Offspring

by Liam Jackson

  Feeling a little guilty at smuggling the weapon through FedEx, he tried to shrug it off. It wasn't like he was trafficking in crack or kiddie porn, he told himself. He was a cop, for Christ sake! "Yeah, I'm a cop," he mumbled. "And only nine hundred miles out of my jurisdiction."

  The gun is just a precaution, isn't it? Not like I expect World War Three to break out in some backwoods Tennessee hamlet. Do I?

  Michael considered the news of the murder that had taken place aboard another inbound flight. The second that he learned of the incident, his internal alarm told him that the incident was somehow connected to his own mission.

  Why? How?

  He tried to push the disturbing thought aside, but it refused to budge. Maybe my paranoia is just working overtime. Maybe...

  He didn't believe that and he was growing weary of questioning what he knew in his heart to be an absurd, yet firm reality. Not for the first time, Michael was forced to admit that he was clueless... and afraid. He was also surprised as he realized the questions no longer plagued him. He knew his worries were justified, but the gut-wrenching fear had subsided to a manageable level. The fact that he was moving forward, doing something, was a relief in itself. Michael felt that for good or ill, he would soon have his answers.

  Satisfied that the handgun was in working order, he laid it aside and took out the remaining items from the box. First, there was a hide-away "narc" holster for the Sig. Standing, Michael unfastened his belt and threaded one end through the leather loops of the holster. It took a moment to adjust the hide-away rig, but eventually, he had it riding in a comfortable spot in the small of his back. He pulled the bottom of his sweater over the setup and glanced at his profile in the dresser mirror. He nodded, satisfied at what he saw. Not so much as a lump where the holster lay against his back.

  He slid the Sig into the holster, and tucked one of the spare magazines into his back pocket. Michael then took the final item from the box, a Spyderco boot knife. Michael raised the right cuff of his Levis and slid the knife into the top of his hiking boot. Finally, he was ready.

  He was also uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had indeed outfitted himself as if he were expecting big trouble. He whispered a prayer, hoping that he wouldn't need the gun. As an afterthought, he whispered another prayer, thanking God that the gun arrived on time.

  He glanced at his watch, then gave the bed a good long look. It was well past midnight and there was nothing left to do except get some rest.

  Like that's actually going to happen, he thought.

  He knew there was no way he'd get any sleep tonight. Michael walked to the window and drew open the heavy drapes. He stood there for a long while, watching as large, wet snowflakes swirled through the air and blanketed the grounds below. A soft rap at the door startled him. Michael glanced at his watch. Nearly two A.M.

  Another series of quick knocks at the door, this time louder, more insistent. He peered through the door's peephole. The area in front of the door was vacant. "Who's there?" he called out. No answer. Michael unlocked the dead bolt and cracked open the door. A quick look to the right, then the left... the hallway was empty.

  Michael's internal alarm screamed that something was terribly wrong. He closed the door and turned the knob on the dead bolt. As he reached for the security chain, something heavy slammed into the door with a loud thud.

  "Shit!" he yelled, jumping backward.

  Michael could plainly hear low, throaty laughter from the other side of the door, from the same hallway that had been empty only seconds before. Cautiously, he approached the door and looked through the peephole. His pulse raced as he again peered out into an empty hallway.

  Despite the metallic taste of fear on his tongue, he was also pissed. It was one thing to experience fear and paranoia. To be openly harassed and terrorized was another matter altogether.

  Michael struggled with the temptation to rush the hallway. Yet something told him that the gesture would be pointless, that the laughter would simply disappear as soon as he opened the door. It was an irrational notion, he knew, but what notion wasn't these days?

  Michael started again at a new sound; this one coming from somewhere inside the room. He felt both foolish and relieved when he realized it was the telephone. Never taking his eyes from the door, he crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  "Mikey... let us in, Mikey."

  Michael cringed subconsciously at the shrill, nasal voice coining through the receiver. Though the voice was alien, the sound was vaguely familiar. Then it came to him. While on patrol a couple of years back, he had happened across a large house cat that had been struck by a car.

