Chapter 30

 

While Herbert sniped a few more targets, Joel followed orders, "policing brass", which he learned was Herbert-ese for "picking up empty shell casings". The cuffs made this difficult. Once he’d filled his hands with casings, he dumped them into a pile that Herbert then stashed away in the backpack.

With the laptop, Joel thought. Shit, he hoped Herbert forgot all about the goddamned camera and the laptop. The type of scenes Herbert would upload, Joel could be ruined.

For the moment, however, Herbert seemed to have forgotten about ruining Joel’s business. He said, "Want to see the list I’ve been putting together?"

"Sure," Joel said, doing his best to pretend mild interest. Behind all that wacky bullshit, Herbert was a shrewd judge. Any overtly feigned enthusiasm might cost Joel dearly.

He pulled from his pocket an oblong paper cramped with writing. Even from this distance, Joel could see it was covered in notes, some sections crossed out, others highlighted. Herbert stepped closer and extended the list. His other hand, of course, still held that fucking pistol.

It was an envelope, and it was absolutely crammed with writing. In a glance, Joel saw names, addresses, what looked like a couple of phone numbers. The first thirty or so entries were numbered and fairly legible. Many were highlighted. A few, including two highlighted names—Garrett Fiske and Alan Thiesen—had been crossed out. Bad news for Garrett and Alan, Joel figured. After the initial thirty entries, the list fell to chaos, less legible writing spreading out in all directions to cover the paper. Names appeared singly, at all angles, and in short stacks, tilted on the page. Some of these haphazard entries weren’t names at all: The asshole who always stares at me at the Uni-Mart, one read, and another said, Hollywood Fuckface at the Laundromat. Mostly, though, they were names, many, Joel noticed, prefixed with "Dr." or "Professor".

"My wish list,” Herbert said. “These assholes all have a visit coming. They thought they could just shit on me whenever they liked and nothing would ever happen, but tonight’s the night. There’s magic in the air, Joel, old bean, and these motherfuckers are going to pay for underestimating Herbert Weston."

He wants to kill all of these people, Joel realized. The crazy bastard’s been keeping a list. Then he thought, So how do I make this work for me?

"Mess with best, and die like a pest," Herbert said. He pulled a pen from his pocket and seemed to study the list. "I need to add a couple of names, but I can’t seem to find the space." Then he turned it over, and as Joel read the single word on the flipside, Herbert burst into his awful braying laughter.

EVERYONE!

"Call me redundant," Herbert said, and Joel watched him write Steve the Liar and then My Old Buddy Joel?

"Hey," Joel said, "there’s no need for that."

"Chill, Holmes. Note the question mark. We’re still partners. You keep up your end of the deal, no worries. But as the old saying goes, fuck around, lay around."

"Just so I’m certain," Joel said, "what is my end of the deal? I mean, I know about the girls and the website and selling stuff…"

You’re saying too much, he cautioned himself. You’re acting nervous, asking for too much specific information. Guys like Herbert picked up on nervousness, and it goaded them on. He knew this, yet he was nervous, damn nervous, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking things a step further.

"What, exactly, is my end of the deal, say right now?"

"Anything I damn well say, Joel, anything I damn well say. If I tell you to imitate a bird and fly off the edge of the roof, you’d better give it a shot." Then, grinning and lifting his pistol, he said, "No pun intended."

Joel nodded, hoping to hell Herbert didn’t fall in love with either of those ideas, Joel-as-bird or pulling the trigger.

Apparently he hadn’t, at least not yet, because he said, "Now, did you police all the brass?"

Joel nodded.

"Good. I’m especially happy that you’re doing well with the terminology. It’s exceedingly important for us to share the same jargon, Joel. It’s a mark of efficiency, jargon, and as you might have noticed, I value efficiency."

Joel nodded, waiting.

Herbert said, "I’ll give you some examples of the lingo I’d very much like us to share. This, for example, is not a ‘gun.’ It’s a pistol. And over there, that’s a rifle. Get it? Good. Now, the people on my wish list are to be known as ‘assholes’. Got it?"

Joel nodded.

"What are the people on this list called?"

"Assholes," Joel said.

"That’s right. And once I’ve put a line through them, they’re called ‘dead assholes’. Got it?"

