The Brickeaters
Page 23
Glancing up at the surveillance monitor again, I watched as Beasley re-entered the hallway, loaded .45 in hand, but just as the madman reached for the handle opening the door to the control room, I found and clicked on a pane labeled “All Doors Locked.” Hearing the deadbolts sliding into place, Beasley grabbed the door handle, but it was no use—he was trapped in the hallway. Confused, he reached for his cell phone enabling remote access to the system, but I was ahead of him, immediately triggering the panes labeled “Bubble Defense,” “Laser Sensors,” and “Tranquilizer Activation.”
A look of horror gripped the madman’s face as the first bubble popped on the end of his nose, then another, and another. As he twitched and jerked, swatting and flailing his arms, the glistening blobs bore down on him relentlessly, like a swarm of bees digesting a bear. And as I watched, the corporal form of Crawford Beasley began to fade, buried beneath a teeming mass of eager, undulating bubbles. In panic he attempted to flee, pirouetting down the hallway like a futile pile of pimples, popping and erupting in pain. Two seconds later the first dart struck. Slathered as he was, the exact point of contact was vague, but the madman’s scream was sharp and clear. Twisting away from the impact, he slipped on the slick floor, toppling over as the discharge of three more darts struck his body with a dull thudding sound. Waving his arms, the wretched mound of misery made one final move, pathetically rising to his knees before the drug hit him and he collapsed, leaving an odd and undetermined lump lost inside a swirling sea of bubbles.