And after some time, that lucid piece of my brain assumes control once more, allowing me my calculated, rational thoughts once again. Their sweet sobriety is refreshing, and when I look out at the room through their lens, the monstrous furniture and machinery are no longer so, but instead sit still, nice and non-sentient.
I strain my ears for any more noise from outside, but hear none. Did my panicking mind invent the noise just like the monster office equipment? I thought that that was before I started to panic, but as I observe the timeline in hindsight, those events blur together like the melting colors of a sunset and I’m unable to discern what happened before or after the onset of my attack. Perhaps my fears had a hold on me earlier than I sensed.
Come to think of it, I’m not even sure how long I was in the clutches of my mind. I don’t feel like I blacked out, but I had better check my phone just to be sure. My phone displays ten-fifteen. I hadn’t been paying close attention on the drive over here, but that seems to round out with my perception of the passage of time.
For now, at least, the area remains silent, aside from the office’s ambience.
In this room, there are several rows of desks facing north toward a wall that is almost entirely window. Definitely not an ideal location for a serial killer’s work. I would know.
There’s only one door leading from here, on the opposite wall, still farther west. Beyond it lie several vending machines, a couple of tables, and two doors, again on the far wall, one each for the women’s and men’s restrooms. There’s nothing in either.
I head back the way I came, an easy, straight route. Back in the first room, where the halls first came to a T, I consider going out front and regrouping with Lund; if people associated with Perkins were to pursue us, they most likely would have shown up by now, and I’d feel more comfortable with him in here than out there. In the end, however, time is a precious commodity, and I elect to move forward instead.
I startle for a split second as a loud noise comes from near a machine as I pass it, until I recognize it as the main core to the ventilation system kicking on. Hopefully my jerking reaction was masked by the noise as well. This room is almost a mirror copy of the room with the long window on the other side, but instead of computers adorning the desks, each of these is topped with a mess of papers that look like schematics, in addition to the odd, high-end laptop and a series of tools. I don’t recognize most of these, but I do see a few screwdrivers and some soldering equipment here and there. This room, like the other, has a single door on the opposite wall (east, this time) and beyond it is not an accommodating break room, but what look like the managerial and administrative offices.
Now complemented with dry hands, I put on a pair of gloves once more and pick the lock in far less time than the exterior door took. The office, as far as I can tell, is just that. Much like the barn, the office is disappointingly empty of murderous or restraining tools. It contains a door labeled ‘Supplies,’ and I suspect it’s not lying, but in the name of prudence, I check anyway. Indeed, it’s stacked floor-to-ceiling with reams of white paper, lined paper, drafting paper, pens, pencils, paperclips, staples, ink and toner cartridges, and disposable eating supplies—someone must have had a birthday recently.
On my way back out, a bright pink sticky note catches my eye, one stuck to an inventory report. The note reads, “Each of these items is missing three units. Do you know where they went?” The inventory list is pocked by a series of red asterisks, and while I don’t know what these items are, my knowledge of English leads me to think that they’re expensive crafting tools. To lend to that confidence, each of the items marked is counted individually. No reams, sheets, or cases about it. I wonder if those are the tools used on the murder victims. Three units apiece. Three boys. Two and a half murders. Regardless, I can’t afford to dwell on it. It may be useful information later, but now I must continue on. But to where?
I head back to the T with my eyes peeled, but for what, I don’t know. Until I find it. In the first room, with the machinery of different temperatures and functions, there’s a door that blends into the surrounding wall almost entirely. The only reason I see it now is because the handle is reflecting one of the lights from a machine and approaching it at this new angle allowed me that quick glimpse.
My heart starts beating fast again, but this time it’s not so much out of fear or anxiety or panic as it is simple determination; between this and the situation in Wometzia, at least one life is at risk, not to mention the life currently at the hospital recovering from being at risk.
My hands are steady, though. Whether that’s a sign of my profound humanity or a supreme absence of it is an analysis I’ll have to conduct later.
