Protect All Monsters Page 7

  Dawn asked her cohort, “You’re not going to throw me in there with the wolves, are you?”

  Harold scoffed at the notion. “You’re being paranoid. No, I’m not. Now drop it.”

  “I am paranoid, and I’m armed too, just so you know. Quick to the draw. Do you know I practice on the target range every night? I can hit a target from fifty yards out.”

  Harold insisted, “I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “But you’ve heard of how it goes during these jobs. The manager picks one of us to entrap the other in the holding area, and they shoot the person and leave them to be devoured. I’m scared, is all. I’m practical. Bill Richards got it last week. Shelly Anderson the previous week. And Shelly was my best friend. I could trust her. She was afraid somebody would shoot her in the legs and leave her for the wolves, and they did.”

  “The setup goes both ways, Dawn.” He was growing tired of reassuring his partner she was safe. “I’m in as much danger as you are. You’re being disrespectful. And ridiculous.”

  “Am I?”

  They reached the end of the blank corridor. That’s where Harold opened a steel door. Inside, a kitchen-size room met them, the white paint chipping because of the climate, the area itself eighty degrees with 70 percent humidity. They placed their boxes into a wire basket similar to a mail slot. They shoved it forward, and the items dropped into the arena behind the wall. Moments later, the rage and howl and guttural boiling of beasts battled to claim the items. They were merely toys. Plastic blocks with human heads staked in the middle. Sealed metal tubes stuffed with deer hearts, pig entrails, vulture feet, cow tongues, hooves, dehydrated human flesh and other organs. The contraption was set on a timer. Sometimes the container would hold for fifteen minutes, and other times for many hours. Other items thrown in were rubber balls with frozen eyes stuck in their cores. The wolves also loved rubber balls, rope toys, dehydrated pig ears and pizzles.

  Dawn sensed Harold shift, reaching for his belt. He was too slow, and she was quick. Unlucky bastard. She unholstered her Dolson .28 pistol and fired three times. She caught Harold twice in the stomach. He bled profusely, the smell of sulfur and warm blood tainting the air. He slid down the wall, his mouth gaping open and closed like a suffocating fish. His eyes were unblinking and trained on her, his executioner, and he laughed hysterically, coughing up blood.

  “What’s so fucking funny?”

  He was smiling with heavy blood coloring his lips. “This is the way I wanted to go. It worked out exactly the way they said it would.”

  “You smug bastard. What are you saying? What’s working out? Speak up!”

  “I learned I’m in the fourth stage of pancreatic cancer. Too many Scotch and sodas.”

  She backed up against the wall to firmly root herself in place, or else she’d fall over in anxiety. “Then you were expecting me to shoot you.”

  “I could either die by the wolves, they said, or I could let you kill me, and…and you could die by the wolves instead.”

  The door, the only safe way out of the room, clicked. Locked by itself. Dawn frantically tried to open it.

  The door into the wolf chamber ticked, on a timer.

  Soon it would open.

  Harold glanced up at her one more time. “You have two minutes before the door into the arena opens and they come to eat you.”

  She trained the Dolson to her temple. “Fuck all of you!”

  And she pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twelve

  The knocking drew her from a deep sleep. “Wake up, Ruanova.” She’d achieved good rest because her body was exhausted. Deke’s death, the harrowing interview with Mr. Quinn, and then the long boat ride out to the PAM Complex would have left anybody heavy in the eyes. But she was sluggish rising up from the slumber. She struggled to change into new clothes expediently. She only had half an hour to prepare.

  This is just like normal life. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  She wore a bra—the equivalent of a sports bra, but the fabric had been reused and washed and was itchy—a white button-up shirt and black khaki pants. She clipped on the holster and immediately felt like a gunslinger during a showdown.

  She brushed her teeth and splashed ice-cold water into her face. She perked up for the sake of staying safe. Monsters. Rapists. Anything could happen, and there would be no apologies, only condolences—if that.

  What do they do with the people that die here?

  The question would weigh on her mind for a long time.

