by Sam Sisavath
Tall and Skinny nodded down the hallway. “Let’s go.”
Keo started walking. “The boss, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s his name?”
Neither man answered.
“He has a name, doesn’t he?” Keo asked.
Nothing.
“I’m going to have to call him something.”
Silence.
“Or is Boss his name?” When there was still only quiet, Keo shrugged. “Hey, I’ve heard worse names. Ran into this guy in Afghanistan with three first names. How’d you like that? Said he was from New York, but I don’t know, looked and sounded a little Southern to me.”
His only response was the heavy tap-tap-tap of his guards’ shoes on the hard concrete floor behind him.
“Live and let live, I always say,” Keo said. “You want three first names? Go for it. Me, I’ll settle for one. Three letters, that’s all I need. K-e-o. That’s my name, by the way. Keo. Rhymes with mayo.”
Someone grunted, but Keo couldn’t be sure which one of the Skinny Brothers it was.
“Just to reiterate,” Keo said, “but I didn’t come with those guys in the cell. You’ll notice there wasn’t a circled M anywhere on my person when you guys found me. It’s not that I have anything personal against the letter M, mind you, but I’m just not one of them. Just sayin’.”
One of his guards coughed.
“Has anyone ever told you that you boys are great listeners?” Keo asked. “You should hire yourselves out as therapists. Listen to people’s problems. Hey, you know the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist? Only one of them can get you high.”
Tap-tap-tap.
Keo chuckled. “You boys are all right. Never change.”
The farther he went down the hallway, the more poorly lit it became, giving Keo the feeling of walking through a tunnel.
He shivered unwittingly at the thought. The last time he was in a tunnel, it was dark and smelly, and there were things all around him, closing in…
It might have been like walking through a series of forbidden caverns, but there was enough light for him to glimpse the streaks of red on the floor. Blood. It wasn’t very hard to figure out who they belonged to, either.
Pressley’s definitely dead. Or close.
Either way, that leaves me and Greengrass.
Keo glanced over his shoulder, past the Skinny Brothers and at the metal door at the end of the hallway, just barely visible under the low halogen lights.
Or not.
Hallways. A lot of hallways.
Damn, there’s a lot of hallways.
Oh look, another hallway!
What were the chances of that?
Pretty good, as it turned out. And they all looked the same, too, which made it somehow worse. But maybe that had a little something to do with all the patches of shadows where the lights didn’t reach. Which was to say, about half of everything around him. Even the parts where there was a working halogen lamp wasn’t quite as bright as they could or should have been. Certainly nothing like what an LED bulb could have provided, which only further convinced Keo he was walking through a building that had been constructed a long time ago.
Maybe Greengrass was right. Maybe this is an old bomb shelter.
Keo was almost certain he was underground—if not deep, deep underground, then maybe a subterranean floor or two. There was no way to tell for sure, and there were no clues along the walls. No markings, writings, or anything to hint at where he was or where he was going.
But he was definitely going somewhere, and the Skinny Brothers stayed behind him during the entire walk. Keo had sneaked a look back twice and found plenty of space between him and his guards both times. They were being cautious, almost as if they expected him to do something (stupid) like reach for their weapons. Keo had no intentions of doing anything like that. At least, not until he had a better understanding of who his captors were and what they wanted with him.
Pressley’s blood, which had started outside the prison cell, had vanished about three turns ago. Keo wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse; after all, it didn’t tell him anything at all about what had become of the female Bucky.
She’s probably dead. Or close to dead.
Either way, it’s me and Greengrass.
Oh, who are you kidding? It’s you. Greengrass can barely scratch his ass with those broken bones of his.
“We there yet?” Keo asked. It was the first time he’d spoken in—well, he’d lost track of time between trying to memorize (and failing badly) where he was going and figuring out just how deep in trouble he really was.
Like the last dozen or so times he attempted conversation, the Skinny Brothers didn’t oblige him.
“Seems like we’ve been walking for a while,” Keo said anyway. “You sure you guys know where we’re going?”
Nothing.
“Or did I take a wrong turn somewhere? Did we take a wrong turn somewhere?”
More silence except for the tap-tap-tap of their boots behind him.
“It’s dark in here. Easy to get lost,” Keo said. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“We’re not lost,” one of his guards finally said. It sounded like Skinny and Tall, but voices (including his own) had a tendency to come out flat with all the concrete around them. “Just keep walking.”
“My legs are getting tired,” Keo said. “I’ve had a very long day. Speaking of which, what time is it out there?”
“Time for you to get a watch,” the other one said (Short and Skinny this time, Keo was mostly sure of it), and they both chuckled.
Laugh away, boys. As long as you’re talking to me…
“I had one,” Keo said. “Someone took it. Along with a pack of gum. You wouldn’t happen to know who took my gum, would you?”
“Your gum?” Tall and Skinny (?) said.
“Yeah. A whole pack. It was in my pocket, but when I woke up, it was gone.”
