Metro (24 page)

His calm voice fills the room. She cannot escape it.

He smiles at her serenely. “Oh . . . and one other thing. I almost forgot.”

He reaches over to his instrument tray and finds something very small.

“You had this in your pocket also. It was broken, but I fixed it. Would you like to have it back?”

He comes over, much closer now. She sees the object in his hand. Mark's promise-me ring. Cheap plastic expertly repaired with superglue. Darian gently places it on her right middle finger. It fits perfectly.

And she remembers The Kingdom.

It all floods back in a glorious rush The sights she will never see again. The smells she will never smell again. Music and dope and bad monster movies.
Mark. Mark, my love.

And in that moment, she finally remembers the most important thing as Darian turns back to Andy to finish his work.

• • •

S
he's back in the living room of the Kingdom with Mark, only now it's on the day he comes home from work, waving a piece of paper from the mailbox and screaming that he's just sold his first novel—
Countdown to Extinction
, the one about zombie truck drivers in outer space who go after revenge on the planet of slime people. A small publisher just bought the thing and it's not much money, but
Jollie, I'm gonna be published!
She lights up when she sees him, her eyes and her face doing fireworks when he tells her the news. Andy is off slinging fried green tomatoes at the grease pit, but she says it's party time when he gets home and Mark says
Hell fucking yeah
, and she throws herself into his arms and she kisses his cheek and says she is
So, SO proud of him
. Because she loves him so much and thinks he's such a genius and her heart breaks so often when she thinks about him scraping away at his art and never getting anywhere—
Scraping away at it, Jollie, SCRAPING AWAY—
and she shakes her head and stays in the moment, and it's such a joyous moment, and she loves Mark and she loves her life, and just today she talked to Peanut Williams and Peanut said to her that the website is getting more than three million hits a week, and soon the number will be even greater and the fat cats will have to deal with us face to face because everything is changing and the bloggers are real money now, us dangerous dudes who have our ears to the ground—
ears, Jollie, our EARS TO THE GROUND
—and she winces again, and she smells blood and senses something horrible happening, but she has to stay in the memory, because this is an important memory—
has to stay here stay here STAY HERE—
and Mark says they both have so much to celebrate and he thinks there's still a bottle of champagne in the pantry. And she says
Hell yeah, go get that shit
, and he runs to the rear of the house, down the long hallway—
the corridor of love and freedom, corridor of betrayal and DEATH
—and she smiles after him and yells
H
oly shit yes, baby
, and Mark is clunking around in the kitchen and she smiles again and—AND—she sees the open letter from Eibon Press on the coffee table and it's lit up in the dull cheap glow of their old-school Zenith TV set.
The letter glows because it's important,
she thinks. She picks it up and reads it. It says
Congratulations, Mark, we love your book and want to publish it
. And she notices that the letter was sitting on a pile of other mail from the box just outside the front door, and on top of the pile is a thin envelope from something called Southside Storage—
and
yes, that's it, Andy, I've figured it out, just hang in there don't hurt him DON'T HURT HIM
—and the address is just off Ben White, near the I-35 freeway intersection, where Ben White becomes Highway 71 and stretches all the way to Columbus, then Houston, where she was born—
and this is strange, because none of them have anything in storage, do they?
And she memorizes the address because that's what Jollie
does
—she memorizes names and dates and faces and numbers. And then she sets the envelope down and never thinks about it again, even after Mark comes back to the living room and swipes it up casually and jams it in his back pocket as he pours the champagne. She never thinks about it again. Just junk mail, probably. Doesn't matter at all. Storage. Mark. Andy.
So proud of you, baby
.
Hugs and kisses and love all around—LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH—

• • •

A
nd that's what she says to Darian that finally makes him stop.

The address of Mark's secret storage facility, where the package is located.

He asks her for the number of the locker unit, but she doesn't know and he believes her. Says the address will be enough for now. Darian puts down the surgical scraper and smiles. Pulls a thick rubber mask attached to a hose from a compartment under the rack of tools.

“You've done well, Jollie. Sleep now.”

