The Brotherhood of the Wheel (25 page)

“Did the cops know they were into weird shit?” Heck said, his eyes fixed on the phone screen. “All kinds of texts about occult shit, and the browser history is full of weird-ass websites. What the fuck are BEKs?”

Jimmie and Turla looked at each other and shrugged.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Turla said. “A gang, maybe?”

“These kids were all over it, whatever it is—especially Karen, here,” Heck said. “She was researching it. There's a text conversation between her, Mark, and one of the other missing kids, Stephanie, about some YouTube videos they had seen about BEKs. Here's another message where Karen is telling the other missing kids she thinks she saw BEKs across the street from her house. This was dated two days before they disappeared.”

“There's nothing in the report about any of that,” Jimmie said. “Some notes about checking her phone and messages, but nothing about BEKs, whatever the hell that is, or her being stalked.”

“Yeah, more first-rate police work,” Heck said, reading the texts and ignoring Turla's sour look. “Her friends pretty much talk her down. Let me see if I can get Internet on this.”

Jimmie flipped to the photos of the car and the mall lot. “They search the area around the mall?” he asked. “From the sounds of this report, it was two detectives and about six uniforms and the CSI boys.”

Turla nodded. He rose to get more coffee, and refilled Jimmie's and Heck's cups after his own. “They did a search the following day, when the car was found—it's mostly malls and more shops all around there—pretty built-up over there. They searched the lots, the surrounding alleys, and the mall dumpsters. Nothing.”

“Well, shit,” Heck said, scanning the cell phone's screen. “No wonder the cops didn't give this BEK stuff a second glance. It's about Black-Eyed Kids. Real Bloody Mary, scary-sleep-over-story bullshit. Urban myth.” Heck looked to Jimmie. Aussapile lowered the file.

“Just like Vanishing Hitchhikers,” Jimmie said.

 

TEN

“10-35”

The bag came off Lexi's head. She blinked at the feeble light straining through the filthy windows far above her. She was in a large corrugated-tin building, like a garage. The air was greasy with the smell of engine oil. She looked to her left and saw Cole, an ugly bruise on his forehead, and his lip swollen and split. Cole was blinking as well, having just had his feedbag hood removed after hers by one of the Scode brothers, Toby, the younger one. Toby's eyes wandered over Lexi's body, lingering on her legs and breasts before he finally arrived at her face. He smiled at her.

Lexi's black goth eye makeup was smeared from tears of fear and panic. She wanted to cover herself, but her hands were firmly bound behind her back at the wrists and upper arms by coarse rope. She could see that Cole was bound as well. He looked exhausted and frightened. Lexi had already screamed herself hoarse in the past few days. Was it just days? Time had already become slippery and hard to judge. Some cold, mercenary survival instinct came to her, and she knew in her bones, with every cell of her being, that she might die here soon, on the dirt floor of this metal shell. She heard dogs barking, snarling outside, and she looked up into Toby's bland face and smiled back as brightly as she could.
Pretend you don't want to throw up on him. Pretend he's a fucking rock star. It might help you and Cole get the hell out of here. He wants you, use it to survive.

“You're gonna get to meet him,” Toby said to her, his eyes dropping back to her chest. Lexi wanted to kick his rotten, yellow teeth in, but she needed any edge she had to live through this, and right now if looking at her boobs distracted him from noticing that she was trying to loosen her ropes, then keep looking, you hillbilly perv.

“Who?” Cole asked. “Who are we meeting? Your boss?” The answer came in the form of a steel-toed work boot driven into his side by Wald.

“Shut up,” Wald said almost absently. “You don't understand a damn thing. Shut your hole, boy.” Wald slapped his younger brother hard in the face and then jammed a thick, dirty finger at Toby as well. “And, you, stop gobbin' at the mouthy bitch's tits. You want him to find you derelict in your duties?”

Toby paled visibly. “No … no, Wald. I've been good. I do what he says, what you say. I say my prayers and do the sacrifices and everything.”

“Come on,” Wald said. “Let's get the others down.”

Lexi looked at Cole as the Scodes walked away. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

Cole nodded, still wincing from Wald's kick. “Yeah,” he said as he tested his ropes. “That hurt like hell, but I'm getting used to it. Evil old bastard. You okay?”

