by Larry Hoy
Pain overwhelmed him, and he whimpered, then lost consciousness again. When he woke up next somebody had placed a few of Sweetwater’s personal things, plus Warden’s computer and phone, near them. The laptop was closed, and cracks lined the phone screen like a spider’s web. Staring at them with a vacant look, Scott held up Sweetwater’s credentials in their distinctive leather case. The badge was covered in dust, but other than that it looked untouched.
Medical personnel swarmed over them, as if suddenly figuring out that somebody had been injured in the explosion. Even as they worked on him, though, Scott gasped out a question.
“Your badge number is triple seven?”
Sweetwater nodded.
“You might be the luckiest man I know.”
“I don’t feel very lucky,” he said, as a doctor examined his eyes with a pen light. The words came out as a croak.
Hovering over him, the doctor answered instead of Scott. It was Tamika Wilson. “You got shot point-blank and survived, Mister Sweetwater. Now a bomb explodes in your room and you’re still breathing. He’s right,” she said, nodding at Scott, “if you’re not the luckiest man, you’re sure as hell the luckiest one I’ve ever met.” Then she looked directly into Sweetwater’s eyes. “Why do you want to kill people for money?”
“How do you know it was a bomb?” he asked, ignoring the question because he didn’t know the answer.
“This hospital is ground zero for the gang wars. It’s not the first time we’ve been bombed.”
“How is my friend?” he asked, not giving her a chance to ask the embarrassing question a second time.
“We need to get you both downstairs to the ER where we can check you out.”
“Scott?” Nurse Ratched called as she rushed toward them. The young physical therapist got to his feet, using the wall as a brace. Dr. Wilson gave him a brief look over.
“Damn, Scott. Millie, help him take Mister Sweetwater and his girlfriend downstairs, then get Scott checked out, stat.”
Scott nodded to Millie, still stunned and in obvious pain. Since he had been standing sideways in the doorway, his left side had absorbed the force of the blast. Blood had soaked into the fabric around holes sliced in his scrubs by flying debris.
“Let’s find a gurney or wheelchair,” he said. “And hurry, I’m not feeling too good.”
A page for Dr. Wilson over the intercom sent her scurrying up to the next floor, where there were more casualties. The detonation had done more damage than originally thought. Alone now, Warden grabbed Sweetwater by the arm and handed over her phone. She had typed a text message which, despite the shattered face, was still readable.
bomb was for you
Sweetwater looked at her and nodded. It felt like he had a cinder block duct taped to the top of his head. She typed another message and showed him.
he knows ur here he mite b watching we need 2 run
Their eyes met. Sweetwater licked his lips and nodded. Warden was right; they had to find a way to get out of there. Holding his ribs with his right arm, Sweetwater turned and planted his left hand on the ground, grinding his teeth to keep from screaming. Then he pulled in one knee, followed by the second. With a short prayer he rose to his knees, swayed, and blinked at the red stars in his vision. There was a bumper that ran the length of the hospital corridors, probably put up to keep gurneys from tearing up the walls. Sweetwater grabbed it and pulled.
Intense pain shot through the top of his head like an ice pick, but he kept rising. Once he was on his feet, he took a tentative step, gasped, felt his legs tremble, and thought he might fall. For what couldn’t have been more than a second everything went black. A craving to sleep overwhelmed all other thoughts…until a familiar and feared voice cut through his stupor.
“Is something wrong with you, Private Sweet Meat?” It was his drill instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Addison, his face apoplectic as he shrieked into Sweetwater’s ear at Parris Island. “Don’t you like your fellow privates?”
“No, sir!”
“You don’t like them?”
“Aye, sir!
“Well, which is it, you do like them, or you don’t like them?”
“I do like them, sir!”
“Then why did you answer ‘no’ before you answered ‘yes’?”
“I was answering the first question, sir!”
“Am I confusing you, Private Sweet Meat?”
“No, sir!”
