He’d never told this to Annette, and he never would. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted her watching him with that Jane gal, because she was a sweet piece of meat, and he was going to do some dirty, disgusting things to her—stuff not even he himself would be proud of.
But as it turned out, he wouldn’t get to have a go with the broad; George wouldn’t let him. He didn’t know why. This world wasn’t a world for heroes anymore. Plus, who gave a shit if he fucked the girl or not? In a couple of hours, she’d be as good as dead, and those monsters would rip her to shreds. She probably wouldn’t even regain consciousness at all. She’d never know that old Tony Layton had stuck it to her, so what was the big fucking deal?
George was taking a long time to bring the other prisoners from the dungeon. The guy was all about efficiency, in and out, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, so what gave?
Probably fucking one of the guys in the cell, that’s what, Tony thought. Always took the balding bastard for a queer. I can tell just by the way he fiddles with his fingernails. Piece of shit, I’m gonna gut him the first chance I get.
Tony adjusted his robe. He hated the damn thing, but knew if he took it off, he’d get kicked out of the group—Annette was serious when it came to this cult stuff—and leaving the compound would be no good. It was a roof over his head and a steady stream of food and water. Weren’t any monsters around, either. The rituals kept them away, as weird as that shit was. Somehow. And Tony liked tricking and catching the sacrificial lambs; that was fun, kind of like a game of cat and mouse, and Tony liked games. He also didn’t think he’d do well on his own, not with the way the world was now. Scavenging for his food, running from those fucking things… No way. Annette had a nice setup, and if he had to wear a robe and let her watch him fuck unconscious broads, then so be it.
Tony reached out and pulled the door to the dungeons open. It was about half a block away from the arena, which Annette called ‘the web,’ like she was a damn black widow or something. All the places around this area had stupid names. The dungeons, the web, the killing grounds, the shrine. Stupid shit, but again, Tony went with it.
He stepped into the old police station, his Nikes shuffling on the old fliers and lost dog posters on the floor.
“Hey, Georgie! What’s the fuckin’ hold up? Bust your nut, and let’s get this shit started. I’m hungry.”
No answer.
Tony stepped up to the front desk, stuck his head through the broken glass partition, and shouted, “Jesus Christ, man, if I come back there and see you fuckin’ one of them guys, I’m gonna cut your balls off, I swear to God.”
That‘ll do it, he thought. That’ll get the old homo out from the back.
But it didn’t.
Tony shook his head and went through the doorway to the desks. The door hung crookedly off of its hinges. One of the ceiling lights swayed above, suspended by the very live wire that powered it.
“George!” Tony called again. “Annette ain’t gonna like this, man!”
He dug in his pockets for the keys to the dungeons, and his fingers brushed the cold metal of his switchblade. Something struck his mind, told him he needed to get it out. He had a Glock on his belt, but he didn’t care much for guns. They were too easy. He liked the feeling of plunging a knife into the softness of someone’s belly, of the blood coursing from the fresh opening, covering his fingers, making them sticky and bright red. He liked looking in the person’s eyes, seeing the pain and anguish, drawing it out. A gun, a bullet—that was just too fast. You pulled the trigger, and bang! it was over. A stabbing was so much more personal.
But he didn’t pull the switchblade out. Nineteen-year-old him would’ve, certainly; but he’d grown mentally since then, gotten a little wiser…as much as a man like himself could get wiser, at least.
He took the Glock out from under his robe. One thing a gun had going for it was the weight. He loved how heavy it felt in his hands, how powerful. The switchblade, as handy as it was, felt like an office tool.
“Georgie, you motherfucker!” he called. “I’m sick of this shit.”
He was starting to get scared now. This wasn’t right, something was up. Maybe one of the guys woke up while George was sticking it to them, and bashed his head in. Maybe—
The door to the dungeons was open. Everything in Tony’s mind told him not to go inside, but his duty told him he must. If he turned around and ran back to the compound, Annette would know; she knew everything, it seemed. She knew Tony’s deepest, darkest desires.
