The Cage (7 page)

“I’m thinking that I know what it is,” Roy said softly. “And the reason I know what it is, is because I’m an old man. You kids wouldn’t know anything about this.”

Scott joined them at the side of the cage. “So what is it then?”

“Any of you ever listen to anything on vinyl?”

Jeff, Jared, and Scott all shook their heads.

“Jesus Christ. None of your parents had record albums?”

“Mine did,” Jeff said. “Billy Idol. Duran Duran. Quiet Riot. A few others that I can’t remember. But they didn’t have a turntable to play them on.”

“Mine had some, too,” Jared said. “I think they sold them at a yard sale when I was a kid, though.”

“That sound you hear,” Roy said, nodding at the closed door leading into the store, “is the sound at the end of a record album. When the needle reaches the end, if the record isn’t scratched, and the turntable doesn’t have an automatic return feature on the arm, the record just keeps spinning round and round, and the needle stays stuck in the very last groove. That’s the sound it makes. Sort of a crackly, quiet sound.”

The three of them glanced at the door and then back at Roy.

“So he’s playing records?” Scott asked. “That makes about as much sense as Jared’s theory.”

“I’m not saying that it’s supposed to make sense,” Roy countered. “Nothing the man has done tonight makes sense. Shooting people until you get down to six survivors doesn’t make sense. Locking everyone in a cage doesn’t make sense. But that’s what he did. And I’m telling you, that noise we’re hearing is the sound at the end of a record.”

“If that’s so,” Jeff whispered, “then what the hell does it mean?”

Shrugging, Roy sat down with his back against the mesh.
“That
I couldn’t tell you. It means he’s crazy, I guess. But we knew that already.”

Jeff slid down next to him. Scott began to pace again. Jared remained standing, still listening to the strange noise. He didn’t sit down again until the ventilation system came back on, drowning out the sound. Jared’s stomach growled, loud enough that Jeff could hear it over the rumbling air ducts.

“Sorry,” he apologized. The tips of his ears turned red. “I’m hungry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jeff told him. “I’m fucking starved. I’d kill for some pizza from Jim and Nena’s right about now.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t say Olive Garden,” Scott said. “Doesn’t what’s her face still work there?”

“Michelle?” Jeff shrugged. “Yeah, I think so. I haven’t talked to her in months, though.”

“That’s a shame,” Roy said. “I liked her.”

Scott nodded. “Me, too. I miss her.”

Jeff rolled his eyes and groaned. “The only thing you guys miss is the free take-out she used to bring us when we were dating.”

“True,” Roy laughed. “But it’s not every day that one of your co-workers is dating the manager of an Olive Garden. Opportunities like that—and food like that—don’t come along too often in life.”

“Seriously, though,” Scott said. “Why did you guys break up? You never did tell us.”

Jeff shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know. She was really nice. Beautiful. Great in bed. But I just didn’t feel about her the way I did about April.”

Scott and Roy nodded. Jared said nothing.

“You talk to April lately?” Scott asked.

“No. But you better believe the first thing I’m going to do when we get out of here is give her a call.”

“That’s a good idea,” Roy said. “You guys won’t understand until you’re my age, but it all goes so fast.”

“What does?” asked Jeff.

“Life. One day you’re twenty-five and you’ve got life by the balls. The next, you wake up and your balls are hanging down by your knees and your bones creak and your hair is gone—or gray. Your kids don’t know you, your wife barely tolerates you. You’re a stranger in your own house. And a stranger in the mirror, too. And when that happens, you look back on the last few decades and wonder where they went.”

None of them responded. In truth, they weren’t sure what to say.

“Call her,” Roy whispered, his voice thick with urgency and emotion. “If you love her, when we get out of here, call her and let her know, Jeff. Life is too short to dick around. Trust me on this.”

Jeff nodded thoughtfully. “I will.”

“At least you all have somebody,” Jared muttered. “I mean, even if you aren’t together, at least you’ve got memories to look back on and stuff.”

“Surely you have an ex?” Roy asked.

Jared shook his head. “No. There’s nobody. There never has been. I’ve always wanted—”

The door swung open, slamming into the wall behind it and booming across the warehouse. The strange sound grew louder, but still, none of them could identify it. The killer strode in. His shoes tapped loudly on the concrete as he quickly approached the cage. Once again, Jeff noticed that he was still armed only with the pistol. The machete and the shotgun were missing. Jeff noticed something else as the gunman inserted the key into the lock. There was blood on his knuckles and in the webbing between his fingers. It glistened in the fluorescent lights.

Scott whispered. His voice was so low that Jeff had to strain to hear him.

“Fuck around quotient zero.”

Jeff tensed. His hands curled into fists.

The intruder slipped the lock off and opened the door. His other hand clutched the pistol, which he leveled at them. His expression was stoic. He glanced at each of them, and then his gaze finally settled on Jared.

“You. What’s your name?”