“This can't be real,” she said. “Those shadow things? What … what happened to Alana and Gerry? Could they have dosed us with something when were asleep in the truck? Acid? Molly? I mean, this can't be real, can it?”

Cole was beyond tired. He heard the ragged desperation in Lexi's voice. He knew from Alana and Ava that Lexi had spent time in a mental hospital for cutting and depression. He knew she was hanging on to her self-control by her fingernails. He tried to summon up his father, his dad's relentless strength that had long ago become his avatar for what a man should be, how he should be. He tried to be brave and strong one more time.

“Maybe,” he said softly, watching the Scodes as they wrestled with a series of heavy rusted chains anchored to the wall of the building on hooks. It was the kind of rig you'd use to hoist a car engine. “It's possible. Could be we were tripping, and that was just guys in dark clothing murdering our friends and trying to kill us.”

“Maybe they didn't kill them,” Lexi said. “Maybe that was a hallucination. Maybe we got to the party and someone gave us really, really bad shit and we're still tripping.”

“Lexi,” Cole said. He saw the tears forming in her dark eyes.

The Scodes grunted as they lowered a weight on the chains to the dirt floor. Two men—one fat and tall, the other toothpick-skinny and short—thudded to the ground. Both were covered in filth, smelling of blood, piss, and shit. They had feedbags over their heads as well. Their wrists were handcuffed, and they had been hung on winch hooks up near the rusted girders at the roof of the building. They both groaned as they hit the floor, but neither moved. Wald kicked them the way he had kicked Cole—first the fat one, then the skinny one.

“Get your worthless asses up,” Wald rumbled.

“My legs,” the muffled voice of the big guy said from under the hood. “They're numb, man. You've had us hanging up there for days … please.”

Wald kicked him again. The hooded man screamed in pain and fear and managed to get on all fours. His smaller companion was equally unbalanced. Toby pulled the skinny man to his feet. Cole looked at Lexi. She shook her head. When both men were standing, Toby tore off their hoods. The big guy had dark curly hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a RUSH concert T-shirt and had a goatee and a mustache; he squinted as if he needed glasses to see. The little guy had straight, greasy blond hair that fell to the base of his neck. He had a few days of scraggly growth on his face and wore a faded Slipknot T-shirt.

“Look, man, whatever you think we did, I swear we didn't—” The small guy was interrupted by Wald's punch to his jaw. The skinny guy spit blood and staggered backward but stayed on his feet. “Fuck, man!” he said, rubbing his jaw.

The big guy staggered over to his companion and helped steady him. He jabbed a finger at Wald. “Leave him the fuck alone,” the big guy said. “He has no clue why he's here, asshole. Your fucking little monsters just grabbed him, too, because he was hanging out at my place.”

“And you think you know so much,” Wald said. “The only reason either of you is breathing is because he wills it. He has need of you, you bloated, whiny tick. He doesn't need your chum. Mind your tongue or I'll hang him back up and use the blowtorch on the soles of his feet.”

Wald gestured for the two men to move over to where Lexi and Cole were sitting. “Sit down and shut up,” he said. “He'll be here soon.”

The prisoners looked at one another. The large man nodded. “I'm Dewy,” he said, nodding to Cole and Lexi. “Dewey Rears. This is my friend Mark Stolar.”

“Hey,” Mark said.

“Cole Wagner,” Cole said. “This is Lexi Froller. We're students at the University of Kansas, Salina.”

“Salina? Kansas?” Mark said, his voice cracking. “Holy shit, Dewey, how the hell did they get us all the way to Kansas in just a few minutes?”

“Teleportation is the most reasonable solution,” Rears said. “They possess all kinds of paranormal abilities. How do you think they appear and disappear the way they do in so many of the eyewitness accounts? I'm just glad we're still in the solar system.”

“Shit, Dewey,” Mark said, fighting to keep his voice down, “these inbred motherfuckers are going to kill us, man! This isn't fucking
Scooby-Doo!
We have got to get out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” Lexi said to Dewey. “Where did you think you were?”

“We're from Tallulah, Louisiana,” Rears said. “We were abducted from our apartment by creatures, things that looked like children. I've been researching them for a book I was writing.”

