Chapter 25
The voice of Spalding suddenly came into the office: much quieter, but so distinct, Mark almost jumped on the spot.
“Well-done, buddy. I'm happy you didn't shoot.” Mark saw a plastic pipe between the office windows, with a kind of sound bullhorn at the end.
“Did I scare you, buddy? Arne calls this: sounduit. A short of sound conduit, see? Actually, he built it for me. In the night, the boiler cools down, and here, in the boiler room, – he has a little bell. I hear it from the office and come over to add coal… Now – we're all settled, the comm link is established, and you can start your negotiations. Is it so in your FBI handbooks?”
“I tell you this, ‘Spalding.’ What's your real name? You leave the hostages, and I let you walk out of here. No shooting and no hot pursuit, understand? This I can guarantee you. What comes next, – your own luck. Run quickly, and you won't get caught.” Saying this, Mark did not waste time. He picked a piece of broken glass from the floor and a roll of duct tape from the shelf, broke a leg of one stool, and now was making a makeshift periscope.
“My name will do you no good, buddy. Sure, I'm not Spalding, you've guessed it right! Call me ‘Rick,’ close enough. And can I call you: ‘Mark,’ if you don't mind? But for leaving the hostages and walking out of here, you, Mark, are probably joking. As soon as you get to the highway, your cell phone gets the bloody signal, and all the Texas Police will be on my tail.”
“Let it be ‘Rick.’ And how do you know, Rick, my phone doesn't get the signal right now? What if I've sent an SMS for a backup?” Now he tried his handiwork, sticking the periscope beyond the window edge. The reflection was not exceptionally clear, but at least he could observe the enemy without being shot. The yard was empty. He put the gun on the floor and pulled out his phone. No signal.
“Well, Mark, you are probably not familiar with Houston infrastructure maintenance. Strong competition, see: whoever is the first to arrive. If the telephone guys win – most likely, the antennas will be fixed. If the bloody strips happen to be first, your neighborhood will be out of coverage forever. Did you know they now have a high-power winch to rip cables from the ground?”
“I saw one.” In Mark's cul-de-sac, the signal was perfect, but a little to the east, – there was a ‘hole’: one night, the tower was disassembled by strips. Now the locals marched along the dirt paths with mobile phones raised above their heads. A new method of sending and receiving e-mails and SMS: activate your phone, and walk until you get into the coverage zone. In any case, before the end of the hurricane, nobody would repair the Landfill tower.
“OK, Rick,” Mark proposed, re-holstering the phone and picking his gun from the floor. “I throw my cell phone out of the window, and you pick it. Who else has phones here? Frederick's phone – you probably have it already. The Kingsleys? Denny? Take their phones too. So you will have at least two hours to disappear in the rain. Nobody gets hurt…”
“A counter-proposal, Mark. You throw out not only your phone, but also your gun. I tie you up with the rest. After the hurricane is over, somebody will find you. And so, I have a couple of days to make my escape from the State of Texas.” The night watchman did not take Mark's bait about the Kingsleys, so the exact number of hostages remained unknown.
“You can't be serious, Rick. I throw out my gun, and you shoot a Minié ball through my head, don't you?” If the FBI had snipers on the roofs, Mark could offer himself as a hostage in exchange for his daughter and the rest. Alas, with no snipers, disarming in front of the criminal was nothing but an elaborate suicide.
“Let's talk your alternatives, buddy. What if I mark the time now? Say, five minutes. And at the end of these, mind you, very short five minutes, – I fire one of my Minié balls straight into your good neighbor, Frederick R. Stolz, Ph.D.? Imagine the highly-organized brain of our Ph.D. all over the place! Do you understand what an irreplaceable loss will it be to the modern chemical science? Here, our Ph.D. looks upset. He doesn't want a Minié ball, hey, Fred? Then, I will time another five minutes – and shoot again. Sammy – the last! I shoot her in the leg. Gives you a chance to reconsider my generous offer while she's bleeding to death.”
