Should Have Killed The Kid
Read Should Have Killed The Kid Online
Authors: R. Frederick Hamilton
SHOULD HAVE KILLED THE KID
by
R. Frederick Hamilton
Published by:
LegumeMan Books
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2011 by R. Frederick Hamilton
Cover & Design © 2011 by The Spatchcock
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my LegumeChum, Matthew Revert, for all his hard work and cheer up docks. To Jason Wuchenich and Geoff Brown, two uber dudes who always go above and beyond the call of duty. And, as always, to the Minx (aka Brooke Walters) for everything.
* * *
The atmosphere altered the second John stepped through the door. Jess felt it from where he sat perched on the bench in the corner; the ideal position that allowed him to keep out of the way yet also pick up any tips or tricks that his uncle, Dean, or his dodgy partner, George, deigned to send his way. It had already been a pretty eventful week since his uncle had decided to take Jess under his wing; teach him the business. "Teach him the responsibility he so obviously needs," was the way it had been phrased for his mother.
He'd seen a lot in that week.
Most of which Jess wouldn't have exactly labelled responsible.
He'd seen a lot of different people come and go.
But he'd never seen a reaction from his two "mentors" like the one John elicited.
As soon as the chubby man with the crazy, red corkscrew hair stepped through the door, they immediately dropped the relaxed manner they usually presented to their other clients – many of whom, Jess thought, looked infinitely more intimidating than the figure that currently filled the doorway.
But what the hell would he know?
His uncle had already gone to great lengths to inform him that he knew jack shit about anything – as if running some dive realtor in the arse-end-of-the-Homeworld meant he had any great insight into the human condition and the way the world operated.
'So just sit back and watch and maybe you'll learn something,' Jess sarcastically mimicked his uncle's words as he watched the same man spring to his feet with a speed that belied his bulky frame and fawn over the new arrival.
'John, so very good to see you.'
The faux happiness in his uncle's voice sounded unbelievably obvious to Jess's ears. Not that it really seemed to bother John at all. Dean might as well have stayed mute for all the attention that John paid him.
John left him hanging, one hand outstretched, while he scanned across the contents of the dingy office. The cluttered and overflowing filing cabinets, the water-stained roof and walls, the manky carpet, sticky with years of spilled coffee and fuck knows what else. He barely spared a glance for Jess himself though even that short glimpse was enough to leave Jess feeling every bit as uneasy as his Uncle appeared. There was just something about those eyes. Something wrong... The way they skittered...
Clearly Dean and George were well aware of it. There'd been plenty of meaningful stares in the awkward fifteen minutes prior to John's arrival. His uncle had even gone for the hip flask that lay tucked beneath some papers in the bottom desk drawer – something that Jess had already learnt in the short week only came out on those occasions when his partner was out of the office.
Well, usually anyway.
Though if George had noticed, he'd paid it no mind and nothing had been said. They'd been too busy locking eyes. Much as they were doing now while Dean retracted his hand and made a show that he'd only been attempting to fix his hair all along.
'So, John,' his uncle tried again and the visitor's gaze stopped its travels around the room and fixed on him, forcing a swallow. 'We were quite surprised when you got in contact again. There's still a sizeable chunk left on your lease and well... we weren't expecting you for a good, long while yet.'
'There was an issue.' John finally spoke, a strange voice that, like his gaze, left Jess feeling uneasy. Though clipped, it was high and tight and reminded him a lot of someone trying to hold back laughter. But there was no humour in the client's eyes. 'I need a new place.' He paused. 'I can't stay on,' he added almost absently.
Dean shared another meaningful look with his partner. This time John caught the stare and his own eyes narrowed. Jess saw his uncle visibly blanch and took a little satisfaction in the discomfort the man showed as he abruptly changed tack, trying to distract John.
'Come, sit.' Dean gestured to a seat and then scampered across to his own place on the opposite side of the desk. His relief at putting some space between him and his client was obvious.
Jess almost expected him to head for the hip flask in the bottom drawer once more but he refrained. Instead, he opted for sitting with his fingers peaked in front of his face, putting up a pretence of not being bothered while his partner had a crack.
After a slight pause John strolled over and threw himself into the chair. A smirk creased his face as he hooked a leg over one arm and leaned back.
'Surely you can understand why we were a little surprised to get your message.' George chose his words with the utmost care. 'We went to a lot of effort to get you set up in your current place and, if memory serves, you were more than happy there for a good long time.'
'Well that's true,' John pursed his lips and nodded.
'So,' A bit more confidence crept into George's voice. 'What's changed? Don't you like it anymore?'
'No, it's nothing like that. Really, I've got it set up pretty sweet now...' John trailed off as a grin creased face and he stared off into space for a second.
'Then why?'
