Lesser Gods (27 page)

So I waited, ready to run them off if they headed my way. But they didn’t come into the hall, instead opting to climb the stairway to what I assumed would be bedrooms, which made professional sense since such rooms are generally where people keep their cash and jewelry.

I stood still until the burglars were nearly up the stairs, then carried on a debate with myself about the wisdom of heading back out onto the street rather than waiting around to see what happened. It seemed likely that the two would stumble into one alarm or another and thus ruin any chance I had of surprising Huntington. But instead of playing it safe, I stood my ground, straining my ears for the confrontation I knew must be coming.

Twenty seconds later, the conflict came.

“Hey!” one of them yelped.

The other simply said a few choice and very ancient four-letter words.

Then there was a flurry of rapid footsteps above me as someone ran a few paces, as if trying to escape from something. This was followed by two heavy thumps of bodies hitting the floor with the finality only death or unconscious can achieve.

I waited for their attacker to make his move. But I was greeted only by silence. Not a peep or any hint of life upstairs in the stale house.

I found myself sweating.

What happened?

I had expected gunshots, screams, pleadings for mercy.

It had all been too quiet.

Too efficient.

Too quick.

There hadn’t been a hint of a firearm’s report — not even the pop of a silenced weapon. No screams of pain. Their deaths must have been almost instantaneous from the sound of it.

Now’s a great time to leave, Ralph.

Instead I left the hallway and crossed into the living room.

Curiosity killed the cat, I warned, standing at the base of the stairs that were amazingly similar to those in the 3-D remake of Psycho.

If I’d been smart, I would have retreated through the hole in the living room wall and never looked back. But I’ve never received any medals for being smart, so I skulked up the stairs, cursing my inquisitive nature even as I climbed upward.

Alice Liddell

Dear Diary:

Well, it hit the fan today. Mom found my stash of Jet and threatened to turn me over to the cops, but fortunately dad called from the Orbiter One labs and intervened with his usual “kids will be kids” song and dance that’s a joke I know, but always good to hear when I’ve got my back to the wall.

I’m not sure I need the Jet any more to contact Ralph — or the OEK. There have been a couple of times when I sort of spaced out like I’d used Jet, only I hadn’t had any for days. That sort of scares me. But on the other hand, if mom is going to take my stash and put me under house arrest, I guess the only way to see Ralph is with these flashback thingies or whatever they are.

If Ralph’s still around. He’s sort of dropped off the map again and I can’t seem to locate him. He has to be the most undependable guy I’ve ever known.

Got to go now. Lines to memorize for the play (I got the lead!). I’ve been “practicing” kisses with Franky. He’s always happy to help, but often wants to practice more than just kissing. He told me he knew I wasn’t saving myself for anyone and I told him that might be true but I was still saving myself
from him
.

I always think of Ralph when I kiss Franky. Well, most of the time. I think mother is wrong. Bad boys are much better choices.

Ralph Crocker

Creeping up the steps, I put away the .22 and drew the Beretta, figuring I might require some serious firepower to deal with whatever had soundlessly aced two kids. I checked to be sure the gun was set to burst fire, and continued up the creaking planks.

Since each squeak undoubtedly alerted anyone listening that I was coming their way, I took my time, One one thousand, two one thousand for each step, forcing myself to move slowly rather than scampering forward like a scared rabbit. I kept watch through the rungs above me, peeping and then ducking, for any sign of the silent killer that had caught the previous intruders.

As my eyes came in line with the upper floor, I spied the two bodies of the punks. I forced myself not to study them too closely, instead concentrating on the closed doors along the upstairs hallway, keeping my eyes moving to avoid missing the danger when it presented itself.

Killer behind door number one, two, or three?

Little by little, step-by-step, I continued upward and then crouched on the hallway floor atop a dusty strip of worn carpeting, now adorned with two punks put into early retirement. I knelt and waited, the muzzle of my pistol pointing ahead of me. Still no one. I took a deep breath in an effort to calm myself.

Rule one of surviving an indoors gun fight was to make your opponent fight on your terms, not his. Make him come to you.

My terms were out here in the upstairs hallway where I could see what was going on. I was prepared to shoot first and ask questions later when I was far, far away. I planned to out-wait whoever hid here.

I must have knelt there, motionless, for at least ten minutes. After five minutes, sweat started trickling down my brow and into my eyes with a stinging, drop-by-drop progress. The heavy gun got clammy in my hands, which started to shake.

I started to relax.

I jumped to attention at a low groaning, “Ohhhhhhhh.” I searched for a target, covering the nearest doorway, and then switching it to the next entrance, and then the next, watching for any movement of a doorknob.

The groan sounded again and this time I could tell where it came from. It wasn’t from a hidden figure about to attack from behind any of the doorways. Rather, it was one of the intruders. I cautiously glanced at them again, then back to the doors, fearful my distraction would get me killed.

I continued to watch the doors, mulling over the fact that one of the punks was obviously still alive. And now I suspected both lived since there was no sign of blood.