"Got it."

"These two assholes," Herbert said, pointing to the names Joel had noticed earlier, "thought they were smart. They’re the ones that planned this whole big event, the ones that gave me this opportunity, and for that I am grateful. So I made them famous. Tomorrow morning, when their taped public service announcement airs, everybody in the world will know their names."

Herbert let out another round of grating laughter. "They wanted something to throw into the beer that would make everyone’s shit turn green. What a couple of assholes, huh? They make some grand plan to spike tens of thousands of drinks, and that’s the best they can come up with? Turn people’s shit green?"

More laughter. Then Herbert said, "I made what they wanted. They tried it out on themselves, and it worked like a charm, of course." Here, he paused to grin, and Joel forced himself to grin back. "So they paid me, and I banged out a big batch of the stuff, and then their little eco-groupies dumped it in the beer. And get this: in their video, which is all set to hijack the College Heights website and university channel on a steady loop until somebody shuts it down, they take full responsibility for ‘the event’. Of course, when they taped it, they didn’t know that I’d added my own secret ingredient. They thought they were just making everybody’s poopie green!" Herbert threw his head back and exploded with laughter. "You remember what I said about fuse, flooding the amygdala with oxytocin?"

Joel remembered only mumbo jumbo but nodded anyway.

"Fuse was just the beginning, a test. See, the stuff these assholes tossed into the beer, it hits the amygdala, too. Only, instead of just taming the fear center, this shit—I call it Phineas Gage—it stirs up the rage center and destroys social inhibitions. The limbic system takes over, these assholes just want to kill and fuck and maybe eat each other. The toughest part, other than abducting Guinea pig hitchhikers, was getting the timer right. Pharmacokinetics, half-lives, cross-linked density, what a pain in the ass. But I digress. These assholes from Green, they didn’t know shit about Phineas Gage, but they dosed the whole town, and tomorrow morning, they’ll take credit for the whole thing."

More laughter.

Joel forced a chuckle. Then he said, "I guess, the lines through them, they’re…uh…dead assholes now?"

"Correct-a-mundo, good buddy. Deader’n shit, those two assholes are. Headshots." Herbert reenacted, actually squeezing off a round, readjusting, and firing again, close to Joel’s head. "Dead! Dead!" Herbert shook his head, chuckling. "And they were the only assholes that knew it was me making the shit. I drew up a contract and everything. A fucking contract! Saying they wouldn’t tell anybody. They actually signed it. Oh, I know they were laughing at me behind my back, but I knew they’d honor it, too. After all, why share the glory, right?"

"Right." Joel figured maybe Herbert had overlooked human nature, figured these guys had probably told a shitload of people, laughing about the crazy chemist and his contract, but he wasn’t about to point this out to Herbert. No thanks. People who thought they were smarter than Herbert had a way of ending up crossed out on a list.

Herbert shook the envelope. "Now it’s time to get my game on. The meatheads are thinning out, people are hiding. The National Guard won’t get their shit together for hours, not out in the streets, so it’s time for a little door-to-door. Feel like giving me a hand?"

"Sure," Joel said.

"See, that’s what I like about you, Joel. You’re such an agreeable bastard."

"I try," Joel said, and—

Then he was down, sure he’d been shot.

One second, he’d been up on his feet, awaiting instructions; the next, he was down, knocked from his feet, and there was only noise, light, heat. A pair of explosions shook the building, and then, within a second or two, the other end of the roof erupted like a volcano. With a deafening roar, huge chunks of roofing blasted aloft, and something massive rode a geyser of flame high into the night sky.

Then the rooftop, or at least what was left of it, rolled like the surface of a wavy sea, and for a second, Joel was certain it would give beneath him, that he’d fall into a cauldron of flame. Gasping in terror, he shielded himself as best he could from raining debris. Finally, the last of it pattered down, and the building stopped moving. Joel stared in disbelief at the crackling flames and pillar of smoke billowing forth from the sagging hole that had been the other side of the roof.

"Fuck yeah!" Herbert yelled. "Yeah!" He screamed laughter. Somehow, he’d managed to stay on his feet and now hopped up and down, arms raised triumphantly overhead, mouth wide, eyes flashing in the firelight. He squeezed off several shots with his pistol, hooting with each pull of the trigger, and turned to Joel. "That was the fucking NMR, you stupid bastard. Do you realize that? The N-M-fucking-R! Yes! Did you see it?"

