The Dishonored Dead (34 page)

And Harper, staring out at all of them, knew that tonight many of them would.

At the top
of the Herculean, in what was once The Restaurant, Philip stood in the dark and stared down at the city below him. He liked being up this high, seeing for miles and miles around. He liked that those citizens in the city didn’t know he was watching, and that if they did they would have to look up to see him.

The ding of the elevator sounded out in the silence. The door slid open and footsteps approached.

Without looking Philip knew it was Michael, and when the footsteps stopped behind him, he said, “Any news yet?”

“None.”

“Has our contact checked back in?”

“No.”

Staring out at the city below him, at the millions and millions of lights, Philip said, “Then why are you bothering me during my private time?”

His private time was something he just started last night, turning off all the lights on the top floor so that there was no glare as he stared down at the city.

“It’s regarding the two Pandoras you’ve requested,” Michael said.

“Yes?”

“They’ve just arrived.”

The outside of
the Psyche Institute was dark and quiet. The parking lot was mostly empty. Around back, by the dumpsters, two orderlies shared a smoke. Or rather Len smoked his cigarette while Wesley stood by and watched and tried to act like he didn’t mind the smoke when it was blown straight into his face.

Len, watching Wesley fidgeting with his hands, said, “Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, fine, I am. But aren’t you?”

Len took a drag of the cigarette, tried to blow a smoke ring. He shook his head.

“You’re lying.”

“No,” Len said, “I’m not.”

“Yeah,” Wesley said and did his best to stop fidgeting with his hands, stuffed them into his pockets. “Yeah, I guess I’m not either. I mean, they said they’d handle everything anyway, so what’s there to worry about?”

“I ever tell you I tried out to be a Hunter?”

“No.”

“Well I did. They said I wasn’t good enough. Couldn’t pass their tests, whatever the fuck that means.”

“When did you do this?”

“Long time ago. Years.”

“I never knew that.”

“That’s because I never told you, dickhead.”

“Hey,” Wesley said, because he had already talked to Len about calling him a dickhead, how it hurt his feelings and how his therapist—though he would never tell Len about his therapist—told him it was good for him to express his feelings vocally like that.

Len waved a dismissive hand, said, “Anyway.” He took another drag of his cigarette, stepped close to Wesley. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this shitty job. I want better.”

Wesley looked around at the dumpsters, at some of the trash on the ground. “It’s not so bad.”

“I want to actually live in a house, you know? I want to make some decent money. I want some fucking respect. You know what I mean?”

Wesley thought about his therapist, about what she said regarding respect and how one had to earn it.

Len took one final drag, flicked the butt out into the grass. “If it comes down to it, I’m going to take them out myself.”

“But they said—”

“I don’t give a fuck what they said. If I take them out myself, prove my worth, General Hager will have to make me a Hunter.”

“But—”

“Don’t but me, dickhead.”

Wesley, looking down at his shoes, said, “Don’t call me that.”

“Sure, dickhead. But first stop being a dickhead.”

They left the dumpsters and went inside, just as down the hill a car turned the corner, its headlights leading it up the drive.

In room 24
of C Ward, Kyle lay quietly in his bed. He stared up at the ceiling, at the little moonlight that shone through his barred window. If he could have it his way, he would be asleep, because when he was asleep he didn’t have to be reminded of where he was and that his mom and dad were far away. But he couldn’t sleep. He could only lie there in bed and stare at the ceiling and try to ignore the sounds coming from the other side of his door, those of sobbing and whimpering and whispering, the other children and adults kept in these cells already starting to lose their minds.

The lobby was
dark and quiet. Behind the desk sat the receptionist. Like Wesley, she was nervous, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. Because the Hunters had told her everything would be okay. The Hunters had told her that no matter what happened, she would be safe.

So she sat there, her head down looking at a magazine. She didn’t raise her head when the entrance doors opened. She didn’t raise her head when the four sets of footsteps approached her. She didn’t even raise her head when the footsteps stopped and the four men stood right in front of her desk. She only raised her head when one of them cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, miss?”

