Halfhead - Страница 25

Quietly she slides forward, peering over the wall of toilet paper. And there they are: a woman with perky breasts lying back on a big box of surgical gloves, her companion kneeling in front of her. She’s got her hands behind her head, moaning and squirming as he licks and slurps between her legs. And then it happens. The woman opens her eyes and realizes she’s being watched. She’s pretty. Not beautiful-her face is too pointed for that-but she’s definitely pretty. It is a shame she’ll have to die.

A frown flits across her face-does she tell her partner there’s someone staring at them, or does she close her eyes again and sink back into the moment?

She makes the wrong choice. ‘Norman?’

Dr Westfield would have let her come before killing her. After all, she’s not a monster. Not all the time.

‘Norman!’ The woman slaps her partner on the head and points up towards the nest of toilet paper.

‘Ow, Jesus, Kris! What was that for?’

‘Up there!’ she says, pointing again. ‘Someone’s watching us.’

‘What?’ Norman jumps to his feet and stands there, erection bobbing about like a cheeky pink sausage. ‘Jesus! Oh Jesus!’ He scrambles back into his trousers. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have come down here! Oh Jesus, we’re for it now!’

They’ve been playing doctors and nurses. Now it’s time to play killer and victims.

Dr Westfield slips out of her nest and down to the storeroom floor, spilling toilet rolls everywhere.

The naked woman narrows her eyes. ‘What’s a halfhead doing in here?’

‘Why did I let you talk me into this?’

‘I talked you into this?’

‘It’ll go on our permanent records!’

‘Oh really?’ Kris places one hand on her hip and pokes him in the chest with the other. ‘I didn’t hear you complaining five minutes ago when I was sucking your dick!’

‘I can’t afford to lose this job!’ He drags his shirt over his head and bends to grab his labcoat from the pile of discarded clothes. He doesn’t see the blow that ends Kris’s life, by the time he turns around she’s lying on the concrete floor, a pool of deep, shiny red seeping out from the back of her head.

‘Kris?’ Norman steps forward. Stops. Swallows. ‘Oh Jesus…’

He looks up at Dr Westfield, then down at the bone-hammer in her hand.

His face goes slack and he wets himself.

Calmly she steps over Kris’s body and holds up the stainless steel mallet. Clumps of hair glisten on the striking surface and she pauses for a moment to sniff the delicious coppery smell of fresh blood.

‘Oh Jesus, no…’ Tears sparkle in his big, blue eyes. ‘Please don’t kill me! Please!’ He turns to run, but his feet don’t seem to be working. He stumbles into the stack of disinfectant and goes sprawling across the blood-slicked floor.

‘No, no, Jesus no…’ Norman scrabbles away on his hands and knees, making for the door. She follows him, staying just far enough back to make him think he has a chance. She lets him get as far as the keypad before raising the hammer in her hand.

‘Three, six…three, six…’ He sobs. ‘Oh Jesus, what comes after six?’

He can’t remember the code. He knows this is his only chance of getting out of here alive and he can’t remember the code.

Something warm tingles up and down her body as she watches him struggle. She hasn’t felt this aroused in six long, dark years.

She bounces the bone-hammer off the back of his head, not hard enough to kill him, just hard enough to stun him for a while. Then she drags his flabby body into the depths of the supply room.

The man in the toilets doesn’t count-she wasn’t in her right mind when she butchered him. The Roadhugger crew were deaths of convenience and the halfheads in the back weren’t alive in the first place, so they don’t count. Kris had to die, because two people were too many to control with just a bone hammer, so she doesn’t count either. But there will be plenty of time to enjoy this one. This one counts.

‘It’s going to take a while for the machinery to analyse the data.’ George made horrible noises into his hanky. ‘You want a cup of coffee?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’ Will sat on the edge of the postmortem table, shivering. It was freezing in here. George was wrapped up nice and snugly, but Will was as naked as the stiff on the next slab.

He hopped down to the floor. ‘Got a terminal I could use for a minute? Want to check my email.’

George pointed him at the main console, then handed him a cup of coffee and a clean-ish looking labcoat. It wasn’t much, but it was better than getting back into those gaudy tatters with blood all down the front.

Will rattled out a quick burst on the keyboard, then nodded at the little pathologist. ‘Think your connection’s down.’