“Then why are you lagging behind the rest of your platoon, Private? Do you want them to get killed?”
“No, sir!”
“Don’t you love the Marine Corps, Private Sweet Meat?”
“Aye, sir!”
“Good, that makes me happy. And since I’m a Marine, does that mean you love me, too?”
“Aye, sir!”
“Do you want to take me to dinner, Private Sweet Meat, buy me roses, and maybe pick me up in a limousine?”
“No, sir!”
“Now I’m confused, Private Sweet Meat, I thought you said you loved me! If you love me, don’t you want to wine and dine me?”
“No, sir!”
“So, you don’t love me then?”
“I—”
“You what, Private? Do you want to stand there holding your pecker, is that it? Or maybe you want to stand there holding my pecker. Do you want to hold my pecker, Private Sweet Meat?”
“No, sir!”
“Don’t you like my pecker?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir!”
“Do you need to see it to know if you like it? Would you like me to whip it out right here, Private Sweet Meat?”
“No, sir!”
“Then what do you want, Private Sweet Meat?”
“I want to perform my duties to the best of my abilities, sir!”
“You do?”
“Aye, sir!”
“Then why aren’t you helping your friends to safety, Marine?”
“Sir, I don’t deserve to be a Marine, sir!”
“You deserve to be a Marine if and when I say you do, Sweet Meat. Do you understand me? And since when does the Marine Corps send people who don’t deserve to be Marines to Scout Sniper School? Did you lie to the Marine Corps, or are you saying that my beloved Marine Corps made a mistake?”
“N-neither…sir!”
“Didn’t you learn anything from me, Sweet Meat? Marines do not call Gunnery Sergeants, sir, you will address me as Gunnery Sergeant Addison. Is that clear?”
“Aye, sir—Gunny!”
“Now what is your problem? I know you have a scratch, so I assume you don’t want you to strain yourself helping your friends survive. Is that it, Marine? Does your own comfort matter more than Suzie’s life?”
“Her name is Teri, and she’s not a Suzie, Gunny.”
“I know her name, dumbass, but if you’re too stupid to know she’s a Suzie then maybe you are too stupid to be a Marine.”
“Like hell I am!”
“Well, well, what have we here? Do I see Corporal Sweetwater finally making an appearance?”
“Fuckin’ A, Gunny.”
“Well, it’s about fucking time. Now why are you talking to me instead of saving Suzie? Why are you sitting on your ass when you should be acting like a fucking Marine?”
Sweetwater was slipping down the wall when he came back to full consciousness. It hurt to breathe, stand, or even hold his head up, but now all that seemed trivial. He was a Marine goddamn it! He’d forgotten it until that moment. Now, finishing the mission was all that mattered; it’s what Marines did.
A strong hand grabbed his arm and helped him stand straight again.
“What are you doing?” Scott asked, yelling to be heard over the fire alarms. Millie wasn’t with him. With his free hand he reached down and placed the wheelchair behind Sweetwater. “That was impressive, but you’re not ready. You can barely hold a spoon.”
“Give her the chair,” Sweetwater said. “I don’t need it; I’m a Marine.”
“You’re goi
ng to be a dead Marine if you try to walk too much. Please, sit.” He looked at Warden. “Can you stand?” She nodded and got up, slowly, the laptop tucked under her arm. Scott looped her free arm over his shoulder.
“Can you hang on, but try not to pull down too much?”
She nodded.
Smoke was still pouring from Sweetwater’s room. The elevator alarm jangled from the doors being locked open, and bits of carbonized plastic tubing floated on the air currents as they moved toward it and got on. Scott released the Lock button which stopped the alarm, and once the door closed, it muffled the fire alarms.
“Y’all all right?” Scott asked, his own face drawn and pale.
They both nodded, although Sweetwater had to fight down vomit from a convulsing stomach, while Warden hugged her laptop in both arms. The doors opened to reveal blue lights flashing outside the glass emergency room doors, but no sirens. Or if there were sirens, they couldn’t hear them over the continuing fire alarm horn.