“I don’t know what happened to your gum. Maybe you should be more worried about who took your shoes.”
“Nah, I know who took my shoes. Socks are more comfortable, anyway.”
“If you say so, buddy.”
“Back to that gum,” Keo said. “Can you ask around? Find out who took it? I’d really like it back.”
“It’s fucking gum,” one of them said. Was it Short and Skinny?
“Yeah, but it’s my fucking gum,” Keo said. “It’s the principle of the thing, you understand.”
“I seriously don’t give a shit.”
“Just you, or your friend, too?”
“I don’t give a shit, either,” the other one said.
Keo faked a sigh. “That’s too bad. I was hoping we could be friends.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, sport.”
“I dunno, I’m pretty good at climbing trees…”
“This guy thinks everything’s a joke,” one of them said. By now, Keo had lost track of who was who. Did it even matter?
“Fenton asshole,” the other one said.
“I’m not from Fenton,” Keo said.
“We’ll see about that. Keep walking.”
“Yes, sir,” Keo said, and thought, So I was right. Cordine City has no love for Fenton.
I can definitely work with that.
They continued for another five or so minutes (Jesus Christ, how big is this place?), taking two more turns and encountering yet more long and semi-dark hallways. They hadn’t run across another soul since they left the room with Greengrass, and as far as Keo could tell, it was just them in the entire place. He hadn’t heard a single voice other than theirs, and there was an eerie silence to the building that made him grimace slightly, imagining himself running around out here looking for a way out.
Another turn.
Then another…
Finally, Keo thought when they came to a metal door at the end of a corridor. This one was better lit thanks to a few more working
lamps than the previous half dozen hallways they’d navigated.
“Stop,” one of the Skinny Brothers said, and as Keo obeyed, the man slid past him and walked over to the door about ten meters away. He rapped his knuckles on the door before pulling it open and looking back at Keo. “In you go.”
“Boss man?” Keo asked.
“Boss man,” the man nodded.
Well, it’s about fucking time, Keo thought before stepping forward and into the room.
Ten
He recalled a man with a trench coat in the street during the gun battle with the Buckies; the man might have been directing the attack on the lobby, but that was just a guess. Keo had been too far away to really see a face, and he had no idea if the man standing behind a big battleship of a desk pouring whiskey into two small shot glasses was that same man.
The “boss” nodded at the Skinny Brothers after they delivered Keo inside, and the two men stepped back and pulled the door closed. That was a surprise, especially since the man in front of Keo didn’t look armed. Didn’t look armed, anyway. He wasn’t wearing a gun belt and had no weapons on him that Keo could see.
What’s going on here?
Unlike in the endless hallways that Keo had traversed to get here, the room was well-lit with a pair of LED bulbs—a reading lamp in the corner to Keo’s right and another on the desk itself. Both lights complemented the weak halogen in the center of the room. There was more than enough visibility for Keo to scan the room and everything available to him.
There were no guns present, but that didn’t mean the place was devoid of weapons.
A stack of books on top of a cherry oak furniture, an industrial-size stapler on top of some folded maps being used as a paperweight, a bronze statue of a football player in old-timey gear giving someone the stiff arm. Then there were the two dozen or so other items that could easily be turned into either a stabbing or blunt weapon. Three number two pencils, along with four Bic pens, in a cup holder would also work in a pinch.
Keo had had to make do with less. Much, much less.
The only other man in the room with him was in his late forties, wearing slacks and a long-sleeve shirt with suspenders hitched to a belt. He looked like a farmer who had just come in after a long day’s work in the fields and not the “boss” of Cordine City’s civilian army. That is, if that was indeed who Keo was standing before. He didn’t even know if they were even still in Cordine City, for that matter.
The man had finished pouring and slid one of the glasses across the desk before gesturing at a lone chair. “Sit.”
“Mind if I stand?” Keo said. “I’ve been sitting for too long.”
“Suit yourself.”
Keo walked over, bypassing the chair, and picked up the drink. The glass was heavy (I bet you could take out a skull with this) and the drink went down like gasoline. Keo hissed, then took a second and a third sip before the whiskey was gone.
“Not a drinker,” the man grinned.
Keo shook his head and put the glass down. “Not so much. I prefer cabernet when I’m trying to dull the senses or get my date drunk.”
“We don’t do red wine around here.”
“Not enough Texan for you?”
“Something like that. More?” the man asked, holding up the bottle.
“Are you drinking?”
“What kind of host would I be if I didn’t?”
“Is that what you are? My host?”
“Of course. What else would I be?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of warden.”
“Never been called that before.” The man refilled Keo’s glass. “Cheers.”
Keo picked his glass back up. “Right back at ya.”
They took a long, silent drink, watching each other over the brim of their glasses.
Take a picture, why doncha, Keo thought, grimacing as the second round went down just as badly as the first.
