Fire and Ice (4 page)

While the lights were on, Matt had taken the opportunity to dash through the walkway to the production area. From his position by the Human Resources office, he’d heard the footsteps and jingling keys fade off in another direction and figured it might be his only chance to make a run for it. Now he was out in the warehouse and the power was off again, but a small amount of light seeped in through the ventilation fans. He couldn’t have read the biggest letters on an eye chart from two feet away, but it was enough light to keep him from busting his head on a steel shelf or something as he made his way toward Shipping and Receiving.

He passed through the oily fumes emanating from the Petrol area and wondered if anyone back there was still alive. The chemicals in Waterbase were bad enough, but the ones in Petrol could knock you flat on your ass. They had special vents in that area, and with the power off the fumes were probably building to explosive levels. Matt hoped the employees had gotten out of there before succumbing to the noxious vapors.

He made it to the Fire and Ice tanks and took a right at the big press. From there it was only a short distance to the Shipping and Receiving office. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He banged on it twice with his fist.

“Drew?”

Matt recognized Shelly’s voice.

“It’s me,” he said. “Let me in.”

The door opened and Matt walked into the Shipping and Receiving office. Shelly wrapped her arms around him and said, “Damn, am I glad to see you.”

“Listen, we’ve got a serious situation here. There’s a guy with a gun shooting people up in the front offices. Kelsey Froman in HR and McCray in the security office are dead. There may be more.”

“Oh my God,” Shelly said. “We thought it was just a drill or something. Drew’s out there somewhere, and so is Hal.”

Matt could feel her trembling in his arms now. “Just try to stay calm. We’ll figure a way out of this.”

“I don’t know about y’all,” Fred said, “but I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

Matt hadn’t known there was someone else in the room. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Fred,” Shelly said. “He’s only been working here a month or so. Fred, you just stay put, now. If you go out there you’re liable to get your head blown off.”

“You think I’m just going to sit here and wait for the motherfucker? Screw that. Let’s do what we talked about earlier, raise a forklift up by the vent fans and take the grates off and climb out.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Matt said. “One of us could climb out, find a phone, and call for help.”

He was about to suggest they proceed with the plan when a series of muffled gunshots erupted.

K-Rad had turned the power back on just long enough to buy a can of Mountain Dew. With the lights off again, he’d donned his night-vision goggles and traversed the walkway from the office building to the production area carrying the soda in one hand and a 9-mm Beretta in the other. When he rounded the corner by the big tanks, he saw Drew Long, the Shipping and Receiving supervisor, heading toward his office.

K-Rad fired three times.

The plant was like a huge, eerily quiet cathedral now, and the Beretta’s silencer muffled the shots but did not squelch them completely. Drew’s knees buckled on the third shot, and he dropped to the concrete floor like a sack of wet Dicalite.

Dicalite.
Ha! At least K-Rad would never have to mess with that shit again.

Dicalite was a white powder added to batches of Fire and Ice. It came in thirty-pound bags. When wet, the powder formed a sort of putty that gathered on the press panels and aided in filtering the product as it was pumped into fifty-five-gallon drums or five-gallon pails or one-gallon jugs. Once all the product was packaged, the press had to be disassembled and all that moist Dicalite putty had to be scraped off the panels and stuffed into plastic bags for disposal. Up until last Friday, scraping the presses had been part of K-Rad’s job.

But last Friday, a few minutes before K-Rad’s shift was over, a coworker named Shelly Potts tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Mr. Hubbs wants to see you in his office.”

K-Rad finished what he was doing, parked his forklift, and plugged it into the charger. He hosed the Dicalite off his boots, wiped the sweat from his face with some paper towels, and clomped to the glassed-in foreman’s office in Waterbase. Hubbs was sitting at his desk sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. An armed security guard—Officer McCray—stood at parade rest a few feet to his right.

“Shelly said you wanted to see me,” K-Rad said.

“Sit down, my friend. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Friend my ass,
K-Rad thought. “No, thanks. What’s the guard for?”

“Listen, I’m going to get right to the point. We’ve decided to let you go.”

K-Rad felt a chill wash through him. He wanted to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“You’re firing me?” he said.