'Well a variety of reasons. Some personal. Some not. Not much that's your business. Bit of everything really,' John finished unhelpfully.
'Because you do recall the contract you signed?'
'No, not really.'
'Because it was rather long term and... well, there were some... substantial exit fees...'
Jess felt his heart skip a beat as the smile abruptly dropped from the client's face.
'What? You want me to blow you or something? What's the point?'
'I'm sorry?' George suddenly sounded far less certain of himself.
'You're talking but all I'm hearing is shit!'
'I'm sorry?' George repeated. It seemed to Jess he was genuinely confused now. Jess didn't blame him. He couldn't make head or tale of that response either.
'Bet you are,' John nodded then snorted laughter only adding to everyone's confusion.
'I think that–' As George's brow furrowed, Dean took up the mantle once more.
Abruptly the confusion melted away into tension.
'I don't fucking pay you to think!' John hissed and stunned silence followed as both men now fumbled for an answer. After a second his uncle started up again.
'Well... yes... about that...'
'What?' Dean flinched though John's anger seemed to have lasted all of a millisecond.
'Well... at this point we'd be looking at a healthy exit fee and I doubt you'll be getting any of the bond back...'
Jess started to shake his head as the list his uncle reeled off grew and grew. Even in the face of a client that clearly scared them shitless, they couldn't resist going the gouge.
'That's fine,' John cut him off mid-list and the man's eyes widened as he shared another look with his partner.
Jess almost heard the sound of cash registers in the air.
'I just need somewhere off the radar. Some scungy little place where no one would ever think of looking for me... for anything, really. And I was sitting there thinking and of course my mind immediately went to you guys. If anyone'd have a place like that it'd be you, I told Jarvis. And your help was acceptable last time. You're the king of the dives, after all.'
Jess clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the giggle that threatened as he saw anger start to dye his uncle's cheeks red. The idea that the pair took any form of pride in their shoddy business always struck him as kind of amusing.
Somehow he doubted they'd be booting out this particular client like they had the couple of others that had dissed their work. A second later, his uncle swallowed slowly and he was proved correct.
'Okay, so what do you need then?' Dean's voice was respectful enough that Jess took another look at John, reappraising the man against the respect and deference his uncle displayed. He still couldn't see it. The chubby man with the red cork screw hair looked just as unassuming as on first glance.
'Well, as I was saying, something out of the way. I am talking about beyond even the fringes here. Money's no real object but that doesn't mean it has to be flash. Whatever's going. I mean I can always work my magic on it if necessary. Bit of TLC, etcetera. The main thing is it's off the Department grid. That's why I came to you guys and not one of the flasher, up market joints.'
'Department...' Dean and George shared one final look.
'Well that's all fine,' George paused as he searched for the right words again. 'But I do need to ask...' He paused again.
'Yes?' John's smile started to slip again.
'John, are you in some form of trouble..?'
* * *
THE SKYSCRAPER
1.
The darkness engulfed him and, as he did every morning, David Thomas awoke, his body tensed for flight, sweat dripping from his frame and his mouth wide open ready to unleash a scream.
Apart from a few subtle differences, the nightmares were always the same; the same players: him, Monty, the claws in the shadow, the kid and Naomi; the same setting: the ramshackle Gallo's Hotel where he’d made the worst decision of his life.
Fortunately, Dave managed to catch the scream before it got loose and woke the others huddled beneath blankets in the cubicle around him. That was good. Even though experience told him he usually woke a scant fifteen minutes before the fluorescents were switched on, Dave knew taking even that little amount of blissful, ignorant sleep from the others was an unforgivable offence. He’d seen fights break out over far less. Seen people pummelled to death before the soldiers could arrive to put things in order.
Carefully, he eased himself up into a sitting position and wiped at the slick sweat with his blanket.
The burly man next to him snorted and stirred. Dave froze for a second until he was certain the man wouldn’t rouse. His name was Brendan Toohey and, in the week since Dave had been shifted to this cubicle from his one on the thirty-second floor, he’d been going out of his way to stamp his authority over Dave.
Dave didn’t really understand it – maybe that was all the man had left now: the need to prove himself the alpha male – but he knew enough to keep out of the man’s way. He’d seen how Brendan looked at him. Dave knew he was just looking for the smallest excuse to send those meaty fists into action. So far, Dave had managed to avoid it; a streak that he hoped would continue. His bony frame would be no match for the muscular one Brendan possessed and he just didn’t have the energy for fighting anyway.