  Addey stood vigilant outside the door. She recognized many people from the boat crew yesterday: Herman, Todd and Angela Weathers—the hippie couple looking anything but themselves in the work attire—and Todd Lamberson, the cop. She expected all the inhabitants of the hallway to be standing outside the doors, but only the new crew was awakened. Everybody else was either enjoying food in the lounge, reading in the library, or roaming the halls tired- faced. They worked in shifts, she realized, and once inducted into the work force, it was normal leisure time after the job was done.

  What kind of job she’d be inducted into was her topmost worry.

  Grace Mooney walked down the hall, checking the names off on a clipboard. Richard entered the scene. She tried to look him in the eye, but he shrugged her off completely. He looked aggravated.

  He raised his voice. “Okay, people, I have a little bit of time to show you around. This tour does not involve where you work. These are the places you can go when your work is done. I consider free time as important as anything else. I don’t want burnouts. I want solid help. You will be evaluated according to your work output.

  “Follow me, and keep up. At the end of the tour, you will be given a job. This is picked in the lottery, completely random—so no complaints. You will do rotations, so the job you are assigned, you won’t be stuck at forever.”

  Grace urged them to follow behind Richard, and the woman became the anchor of the line. He guided them to a hall without rooms. Leaving there, the way opened up, and he pointed to the left. “Here’s your gym. You’ve got a full weight room with treadmills, elliptical machines, running track, Olympic-size pool and saunas. The gym is open 24/7.”

  The walkway ahead shocked her. The strip of department stores were out of place. But then she recalled a special on the Iraq war and how encampments had fast food and retail stores just the same as real life. Richard pointed to the area that was equivalent to a city block. “Here’s your mall, folks. You’ve got Dillard’s, Macy’s, Dick’s Sporting Goods, Target, Redbox, Glamour Shots, a tavern and dance club and even a movie theater.

  “At the end of each week, you will receive an envelope of cash stuffed under your door. This is yours to do with as you wish. Rent a movie, go see a movie, buy new clothes and hit the dance floor. The club opens at ten p.m. and closes at five in the morning.”

  Richard pointed farther back to a store that was untitled, a red curtain drawn across the entrance where two security guards stood in place. “That is your red-light district. You want peep shows, lap dances, or,” he cleared his throat, “sex, that’s the place you go.”

  She was shocked at the elaborate setup. A panel of people had decided what humans liked: movies, food, sex and dancing. How about fresh air? Walks in nature? How about not imprisoning people? How about not being attacked by monsters?

  The leisure block was there and gone, and then they entered a large cafeteria. The medley of smells caused her stomach to grumble: bacon, eggs, sausage, hash browns, French toast, pancakes, Belgian waffles, doughnuts, Danishes, tortes, omelets, steaks, breakfast sandwiches, fresh fruit heaped in baskets, and snack cakes, among many other items in the buffet area. The seating reminded her of high school: long tables unfolded with chairs already installed into them. The noisy bustle of conversations and eating was deafening outside the room. She imagined there were four hundred people occupying the space. This was a small city, and it functioned like a well-oiled machine.

  Richard checked
his watch. “One last thing before I let you eat. You will be responsible for showing up at your shift on time. You balance your free time as you wish. The consequences will be heavy if you’re late or absent. If you’re sick, either you or a coworker must tell your shift manager about it. We’ll have our medical staff look you over and diagnose you. You have a telephone in your room. If there’s any confusion or an emergency, call the operator. They’ll help you get everything in order. Okay, so you have thirty minutes to eat. The cafeteria is open at all hours. Anything you want, they can cook up from scratch. So eat up, and then it’s off to work. I’ll be waiting at the east door. Thirty minutes, people; let’s get a move on.”

  The group dispersed to the buffet. She was hungry despite her reservations about everything. There were so many questions and concerns, but she already knew they wouldn’t be answered. She had to live a day—a week—in this place, and she’d have the routine down.

  The more things change…

  She survived the crowd by choosing strawberry yogurt and a bacon and cheese biscuit. The moment she sat down, Herman invited himself to sit down right across from her. “We’ve got to stick together, girl. Hey, at least they have good eats.”