“And what are your alternatives, Rick?” Mark replied, “imagine, you kill all the hostages. You have nothing to negotiate with. No leverage. I will not let you go, rest assured. At the Station, they will eventually start looking for me. And I guarantee you. If you touch just one hostage, – you will have a very slow death. If not me, our Sarge, the Russian Bear, he will slice you like a salami. First, we stick a gas torch in your ass. While it's heating, we shoot your testicles off.”
The night watchman suddenly burst out laughing. “With my testicles, you're too bloody late, buddy. I lost those back in Libya! Believe it or not, I have nothing down there in the pants. The bastards left me a little stub for the wee to come out! I call it ‘my clitoris.’ A battlefield version of trans-gender surgery, so to speak. But – they gave me a shiny Purple Heart as a replacement. For the sexual satisfaction, hooray!”
If the watchman was the Sheldon Butcher, the damaged genitalia perfectly explained why the victims were not sexually violated. Mark recalled Spalding's service record. “When did you go to Libya?”
“Two thousand nineteen, buddy.”
“Bullshit! In 2019, we had no war in Libya.”
“Mostly didn't, but few of us… I was in the Firebirds! As the matter of fact, because we were there in 2019, – the rest of the boys went across the pond in 2020. A walk in the park! We – we did everything damn right! Only, our brave Air Force made such a shit out of the sweet deal. All the same, it's not their first time to screw up ground troops.”
“What are those Firebirds? Flame-throwers?”
“Flame-throwers! Your naivety makes me laugh, Mark. They didn't tell you such stuff in the FBI, did they? F.Y.I., the Firebirds is a special unit! Like the Navy SEALs, but far more secret. We made it so, that Libya attacked America, and not the opposite way around… My suggestion, let's drop these old war stories and talk something constructive.”
From the sounduit Mark heard banging and scratching noise, as if someone was trying to break strong plastic. Now Mark was almost one hundred percent sure the night watchman was the Sheldon Butcher, but he decided to make it certain. “The constructive conversation doesn't happen, apparently. But tell me, Rick: what did you do to all the meat?” If Rick replied: ‘With what meat?’ Mark would have to drop his assumption. Rick had his nerves stretched to the limit too. In such a situation, impossible to lie.
The assumption had been confirmed. Rick said in a matter-of-factual manner: “With the meat? What can you do with the meat, buddy? Soup. Steaks. Wiener Schnitzel. Hungarian Goulash. Human flesh – nothing could be better! They say: those who once tried – can't stop. For life.” In the bullhorn, the banging noise continued.
“So, did you simply kill for the meat?” Mark asked. The Hungarian Goulash somehow still did not fit into a coherent mental picture.
“Oh, no-o-o, buddy. If just for the meat – I would find some easier target. No. You must understand, they're in the woods: kissing each other, making love… Can't stand it! Go kill, – and it feels better. For a while… Back when your Mike worked here… He tells me how your Billy bangs his Rissy, and I'm like: damn! Here I am, with two arms and two legs, grinding my teeth, jealous! And to whom? To the blind-and-armless basket case! Wanted to kill him…”
Mike was way too talkative, Mark thought. “You don't know, Rick. Maybe, you could find someone who loved you – not only for your balls.”
“Yeah, right. As if I have never tried. Without the dick, buddy, nothing works, not quite… The meat, – it's just a by-product. My grandad was a hunter. He always said: once you kill, must eat it. Should not let the thing rot in the woods. Besides, I had to follow the example of our wonderful American Governme
nt, do I?”
“The American Government? In what sense?”
“Mark, you don't look a complete idiot. Why can't you get it yourself? Had the FBI together with the CNN brainwashed you so well, you can't see it anymore? I enlighten you, listen in. The United States are cannibalized!” The plastic screeched again.
“What the hell are you talking about? Cannibalized? By whom?”
“Not in the literal sense. Not yet, anyway. But take your Billy. In the Engineers, he was pumping the remaining gas in Venezuela – from minefields! They cannibalized his arms, did they?”
“Don't you touch my son, you bastard! William was wounded for the country!”
