36 Hours (16 page)

“Stand down, Alvarez,” Pacino growled. “Or I’ll lay you down.”

Alvarez’s hand draped down to the 9mm in the holster. I flinched. Pacino laughed. “Don’t. You’re tense. Don’t be. We just checked on Taylor.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“Still going to the movie with her Sunday night?”

“Plans change, my man.”

Alvarez stepped aside and we went through. The carpeting turned bare and cold. Concrete. My eyes adjusted. It was much darker. Shadows loomed out at me. Barred shadows. Iron bars. Cells. But my ears caught it before my eyes—

deep, ragged breathing, shuffling feet. I cocked my head towards the sound; Pacino was walking away, but I tore off, walking over towards the sound. Under my breath, not wanting Pacino to hear, I breathed, “Bryon?” I peeled through the darkness. No windows to let even the gracious light of the storm. Thunder.

“Bryon? Are you-“ I felt something run into me, cold and hard. I jumped back, almost falling, then cursed myself. Just a cell. I had ran into-The attack came out of the shadows, and I saw the barred teeth; the naked man threw himself against the bars, bleeding from several places, enclosed like a lion, only more vicious. Drool fell down from swollen, blistered lips. His eyes rolled as clawed hands, the fingernails ripped off, coated with blood, came at me through the bars. The bony fingers touched my Homer’s Grocery shirt and I ripped away, tumbling and falling hard on my rump. I could still see the figure grabbing Anthony Barnhart

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through the bars at me; Pacino came from nowhere and took me up, grabbing me under the armpits. He lifted me to my feet, and I stumbled back, into the wall. My heart sprinted a marathon.

Pacino said, “We’re keeping them in here.” We both watched as the infected man leaned against the bars, lacerated chest quivering with each torn breath. His yellow eyes looked us over. He didn’t move. I feared the bars would break. He opened his mouth and made some horrible, almost inhuman noise, and he several resounding calls echoed through the chamber. The cells were full. Full with those whose only desires were to kill. Nothing more. Just to kill, and to spawn killers. “Test subjects.

“We stripped this guy here down. His name is Alan Schmidt. We took fingerprints when we tranquilized him earlier today. He is a business manager of human resources at Delphi Automotive.” Now he was a monster. “Father of four, divorced twice. Member of the Atheist’s Club, a long-time chairman. Do you believe in God?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“It is good. To believe in God. Especially now. Because God is all you have.”

“Do you believe in God?”

He paused. “I believe we’ll need a miracle to live.”

He led me through the darkness, then light burst forth. He had grabbed a flashlight off the wall. “I am a fool,” he told me, apologizing. “I should’ve grabbed a flashlight before we came in. But I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think you’d wander off like that. Don’t go messing around again, okay?”

Chaining friends in a storm. Performing tests on a business manager. Why would I
want
to go messing around?

“He’s in here.”

“Who?”

“You’re friend.”

He unlocked a cell and opened the door. I heard grunting and metal-againstmetal. He lowered the flashlight over a bed against the brick wall. Bryon lay there, strapped in. Drool dribbled down his face and he stared up at us with the look of anger and hate in his eyes. I never would have imagined the rebellious Bryon being strapped down like this. His arms and legs pushed against the wrought-iron chains. I had seen such a table before. Surfing the web once, I had gotten to the San Quentin website—they used gurneys like this when executing an inmate via lethal injection. No. Don’t tell-Anthony Barnhart 36 Hours

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Pacino knelt down next to Bryon, stared into his oval eyes. “I have told your friend here everything you wanted to know. He hasn’t run. He isn’t dead. And I imagine he is more comfortable here than ever.” What a shot off the wall.

“Promise me you won’t try any tricks again, and I’ll let you free of this, and give you some water. The tranq often makes people thirsty.”

His voice was raspy. “You-“

“
Promise me
. That’s all I need. And you’ll be freed. And you’ll get water.”

In the cell next to us, something moved. The beam didn’t touch. Bryon’s eyes were wide.

“Do you wish to see?” Pacino asked, smiling crookedly. “We will leave then. Do you wish to see?”

Bryon stared into the cell next to us, the darkness cloaking anything beyond. Pacino whispered into his ear, “Do you wish to see?”

His eerie words made my blood sour.

