The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel (9 page)

18

The Old Warehouse

Mothballs—the entire place
smells like it’s made of them. The windows are grimy and the floor is coated in rat shit, bones and decades of dirt. It’s enough to make me wish I’d brought a gas mask.

“This doesn’t seem safe,” I say, coughing from the debris kicked up by Kristine’s boots, “I feel sick.” She gives me this look like I’m a dumbass for saying anything. So I shut my mouth, follow her up the stairs, into a room that looks even worse than the entrance.

The second floor is decorated in slasher movie set pieces—rusty machinery, a layer of dust thick enough to weigh and a single broken window covered in sun-aged tape.

“Up,” she says, and I’m only too glad to oblige, soon disappointed to discover that this level is the same as the others, sans any windows at all. An empty cage sits in the middle of the room. I don’t want to know what it’s for.

There must be cameras or some silent alarm, because I hear the entry door creak open, the groan of the rusty hinges loud enough to come all the way up the stairs.

“Hold them off,” Kristine says, “I’ll get us out of here.” That’d be a hell of a trick. I always wanted to find out what the Alamo was like.

Two pistols and some corroded machinery is all I have to work with; I doubt it’ll hold for long. The idea of shooting another person again, even the Syndicate’s goons, makes me shake, enough to wish for a cigarette. I’m bound to be rusty; in the movies, smokes always turn the average guy into a dead-eye marksman.

That thought don’t last too long, though, because now they’re coming up, two, three, four of them, maybe more, soles scraping against the lengthy series of steps. I fire, eyes peeking out over the conveyor belt, a shower of sparks spraying from the errant bullet’s resting place. Curses flood the air. I shoot again, this time hitting flesh.

“Fuck,” and it’s a scream so shrill that it seems his voice should break altogether, never work again. And then that’s it, no other sounds besides my breathing and whatever Kristine is doing to expedite our exit. I stand up and see the man, face down, stiff, right there on the stairs. A couple shots ricochet off the fixtures above, breaking the temporary ceasefire, and I duck behind the belt again.

“We got more coming,” one of them yells, “you might as well come out now!”

I blind fire down the stairs and somehow nick someone. I kind of regret it, because he starts wailing like a newborn.

“Shut up, idiot, I can’t hear where he’s at,” his associate says, but the wounded guy is having none of it, just carries on about his shoulder, how it’s torn apart, and it’s his dart throwing arm—which I think is a little strange, in terms of his priorities. A single gunshot, then morbid silence. “Pull the pin, man, and smoke the bastard out,” I hear, which is my cue to move. A little metal ball clings and clangs around, settling next to me.

I dive out and roll, awkward as a newborn colt—if they tried to roll, anyway—towards Kristine. Knocked off my feet by the blast, I scramble towards the moonlight slicing through the smoky haze, illuminating a room that hasn’t seen light in years. Just below us is another rooftop.

Kristine shoves me towards the opening, like a sheepdog nipping at the heels of a wayward lamb, and then leaps out the makeshift window. I’m about to spring for it when I see a guy at the top of the stairs, turned towards me, right out in the open with nowhere to go.

Blood slashes through the dirty air, and he staggers to the dusty ground. Footsteps stop down below; word’s gotten out that I’m a crackshot, a modern Jesse James.
The power supply
. It’s on a table in the corner, and I swear I can see it shining in the murky light. It looks like any standard issue nano-lithium battery, but when I pick it up, I can feel it moving, like it’s alive.

This thing’s got some kick.

“Call in the airstrike,” someone says, and I know what that means. A minute, maybe less. I hurry towards the opening and peer out. No sign of Kristine. I damn near miss the roof when I jump. The drop isn’t but six feet, but I’ve never been much of an action hero. I find her crouching on the roof behind some machinery, stealth-like.

“Where to now?” Above, I can hear the sound of the strike coming down. Napalm scorches the sky, a beam of fire, and like that, the warehouse is a pyre. We’re still close enough that it’s hot, licks at our flesh like a hungry wolf.

“We keep moving,” Kristine says, and we start running, out here naked, the only hiding spot an old condenser clean on the roof’s opposite end. Beyond that, another drop. I can see my truck, and the diner, placid and undisturbed, seems forever away. No shots or pursuers follow us.

There’s a tarp on the adjacent roof. Kristine lifts it up, like I should get under it.

“They’re going to come looking for us.”

“You got two of them, maybe three. They’re not too eager to find us.” The sound of sirens floats through the air. Never thought I’d be glad about that, but right now, that’s a good thing.

“So why not make a break for it while they’re pussyfooting around?”

“We stay here,” she says, “we’re headed to the diner.” And that’s it: it’ll be like camping, just with the Syndicate and smoldering buildings afoot instead of bears.

