Brian Keene (27 page)

Frankie could hear the chewing sounds, even over the cries of the other babies and through the thick glass partition.

Even over her screams.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

Somebody was poking her and she opened her eyes, lashing out.

"Stop it!" she hollered one last time, and then glanced around in
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bewilderment.

A young girl, no more than fourteen, flinched away from her. The girl was pretty, and Frankie thought to herself that she was going to be a heartbreaker. Probably of mixed descent, possibly Hispanic and Irish. But underneath her mournful, dark eyes were black circles. Both the eyes and the circles beneath spoke of harsh lessons learned before they should have been. Frankie had had the same look when she was the girl's age.

"Sorry," the girl apologized. "You were having a bad dream."

"Where am I?"

"In the Gettysburg Fitness Center," the girl said. "This is where we stay in between shifts on the Meat Wagon."

"The what?"

"The Meat Wagon," the girl repeated. "It's where they make us do the sex things. My name's Aimee."

"Hello Aimee. My name is Frankie. Now would you mind telling me how I can get out of here."

"You can't. They'll kill you if you try. It's not so bad, really. Some of them are even nice to you while they stick their thing in you."

"Aimee, come away from there now!"

232 The woman who spoke was obviously the girl's mother. Frankie noticed the same pale skin, high cheekbones, and flowing, raven-like hair. Like the daughter, the woman's eyes spoke of suffering and pain, humiliation and hopelessness.

Frankie knew the look well. She'd worn it herself, in what now seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I'm Gina," the woman introduced herself. "Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?"

"Don't suppose you have any painkillers I can wash down with it?" Frankie winced, touching her bruised face. Her shoulder and ribs were in agony, and her split lip throbbed in pain. She wished for some skag, then forced the thought away.

"Sorry," Gina said, "but they won't let us keep anything like that. I guess they're afraid some of the girls might swallow a handful of aspirin. Sometimes I think that might be a better alternative." She handed Frankie a bottle of water and a cigarette. Frankie drank eagerly and then took a drag, letting the bitter, acrid smoke fill her
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lungs. She exhaled with a sigh.

"I never used to smoke," Gina said, "but I figure lung cancer is the least of my worries now. At least it's a quiet death."

"Yeah," Frankie mused "it sure as shit beats becoming a midnight snack for one of those things. Thanks."

She took another drag and looked around the room. True to the girl's word, she was in the gutted remains of a gym. The weight benches and exercise machines had been removed, and strewn in their place were mattresses and blankets. About two dozen other women lounged about, most of them eyeing Frankie with laconic interest, while a few others slept. The oldest woman appeared to be in her late fifties. Aimee was the youngest.

"So what's the deal?" Frankie asked.

"They work us in shifts," Gina told her. "They've got a massive tractor trailer that they've outfitted into a mobile whorehouse. Keeps up the spirits of the troops and all

233 that. They call it The Meat Wagon'. It's got bunk beds and office cubicle partitions that form little rooms. It-it gets easier. As long as you don't resist, most of them treat you okay, or at least indifferently. A few of them are rough, but I've managed to distract them from Aimee so far."

She paused and took another drag from the cigarette. Then she exhaled and said, "Still, every night, I die a little."

"You've got to put yourself somewhere else while it happens," Frankie counseled her. "Detach from your body."

Gina stared at her, mouth open but unable to speak.

Frankie shrugged. "I used to do this for a living." The door opened and twelve more women entered, looking tired and smelling of sex and sweat. Several of them were crying softly. Four armed men followed behind them and took positions at the door.

"Next shift," one of them barked. "You twelve! Get a move on!" Moving with a resigned shuffle, twelve more women followed them out and the women who had just come from the truck took their places, collapsing onto the vacant mattresses.

"Aimee and I will have to go in a few hours," Gina said, "but I imagine they'll let you recuperate at least one night."

"Hey," called a nasally, shrill voice from across the room, "who's the
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skinny black bitch sleeping in my bed?"

"Oh shit," Gina muttered and moved away quickly, not meeting Frankie's eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Whatchu doing in my bed, ho?"

