Desolation Boulevard (47 page)

The inside of the school was unpleasant, to
say the least. The institution, that had once been a place of
dreams and aspirations, now looked as if an insane murderer had
decorated it after a bad acid trip. The walls were covered in
painted slogans, each more violent and perverse than the last; the
floor was littered with empty beer and liquor bottles; food scraps
were everywhere, including the walls and ceiling, and some of the
more interesting stains around the place looked an awful lot like
blood. Dylan was feeling a lot less confident about their situation
as they were pushed up against a wall and told to wait, while one
of the marauders knocked on the door of the former Principal’s
office.

“
Come!” ordered a hoarse
male voice from behind the door.

The marauder stepped inside the office while
Dylan, Matt and Montana stood beside their armed guards, wondering
how long they had to live, and if they would ever see Sally, Bonnie
and Gabby again. After a minute or so the marauder returned,
followed closely by a man whose face was covered with so much scar
tissue that it was difficult to identify any facial features at
all. He walked over to the trio and studied them through one good
eye, as a horse trainer might appraise a new prospect, before
turning to the guards and commenting, as if speaking through
gravel, “You’ve done well. These ones look very fit. The last
choices have been useless. Hardly worth the bother.”

The guards smiled and nodded dutifully at
their master’s praise, and it was obvious that this dangerous band
of misfits feared him. “Scarface” walked over to Montana and let
his good eye wander up and down her body. He reached out and
touched her cheek with a withered hand and as Montana cringed in
revulsion, Dylan wondered what had caused this sociopath’s
injuries. The other thing that Dylan pondered was how he would be
able to kill this freak and help his friends escape from this
hellish prison.

“
I like her,” said
Scarface, with an expression that might have been a smile. “Don’t
put her with the others. I want her with me.”

With that, the guards on either side of
Montana each took hold of an arm and marched her into the leader’s
office and closed the door.

“
You fucking asshole!”
yelled Matt, “What are you doing...?”

Before Matt could finish his sentence,
however, the closest marauder punched him in the side of the head,
sending him to the floor where he lay semi-conscious, while Dylan
was restrained by the remaining guards.

“
Easy there young friend,”
said “Scarface”, laughing as if they were old acquaintances. “You
shouldn’t get my comrades here all fired up. They love a bit of
gratuitous violence. You should do as you’re told and you might
just survive a little longer. I do love that feistiness, though!
Very commendable! You’re going to need that soon.”

Dylan strained against the hold of the
guards, but their bulk and strength was too much for him. He stared
down Scarface, as he tried to maintain control of his emotions.

“
Hey handsome, how’d you
get to be in charge here? It couldn’t have been by winning a beauty
contest, that’s for sure.”

The leader stared back and didn’t speak. For
a moment Dylan thought he might have pushed the man too far, as a
malicious glare nailed him to the wall. Then the freak reached into
his pocket, and Dylan feared he was about to become the latest
victim of the marauders after all, as a twisted smile appeared on
the leader’s face.

“
Yes, you might be a bit of
fun, I think,” “Scarface” leered, as he held the object up towards
Dylan’s face.

As Dylan tried to twist his head away,
though, the guards gripped his skull with large, powerful hands and
pushed him back hard against the wall. A strong chemical smell
assaulted Dylan’s nostrils and it was only after he felt an
unusual, soft sensation of pressure on his forehead, that he
realised he’d been drawn upon by a permanent marker.

“
You’re number eight,”
Scarface boasted happily. “Your friend will be number nine,” he
added, as he crouched down on the floor where Matt lay, before
inscribing a large “9” on his forehead.

A couple of minutes later, Dylan and Matt
were standing outside a locked room, being held by four marauder
guards, while a fifth unlocked the heavy steel door. Matt was still
a little groggy from the blow to the head, but had been able to
walk to length of the corridor alongside Dylan to arrive at their
current position. As soon as the door was opened, their captors
threw Dylan and Matt into the room, where they landed on the floor
with a painful jolt. They scrambled to their feet as the door
slammed shut behind them, and realised as they looked around, that
they were not alone. Sitting dejectedly on the floor in the pale
afternoon gloom were seven more survivors, each with a large, black
number written clearly on their forehead.

After they had spent a few minutes making
very basic introductions, Dylan tried to get as much information
from his fellow prisoners as he could. Matt was trying to ignore a
pounding headache and had difficulty keeping up with conversations,
so Dylan made him as comfortable as possible, and was trying to
assess the seriousness of their situation. The most gregarious of
his companions was a middle-aged man named Peter from Sydney, who
had been captured after heeding the call of his dreams to head
west. He had stopped at Carswell a week ago to refuel and replenish
supplies, but had been taken by the marauders and locked in this
room.

“
Number Three is the only
one left, since I was first here,” he informed Dylan ominously.
“The others have been captured more recently.”

“
What’s happening here?”
asked Dylan. “What happens if they take you from this room? Do they
let you go? What about the numbers on our forehead? What are they
for?”

“
Firstly, I doubt very much
they’re letting us go,” answered Peter sadly. “Secondly, the
numbers are how you get picked.”

“
What do you
mean?”

“
Each afternoon, at about
four o’clock, that scar-faced chap makes an appearance here with
his goons and picks a number out of a hat. If it’s your number,
they take you out of the room and that’s the last time we see
you.”

Dylan stared at Peter, “I have to ask. Does
anyone ever come back?”

Peter’s response was to stand up and go to
the barred window, where he stared into the distance. “What do you
think?”

There was such a defeated mood in the room
that Dylan didn’t even attempt to make conversation with the
others. In all likelihood they would not be spending much time
together and, unless he could think clearly and come up with an
escape plan, he knew that he and Matt might never leave the school
alive. He went over to his friend who was sitting up now, trying to
read the time on his watch.