The mask hisses like a snake. The smell of strawberry slime is smothered by a high-pitched needle of cold sweet air up her nose, and she goes under,
calling Mark's name again from the living room, so proud of him, so in love with her life
. . .

• • •

S
till strapped in the chair.

Still facing Darian Stanwell, just beyond a thick black curtain.

Still hearing his voice, just on the other side of forced unconsciousness.

It's time to wrap this up
. You've given me exactly what I've asked for and I thank you. But that also means you are no longer of any use to us. And neither is your friend. I won't make you watch his death, however.
You've earned that. You'll go first, and you won't feel that either. I'll make it quick and painless. You've earned that as well. I'm sorry that I lied to you, Jollie. But you're just too dangerous.

She smells the scalpel, coming in close. Clean, hard-edged metal, razor sharp.

It comes gently, delicately, to her throat.

It's just past one in the morning, Jollie. Still a perfect time to die.

And she goes away from everything, thinking about Mark.

Thinking about the laughter in their living room.

Thinking that it was all worth it, in the end.

M
ark Jones is standing exactly six inches away from the engine block when it cannonballs through the floor and pulverizes Texarkana Smith.

He's only viscerally aware in the blowback of what's actually happening, because one second earlier, he was locked in the guy's gunsight, about to take a slug to the head, and his own finger was squeezing the trigger. He was pretty sure they were about to zilch each other. But now the whole world reshuffles and blasts through him as a huge invisible wave punches his body in a bitch-slap of hot-electric holy-shit thunder
.

And he's flying
.

He sees the exploding house under his feet and he feels the cold brutal snap of damp whistling wind as it cuts into his face in a diamond spray of glass, and something kicks him sideways in midair and he's suddenly in a bizarre lucid dream where he can push away from the real world and float among the angels.

And then the real world comes up fast.

He feels the cracking impact of the water for a quarter-second just before it knocks him cold.

• • •

W
akes up, floating in an ice cold pool of blood.

He laughs at that, somehow lucid as hell behind it all, even laughing somewhere in the mix, goading himself on, screaming Jollie's name over and over, inside his head. Hearing Dictator Ken's voice, deep and punishing, as he passes out again:

I don't believe in true love . . . and I don't think I trust you anymore . . .

• • •

“T
ake it easy there, son. You're in fairly rough shape.”

The old man has one tooth in his mouth. You can see it in the awful black spot set into the center of a greasy-gray beard. He's wearing a straw hat. He has on overalls and nothing else. Hair all over his body, like a sweater. The rocking chair squeaks back and forth. The man is a giant, with huge arms and a fat stomach. The room around them is featureless, made from old lumber. Looks like a woodshed without anything in it.

Mark does a double take, and finds that it gives him a headache. Rubs his head, which is smeared with mud, half-dry.

He thinks he asks the man where he is.

And it must work, because the old man says: “Looks like you're up the creek, son.”

Mark realizes he's cold—very cold.

He sees that there's a woodburning stove in a far corner of the room, but it doesn't seem to be generating much heat. Sees that he's wearing dry clothes—overalls that fit eerily well. No shirt underneath, just like the old man. Something like a wet shirt sleeve has been ripped away to become a tourniquet for something that feels like a very raw slash in his upper-arm meat. Hurts like hell. And there's dried blood all over him too. His blood? Someone else's blood? He tries to ask all these questions at once and the toothless man says something about being up the creek again.

His voice sounds like a scene out of
Deliverance
.

• • •

T
he conversation that happens next is like a series of sound bites that make an impression, but don't really stick. All he gets is a version of the facts that he can piece together in rough order, and he gets the sense that somehow this man may have saved his life somewhere in the mix, but he also flashes back over swimming in an ice-cold river of blood and almost freezing to death. He checks himself for other wounds and there aren't any more on his body and he thinks that's absurd. He figures that whatever happened back there, he must have been thrown clear, that he swam and clawed his way to safety . . . and then he remembers the bomb in his trunk, and that snaps everything into sharp, sharp focus.

