12 hours
There were still sentries on the roof picking off Infecteds, but fewer than before. Fallon imagined some had fled, others fallen. But the remaining cartel thugs were still a threat, so when the Sykos left the clubhouse, they retraced their route through the loading dock, around the parking lot, using the cars for cover, and back to the pool house.
There, the Sykos insisted on raiding the bar for whatever food hadn’t rotted, and Fallon let them. Even as they’d been sneaking back around the cars, it had been easy to see the carpet of Infected bodies covering the putting green. She imagined some of the corpses were actually cartel members but hadn’t been able to tell from that distance and hadn’t really cared. As long as they weren’t around to bother her Sykos, she was happy.
“I’m gonna take a leak,” Warga said.
“Not in the pool!” Lilith exclaimed, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought. “That’s gross!”
“They got bathrooms in the pool house, genius,” Warga replied, turning on his heel before he could see Lilith giving him the finger.
Pybus found a big plastic jar of pretzels that weren’t too stale and a similar one of cheese puffs. Someone had left the lid partially off the cheese puffs, though, and they were crawling with ants. Sansome found some small bags of salt and vinegar chips, and Lilith found a single unopened Coke in the back of the fridge and couldn’t keep from crowing in delight.
The Sykos sat in a circle sharing the feast of carbs, each with a glass of flat club soda from the tap. Except for Lilith, who was lovingly savoring her caffeine fix.
And Light, who had treated his wound with bar rags and water, then spent the rest of his time going from the bar counter to the back door, keeping watch.
The chips were as advertised and the pretzels almost as salty, and Fallon found herself sharing Warga’s urge to use the bathroom. She excused herself and went over the counter after Light declared it clear.
The pool house hadn’t been used in days, but was still damp and smelled of chlorine and, faintly, of mildew. She went in the side marked with the figure in a dress, was pleasantly surprised to find the locker room and changing areas free of corpses. She ignored the open showers and went over to the stalls, which thankfully had doors. One thing it had been hard to maintain while traveling with the Sykos was any sense of personal privacy. She was glad to be able to use the bathroom without having at least Lilith tagging along.
She rose, pulled up her pants, and went to flush, then thought better of it—the noise might attract unwanted attention. After rebuttoning and zipping everything that needed it, she opened the door.
Warga grabbed her by the throat, yanked her out of the stall, and slammed her up against the wall, all while jamming a huge wad of toilet paper in her mouth, effectively gagging her.
“Should have left them down, bitch.”
He spun her around and shoved her up against the wall again, only this time, something cold and sharp pricked at her neck. A knife.
Shit.
She’d been struggling, trying to get her hand on a Glock, but she was a scientist who spent all her time in the lab, whereas he’d had little to do in prison except work out and dream of a moment like this. And she knew he would cut her in an instant—he was probably so jacked up from all the blood and violence, he’d have no problem desecrating her corpse while it was still warm, or even raping her while she died.
Because that’s what he intended to do, she knew. In the back of her mind, she’d been expecting this though she hadn’t been entirely sure it would be her and not Lilith. Choosing Fallon made sense, though—she was the one who’d been riding herd on him since they entered the zone, and now he wanted his turn.
“Oh my God, Fallon! Shit! I don’t know what to do!” Book’s voice in her ear was horrified and frantic, but there was nothing the analyst could do—she had the only two-way, so he couldn’t alert the rest of the Sykos. She was on her own, and all that was left was for him to bear testament to her shame.
Warga grabbed her Glocks and tossed them into the showers, then did the same with the rest of her weapons, patting her down slowly and with great relish. When he was sure she was defenseless, he pushed against her from behind, rubbing his warm crotch against her as he reached around to undo her pants. All the while, the knife remained steady at her throat. Warga hadn’t forgotten his moves while in prison, and he’d perfected them long before that. His wound didn’t seem to affect his upper-body strength.
He jerked her pants down and grabbed a handful of bare ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, then started on his own pants.
“You should have let me do one of those Army bitches before we left, or even Goth Girl. But, no, you had to spoil my fun and just let me get more and more worked up by all the shootin’ and dyin’. So since I can’t have them, I’m just going to use you, Doc. And I’m going to enjoy every quick minute of it.”
Maybe it won’t be that bad, she thought, her heart hammering beneath his blade. Maybe her psychopathy would kick in full force and she’d go numb, not feel it beyond the physical aspects. Maybe it wouldn’t affect her as much later. For now, though, she was terrified, and more pissed off than she’d ever been in her life.
He’d just gotten himself free and was rubbing up against the crack of her ass when there was a sound like a bear roaring and feet slapping across turquoise tiles. Then Warga was being pulled off her, his knife scoring her throat as his arm was jerked away.
When she turned, Sansome was punching Warga in the face, then in the gut. Warga’s knife went flying, and after jerking her pants back up, Fallon scrambled for it as the blade got kicked away from her by someone’s foot.
She snatched it off the cool tiles, then straightened to see Warga returning Sansome’s assault blow for blow. He focused his attack on Sansome’s battered face, and it was working. Sansome was losing ground.
She was behind Warga and to his left. Without thinking, she rushed forward and drove his knife into his back, just below the rib cage and angled upward.
Warga cried out in pain, and Sansome punched him again as warm blood rushed out over Fallon’s hand. As it coated her skin, she twisted the blade in deep, imagining it piercing his ascending colon and tearing into his liver. She didn’t think it was long enough to reach his lung, but she drove it in again, hoping. His accompanying scream was gratifying.
Fuck with me, you bastard, and this is what you get. Fallon had no idea where the thought had come from, but she welcomed it.
Finally noticing what she was doing, Sansome punched Warga again, this time in the gut, which pushed his organs back against the knife, causing even more damage. Then Fallon pulled the knife out, stepped back, and together they watched Warga fall.
“Thanks,” she said to Sansome.
He shook his head. “Not done yet.”
Sansome held his hand out for the knife, and Fallon didn’t hesitate. Then the Syko knelt beside Warga and began hacking through his neck while he was still alive to enjoy every not-quick minute of it.
“Jesus, Fallon,” Book breathed in her ear, and she realized that it would probably be better for all of them if the brass back at PIR didn’t see this part. She blinked the Morse code.
“What was that, Fallon? That wasn’t the ‘Off’ command.”
“Stop the feed! I’m a little distracted here.”
“What? I can’t—”
“Just do it. You don’t want to see this, anyway.”
He was silent after that though she had no way of knowing whether he’d complied with her request or not. For his sake, more than her own, she hoped he had. For her part—assuming they had no video to contradict her story—she’d just claim Warga had died of the wounds she’d inflicted in self-defense, and they’d never be able to prove otherwise.
It was a slow, bloody business, and Fallon had time to adjust her clothing, wash her hands, and gather her weapons back up. While in the stall collecting her Glocks, Fallon wished she had time to shower, to try and scrub the feel of Warga’s skin off of hers, but she had a feeling even steel wool wouldn’t work for that. Acid, maybe.
When she turned back to Sansome, he was holding up Warga’s severed head by the hair, like some sort of barbarian out of a fantasy novel.
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked curiously. He offered it to her. “No, thank you. I don’t need any more reminders of that piece of shit.”
Sansome’s expression brightened.
“That’s perfect.”
He walked over to the nearest stall and dropped Warga’s head in the toilet, where it landed with a pink splash. He turned back to her, smiling.
“That’s where shit belongs, right?”
“Yes, Joe. Yes, it definitely is.”