  The cat had hissed and snarled as Michael approached it. When he stopped just short of the dying animal, it let out a cry so mournful, so feral, it stirred some primitive emotions in Michael that he never knew existed. An emotion that alternated between pity and fear.

  The voice coming through the phone was oddly reminiscent of that dying house cat, although this time Michael felt no pity.

  "Mikey... open the door, Mikey."

  "Who's there? What do you want?" Michael demanded. "We want you, Mikey. Why won't you let us in? Pam let us in."

  Michael felt as if he had just been sucker punched, and all the air knocked from his lungs. His anger faded to black, replaced in an instant with naked fear for his wife's safety.

  "What have you done?" he whispered.

  "Done? Done?" More laughter, filled with undisguised hatred and contempt. "We don't want to spoil the surprise, Mikey. You'll find out what we did, soon enough."

  Michael slammed down the receiver and then immediately picked it up again. He dialed nine for an outside line, then dialed his home phone. On the twentieth ring, he gave up.

  Cursing, Mike paced the length of the room, trying to collect his wits, though it seemed to him a lost cause.

  If anything has happened to Pam. He forced the unbearable thought from his mind. Surely the caller was playing some kind of fucked-up prank. The prick had gotten his name and room number from the guest register and was just playing a sick-assed joke. But... that didn't explain how he knew Pam's name.

  Where is she? Why doesn't she answer the phone?

  Michael ran through all the options. She could be spending the night with her sister or perhaps her mom. Maybe she's sick... or, or... maybe the bastard really did know something.

  No!

  Michael refused to allow himself to believe that. Picking up the phone again, Michael quickly dialed another number. There was only one other person that he would trust to look after Pam. Michael whispered another prayer of thanks as a groggy voice answered on the third ring.

  "Yeah."

  "Casey, this is Michael. "Michael?"

  There was a short pause, then, "Mike, it's two a.m. You okay?"

  Michael hesitated. What could he tell his partner that wouldn't sound totally insane?

  "Casey, listen. I'm in Tennessee visiting relatives. I tried calling Pam a few minutes ago, but there's no answer at the house. And, yes, I know it's two a.m. But I let the goddamned phone ring off the wall, and Pam never answered. I'm worried. Could you—?"

  "Don't sweat it, Michael. I'll head over there right now. And when... when we get there..."

  We?

  Michael listened in horror as the voice on the other end of the line began to change in mid-sentence, from Casey's deep baritone to the shrill snarl of that dying cat.

  "I'll fuck her brains out, Mikey. Fuck her brains out! Just before I eat her face. AHHAHAHAHA!"

  The room spun violently, like a carnival ride gone berserk. Michael choked back a mouthful of hot bile and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Instead of slowing down the revolving room, he caught mental snapshots of a mutilated corpse, partially stuffed into the rear toilet of a Boeing 757. All the while, the horrible laughter continued, interrupted only by an occasional vulgar taunt or threat. Michael dropped the receiver and leaned against the wall, forcing him
self to breathe deeply.

  Stubbornly, the vertigo subsided in increments, until at last the room was stationary again. Michael sat down on the edge of the bed and held his face in both hands. The airport was closed and driving back to Kansas City was out of the question. Maybe... maybe I can bargain with the bastard.

  Afraid to ask, but even more afraid not to, Michael picked up the receiver and held it to his mouth. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  Michael never got his answer. The line was dead.

  CHAPTER 29

  Guardian Manufacturing Plant

  Sam and Mark spent the better part of the morning scavenging broken pallets, boards, and other scrap, anything that would burn. Trip after trip, they piled the debris into the southeast corner of the first floor. Finally satisfied that they had enough fuel to get them through the coming night, they joined Janet on the third floor, and helped her with dismantling the cardboard fort.

  By noon, they had succeeded in rebuilding the shelter on the first floor, near the southeast exit and within arm's length of the fuel cache. Next, Sam retrieved a full bucket of the spent lubricating oil from the dock and doused the wood in the burn-barrel. The result was a roaring, long-burning fire. He pulled a couple of wooden pallets close to the barrel and sprawled out on top of them, enjoying the warmth.