  She wanted to be alone, but he was harmless. He was trying to make jokes. He was also a friend among strangers, and she decided she better be nice to him if she was stuck here forever.

  Forever.

  I wonder what the suicide rate is around here.

  Again, that menacing question loomed: What do they do when somebody dies? Bury them at sea?

  She laughed softly to herself. If there’s a cemetery, they nixed that from the tour.

  “What’s so funny?” Herman eyed her quizzically. “Are you losing it? You’re the only one I know around here that’s stayed relatively calm. Don’t go batty on me.”

  “I’m not losing it.” She took a bite out of her sandwich. “How about you?”

  “I’m alive, I have a pulse. What else do I need?” He cut up his steak into triangles and broke the yolk of his sunny-side-up eggs. “I haven’t had this powerful of a breakfast in years.”

  Todd Lamberson, the boisterous cop, plopped down beside Herman. “Hey, guys, I recognize you from the boat.” He wore a defiant expression. He ate a Powerbar and orange juice. “What do you think of their setup? Movie theater, and then the strip of stores? They’re breaking us down pretty fast. Thirty minutes to eat. Thirty minutes to get ready to work. They’ll have us worn down by the grind in no time.”

  Addey popped her knuckles. “They hold the cards. I’m more worried about the kind of work we’re going to be doing. You saw those pictures in that file they had us read.”

  Todd shook his head. “Monsters don’t exist. Until I meet one up close and personal, it’s just a doctored picture. This island is for something else. The fucking government can do anything they want. This is a front for something else, I’m telling you.”

  They finished their food in defeated silence. She figured they could dissect it and argue the origins and reasons for the facility anytime, but survival came first.

  The half hour mark crept up on them with alarming speed. Richard blew an ear-piercing whistle and talked into his bullhorn. “Throw away your leftovers and get in line right now.”

  The cafeteria hushed for a moment. The seasoned workers eyed them with sympathy. Others laughed, sharing a joke at their expense. Addey ignored them equally and walked toward the line. She hoped Richard would have mercy on her, give her a kind word or an easy job. The way he’d addressed her on the boat, he wasn’t the same person now. Here, he was a cold professional.

  Richard guided them away from the mall, the cafeteria and the places of leisure. They were ushered into a large conference room with a stage and no chairs. Armed guards stood vigil, guarding both sides of the podium. A man stood, his chest extended, out behind that podium. He was a striking man just like Richard, but with a used-up vigor. The man had a buzz cut, permanently clenched jaw and hard muscles in every inch of his physique. He had to be in his late forties, if not older. He was dressed in cargo pants and a white shirt with a green vest, lending him a military facade.

  Everybody was quiet. Richard joined the man at the podium. He introduced the stranger, “This is the director of operations, Carl Brenner. He has a few things to touch upon before we get to work.”

  Brenner’s words were a raspy drill sergeant’s. “Welcome to the PAM Complex. Your world has been turned upside down. Your time to bitch and complain is over. I don’t want to hear it. You can cry into your pillows and talk it out among each other, but only during your free time. Work is work. You can die doing your job. Many have, people, so don’t be shocked. You can even die being careful. The guns strapped to your hips mean nothing. Running is your best option when attacked. If you die, there will be no funeral. You are already dead to your families and on paper. Your life is serving the government. Your life is serving me.

  “We have a schedule to keep, so this will be short. Each of our special guests resides in sectioned-off quarters. We let them out during specific times of the day and only on specific floors of the facility. Each of you will be assigned—picked at random—to each floor. You will be rotated so you’re trained to work each job. Cross-training comes with benefits. Days off. Cash bonuses. We never close, people. Our hours are 24/7 indefinitely. You will be assigned a pager. Keep it on you at all times. Once you’re summoned, you show up to work, no questions asked. If you’re late, you receive a cut in pay. If you continue to be late, you will be assigned the less desired of jobs. Stay cautious. Be strong. No bitching. We’re here to protect the world from this threat. You’re doing your country a great service. Thank you.”

