As if on cue, when they were about a third of the way offshore, the fog rolled back in. For a second it was so thick that Kyle almost lost sight of his companion, barely able to see his outline. Kyle raced forwards until he could see The Lantern Man’s shoulders and top hat.
It was the silence that Kyle noticed next; it was so absolute, so penetrating, that it brought the feeling of deep and instant loneliness. With it came a wave of depression and sadness that, within a few seconds, brought Kyle nearly to tears.
God. Help me. Please.
The Lantern Man stopped abruptly and spun around, his face only a foot away from Kyle’s. “Don’t say His name here. Ever! They will hear again, like she did!”
Speechless against the firmness of the command, Kyle simply nodded. The Lantern Man could read his mind too, like The Gray Man. Kyle wished he had the blue to shield his thoughts, but he still couldn’t sense it anywhere within himself.
They resumed their walk along the bridge in silence.
After a little while, the silence was broken.
“Who who. When. Help. Life. Can you who when can help you. Hello. Help. Help. Help.”
The words were whispers from competing voices, so vague and overlapping that it was uncertain who was saying what or if anyone was repeating themselves. As Kyle and The Lantern Man progressed down the bridge, the chorus of whispers grew.
“Die. Pain. Home. Hey. Hey. You. You. Meat. Love. Murder hope cause dog hours time wall lost. Hours lost. Lost cause.”
The last four words cut through Kyle. He knew that voice. He’d grown up with it.
His Uncle Rob. It was his un—
The Lantern Man waved his free hand out over the waters, on either side of the bridge, silencing the whispers completely. “Kyle. Don’t listen to them. We’re almost to the other side.”
“But I think that was my uncle.”
Shaking his head as he continued walking, The Lantern Man replied, “No. They’re digging into your head. They look for a voice that will stand out, that will catch your attention.”
Kyle was perplexed, but he kept pace with The Lantern Man, one step at a time, careful to avoid the holes in the planks of the bridge, which grew more frequent as they made more progress.
“Would it bother you if your uncle were here?”
“Yes.”
“Because he was, for the most part, a good man, right?”
“He was. He taught me how to—”
“Fish, correct?”
Kyle nodded.
“He also told you about girls and helped you a lot after…”
Kyle held his breath. Don’t say it.
“Your father died.”
Kyle flinched. This place was, all of it—water, sky and land—a place of gut-wrenching sorrow. The last thing Kyle needed to be talking about here, of all things, was his father. So he changed the subject immediately. “How much further?”
“Not long at all,” The Lantern Man replied, his gait widening suddenly as he stepped onto the opposite shore. “We’re here, actually.”
The ground on this side was firmer, less charred and led to an area that was less marshy and more like open desert. As they pushed on the fog fell back, away and behind them, the sky going from red to an orange-red hue, and far off in the distance he could see it: a massive city of white.
“What is that place?” Kyle asked.
Stopping, The Lantern Man turned to Kyle and held his head still, as if studying him. Finally, he motioned over his shoulder towards the city.
“That, my dear fellow,” he said with a deep sigh, “is your only hope of ever getting out of here.”
THE BREAD MAN WAS PERPLEXED.
Up until now everything had gone exactly according to the plan. The Other had told him the time was right and that this silly girl was his next toy to play with. Together, in the midst of their dark talks—which usually happened late at night, when he couldn’t fall asleep—they’d devised the way he would kidnap Pretty Ashley, the liquor store girl.
He liked to call her that, “Pretty Ashley,” because that’s what she was: very, very pretty. Ugly girls were no fun. He’d killed one once, his second one out of the gate, actually, and the first girl he’d ever felt an orgasm with. She hadn’t resisted as much as the others had. The Bread Man suspected it was because she liked it, at least right up until the last part, when he’d slashed her throat with a box cutter. Ugly girls didn’t get much action. Neither did fat girls. They either liked what he did to them or, in some sick way, he suspected, they welcomed it, probably because it was so hard for them to find love, as if such a thing really ever existed anyway.
The garage was set a good twenty yards behind the main house. From the outside it was just an ordinary garage. But everything about its ordinariness was false. It had taken six months to get just right, but The Other helped him with one idea here, another there. They were a good team, and the garage had been a construct of their mutual desire for death and blood.
The garage door was now locked and bolted into place; it would never open again. The only way in or out was through the side door, which had four deadbolts and a standard lock, with only an exterior doorknob.
He’d hooked up a silent alarm system that would send a text to his cell phone if anyone ever tried to break in or, more likely, break out, and to further guard against the latter, the doorframe was metal and he’d attached copper wiring around its perimeter. The wiring was hooked to a breaker box with a switch hanging outside, just over the door. When flipped, the door was electrified and the shock was brutal.
He’d done it to himself one day just to see what it felt like, and upon touching the deadbolts he’d been zapped so hard he’d bit off a piece of his tongue, his teeth snapping down involuntarily as the electricity coursed up his arm and through his neck. It was a miracle he hadn’t killed himself. He no sooner thought the word “miracle” than he regretted it. “Miracle” was a word that The Other didn’t like. The Bread Man could tell by the way it squirmed in his brain like a painful tumor whenever he thought it.