If the first lock was Papa Bear, and the second was Mama Bear, this lock is the compromising Little Bear; it takes a few seconds, but the last pin clicks into place and the door swings open. On a white brick wall immediately in front of me is a sign reading Storage and Boiler. It gives no direction, as the only possible way to go from there is down the steps to the right, into the darkness, a darkness deeper and purer than the previous room. Do I alert any others of my presence by finding and flipping a light switch, or by the near inevitable ruckus of fumbling around in the darkness?
I decide that ‘near inevitable’ is still not as absolute as the lights would be.
While I’m a long-time fan of the dark, it does render certain tasks incredibly difficult, such as assembling a mental map of an unfamiliar landscape, and I’m neck-deep in unfamiliar.
The sounds of ventilation, in this room, are amplified by the concrete walls’ acoustic reverberations, which brings me simultaneous hope and unease, having the same double-edged sword dynamic as sunlight. In addition, being underground chills the room further, impervious to the sun’s relentless onslaught throughout the day. For a moment, I consider turning our modest basement space at home into a bedroom. It would need to be finished with real carpet and walls first, but certainly it would keep at a more comfortable temperature than the above-ground sauna we currently call the bedroom.
I shake my mind back to now—tonight and the events of it take precedence over daydreams. Perhaps I can revisit those ideas after Perkins is in jail. A comforting prospect, really.
As far as I can feel, the room is packed with big, boxy objects, but none of them emit heat or noise of any kind. A few of them feel like actual boxes—cardboard, and they make that satisfying, book-y noise when tapped, but not louder than the air conditioning system, fortunately.
My timing seems to have been perfect, because shortly after this assessment, the air conditioning turns back off, leaving me in a state of dark quiet worthy of a sensory deprivation tank; if I stop moving for a moment, I can hear my own heartbeat, surprisingly light and steady now—I suppose being in my element has helped more than I anticipated.
Though the noises themselves are clearer, the wealth of cardboard in the room muffles it a great deal.
After some time, I’ve moved around the room sufficiently to have created a rough mental map of it, and the walls are the last things to check. More confident of my solitude now, I click on my flashlight to find the room to be nearly how I pictured it, though for whatever reason, the mind’s eye invariably imagines things to be far taller than in reality. Where, in my mind, had been towering walls of boxes in labyrinthine menace, they’re instead barely above my own head.
My flashlight beam zips over the layers of boxes and a couple of machines that may have been surpassed by newer models upstairs. Most surfaces play host to a thin layer of dust, but it’s only detectable on the darker surfaces, the ever-popular black plastic casing to modern machinery. The floor is concrete and does not have any dust, as far as I can tell. The light brings a deeper degree of clarity to my mental map and a distinct path becomes apparent, leading to yet another door with yet another lock. If nothing else, I can appreciate the amount of lock-picking practice I’m getting this evening.
I approach with caution, but my adren
aline is wearing thin; days at a time of being on edge can do that to a person, apparently. Despite the lock being an exact copy of that which I picked last, I take my time picking it; all the while, I’m listening for any movement beyond the jamb. As far as I’ve been able to find, this is the last possible hiding place in the entire building.
I hear another yell from outside. It’s not in desperation, like a cry for help, but that of a vindicator. It is immediately followed by one that is angry. A few seconds follow in which I hear nothing but my once-again increasing heart rate, then gunshots, but by its muffled quality, I can’t discern how many shots, for sure, or what types of guns or ammunition are being used.
The last pin in the lock struggles and catches slightly, tensing me; there’s a good chance I’ll have to start the process anew, and the sound of the pins resetting is not all that quiet. But a slight bit more pressure in the correct place does the trick, and my tension lever moves—too quickly at first, but I catch it and slow it. The lock’s final disengagement occurs with a loud click, and I realize that, after that noise, it’s now or never. I choose now.