The woman shoved her way forward through the crowd, and Frankie lazily watched her approach. She was big; bloated to the point of obesity, but solid. Lifeless, dishwater blonde hair clung to her head in a bowl-cut, and her mounds of flesh strained against her faded jeans and black t-shirt. 234 "That's Paula," Aimee whispered, but Gina quickly clamped a hand over the girl's mouth.

"I didn't see your name on it," Frankie said, and deliberately took another puff. "But then again, we haven't been introduced, so I wouldn't have known what name to look for."

"Oh, ain't you a fucking smart mouth!" Paula exclaimed. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Frankie."

"Frankie? That's a guy's name." She brayed laughter, hands cocked on her ample hips. None of the other women moved, hypnotized by the scene unfolding before them.

"Well, Frankie" she emphasized her name, "I'm Paula."

"Paul?"

"Paula! What the fuck, you deaf? P-A-U-LA...Paula!" Frankie looked down at the mattress. "Nope, no Paula here. It does say

'Property of a Bull Dyke Bitch' though. Is that you?" The women in the room gasped as one, and began to back away from the combatants. Paula gaped at Frankie in astonishment, clearly unaccustomed to this type of response.

"What did you say?"

Slowly, Frankie rose to her feet and faced the larger woman. She pressed forward till their breasts were almost touching. Then she removed the cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke into Paula's eyes.

"I said to fuck off bitch, before I jack your fat ass up." Paula moved fast, but Frankie was quicker. The big woman swung a fist at the side of her head and Frankie dodged it. With her other hand, Paula
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reached and grabbed a fistful of Frankie's hair, twisting it savagely. Grunting, Frankie thrust forward with the still glowing cigarette butt, and shoved it into her attacker's eye.

Screaming, Paula let go of Frankie's hair and reared

235 backward, her hands clawing at her face. Frankie aimed a kick at her mid-section and felt her foot sink into the doughy flesh. Paula sank to her knees, shrieking in agony.

"I'll kill you bitch!" she screamed.

The other women were shouting now, unanimously cheering the newcomer on. The door burst open and two guards dashed in, attracted by the commotion. Seeing a catfight in progress, they held back and watched in enjoyment, quickly placing bets.

Paula lashed outward blindly, grasping at Frankie's legs, but she darted back and circled around behind the crouching woman. As Paula turned in pursuit, Frankie slapped her face, then backhanded her a second time. It felt like hitting a side of beef, and Frankie's hand stung, immediately going numb. The wounds she'd received during the rape were reopening, and Frankie knew she had to end this quickly.

Suddenly, Paula rose to her feet and charged her, frothing with rage. Frankie tried again to sidestep her, but this time the larger woman was too quick. Her massive weight bore them both to the floor, and Frankie's breath was forced out of her lungs as Paula crushed down on top of her. Paula head-butted her, and then began to pound her chest and face, clubbing her senseless. Frankie tried to shout, tried to scream, and found she could do neither.

The crowd was circling them now, some chanting for Paula but the majority openly encouraging Frankie.

Paula tilted her head backward and brought it crashing down again. Just before it struck her, Frankie opened her mouth and bit down on her attacker's nose. Blood and mucous ran across her tongue and she clamped down hard. Paula thrashed on top of her, shaking her head furiously, but Frankie ground her teeth together, locking her jaws.

With a mighty effort, Paula heaved herself backward, and suddenly, Frankie could breathe again-after she spit

236 out the tip of the woman's nose.

Paula had forgotten all about her now. Delirious from shock and pain, she cupped her mangled face in her hands. Blood streamed from between her fingers, flowing from both her nose and her right eye.
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Frankie moved in for the kill.

One of the guards fired a single shot into the air. Plaster rained down upon them, and the cheering women scattered.

"That's enough," one of them warned her. "Step away." Training their weapons on Frankie, they moved toward them and pulled Paula's gore-stained hands away from her face.

"Take her out back and shoot her," one of them dismissed her casually.

"This new one's a good enough replacement. She was too fucking fat anyway." With some effort, they dragged the sobbing woman from the room, her blood leaving a trail behind them.

The room was completely still for a moment, and then all of the women began talking at once. Frankie's numb hands were pumped repeatedly, the bruises on her back slapped in joy and exultation.