‘What? It was working fine a minute ago-’

Will slapped a hand over George’s mouth and pointed at the screen.

‘I think I’ve been bugged.’

George read it, curled his top lip, then stared at Will. ‘What?’

Will poked at the keyboard with his free hand.

‘They’re probably listening right now-I want them to think the test results didn’t show anything suspicious. Understand?’

George pulled Will’s hand away and sniffed.

‘You have got to be kidding me!’

Will made a grab for the fat little man’s mouth again, but George ducked under his arm. ‘Bloody Internal Services. They’ve probably cut through the cable again.’ His podgy fingers rattled across the keyboard.

‘Might just be temporary paranoia caused by neurological trauma, but if that’s the way you want to play it…?’

Will nodded. That was exactly the way he wanted to play it.

Three cups of coffee later George returned with the test results, clutching a palmtop to his chest as if it was a hot water bottle. ‘Other than a couple of torn ligaments and a bit of dehydration you’re going to be fine.’ He handed over the palmtop and Will read the message on the screen:

‘You were right. Two subdermal homing beacons and three listening implants. What do you want me to do?’

Bloody Ken Peitai-rotten little bastard needed taking out and shot. Will tried to force a smile into his voice. ‘Dehydration? Sounds like a good excuse for a pint after work.’ He unfolded the little keyboard.

‘Kill the listening bugs, but leave the homers in place for now. I don’t want them getting suspicious.’

George emptied his nose into his handkerchief. ‘A pint after work?’ He took the pad back. ‘Any chance of it being your round for a change?’

‘The listeners look like standard 397s. Take them ten degrees above body temperature and they short out. A quick injection and a sauna should do it. The homers are more difficult, they’re not like coffin dodgers: they don’t wait for an instruction to transmit. They’re broadcasting your location all the time. There’s one just beneath the subcutaneous fat here.’ He poked Will in the stomach. ‘The other is under your left arm on the wall of the chest. The only way to get rid of them is surgery.’

Not just shot then-Ken Peitai needed castrating.

George blanked the palmtop’s short-term memory. ‘If you’re still sore I can give you a quick injection of muscle relaxants. Then what you want is a sauna and a massage.’

‘Good idea.’

Afterwards Will even bought the first round.

The mop slips and slides across the filthy floor-so much blood for one little man. She dunks the head into the bucket, turning the water a delicate shade of rosy pink. Mop, mop, mop. For some strange reason she enjoys the work. It relaxes her. Mopping, rinsing, mopping, rinsing. Empty the bucket, fill the bucket, add more detergent and then back to mopping and rinsing again.

The dark-red stains gradually lighten and then disappear, leaving shiny, wet concrete that smells of pine.

He was good. Wonderfully soft and yielding. And he screamed so beautifully. She already has her souvenirs floating in a plastic of formaldehyde. Such lovely eyes…

She’ll have to make a little trip to the incinerator later-get rid of Kris and what’s left of Norman-but first she pops the top off an ampoule and snaps her medicine into her neck. It’s good to be back in control again.

And now that the urges are satisfied, she can prepare: she has people to visit. Labs to break into. Tissue samples to culture.

Revenge to take.

14

Darkness fills the lift shaft like a tumour, pressing against him on all sides, throbbing in time with the drums. Relentless, impenetrable, deafening. Will locks his arms around the rusty maintenance ladder and lets his forehead rest against one of the cool rungs.

What sort of fucking idiot thought this would be a good idea…

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a strangled, painful noise.

Will grits his teeth, screws his eyes shut, and bounces his forehead off the ladder. Stupid. Thump. Fucking. Thump. Idiot.

How could he let them take Private Alexander?

He opens his eyes-even though there’s no point: he can’t see anything-and stares up into the darkness. Had to be somewhere near the ground floor by now, surely. All he has to do is lever open the lift doors on the next level he comes to, find the nearest window, tear off the boarding, smash the glass, jump out and run like Hell.

Freedom.

Get the fuck away from this hellhole asylum.

But he doesn’t. Instead he takes a couple of deep breaths and continues down the ladder. Feeling his way rung-by-rung deeper into the darkness. Towards the drums.

The going’s a lot easier without Private Alexander’s weight dragging at him. Now the only thing Will has to carry is the Whomper with the dead battery. It might be little more than a high-tech paperweight, but it’ll still scare the shit out of anyone he points it at. Maybe that would be enough?