Apocalypticon (39 page)

“Looks like they’re pretty well out,” he whispered. “If we’re quiet, we might be able to grab the gear and slip out unnoticed.”

“The unseeing eye sees all,” Dylan warned, sucking down a long drag of ash. “It sees you. It sees the traitorous moon. It sees the
lava
.”

“Okay, so you stay out here in the hall,” Patrick said, patting Dylan’s shoulder.

“You
all
stay out here in the hall,” Annie whispered. “I’ll get the bags.” She turned and took a step back to the apartment, but Ben grabbed her shoulder.

“Are you serious? You’re like a feral cat in a trash can. I’ll go, I’m stealthier.”

“It’s true,” Patrick agreed, “his shaved head makes him built for speed. All he needs to make a clean getaway is a good hand with a whip covering his six.” He unfurled the whip and flailed it around the hall. The thong slapped against a rusty sconce holding on by its last screw. The battered piece of metal went clanging to the ground.

There was a low “
Ffffth!”
as every single member of the group drew in a sharp breath. They held it and waited for the sound of stirrings from the apartment down the hall. But there was nothing but silence.

“Maybe you should stay here too,” James whispered.

Patrick nodded. “That’s probably best.”

“Ben, I’ve got your back.” James gripped his mallet and gave it a few practice swings.

Ben gave him a curt nod. “Let’s go.”

The two men crept lightly down the hall. Spiver’s candles glowed dimly in the apartment at the end of the tunnel, guiding them through the darkness. “How dangerous are these guys? Like, when they’re awake?” Ben whispered.

“Dangerous enough. Spiver alone’s probably got five or six notches in his belt, and he’s the tame one.”

“And by notches in his belt, you mean...?”

James grinned. “Let’s just say, he probably won’t leave you alive a second time.”

The men were still snoring away when they slipped back into the room. Ben held the crossbow to his shoulder and wished he’d taken a few practice shots out in the street. Preferably at that Annie girl. She was the worst.

James tapped him on the arm and brought his lips close to Ben’s ear. “You get the bags. I’ll watch out.” Ben nodded. He snuck forward, avoiding broken glass and plaster where he could see it through the gloom. He shuffled carefully past the free-standing kitchen island, where he saw a half-empty bottle of his vodka. A low heat burned in his cheeks. It was one thing to bash someone over the head and leave him bleeding on the sidewalk. It was another thing entirely to drink another man’s booze.
This aggression will not stand
.

Spiver and company were in the adjoining living room. One man slept on the couch near the window; Spiver and the other two men lay on the floor, forming a low, grumbling wall between Ben and his bags. One of the sleeping men grunted and shifted, rolling over and slapping his palm onto the floor just inches from Ben’s foot. Ben looked doubtfully at the crossbow. Upon further reflection, it probably wasn’t the world’s best close-range weapon. He slipped the bolt out of its groove and set the crossbow on the countertop. He gripped the arrow tightly in his fist, holding it like a knife, pointy end down and ready to stab something.

He tiptoed over the closest man’s hand and skirted around the prostrate Spiver. He crunched lightly over the rubble, wincing with every step. The low-burning candles threw wavering shadows across the floor and up the walls, and every time he took a step, Ben was sure someone was stirring. He held his breath and reached for the first backpack. The food shifted inside as he lifted it, and Ben gritted his teeth as the cans
clacked
against each other. The man on the couch snorted and rolled over. He tumbled off the couch and crashed to the floor. He yelped in surprise, punched the ground drowsily with his fist, and mumbled nonsense at it. Then he picked himself up, threw himself back up onto the couch, and settled back into sleep. Ben exhaled. He slid his arms through the nylon straps and pulled the backpack in tight against his shoulders.

He reached for the second bag. It was unzipped, and the weapons inside stuck out of the top like an apocalyptic cornucopia. As he lifted the bag by the nylon loop at the top, the zipper fell open farther, and the pipe wrench tipped out. Ben shot out his other hand, dropped the arrow, and caught the wrench just six inches from the floor. He turned toward James and thrust the wrench into the air.
Did you see that
? he mouthed, even though there was no way James could see his face in the dim light.
I am Bruce fucking Lee
.

