My final Fire-Day Friday—flashing red lights and an alarm system blaring at Attention Must Be Paid decibel levels. I had reached the lobby by the time the expando-foam started slushing from suppression sprinklers. I regretted that they weren’t still on a water system, as that would have destroyed more of my office contents. I hit the parking lot, squinted, saw Delores getting out of her car, her arms full of pizza boxes. She saw me and flinched. I realized I was smiling, then, a full cat-got-the-canary grin, but I didn’t know I was bleeding from both nostrils until I reached my car. The Hex-speed was saving my life/the Hex-speed was killing me. I checked the rearview—my eyes were sparkling.
The key, I knew, was to maintain momentum. Powder to the gums. A fist full of lemony chemical dash wipes to staunch the nose bleed. A final stash run before the bank found the wherewithal to freeze funds across my network. Five hours before the branches closed for the weekend. Car engine humming in sync with the growls of my cherubim wolf. Killed the air-conditioning because it sounded like helicopter traffic. Stay ahead. Stay ahead. Shut down the crazy eyes. Come into each branch reserved, confident. Maybe smelling a little like pepper spray and flame retardant, but not in a way they can pin down. Cash withdrawal for Martin S. Peppermill/Trevor Bainbridge please. Apologize to the manager for requesting such a large amount without advance notice. A mix of hundreds and twenties would be fine. Thank you so much! Have a wonderful weekend! It’s supposed to be sunny, you know? About time, right? Thanks again. Thanks so much.
Green car was in the rearview again, and then it was gone. Pulled a Robert Linson on me. Were they waiting for this? They want the full case. All the money. The whole stash. They’ve got a device reading my cash—RFID’s, security strips, radioactive paints…something. I decided to leave two pick-up runs off my route: a few grand in Trevor Bainbridge’s name at Community Central, and the entire Maria Scharf account. Besides, the latter was too far away and my lipstick and scarf were at home. Maybe they’d wait until I’d collected all their money before they tried to arrest me. Could I buy time by keeping the Scharf money buried? Green car re-appeared in the rearview, a hazy oasis shimmer on vibrating glass. Green car disappeared again. A drop of blood fell from my nose to my pants. Good. I fucking hated khakis anyway.
The briefest moment of reflection: Are you sure they were there to arrest you today? What if the Feds were on the Delta MedWorks case too and looking for you to collude? Did you just commit arson, destroy bank property, and assault two bank officers and two agents under false pretense? If they weren’t on to you before, that was a grand way to announce your suspect status. And how did that even work, anyway? You think your magic pills turned you into fucking James Bond? Did that even happen? How do you know you’re not passed out somewhere, overdosing?
No answers. The injection of reason was quickly replaced by two more questions:
Are they already at my apartment?
And
What about Deckard?
I convinced myself it had to be done, hoping that I’d thrown things into such chaos back at the bank that they were still reeling. There was no option but to raid my house on a rescue mission: grab Deckard/grab the Hex stash/grab the data drive containing the distillation of my hard copy conspiracy maps. Use part of my ill-gotten gains to buy my way underground via Port and Egbert. Finalize the Delta case and find the right buyer for the information. That was always the plan, right? Wait, was that really my plan? Sirens wailed in the distance, which was always the case as I approached home and the glories of 45th. But the day possessed an awful new possibility—those sirens could be for me. I parked on a side street to avoid being trapped in my parking garage. Grabbed the black plastic garbage bag of stolen cash from my trunk and flung it over my shoulder like Sketchy Santa. Took two of the deepest breaths I could, slammed shut the trunk, and decided the rescue mission was a Go.