“Creatures?” Cole said, lowering his voice. The Scodes were standing near the closed large twin doors, smoking. Occasionally, Wald would cast a hate-filled glance in the direction of the prisoners. “You mean those shadow people? They killed some of our friends.”

“Shadow people? No,” Dewey said. “BEKs—I think the Black-Eyed Kids are some larval form of the shadow people. Allows them more access to the physical world or something.…”

“Jesus,” Mark said. “We need to figure out how to get out of here, not discuss this bullshit.”

“Kids?” Cole said. “Like, children?”

“He's right,” Lexi said, the terror beginning to slip back into her voice. “We can talk about what the fuck these things are after we're safe! Please, Cole!”

“Black-Eyed Children,” Dewey said. “They're agents, conduits. It works through them, somehow. Whatever it is, it's something far, far more terrible.”

There was the growl of a powerful engine approaching and the hiss of shifting gravel outside, then pounding at the double doors.

“Shit!” Mark said.

Wald and Toby dropped their hand-rolled cigarettes and scrambled to unbar and open the large doors. The day was overcast, but the light still made the prisoners squint and turn their heads. The Scode brothers bowed their heads. Cole and Lexi recognized the figure at once from the day of the wreck, the day this nightmare began. It was the motorcycle rider, clad in black leather, straddling his rumbling antique bike, his features hidden behind the black mirror of his helmet visor.

“Lord,” Wald said. It was the first time Cole or Lexi had heard any tone in the old bastard's voice but hatred and anger. Now he sounded respectful and afraid. “The prisoners, as you commanded. Thy will be done.”

The rider advanced the bike into the building slowly, and once he was in Wald and Toby closed the doors and secured them again. The rider flipped down his stand and rested the motorcycle on it, then shut off the engine. He climbed off the bike, pulling his helmet off as he did.

“Yes,” the biker said, his voice frost on slate. “You have served me well, Walden and Tobias, sons of Scode, as you always have.” The biker's face was plain—not handsome, or unpleasant, the kind of features that are instantly forgettable. His short dark hair was slicked back from his forehead, oiled, and parted neatly down the center. His eyes were the most striking—brown, with an intensity, a terrible will, behind them. The rider's stare made Lexi feel that he was looking into her mind, her soul, X-raying every part of her. He did not blink. He was tall, average in build. It was hard to get a fix on his age. His physique and skin said that he was in his early thirties, his burning eyes contained a force far, far older.

The rider handed his helmet to Toby, who took it, still averting his eyes, and moved to stand before the prisoners. His burning eyes locked on Lexi, and she felt her mind shiver and grow still. It was hard to think, to see anything past the dark wells of his regard. Tiny black threads of vein radiated from the edges of his iris, across the milky sclera. His gaze shifted to the big man, Dewey Rears, and Lexi was free from the spell.

“Mr. Rears,” the rider said. “You will perform a service for me. Rise.” Dewey struggled to his feet. He looked at the rider but seemed able to shake off his cobra-like gaze.

“Who are you?” Dewey said. “You were outside my apartment when the Black-Eyed Children grabbed us in Louisiana.” Wald began to strike Dewey, but the rider stilled him with a raised hand. The rider stepped closer to Dewey, and the journalist began to glisten with sweat, despite the chill of the air.

“The name I was born with was Emile Chasseur,” the rider said. “I was born in a shack not far from here, in Four Houses, long before you or even your whore mother was born.”

“Hey!” Dewey said, his face reddening. “Fuck you! Talking shit about my—” The rider nodded, and Wald drove a hard fist into Dewey's gut. The man gasped in pain and staggered backward but stayed on his feet. The rider grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face up, close to his own.

“That is no longer my true name,” he continued. “I was given another name, a greater name, by him whom I serve, him who dwells within me. A title. If you interrupt me again, I will rip your tongue out and feed it to my dogs.”

Dewey nodded and painfully straightened himself as the rider released his mane. The rider moved to Mark, looking at the frightened man, who would not meet his gaze, as he addressed Wald.

“They had mobile phones on them, correct?” the rider asked. “Even the most common of human trash possess them in this era, yes?”