The Complex

by Brian Keene

  First of all, their gaze is focused on the flat screen television that occupies one wall of the living room. It squats atop a black pre-manufactured television stand that is too small to properly hold it. Shaggy and Turo are staring at the screen in dismay, because their Xbox just lost its connection to the internet in the middle of their game.

  Also, it’s not the first time they’ve heard any of these sounds around the Pine Village Apartment Complex. Shouting, and sometimes even screaming, occurs regularly. So do thuds and bangs and other noises. And the weed whacker? Well, there’s a lawn and garden service that tends to the property once a week (although it doesn’t occur to either of them that it’s a little too late in the day for someone to be trimming the grass).

  But the main reason they haven’t really acknowledged the noises coming from the apartments above them, is because both Shaggy and Turo are stoned as fuck.

  However, when the gunshots start a few seconds later, that gets their attention.

  Shaggy bolts upright on the couch, dropping his video game controller.

  “Whitey,” he shouts, looking at Turo in alarm.

  Panicked, Turo crouches further down into the recliner, as if trying to hide himself in its cushions, and shakes his head.

  “Tony and Vince,” Turo says. “It’s gotta be.”

  “Shit,” Shaggy responds. “What if it’s all three of them? What if they’re teaming the fuck up?”

  They stare at each other for a few seconds, their bloodshot eyes bright with panic. A spent bowl sits in an ashtray on the coffee table, along with a lighter, a plastic bag with six more buds inside of it, twelve empty beer bottles, a crumpled potato chip bag, a half-eaten package of cookies, and several mugs of days-old coffee—the surfaces of which have begun to sprout a thin, scummy layer of mold. Amidst all of this is a Kimber .45 handgun. A full spare magazine lies next to it, loaded with hollow points.

  Shaggy slips off the couch, and grabs the weapon with one trembling hand.

  “Where’s your gun?” he whispers.

  Shrugging, Turo shakes his head again. “I don’t know. Around here somewhere.”

  “Well, you better get it, motherfucker. You hear that shit?”

  As if to punctuate his query, several more gunshots echo outside. Judging by the sound, there are two weapons, and two different calibers.

  Nodding, Turo starts to stand up, but Shaggy gestures wildly at him.

  “Duck, you dumb fuck. Don’t let them see you at the window. You fixing to catch a bullet?”

  “They’re on the other side of the building,” Turo says. “Up over the hill. And I don’t think that creepy Russian fuck would team up with the Italians anyway.”

  “We stole from them both. I don’t see why they wouldn’t. Whitey does business with Tony and Vince. Ain’t no reason he wouldn’t join them in killing some motherfuckers.”

  “But if it’s them, then why are they on the other side of the building? And who the fuck are they shooting at?”

  Shaggy pauses, considering this. “Maybe they got the wrong apartment. Or maybe they’re asking around about us, and nobody would tell them nothing, so now they’re getting fucking rough.”

  “Or maybe it’s not them at all.”

  “Then who the fuck would it be?”

  Turo shrugs. “I don’t know. All I know is I’m tired of hiding up in here. What good is that money if we can’t go outside to spend it?”

  “Shit. We can’t spend it till we fucking get it again.”

  Four days ago, Shaggy and Turo became rich. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to enjoy their newfound wealth.

  It all started two months prior when Shaggy got pulled over by the cops—not for speeding or running a red light or ignoring a stop sign or failure to properly signal. Indeed, he’d been doing thirty-five in a forty-five mile per hour zone when he and Turo spotted the swirling blue and red lights behind them. No, Shaggy had been pulled over because the State Trooper’s vehicle was equipped with ALPR—Advance License Plate Recognition—a computerized system that automatically scanned the license plates of every car that drove by the cruiser, and alerted the officer inside of any infractions. In Shaggy’s case, his crime had been driving without automobile insurance—an automatic infraction in Pennsylvania. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have car insurance. It was that he hadn’t been able to afford the premiums, and had missed two monthly payments as a result. The insurance company had cancelled his policy, and informed the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles, and the next thing he knew, there he and Turo stood along the edge of the road. Fifteen minutes earlier, they’d been on their way to work. Instead, they watched as the State Trooper seized Shaggy’s license plate at the scene, wrote him a citation, warned them not to drive the car without a plate, and then drove away.