"She was horrible," Gina said. "She beat several of the girls in here, even raped them herself, in between shifts."

"You're welcome," Frankie muttered, collapsing onto the bed. "Now give me another cigarette, would you?"

The space inside the helicopter was cramped and tight, and Baker felt a wave of claustrophobia that was even worse than the spell that had gripped him while climbing up the elevator shaft during his escape from Havenbrook.

Skip, Worm, and he sat back to back on the floor. Their hands and feet were tied behind them. Schow, McFarland, and Gonzalez were seated around them.

237 Torres sat up front, next to the pilot.

"We've spotted some just up ahead, Colonel!" Torres shouted above the roar of the rotors and Schow nodded in understanding. When he spoke, he didn't raise his voice, but Baker could understand him perfectly, despite the din.

"Enjoying the view, Professor Baker?"

"I'm afraid that I can't see much from where I'm sitting."

"That will change soon enough, Professor. I promise you a better vantage point. Now tell me, is there anybody left alive at Havenbrook."

"I've told you repeatedly, not that I know of. But Havenbrook is a large facility! You can't imagine the scope and size. As for the rest of it, I
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can't speak for some of the other secure areas, since I was never inside them."

"Indeed," Schow trimmed his fingernail calmly, "so you've insisted. Just you and this-Ob-I believe you referred to it as, yes?"

"Correct," Baker said. "Ob was what it called itself. You've got to understand, Colonel, these things are not the people we knew when they were alive. Once the body dies, these creatures inhabit it. They use it as a host; a vehicle of sorts."

"Fascinating. And why do you suppose this possession occurs only after the victim has died?"

"Because these demons, for lack of a better word, occupy the place where the soul was. The soul needs to have departed before they can move in."

"The soul, eh? Then tell me Professor, if this is true, why do the animals become zombies too? Do animals have souls?"

"I don't know," Baker exclaimed, "Nor do I want to have a philosophical argument with you Colonel. I'm a scientist. I'm only reporting what I've learned."

"You were a fairly celebrated scientist, were you not?" Baker didn't reply.

"You were. My men tell me they saw you on CNN.

238 Never watched it myself. Too biased. But I read a great deal, and I'm familiar with your work. You were numero uno. The big man. The head cheese. I'm sure there's more than you're willing to tell me. I can respect that. Perhaps you don't want to betray your security clearance. But there's no government left to betray, Professor. I'm it-all that's left in this part of the country. Consider that for a moment, if you would."

"I've already told you, Colonel, that I will not go back to Havenbrook. It's madness to try! Whatever it is that you think you'll find, let me assure you that you won't. The only thing left at Havenbrook is a creature of great evil!"

Ignoring him, Schow turned his attention to Skip.

"What are your thoughts, Private?"

"I think you're insane," Skip responded. "You're going to kill me anyway, so fuck you, Colonel Schow. Fuck you very much, you crazy asshole."

"Kill you?" Schow put on a show of mock wounding, clasping his hand to his chest. "Kill you? No, Private, you misunderstand. You were found
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guilty of treason, and worse yet, cowardice. We're simply going to give you a chance to prove your bravery again."

He began to laugh and a second later, Gonzalez, McFarland and Torres joined him.

"We're over the target now sir," the pilot reported from the front.

"Good!" Schow became animated. "Let us begin. Gentlemen, if you would." McFarland and Gonzalez left their seats and removed something long and black from the storage box. Baker couldn't tell what it was, but it appeared to be made of rubber. Even though he couldn't see Skip, he felt the man shaking against him.

They hooked one end of the item to a winch, and Baker realized that it was a bungee cord.

"Take us down a bit," Torres ordered the pilot, "then level it off." 239 "Oh no," Skip pleaded. "Come on, Colonel. Not this! Anything but this!"

"I'm afraid it's too late for that, Private. I lied. We are going to kill you after all. Of course, as you've already indicated, you were well aware of that fact when we got on the helicopter. Just take heart in the fact that you will get to prove your bravery before you die." The two officers strapped a harness around his midsection. His hands and feet still tied behind him, Skip was unable to resist. Instead, he began to make choking noises in his throat. Baker realized the man was literally choking on tears.