  She eagerly awaited her assignment. Brenner left the stage, and Richard took the helm. He opened a folder. “I will read the names in order of their station. I will point out your station manager, and you will stand and form a line in front of them. These names are for the third floor: Jenny Davis, Annie Hampton, Anton Martinez…”

  Her name wasn’t called.

  “Second floor, east wing…Herman Richards, Becky Sullivan, Gerry Halloway…”

  “That’s my cue,” Herman said, patting Addey on the back. “Hang in there. We’ll talk later. We’ll share stories.”

  He filed through the crowd and into the line. She missed him already. A familiar face was like a best friend in this horrible place.

  Richard read off the list for the second floor west wing, the first floor, and then he called out a list for the sublevel.

  Her name was on that list.

  She walked to the line. The manager reminded her of a Barbados panhandler with long dreadlocks and dark skin, and he wore a yellow hazmat suit. The other lines, the leaders were well clad, and she easily deduced that she’d been assigned the lowest of the low of duties.

  “My name is Douglas. Follow me to the pit.”

  She was on high alert. The adrenaline kept her sharp.

  Moving on, Douglas used a key card to unlock a large freight elevator located south of the conference room. There were fifty of them in the group. The clustered confinement quickly smelled of sweating flesh and frayed nerves. Douglas whistled under his breath. This was just another day at the job for him.

  “I feel so important.” The man laughed to himself. “There’s an awe of silence in my honor.”

  The man exuded that dickhead persona. He was in charge, and the power was manipulating him. She didn’t feel the least bit safe.

  The elevator ticked down to the sublevel. There were two sublevels. Each level, it grew colder—near freezing. The elevator stopped, but it didn’t open. Douglas turned around to face them. “You will be given a pager, and you will pick out a hazmat suit. This is hard labor. You will be sore after today. I suggest changing out of your clothes and only wearing your undergarments. It gets hot very fast. You’ll have fifteen minutes to change. Tomorrow, you will report at the freight elevator at exactly eight o’clock. You will receive a
wake-up call at six thirty sharp. If you sleep in, that’s your problem—your punishment.”

  Douglas was about to open the elevator when somebody asked, “What exactly are we doing?”

  He smiled. “Let me put it this way…you’re about to meet the living dead.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The freight elevator opened with an audible struggle of power cables. She expected a wide expanse of a room, but this was a smaller chamber outside of a greater entity. A locker room formed one side; on the other side, hazmat suits hung according to a person’s size and weight. The room was sterile smelling, an air freshener working overtime at the ceiling.

  Douglas commanded, “Pick a locker, change, put on the hazmat suit and stand at the door marked Entry. You have fifteen minutes. Move it, people. The last thing you want to be is fired from the worst job this place has to offer. You won’t like the consequences.”

  She lifted a yellow hazmat suit from the hook and picked out a locker and began to strip. She had her pants off when Douglas spoke under his breath. “Nice, very nice. You’re going to be fine, Addey.”

  Fucking asshole, go blow it out your ass.

  She didn’t turn around. She worked faster to change into the suit. Her world was enclosed within a gas mask. Thirty seconds, and her air intake was already stagnant and warm. Her breath kept fogging up the plastic shield over her eyes. This is going to get claustrophobic in no time.

  She shoved her clothes into the locker. They had no locks, so she memorized the number 22 and hoped for the best. Perhaps people didn’t survive long enough to merit personal security, she supposed.

  Douglas was roaming about the lockers, eyeing the women lasciviously.

  Don’t be afraid to defend yourself…nobody will hold it against you.

  She waited in line before the steel double doors with the word in dripping, spray-painted lettering over the top: Entry.

  Douglas kept his mask off until the last minute before entering the next section. “Your job is to shovel what comes from the ceiling chute into the gutters. That’s it. I’ll play the radio to keep you motivated. We work for two hours, take a thirty-minute break and repeat the process. On the way in, you’ll see a chamber that looks like a shower stall. This will spray you with a cleaning solution at high pressure. There’s a break room nearby right before you reach the showers. There’s food, drinks—alcohol included—and a place to sit down and watch TV or read or sleep.”