I only used Deckard’s travel enclosure for trips to visit my mom, and it was tight quarters. I was sure he hated it. I apologized, kissed the back of his head, and placed him inside. “Sorry. I’ll grab you some water and an extra worm.” Pocketed his dry food. Shifted my garbage bag funds over to a new tan sports duffel, packed to brimming. Filled a backpack with my Hex bundle, a fist-sized hard drive containing the core of my Delta findings, two pairs of boxer shorts, and a couple of t-shirts. Ditched the chemical-doused, blood-spattered work shirt for a gray tee and a black hoodie, replaced the khakis with jeans. Snugged a baseball cap low on my head and caught a vision of myself in the mirror: I’d expected Mission Impossible but was instead startled to see an emaciated tweeker was robbing my place. I waved. He waved back. Christ. I remembered the green car on my trail, hit the kitchen and rifled my utensil drawer for the biggest knife I owned. Ice-hardened eight inch blade. Worked great on lettuce—as long as I was only attacked by salads I’d be fine. Tucked it into the side pocket of my backpack and a cardboard sheath kept it from cutting through. One more frantic scan of the place. Half second’s consideration: Do I grab Big Booty Vol. 3? Wolf at low growl, warm breath on my left ear. Odd confidence fighting confusion for mental space.
How was I still free?
“Cover your ears, Deck. Tuck in.” I grabbed a hammer from the top of the fridge and did my best to decimate the undernet system in the living room. Grabbed a few pieces of the main drive to throw in the sewer. They’d find some of what I was working on, but not the whole picture. I contemplated lighting a fire for a moment, but this building was so old and under-maintained—I couldn’t stomach the idea of all those low income families and worker drones gone barbecue. My hammer job would have to suffice. Felt fresh blood pool at the base of my nose. Tightened my backpack straps, grabbed the cash duffel and Deckard, and waved a final goodbye to the place where I’d pretended to live.
The car died two blocks after my turn onto 45th. Maybe my cash-grab speed run had finally broken the engine. Maybe a man in a green car had decided I’d be easier to track on foot and cut the fuel line. I wouldn’t have smelled the gasoline through the blood and thick new coat of powdered Hex. Regardless, I had suddenly become a worldly possession-toting refugee—still in Kept Squad territory with enough pills to guarantee my immediate murder if caught—and there was no choice but to keep moving forward. The momentum had brought me this far. The Hex refresher had reset my system to one hundred percent confidence. And I hoped maybe the turtle would give me an extra crazy sheen: Oh, man…Don’t fuck with that turtle guy! He’s out of his mind! Confidence was not the same thing as reason.
I can’t emphasize enough the sensation of being propelled forward by some benevolent force, that my righteousness had created a shining path. Perhaps that’s how a pawn feels when moved forward by a self-assured chess player.
I cleared the Kept Squad blocks at a near jog, my left shoulder stressed from trying to keep Deckard’s travel case steady. Regretted not having purchased a gun—What has two thumbs and throws itself headfirst into corporate conspiracy without first buying a single firearm? This fucking guy. But I’m packing a red-eared slider turtle with a vicious hiss and a kitchen knife which struggles to slice steak fat…Contemplated a way to brandish the knife without looking like a guy running down the street with a knife, a turtle, a duffel on my chest, and a backpack on my back. Nope—that was the best of my bad options. I stopped to reconfigure my travel set-up and the world pretty much exploded.
First: A shot to the kidneys and I dropped. Then I was dragged back up to my feet and pulled into an alley to my right. I heard my knife fall to the street. Saw Deckard and the duffel sitting exposed. Fists the size of my head wrapped around my backpack straps and hoodie, dragging me upright. I brought my hands up to protect my face from the pummeling that was about to commence. This is how it all ends—everything you worked for stolen by some tweeker in a back alley. They’ll probably turn Deck into soup or use him for a baseball. Will anyone even find your body?
The grip on my shirt tightened. Hot, sour breath rolled across my face. Then a familiar voice
, tainted by fear, shaking, “Is it still out there?”
“Egbert?”
“Shhh. Shhh. Quiet, motherfucker. It’s out there.”
“What’s…”
“The thing, D. The thing got Port. Took a bullet and still got him.”
“Wait, what?”
“Same thing that got Hungo. Has to be. Cracked Port’s head open on the sidewalk and hunched over and started…just…slurping.”
“You’re not making any sense. Listen, I need to grab those bags…”
“You don’t need shit, motherfucker. You brought this down on us. I told Port from the beginning—bad news.”
