mouth or I'll cut your eyes out next."
To add legitimacy to his threat, Drake withdrew a
short-bladed, nasty-looking knife and drew circles in
the air in Red Beard's direction. My friend groaned,
closed his eyes and started praying in whispers, which
pleased Drake immensely. W i t h Red Beard put back in
his place, the hulking guard turned his attention to m e ,
pointing the knife in my direction and licking his Hps.
He started walking toward me.
"Be a good boy, Mike, and I'll make this quick and
painless for you. I'm too tired to keep fucking around
with an irritating turd like you. Your choice. Either
way, you're going down."
Don't be so sure of that, big boy.
Drake had a sharp knife, but I had Jackson's gun.
W i t h no time to spare, I tossed the pillow and dug in
my jacket pocket. As quickly as I could, I pulled out the
shiny silver gun, more than happy to p u m p some bullets
into this big mouthy cocksucker, fill him with enough
lead to make him magnetic, then spit in his face as he
dropped at my feet. Wishful thinking.
Drake was damn quick for a brute, and by the time I
transferred the gun to my shooting hand and tried to
pull the trigger, he was already in my face. He grabbed
my left wrist in his right hand, making sure he pointed
the gun away, and then started squeezing. My skinny
wrist bones were like matchsticks in his vicelike grip
and I screamed as something in my lower arm went
SNAP! Fire engulfed my hand for a moment, and then
everything went n u m b . My fingers spasmed and the
gun fell to the floor between us. Drake kicked it away,
across the room, smiling at me like a hungry carnivore.
"Good effort, Mike, j u s t not good enough," Drake
said, keeping a hold of my shattered wrist as he thrust
his knife toward my belly.
Instinctively, I twisted my body to the right to avoid
his deadly blow and Drake's knife tore a long gash in
my jacket, scratching me along my left ribcage, draw¬
ing blood but not incapacitating me. I swung my right
fist as hard as I could at Drake's throat, hoping to catch
him in the Adam's apple but he saw the punch coming
and ducked. My fist connected solidly with his chin, but
I didn't have enough strength to do much damage.
Drake shook it off easily, his arrogant smile still in
place, and came at me with the knife again.
I tried a second time to twist away, this time to the
left, but Drake wasn't being fooled again. He antici¬
pated my move and drove the short-bladed knife into
my right side, below the ribcage. The knife sticking out
of me, Drake finally let go of my wrist and let me drop
to my knees on the floor.
Time stood still for a moment.
I held my breath, waiting to die.
Drake was triumphantly standing over m e , laughing,
and I could j u s t make out Red Beard crying on the
other side of the room, but I wasn't paying much atten¬
tion to either one of them. All I could think about was
one crystal clear thought.
Why doesn't it hurt?
A knife in the belly is supposed to hurt, right? Death
by stabbing is supposed to be a horrible, painful thing,
right? Then why wasn't it?
I couldn't feel anything. In fact, the first cut across
my ribs hurt. more. Maybe adrenaline and my hatred
for Drake were blocking the pain, but even if that were
true, they wouldn't do much to stop the blood.
And there was no blood.
I looked down, saw the knife sticking out of the ripped
hole its entry had made in my coat, and wondered what
was happening, I doubled over so I could yank the knife
out of me with my right hand without Drake seeing me,
and was shocked to see a round rubber disk come out
stuck on the end of the knife. The short blade had
speared it almost dead center, but not penetrating
enough that it was sticking out the backside.
Son of a bitch! Puckman!
It was the crazy Mexican's silly puck. The one I'd
kisser with it before the train ran me over. It had been
sitting in my coat pocket all this t i m e , forgotten and of
no use to anyone—except to save my life!
Or j u s t prolong it.
I was still in big trouble here. Before I lost the only
chance I was likely to get, I faked a pain-filled groan
and collapsed even further to the ground, hiding my
uninjured belly from Drake's view and using my left
forearm to pry the puck off the knife blade. The numb¬
ness was going away and my wrist was starting to hurt
like a bitch, but that only helped make my groans all
the more realistic. Drake was still laughing at me when
I looked up into his ugly face. He was really enjoying
my death, getting off on my pain and suffering.
That was when I shoved the knife up into his groin,
rammed it into his balls as hard as I could. Then I twisted
it, first to the left, then the right, then back to the left
again, just for the hell of it. Blood was pouring down
onto my hand by this time, and Drake wasn't laughing
anymore. N o , he was screaming like a girl, high-pitched
and really, really loud.
Perfect!
Let the bastard scream. It was sweet music to my ears
and something I'd waited an awfully long time to hear.