And he stood, rolling the flashlight in his hands, and swung it over the floor, knotted and cracked, over the moldy iron bars, and into the cell. Several hunched figures—an old woman, a beautiful damsel turned into Satan’s child, and two boys and a girl—threw themselves with a shriek at the bars. The entire room shook as they snarled and screamed, wincing in the bright light. Bryon’s body thudded against the gurney, terror gripping him. In the cell beyond, more figures danced in the shadows, aroused. The shouts of the infected echoed through the brick and concrete room. Bryon shivered. Goose-bumps spread over my arms, and I edged towards Pacino and the gurney.

Pacino whirled the light around, focusing it on Bryon’s face. Bryon’s eyes snapped shut. His breath came out in wisps of warm air. The sounds died down, but we all knew—they were there.

Watching

Hunting

Pacino rose and told me, “Let’s go. I am sure you are thirsty.”

He moved past me and to the door. I glanced back at Bryon, mentally pleading,
Come on, don’t stay…

The cop snapped, “Do you want to stay here, too?”

I backed out. Pacino was shutting the door, and danced the flashlight beam into the next cell (cage). The infected hurled up against the iron bars. A screw Anthony Barnhart

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popped out of the ceiling, falling through the air, clinking over the concrete, rolling next to one of the gurney legs. Pacino grinned and flashed the light off. Bryon hollered, parched, “Okay. Okay. I promise. Just let me out of this
freaking cell
!”

Pacino went back inside. “Good choice. I don’t know about those bars. They’ve held up so far. But weird things have happened. We all know.” He undid the clamps and helped Bryon up. Bryon turned his eyes away and hurried out of the cell, a somewhat sluggish hurry, as his numb legs didn’t carry him so poignantly. Pacino shut the cell and led us through the jail room, and the door opened, and brilliant light—no, not light, darkness, except the windows let in light that burned like angel’s fire compared to the dank cells—blinded us. We rubbed our eyes and went in.

The other officers hissed and jumped up.

Pacino said, “Sit down or you’ll be in the cell.”

They lowered back down.

He took us to a room we hadn’t yet seen. It held two stuffed chairs, a bookcase and a computer. He threw us in, said, “See you,” and locked the door tight. We were left alone in the superb darkness. But it was warm—and we weren’t surrounded by the creatures born of hell.

“This is an improvement,” Bryon said, rubbing his stiff muscles. I pulled a lighter out of my pocket. Hannah had given me one at AmeriStop I flicked it open, and the lighter burned sharp, twisting its golden beams over the room. We spotted some scenic candles and lit them. Never-before used. The wicks burned solid. I slid the lighter back into my pocket and fell into one of the chairs. My eyes drooped. What time was it? My watch read twenty after 2:00. Unbelievable. My stomach growled. Chicken and tuna didn’t quite rub me full. Bryon paced back and forth, peering at the shelves. Dusty books, stacks of magazines. Police reports, some medals. Pictures of a smiling family at some lake house somewhere, dressed in fishing gear and holding tackling. He went through the drawers, picked something out, and shoved it into his pocket. I couldn’t see what it was.

“So you made a new friend,” he finally said. “That cop. Nice guy.”

I winced. “He let you out.”

“What good is it to take a guy out of prison and put him in jail? Modest comfort. Modest. But still prison.”

“I’m here, too. And, no, we’re not friends.”

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“Do you think this room is tapped?”

“Even if it is, power’s out.”

“They could be listening behind the door.”

“So? Who cares?”

Bryon brushed some papers and a pen aside on the desk and sat down, legs dangling. “What’d he tell you?”

I took a breath. “He showed me.”

“What?”

“Showed me.”

“No. What did he show you?”

“They chained up one of their officers. A woman. She’s in the courtyard, in the cold rain. I’m not saying give her mercy. It’s a good punishment. But they treat her like a whore. Treated her, I should say. And do you know why she’s in the courtyard? They’re starving her. They have this theory that all these sick don’t eat food, and they’re right, and they say that they’re going to see how long until they starve to death. Noble, maybe. But you were in those cells. They’re
testing
them. Odd, isn’t it, if they think this will all be over in a couple weeks, when they all starve to death?”

“They’re sadistic.”