  They’d spent their last sixty bucks getting the car towed back to the Pine Village Apartment Complex, and Shaggy had fretted over how to pay the two-hundred and fifty dollar fine, and then he’d gotten a notice in the mail saying his driver’s license was suspended for ninety days. And since Turo’s license was also suspended for driving while intoxicated six months before, they were fucked.

  One night, while stoned, they’d been commiserating about how all of their problems in life stemmed from being broke—a problem that had only been exacerbated by the fact that they’d now lost their jobs because they had no way of getting to work. They’d discussed robbing a bank, a grocery store, and the check cashing place over on Walnut Street. Then they’d considered stealing from Sam, the neighbor who lived above them. The dude wrote horror novels, supposedly, so it was possible he had Stephen King money. They soon decided against this, however, reasoning that if Sam had any money at all, he wouldn’t be living in Pine Village.

  Then, their friend Ron had offered a plan. An uneasy truce existed between the local Russian and Italian organized crime outfits, who were both struggling against the black gangs and Mexican cartels moving in from Baltimore and Philly. He told them about a strip club called The Odessa, which was owned and operated by an albino Russian gangster named Whitey. According to Ron, two soldiers from the Marano Family—a pair of made men named Tony Genova and Vince Napoli—dropped a bag full of money off there every month. How much money? Ron didn’t know for sure, but several friends had told him it was usually upwards of a quarter-million dollars. The next such financial exchange was scheduled for the following week. Stealing it inside the club would be impossible. They’d never make it out alive. But hitting the two mobsters in the strip club’s parking lot might be doable.

  Shaggy, Turo, and Ron staked out The Odessa, making note of the car the mobsters arrived in, where they parked, and what they did upon exiting the vehicle. In addition to Tony and Vince, there were two other associates. All four were armed, but none of them were carrying openly. The bag full of money was, in fact, a briefcase, and the way Genova clutched it, the contents were certainly valuable.

  When their surveillance was finished, the three conspirators had retreated back to Shaggy and Turo’s apartment, and hatched their plan. Given that there were four mobsters and only three of them—of which Ron would remain behind the wheel of their car—they needed a fourth person. Ron suggested his brother Jimmy, just out of a six-month stint in county prison and looking for work.

  Shaggy and Turo struggled to make the rent for the next month, hustling and stealing and doing whatever they could to hold off the bill collectors and the utility shut-off notices. They talked about what they would do with the money, and tried to hold out. Tried to stay positive and upbeat. It seemed to them that the next exchange would never come, but it did, and everything started out great.

  Arriving a few hours early, Ron parked his car four spaces away from where the mobsters had parked the previous month. The four of them went inside the club for a while, so as to not arouse suspicion. The parking lot had security cameras, and it might have seemed odd for the four of them to sit inside the car the entire time. As the expec
ted arrival time drew nearer, the four of them finished their drinks and decided to return to the car.

  Unfortunately, they almost missed their window of opportunity. As they exited the club, they nearly ran into Genova, Napoli, and their two associates. The mobsters had arrived early.

  “Excuse me,” Genova had said, smiling. “My fault.”

  Then he’d backed up, allowing them to exit through the door.

  “Sorry about that,” Ron had muttered.

  “No worries,” Genova insisted. “It was my fault. Should have been watching where I was going.”

  Shaggy and Turo had glanced at each other, unsure of what to do.

  Then, Ron decided for them by punching Genova in his still-smiling mouth. The stunned criminal stumbled backward, arms flailing. Jimmy darted forward and grabbed the briefcase, wrestling it away from the injured man. Then, before the other three mobsters could even draw their weapons, Jimmy took off across the parking lot.

  “Come on,” Ron shouted, as Shaggy and Turo stood there blinking. “Move your ass!”