Inside, he’d soundproofed the garage by bricking up each wall. Over the brick, he’d installed four layers of drywall, each one separated with sheets of mass-loaded vinyl and sealed with acoustical caulk. He’d added extra braces to the ceiling and repeated the drywall routine overhead. It was mostly just for insurance; he rarely left a girl inside without a ball gag in her mouth. On weekends, when he was home and could keep track of them with the baby monitor he’d installed, he would occasionally leave them ungagged. They always tried to scream and yell at first, before they got the cattle prod, but he’d noticed with great satisfaction that, while standing outside, you could hear nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The soundproofing made his entire backyard as quiet as a library.
He smiled as he remembered her: the librarian.
She’d been the best. By far. The best out of all of them. But he couldn’t think about her now. Her memory always ruined it, sometimes even made it difficult to get hard, and then he would get frustrated and kill before he was supposed to, before The Other told him to, and making The Other mad was never a good idea. He’d show up in the windows or mirrors with his face covered in rags and his top hat, and, well, after that, The Bread Man would curl up in a ball and stay that way for hours.
Pretty Ashley murmured something against her gag, bringing him back to the unpleasantness of the moment.
She murmured it again, her eyes sad and pleading.
“What?” he asked firmly. “What did you just say?”
She tried again, but this time it was distinct enough to make out.
“You’re sorry? Really? Your fucking sorry?” he screamed.
She closed her eyes and started crying as he advanced across the cement floor of the garage. He grabbed her chin.
“You’re not sorry, bitch! Don’t you lie to me.” He slid his hand down her chin to her throat, squeezing it until she opened her eyes and looked at him with that sweet st
are of terror. “Let’s get that straight. Lying is a bad thing, okay?” he said as he glared into those eyes.
She nodded, swallowing hard against his grip. He loved their fear like a valentine.
He loosened his grip, but only slightly.
She was completely naked and tied against the back wall of the garage, her feet resting on two small wooded blocks and her wrists shackled with four-foot lengths of chain that were bolted into the wall. She would remain that way until he did her.
Except there would be no “doing” anything tonight. Not now. Not after the bitch had gone and ruined everything.
His mind was racing, so he forced himself to focus on the lightbulb that was hanging, exposed, from a cord overhead, casting shadows in all directions but leaving most of the garage in pitch-dark save for their little space together. Thank goodness there were no mirrors or windows in here. The Bread Man had deliberately not put any in during the construction, and The Other hadn’t been happy about that, but it didn’t really matter now because The Bread Man could feel him, pushing at his brain from the inside, trying to get out, stabbing at him through all that gray matter, calling him stupid, telling him again what a screw-up, what a loser, he was.
The Bread Man tried to argue a little bit, tried to ask how it was his fault. After all, wasn’t it The Other who was supposed to be the all-knowing one? But these thoughts caused a wave of such pain to course through his head and chest that he released Pretty Ashley altogether and clutched at his forehead, squeezing his fingers against the pain, as if he were trying to claw inside his skull to clutch it and pull it out.
He felt the world go black and then he was falling.
When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was the cold cement of the garage floor pressing against his ear and temple.
The room was still. He blinked and opened his eyes and there she was, her wrists raw from struggling against the shackles, her eyes fixed on him with that damn “please don’t hurt me” look on her face. She didn’t realize that everything had changed now.
He’d never had this happen before, which, when he thought about how many girls he’d dumped in that ravine now to join his parents, was pretty amazing. This moment was probably due.
Still. What now?
He struggled to his feet and looked her up and down.
She’d done this to herself. Dumb bitch.
The blood had flowed down her left thigh to her knee, down the entire length of her calf and ankle before it fell to the floor in small crimson droplets, which were forming a tiny pool.
Tonight was supposed to be his first night with her.
There was a timetable to this process. Exact. Precise.
But now it was all off.
She’d went and gotten her period.
Who did she think she was? It made him so furious that he thought for a second of grabbing the machete in the corner and using it to hack her to pieces.
Pretty Ashley, with her high cheekbones and her long blond hair, seemed to sense his intent. She shook her head vigorously, the whites of her eyes showing as she said it again, that stupid, stifled word.
“Sorry.”
He slapped her across the face. “That’s not good enough! You’re ruined for a week now! You’re unclean!”
He crossed the garage and grabbed the machete and she flailed against the chains, screaming, babbling against the ball. Talking, talking. Trying to say something to him, and as he stood before her to assess where to hack first, he decided she deserved to speak. Everyone deserved their last words, even this dumb whore who had started bleeding on him.
So he removed the gag and stared at her.
Maybe it was because she didn’t let loose with the usual string of pleas. Maybe it was the way she said what she said, like a good girl, or maybe just because it was short and sweet. Whatever it was, he liked what he heard.
“I can use my mouth,” she said. Beginning to cry, she added, “Until my period’s gone.”
And the fact that she was crying while she said it only made it hotter.
The Bread Man smiled. Yes. This was a good idea. He needed to relieve some pressure. Some stress. He couldn’t wait any longer, and he didn’t have the energy to kill her and then go through the effort of stalking the next one yet. He felt himself becoming aroused.