Out of the four of them, two wore masks. She didn’t know why she knew this immediately, but the two with masks were zombies.

“I was hoping you could take me to my son.” The man raised a pistol and pointed it at her face. “Please?”

Chapter 47

Everything was going
fine and according to plan until they turned the corner toward C Ward and there were the two men, dressed in scrubs, the tall one standing a little in front of the other with his arms crossed and his head cocked to the side. The receptionist had been leading them the entire time and now stopped and stood frozen only a few feet in front of Conrad and the rest of them.

Conrad stepped forward, nudged the woman aside, and pointed the gun right at the tall one. “Move.”

“Uh-uh,” the tall one said. “I don’t think so.”

“Len,” the other one whispered. His head was down, his shoulders were hunched, and it looked as if he were able to fold himself into his own body, he would. “Don’t do this.”

“Shut up, dickhead,” Len said, his eyes never leaving Conrad’s. His hands were behind his back and now he brought them out, showing the large socket wrench gripped in his right hand. He said to Conrad, “You think I’m scared of that gun?” He glanced at Thomas and Gabriel and James, all who carried rifles. “You think I’m scared of any of those? This thing here might not be a broadsword, but I guarantee you I can take your head with it just the same.”

“Len,” the receptionist said, “what are you doing? Wes, what the fuck is he doing?”

Before Wes could answer, Len said, “So what do you say? Just put down the gun—put down all your guns—and I won’t fuck you up.”

“Are you joking me?” Conrad asked.

Len was silent.

“Through those doors is my son,” Conrad said, “and nothing, I repeat nothing, is going to keep me from getting him.”

Len motioned at him with the wrench. “Then let’s dance.”

But Conrad didn’t want to dance. He wanted his son. So he tilted the pistol down and shot Len in the leg.

The man dropped the wrench and hit the floor, started flailing around. He tried reaching out for Conrad when Conrad stepped past him.

“Stop him!” Len shouted at Wes. “Stop him, dickhead!”

Conrad had reached the doors and glanced back, was just now aware that the receptionist had taken off running. Turning suddenly, she had pushed past Thomas and James and Gabriel and hurried down the corridor, screaming for help. James turned and chased after her, and Conrad glanced down at Len who was trying to stand up but couldn’t, his left leg now useless.

“Stop him, dickhead!” he kept shouting. “Stop him!”

Wes had finally come to the conclusion that he could not fold himself into his own body. Trembling, he stared down at Len, his eyes wide, his mouth open, and shouted, “Don’t call me that!” He fell to the floor beside Len, grabbed the socket wrench, and started beating Len on the head with it. “Never”—
whack
—“call”—
whack
—“me”—
whack
—“that!”

It had happened so fast Conrad was barely aware of it—everything had just whipped past in the matter of mere seconds—and before Wes could hit Len anymore Conrad’s paralysis broke and he rushed forward, grabbed the wrench just as Wes had it lifted again over his head.

The wrench suddenly gone, Wes became a whole different person. Trembling now not from anger and rage but from sorrow and remorse, and kneeling down beside Len, he murmured, “I’m sorry, Len, I’m so sorry.”

Conrad flung the wrench aside. He grabbed Wes’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. Staring back into the young man’s face, he said, “Take me to my son.”

Wes’s face was pinched, his eyes squeezed shut. He said, “Please don’t expire me, I’ll do anything,” and Conrad had the urge to hit him with the wrench just as this guy had hit his friend.

But he said, “I’m not going to expire you. Just take me to my son. That’s all I want. His name is Kyle and he’s ten years old and I want to see him now.”

Wes opened his eyes a little, just a peek, and when he saw that Conrad meant him no harm his body sagged and he started nodding his head. “Yeah, I can do that. Definitely. Just, you know, let me go.”

Conrad let him go. Then he turned and followed Wes through the double doors, into C Ward, his boots squeaking on the floor. There were doors on both sides of the corridor, indicated by numbers, and the one Wes brought him to was number 24.