Joel stared, dumbstruck. NMR? He didn’t…they’d almost died…the building was burning beneath them…

Then Herbert had the gun in his face. "I asked you a question, motherfucker. Two, actually. Did you realize that was the NMR?"

Joel shook his head.

"Did you see it?"

Joel nodded.

Herbert pulled the pistol away, laughing again, and stared at the flames. Beneath them, alarms shrieked, and smaller explosions popped like gunfire.

"Fucking amazing," Herbert said. "I always wanted to do that. How the fuck? Did you do that, Joel?"

"Me? No."

"I’m just shitting you, my man." Herbert whistled, shook his head.

Nearby, a large section of rooftop lurched and sagged. Flames replaced it.

"Well," Herbert said, "we’d better make like shepherds and blow this hotdog stand. Get up." Again, he leveled the pistol on Joel. "That’s it. Now move. Take that shit with you. No, leave that. Grab the backpack. Come on. You first."

Joel paused involuntarily. The stairwell was black with smoke. Sprinklers hissed overhead. Alarms squealed, shrill, piercing. Choking on the smoky air, Joel stepped backward… and felt Herbert’s pistol poke him between the shoulder blades.

"Move," Herbert said, "or you’re one dead asshole."

Joel moved.

Half a flight into his descent, he could see nothing. Smoke burned his lungs and forced his eyes shut; alarms pierced his ears like ice picks, so loud they added to his disorientation; and water spraying down from above soaked him and made the stairs so slick that he slipped and fell. Nauseating waves of pain pulsed from his burned leg. Then Herbert was kicking him, shouting, and Joel struggled to his feet in the choking murk. With the pistol prodding him along, he stumbled blindly on.

At the first landing, he almost fell again but caught himself and started down next set of stairs. The fumes worsened, and Joel knew they would incinerate his lungs, melt his eyes, kill him. Lost to panic, he flung himself forward, misjudged the flight, and slammed face-first into the wall. He felt his nose break, and sparks filled his inner darkness. Herbert slammed into him, cursing. Joel nearly fell again, and that’s when he knew what to do.

He was going to trip this asshole and run for it. If Herbert fell, Joel could hurry downstairs, and if he could get around a corner before Herbert could aim and fire, he would just keep running…

It was his only chance. It had to work the first time.

The time to do it was now, just as they were approaching the next landing, just before the twist…

Now!

Joel squatted and thrust upstairs.

He jammed into Herbert’s legs and felt Herbert fly over top of him. Then there was a loud explosion—Herbert firing the pistol—so loud that Joel shouted with the pain of it in his ears, then kept shouting with the fear as he leapt up and charged ahead, stumbling over Herbert, who lay on the landing before him. All of this was felt, none of it seen, in the heavy cover of black smoke. Joel slammed once more, too hard, into the wall, nearly fell but kept his feet, knowing this was it, this was his only chance, and there was another explosion, so loud, and Joel’s face seared with pain, another explosion, and his leg jerked under him. Pain, burning white, leapt up his leg even as he fell forward around the corner from Herbert and tumbled down the stairs. Joel bounced and spun down the entire flight, screaming with each impact, things in him breaking. At last, he slammed hard into the next landing, where he scrambled around the next corner and came to his feet, dizzy with pain. Pistol shots exploded above him. Bullets ricocheted past him, whining close, and bits of kicked-up plaster stung against his neck. Joel hurried through thinning smoke and arrived finally at a magical sight, all in caps and burning red as lifeblood: EXIT.

With Herbert still some distance behind him, Joel plunged gasping through the door.

He wanted to drop and breathe air, wanted to fall and give into the pain in his leg, his face, his ribs, his shoulder, but he couldn’t, because Herbert would be out here in mere seconds, and now… Oh, now Herbert is going to be really pissed off.

So Joel kept to feet and hobbled half-blind toward what he thought was the front of the building. He wanted to run, but there was something wrong with his legs, so it was only with a spirited lurch-and-stumble that he moved when the dark shape separated itself from the shrubbery and closed over him.