If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Another of his father’s optimistic expressions. Dad was always quoting those. Streng didn’t know if he’d have the guts to do what his old man did, and then the bravery to carry on, but he hoped so. He also hoped he’d never have to find out.
Bernie, however, didn’t seem cut from the same cloth.
“CHARGE!” Bernie screamed, straining against the seat belt. “I NEED CHARGE! MAKE THE MEMORY GO AWAY!”
Streng took that as his cue to leave. The Water Department, like every other building he’d passed on the way over, had no electricity and was dark as death. Streng found one of Bernie’s lighters in the sack and flipped it on, using it to light his way. He opened the glass front door and limped past the secretary’s desk, down a tiled hall, to the unisex washroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror and wasn’t surprised to see he looked like hell. The orange light, and the flickering shadows, made Streng think of cavemen for some reason, primeval campfires from long ago.
Streng set the high-tech lighter on the sink with the catch depressed so it stayed on, and he unbuckled his holster and pants. Taking them off brought sparks of pain, sparks that became full-blown forest fires when he made himself urinate. The dark brown color reinforced Streng’s conviction that he needed to get to a hospital.
He flushed, then used the sink to splash water on his face and neck. He also washed his groin, ashamed he’d wet himself earlier. Part of him knew that it wasn’t his fault—any healthy young buck would have pissed having his kidney mangled. But a louder, meaner part told him to get used to it, because he was an old man who would soon be in diapers.
Streng told that louder, meaner part to shut up.
He picked up the torch and his stained pants and walked in underwear and socks to his office, two doors down. Streng tried the phone on his desk. Everything he dialed resulted in a busy signal. He had similar results with his cell.
The sheriff wasn’t surprised. Something big was happening, and if the bad guys didn’t kill the phone lines, there was a chance the good guys had done it to make sure no word of what was happening leaked out. Bless our government and their cover-your-ass policy.
In his closet he had an extra pair of slacks. No extra underwear, but he’d live with that. He stripped off his boxer shorts, set the dirty clothes on a shelf, and pulled on the fresh khakis. On his desk was a bottle of Tylenol. He dry-swallowed three. Then he unlocked his desk drawer and removed a .357 Colt Python and a partial box of ammo. Streng knew it was loaded, but decades of being around firearms made him check anyway.
He also hunted for and found his Mini Fry stun gun in the drawer—the same size and shape as a pack of cigarettes, and it delivered 900,000 brain-scrambling volts. Streng flipped the side switch and the battery indicator glowed green.
Back at the closet, Streng strapped on a holster for the Colt and a nylon fanny pack that Sal bought him for his sixtieth birthday. Streng had refused to accept the gift, calling it a “man purse.” Sal insisted, saying that since Streng was now an old fart he needed something to carry all of his medication around. They laughed, drank too much, and Streng hung it in this closet and forgot about it. Now he snapped it onto his waist and thought about Sal as he filled it with the ammo, the Ka-Bar, the stun gun, Bernie’s lighters, Bernie’s container of Charge capsules, some matches, the Tylenol, and the electronic communicator thing, which vibrated just as Streng picked it up.
It reminded Streng of a Zippo, but slightly larger. A shell of black metal, no obvious buttons or switches, with an outlet in the bottom to plug in a cord. It vibrated again. A pager of some kind? Streng squeezed the top, tapped it on his desk, and pressed the sides. Nothing happened. Then he noticed a tiny seam along the back. He held the bottom, pulled the top, and the cover slid open, revealing a text message on a small green phosphorus screen.
Head bird acquired. Stand by for directions to the nest.
Streng felt a surge of anger. They must have found Wiley.
He played with the device for a few seconds, trying to retrieve older messages, but it didn’t seem to have that function. It didn’t have a keyboard, either, or any way to send text messages. Just a single button and a small speaker to talk into. Streng figured it translated speech into text, then sent it via microwave or some other high frequency. He tucked it into his man purse and zipped it closed.
Time to move Bernie.
He picked up the lighter, palmed the Mini Fry, and headed back to his Jeep. Bernie’s fit had ended and he sat quietly, staring straight ahead. Streng got into the back seat with him, wondering how a man so obviously crazy could be recruited by an elite commando unit. Something to do with those Charge capsules? Ultimately he didn’t care. Understanding Bernie was much less important than incapacitating him.
Streng didn’t fool around. He used the stun gun.
He held the device to Bernie’s neck, the two protruding metal prongs connecting with his skin, and pressed the button to discharge the weapon.
A crackling sound accompanied the white spark, and almost a million volts surged into Bernie’s body, disrupting the electrical impulses the nervous system sent to the muscles, causing them to rapidly contract.
Streng knew from experience how it worked—when he’d bought the device he tried it out on himself with the help of a coworker. A one-second burst brought blinding pain. A two-second burst brought extreme muscle spasms. Three seconds could knock a person down, rapidly converting blood sugar into lactic acid and causing instant energy loss. Four seconds brought dizziness and disorientation. Five seconds could pacify even the most determined attacker for up to a few minutes.
Streng hit Bernie with a five-second burst. Bernie jerked, shook for a bit, then flopped over. Streng gave him a hard slap on the cheek to see if he reacted. He didn’t. Streng kept the Mini Fry pressed to Bernie’s side in case he needed another jolt and used his free hand to unbuckle him. Then he half pulled/half coaxed Bernie out of the car and onto his feet. The killer weaved a bit. Streng grabbed on to the back of his collar to steady him.
“Electricity,” Bernie mumbled.
“That’s right. Keep moving, or you’ll get some more.”
They came to the front door. Streng held it open and shoved Bernie inside. Since he didn’t have three hands, he couldn’t also hold the lighter. The office was too dark to lead Bernie to the cell.
Bernie said, “I have a chip in my head.”
“Good for you.”
Streng needed light, but he wasn’t letting go of the pyro, and he wasn’t about to put down the stun gun. So he gave the man another jolt. Bernie dropped to his knees. Streng kept his hand on his collar and shoved the Mini Fry into his fanny pack, fishing around for the lighter.
“I think you rebooted it,” Bernie said.
Bernie bolted. Streng reached out with both hands to grab him, but Bernie’s momentum took him forward and he scurried down the hall, blending in with the darkness.
A millisecond later Streng had cleared leather on his holster and fired his Colt twice, the reports snapping in his ears and the muzzle flash making him blink. He flicked on the lighter and held it up. The hallway was empty. Did the building have a back entrance? Streng couldn’t picture it, but chances were it did. Bernie’s hands were still tied, so he’d have a tough time unlocking doors. He was probably crouching somewhere, ready to pounce.
Streng cursed himself for being sloppy. He swung out the cylinder—warm to the touch—and yanked the spent brass, feeding in two fresh bullets. Then he moved down the hall, slow and cautious. He led with the Colt but kept his arm bent and tight against his body so the weapon couldn’t be knocked away, reminding himself to aim for the head; Bernie’s body armor might stop Magnum rounds.