“I’m sorry. The decision came down from the main office. There’s nothing—”

“I’ve been here twelve years. You’re going to can my ass, just like that? Why?”

Officer McCray shifted his stance.

“I think you know why,” Mr. Hubbs said.

“I don’t have a clue.”

“When you were on nights a couple of months ago, one of the loading-dock doors was damaged. Someone obviously forgot to lower the forks on their forklift, but nobody ever came forward and confessed. It cost the company a lot of money to fix that door.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“But you were in charge that night.”

“So?”

“The bigwigs upstairs figure you either did it yourself or you know who did it. I’m sure you remember the meeting we had about that.”

K-Rad felt like jumping across the desk and twisting Mr. Hubbs’s head off like a bottle cap. “I didn’t wreck the door,” he said. “You can’t blame me for somebody else’s actions.”

“Again, the decision came from upstairs. Officer McCray here is going to escort you to your locker, and then to the parking lot.”

Officer McCray escorted Kevin Radowski to his locker, and then to the parking lot. He told K-Rad to have a nice day.

Now everyone’s going to have a nice fucking day,
K-Rad thought. He sipped his Mountain Dew and walked toward the fallen Drew Long.

Drew was still alive, but his breathing was rapid and shallow. He was on the way out. K-Rad pointed the gun at his skull and cocked the hammer back.

“Why are you doing this?” Drew said.

K-Rad smiled. “A stitch in time saves nine,” he said.

He pulled the trigger, and Drew stopped breathing.

A minute or so after the initial burst, there was a single gunshot and then silence. Matt felt his way around the dark office until he found a chair. He sat down, and Shelly sat beside him.

“Oh my God,” Shelly said.

“What are we going to do now?” Fred said. “We should have gotten the fuck out of here when we had the chance.”

Matt stood up and found the doorknob. He twisted the little brass dial to the locked position. “Well, we can’t leave the office now. Stepping to the other side of this door would be suicide at this point. Is there a desk in here?”

“I’m sitting at it,” Fred said.

“Let’s push it up against the door as a barricade. If he can’t get in here, he can’t shoot us.”

Matt felt his way to the desk, and he and Fred pushed it flush against the door.

“We’re going to run out of air pretty fast,” Shelly said. “The fumes are going to choke us to death.”

“All we can do is hope some help comes before that happens,” Matt said. “Unless—”

Shelly switched the flashlight on. “Help’s not going to come. Help never comes. Unless what, Matt?”

“Unless one of us goes out there and tries to rush the guy.”

“You said yourself it would be suicide to step on the other side of that door.”

“I know, but it might be our only chance.”

“I’ll do it,” Fred said. “I’ll go out there and take the motherfucker down.”

“No way. If anybody goes, it’s going to be me,” Matt said.

“I’ve only been here a few weeks, Matt, but you’ve only been here two days. I know the plant better than you do. Way better. I can find my way around in the dark and ambush the guy. Let’s move the desk and I’ll get on with it.”

“You might know the plant better, but I’m stronger. If it comes down to a hand-to-hand combat situation—”

“Look, we can stand here and argue about it all day, or we can do this.” Fred reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He flipped it in the air, caught it, and slapped it on the back of his hand. “Heads or tails. Loser has to go to battle.”

“Heads,” Matt said.

Shelly pointed the flashlight at the coin on the back of Fred’s hand. The quarter had landed on heads.

“That settles it,” Fred said. “I lost fair and square. Help me move the desk.”

Matt sighed. “You sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’ll need a weapon. Something …”

“There’s a toolbox over by the scales. I’ll grab a drum wrench.”

“Any idea where to start looking?”

“Not really.”

Who would just waltz into the plant and start shooting people? Matt wondered. What could the killer possibly want? What was his plan? He thought about the first questions a police detective might ask.

“Do y’all know of anyone in particular who might have a grudge against Nitko?”

“Could be anybody,” Fred said. “There’s been days—”

“I think I know who the shooter is,” Shelly said.

Matt turned to her. “Who?”

“Last Friday a guy named Kevin Radowski got fired. He’d been here a long time, like, twelve years or something. He worked in Waterbase, and they blamed him for one of the loading-dock doors getting messed up. It was almost quitting time, and the foreman told me to find him and send him to the Waterbase office. He was escorted off the premises. Those fuckers wouldn’t even let him finish out the week.”