“I think. They’re all, like, twenty years old and horny as heck. The woman in the courtyard…”

“If you even mention it, I’ll slit your throat.”

“Then I don’t need to.”

“Why do you think they locked us up?”

“I shudder at the thought.”

“We should’ve just kept running. Right on past this place. Maybe to the library or something.”

“Maybe we could.”

He laughed. “How could we? You’re insane. We’re locked up. How we gonna get out, Sherlock?”

“We’ve got to do something. Call it soul-force, call it premonitions, call it whatever the heck you want to, but I’m getting the vibe our being locked up is a great comfort compared to our future.”

“You got that right.”

I looked up at the ceiling. Tiles. “Bryon, didn’t your mom used to lay tiles on ceilings?”

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“No. Her friend did.”

“You helped her once, didn’t you?”

“A long time ago.”

“Look at the ceiling. Bryon. The ceiling.”

He obeyed, and a smile crossed his lips. “I’m glad I did. I didn’t get paid. Not till now.”

“You’re tallest. Go first.”

“No. You. If they come, I can fight them better than you.”

That was for sure. I stood on the desk and leaned up, grabbing one of the tiles. It shook under my hands. Drywall fluttered down, flaking over my work shirt. I wrestled the panel free and handled it down to Bryon. He set it against the bookcase. “Give me a push.” He did, and I was raised up, and squirmed through the opening in the ceiling. It was dusty and old, stinking of mildew and age. Of bones. I crawled over the tiles. They held. Bryon told me he could see me moving on the tiles. They bulged. Not good.

He said, “Look for a wooden beam. There should-“

“I see it.” I crawled through the darkness, crouching on top of it. Dust filled my lungs. I couched.

Light from the candles barely pushed through into the ceiling cavity, but blotted as Bryon stepped onto the desk. He pushed the tile up and disappeared. There was a loud crash, the splintering of wood. My heart skipped a beat. I heard the door swinging open. Silence. Footsteps below. Sweat stung my eyes, turning the dust on my face to a ruddy powder. Bryon then appeared, gracefully joining me in the cavity. He pushed the tile back down over the opening, so no one would imagine a thing. He sat on the wooden beam, the bulge of his body on the tiles vanishing just as running feet burst into the room below us. Pacino, Alvarez, the fat man. All cursing. Screaming. Shouting. Bryon and I held out breaths; I swear even now that somehow—in the impermeable blackness—I could see Bryon’s wacky smile. He was enjoying this. And so was I. Somehow. I guess all boys would. After all, didn’t God create us wild and adventurous and passionate and embedded with a warrior’s spirit?

Alvarez breathed, “They’re gone.”

Foul words. Pacino: “I can tell that! Where the heck did they go!”

“The door was busted open,” the fat man mumbled.

“We didn’t run into them,” Pacino said. “They must have gone the other direction.”

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“They’re trying to leave through the front doors,” Alvarez said, swearing. “Let them go.”

“No! No!” Pacino howled. “We need them! How else are we to be sure about the disease communication?”

So that was it. They were to use us to discover how the disease transfers from infected to healthy.

Lab rats. That’s all we were. Lab rats. Soul-force. Premonitions. Whatever. But I was right.

“Shoot them if you see them! Don’t kill them! The dead can’t be struck with the disease.”

They ran out of the room, slamming the door. Silence. I said, as lowly as I could, “They’re going to find us. They’re gonna block our exit.”

“We’re not leaving,” Bryon said. “Not yet.”

“What? We’re just going to roost here till hell walks?”

“No. No. You understand, don’t you, Austin, that no one messes with Bryon and survives?” There was a mad—deranged, even—twinkle in his eye. I thought gruelingly to myself,
Is he
enjoying
this?

“You’re insane.”

“Just follow me.”

We moved over the beam, then slid onto the tiles, placing our weight carefully as not to fall through. Something didn’t make sense. We weren’t going the right way. Not at all. We were going back. Back. A shudder ran through me.
Back to
the cells
. I wanted to turn around, to return to the front, but I knew deep down that the cops weren’t dumb enough to overlook a clever little scheme Bryon set up, and would hunt for us. But they wouldn’t go into the cells. No. They would never
imagine
us going there, especially not Bryon.

“There’s no way to get out from the jail,” I said.

He didn’t flinch. “I know.”