“Let’s go to Hubbs’s office right now,” Hal said. “I’ll tell him everything. I swear.”
“Oh, I’m going to Hubbs’s office all right. Soon as I blow your fucking brains out.”
“Please. Please don’t kill me. I’ll tell him I wrecked the door. You can get your job back and I’ll be the one to get fired.”
“I’ve already killed a bunch of people, Hal. Call it a hunch, but I doubt they’re going to hire me back.”
“Oh my God. Who did you kill?”
“Lots of people. Including you.”
K-Rad pulled the trigger. The bullet entered through Hal’s forehead, tore through his brain, and exited through the back of his skull. It ricocheted off the concrete floor, then the steel plating on the electric forklift, and hit K-Rad dead center in the sternum.
Good thing he was wearing his Kevlar vest.
“Ouch,” he said, and proceeded toward Mr. Hubbs’s office.
10:17 a.m.
Matt was high in a tree house, and something invisible had pushed his wife, Janey, out the door. She was on the way down, plummeting headfirst like a human missile, arms stretched toward the ground in a futile attempt to lessen the impact.
“Janey!” Matt cried.
He pursed his lips and concentrated, and his physical surroundings blurred to a tunnel of swirling colors. He saw only Janey, sinking slowly now, as if through an enormous vat of molasses, teeth clenched and eyes bulging. A silver ring outlined the tunnel, constricting more and more, like an aperture, until Matt’s entire world flashed to a stark and blinding white.
Against this white background came a galloping horse with a knight in full armor, the rider and his mount as black and dull as axle grease. The knight gripped the reins with one hand and a spiked metal ball on a chain with the other. The weapon was a brutal-looking thing, a skull-busting apparatus of the highest caliber, and the knight wielded it like an extra appendage, like something he’d been born with. The knight’s name was Pain, and his steed Death, and Matt knew he could not defeat them, no matter how hard he tried. He knew that the only way to save Janey was to make a pact with them, to bow down to them and give them what they wanted.
The horse stopped and reared, chomping at the bit, an expression of extreme agony on its face. The tortured animal snorted and sneezed and bucked and stomped, stirring a sandy white storm in Matt’s throbbing head.
When the dust finally settled, Sir Pain raised his flail and spoke: “I will give you the power to save your wife, but with the power comes a responsibility-and a debt.”
“I’ll do anything,” Matt said.
“You must become a soldier in the Dark Army, and you must-”
Another gunshot rang out, and Matt woke with a start. He had the worst headache of his life, and his testicles felt as though someone had parked a truck on them.
“Shelly?” he said.
No reply. She and the flashlight were gone, unless she was hiding in the darkness, but he doubted it.
Another employee had just been murdered, maybe Fred or Shelly, and Matt knew what he had to do. He rose and staggered to the door, exited the Shipping and Receiving office, and headed for Waterbase.
He was still a little dizzy from the blow to the head, and the heat and chemical fumes only made matters worse. He crept behind the massive stainless-steel Fire and Ice tanks, peeked through the eighteen-inch space between them, and in the dim light filtering through the ventilation fans saw the silhouette of a figure walking toward the foreman’s office. The man wore a heavy vest and a backpack and a helmet. He walked slowly, legs stiff, almost shambling along, like some sort of zombie astronaut. He carried a pistol in his left hand.
All Matt could do was try to ambush the man and take him down without getting shot in the process. He had started to creep along the wall toward the office when he heard a childlike moan. He stopped, crouched down, and duckwalked back behind the tanks. He followed the mewling sounds to an area where bags of dry chemicals were stored and saw a petite young woman squirming on top of one of the stacks. He gently peeled away the duct tape covering her mouth.
“What’s your name?” Matt said.
“Terri Bonach. I work in Petrol. The guy who put me here said everything was going to be all right, but then I woke up and I couldn’t move or talk. Who are you?”
“Matt Cahill. I’m a temp.”
“What’s going on? We went into lockdown, and I think everyone in Petrol is dead now. Oh my God. What the hell’s going on?”
“Someone came in and started shooting people this morning. The man who left you here was not a rescuer. He was the bad guy. Kevin Radowski. Do you know him?”
“No, but I heard about him. He works in Waterbase. They call him K-Rad. You know, like A-Rod. Makes sense that it’s him. I heard he’s kind of crazy, and I heard he got fired last week.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
K-Rad.
An anagram immediately formed in Matt’s mind.
K-Rad was Dark spelled backward.
“So why didn’t he kill me? I mean, I’m happy he didn’t, but-”
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “But he didn’t, and this is probably the safest place for you to be right now.”
“Screw that. Get me out of here!”
“Shh. He’s going to hear you, and then we’ll be dead for sure. I’m going after him now.”
“Help!” Terri screamed. She was hysterical. Matt put the duct tape back over her mouth. She would be all right where she was until help arrived. He only hoped that K-Rad-and Shelly-had not heard the shouts.
Because Shelly was around somewhere, and she was every bit as dangerous as K-Rad was.
10:22 a.m
How in the fuck did that bitch get the tape off her mouth?
K-Rad thought about going back to the tanks and blowing her away. He should have done it before, but the idea of blasting her to mincemeat had been too appealing. He thought about going back, but he was only a few feet from Hubbs’s office now. Plus, his legs were hurting like a motherfucker. It was at least a hundred degrees in the production area, and the bulletproof vest and the gas mask and the heavy backpack had K-Rad sweating profusely. He was getting dehydrated. He could feel it. He was lightheaded and his legs were cramping. The two Mountain Dews hadn’t been enough. He needed more fluids. After he killed Hubbs, he would go to the fountain by the time clock and fill his belly with water. Then he would go to the Retro and fill his belly with beer.
K-Rad was about to kick the office door in when he was blindsided and knocked to the floor. The pistol in his hand skittered away, and a man straddled him and hit him in the face with a drum wrench. K-Rad recognized the man. It was Fred Philips from Shipping and Receiving. Fool. The initial blow smashed the right side of the night-vision binoculars, and Fred was about to come down with a second when K-Rad reached into the pocket of his fatigue pants and pulled out a switchblade. Before Fred knew what had happened, K-Rad buried all five inches of the blade in his windpipe. Fred gurgled and spat blood and fell sideways clutching his throat. It took him about thirty seconds to die.
K-Rad crawled to his pistol a few feet away, picked it up, and checked it for damage. It looked all right. The altercation had given him a surge of adrenaline. His legs didn’t hurt anymore. He couldn’t see as well with one side of the night-vision binoculars broken, but he could see well enough. He got up and kicked Hubbs’s door in. It flew open and showered the office interior with splinters and lock parts. Hubbs was alone, crouched down in a corner like a mouse in a snake’s cage.
“Kevin, it was the guys upstairs. I had no choice. I swear, I tried to talk them out of firing you. You were always one of my best workers.”
“Hal fucked up the loading-dock door. Just so you know.”
“Hal did it?”
“Yeah. When we were working nights together.”
“Then he’ll be dealt with, and you’re off the hook.”