Matt considered that. “If it is Radowski, he’ll probably go after Hubbs, the guy who probably fired him.”

“I’ll go hide somewhere by the Waterbase office, then,” Fred said. “Hopefully I’ll come back and give y’all some good news in just a little while.”

Matt and Fred scooted the desk away from the door, and Fred exited the Shipping and Receiving office. Shelly told him to be careful out there.

As Fred was leaving, a man wearing a tuxedo and holding a martini came in.

K-Rad figured everyone in Petrol was dead by now, but he wanted to make sure. He opened his backpack and pulled out a gas mask and a helmet equipped with drop-down night-vision binoculars. He removed his regular night-vision goggles, put them in the backpack, and strapped on the cumbersome apparatus. As soon as he got it situated exactly the way he wanted it, he felt the overwhelming urge to take a piss.
Figures,
he thought.

He walked to the locker room. His kidneys were floating from all the Mountain Dew he’d drunk. When he finished urinating, he caught his own reflection in the mirror by the sink. With all the high-tech gadgetry on his head and the flak jacket on his chest, he looked like some sort of machine. That’s what he was. A machine. A killing machine. By the end of the day, he would be famous. Everyone in the world would know the name Kevin Radowski. Everyone in the world would know K-Rad.

The door to the Petrol room was protected by a pushbutton lock, but K-Rad knew the code. He’d worked at Nitko for twelve years. He knew all the codes to all the doors, even the ones he wasn’t supposed to have access to.

When the emergency lockdown had been initiated, the employees in Petrol had essentially been trapped in a toxic tomb. Of course, emergency lockdown was never supposed to happen with people still in the plant. Even if it did, and even if the power went out for some reason, emergency generators were supposed to kick in and keep the ventilation fans in Petrol pumping in fresh air.

But K-Rad had disabled the generators at a little after three o’clock that morning.

On the north side of Nitko’s property, nearly a quarter mile from the main building, stood an above-ground diesel tank the size of a boxcar. Nitko stored the fuel for use in the emergency generators, outdoor forklifts, and delivery trucks. The tank created a blind spot, and K-Rad had easily sliced his way through the fence with his bolt cutters. He knew from experience that the night shift took a long break at three a.m., and he knew from experience that the lame-ass roving security guard could always be found snoozing in his pickup at that time. At approximately 3:05, he filled two five-gallon cans with diesel fuel and then walked to the generators and cut the battery cables. Perfect. Oh, yes. By the end of the day, everyone in the world would know the name K-Rad.

He looked at his watch: 9:41. Still plenty of time for more fun. He punched in the code and opened the door to Petrol and walked in like he owned the place.

Matt looked over at Shelly. She sat on one of the folding chairs, staring into space, unaware of the man in the tuxedo.

Mr. Dark.

“When I go to a show, Matthew, I expect to be entertained,” he said. “If I didn’t have this martini, I’d be asleep already.”

It wasn’t just that Shelly didn’t notice Mr. Dark.

She was totally still, her eyes frozen in midblink.

Time had stopped.

Mr. Dark turned his back to Matt and stepped in front of Shelly, blocking her from view. “Let’s liven things up, shall we?”

And now Matt knew, with horrifying certainty, what was coming next.

Matt tried to shout
leave her alone
, but the words came out sounding as though they had been uttered from the bottom of a swimming pool. The cheap plastic clock on the wall stopped ticking. Matt closed his fists and tried to launch a series of punches to Mr. Dark’s kidneys, but it seemed someone had strapped something heavy and cumbersome to his hands. It was like trying to box using bowling balls for gloves. He moved in super-slow motion, grabbing for Mr. Dark’s shoulders, but then he was gone, and time suddenly started up again as if the world had been trapped in a cosmic freeze-frame.

The flashlight fell from Shelly’s hands.

When she reached to pick it up, her ball cap fell from her head and Matt saw a cluster of festering wounds crawling with maggots on her scalp, rancid flesh dripping from her exposed skull to the floor in sickening, wet glops.

Mr. Dark had touched her.