmet and a pair of goggles, but at the moment she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
Bolle dumped his ruck, then looked at me.
“You and Alex stay here while we do a quick clear up to the trailer home. Jack is making another run. As soon as he gets back with some more people, we’re going to tear this place apart.”
I nodded. Part of me wanted to insist that I should go clear the compound with them, but my common sense prevailed. I was wearing borrowed jeans, a t-shirt, and had a giant revolver stuffed in the back of my pants. Besides, I could talk to Alex.
The three of them moved forward, guns at the ready.
I looked at Alex.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she said as she pulled her earplugs out of her ears.
Then she hugged me. It felt good, even with a ceramic rifle plate between us, and with the edge of her helmet pressed against my cheek.
“I thought you were gone,” she said.
“It wasn’t a good day.” I stood there holding her. I felt like I should let go, maybe keep an eye on the compound, but I just didn’t want to let her go. The reality that I had almost been murdered and buried in an unmarked grave kept popping up in the back of my head, and I kept smashing it back down. What was bugging me the most was that I was alive only because my enemies had been stupid. If Todd had left me with someone halfway competent, I’d still be tied to the chair, and soon on my way somewhere dark in the belly of a Cascade Aviation plane.
“You smell like fried chicken, and that horrible body spray teenage boys wear,” Alex said.
“I found these clothes inside. They stripped me naked. Best I could do.”
“And the chicken?”
“There was no sense letting it go to waste,” I said defensively.
She pulled back, looked at my wrist.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s no big deal.”
She insisted on bandaging me up, and I didn’t mind letting her. Then I pulled on the boots Eddie had brought. They were actually a little big but I wasn’t going to complain.
I heard the screen door to the trailer bang shut, and Eddie trotted back down the driveway towards us.
“Did you really just strangle a white supremacist with a Confederate flag? That’s bad ass.”
“It was what came to hand,” I said.
“Then you ate his chicken bucket? That gets you style points, man. You should have your own action figure.”
Next Dalton came down the driveway.
“Jack is on his way back with more people and the rest of the crime scene gear,” he said. “But first Bolle wants all of you up here. He’s found something pretty crazy in one of the outbuildings and wants you all to take a look.”
I slid off the tailgate of the truck.
“Hang on a second,” Alex said. ”You just got kidnapped and held captive. You should be on leave or something.”
She had a point. In any normal operation, I’d be put on paid administrative leave, rushed to the hospital, probably even assigned a personal counselor or something.
“I guess the rules are different here,” I said and headed toward the shop to see what fresh madness Bolle had found.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The shop was one of those pre-fabricated sheet metal structures, maybe twenty feet by thirty. I’d noticed a tractor, a tiller, and all sorts of other equipment lined up outside the walls of the shed. It was all stuff that seemed like it should have been inside, under cover, and made me wonder what was actually in there instead.
Inside, it stank of human waste, sweat and old food. The floor was dirt. Cardboard had been laid over part of the floor, and it was littered with dirty blankets and trash. A long steel cable was strung across the floor, anchored at either end to the heavy metal posts that supported the ceiling. Other cables were hooked to it. I counted half a dozen, and each one ended in what looked very much like a leg shackle. I figured you could hook a person up to one of the shackles and they could hobble around, back and forth from the sleeping area on the cardboard, to the crude toilet that had been set up with an overflowing bucket underneath.
If there had been six people all shackled up in here, they must have spent most of their time getting untangled from one another.
Stacks of ramen noodles and bottled water occupied one corner. The weirdest thing was the giant television screen mounted on one wall, above a locked metal cabinet. A laptop computer was hooked up to the TV, and Casey was hunched over it, with Bolle and Dalton peering over her shoulder. As I watched, she stuck a thumb drive into one of the laptop’s USB ports. The screen came to life and spit out a bunch of gobbledygook, and then we were looking at a series of folders.
“Ok. I’m in,” she said. She moused around through the various folders.
“Wow. There’s nothing on here but a bare-bones Linux operating system, a video player, and a bunch of video files. Like thousands of them.”
She clicked on a file. It showed a guy with a sword beheading a bound man with a hood over his head. She stopped it and started another. This one was a woman being stoned to death someplace dry and dusty. The next one was a guy screaming in Arabic as he was executed by a firing squad.
She opened a dozen more
. They were all violent: more beheadings, firing squads, bombings, firefights.
“Are these real?” Casey asked.
“Yeah,” Dalton said. “People love to put atrocity videos on the Internet. There are hundreds of them out there.”
“Wow,” Casey said. “It looks like they’ve just been playing constantly, for days.”
Casey looked over at the shackles. “So they’ve had some guys tied up in here, watching this stuff on a continuous loop? That’s some serious Clockwork Orange bullshit, right there.”
That reference sort of made sense to me. I’d have to Google it later.
“What’s in the cabinet?” I asked, nodding at the metal box.
“Let’s find out,” Dalton said. He pulled a pair of bolt cutters out of one of the duffel bags and cut off the heavy padlock. Inside the cabinet was a cardboard box full of glass vials full of a clear liquid. Dalton set the bolt cutters aside and picked up one of the vials to read the label.
“Phencyclidine?” he said.
“Don’t open that,” Alex said from behind me. I hadn’t realized she was behind me. “That’s PCP. You know, angel dust.”
“Oh,” Dalton said. He gingerly set the vial back in the box.
Alex stepped forward.
“Oh my God. I’ve never seen that much before. It’s only used in veterinary medicine these days.”
“Why would you chain a bunch of people up, give them PCP, and then make them watch violent videos all day?” Casey asked.
Alex crossed her arms over her chest. “If you want them to do something heinous, that might be a way to do it. Nobody has ever run an experiment like that. No ethics committee would ever approve it. I don’t know what the results of that might be. “
“Nothing good,” I said.
Eddie walked in, carrying a shovel.
“You guys need to see this.”
Past the shop building were more piles of junk and tangles of blackberry vines that had been allowed to grow out of control. We walked past a rusted out Dodge Dart with moss growing on it, and the smell hit me. Struecker, the fresh-faced kid from back east, was on his knees and digging with a pair of gloved hands. He was uncovering the outline of a dead man.