Part of me wished Drake's suffering could last for hours,
days, weeks maybe, and everyone in this room was still
alive to see it, but that wasn't going to happen. The big
man dropped to his knees beside me, a look of sheer
disbelief on his face. He tried to speak, but I wasn't in
the mood to listen to anymore of his bullshit so I drove
the knife deep into his chest-I think I lucked out and
stuck it in his heart first try. Blood gushed out of his nose
and mouth, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he top¬
pled over backward never to move again.
Just like that, big bad Drake was dead.
C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - E I G H T
Part of me wanted to j u m p to my feet and dance a j i g
over Drake's dead body. In my humble opinion, the
world was far better off without the sick perverted fuck.
I wanted to get up and kick the muscle-headed ignora¬
mus about a hundred times, then kiss him on the lips
j u s t to thank him for the sheer pleasure his death had
given me. I was giddy with joy, for sure, but.another
part of me was too hurt, too exhausted, too damn bone
weary to bother doing any of those silly macho things.
So I j u s t sat there quietly on the floor, covered in sticky
blood, not sure what to do next. I might have been in
shock.
My mind went away for a while.
Someplace quiet.
N e x t thing I knew, I was standing at the foot of Red
Beard's bed, looking down at my friend without the
slightest clue how I'd gotten there. On
e quick glance
behind me confirmed Drake was still lying in a rather
large red puddle—which was a relief because for a sec
ond I thought I might have hallucinated the entire con¬
frontation with Dr. Marshall's security chief.
"You okay, Mike?" Red asked, his bigpuppy dog eyes
red from crying.
I was covered in Drake's blood, and my wrist, ribs
and knee Kurt like hell, but for the most part I was d o
ing all right. Better than Drake, that was for sure.
"Yeah, Red, I'm fine. H o w about y o u ? "
Red j u s t nodded, a small smile touching the corners
of his mouth. "You had me worried there. Thought you
were in over your head with Drake, but damned if you
didn't give him what he deserved. Good for you, buddy.
Couldn't have happened to a bigger asshole, you ask
me. Hope he's already b u r n i n g in Hell."
"You and me both," I said, unzipping my soiled coat
and tossing it on the floor.
My coat had taken the brunt of Drake's bleeding,
and, fond memories aside, it was a sloppy mess and I
wasn't keeping the damn thing on another second. I
spent a few minutes wiping my hands off on Red's bedsheet, more to prepare for what was coming next than
any real need to clean my hands. I also tore a strip off
the sheet to wrap around my damaged left wrist, using
my teeth to help cinch the knot tight. Again, I suppose
I was stalling, but I was starting to feel really good
about all this. My plan was holding up. Killing Drake
was surely a good sign things were meant to work out.
I'd help Red move on, then blow this charnel house as
close to Heaven as all the spreading gas would get me
once it ignited.
"Okay," I said, walking over and grabbing another
pillow, "Let's finish this thing. You ready?"
I wasn't expecting Red to be happy about what was
going to happen, but I never expected him to look at me
with such fear. The first time I'd approached with the
pillow he hadn't looked like this. W h a t had changed?
"What's the matter, man? I thought you wanted
this?"
"You've got m y . . . my ... " Red began, but then he
started to shake, what was left of his body trembling
beneath his thin blanket. He wasn't looking into my
eyes; wasn't looking at my face at all, but lower, at my
left arm. I looked down, saw what was giving him such
grief and nearly screamed. There on my bicep was a
tattoo of a bright red fireman's helmet, with a yellow
ladder and an axe crisscrossing in front of it. The words
N . F . S T A T I O N # 5 were boldly writte n below.
Holy shit!
"Is that mine?" Red asked m e , his strong voice break¬
ing on the last word.
How was I supposed to answer? W h a t could I say to
justify and explain why I was wearing his fucking arm?
How could I have been such an idiot not to have no¬
ticed this before? Sure, I remembered him showing ail
of us how proud he'd been of this tattoo, but I'd been so
busy whining about how ugly my patched-together
body looked, I'd never made the connection. I hadn't
stopped to wonder if I knew any of the donors or what
might happen if they ever found out I'd received their
stolen body parts. I hadn't been the one to take their
limbs from them, but standing in front of Red Beard, I
couldn't help but feel like a thief. Worse, actually, be¬
cause not only was I wearing an arm that didn't belong
to m e , I was holding a pillow with it, about to murder
him using the strength of his own flesh.
"I'm sorry, Red," I said, knowing I had to say some¬
thing to make him understand. "I didn't have a say in
any of this, same as you. It's Dr. Marshall that caused
all this suffering. It's his fault. He put me to sleep and I
woke up looking like this. Please don't hate me."
