The Death Agreement (14 page)

"Gotta be a power surge," I
said.

Then the silence was shattered
again by a third explosion, a foundation-rattling blast.

"What the…?" I walked to the
window and peeked outside. The whole campus seemed to be without
power. The crescent moon provided the only light for miles. Though
I had hoped to see several electrical crews working, the street was
deserted, and a sudden need to go outside overwhelmed me. I felt my
way through the darkness to the door, hoping that when I opened it,
I would find light on the other side.

The hallway was just as dark, and
after I closed the door behind me, cutting off the dim moonlight,
the pitch black felt viscous. My throat tightened and my breathing
quickened. I pulled in each breath through my open mouth to make as
little noise as possible. When the floor creaked below my feet,
dread like I've never experienced stabbed through me.

Every step was deliberate,
careful. I did not know why I was so frightened, but fear is immune
to logic, so I walked slowly toward the faint red glow of the exit
sign at the end of the hall. I sensed the doors to my sides as I
went, and my jaw tightened in anticipation of them bursting open.
Absolute silence would be my only protection from what may lay
ahead, sneak up from behind, or attack from either side.

I stared at the glowing sign and
watched it grow larger with every small step. It felt like a
lifetime, maybe even longer, but I finally made it to the door and
let out a relieved sigh as I pressed on the latch and pushed. The
door creaked open, and I stepped out onto the fire escape, looked
up at the starless night sky, and took in deep breaths of the cool
March air.

Light from the fingernail moon
reflected off of the fog, creating a broken halo effect. The
parking lot below the fire escape was mostly empty, and at the far
end, the seemingly black leaves of the maple trees swayed,
beckoning me forward.

I descended the rusted staircase,
scanning for signs of movement. The campus was supposed to have a
couple dozen people stationed, and soldiers were always outside,
regardless of the hour…yet everything was eerily still.

I kept looking back down to the
parking lot, then my attention fell on a car and I couldn't pull my
gaze away. There was something about it.

I racked my mind trying to find a
reason why that car seemed so familiar, then a memory flashed: Me
standing on the fire escape, calling out to Mary, letting her know
to come up that way to avoid the soldier at the front
desk.

The car belonged to
her.

I quickened my pace. Once off the
steps, I ran through the parking lot, hoping I had been mistaken.
As I approached the front of the car, a figure standing in the
grass at the edge of the parking lot darted into the shadow of the
building. "Mary?" I called out and heard footsteps running on
pavement, drawing closer.

I rounded the corner of the car
and had a fraction of a second to register the butt end of a rifle
before it slammed into my face.

***

I opened my eyes and my vision
cleared on a pair of loafers standing on the pavement. A hand came
down and slapped my cheek, then one of the shoes kicked me in the
ribs, rolling me onto my back. I heard the unmistakable
chi-chink
of a
pump-action shotgun, then a barrel appeared inches from my
eyes.

The gun moved aside. Yang stood
over me, eyes wide and bloodshot, jaw clenched and trembling. "I
thought you were one of them," he said, hold out his
hand.

I stared at it, but didn't
move.

"Get up, Jon," he insisted. I
gripped his hand, and he pulled me to my feet. "You all
right?"

I spit out a mouthful of blood.
"Think I swallowed a tooth," I said, rubbing the side of my
face.

Yang smiled. "You're lucky I
didn't blow your head off."

"How do I know you're not?" I held
my hands up, spreading my fingers. "You helped a mass murderer
steal evidence, and you're a fugitive. And what the hell do you
mean you '
thought I was one of
them?'
"

"We need to go somewhere safe to
talk."

"We can go up to my room. We'll
call someone to sort this out."

Yang rested the shotgun on his
shoulder and shook his head. "It isn't safe there. Come on." He
turned and began walking away.

"Wait!" I yelled. "This car
belongs to a friend of mine. I can't leave until I find
her."

Yang stopped and looked back.
"Trust me, you don't want to."

***

Yang peeked into the window of the
headquarters building, the room was cast in a dull red glow from
the emergency lighting system.

"Did you kill the power?" I
asked.

"No. Most of it had already been
cut by the time I got here. Transformers have been going off all
over the base."

"I heard three go."

Yang nodded. "The whole place is
dark now." He looked through another window. "Okay," he said. "It
still looks safe. Let's go see the base commander."

I followed Yang around to the back
entrance. The door hung open, broken from the frame.

"Inside, move," Yang
ordered.

I stepped into the building, sure
that he intended to blow a hole through my back. When the shot
didn't come, I said, "Colonel Litwell wouldn't be here this
late."

"He's…." Yang sighed. "He's not.
Jon, I'll tell you everything, but you won't believe me unless you
see with your own eyes, all right? We just need to get to his
office."

I nodded and led the way to
Litwell's door, finding that it had been ripped from the hinge and
lay on the hallway floor.

"What the hell happened
here?"

The commander's office had been
destroyed. Glass and broken furniture covered the floor. Sitting
behind the battered desk, bathed in red light, Colonel Litwell lay
with his head down on top of his folded arms.

"Sir?" I took a step
forward.

Litwell did not move. I stepped
closer.