I push the door open partway and use my flashlight to scan the wall to the north, which offers nothing useful. By the way the door’s opening echoes about the area, I figure that the room is fairly spacious. After clearing the north wall, I move on to the west one and find still more nothing—just white brick on white brick (though the slight hue of my flashlight may be distorting the color to a degree). The room is indeed spacious and allows quite a wide field of vision from the doorway, whose threshold I still have yet to cross.
The south wall is buried behind water heaters and other utility machines. A few seconds of assessment leave me certain that there’s no way for me to approach that end of the room while maintaining visual coverage of every substantial angle, every possible hiding place. Quickly, I select a route that seems to be the most prudent and take it, no longer worrying about being stealthy.
“Hello?” I say. There’s no answer, nor does anybody jump out at me from the shadows to rip my life away. I hug the east wall, the one from which I entered, and follow it toward its south counterpart. I begin to feel nauseous, like I ate excessive cotton candy and corn dogs at a carnival. My guts churn and threaten to throw my Chinese food back up, and the thought alone nearly makes it so. I feel sweat beading on my head, and while the cooling sensation is welcome, it also feels like several flies have found solace on my forehead and now crawl about in triumph.
The room starts to spin just the slightest bit, and I hear footsteps. In my queasiness, I can hardly assess the volume, direction, or speed, but given my situation, it’s not likely to be good company.
After a few seconds, I can’t stand anymore, much less keep a gun steady. Time is of the essence, yes, but equally essential is not passing out behind enemy lines and, thus, blowing the entire task to smithereens.
Forcing that justification to the forefront of my consciousness, I dowse my flashlight, sink into a crouch, and rest with my back and head against the wall. I close my eyes, but only for a second, sure, just until I can stand and aim properly again. Just a moment is all it will take …
The footsteps echo and ricochet—whether echoing in this room or in the anguished chamber of my mind I don’t know. In any case, if they’re unfriendly footsteps, the best I can hope for is that I remain concealed, long enough for me either to act appropriately or wait it out until my pursuer leaves. I wonder, with what brain power I have left, whether it was my calling out that alerted this presence to my own.
“Where are you?!” says a voice. It doesn’t sound like it’s in this room, but that only leaves possibility for the adjacent room. Indeed, a pool of light barrels in from the previous room, followed by more footsteps. The owner of the voice seems angry, on the point of rampage, and here I am, with symptoms of food poisoning too intense for me to function normally. The pool of light is obstructed by a shadow of roughly human shape and someone enters, visible only in small chunks, as I’m looking toward him through bits of both a machine and a metal shelving unit. As far as I can tell, he’s unarmed, but in my current state, it wouldn’t take much to overwhelm me with or without a weapon.
In moments of ‘Fight or Flight,’ I rarely have the chance to consider which option is ideal; pumping adrenaline makes sure of that. But in this instance, I am afforded that rare opportunity.
On the one hand, I’m in no condition to fight, either with my fists or with a gun. I can barely hold my flashlight firmly, and my weapon has begun trembling at the insistence of the hand that wields it.
On the other hand, I’m also in no condition to run. In this particular ‘Fight or Flight’ scenario, I am entirely capable of neither. But still yet, I must have a plan for if—no, when—I’m discovered.
The rough, human-like silhouette turns into a man, wearing what seems to be a century-old outfit—not so much in style or fashion, but in its visible wear.
The room has ceased spinning, but is now woven through with a gentle pulsing motion. What in the hell was in that orange chicken?
“Come on out, asshole …” His voice is calm now, and only as loud as it needs to be to reach the corners of the room audibly. He seems to have undergone a rapid transformation from the aggravated avatar of malice who tore through from the other room.
A light turns on, flooding the room with its luminescence. In the naked fullness of this light, the room looks less threatening than under my flashlight’s beam. The shadows, then taking turns hiding from me, are banished into the abyss, waiting to be summoned once again when the lights go out.