He had first seen her in his dreams—well, nightmares, really. She was there in his nightmares, talking to him, telling him to come to Cleveland because it was safe. So he went, and it was safe, and Annette was nice enough. A little spooky, sure, but nice.
It seemed like she was holding something over his head, his devotion to her, maybe, his loyalty, and if he broke it, if he didn’t do his job, then he would be forced out, or maybe even offered up to the great monster gods as a sacrifice. He didn’t want that. But he didn’t want to go into the dungeons right now, either. It was spooky enough when someone was with him, but now, by himself? As the New Yawkers once said: ‘Fuggetaboutit!’
Still, he found himself pushing open the door. Like the others in this wasteland, the hinges screeched and the sound carried in the dark, carried far and loud.
“Hello?” Tony called. “George, you dumbass, you in here?”
He didn’t have a light. All he was using to guide his way into the dungeon was the faint glow from the overheads in the desk area, which, let’s face it, wasn’t much. No light outside the windows, either. Annette said the sun must’ve gotten scared like the rest of the world, because it wasn’t showing its face too much around here anymore.
Then Tony saw George, when his eyes had adjusted enough to see the old, balding bastard. He was splayed out on the floor of the cell nearest the door, drowning in his own blood. The cell door was closed, and the other cells, where the lambs had been, were empty.
“Oh fuck,” Tony said, and in his mind he was thinking about Annette’s eyes, how they narrowed to slits and seemed to burn with hellfire whenever she was angry.
He made for the cell George was in, brought his key to the lock, but then pulled his hand away. Who gave a flying fuck if Georgie was dead or not? Annette certainly wouldn’t. All she’d care about was her little sacrifices. That was priority number one.
So Tony turned around, thinking they couldn’t have gotten far. George had only been gone for about fifteen minutes, and the big guy they’d locked up wouldn’t leave without his wife—unless he was a total jackhole, and Tony didn’t think he looked like one of those.
Halfway through the turn, he stopped and laughed. Funny. You think about something, and then it shows up out of nowhere, like your mind is magic or some shit. The big guy was here. He’d been hiding in the shadows, waiting for Tony, waiting like a jackal in the weeds. He held a piece of wood with both hands. It was big and thick, and as it whistled through the air, coming straight for Tony’s face, he saw the same burning fire in this motherfucker’s eyes that he had seen in Annette’s.
Logan knelt in front of the man he’d hit with the piece of wood and slapped him; first lightly, then when the man started stirring, a little harder. There was a growing knot on this guy’s head—had Logan known that this robed man tried having his way with Jane, the guy wouldn’t have had a head left to grow a knot from. Three minutes had passed since this man had come through the dungeon door.
“Wakey-wakey,” Grease said. He had taken the man’s gun, a Glock, and now pointed it at him.
The man’s eyes opened with no teasing about it, no fluttering as he tried placing where he was. They just sprang open. There wasn’t a moment of confusion, either. This guy knew what was up the moment he came to.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“All right,” Brad said, “good start.”
Logan frowned. “No time for games, man. You want to live, you tell us what we need to know.”
The man lurched forward, but they’d tied him to a computer chair. He wasn’t going anywhere. One of his hands patted the side of his thigh. Logan dug into his own pocket and pulled out the switchblade he’d taken off the man.
“Looking for this?”
The man snarled.
“I’d rather use it to cut the ropes instead of your throat, but I’m on my last nerve here, friend,” Logan said. “We came out here to help you, and you abducted us, threw us in cells, and took my wife and friend away. I think I might’ve killed your pal back there. I hit him as hard as a train, and really, that’s not like me, I swear, but like I said, I’m on my last nerve.”
The robed man offered up a grin.
“You got nothing to smile about, pal,” Grease said. “I’d just as well put a bullet through your head. Unlike Logan here, I don’t got no reservations about killing a man.”