“
Hey Dylan,” mumbled Matt.
“What time is it? I can’t see my watch properly.”

“
Wow man, they must have
hit you harder than I thought. You don’t have a watch any more.
They took it, along with all of our other stuff.”

Matt forced a smile, “Ooh, that doesn’t
sound good. Where are we?”

“
At the high school. The
ugly prick that’s in charge here has Montana! We have to get out of
here. Why did you want to know the time, by the way? Do you have a
hot date?”

“
Huh? The time? Oh, I was
thinking about the bombs. Do you think they went off?”

“
I fucking hope so man,
otherwise we’ve been captured for nothing.”

Matt looked at Dylan with an expression that
seemed to summarise all of the horrors that the young farmer had
endured over the last few months.

“
Hey Dylan?”

“
Yeah man, what’s
up?”

“
I want to go
home.”

Chapter 72

Montana was back in a room she knew too
well, but instead of facing the school Principal for truanting, she
sat across from a man whose appearance alone was enough to give
children nightmares. Before the event, Montana would have felt
sympathy for a person as disfigured as her captor, but now she only
felt revulsion, as she waited for him to speak. He stared across
the large desk at her, his one good eye studying her as a cobra
would a mouse. She tried to appear calm, but the fear was building
inside her like a summer storm as she observed him, trying to find
some clue that might give her an advantage, if an opportunity to
escape presented itself.  The first thing that she noticed was
that he wasn’t dressed like the other marauders she had seen so
far. Rather than the post-apocalyptic, biker chic the other bandits
favoured, Scarface was wearing a black suit and a tie, as if he
were the CEO of a multinational corporation.

“
You like my suit,” he
stated, as if he had read Montana’s mind.

“
You don’t see many people
wearing suits these days,” she replied, through her
fear.

“
No I suppose not. I think
it’s important to maintain my image, though, wouldn’t you
agree?”

“
I wouldn’t know,” she
answered, trying to keep the tone of her voice confident and
casual. “What sort of image are you trying to project?”

“
Ah, I’ve found a smart one
haven’t I?” he said, smiling crookedly through the mask of scar
tissue. “That’s a good question, and someone as intelligent and
perceptive as you deserves a honest response. Let’s face it, I’m
not exactly surrounded by intellectual giants here am
I?”

Sally kept her gaze on him, determined not
to show weakness, as she waited for him to continue.

“
The image I am projecting
to these savages is quite simple really,” he said. “I am their
leader, and my power is absolute. This is not a democracy, and
anyone who attempts to subvert my laws is dealt with quickly and
with extreme prejudice. There are no courts or lawyers, and I am
the only judge. If I sense a threat from any of my followers, I cut
them out of the group as you would a diseased organ from the body.
There is no mercy, nor is there remorse. Within this town, I wield
supreme authority, and I have found out I am very good at my job.
The suit is a simple way to differentiate myself from my followers,
and help them remember who is in charge. Now my dear girl, what do
you say to that?”

“
I say you’re a
megalomaniac,” Montana replied, matter-of-factly.

Scarface laughed. “Your teachers have done
an excellent job! Your vocabulary is excellent, but you’re wrong,
I’m afraid. I have no desire for power for its’ own sake. I use it
only to get what I need, and in this crazy new world, the critical
resource is not material wealth or even food. Do you know what the
ultimate prize is now, more than anything else?”

Montana thought carefully. She was getting
the impression that this freak across the desk was testing her
somehow, and that her answer would determine the nature of their
relationship, for as long as she was to be his captive.

“
The thing that’s most
prized now,” she replied, “Is safety from the feeders.”

“
Yes! Safety from the
feeders! Very good! Very good!” he said, almost cheering her
response and clapping his wizened hands together. “My feeling about
you was so right! You are the clever one, aren’t you! So now, if
you’ll forgive some self-importance for a moment, allow me to tell
you my story.”

Despite the horror of the situation she was
in, Montana felt that she had just earned a reprieve of sorts. The
feeling of dread, not only for herself, but also for Matt and
Dylan, was still present, but the threat of immediate danger seemed
to have receded somewhat, so she sat and tried to focus on what
this lunatic had to say.

“
Before the event, believe
it or not, I was a doctor, and a very good one. I was a specialist
in emergency surgery - a genius actually. Ironic, isn’t it, that
someone with my injuries, would end up in the field I did, but life
works in mysterious ways sometimes, doesn’t it? The scars are from
burns I suffered at the age of eight. I was coming home with my
parents after a party. They were drunk; our car hit a tree and
caught on fire. They were killed instantly, but a passer-by managed
to drag me from the wreckage and that was that. I spent over a year
in hospital recovering. I hated my dead parents for what they did,
and I suppose I became quite the cold fish. Once I was
rehabilitated enough to be free of pain I started to enjoy hospital
life and decided that it was a place I wanted to stay, and
eventually return to as a doctor. Do you realise the power that a
good surgeon has in their hands?”

Montana said nothing, so he went on.

“
Anyway, when I left the
hospital I went back to school and did very well.  I was an
intelligent boy and graduated top of my class, despite the bullying
that I was subject to almost every day. After that I was accepted
into university to study medicine. There was plenty of money from
the insurance, so it was easy once I had made the decision. After I
graduated I obviously couldn’t go into general practice, looking
like I did, so I became a surgeon. I found that my temperament was
perfectly suited to the work - I could operate without emotion,
like a robot, and work very long hours without becoming tired. It
didn’t even upset me when people died. I was just annoyed that I
had failed, but I had no concern at all for the victims or their
families. Surgery was just an intellectual puzzle for me to solve.
I realise now, of course, that I was a sociopath. Do you know what
that is?”