• • •

J
ollie, what happened to you and Andy? Where are you now? How long have I been swimming for my life?

He starts to sit up in the tiny cot, which suddenly smells like someone's hundred-year-old dog. The man in front of him, who looks like that dog, says: “What's your name, son?”

“I don't think I remember.”

“Don't surprise me none. I think y'took a hit to the head back there.”

“Back there? Did you see what happened?”

“No, but I sure as hell
heard it
. Big s'plosion.”

“Yeah, like World War Three.”

“World War Three already happened, son. I was there for it. Think we're on to 'bout World War Four or maybe Five by now.”

“Yeah, I guess . . .”

“If you were in the middle of what went on back there, son, I think yer damn lucky to be alive right now.”

“What am I doing
here
?”

“You
were
freezing to death near the bank of the river. Delirious.”

“You fished me out?”

“I'm of the opinion that when you see a man like that, you ought'a help him, no matter what his name is.”

Mark looks at his new dry overalls like a man sees a new skin.

The man with one tooth sees his sudden shock and smiles. “Don't worry, son. I ain't no redneck pervert. Hadda get ya outta them wet things you were wearing, but it was all business. You were kinda covered in blood too. Thought you was dead for sure. Turned out you just wasn't feeling well.”

“I'm feeling a little better now.”

“And that's a goddamn miracle, son. Not that I much believe in miracles, or God or Jesus or whatever. But, yeah, you was
plenty
lucky back there.”

Mark notices he's got new footgear too. Black boots, half-muddy. They feel a little big, but he's not looking any more gift horses in the mouth. He levers his feet onto the floor, the open bootlaces falling at his ankles.

“How long was I out?”

“A while. It's way past dark now. About half past midnight. You've been in and out, really. You should just take it easy.”

“I can't. Something really bad is happening . . .”

“Figures.”

“I need . . . to know if my friends are okay . . .”

“What you
need to do
is rest some. You ain't all there just yet.”

Mark sighs, and the world jumbles again. Tries to pull his breath in slow. All he can sense when he does that is the death of Jollie and Andy. He focuses, and loses it.
Need a hit of something. Gotta jump-start somehow.

Reaches up and feels the back of his head—and the old man is right. Heavy knot back there. And a cut into his skull that feels pretty deep. It throbs and gives him fits and spurts of sharp ice, then fades and ebbs. Finally, he gives up on paying attention to it and looks at the old man again.

“Thank you. For what you've done. I'm grateful.”

“You don't have to thank me, son. Us men of war gotta look out for each other, right?”

“How'd you know I was a man of war?”

“Shit, any fool coulda figured that out. But when I found ya . . . well, you had the stare going on. You know what that means, son? The stare?”

“Maybe. I dunno.”

“It's the stare you get when yer in a
war
. I know 'bout that because I was in three wars. Not some pussy ones, neither, where you just wait around for something bad to happen and get sent home on the next rotation. Naw, son.”

“What wars were you in?”

“Don't matter none. What matters is that I'm gonna die soon, in peacetime.”

“Sounds like a good way to go.”

“It'll do, until whatever else comes along.”

Mark looks right at him, very seriously. “I had some stuff in my pockets before. Did you see any of it?”

“Sure as hell did. You had a key on a ring, about three thousand dollars in folding cash, and some diamonds. Them things real?”

“Yes. One hundred percent real.”

Mark almost laughs, thinking about fruit juice. Crushes the laughter quickly, looking away from the toothless man, who stands up and fishes in a pocket, bringing out a slab of black plastic. Comes over with it, handing the thing to Mark, who almost doesn't recognize what it is. He's still having trouble focusing every third second.

“You had this in yer pocket too. I think it still works. Waterproof and all.”

Mark takes it and turns it over in his hand.

The toothless man squints at him. “It's one'a them smartphone things, right?”

“Right.”

“You had a gun too. Had it in your hand, when I found you. You's holdin' onto the damn thing like grim death. I think I'll keep that sucker for now. You know, till we get to know each other better.”

“Fair enough. I had some white powder in a watertight plastic bag too. Did you see that?”