Egbert’s left fist tightened its grip and he slammed me against the bricks to ensure compliance. Whatever air I was holding rushed from my chest, left me straining to breathe. Egbert’s right hand reached for the machete sheathed on his back. His all-black eyes fixed on mine for a moment and then his gaze went beyond and I realized he’d decided I was a plague rat to be destroyed.
“You must have brought this thing. It said your fucking name. So I’m going to give it what it wants.”
Egbert raised his Right of Refusal to the sky.
Then: Three loud cracks in sequence, and Egbert’s machete-wielding hand disappeared, followed in short order by the front of his face, followed by a final blast which took off the back of his head. All that remained of Egbert’s once sizeable skull was a fractured protrusion—one ear still attached, a cross-section of tattered brain exposed—and his considerable jaw. His beard was a mop of blood, his barely tethered tongue lolling above. His left hand hadn’t forfeited its grip on me and the mass of his collapsing body dragged us down. My body landed on top of his and I watched his tongue flop back into the cavern where his face had been, and then, I swear, the force of my weight on his chest pushed a final breath from his lungs and his tongue flapped and flailed like a goddamn blowout noisemaker at a kid’s party.
Then: I laughed. Because how else do you process something like that?
Then: “Alright, Doyle, on your feet.”
And the man approached me and I heard the growl of a wolf grow louder and then I saw my savior. He looked like any other cowboy from my bank—pricey dress shirt, black slacks, slight paunch, gray at the temples. He had some kind of gun in his right hand, made from a burnished yellow plastic, blue smoke still oozing from the barrel. From the way Egbert’s head had segmented I guessed this was not standard ordnance. I knew better than to question the man. The response would be a variation on their central theme—“Who are you to ask?” I felt certain that this man had been the one following me, that his purposefully nondescript green car was parked somewhere very near to my abandoned vehicle. He raised his gun and pointed it at me as I exited the alley, approaching my duffel and Deckard’s enclosure.
“Leave the turtle, shitbird. Grab the bag.” He glanced down quickly, referencing something on his phone. “Looks like there are still about eighty-two thousand in funds that we need to recover. You’re going to help me with that before we deal with your corollary accountabilities.”
He sounded like a banker, burying murder under jargon. I hoped I could appeal to his inherent greed.
“There’s way more than eighty-two in that bag. Maybe you grab the duffel and I grab the turtle and you tell the boys back home that I’ve been dealt with. I’ll hide deep. I swear. I’ll leave the country and…”
“Kill it, Doyle. You shut your fucking mouth. You think it’s just about the money? No way, pal, not anymore. We know about the research. Your attempts to inhibit our business relationships. And beyond that, there are four deaths which must be accounted for.”
“Deaths? What deaths?”
Standing still, spinning.
“You didn’t hear the news? Two prominent bankers and two federal agents died today. Some kind of chemical attack floored them and they didn’t escape the fire which claimed the building. Agent Torres had asthma, so they’re guessing he died before the fire even reached him. The rest probably burned alive. It’s all over the news—you’re a domestic terrorist. The media might be outside of your apartment by now. Do you wonder what they’ll find? I don’t. You come with me, we set things straight, maybe we can cut them off before your poor mother turns on the TV and finds out her son is a cross-dressing, porn-addicted, pill-popping terrorist.”
“You’re bluffing. I saw the sprinkler system turn on. I only started a tiny fire.”
“Do you remember who financed our corporate center?”
Shit. Our own commercial division. They hired shifty, itinerant contractors, pocketed nebulous supply costs, and ran every project as cheap as they could. That sprinkler system could have been pumping out Mr. Bubbles for all I knew.
“I’m growing impatient. I’ve been authorized to close out this endeavor as I see fit. You can come with me now, or I can leave by myself. But think of your mother—the media circus, all those unanswered questions, nothing left of you to place in a coffin…”
My head swirled. I snorted back fresh blood and crusted Hex. I believed the man was willing to call it a day and vaporize me like Egbert’s head—eighty-two grand was a pittance as a write off, and even if I’d really murdered those people, there’s no way they actually wanted to take me to trial and risk my ideas entering the public record.