Licking his lips he brought the machete to her neck. “No cute stuff. No biting. I know where you live. This is just between me and you right now, and that’s all it ever has to be, but if you hurt me?”
She whimpered while he paused for effect.
“If you hurt me? I’ll go get your mama next, girlie. You understand?”
Pretty Ashley nodded.
CHAPTER 8
WHEN NAPOLEON AWOKE HE was next to a large well. His back was flat against the ground and moist with sweat. He blinked, trying to get his bearings, feeling weak and exposed on the ground.
There was a warm breeze slowly making its way up the small hill he was on. He was alive. At least in whatever sense being “alive” meant anymore. There was a distant rumble that seemed to be echoing down the valley, but he ignored it, instead focusing on the well.
It was made of gray and brown bricks, looking rough in places, smooth in others. Attached to the wooden frame that stood over the well was a rusted metal pulley, and hanging from the pulley was a wooden bucket swinging gently from a thick rope.
He was thirsty. So thirsty.
The pink fluid they’d plunged through had dried over his skin and clothes like glue. It cracked and peeled as he rolled over and bent his arms to push himself up to his knees. He was dizzy but fought off the urge to pass out again.
The Gray Man. He wasn’t here. They’d been separated. The thoughts clicked into his brain in a very slow progression. He’d felt this way once before, when he was fourteen, during his initiation into the gang. He’d been told to run the gauntlet and had been knocked out cold right near the end when one of the older members, Cisco, who would die a few months later during a police chase, waylaid a shot to the side of Napoleon’s head that had leveled him completely.
This was that same feeling. Of being present but not quite, at least not yet; of coming around, but just barely.
Struggling to his feet, he looked at his surroundings: one side of the hill overlooked two small gullies and an open field of parched wheat, which was smoking in places as if a back-burn had been set. The flames were suppressed, but cut bright orange and red lines along the land. The sky was the same orange-red hue as before, but fainter now, as if the colors were bleeding up and out into the atmosphere.
But when he then looked up, straight up, he realized he was wrong. Above him, rolling gently along, was the liquid floor he and The Gray Man had somehow crashed through. It vacillated in soft swells of undercurrents, and if Napoleon strained his eyes he could occasionally see a thrashing limb poking through or the shadows of the struggle still going on overhead.
Napoleon remembered the jackal creatures with their sticks, and shuddered.
The rumbling in the distance was growing a little louder, but Napoleon was only interested in two things: getting a drink of water and finding The Gray Man. In that order.
His tongue was swollen, his mouth burned and his throat felt like he’d swallowed ashes. Coughing, he stumbled to the well, reaching it just in time to put a hand on the bricks and steady himself. The bucket creaked as it swung, and Napoleon imagined it full of water and how he would drink out of it and wash the water across his face, how he would wash all the pink out of his hair and ears.
Reaching out, he released the loose knot in the rope that fastened it to one of the support posts. The rope swung free and the bucket dropped, feeling much heavier than he imagined it would. He immediately realized how weak he was. Bracing his hip against the side of the well, he counted Mississippi’s… one, two, three. At nine, the bucket hit something and the rope went slack. He’d never in his life used a well, but he imagined that the bucket needed some time to sink and fill with
water, so he waited.
Pretty soon the rope went taut again and, cursing under his breath, Napoleon began hauling it up. Twice he had to stop and rest, at one point feeling so faint that he fell to his knees and had to stave off the urge to vomit. He rested his forehead against the brick and was so desperate for help that he was about to pray when he remembered The Gray Man’s words: this was not a place to make yourself known. So far they’d avoided the crows and the jackal creatures, but only barely, and something told him that praying would be like sending up a flare.
So instead he inhaled deeply, pulled himself back up to a standing position and continued to haul at the rope, one hand over the over, steady as it went, slow and easy.
While straining, he felt his lips crack. At first he thought it was just a layer of the pink, but then he felt blood running down his chin and neck.
Shit.
He was beyond parched. He knew now that his only way of getting out of there would be the water. Without it, he wouldn’t even be able to walk down this hill, and forget his lips, the skin on his entire body would begin to crack and peel away soon. In desperation he pulled on the rope harder and faster, finding the will until, at last, the lip of the bucket came into view.
His face level with the edge of the well, and his eyes bulging from the strain of his efforts, at first he thought he was seeing things wrong.
Then he realized he wasn’t.
The bucket was full of blood. Hot, steaming, putrid-smelling blood. Blood on the boil.
He was about to release his grip on the rope and scream when he was cut short by her voice.
“¿Mijo?”
“Impossible,” he muttered.
It was his grandmother’s voice. “¿Mijo? Are you there? Help me! Please!”
Something was bobbing in the bucket, moving side to side. He wrapped the rope around his right forearm to lock it in place and brought his other hand up to cover his mouth in horror. Then, slowly, incredulously, Napoleon forced himself to stand tall and look inside the bucket.
The face of his decapitated grandmother floated therein, her gray hair now drenched red. Her soft, loving eyes were filled with agony and confusion.
A Million to One: (The Millionth Trilogy Book 2) Page 7