“Might be a good thing for him,” Brad added.
They all looked at him, confused.
Brad shrugged. “I’m just saying…it might be good if Grease did it, because Logan would hesitate. And with a blade, if you hesitate, that shit’s gonna hurt pretty bad. A bullet through the head isn’t too bad, hesitation or no. It’s almost humane.”
“Good point,” Grease said, and then he did something totally unplanned, something that nearly made Logan piss his pants.
He pulled the trigger of the Glock.
The sound was huge, like concentrated thunder, but the man tied to the chair’s scream was much louder. Logan’s eyes were wide as he looked down and saw the fresh bullet wound in the man’s foot.
“You shot me!” the man screamed.
“I did, didn’t I?” Grease said. “Whoops.”
“Holy fuck that hurts—oh God oh God!” the man continued.
“Dude!” Brad said.
“What?” Grease was shrugging. “I just took your advice…”
“That’s not what I said!”
“Guess I took it the wrong way,” Grease said. He leaned closer and spoke in a soft voice to Logan and Brad. “I know assholes like this guy. He ain’t gonna talk unless we show him we mean business. Now, I know you want to get to Jane, right?”
Logan didn’t reply, didn’t nod, just stared daggers at Grease.
“Exactly,” Grease said. “And I want to get Devin, too, and then I want to get the fuck outta here and never come back. Time ain’t exactly on our side, you know, so I figured I’d speed the process up a bit. Shoot me.”
“They probably heard it. They’re gonna send backup,” Brad said.
Grease shrugged again. It was his go-to move. “I’ll shoot them, too. No biggie.”
The wound in the man’s foot was smoking. Logan smelled singed flesh and a metallic tang of blood in the air. The guy in the chair was crying; his face was red, and a multitude of cords stuck out from his neck.
“All right,” Logan said, “shoot the other foot, Grease.”
“Gladly,” Grease replied with a devilish grin.
“Wait!” the man yelled.
Grease didn’t lower the gun or take his finger off the trigger. Logan was already anticipating another crack from the gun.
“I’ll tell you what you want. I’ll tell you everything,” blubbered the robed man.
Logan, Brad, and Grease exchanged a glance, then Logan nodded at Grease, and Grease lowered the gun.
“All right,” he said. “You got a minute, and then I’m blowing all those little piggies back to hell, my friend.”
Brad snickered.
“What?” Grease demanded.
“Oh, nothing, that just sounded kinda…lame. You’re intimidating with a gun, you just gotta work on your catchphrases.”
“No way, that was totally ripshit,” Grease said. He looked at Logan. “Right?”
“Eh,” Logan replied. “You should definitely watch more action movies. The eighties are a good place to start.”
“Dude, I grew up in the eighties. Don’t tell me—”
“‘Ripshit’?” Brad said.
“Yeah, like, you know—” Grease started, but Logan cut him off.
“Forget it.”
He turned back toward the man in the chair, who was now looking dangerously close to passing out. Logan gave him another hearty smack across the face.
The man moaned. “Okay, okay. They’re getting prepped over in Tower City, and then they’re getting sacrificed in the shrine.”
“The shrine?” Brad repeated.
“The Tower City courtyard,” the guy said. “Now please let me out so I can get some help. Pleasseeeeee.”
“In a moment,” Logan said. He leaned closer to the man, the scent of his fear enveloping him. “So she’s all right? The woman is all right.”
“F-far as I know. Now please!”
“How far is the courtyard?” Logan asked. He held the switchblade in hand, opened it, snapped it closed. He felt like a greaser in an old gang movie.
“It ain’t far, man. It ain’t far at all, but everyone’s gonna be there, and if we—Georgie and me—don’t show up with you three, they’re gonna start asking questions and wondering where we’re at, get it?”
“I get you,” Logan said.
“Why are you doing this?” Grease asked. “Why you trapping people who are trying to help you?”