But what had caused them to run? What had lowered the boom on them, knocking one or both unconscious in their tracks?

Wait a minute.

Both lay with their heads pointing toward me. That meant they’d been running away from the end of the hall. I moved my firearm’s point of aim farther down the hallway.

The only thing there was a low mahogany table with an antique Tiffany lamp on it. The tiny bulb cast its green and blue hues on the wall behind it and —

Tiffany lamp?

“Way out of place in this dump,” I muttered. And just the treasure an inexperienced thief would make a beeline for, knowing a pawn store might shell out good money for it.

The lamp was the perfect bait for a booby trap to separate the criminal chaff from the elite.

I cautiously stood and advanced, stepping over the two unconscious boobies, my pistol held at the ready. I paused two meters from the lamp, inspecting it and the area around it from what I hoped was a safe distance.

The lamp and table looked pretty normal. No extra cords to the lamp, nothing visible under the table. The lamp might have been electrified — but that would have only accounted for one punk and he’d be draped under the table instead of three paces from it. The danger was something else.

I took another step closer, then froze…

There, I told myself. Under the carpet.

Just in front of the lamp the thread-worn carpet seemed to rise just a tad higher than the rest of the floor. A pressure switch under the strip of carpet.

Perfect trap.

Attract the moths to the flame of the Tiffany lamp and then burn them when they stepped on the pressure switch concealed in front of it.

Now the question was what had put the two punks behind me, and whether it posed any danger to me?

Did I really want to know bad enough to find out?

I decided not. Better to get into the rooms and see if there’s any sign of Huntington, then get out of the stinking place —

My thought was interrupted by a pleasant, familiar odor. With a start I realized that the two punks had been gassed.

And that some of the gas still hung in the air.

I held my breath.

Too late.

Sometimes the dumbest things come to mind when you see yourself fading away. My feeling was one of shame at being felled by a trap laid for amateurs. What stupidity. What an embarrassment.

My eyes clouded and I felt light-headed as I staggered away from the lamp. I sat down quickly so I wouldn’t fall and bang my head.

Then everything winked.

I found myself standing in a dank cavern, totally confused and nearly naked, dressed only in some sort of toga and sandals. In the distance I heard muffled screams, like someone far away in the chamber of horrors at an amusement park, totally frightened out of their gourd.

Fighting back the temptation to run in a blind panic, I swallowed hard and leaned against a stone wall. Time to think. Time to calm down. How’d I get here?

I backtracked in my mind: I had been in the house. The gas I’d smelled… Just a hint of — Jet. That was the smell. The drug I use — used to use, I corrected myself — to immerse myself in the SupeR-Gs. I’d ingested it, but never inhaled it before because it was hard to figure the correct dose that way. But I still knew the pungent odor from the times I’d ingested it, getting a potent whiff when I opened the bottle.

But I couldn’t possibly have inhaled that much a few minutes ago. I had hardly even noticed the smell. And besides, I wasn’t connected to a computer now so I couldn’t be in the middle of the all-too-real SupeR-G that surrounded me.

Or was I attached to a computer?

Maybe Huntington had built some sort of high-power electrodes into the walls of the hallway. While I’d never heard of such a thing, the guy was supposed to be an electronic whiz, right?

How else could I explain a place like this? Wait a minute. Had the home itself been a SupeR-G and now was I in another?

Or maybe I never got out of the first string of SupeR-G illusions. Maybe I’d bounced from the Vietnam SupeR-G, to the Alice in Wonderland one, and then didn’t wake up. Maybe the trip to the drug rehab and Valley of the Shadow were just part of one long, bad trip.

Certainly all I’d experienced the last few days had the nightmarish elements that fit into my theory.

Yet the theory didn’t hold water after I thought about it. Too much time had seemed to pass. Sure, time in SupeR-Gs was more compressed, but not that much so. One drop of jet wouldn’t send me out for this long. I might have had one or two strings of adventures, but not days of disaster like I’d experienced.

Alice had said she’d brought me to her without a computer. And there were the illusions I’d read about in the news accounts. And the dreams. Was I in the middle of one such episode? Where did reality end and the dream or jet trip begin?

Or perhaps I was simply insane. That, too, could explain everything quite well.

The screaming that echoed in the distance grew louder. Abruptly the two punks I’d seen on the floor in the upstairs hallway of the home burst into the cavern and raced past me like someone had set their tails afire.

I didn’t sit contemplating their amazing sprinting skills for long. Because the growling coming down the tunnel they’d just exited grew louder as well. I didn’t know what made that horrific noise, nor did I want to learn.

Taking a cue from the two punks, I leaped to my feet and was dashing as fast as I could, totally forgetting that the whole place was most likely only an illusion created by computer code or slumber.

Even if I had remembered, I still would have run. Because deep down inside I knew that a death in this place would be just as painful and final as a death in real life.

And the approaching growls promised a death that would be very traumatic indeed.