I raised my hands and stepped slowly toward the bag of cash.
Part of me—some selfish bastard part that didn’t mind dying—always knew this was a potential endgame. But I pictured Deck starving without me, waiting in his enclosure for someone to come along and smash his shell out of dull curiosity. And I thought of my mother, the sad monologue she’d left on my voicemail as our final interaction, the way the stress of the media coverage would speed her decline from Pelton-Reyes and leave her ostracized in her conservative community, the way the vultures would perch in her yard and speculate and ensure they found the worst archival photo of me to let their viewers know I was a batshit crazy threat from birth and that my mother had failed in her duty to create a good citizen and…
Then: The sound of a starving animal attacking a carcass came from the alley behind me, low grunts and deep inhales and crunching bone.
“You brought this thing.”
I twisted enough to catch the alley in my peripheral: a massive shape was hunched over Egbert’s blasted leftovers, its face nuzzled deep into what remained of the dead dealer’s head.
“Enough stalling, Doyle. Grab the goddamned bag.”
“I’m not stalling. There’s…”
The thing heard us; its head snapped to attention, and just as quickly it was running toward me.
“Doyle!” Its voice was so low it approached subsonic—I felt the rumble of my name in my chest.
It turns out that the body can automatically recalibrate to a new threat response. Mine instantly decided that Being Shot in the Face was a far better death than Being Eaten Alive by a Creature Which Knows My Name. I bolted in the direction of my bank’s hired gun and the only real thought in my head was, “NO!”
I made it three strides before the thing had me in its hands. Too fast. Too strong. Its grip like a steel clamp on each side of my ribs until I heard a snap and felt something give on the right side of my chest. I was lifted off my feet. I felt the heat of the thing’s breath ruffle my hair and the smell of decayed meat engulfed me. Then the sound of more bones popping, but no new pain bloomed in my ribs and I realized the sound was coming from the thing’s mouth. I pictured the jaws of the creature unlocking, extending out to strip away the candy coating of my scalp.
I felt a massive row of flat teeth latching in above the base of my neck and the warmth of a tongue against my head like a pulsing microwaved steak and then—barely perceptible over the interior static of my mind being aware it was about to be eaten and swallowed—there was the sound of gunfire. The thing spun and threw my body to the street and everything was meat/electricity/smoke and bellowing and the wet sensation of the thing’s saliva soaking my scalp.
Then: A vision. Couldn’t be real. Had to be the combination of Hex and exhaustion and the raw pain of my cracked rib. Because the thing I’d been certain was a massive beast was wearing sweatpants and an oversized hoodie and a pair of tan work boots, and he was staring in shock at the stump of his left arm, missing from the elbow down. I rolled further away, certain with each rotation that something in my chest was about to puncture and deflate my lungs. When I looked again the thing was in mid-air, its overlong remaining arm outstretched, its power pole legs extended for first impact with his assailant’s torso. Then the thud of bodies colliding, the cracking/clacking sound of the bank’s assassin dropping his weapon as the thing snapped his wrist, the sound of joints popping as the thing’s lower jaw opened to engulf the man’s head. The thing pushed its brick-sized chin into the man’s mouth, splitting my would-be-murderer’s face open with crowbar efficiency, then it locked in its upper row of teeth along the man’s forehead. The creature’s maw was huge and thick and gleaming wet in the streetlight, and with one straining bite, jaw muscles pulsing like knotted rope, it collapsed the front of the man’s face.
This did not stop the man from screaming through the final vestiges of his mouth. That sound was mercifully cut short as the thing crunched its fist into its prey’s trachea.
I turned to crawl toward my bags, but the sensation of taking my eyes off the thing was repellent, like turning your back on a suddenly visible great white shark while out swimming. I pushed my body backwards with my arms and stayed low and tried to keep from crying out when my busted rib cage told me to stop and wait for the ambulance.
Skullcrack City Page 7