“Come here, piggy. Time for your slaughter. I have things to take care of.”
Even if I were feeling well enough to run, I’m trapped. Fight it is. Until he finds me, however, each second ticking by is another second I can spend either recuperating or being overtaken, and so far, it feels like the former. At least, mentally, which is the aspect in which it counts right now. So I say nothing. We both know he found and cornered me, so why call his attention to me prematurely?
I hear the footsteps crossing the room, toward the south wall, where I’m hiding. However, he’s heading toward the western end of it, an area I was unable to reach before collapsing.
My heart rate picks up once again. I ready my weapon and can’t tell whether the sweat on my hands is from nerves or this sickness. Regardless, though, the intensity of the situation clears my head of all but a slight fog. The rest of my body still protests at the thought of action, but I can push through that.
“There you are!” The ruckus is so loud and abrupt that I almost lose my grip on my gun, but I manage to hang on. I look around wildly for a face—Perkins, Romero—hell, even Keroth. I’m still scanning through the gaps allowing me various visual perspectives, but see no face. My eyes zip wildly from place to place. I almost cry out when I hear another voice do so instead.
Sixteen
“No!” It’s a young voice. I realize now that I’m not “piggy.” I’m “other things to take care of.” Had I been a minute quicker, or had I not gotten sick, I might have gotten to the voice’s producer before this man—probably Perkins—did. And what’s to come of that now? Two are already dead and one wounded as an extended consequence of my actions. And even if I do manage to deal with Perkins, will it end there? Might Perkins have an underling at the ready, to deploy and initiate his own scheme of vengeance as soon as he himself is behind bars? Is there an end to this, or am I caught in the epicenter of a vicious cyclone of death and morbidity?
I suppose there’s only one way to find out.
As Perkins is struggling with the kid, I sneak out from behind the shelving unit in a crouch. My finger rests on the trigger guard and my walk is purposeful, deliberate. It reminds me, just for a moment, of the night I went to the house to finish off Devin Bailey: my stalk is one of a man who has somewhere to be.
Indeed, my query is Perkins this time. His clothes look all the worse, up close. True to my reminisce
nce of the night of my debut kill, I strike the base of his skull with the butt of my .9mm, and just in time; as I feel the collision of my gun with his stupid head, he has a pipe cocked fully behind him; this isn’t intended to be a punishing blow—it’s meant to be a killing one.
Perkins crumples to the ground and the pipe clatters against the concrete with a deafening series of clangs. Cowering before me now is a twelve-ish-year-old boy, with dark hair cut in a trendy fashion and eyes like green fireworks. He could be Todd’s son, they look so alike.
“Come on,” I say, “you need to get out of here.”
Though I know Perkins won’t be unconscious for long, I didn’t expect him to stir so soon, but he wriggles his foot. “Do you know the way out? There’s a cop outside who can help you. Let’s go.” I had intended to send him on his way to find Lund, but reflecting on the gunshots I may or may not have heard earlier, an escort is not optional. I would prefer to stay and deal with Perkins, but when you’re bitten by a venomous creature, treating the wound takes priority over hunting the creature down for revenge. This wounded child must be treated first.
I extend my hand to help him off the floor and he takes it, pulling himself up.
“Thanks,” he says. His voice is quiet, but not extinguished.
“We’re not out of the woods yet. We gotta go.” By the same effect as the room where Perkins is currently lying face down, the box maze room is far less eerie bathed in full light.
I lead the boy through the path of boxes, looking over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure Perkins hasn’t come to and begun pursuit. As far as I can tell, though, ours are the only two pairs of footsteps working through the cramped pseudo-halls.
We reach the top of the stairs and turn to the left. I open the door that first permitted me. Outside, the warm air carries a scent that’s just the slightest bit spicy, like someone is growing a pepper patch upwind. I guide him toward the parking lot and look to the south, toward the street.
Roadrunner Page 19