  Later that afternoon, Sam tried several times to reach Joriel, but it was no use. It was as if she was no longer there and for the first time in memory, Sam felt truly alone. Then, there was the issue of Charlie. He simply couldn't put her out of his mind. No matter how hard he tried, her face, the sound of her voice lingered at the edge of his thoughts. And Kat...

  Wonder how she's holding up? If that bastard tries to hurt her, I'll—I'll...

  Truth was, Sam wasn't certain what he would do, or could do. Things were bad enough when the Lincoln first appeared several weeks back and began stalking him. The situation took a decidedly nasty turn when the Lincoln turned its attention to Kat.

  "It's following me now, but I'm not worried. It isn't smart enough to catch me. Besides, you're the one it wants. You just better be careful, Sammy. It wants you real bad."

  The news had sucked all the wind out of his lungs. He'd had no idea that Kat knew anything about the Lincoln.

  No, Kat said the Lincoln was gone. I have to trust her. Not much I can do about any of this except get my ass to Abbotsville. Sam closed his eyes and moments later, was fast asleep.

  When Sam awoke an hour later, Mark was sitting nearby while Janet stood at a window, watching the alley

  below.

  After a moment, Mark said, "It'll be dark in another couple of hours and we have a decision to make."

  Sam yawned, then glanced over at Mark. "Yeah? What's that?"

  "For starters, we've got to decide if we really intend to ride out another night in this place. Those things tracked here once. What's to say they won't show up again tonight?"

  Sam shook his head. "Well, the way I see it, staying here is probably safer than walking around outside in a blizzard. Besides, they won't be back. We'll see 'em again, for sure, but they won't come back here. I figure we can wait another night for the snow to let up, then head out tomorrow morning, bright and early."

  Mark gave Sam a skeptical look. "You seem pretty damned sure they aren't coming back. How come?"

  Surprised, Sam realized that he didn't have any answer. He only knew that he was right. "I just know. Guess you'll just have to trust me."

  After a moment, Mark grinned and nodded. "I guess I do, at that. It's just that, well, it's the goddamned stench. The whole building just feels wrong, you know? Like this place isn't fit for living things anymore. Guess that sounds pretty stupid, huh?"

  "Nah, not at all," Sam replied. "I get the same feeling. But we'll be safer in the building tonight."

  Mark grunted. He didn't sound at all convinced, but seemed placated for the time being, and Sam was silently grateful. He didn't need to engage the man in a battle of wills at this point.

  They warmed themselves beside the barrel and discussed their next move. Only Sam had any concrete ideas, yet they were in total agreement on one point. Sam and Mark would go on, but this was the end of the line for Janet. For a long while, they sat quietly, lost in private thought. It was the rumbling of an empty stomach that finally broke the ice. Mark arched an eyebrow and grinned at Janet. "Damn! That sounded serious."

  Janet grinned. "That quarter-pounder with cheese came and went about thirty hours ago. Even the cardboard is starting to look like a cheese pizza."

  While Sam and Janet talked, Mark studied them both, particularly Janet. During the midnight flight from the Blue Bird Motor Court, Mark hadn't taken time to fully appreciate all of her attributes. Today, he couldn't help but wonder if two of her more obvious charms were courtesy of a Visa Gold card and the silicon industry, or merely a natural and extremely generous gift from the gods. Either way, he decided he was grateful for the view. He was also surprised to discover that he genuinely enjoyed her company. Intelligent, witty, easy to talk to... Mark decided to test the water. "You know, you're cute when you smile. You should try it more often."

  In another setting, Janet Davis would have ignored what seemed such an obvious line or she would have turned on the old verbal flamethrower and reduced the offender to a mound of glowing embers. Mark had no way of knowing, but Janet was severely allergic to pick-up lines, having dealt with them since puberty. She had an arsenal of stinging retorts and a reputation for being quick on the verbal trigger with smooth-talking players. This time, for reasons Janet didn't fully understand, she merely smiled and accepted the compliment.

