“Hiya, Doc!” said the Old Man, grinning. “Welcome to the fuckin’ party!”
That did it for Justin. His jaw dropped, his eyes bulged, his brain gave a disbelieving shriek and tried to run away and hide somewhere. And then the world spun around 360 degrees, everything went black, and he fell to the floor in a dead faint.
Chapter Eleven
He’s big! He’s angry! He’s got a gun! And he’s back! In the new film from Netstar Pictures, Big Angry Man With a Gun VI! Starring Danny Claque, Louisa-Jane Blenchner, and Milton Ferretly as the Big Angry Man! With a Gun! Don’t miss the thrills!
When he woke up some indeterminate time later, the first thing Justin thought of was Teresa. Having slept next to her for the last few nights, he’d become accustomed to waking up with her as well, so that now, rousing from a troubled, painful slumber, he would have liked nothing better than to snuggle against her warm, soft skin and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, this was not at all to be. Treacherous memory reared its ugly head and, in a rush of fearsome, overly-vivid flashes of recall, he remembered where he was.
Suddenly alert, despite the fog in his brain and the pain in what felt like every muscle, he sat up and looked around. He was still in the cinderblock building, a dungeonesque space with only two small, slit-like windows, a metal door, a row of six old army cots, a toilet, a free-standing sink, a cheap table and three flimsy chairs, and not much else. That is, if one didn’t count the people.
Sitting in his wheelchair, maybe ten feet away, was Lampert, grinning like a gargoyle and staring at Justin with what might be called a twinkle in his eye. Behind the Old Man, sitting on the cots, were three of the CDC crew, namely Erin Swails, Nurse Cass, and Orderly Greg, in addition to another raggedy, long-haired younger man whom he’d never seen before. Of these, only the young stranger and the Old Man seemed anything less than depressed; his compatriots were as glum as could be.
“Mornin’ Doc,” said Lampert, nodding. “Feel better now? We saved ya some breakfast.”
“Mr. Lampert,” said Justin, just to make it seem more real to himself. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
“These screwheads grabbed us,” said Lampert, jerking a thumb. “Two nights ago. Just rolled up on their bikes and shoved guns in everyone’s faces and, well, there ya go. They brought us here.”
“But who are they?” asked Justin, creakily gaining his feet. “I saw the sign out front. Something about Saint somebody and being shot on sight, but other than that…”
“Some kinda paramilitary outfit, looks like,” said Lampert, with a slight shrug. “Who knows? They sure as shit ain’t tellin’. Least not so far. Shit, the only guy we’ve even really talked to is the fat guy who brings us food, and he’s about as friendly as a dog turd, so,” he shrugged again, “like I said, who knows?”
As Lampert spoke, the professional in Justin noticed that the Old Man seemed in good health, at least for a 102-year old, and as mentally sharp as ever. No worse, apparently, for the wear. So that, at least, was good news.
“What about the others?” Justin asked. “Is Dr. Poole alright?”
“We hope so,” said Cass bleakly, slumped on a cot. “But they separated us when we got here, so we’re really not sure. We haven’t seen any of the others for, oh, about a day.”
“What happened to you, anyway?” asked Swails, on the next cot. “We thought you were dead!”
“Oh, no,” said Justin. “I was kidnapped.”
Suddenly he was embarrassed, realizing he hadn’t thought about what to tell people about Teresa and their rather unique relationship, and felt his face go three shades of red. Hurriedly, hoping to gloss over the awkward moment, he went on.
“Yes, see, one of the Bloodclaws sort of attacked me,” he said, “while I was searching for the stash. She knocked me out and took me prisoner.”
“She?” grinned Lampert. “Did you say she?”
“Uh, yes,” said Justin. “It was Teresa, the young woman who was one of the three, whatever, leaders of the Bloodclaws.”
“I remember her,” said Lampert, still grinning. “Geez, she’s a biscuit, Doc! I mean, hell, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t mind gettin’ kidnapped by a gorgeous young thing like that! An’ that’s comin’ from someone who’s recently been kidnapped. So what happened? C’mon, give!”
“Well, she held me captive,” said Justin, nettled and precise, “and was planning on selling me, apparently to the highest bidder, when we were set upon by these brown fellows. She ran away, they got me, and here I am.” He barreled on before Lampert could say anything else. “But what do these men want from us? Do we know? Have they said what they’re going to do with us?”
“Oh, oh pally,” said the long-haired stranger from his shadowy corner. “You do not wanna know.”
Glad of the diversion, Justin walked over. “I’m sorry,” he told the young man, “we haven’t been introduced. My name is Dr. Kaes.”
The man looked up insolently at Justin through long, clumpy brown hair. His eyes were blue and very bright, dominating a thin, handsome face marred by dirt, beard, and the sort of wan complexion developed only in prisons and hospitals. He wore a ragged pair of jeans and an old woolen shirt, once red and blue plaid, with beat-up cowboy boots, and smelled gamily of unwashed human. Now, after sizing Justin up for a second, he gave a small smirk and nodded.
“I’m Bowler,” he said. “Pleased to meetcha.”
“Do you know about these people?” asked Justin.
“Oh yeah,” said the other, nodding grimly, “you could say that. I been here almost a year now.”
“And what about them?” pressed Justin. “What are they going to do with us?’
“Well, first off,” said Bowler laconically, “they’ll try and convert you. Try and get you to all be members.”
“Convert us? So they’re a religious group?”
“Oh yeah,” nodded Bowler. “Big time evangelical-types. Real bible-bangers. But that ain’t really the problem.”
“Oh? And what is?”
“Well, see,” said Bowler pensively, “they got what you might call some pretty extreme ideas about things… big things.”
“Like?” said Justin, growing impatient.
“Like,” said the other, “did you happen to notice it’s all men?”
“I saw a couple of women, outside,” Justin said. “And some children.”
“Slaves,” said Bowler sadly. “Breeders. And when they can’t breed no more? They go same as anybody they don’t need or who don’t convert. Gulp! Down the hatch.”
“The hatch?” said Justin, a sick sensation growing in his belly. “What hatch?”
“Lemme make this plain, man,” said Bowler intensely, sitting up on the edge of his cot. “OK? I’ll just spell it out for y’all. The Brothers of St Alferd are nothin’ more or less than cannibals. They eat people. Do ya hear what I’m sayin’? And if you don’t join ‘em, you men will get killed and eaten, too. You women, well, you won’t get eaten right off. That is, unless ya can’t have babies. Then you’ll get killed right off. And, you know, eaten.”
As the others gasped and moaned and broke into panicked sniffles, Justin, grimly recalling the gospel quote on the office banner, felt the sick feeling burgeon to nausea and shook his head at what this rather unnerving young man was telling them.
“Eat us?” he said incredulously. “They actually eat other human beings?”