“I have a right to talk anything I want, buddy. The First Amendment is still standing. Besides, I myself did not spill my balls – on a golf course! Suffered for the country too, and with medals. To be honest, for your Billy – I'm sorry, Mark. As well as for your Mike. Did he go to the Infantry? A cannon fodder, so to speak? The Pentagon will cannibalize him too. What do you say if your second son comes back with no legs and gets himself a Social Optimum? With a second-hand uniform, a shiny medal, and a red bucket for a bonus, hey?”
Mark did not reply.
“Now, to your daughters, Mark. They're cannibalized too! Our new Law says: a girl of fourteen, like your Sammy – has rights! Can't drink beer, but she may have consensual sex, get married, or give birth. She even can register and become a licensed hooker – no probs, all opportunities are open. Here, Mark, your Sammy nods. She wants to say she already…”
“Already what?”
“No, not what you think. She already has a right! To pup babies every year, so we have more cannon fodder! Abortions – banned! The Pill – banned! Condoms? Not banned, so far, but tell me: where is a secret shop one can buy them now? Did you get it? Welcome to the US breeding program!” Again: a careful, determined knock on plastic.
“Forget boys and girls, Mark! Even our streets are cannibalized! On your street, have you seen the bloody strips lately? This time around, what part of your life became ‘unnecessary?’ Electric poles, sewage pipes, underground cables? A cell phone tower? A playground? Someone's fence? Someone's deck? Here, at the 'Fill! Our Doctor Stolz and the others. The entire landfill is pushed through these goddamn reactors, to squeeze out the last drop of bloody gas! The United States – is one huge meat grinder! The government is turning, turning, turning the handle! Not all at once. We go slowly, in small, controllable groups. And slowly, slowly – we all become juicy hamburgers! Or Wiener Schnitzels, whatever.”
Why was he telling me all this? Suddenly, Mark understood. The Butcher was not stalling the negotiations. He was making his, perhaps, entirely sincere talk, while manufacturing something. Likely, converting the flashlight he picked from the bench, before entering the boiler room. He tried to work quietly, but was probably missing a knife or a screwdriver, so he had to break the plastic. But what the hell was he doing with the poor flashlight?
Wait! That tin on the table. One switch labeled: ON-OFF. The second switch, with big ‘plus’ and ‘minus’ next to it. And a single push button marked: 3 SEC. Exactly how Frederick explained during their vodka session: a positive voltage for three seconds, then, a negative voltage for three seconds… Mark finally understood what the tin was: a homemade blasting box for a TriSafe deto!
Mark crawled to the second window and lifted his periscope. And here it was. Three bombs on the left had several wraps of something, which looked like a plastic clothes line. Against the darkened metal, with streaks of oil and chemicals, the green cord was not particularly noticeable. The goddamn Primacord! Exactly like a clothes line, only with explosives inside. So much for sleeping during my counter-terrorism briefings! Then, he saw that the Primacord ended in a small shiny tube. From the tube, a thin electric wire went towards the boiler enclosure. A detonator!
Bang! The glass of Mark's periscope shattered, dousing him with tiny fragments. He rolled to the left window and picked a piece of glass from the floor. Now he did not have time to fasten it to the stool leg. With his back against the wall, he stood next to the window, held the glass near the bottom of the frame, and looked at the reflection. Bang! This time, the bullet hit a notch below the window, making a formidable hole. If Mark was on the floor, the bullet would pass straight through his forehead.
Now the night watchman had to reload his shotgun. Mark jumped to the window opening and assumed the classic FBI Weaver stance: holding his Glock with both hands, right elbow slightly bent and pushing forward, the left hand supporting the right from below. He suppressed his breath and aligned the gun sights with the detonator. Frederick said, while the deto was not yet ‘activated,’ a bullet should not make it explode. About the Primacord, Mark was unsure. Likely, from a pistol bullet, it should not explode too, or it made little sense to use the safe detos. The first shot hit a foot too high. The lack of practice was evident. Mark took his aim again, this time a fraction lower, and gently, as taught by the FBI instructors, pulled the trigger. The gun shot should come as a surprise for you, the instructors liked to repeat. The second bullet struck the reactor one inch from the target, knocking a fountain of sparks, but the deto was still undisturbed.