It amazed him that anyone did. He just didn’t get how they could stare out the window and not understand the world was ending. How the petty victories they won with their fists could mean anything in the face of the destruction outside. The extra scrap of food. The extra clothes. The fear and deference of their fellow man. So far their only long term achievement was having the soldiers, sick of the violent scuffles they caused, remove the last operational phones so
no one
could contact the outside – though, depending on who you asked, there were different theories about that. The more pessimistic suggested that the soldiers had only taken them, along with the few working computers that hadn't been cleared to make way for beds, because there was no one left out there to contact.
As he eased back the covers and rose to his feet, Dave wondered, as he often had in the three and half months since everything went wrong, how long he’d last if the people sharing the skyscraper at 532 Collins Street knew the full story. What they’d do if they knew he was the one responsible for it all. He suspected it might be the one thing that allowed them to put aside their petty differences and get along. At least until he had been reduced to a battered and pulped shadow of his former self.
Tiptoeing through the sprawled bodies of his fellow survivors, the usual lament played through his mind.
Should have killed the kid. Should have fucking killed the kid.
As usual, Dave pushed it down. He exited the cubicle and stepped through the dull, half-light to the reinforced glass window. Without fear, he leaned his full body against the pane and briefly pictured himself crashing through and plummeting down to the deserted street below. A futile dream, he knew. He’d seen enough people hurl themselves at the panes only to come rebounding right back with spit heads and broken bones. He knew they were unbreakable.
Instead, Dave eased away a little and scanned the windows of the building across the street; a mirror image of his own. For awhile there he’d met up with a kindred spirit across the way. Another young man who’d taken to waking early. It had only been a little thing but Dave had always enjoyed the early morning wave they’d shared. It was a good reminder that there was life still present outside the four walls that enclosed him. But the man had been absent for three days now. He tried not to think about what might have happened to him; pushed it down like he did the thoughts of his role in the apocalypse that was unfurling around him.
It was something he’d become very adept at.
Either that or go completely bonkers.
Seeing Monty was bad enough – even if the old man claimed he wasn't a figment of Dave's imagination, he still wasn't one hundred percent convinced. He didn’t want to know what other horrors lurked down in his subconscious. What other things might be unleashed if he didn’t keep forcing the knowledge down.
The millions dead as it had spread across the country. The cities and towns reduced to ruins. The evil he was responsible for unleashing. His family. Naomi. Gone.
Stop it!
Dave lightly tapped his head on the glass. Not hard enough to wake anyone but with enough force to clear his thoughts.
The sun was starting to rise. A faint glow permeated the dense layer of smoke that hung over the city. It barely made any difference. Darkness was a thing of the past in Melbourne’s CBD. Obliterated by the spotlights that burned 24/7 around the buildings. Night time was only signified within by the banks of fluorescents being extinguished. There wasn’t any real darkness though. Just a weird, grey half-light of the spotlights reflected off the smoke cloud.
Not that the lack of darkness appeared to make any difference to the creatures they were hiding from. Perhaps because of their general makeup, the powers that be had assumed light would be the creatures natural enemy. A sound premise, he supposed. But the claws in the shadows didn’t seem to mind at all. They seemed to operate on whim more than anything. Unfazed by either light or shadow.
It made it impossible to predict what they were going to do next. Although, as Dave looked around, the flames that circled the CBD seemed no closer. Maybe they would be spared for another day. Despite the spotlights and the heavy fortifications the army had put in place, Dave was pretty sure if the creatures wanted to have them, they would. It sort of made him wonder why they hadn’t already. After all, New South Wales and South Australia had fallen quick enough. From what he’d garnered of the last scrambled news bulletins and the skyscraper’s rumour-mill – although that was notoriously unreliable – there were only two little pockets of survivors left there. Only one last remaining military outpost in Sydney and the town of Coober Pedy which had been mysteriously ignored by the creatures as they made their way into the Northern Territory and down across the water, chasing the refugee boats into Tasmania.
The way they’d allowed Victoria’s survivors to be funneled into Melbourne’s skyscrapers smacked a little – to him anyway – of animals being mustered for one last trip to the slaughterhouse.
A feeling that, like the others, Dave did his best to push down. Turning away from the window helped and he set off down the path between cubicles to the large glass doors bearing the
Ciamantti’s Corporate Affairs
logo, noting that the poor kid with the zombified mum two cubicles down was finally getting some sleep. Sometimes it seemed that every time he passed the poor bastard was staring up at him with his doe eyes. Even though his bladder wasn’t protesting too loudly yet, Dave wanted to attend to it before the morning rush had the toilets reeking so bad that people resorted to taking care of business in the stairwells instead.