“Nothing like Kentucky whiskey,” the man smiled. “Found cases of the stuff not far from here. Good thing whiskey doesn’t go bad when stored properly.” He reached a hand across the desk. “I’m Winston.”
Keo shook the man’s hand. “Keo.”
“Interesting name.”
“I had an interesting mother.”
“Your mom named you?”
“Yes.”
“What did your dad think?”
“He didn’t have much of a say in it, being out of the country at the time and all.”
“But he had to come back eventually.”
Keo shrugged. “I was told there were arguments afterward, but the ink was already dry on the birth certificate.”
Winston chuckled before sitting down on a swivel chair. Keo followed suit, though his chair wasn’t nearly as comfortable. It was metal and straight and didn’t have much by way of pitch. But it was better than the cramped ten-by-ten space of his prison cell.
Not that Keo took his eyes off all the items in the room—and on the desk directly in front of him, in particular—that were within easy reach. The only reasons he hadn’t already acted were, one: He had no idea who these people were, or if they were even the enemy. And two, he was pretty sure the Skinny Brothers were waiting outside the door right now. Keo didn’t particularly feel like facing those two bozos with nothing but a stapler or a football trophy to defend himself with.
He nodded at the bronze figurine. “You played football?”
“It’s a Heisman,” Winston said.
“So…is that a yes?”
Winston shook his head. “It’s not mine. I found it in a pawnshop about thirty miles from here. It was a shame to just leave it lying around out there, so I took it. My way of saving it.”
He leaned forward and turned the trophy around so Keo could read the inscription on the side of the wide base.
“I don’t know who that is,” Keo said.
“If you don’t recognize the name, then you obviously don’t watch a lot of football.”
“Just the kind where you actually use your feet to kick the ball.”
“Soccer.”
“Americans call it soccer, but the rest of the world calls it football.”
“True, but the Brits were the ones to popularize soccer, and they originally called it soccer. Legend has it they changed their tune when us less civilized Americans took to calling it soccer, too.”
“Brits, am I right?”
Winston grinned. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.” He leaned forward again and poured them another shot. “Every now and then I wonder what happened to them. The Brits, the Scots, all the UK folks. Not so much the rest of Europe.”
“Not a fan of Europe?”
“Nah. You know the worst thing about Europe?”
“What’s that?”
“Europeans.”
Keo smiled. “You sound like my dad.”
“He sounds like a great man.”
“That’s…open to interpretation.”
Winston saluted Keo and sipped his drink. He didn’t say anything for a while and seemed content to just watch Keo across the brim of his glass again.
Keo fought the urge to take another taste of his whiskey. Two shots were already making him a little tipsy (Damn, son, when did you become such a lightweight?) and he had a feeling he was going to need every ounce of concentration if he needed to pick up the Heisman Trophy and bash Winston’s head in with it, then take out the two Skinny Brothers outside the door.
“The boys outside said you wanted to see me,” Keo said.
“You’re the one who asked to talk to me,” Winston said.
“True enough. Honestly? I didn’t really think it would work.”
“You know what they say about opportunity. Be ready when it knocks.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk for effect. “So talk.”
“All right. First of all, I’m not one of them.”
“One of whom?”
“The two that woke up in the cell with me. The ones you and your arm
y were shooting it out with yesterday morning.”
“No?” Winston said.
“No,” Keo said, and thought, So it has been over a day.
He had thrown “yesterday morning” out there to see if Winston would correct him, but the man hadn’t. Which meant it had been over a day since he was brought (down) here. Unless, of course, Winston knew what Keo was doing and purposefully didn’t correct him. Was he quick enough on the ball for that?
“You know who they are, don’t you?” Keo asked. “The ones in the cell with me. The ones from yesterday.”
“I do,” Winston nodded.
Again, he hadn’t corrected Keo’s use of yesterday.
“Who do you think they are?” Keo asked.
“They’re from Fenton,” Winston said.
Keo nodded. “And I’m not.”
“So you kept telling the boys outside. How do I know that for a fact?”
“For one, I wasn’t wearing their uniform.”
“They weren’t wearing uniforms, either. Just black clothes and assault vests.”
“That’s a uniform. Also, the circled M.”
“There is that. But you could have taken yours off at any time back there.”
“But I didn’t.”
“So you say.”
“I don’t mind continuing to say it. The truth shall set me free, as the saying goes.”
“Sayings can be wrong.”
“How about this one? Don’t trust anyone from Fenton. They’re bad news.”
Winston pursed a smile but didn’t say anything.
“So you know who they are,” Keo said. “What they’ve done. What they’re still doing out there.”
“Maybe,” Winston said.
“That would explain why you strung one of them up on a lamppost. Was that part of a larger strategy?”
Winston shrugged.
“Didn’t work, did it?” Keo asked.
Winston shook his head. “Not really, no.”
“What were they supposed to do? Rush out in a blind anger and get themselves shot up?”
“Something like that.”
“You kept two alive for intel, is that it?”