  That she had been unable, or unwilling, to put Mark in his place made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was because he had saved her life at the motel. Maybe. It sounded good, but she wasn't at all sure that it was the real reason.

  Sam ignored them both and scooted closer to the fire. The worst of the chill was gone, but he felt sure that the coming days were likely filled with one hardship after another. Again and again, he replayed the horrific sounds and images of the previous night. It had all been so surreal, so... alien. Even the odors were beyond description, beyond obscene. Those maddening, shuffling steps across the concrete floor... the sound of death brushing against the walls of the cardboard fort____

  Why are they hunting me? Why? First the white Lincoln, then the appearance of Trench Coat at the bridge, and again last night... everything was connected. And Horace? How did the old black man figure into things?

  Too many questions.

  Sam stared at the flames leaping out from the top of the barrel. Despite the endless string of questions, there were a couple of things that he was sure of; it was imperative that he, they, reach Abbotsville. Janet didn't belong here. She was just a victim of bizarre circumstance, nothing more. However, Sam was sure Mark had a part to play in all of this. He also had a nagging feeling that there were others, people just like him and Mark. But how and where would he find them? Would he simply know them on sight?

  More freakin' questions.

  What a time for the Voice to disappear, Sam thought. It— Joriel, he reminded himself, had sounded so far away the last time they communicated. He had the distinct impression that she was hurt, or at the very least, in some sort of trouble.

  Maybe... maybe Joriel is dead. Suddenly, he felt like curling up on the floor and crying. Looking over at Mark, Sam said, "In the morning. I'll be on my way in the morning."

  Janet and Mark locked eyes for a brief second and Mark nodded. Turning to Sam, he said, "We'll be ready."

  CHAPTER 30

  Mississippi Delta

  Soft white light... color, blurred and swirling, merging... sounds of running water... the faint buzzing of winged insects... or...

  Paul blinked and took several shallow breaths. The room and its contents slowly came into focus. For several seconds, he lay perfectly still, the slow rhythmic rise and fall of his chest his only movement. Instinctively Paul knew he w
as badly injured but felt no pain.

  I'm supposed to be dead. I died. Didn't I? Cautiously, he turned his head to have a better look at his surroundings. Uneven stone blocks formed the walls and the few pieces of furniture were fashioned from rough-cut, unpainted lumber. Huge iron hinges, rusted and dented, held a massive wooden door in place. There was no glass in the lone window and the frame was formed by small pieces of shaped rock.

  Paul tried to rise up onto an elbow, and was stopped cold by a sharp lancing pain in his chest. Broken ribs... or worse, he concluded. Thinking that perhaps he should take inventory of his other injuries, he began with his toes and worked his way up. Feet and ankles seemed okay. One of his knees was bound tightly, possibly a blown ligament. He took a deep breath and the searing pain in his chest returned with a vengeance.

  Nope, not ribs, he thought. Maybe a cracked sternum.

  His right arm was splinted at a ninety-degree angle, definitely not a good thing. His left arm seemed fine although two of his fingers were bound together by thin strips of cloth.

  Finally, he probed his face and head. His face was puffy with swelling and there was a thick salve spread across two gashes, one beneath his right cheek, and another across the width of his forehead. The back of his scalp was heavily bandaged. As he pulled his hand away from the padding, he noticed that the tips of his fingers were stained a dark red.

  Motel room... tall guy, dressed in leather. Explosions ...

  The memories came to him slowly and unbidden. Paul closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Going to Tennessee. A place called Abbotsville. A motel along the interstate. Something about a note... a warning... a knock on the door, and Rita's voice. The tall man... Rita... oh, God... Rita was dead....

  Like an avalanche, the memories came crashing down. He remembered being manhandled by the tall guy in black. The bastard tried to kill him... just like he killed Rita. Then, the other two, a giant and a woman, attacked the tall guy... just like some superhero movie. The giant saved his life. The woman... the woman was dead.