  Shaggy and Turo raced after Ron and Jimmy. Shouts echoed behind them, but they were too afraid to turn around and see what was happening. They were halfway to the car when Jimmy lurched forward, as if he’d been kicked in the back. Bloody holes appeared in his shirt. A second later, they heard the shots. The briefcase slipped from Jimmy’s grasp as he tottered back and forth, weaving unsteadily on his feet. Then the back of Jimmy’s head exploded.

  Turo slid to a halt and screamed. Shaggy clutched his arm and urged him on. Without stopping, Ron bent over, snatched up the briefcase, and ran for the car. Bullets pinged off the pavement and the surrounding automobiles. Then Shaggy and Turo started running again.

  “You boys know who you’re fucking with?” Genova shouted.

  Ron’s car roared to life. Seconds later, the tires squealed as he barreled out of the parking lot, baring down directly on the gangsters. The gunmen scattered as he rocketed toward them, recovering fast enough to shoot out his rear windshield. He screeched out onto the road, his rear bumper banging off the asphalt, and then zoomed away.

  By then, Shaggy and Turo had fled through the parking lot of an adjoining Taco Bell, behind a dry cleaners, and into a stretch of woods bordering an industrial park. They ran all night, hiding in culverts and garbage dumpsters, plowing through forests, and racing across highways, fields, and vacant lots. They babbled to one another in shock and fear about Jimmy’s fate, and the fact that Ron had abandoned them, and how they were going to get home, and what the hell they would do now.

  They’d made it back to Red Lion just before dawn, exhausted, sweaty, and dismayed. Seeing nothing suspicious around their apartment, the two had gone inside. Then Ron called, informing them that he’d stashed the money inside an old iron ore mine out in the woods near LeHorn’s Hollow. He apologized for leaving them behind, saying he’d been in shock after seeing his brother gunned down, and wasn’t thinking clearly. He assured them he was all better now, and that all they had to do was lay low for a while, and when the coast had cleared, they’d split the money between themselves.

  That had been four days ago. Shaggy and Turo have spent much of that time stoned or drunk or both. They’ve waited to hear from Ron, or the cops, or the people they robbed. So far, they haven’t. They’ve been afraid to go outside, afraid to make a phone call, afraid to do anything but sit and drink and smoke and play video games.

  Now, all of that has changed.

  “Let’s make a break for it,” Shaggy says, crouched behind the sofa.

  “And go where?” Turo parts the vinyl blinds with one finger and peers out the window. So far, the yard outside their apartment, which borders a small stretch of woodland, is empty.

  “I don’t fucking know. Anywhere but here!”

  “How? We ain’t got no fucking car, no fucking driver’s licenses, and no fucking money. How far we gonna get?”

  Turo lets the blinds fall shut, sinks back down to the floor again, and tries not to cry.

  Shaggy stands up, still clutching the .45, and snatches the spare magazine off the table. Then he heads for the door.

  “Stay here if you want,” he says, “but I’m leaving while I still can. I’m betting they killed Ron, and I’m also betting he fucking gave us up before they did. Probably tortured him and shit.”

  “Dude, for all we know, Ron took off with the fucking money.”

  “Bullshit, motherfucker.” Shaggy shakes his head. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Shaggy, please. Don’t go out there.”

  “I’m fucking going. The question is, are you coming, too, or you gonna stay here and wait to get shot?”

  He opens the door. Instead of responding, Turo lurches to his feet and hurries after him. The two creep out of the apartment and glance around. Shaggy eases the door shut behind him, and doesn’t bother to lock it. The yard is still empty, but three figures emerge from the nearby woods. All of them are nude. One of them is covered in blood. Another carries a hunting rifle. Spying Shaggy and Turo, the naked gunman raises the stock to his shoulder and aims at them.

  “Go!” Shaggy pushes Turo, who is still trying to come to terms with their nudity.

  They run around the side of the apartment building as the shot echoes behind them. Too late, they realize they are now running directly toward the sounds of the original chaos. They round the corner and skid to a stop. The parking lot is filled with more naked people, many of whom are armed with a variety of weapons—everything from guns and knives to a frying pan and a weed whacker. There are several dead bodies lying on the pavement. All but one of them is nude. Another naked person is slumped over the hood of a car, bleeding out onto the metal from a gunshot wound to his face. More dead nudists are sprawled in a pile in front of apartment 2-D. That apartment’s front windows are busted out and shards of broken glass sparkle on the ground.