“J-Jared.” His voice was so soft that Jeff had trouble hearing him.

“Okay, Jared. It’s your turn. I need you to come with me.”

Jared took three steps backward. “My turn? What do you mean? What are you doing out there? Where are Carlos and Clint?”

“They’re in the store. I’ll show you.”

Jared skittered further backward. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Okay.” The man raised the pistol and pointed it at Jared’s head. “Suit yourself.”

His finger flexed on the trigger in an almost loving caress. Jared flung his hands up over his face and shrieked. The intruder strode into the cage and reached for him. At the same time, Scott lunged forward, grabbing for the gun.

“Motherfucker,” Scott shouted. “We’ve had it with your shit!”

The man in black side-stepped the attack, lowered the pistol, and squeezed the trigger. The explosion was deafening. Smoke filled the cage. Jeff and Roy darted to the rear wall as Scott collapsed, screaming. The killer seized Scott’s hair in his fist and yanked hard. Scott wailed louder. Jeff turned around long enough to see blood jetting from a hole in Scott’s pants. He’d been shot in the knee.

Without a word, the gunman dragged Scott through the door and out of the cage. Yelling at the others to help him, Scott grasped at the concrete floor. Jeff leaped forward, shouting his name, but halted as the killer raised the pistol and pointed it at him. Roy stood at Jeff’s side, visibly shaking. Jared had collapsed in the corner, his face hidden in his hands. His sobs were almost as loud as Scott’s shrieks.

“Scott…” Jeff’s voice was hoarse.

“Stay there,” the man in black said. He slammed Scott’s head onto the floor and placed one black-booted foot on Scott’s shoulder blades. Then he swung the door shut and locked the cage again. Scott groaned. Blood leaked from the gunshot in his knee and pooled on the floor. The intruder grabbed Scott’s hair again and jerked his head up. Then, keeping the gun trained on the injured man, he let go of his hair and seized his foot instead. Grunting, he began to drag Scott across the warehouse. Screaming and fighting, Scott scrabbled for a grip on the concrete. His fingernails caught in a crack, and he held on. Spit frothed on his lips. His eyes rolled.

“No,” he cried. “No, no, no, no, no…Amanda!
AMANDA!”

The intruder tugged harder, and Scott’s fingernails peeled away like the skin of a grape. He wailed as he was dragged across the warehouse. His bleeding fingers and knee left red trails in their wake.

“Scott,” Jeff hollered. “Bring him back, you fuck! Leave him alone. Scott? Fight him, Scott. Don’t let him take you!”

Scott responded to his friend’s cries with another shriek. Then the man in black dragged him through the door and it slammed shut behind them, muffling his screams. They heard a great commotion from the other side of the door. Then Scott was silenced in mid-cry. In the aftermath of the sudden violence, his silence somehow seemed much worse.

“Jesus,” Roy panted. His face was ashen and covered in sweat. Clutching his chest, he slid down the wall and sank to the floor. “Oh my sweet Jesus.”

Jared wept—great, wracking sobs that seemed to explode from his chest.

Jeff wrapped his fingers around the chain links, shook the wire mesh, and shouted until his throat was raw and his voice was hoarse.

And beneath it all, the strange noise continued, and when it grew louder, they barely noticed.

“We’re fucked,” Jeff moaned. “We are absolutely one hundred and ten percent fucked. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. There’s no ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card. We’re just…
fucked
.”

“Stop saying that,” Jared wailed. “Just stop it! I don’t want to hear it anymore. You’re just making things worse.”

“Well that’s too damned bad, Jared. If you want to hold hands and sing Kumba-fucking-ya, then be my guest. But leave me the hell out of it.”

Five, maybe ten minutes had passed since Scott’s abduction. Jeff had no way of knowing for sure, but it didn’t seem like any longer than that. Scott’s bloodstains were still fresh—not yet dried and brown.

“Both of you knock it off,” Roy wheezed. He sat with his back against the wall, his collar unbuttoned and his tie hanging loose. His sleeves were rolled up and his shirttail hung out loosely over his hips. Roy’s expression had gone from pale to alabaster, and the sweat on his face had increased to the point where his skin shone like he was lathered in cooking oil. Big droplets of perspiration rolled down his cheeks and the back of his neck. His breathing came in short gasps, and he kept flexing the fingers on his left hand.

“Are you okay?” Jared asked him. A thin layer of snot coated Jared’s upper lip. Jared didn’t seem to notice.

“No, I’m most definitely not okay. Do I look okay to you?”

“No. That’s why I asked.”

“I’m having chest pains. And you’ve got snot on your lip.”

Jared wiped his lip with his shirt sleeve.

“Is it a heart attack?” Jeff asked.

Roy shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. It could be angina. It could just be gas or stress, or maybe a pulled muscle. Or it could be the big one. All I know is that it hurts like a son of a bitch and I can’t breathe. It feels like somebody is squeezing my chest. And I’m tired. God, I’m tired.”