The sun is
beginning to rise when Kristine decides it’s time to get down. We heard the men drive off long ago. The town’s lone fire engine wailed in, and about the whole damn police force is combing the warehouse.

She doesn’t use the drainpipe to shimmy down, just hops and lands like a cat, almost upright. It doesn’t look so bad, so I follow suit. My legs hurt, explode on impact, and damn if I’m not sure I blew out all the ligaments and bones. But the pain stops after a bit, and I can walk. It isn’t that far to the diner anyway.

“Just stay here for a second,” I say, “let me talk to Janice.”

“Guns,” she says, and I hand them over.

“Take it. Please.” I forgot how much I hated the damn things. I seem to get caught with them a lot, though.

“Three minutes and I’m coming in.” But Kristine stays near the truck.

I enter Sissy’s and sit down at my usual spot. Janice emerges from the kitchen a few moments later. “You find him,” she asks, and I shake my head
,
which makes her face fall a little. “Where’s your new friend?”

“Outside. Listen, I think there’s something bad going on in this town.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t sound surprised. Nor is she perturbed by the fire nearby. Sissy’s isn’t even closed; that’s service. Before Janice can say anything else, our conversation is interrupted by the jangle of bells.

“I couldn’t wait,” Kristine says, shrugging as she sits down next to me, “it just looked like too much fun in here.”

“You,” Janice says, “you know something about Isaac.”

“Not for you, unless you’re going to help me.”

“The police. I’ll tell them.”

“That’s cute. You want the police to come here? Around you?”

Janice flushes. “I, I…”

“I think it’s time for everyone else to leave,” Kristine says, smiling in an
I got you now bitch
way, “okay?” She taps a fork against a dirty glass, like this is a toast at a dinner party. “Everyone, may I have your attention please?” The rest of the diners stop eating and turn around. “Thank you. Consider this notice that Sissy’s will be closing for the day. There’s been a fire, and it’s not safe around here. Asbestos and hazards and all.” The room fills with nervous grumbles. “No? No one’s leaving? Well, you need to get the hell out.” Her silver pistol is by her side.

A chorus of bells accompany the people as they rush to get away from this crazy stranger.

“Some of those people have been coming here for years,” Janice says when the last of them are gone.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kristine says, “maybe they’d like to be part of this. It was rude of me not to ask.”

“I’m still wondering what we’re doing here,” I say.

“Your
friend
here has a little bit to tell us. Isn’t that right sweetie?”

“I run a diner, I work hard—”

“I’m sure you do. But tell me, what’s it like, working with that prick Isaac? That’s why you came back here five years ago, isn’t it? Because it sure couldn’t be for this.” Kristine waves the gun around at the diner.

“Come on now, Kristine, she’s straight as an arrow.” I look at Janice, worry spreading across her pretty face.

“Listen to him,” Janice says, “I’m just a girl who moved here and regrets it every day.”

“You’re going to tell me where I can find that son of a bitch, and I’m going to kill him.” Kristine points the gun right at Janice’s head, hammer cocked, finger on the trigger.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, stepping back from the counter, “put that away.” I wish I’d kept my damn gun.

“I didn’t tell you about her, did I?” Kristine’s laugh is harsh, staccato. “I should tell you sometime, Damien.”

“Now seems like a good time.”

“I think it’s just best if you leave.”

“You can’t kill her, she’s my brother’s—”

She turns the gun towards me. “Or I kill you too.”

The bells sing a lonesome song when I step outside. I watch them talk, and then Kristine hits Janice square in the face and shoves her against the locked door.

I reach into my pocket, but Kristine has the truck’s keys. I start running up the street, just me and the quick-rising sun. I pass by the bank, taped off and still buzzing with some activity, and it seems like it takes forever to fade from my peripheral vision and out of sight. Maybe it never will.

Further up the street there’s a ratty motel that’s been around since forever. Almost all the lights have burnt out on the sign, so only the v and the y work. This is where you hunker down when you’ve become a shadow of a man. I enter the visitor’s office.

“I need your gun,” I say to the overweight, under-shaven blob of a man working the desk.

“Hell no,” he says, “no way I’m doing that.” He reaches down and pumps the shotgun. Twice in a few days I have to deal with this. Unbelievable. “You best get on out of here.”

“I’ll give you all of this for it.” I dump a wad of crumpled bills on the counter, what’s left from the other night’s El Dorado excursion.

“Goddamn, I can smell those from here,” and yeah, it’s true, fresh bank notes—even those covered in the scent of shame—have the distinct aroma of hope and promise, like they can buy you something new, “that’s well over a grand you got.”

“Take it or tell me to piss off.”

He ponders it for a little bit. This much cash is something he ain’t gonna see again.