“You mean the cocaine?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Flushed it down the toilet, boy. Sorry.”

“That was worth six hundred dollars . . .”

“In my world it ain't worth shit. Unless y'count the trouble it brings. Now I ain't askin' any questions about diamonds and dope in a stranger's pocket when they wash up on the side of the river—and the way I look at it, you should be damn grateful.”

Flushed it all. Goddamn.

He'll have to do this the hard way. Sober.

He's already getting the shakes.

Fuck.

“I'm grateful,” Mark says. “I'm very grateful for your help.”

He looks at the old man, who looks back at him seriously.

“So, son . . . you got somewhere you need to be?”

• • •

F
ast-forward. It all happens really quickly as the new rush of stone-sober panic drag races in his system. It's a rush that he's not used to—something hard and nasty and mixed with the high wine of tinnitus still haunting his head from the blast. But he powers through. He's explaining that he needs a ride into Austin and the old man balks at first, saying something about how that place is a shithole he don't even pretend to understand and wants nothing to do with, but he backs off a little when Mark offers him a thousand dollars cash money for the ride, and as a matter of fact, let's make it the whole three thousand, and the old man whistles loudly and says something about shit creek again and how the paddle is only as long as the cash we have on hand to pay for it, and Mark is cinching the laces on his new boots tight and standing up for the first time and he's dizzy at first, the panic still riding hard in his bloodstream, but pretty soon the two men are marching out of the empty woodshed and the smartphone is hot in Mark's sweaty hand and he thinks he might see the rickety front porch of something that looks like the cabin in the
Evil Dead
films—and, yeah,
The
Cabin in the Woods
too—but he doesn't think that's important at all, and the old man yells at him to climb in the front cab of a flatbed truck that looks like a rusty bullet with headlights . . .

And his mind snaps back over all the possibilities.

He sees Andy and Jollie, together in the basement. He knows they could have survived easily, in a hole that far down. And if they survived, they are in the hands of the enemy—because that's what happened back there for sure. They were attacked and defeated by the enemy. And the enemy has to be the Monster Squad. And he has to be ready for them.

All this is confirmed when he powers up the smartphone and talks to the robots in outer space and those robots tell him exactly where Jollie is.

Or someone pretending to be Jollie.

That's a very real possibility.

His friends could be dead and this could be a trap.

He thinks about dialing the number of the phone sending him the GPS signal, but that's a bad idea too. That'll lead
whoever
right to him. Maybe.

And that leaves just one unanswered question. He'd almost forgotten what it was. The question is the name of a man.

Dictator Ken.

• • •

H
e sees that moment in the office, just before the world became a thunderstorm of gunfire . . . and he sees Ken's mouth moving, making sounds he can hardly comprehend. He sees Ken's terrible eyes—all full of secrets only a dictator would know. Things that made him rebel against the company to have a wife. Things that made Ken's heart die, when those bastards killed his one true love. Real terror, in a frozen instant, telegraphing the awful truth about everything.

Mark searches for the words Ken might've said.

Still gets only fragments.

His mind powers through, needing the boost.

• • •

H
e stands in front of the truck and the old man counts his money. Then the guy jams the wad in his pocket and goes into the cab and yanks something that looks like a jacket from behind the seat. Throws it at Mark.

“Put that on, son. The night's gettin' cold and you ain't got much on.”

It's a thin Windbreaker with a wooly collar for lining, but at least it's something. Mark notices the old man is wearing something that looks just like it. Mark slides the thin thing over his arms and suddenly realizes how cold he is.

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem, son. Get in. Time's a-wasting.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Prolly not. But what the hell, right? And you just bought yourself a ride into town. You wanna cash it in or not?”

“You got a name, old-timer?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna tell me what it is?”

“No.”

“Why's that?”

The old-timer gives him a look like
Are you fuckin' kidding me
?

Mark looks at the phone again. Checks the location of the sister smartphone he gave to Jollie. It'll take at least two hours to get there. But first things first.

It's just past one in the morning.

A perfect time to die.

• • •

M
ore wise men. This time, just two of them.