The building was clearly not used to the bulk of people currently held within its walls. So far the power, and mercifully the air-conditioning, had held out – although Dave doubted it would for much longer – but the plumbing had been the first thing to go. Although Ciamantti’s had obviously been devoted to green technology and installed various microbe urinals which had been complemented by the chemical toilets the army trucked in, it was clear that the waste was winning the battle. Constant blockages and overflows had ruined the majority of the stalls and Dave often pictured the fat and bloated microbes, reclining on chaise lounges, saying: ‘But seriously, I couldn’t eat another thing…’
The foyer outside the glass doors was choked with the detritus of the office it used to lead into. Stacked between the doors and the army-commandeered elevators were desks and ergonomically designed chairs. Five deep and complemented by piles of computers and phones; all of it stacked high like some technological bonfire awaiting a match.
Dave picked his way through and turned into a short corridor that ran parallel to the former ‘open plan office’. The smell hit immediately, coating his throat and sinuses but he pressed on. There was something about not using the correct facilities that struck Dave as admitting defeat. Although, looking at the piles and puddles that had appeared in the corridor since the previous morning, it was clear that others didn’t share his fortitude.
The cleaning crews that the army had originally assigned had quickly died out; another sign, in Dave’s opinion, that the end was nearing. If the military no longer cared about keeping things clean, it was clear they were losing hope. Lately the rumour-mill had it that desertion was up from a trickle to a hemorrhage. That seemed ridiculous to Dave.
Where the fuck would they go?
Dave passed the door with a silhouette of a lady and then pushed through the one with the man. The smell doubled in intensity as the door creaked open and Dave gagged, pausing to fortify himself before he stepped in.
There was grunting coming from one of the stalls as he squelched across the floor.
Another couple of early risers,
he thought. He ignored them as he reached the urinal much as he ignored the floating layer of scum on the half filled bowl. As he unzipped and fished his penis from his jeans he wondered exactly what the female of the two grunts was bartering for.
Must be something big to be doing it in here,
he thought as he remembered John Franks from his previous cubicle. The rat faced man with his masterplan: the hoarded stock of tampons and pads he kept stuffed in the pillow he carried around with him all day.
‘It’s the biggest hit to their pride,’ he was fond of telling Dave, who he’d decided to take under his wing and reveal all his trade secrets to. ‘You’d be amazed at what the girlies will be willing to do if the flow is a-coming and they don’t have a stock of these puppies on hand.’ Then his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Anal, oral. I’ve had the works I tell you.’ That slimy grin perforating his face. ‘These bitches will even let you fucking piss on them. All because of these.’
John Franks was one of the reasons Dave hadn’t kicked up a fuss when he’d been reshuffled in the cubicle lottery – a term coined by his fellow inhabitants for the seemingly random shuffling of people the soldiers occasionally indulged in. Sure he had to deal with Brendan Toohey now but even the threat of physical violence was preferable to John’s smug gloating and blow by blow recounting of his latest conquests.
His bladder took a little while to get started while he tried not to listen to the grunting. When it did finally kick in, he unleashed little more than a thin, syrupy trickle. The water ration had been cut again last week to barely half a bottle a day. Dave was no doctor but he was pretty sure that wasn’t enough to live on for very long. The rumour–mill had an opinion on that too. Further cuts were apparently in the offing. A sign of how quickly things had spread; how hasty the army’s response had needed to be. Clearly there hadn’t been time to hoard adequate supplies. Three months into their self-imposed siege and already things were getting desperately short.
The grunting from the cubicle started to be interspersed with splashing and choking. Dave felt his gorge rising as he zipped up and made his way to the row of sinks for his morning bath. Another benefit of rising early: you got first use of the sinkful of water the army allowed for “general hygiene”. Come later in the day and… well, Dave knew why most people preferred not bathing at all.
He stripped off his t-shirt and cupped his hands in the cool water. The sensation made him want to plunge in face first and drink for all he was worth but he knew that'd be a mistake. The faint odour of disinfectant rising from the basin didn't really do justice to how potently chemical it actually tasted.
The water felt good on his skin as he scrubbed but even the simple pleasure was ruined as he heard the cubicle door swing open and his eyes darted to the mirror of their own accord.
The man exiting was adjusting the pants of his rumpled suit and froze as he saw Dave’s naked back. There was brief eye contact in the reflective glass then the man cleared his throat, reached into his pocket and lobbed a couple of sugar sachets into the open door then quickly strode away.
When he heard the whimpering left in the man’s wake, Dave felt strangely dizzy and swayed forward, clasping the sides of the basin to keep himself upright as he squeezed his eyes shut.
It didn’t help. All he was treated to was Monty’s blazing eyes looming from the darkness; the ghostly echo of his words:
old debt needs older magic. Paid in blood…
Dave felt the urge to vomit and just knew what would be waiting when he opened his eyes. He wasn’t disappointed.
Even though he still wasn't fully convinced this incarnation of Monty wasn't just a figment of his imagination, the man looked so life-like standing just behind his right shoulder.