“Don’t go on and get yourself in no trouble now,” he says, but that’s a lie he tells himself to feel better—the only thing that can come from this transaction is heartbreak and sorrow.

I walk out, shotgun by my side, the dirty push-bar on the door smudging my hands. Plan uncertain, I begin to head back towards Sissy’s, but the familiar flash of red and blue forces me to duck behind an SUV in the motel’s lot. I peer through the tinted glass, everything awash in alternating hues as Henderson steps out of the cruiser. He’s alone.

The fat guy at the desk rushes out the door, because this is damn good excitement in a daily life that consists of porn and online poker. I lean around the rear fender to catch the conversation.

“Hey, you seen this fella around? Been causing some trouble around town.” Henderson shoves a photo into the desk man’s gut.

“Nope,” the man says, “ain’t been through here.”

“Anyone strange been coming around here?” Henderson asks, but what he means is
crazy unusual
, because this place doesn’t do normal.

“More than a few, I’d say,” the desk guy says.

“What about a tall guy? Dark denim, collared white shirt. Looks kind of like the ugly bastard in the picture.”

“Well, I’d say a couple people fit that description.” Not cooperating. He just saw me.

“He was wearing nice clothes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” This guy has to understand he runs a fleabag motel for grifters and lowlifes; no one’s considering it for five star travel guide ratings. I see Henderson snatch the picture back and scribble something on it.

“Look, you goddamn zero, if you see this guy’s boozy mug around here, give me a call. I don’t think your clientele will appreciate daily visits.” And then he puts his hat back on and drives back towards the station.

Drama complete, I dart from behind the car and race to the diner.

19

Broken Promises

Door stained crimson,
glass shattered by stray bullets and rockabilly on the juke—this is how I find Sissy’s when I return. Some thug and Henderson are almost face-to-face, right next to the door, still as ice, insides melting out onto the linoleum. He’s got his eyes closed, hand still wrapped around the grip of his gun, shell casings by his side.

With a crackle and hum, the tune fades out, the box’s neon tubes flashing to indicate that it’s ready for another spin. Jeans bloodied, I wonder how it all came to this.

I check Henderson’s pockets, tug out a black book. The body still feels warm, enough that I expect his breath to breeze through my hair. It doesn’t. I check the bathrooms. Empty; Janice is gone, along with Kristine. I pat down Henderson’s pockets once more and open the front door.

“Police! Put the gun down and lock your hands over your head.” It’s Richards. Bastards snuck up on me, no lights, all incognito.

I shut the door and dart out the back. No one’s covering it—Riverton’s finest, once more—and I start a flat out sprint towards Jasper’s. I’m spurred on by the footsteps behind me.
Stop, stop
, they cry, but I don’t heed the calls. Maybe they’ll shoot, maybe they won’t. It doesn’t matter. The sky’s morning light is starting to flicker into focus above.

The minutes pass by, quicker than I’d expect, and it still seems like I can just run forever, even though I haven’t jogged a minute in about my entire damn existence. I can’t shake my pursuers, but the footsteps start to fade. I know they won’t catch me right now; in a moment, sure, but not this one.

Right now, I’m free.

I leap up Monk’s stairs and crash through the door. He’s sitting there on the couch, dazed out of his mind, head drooped low. I throw the deadbolt behind me and scream.

“Hey buddy, I’m in trouble and I don’t know what to do…” But I trail off when I come closer, can see what’s going on. A bullet to the head, blood pooled down on the carpet, thrown all over the curtains like a killer’s avant-garde painting.

I slump down, where his head’s almost level with mine, watching the activity outside through the blinds. They’ve found me, and they sure didn’t waste time doing it. Surrounded, but I have an ace in the hole—I’m willing to eat a bullet.

I let out a laugh. What else can I do? I got set up—and it must have been Kristine. Eyes or not, I guess a loose thread can unravel the entire thing. Something slams through the door, and it crumbles, giving way to a stream of police.

“I didn’t do any of this,” I say, shotgun sliding to the ground, “you got to believe me, I didn’t do any of this.”

“To think we let you go, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch,” Richards says, slinging the cuffs on to my wrists, “three of them?”

“Already dead.”

“And three more in that cesspool of a factory. My God, Mitchell, you’re a real sick one.”

“Those were self-defense.”

“We got the call, said you’d be at the diner, which is where you were. And then you ran. Guilty as anything.”

“Big guns scare me.”

“The innocent don’t run, Mitchell.”

“It’s Kristine you want. I swear.”

“Six goddamn bodies in the ground.” There it is, the righteous indignation Richards has been trying to hold back. He drags me the whole way back to the station on foot.