He glanced back at Thomas and Gabriel making their way down the corridor, both shooting glances at each door they passed, Conrad now noticing that some of those doors now had faces peeking through the one-foot-by-one-foot square windows.

“How many people are here?” Conrad asked Wes, as Wes pulled a plastic keycard from his pocket.

Wes paused, the keycard suspended over the lock. “Huh?”

“Never mind. Just open it up.”

The guy swiped the card. A beep sounded, the door opened outward, and Conrad was moving before he knew it. A light inside the room had come on and he saw his son immediately, lying there on a bed that was hardly more than a cot, in a room that was hardly more than a cell and contained just a toilet and a sink.

Kyle lifted his head from the pillow, squinted, and said, “Dad? Dad, is that you?”

Conrad fell on his knees beside the bed just as Kyle sat up. He took his son in his arms and held him tight.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Kyle whispered. His body was shaking. “I didn’t mean to do it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you mad.”

“Shh.” Conrad held his son’s head close to his chest, ran his fingers through Kyle’s hair. “It’s okay. You didn’t make me mad. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

From the doorway Gabriel cleared his throat.
 

Conrad asked his son, “Want to get out of here?”

Kyle nodded his head against his chest.

“Then let’s go.”

His son was dressed in pajamas but no shoes, and so they walked through the door and into the corridor with Kyle barefoot. They had started up the corridor toward the double doors, the five of them, when Conrad stopped.

“What is it?” Thomas asked.

Conrad was looking at one of the doors, at a face peering at him through the square window. He turned back toward Gabriel, opened his mouth, but the zombie was already shaking his head.

“We can’t save them all.”

“Why not?”

“We just don’t have the time.”

“But that’s not fair.”

Gabriel said, “Now you’re starting to understand life.”

Kyle stood beside him, holding his hand. Now he squeezed it, and when Conrad looked down his son said, “Daddy?” like he was three years old again.

Conrad forced a smile, nodded, and then they were moving again, through the double doors, past Len who had managed to crawl and lean against one of the walls, and who called after them, saying they were fucking expired, they just didn’t know it yet. They left Wes behind, the guy squatting down next to his friend and telling him how sorry he was, but that Len couldn’t call him a dickhead anymore, and then they turned the corner and hurried on, up another corridor, entering the lobby where Conrad suddenly stopped again.

“Shit,” he said and let go of Kyle’s hand. He motioned for his son to stay and slowly walked to one of the windows.

Outside the night had become animated with flashing lights, over a dozen police cruisers and Humvees parked out there with Special Police and Hunters stationed behind their vehicles. They were all watching the building, their weapons trained on the main entrance, and when one of them spotted Conrad’s face in the window, word traveled down the line and then someone with a bullhorn spoke up.

“
CONRAD, WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!
”

Behind him, Gabriel said, “What do you think you’re doing?” and when Conrad turned around he saw Thomas had grabbed Kyle and was now holding him like a shield, the barrel of his rifle pointed at his son’s head.

“Not so fast,” Thomas said when Conrad took a step forward. “Just stop right there. Put the rifle down, or I swear I will shoot him.”

Conrad said, “I should have guessed this.”

“Guessed what?” Thomas lifted his chin toward the entrance. “You think I did this?”

“
WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED! MAKE IT EASY ON YOURSELF AND SURRENDER!
”

“No,” Thomas said, shaking his head quickly, “I never called them.”

“But you called them the first time, when I came home.”

“No, Conrad, not even then.” Kyle squirmed and Thomas had to hold onto him tight, press the barrel into his head even more. “I meant what I said earlier, when we’d talked. I was playing two sides, and I always felt bad for what had happened to your mom, I wanted to make things right. And I was all for helping you get your son back and escaping but, well, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen now. So drop the rifle.” He squeezed Kyle’s shoulder hard, causing Kyle to cry out. “Now.”

Conrad held the rifle out, slowly lowered it to the ground and came back up with his hands raised. “You don’t have to do this, Thomas.”