Red Beard didn't say anything for a long t i m e , but he
was looking into my eyes again. His trembling slowly
subsided, but tears were still streaming out of his swol¬
len eyes. "I don't hate you, Mike. Christ, n o , you know
that. I j u s t can't take it anymore. I've hit the wall and I
wanna go away. Heaven or Hell or j u s t a big black hole
in the ground, I don't much care. Just get me out of
here, okay? Please."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak right now.
Grabbing the pillow, I moved to the side of his bed and
numbly prepared to commit murder again.
"Promise me something, Mike?" Red Beard asked as
I was lowering the pillow.
"I'll get him, Red," I said, knowing what he needed
to hear. "Count on it, my friend. N a t h a n Marshall will
be dead within an hour."
I didn't have total faith in what I was saying, but ev¬
ery word came straight from my heart and I vowed to
do everything in my power to make it reality—or die
trying. Red Beard nodded and smiled. I smiled back,
then placed the pillow down on his face before he could
see me break down in tears.
C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - N I N E
Red Beard was gone and his death weighed heavily on
my mind. The pillow I'd used was still resting on his
face, a poor man's shroud if ever there was one. I'd been
too distraught—and I'll admit it, afraid—to remove the
pillow and look at him. I didn't want to see if he'd been
suffering in his last few moments. I wanted to believe
he was smiling under there, j u s t like Lucas had been,
but damned if I was going to find out. No way.
My head was spinning. I had to fight to keep my
thoughts moving in the right direction. If I stopped to
think too hard about what I'd j u s t done I'd go mad,
probably He down on the floor between Lucas and Red
and be done with it. I still had a j o b to do, though, and
more importantly, a promise to keep.
Before leaving the Bleeders' room I gathered up my
growing arsenal of weapons and supplies. I now had two
guns: Drake's and Jackson's; two knives: Drake's buck
knife and Junie's switchblade; a Bic lighter; and the
wooden grave marker.
Problem was, I couldn't carry it all. The knives could
slip into my pant pockets, no problem, but with my in¬
jured wrist I could only carry one of the guns. I could
stuff one down the front of my pants but with my luck
I'd probably blow my dick off. N o , one gun was surely
all I'd need. Drake's gun still had a full clip, so I grabbed
it and left Jackson's on one of the spare beds. I almost
left the wooden cross behind, but on a whim I stuck it
down the front of my shirt.
Last but not least, I made sure I cranked on all the
oxygen gas valves—one stationed at the head of every
bed in the room—before saying good-bye to Lucas and
Red and heading out into the fourth-floor hallway.
Thankfully, it was deserted, but I knew I'd really
have to be on my toes now. If Drake had come back to
the castle, no dou
bt the rest of his boys were back, too,
and none of them would let me walk on by like the
nurse and the orderly had done earlier. If I was spotted
again I was in big, big trouble.
Mind you, so was whoever spotted me because I was
armed and determined to go down fighting. I didn't give
a damn whether I got my throat cut in a fight or was
gunned down in a standoff, but I desperately needed to
get somewhere that I could ignite the gas before I let
them take me down.
And I knew j u s t the place.
I headed for the front stairwell.
My guess was all of the remaining security team
would be congregating down in Drake's office on the
ground floor. They'd be waiting to see what Drake
wanted to do next. They weren't stupid and would soon
start trying to reach their leader on the walkie-talkies,
but they'd stand around talking amongst themselves
for ten or fifteen minutes, at least, before anyone started
to get antsy. Then they'd spread out and start looking
for him, which didn't bother me because I wasn't going
anywhere near Drake's security office, or for that mat¬
ter, anywhere in the labs, operating theaters, or patient
rooms where the guards might eventually start search¬
ing. N o , I was going to the one place I didn't think they'd
bother looking—the tower room above the fourth-floor
stairwell at the front of the building.
Andrew's room.
It had been Drake's room when I first came here, but
now that Dr> Marshall no longer needed his wheelchair,
I'm pretty sure Andrew had been moved up there on a
permanent basis. Maybe they'd all slept in the tower
together. One big happy family. Regardless, if Andrew
was alive I knew that's where he'd be. Partly I wanted to
find him out of curiosity; I'll admit that. I wanted to
know what had happened to him. I needed to see if Dr.
Marshall's son was dead and gone or if he was wearing a
flesh suit the same as me—only his would be Bill Smith's
upgraded model with a hell of a lot less scars on it. The
main reason, though, was I knew the tower room had
several oxygen hookups and its small confined space
would be a perfect spot to spark the first explosion.
I considered trying to hunt down Dr. Marshall first
and pull an incredibly satisfying Rambo on him, ful¬
filling my promise to Red Beard as well as getting the
face-to-face revenge I so richly deserved, but I was smart