He bangs my forehead, splits it open on the metal bars when he puts me in the cell. It’s something he had to do, knows is wrong, but couldn’t help himself. “I should’ve just shot you, Mitchell, you goddamn lowlife scum-sucker.”

“That’d have been real nice. Too bad you missed out on that.” I mean it.

“Don’t expect anyone to come for you, Mitchell.” And he locks the cell door, leaving me to rot.

I feel the
temperature drop when they turn off the lights, leaving me in arctic darkness.

“So,” a high-pitched voice says, cutting through the frost, “what’d they got you for?”

“Mistaken identity.”

“I’ve heard that line from more than a few.”

“And you?”

“Just a man talking crazy, causing a ruckus. Name’s Jepsen. Mikey Jepsen.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot of crazy these past couple days.” I’m not sure I want to hear more.

“I can see why they locked you up, then.” Laughter pings off the walls and fills the room. “I didn’t even catch your name.”

“Damien.”

“Brothers with that Isaac boy, then? I’ll tell you, he’s got a temper like the worst fires I’ve ever seen.”

“You know him?” I’ve never heard of this Jepsen.

“Know him? I’m here to kill him.”

“You work for the Bull.”

“I do. Been a mighty good working relationship. Until Rod threw me in here today.”

“He ate a bullet a few minutes ago.”

“That’s my good luck, then.” Mikey kicks his feet against the bars. “I guess I don’t want to do this. But it is what it is.”

“If you’re going to rub one out, keep it down.”

“Son,” Mikey says, voice hushed, like he’s telling me that a dear friend has passed, “I do believe that you have found yourself in a bit of hot water. And that is God’s truth, as I see it.”

“I don’t believe in none of that.”

“Oh, you should, though, boy. Best thing I found in this world yet.”

The bars creak, the sound of a cell door opening at a deliberate, unhurried pace. For a man who has to get somewhere, he’s in no rush at all; one foot sets down and its echo dies before he places the other in front of it. A lock clicks, close enough that I know it’s the door to my cage. I press against the cool concrete, run my hands along the smooth wall for anything to use as a shiv.

My fingers leave empty.

All I hear is breath, him waiting, just waiting, for what, I don’t know, and I stumble over the rusty slab they call a bed and fall to the floor, my shin banging against the metal with a loud crash that gives me a start. I can feel him, sense him, don’t know how, but know—some primal urge deep in my soul.

“Sorry about this, kid. You ain’t seem so bad, anyway. But both of you Mitchells are real troublemaking bastards. Preventative measures need to be taken and all.” He’s looking down on me. I can’t see his eyes, but I imagine them burning a hole right into me, blazing there in the darkness. I curl into a ball, shove my face in my shirt and brace for whatever hellfire shall be brought upon me.

If there’s a Heaven, I doubt I’ll get in.

The lights flick on, and Mikey screams, his eyes accustomed only to darkness. But me, still human—with all the fear I was born with, could never snuff out—I can live in the light, even though it’s bright enough to bring tears. Guards pound on the other side of the door, far off, closing in—years or seconds, it doesn’t matter. His cries continue, a creature used to living in the shadows, not the day. The guards, they won’t make it in time.

I throw myself across the cell, claw at the blade Mikey has held near his face. He pushes back, and I can feel the sinews in his arms straining, the wordless
this is it
his body screams right before I ram the sharp silver into his eye socket and out the back of his skull, smooth as a sword sliding into its scabbard.

Cops break into the room now, a whirl of noise and
oh shits
, soon after which I’m chained to the bed. They haul Mikey’s corpse out and turn the lights off, and just like that, I’m surrounded by the cool stillness of false night once more.

I can’t even get on the metal cot the way I’m cuffed. But I just sleep right there, on the dirty floor.

Slivers of light
shoot beneath the door, rousing me from sleep. In the haze of day, I can see that the entire holding area isn’t much larger than a couple closets. I shut my eyes, mind drifting towards memories—good times, no, but better than this—long since swallowed by time’s omnipresent march. I wait and watch the tiny slice of light grow brighter until someone comes to free me.

The door opens and the sun floods in; this time, my eyes burn. An alarm goes off on my watch; it’s noon. Twelve hours.

“Goddamnit Mitchell, we leave you alone for no more than twenty minutes and you brain a man with a blade.” Richards’ deep voice booms off the tight walls. “Now, I’m coming in and removing your cuffs, and if you try anything on me, I’m going to put this,” and he points to his pistol, “in your mouth and do some redecorating. Clear?”

“Got it.” When I stand, Mikey’s blood splashes on my boots.

“We’d like some answers before you kill anyone else.”

“I’d be glad to,” I say as we walk through the narrow halls, and I’m not sure whether I mean I’ll be glad to clear my name or glad to keep on going where I’m headed, wherever that is.