With the corner of his eye, Mark noticed the shotgun barrel being lifted in the brick wall opening. He turned slightly and fired towards the Butcher. No time to aim properly, so the shot fell far below, sending a spray of mud towards the boiler room. All the same, the Butcher did not expect this bullet. He fired at random, and a loud ricochet shrieked on the galvanized office roof. Mark jumped away from the window, and just in time: a second shotgun report came. The heavy bullet hit the wall at the place Mark's head had been a fraction of a second before the shot. Mark took the Weaver stance and made another aim at the detonator. As two prior rounds, this was again unsuccessful. To hit a little tube, not any thicker than a ballpoint pen, and less than three inches in length, from the distance of fifteen yards – like extinguishing a candle with a pistol shot. Even when Mark was young, and did his firearm practice every week, such a feat was beyond his talents!
Mark did not have time to aim his next shot. Because he saw something, from which his jaw had dropped, and his Glock nearly fell out of his hands. On the scaffolding under the shed roof, above the brick wall of the boiler enclosure, there was Jasmine! Slowly placing her bare feet on rusty pipes and dirty planks, she tried to be silent. Mark's heart skipped a beat. If the Butcher looked up, – Jasmine would be dead meat.
The scav had thick chemical gloves and clutched a huge beaker with yellowish oily liquid in it. The wind blew rain under the shed roof. Once in a while, the raindrops hit the beaker, and after each drop the liquid emitted a little plume of heavy steam. A few drops of acid – and this was positively a concentrated acid, – had spilled on Jasmine's shirt and chewed ugly black holes in the fabric. Mark saw how Jasmine bit her lower lip.
The shotgun barrel came up again. Mark jumped, dodging yet another bullet. He ran to the right window, stuck out his hand and fired two shots at random, trying not to lift the gun too much, so his bullets would not come close to Jasmine. I must continue shooting, so the Butcher don't have time to look up, Mark reminded himself. He rolled over to the left window, leaned out slightly and sent his bullet into the brickwork, to the place, from which the shotgun barrel protruded a moment ago.
“Shoot, Daddy, shoot! He's connecting wires!” Samantha's voice came from the sounduit bullhorn. She somehow pulled the duct tape from her mouth, Mark guessed. “Mister Stolz! And Marty! They're behind! Number two!”
OK, so the Butcher was screwing my brains, Mark realized. Besides Samantha, no other hostages in the boiler room. Frederick and Martin were tied to reactor number two. With the Primacord! Obviously, Samantha was with them, until the Butcher untied her to negotiate his safe passage to the boiler room. The Butcher carefully planned his exodus,
using Arthur as a perfect cover-up. He would bind the hostages to the reactors with Primacord. Just before the flooding, he would blow everything up! All in small chunks: metal, plastic, biological remains from several people, plus all kinds of nasty chemicals. A big fire would follow. No wonder, Frederick called his reactors bombs. The rain and the wind would get everything mixed up, and the flood – wash the rest: difficult, if not entirely impossible to establish if the night watchman perished in the explosion or not. Yet another gruesome accident in a garbage shop. At the 'Fill, such mishaps were too common.
Even if in the future the Sheldon Butcher investigation was somehow associated with the Syntegas watchman, the Butcher himself would be presumed dead. Arthur came, the chemical plant blew up, and the chain of serial killings – stopped.
It also became clear why the Butcher decided not to shoot the hostages. Why would he risk it? Some diligent CSI might find a charred bone, and in it – a bullet hole, with traces of lead from a homemade Minié ball, implying a firearm fight preceded the explosion. While in the Army, this guy was in those very special Firebirds. Must be a specialist for planting fake forensic evidence! ‘Forensically aware,’ or ‘forensically trained,’ whatever.