People were running everywhere. The trio moved to the waiting area on the other side of the hall, where Scott found an empty chair. He eased Warden into the seat and wheeled Sweetwater next to her. Finally, he reached down to lock the wheels without looking down.
“Stay here, okay? I’m going to find a doctor.”
“Find one for you, too,” Warden said.
Scott nodded and disappeared back into the elevator.
Tears made track marks in the chalk-like dust caked on Warden’s cheeks. Oddly enough, it also acted as a coagulant and stopped the lacerations on her face from bleeding. Thin runners of blood still flowed from her nose and ears.
Sweetwater tried to tough it out as if Gunny Addison was standing nearby judging him, but it hurt even to take shallow breaths. When he spoke, he had to gasp out the words in bunches. “How we gonna run? Where to?” Head on his chest, he waited what seemed like an hour for her to answer.
“We steal an ambulance,” she said.
“Only works in the movies. They all have GPS trackers now…and we still have the problem of nowhere to go. Erebus found me here, so we sure as hell can’t go back to my trailer.”
“I knew it. You really do live in a trailer.” Now her face lit up with a weak smile, which he returned.
“I already told you I live in a trailer.”
“I figured you were just bragging or something.”
“Right, ’cause everybody brags about living in a single-wide.” The bravado felt good. His smile grew until he let slip a single laugh, which made him grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut from a stab of agony that felt like when a goat had gored him in the side when he was 11. “Do you still have that hotel room?”
Warden shook her head. “I didn’t see the point since I’ve been living here for the past week. My roommate was quiet and slept a lot. It was a pretty good crash pad.”
Sweetwater’s eyes went wide. “That’s the ticket.”
“I knew it would be. What are you talking about?”
Neither had bothered keeping their voices down, since the continuing fire alarm made it hard even to hear each other, but now he leaned in close.
“We’re going to need Scott, or maybe Nurse Dottie. We have to keep out of sight. In the meantime, get with LifeEnders and tell them I died.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I haven’t thought it through yet, but if somebody at LEI is feeding Erebus information, maybe we can use that against him. If it works, who knows, we just might live through this.”
“By being dead?”
“No reason to kill somebody twice, so if I’m dead, then I’m out of the crosshairs. We get time to heal.”
“He might come after me.”
“I don’t think so; I think you’re collateral damage.”
“So where are we going?”
“Right here. We have Scott or Nurse Dottie find us a room with a comatose patient and hide there. The important thing is we have to keep this a secret from the hospital. The more people who know we’re here, the more danger we’re in.”
“That’s crazy! Why would they do that?”
“Why does anybody do anything?”
“I don’t have any money; not enough to bribe somebody. Besides, how do you know one of the staff didn’t tip him off?”
“Yeah, okay, good point. But we’ve got to trust somebody.”
“Skip that part, I’ve got an idea. What then? What’s the next step?”
“You have to track down Erebus. If we keep playing defense, sooner or later we’re going to lose. We need to go on the offensive.”
Chapter 27
Southwest Memphis, TN
Adrian Erebus leaned back on a pile of pillows and stretched out on one of the motel room’s twin beds while Herbert lay belly down on the other. A freshly opened can of Busch foamed in Adrian’s hand, while a can of Coke sat on the floor beside Herbert, the pop-top still sealed. Together they watched the nightly news, which for Herbert was unusual; he rarely paid attention to the world at large.
“This is Diana Carlson,” the late-night news anchor said. The shine from her smile was like a fluorescent flashlight in the darkness of the room. “We are back now with continuing coverage of the explosion at the Med, where an FBI spokesman has just confirmed that the explosion was intentional, although no cause has yet been given. Early reports claimed it was a bomb, but that has not been confirmed. However, the FBI and Memphis Police are no longer calling it a terrorist act. And while it is believed this was another attack connected to LifeEnders, that has not been verified either. Collateral injuries from the incident were substantial, but while resulting in no additional fatalities beyond the presumed target of the attack, three people are listed in critical condition. Initial damage estimates are nearing 30 million dollars.”