James waved him back with his hand.
Hurry up
. Ben tucked the pipe into the bag and picked up the arrow. He grabbed the front flap of the backpack and cinched it closed with his hand. There were a few random supplies lying around the room--some food, a couple bottles of liquor, the machete--but he figured he’d come back for them. Or just leave them there and not risk his life again. Either one.

He turned back and stepped between Spiver and another member of the gang. Spiver shifted in his sleep, and Ben had to change direction mid-step to avoid coming down on the outlaw’s ribs. He hopped forward, and his foot came down hard on a discarded shot glass. It shattered under his shoe. Ben gasped as the tinkling of breaking glass echoed off the walls.

Then, all hell broke loose.

A new form, one they hadn’t seen in the darkness, leapt up from behind the couch, mumbling and grunting. He pitched forward, toward the front hall, but he slipped on plaster dust and went crashing into the wall, shoulder-first. He let loose a low growl of surprise and pain, wheeled away from the wall, and tripped over the arm of the couch. He went sprawling to the floor, crashing into Spiver. Spiver cried out in pain and flailed out with his hands and legs, scrabbling to push the other man off him. His fist caught Ben in the shin just as he was hurrying past. It was enough to push him off balance and send him stumbling over the man sleeping against the wall. Ben’s heel came down on the man’s hand. He awoke with a scream and lunged forward, driving his shoulder into Ben’s hip and pushing him back over Spiver and the other man wrestling on the floor.

“Get in here!” James screamed over his shoulder. “
Now
!” He ran at the nearest gang member, the one who’d rolled close to the kitchen. He was just sitting up, groggy and confused, when James brought the rubber mallet crashing down on his head. There was a soft
crunch
as a piece of his skull snapped off and caved in. He crumpled back to the floor.

Ben dropped the bag he was holding, and weapons splayed across the floor. He rolled off Spiver, but the man on the couch leapt from the cushions and tackled Ben into the floor, hard. He beat down on the back of Ben’s head with huge fists, smashing his face down into the concrete floor with each blow. Ben turned the arrow over in his hand and stabbed wildly back over his head. It caught the man in the shoulder, sinking deep into his flesh. The man howled and backed away, scrabbling furiously at the arrow.

Patrick burst through the doorway, yelling and flailing the whip. He dove into the man with the arrow sticking out of his shoulder, but bounced off him like a raindrop off a windshield. He fell into a heap near the couch, where Spiver and the other man grappled and rolled over on top of him.

The other man, the one whose hand Ben had stepped on, dove forward and grabbed the hammer that had spilled out of the backpack. He swung it at Annie, who had run into the room with her pipe held high. She dodged back, but the hammer caught her right hand, and she cried out in pain as the pipe went clattering to the floor. The man shoved her, hard, and she slammed back into the wall. James darted forward and swung the rubber mallet, but the man turned just in time, and the mallet glanced off his meaty upper arm. The man jabbed the hammer into James’ stomach. James doubled over, and the man drove his knee into James’ forehead. He went down hard.

Spiver and the man from behind the couch were still grappling on the floor. Spiver planted his feet against the man’s chest and launched him backward. He crashed into Patrick, who was just getting back to his feet. Spiver leapt up and drew a knife from his boot. He lunged at Annie, swiping at her with the blade. She danced away from it, whirling just out of reach as Spiver hacked at the air. “I’ve been waiting for you and your band of misdicks,” he snarled.

“What the hell’s a misdick?” Annie said. She jogged to the left as Spiver sliced from the right and collided with the man with the arrow in his shoulder. Spiver plunged forward with the knife, and Annie ducked to the floor. Spiver’s blade buried itself deep into the chest of the other man.

“Well, shit,” the man muttered in surprise, staring down at the blood spurting out of his chest. Then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell over dead.

“You
bitch
!” Spiver snarled, yanking the knife out of the man’s chest.