  Shaggy and Turo’s neighbors are also armed. Sam the writer and the old lady that lives three doors down from him both have handguns. As the two would-be stick-up men watch in disbelief, the old lady shoots a naked person in the stomach. The naked person staggers and his mouth curls into a grimace as blood spurts from the wound, but he doesn’t drop the axe he’s holding until the old lady shoots him a second time.

  The tranny who lives in the apartment between Sam and the old lady is standing outside, watching all this go down. She has a butcher knife in one hand, and judging by the blood on the blade, she’s recently used it. Shaggy still occasionally gives Turo shit, because Turo once remarked while high that he thought the tranny was “kind of pretty, but not in a gay way.” Next to her are a young red-headed woman and a kid, both of whom look like they’re in shock. The kid has his hands pressed tight over his ears. His eyes are wide as half dollars. His mother has bitten through her lip, and blood dribbles down her chin, but she seems oblivious to it.

  More naked people are converging on the apartment complex, wandering out of the surrounding woods and alleys and backstreets. The other neighbors don’t seem to notice, because they’re too preoccupied with the closer opponents. They also don’t seem to notice as a naked little girl, probably eight or nine years old, charges toward Sam. She’s grinning and snarling, and clutches a butcher knife in her hand.

  “Look out,” Turo yells.

  Shaggy is yelling, too—nonsensical words, the language of panic. He raises the .45 and shoots the little girl in the leg. The hollow point round shreds flesh and shatters bone. She spins and falls, crying out in both pain and rage. Her grin is gone, replaced with an indignant expression, as if she can’t believe Shaggy just shot her. Shaggy can’t believe it himself. His legs are shaking and his mouth has gone dry. When the little girl starts crawling toward Sam, dragging her injured, half-severed leg behind her, his stomach roils at the trail of blood in her wake.

  “Inside my apartment,” Sam shouts. “All of you…run, goddamn it! Run!”

  The redhead and her kid glance around in confusion, and
the tranny guides them toward Sam’s open door. Sam and the old lady follow, keeping their guns trained on the advancing horde. Shaggy and Turo hurry along after them. The little girl is almost upon Sam now, and Shaggy points at her, unable to speak. Sam scurries out of her way and follows the rest of them into his apartment.

  “Move those bookshelves over to the windows,” Sam orders, as he slams and locks the door. “Don’t worry about the books. Just dump them on the floor. We need to move fast.”

  “What about the kitchen?” the old lady asks. “You’ve got windows in there, too.”

  “We’ll use the fridge.” As Sam starts toward the kitchen, he glances at Shaggy and Turo. “Don’t just stand there. Move!”

  “Mommy,” the kid wails. “Make them stop!”

  Her only response is to sob.

  Outside, a chainsaw sputters, chokes, and then roars to life. The naked people begin battering the door. The blows are almost as loud as the gunshots were. The door rattles in its frame, and the knob jiggles, but the lock holds. The rumbling of the chainsaw draws closer.

  Turo and Shaggy’s eyes meet, as the pounding on the door increases.

  “Dude,” Turo gasps, breathless. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” Shaggy replies, “but whatever it is, we’re deep in it now.”

  Six - Grady Hicks: Apartment 6-D

  Grady Hicks hasn’t had a dream about Vietnam since 1988. Years of therapy and counseling—not to mention two divorces and three decades of sobriety—have seen to that. And he’s not dreaming about his time in Vietnam now, either.

  Instead, he’s dreaming about what happened to him after he got home.

  Grady made it back to the world in April of 1967, but still had a year left on his enlistment. That July, Grady was asleep in his apartment off-base, his first wife resting next to him, when he got a call telling him to muster at his barracks with full gear in an hour. The next thing he knew, Grady and the rest of the 82nd Airborne’s 3rd Brigade were on their way to Selfridge Air Force Base near Detroit. Two days later, Governor George Romney and President Lyndon B. Johnson deployed them to help quell the 12th Street race riots.