Her co-anchor, grinning through enough pancake makeup for a chorus line, waggled his finger at the camera. “Another LifeEnders related attack? How many does that make?” He brushed at the silver hair on his temple, despite it shining with enough hairspray to keep a strand from falling out of place in a hurricane.
“That’s right, Jerry, another one. This makes the third fatality in the past month. We are calling the killer the LifeEnders Ender.”
“Do we know the Ender’s game?” Jerry asked in an obviously rehearsed ad-lib.
“Ha-ha! As you know, the actual purpose and extent of the organization has always been hotly debated, Jerry, and this killer seems to have landed right in the middle of that disagreement. They liken it to the ongoing debate over such things as UFOs, aliens, or Bigfoot. Many people who disbelieve the official government story are calling for the killer to be allowed to continue his streak.”
Jerry’s malleable face suddenly shifted from friendly clown to stern lecturer.
“And that is where I have to step in, Diane, and remind our viewers that this news organization is taking no sides in this debate, we will just be keeping the score. And that score is currently, LifeEnders Ender three, LEI zero. Now let me speak directly to this vigilante, if he or she is listening, there has to be a reason for your actions, and I want to hear your story. I promise you total anonymity, as guaranteed under our constitution. Call me anytime, day or night, here at the station, and I promise that I will take your call. You obviously have something important to say, and I want to help you say it.”
The camera lingered on Jerry’s grave face a moment and went back to Diane.
“In other news, White House spokeswoman Natalie Washwhite laughed off an alligator hunter’s drone video footage that went viral last month, which purported to show a rhinoceros herd stampeding through the Louisiana bayou country. ‘The CGI in that video is laughably bad,’ Washshite claimed, going on to say, ‘The scale was off by a factor of four, and the rhinos were orange, not gray or black. Some people will do anything to get attention.’ In an email to media outlets, the Associated Center for Understanding Phenomena said, ‘This is just another government cover-up, like Roswell and the Chupacabr
a.’ This station has been unable to—”
Adrian sat forward on the bed, slopping beer, and hit the mute button.
“LifeEnders Ender,” he said, “what do you think of that son?”
Herbert held up a thumb.
“Me too, me too. Think we should make T-shirts?”
His son pulled a pillow over his head.
Erebus got up and rummaged through the leftover bomb-making materials inside his duffle bag until he found a wrinkled 5x7 picture of LEI Asset Luther Sweetwater. “I’ll be right back.” He went to the bathroom and set it aflame, like he’d done with Shields’ photo. When it had burned to mostly ashes, he dropped the remnant into the toilet and pissed on it. The streaming urine broke it apart and the ashes of Luther Sweetwater swirled away into the sewer, where he belonged.
Erebus came out of the bathroom and flopped onto his bed, knocking over his little hill of pillows. “We did it, Herbert. We finally killed the bastard that killed your mom, and it was all your idea. You’re such a smart boy.” He put his hands behind his head and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “What should we do next? I’ve got enough savings to last another six months or so, if we’re careful.”
Herbert took the pillow off his head, sat up, and faced his father. He held up four fingers.
“Oh, I like how you think, son. You are such an amazing boy.”
He fished his wallet out of his back pocket. There wasn’t much inside, his credit cards had expired years ago, but behind one of the plastic windows was an old photo of his family outside an amusement park. He pulled it out and held it under the lamp next to the bed.
Herbert had been six at the time? No, five. It had been the summer right before Herbert started first grade, and his birthday was in late September. Tracing his finger along the edge of the picture, he couldn’t stop staring at Grace Allen holding an ice cream cone between her husband and son. She wasn’t smiling, but Erebus knew how tired she’d been when the kind stranger took the photo for them. It wasn’t like she was unhappy or anything.