The man regarded Grease with a contemptuous look. Logan thought this was ballsy, considering Grease was the one who’d just shot him in the foot.
“I’m being serious,” Grease said. “Don’t give me that look. I don’t get it. The world ended, and the humans got their backs up against the wall, and you all are choosing the wrong fucking side.”
“It’s for safety,” Brad said, his voice low. He spoke almost as if he were only a mouthpiece, and an entirely different person was doing the speaking for him. “Am I right?”
The man didn’t answer, only looked at Brad warily.
“Yeah, I thought so,” Brad said. “They’re sacrificing people to the monsters because they think they’re gods, or some crap like that. In return, the monsters are leaving them alone. It’s pretty simple reasoning. I get it, I guess, but you’re wrong. These monsters aren’t gods; they’re the complete opposite of that.”
The man, his foot now a bloody, mangled mess, grinned, but this grin lacked any and all warmth. “You’re wrong,” he said, and he no longer sounded like he was in great pain. “They don’t bother us as long as we keep feeding them. Annette knows what she’s doing.”
“Annette doesn’t know shit,” Brad replied. “The monsters are just that—monsters. They’re no gods. Imagine if your god looked like that. You’d kill yourself.”
Logan knew where Brad was going. Hell, if Logan had seen his own mom turn, like Brad had, he would’ve thought the same way.
He put a hand on Brad’s shoulder, squeezed firmly. “Relax, buddy. Let the crazies think what they think. It makes no difference to us.”
Brad pulled away. “No. They’re wrong. These aren’t gods. They’re not! We shouldn’t be worshipping them.”
“Geez, what’s got your panties in a bunch?” Grease asked.
He was frowning, sweat standing out on his forehead, despite the cold air knifing through the abandoned police station. This breeze brought along with it the smell of death, of the wasteland, and Logan only wanted to get away from that stench, as fast and as far away as possible.
“Let him be,” Logan said. “C’mon, we have to get to the Tower City courtyard.”
Grease looked sideways at Brad, who was fuming, his face red, sweat also standing out on his forehead.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” Grease said.
“Wait, what about me?” the man asked.
“What about you?” Logan asked back.
“You’re just gonna leave me here? I’m fucking bleeding out, man!”
Staring straight into the man’s eyes, Logan said, “Maybe your gods will save you.”
14
Jane
She w
oke up to darkness. Her eyes were open, she knew that, but still…darkness. It took her a moment to realize that something was over her head. Her body had been numb and was just now coming back to normal. She almost wished it wasn’t, because with the darkness came pain. Someone had beat her up really good.
“Jane?”
Who is that? she wondered. Where am I?
“Logan?” she said back.
“No, Jane. It’s Devin. I think we’re in some deep shit right now.”
“What—what happened?”
“I don’t know. All I remember is coming up to downtown Cleveland to save those people, and then the rest kinda goes blank,” Devin replied.
Jane squeezed her eyes closed despite the blackness. She remembered. She remembered all too well. Growing up, in school, she had never paid attention in class because she could cram all her studying in the night before a big test and remember virtually everything. Her mind just worked like that. One of her teachers had called it a ‘photographic memory,’ and she assumed that teacher knew exactly what they were talking about. Sometimes she held on to the stuff she’d crammed into her brain; more often than not, she didn’t. But she remembered what happened to Devin Johnson’s hunters as well as she remembered the pythagorean theorem from her freshman year of high school.
What had happened to the hunters was not anything good. First they’d been fooled, then they’d been attacked in the arena and knocked out cold. Jane remembered waking up in a cold jail cell, calling out for Logan and not getting a reply. She had heard breathing from the next cell over, but she hadn’t exactly been sure if that was her husband or not. Then a man in a robe came in; he was balding and gross. He’d stuck her with a needle, she remembered that well enough, and then afterward, she woke up right here—wherever here was.
Taken World (Book 2): Darkness Page 13