“Hey, you’re the one who did it,” Annie said, scrabbling on the floor for something to hit somebody with. Her hand closed on the pipe wrench, and she whirled around, aiming for Spiver, but hitting Ben instead, who had just pulled himself back to his feet.

The gangster with the crushed hand had wrestled the man from behind the couch off Patrick and was holding him firmly by his hands, which appeared to be tied behind his back. The bound man snarled and spat angrily, but his words were muffled by a dirty piece of cloth that had been tied around his mouth. The man holding him opened his mouth to speak when the prisoner threw his head back, right into his captor’s face. The man’s nose broke with a wet
snap
. He let go of the prisoner and covered his bleeding face with both hands. “You motherfucker!” he shrieked. James climbed unsteadily to his feet and stumbled over to him. He brought the mallet down against the man’s temple. He crashed over onto his side, spitting and cursing. James finished him off with a few hard swings of the mallet.

“Drop your goddamn weapons!” Spiver screamed. Everyone looked up. The little mobster held the prisoner, his knife pressed tightly against the man’s neck. “Put ‘em down, or I open his throat.”

Patrick frowned up at the prisoner. “Who on earth is that?” he asked.

“It’s Amsalu,” James replied. “He’s one of us.”

The dark-skinned man struggled against his bonds, and Spiver pulled the blade closer against his throat. “Put ‘em down.
Now
,” he demanded. James slowly set his mallet on the floor. Annie cursed and tossed down the wrench. Patrick briefly considered using his whip to catch Spiver’s wrist and fling the knife away, but decided that move was perhaps a little advanced, given how dark it was in the room and all. So he tossed the whip aside. It landed on the prostrate Ben.

“Hey,” Ben said weakly.

“Sorry.”

“One step, and I’ll slice him open,” Spiver snarled.

“No one’s stepping anywhere,” James said, raising his hands into the air. “Just let him go, Spiver. You let him go, and we’ll let you go.”

The little man spat laughter back at them. “Sure, sure, sure.” He tightened his grip on Amsalu’s bonds and pulled him backward, knife still poised to slice at his throat. Amsalu, for his part, seemed weary beyond belief. Heavy, black circles sagged below his eyes, and he wavered on his feet like a punch-drunk boxer. Though he was quite a bit taller than his captor, there was no mistaking who was in charge.

“Just let him go, you asshole!” Annie screamed. She kicked at the rubble on the floor, sending bits of plaster skidding against their feet. Spiver growled and pulled Amsalu back toward the door.

“You wait til the boys hear about this,” he snarled. “You’ve just signed your death warrants, you goddamn meddling sons of bitches.” They scooted back into the kitchen. “Your little camp is gonna burn,” he spat. “And you’re all gonna burn with it! You hear me? You’re all gonna burn wi--”

Dylan’s branding iron came down hard on the crown of Spiver’s head, staving in the skull and squirting blood across the kitchen.

“The cavernous worm leads the stars to water, and all things must go their path,” Dylan said softly, puffing on the joint balanced between his lips.

James shook his head and nudged Patrick in the ribs. “See? Told you he was good in a pinch.”

Annie unbound Amsalu, who needed help standing. He gave them the Cliff’s Notes while bracing himself against the kitchen island. He’d set out for a few days at Bellingrath Gardens, a place where wildflowers still grew, a place he often went to be alone and “calm his mind,” often for weeks at a time. But before he’d even made it out of Mobile, the Carsons had jumped him and dragged him back here, to the apartment. He’d been bound and gagged in the corner for almost a week, surviving on the slick dregs of canned beans.

“Looks like they worked you over pretty good,” James frowned, inspecting Amsalu’s wounds. The man nodded once, angrily.

“Any particular reason? Or are they just that brand of sadist?” Patrick asked.

“They think I am Jamaican,” Amsalu replied.

He dug into a packet of crackers they found in the living room while the rest of the gang gathered up the weapons, food, and liquor and stuffed it all back into the knapsacks. Most of it was coated in blood. Ben pulled his arrow out of the man’s shoulder and gingerly wiped it against the dead man’s shirt. “Sorry, guy,” he mumbled. “Insult to injury. But it was your blood in the first place.”