"Sir? It's Lieutenant Randon," I
said, reaching out to shake his arm. I touched him and pulled my
hand away from his ice cold skin. "Oh, god."

"He got to him before I could,"
Yang said, walking up beside me. "I knew he'd come back here, and I
wanted to warn the colonel to lock the base down. Couldn't risk
calling." He grabbed Litwell by the shoulders and slid back his
chair. "I think he came here for the station list to find out who
else would be on base and where they would be." He pointed to a
crumpled sheet of paper clutched in Litwell's fist.

Yang swung the chair around so
that I could see Litwell's whole body. Only Litwell didn't have a
whole body. The bottom half of him was missing, entrails and thick,
black gore spilling out onto the floor, terror etched on his dead
face, frozen in a final scream. The blood-red light illuminating
what was left of his corpse perfectly conveyed the agony that he
must had felt.

I turned away and threw up. "We
have to call for help," I said, wiping away the spittle hanging
from my still-sore lip. "We have to go to the MP
station."

Yang shook his head. "I found the
guards at the front gate dead when I arrived. Went to the station
next. They're all dead, too. It's a bloodbath. I came across
several other bodies while making my way to your room. All of them
butchered, parts missing. Some were still alive…I shot
them."

"What—"

Yang held up a hand. "I had to.
They were helping him."

I had been stepping away from Yang
without realizing it. My back hit the wall, and I said, "You're
telling me you killed wounded men?"

Yang nodded. "That's why we're not
calling for help. Not yet."

"Just let me go. I won't tell
anyone I saw you." I lowered myself to the floor, noticing all the
broken picture frames, each containing a photo of Litwell smiling
and shaking hands with politicians. I tried to reconcile the man in
the photo with the mass of butchered dead flesh in the
chair.

Yang walked over and sat down next
to me. He leaned the shotgun against the wall in the space between
us. I thought about grabbing for it, but Yang's expression told me
he knew what I was thinking.

After a moment of silence, he
began his tale in a slow and even tone:

"Howard Taylor's residence…I knew
the bastard we've been after was nearby. He'd been staying in that
house, hiding, planning, whatever.

"Once the Feds took over the scene,
I left the house to head home. Keys in hand, I approached my car,
but I sensed someone watching me. I noticed my trunk lid bent then
saw a streak of blood on the handle, so I pulled my gun.
'Come out with your hands up,'
I shouted, then glanced toward the house, hoping
someone could back me up. The trunk flew open, catching me off
guard. I fired…once, twice, three time. I had to have hit him, but
he was fast. Somehow managed to knock my gun away and grab me by
the throat."

"Was it Alan Goodtime?"

Yang shook his head and laughed.
"Goodtime! Oh, the good time will come for me, but not yet. Not
yet."

I stared at him, furrowing my
brow. Yang had lost his mind. Trying my best to remain calm, I
asked, "What happened next?"

Yang closed his eyes and leaned
his head back against the wall. "I tried to fight…. Hooded, long
grey jacket. Military issue, but old. I couldn't see his face. He
was strong. Then I wake up in the rear seat of my car, hands tied
behind my back. We're parked outside of my apartment. He's going
through my wallet, and holds up a picture of Lin and Brandon. He
tells me what he wants, and he tells me what he's going to do to
them if I don't help him get what he wants."

"Your brother's wife and
nephew?"

Yang nodded. "I agreed to help. I
took him inside the station, and he walked behind me, pressing the
gun against my spine. When we got to the evidence locker, instead
of killing me, he only knocked me out. I don't know how he managed
to get away, but what choice did I have, Jon? What
choice?"

"You needed to protect your
family, but why did you run? The other cops would have understood
that you were being forced."

"No. They wouldn't have
listened."

"Why not? Now they think you're
guilty."

Yang turned toward me, his eyes
wide and wild. "They would have asked if I saw the man's face and I
wouldn't have been able to lie."

I met his stare. "Why would that
make you think you needed to run? Who was it, Yang?"

He opened his mouth to speak, lips
trembling, and then he answered both of my questions with a name:
"Jesse Taylor."

SECTION VIII -
VISIT THE DEAD

A window shattered in the next room. Yang held
his finger to his lips, then whispered, "It's one of them. We have
to move."

I nodded, got to my feet, and
stepped back slowly. Glass shards from broken picture frames
crackled like popcorn between the sole of my shoe and the hardwood
floor. The sound seemed to amplify in the quiet command
building.

Even though I struggled to process
the absurdity of what Yang had told me, I still trusted him. Jesse
was dead. Jesse's body had been cremated. What Yang had said was
impossible…. Whoever had helped Taylor kill his family, whoever had
threatened Yang, was somewhere on the base. If it wasn't Alan
Goodtime, it was someone that knew Taylor well enough to
impersonate him, someone who knew him as if he were
family.

Yang held the shotgun against his
shoulder. He stepped into the hall. "This way."

Blood dotted the hallway in a
series of splatters leading toward a room two doors down. I tore
off a large shard of wood from the broken frame. "I noticed a blood
trail like that outside my room."

"Then everyone in there is dead,"
Yang said and walked slowly down the hall.

I followed him with the makeshift
stake trembling in my sweaty palm.