Then, Mark realized that his sudden arrival to Syntegas had spoiled the Butcher the entire game. If the explosion killed only the plant workers, it would be easily written off as an accident. But if the same explosion killed the FBI agent, the CSIs might dig a bit deeper. Thus, the Butcher decided to share his wonderful coffee with the agent and learn how much the FBI knew. At that point the Butcher would decide if to kill Mark at the plant and drag his body out, or let Mark go, follow him, and pop him around Beaumont Highway…
“Dad, he got the wires!”
“Shut up, bitch! Want your brains all over that wall?” the Butcher yelled. Fortunately, no shot followed. The Butcher had one round in the chamber, but his hands were probably occupied with the torch and the wires, Mark guessed. If so, it meant the Butcher had connected a battery, or a motor-generator, whatever he had extracted from the flashlight. They had a little more than six seconds before the explosion. Two times by three seconds, add a second to flip the polarity twice. Now Mark had nothing to lose. He stood again in the Weaver stance and aimed. Bang! A shot came totally unexpected to Mark – just as he was taught. The bullet hit very close to the target, without damaging it. He took another aim, holding his breath, and slowly, slowly, pulled the trigger.
What followed, was etched in Mark's memory as a high-speed video. The detonator, with a small chunk of Primacord still attached to it, was cut off by the bullet. The damn shiny tube flipped in the air and plunked into the mud. A split moment later, it exploded! In loud, but harmless bang, spilling the mud all over the place. Mark realized he made the impossible. The reactor explosion had been averted, at least for now.
“A-a-a-ah!” the night watchman shouted.
Mark took a careful aim to the brick wall opening. Now the detonator was destroyed, and the Butcher became unpredictable. With Samantha in the boiler room and Jasmine on the scaffolding above, Mark's only option was to divert the serial killer's attention towards the office. This meant nothing short of a mindless charge. The Charge of the Light Brigade, he remembered suddenly. Mark's History teacher was way better than the idiot Mr. Connely.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke
Ready for his attack, Mark looked out and saw that the Butcher stuck his head through the opening. He did not see me shooting the deto off, Mark understood. He just thought either the detonator or the Primacord were faulty. Wondering if somebody sold you a clothes line instead of the real thing? Here comes your bullet, you bastard!
Mark shifted the gun sights to the new target and pulled the trigger. Click. He focused his eyes at the gun and realized that the slide was not fully in the forward position. His old and tired Glock finally gave up. She did not eject the cartridge from the previous shot, sticking the new one sideways.
Surprised and with adrenaline boiling in his blood, Mark started working up the slide, trying to dislodge the cartridge. Then, a loud shotgun report came. The Minié ball had finally found its target, like Amazon piranha, – hungrily ripping human flesh. Mark's body jerked. His right arm felt as if scalded with boiling water. The useless Glock fell from Mark's fingers and flew to the floor. The FBI Agent collapsed back and to the side, on the way down wrecking the coffee table. At this very moment – Mark heard an inhuman scream. It rang in Mark's ears for a long-long while: “Ya-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!”
Overcoming a sudden weakness, Mark put his left hand over the gaping hole in his right upper arm. I must pick the gun, I must get these cartridges out, he repeated to himself. The Butcher was probably reloading right now. As soon as he sticks the new rounds into the chambers, – the game is over. The bastard would kill me immediately, and the rest – a little later. Perhaps, still by the massive explosion. The Primacord was still wrapped around the bombs, and the Butcher did not make impression of a clown who plans a demolition job without having a spare deto in his pocket.
Mark tried to stand up, but only got to his knees. Only then did he realize the non-human sounds were still coming from the yard. Now it was not a scream of pain, but more like a breathless shriek: “Eee… Eee… Eee… Eee… Eee…”
Mark crawled to the window and looked out. Sheldon Butcher was rolling in the sticky mud, clutching his face. Between the blackened fingers: his blood, and something else, probably, semi-dissolved skin. His eyeballs were coming out too, leaking like squashed eggs. Jasmine was standing at the scaffolding, still with the chemical beaker in her gloved hands, but now the glass was empty.
All strength had deserted him, and Mark lost consciousness.