Better off Dead

Chapter 28

I guess the guy with the worn-out boots wasn’t as heavy a sleeper as he’d made himself out to be.

His feet were no longer up on the reception counter when I got to the foyer. He was no longer lounging back in his chair. There was no sign of him at all. But two other guys were hanging around. Two of the guys from the previous night. The only two still able to walk. They were waiting for me this time. That was clear. They both puffed up a little when they saw me. Then they moved. The guy who’d been driving stepped in front of the double exit doors, which were closed. And locked, presumably. The guy I’d hit with the ax handle slunk around in the opposite direction. He wound up blocking the way back to the corridor. He needn’t have bothered. I had no intention of going that way.

The men were wearing the same kind of clothes as before. Black T-shirts. Black jeans. Black combat boots. But now the driver’s left arm was in a sling. And they each had a small backpack slung over one shoulder. Both packs were made out of ballistic nylon. Desert sand color, scuffed and stained and well used. And weighed down with something bulky.

The driver said, “Down on the floor. On your front. Hands behind you.”

“Again?” I said. “Really?”

“Get down. Do it now.”

I didn’t move. “Were you dropped on your head when you were a baby? Was your boss? Because honestly, I’m worried. Virtually every creature on the planet has the ability to learn from experience. But not you, apparently. What happened last time you tried this? When you had three buddies to help out. Not just one.”

“Oh, we learn.” The driver nodded. The other guy swung his pack off his shoulder. He pulled back its flap and took out its contents. A full-face respirator. It was black with a butyl rubber coating; drooping, doleful triangular eyepieces; and a round filter case mounted on the left side. It looked like an M40 field protective mask. The kind that had been used by the US Army and the Marine Corps since the 1990s. Not the newest design in the world. Not the most comfortable. But effective. The guy pulled it over his head and tugged on one of the straps.

The driver held his pack between his knees, opened it, and took out an identical mask. He fumbled to put it on with one hand then stood still for a moment. It made him look like a depressed insect. Then he took out another item. A silver canister. It was about the size of a can of baked beans, and it had a ring and a lever sticking out of the top.

“Ever heard of CS gas?” The guy’s words sounded muffled and tinny through the voice emitter at the front of the mask.

I’d more than heard of CS gas. I’d experienced it. Years ago, on the final day of a training module. A dozen of us were locked in a room with an instructor. The instructor placed a CS canister on a metal table in the center of the space. He pulled the pin and tossed it in the air. He was already wearing his mask. An older model. An M17, which was the standard in those days. We had to wait until the pin hit the ground. Then we had twenty seconds to get our masks on. We all made it. That part of the exercise was fine. The next part wasn’t. We had to remove our mask and shout out our name, rank, and number. One at a time. And we could only put our mask back on when the instructor nodded. That was bad. Really bad. But it was even worse if the instructor didn’t like you. If he pretended he couldn’t hear you. If he made you repeat your information. He made one guy repeat his three times. Between each attempt he left a pause. Each one felt like an hour. To us. They must have felt like a year to the poor guy. The front of his smock was soaked with tears and snot and drool by the time we staggered out into the fresh air. He quit the program about ten minutes later.

“Well, we call this DS gas.” The guy held the canister up higher. “Dendoncker Special. It’s like CS on steroids. It burns your eyes so bad you go blind if you don’t get saline in time. And your nose? Your throat? Your lungs? Pain like you will not believe. I promise you.”

I said nothing.

“Last chance,” he said. “Get down on the floor. Do yourself a favor. Because if I have to use this, the game changes. You’re going to have to crawl across to me. Lie at my feet. Beg me to save your eyesight.”

I stayed still. “That’s never going to happen.”

“Come on, man.” The other guy’s voice sounded like a robot’s. “This is science we’re talking about. You can’t fight it. You’ve got to respect the chemistry.”

“Chemistry’s fine.” I still had the gun I’d taken from the guy outside the café. I was tempted to use it. That would solve the immediate problem. But a shot would be heard. And I had no desire to attract attention. Not just then. What I had in mind called for privacy. So I moved slowly to my left. Just until the driver was directly between me and the exit. “But me? I always preferred physics.”

“I warned you.” The driver flicked away the little clip that held the pin against the curved handle. He switched the canister to his left hand. Curled his right index finger through the ring. And gave it a tug.

It didn’t budge.

I guessed this was the guy’s first time. Arming a grenade is harder than it looks in the movies. The locking pin is made of surgical steel. One leg is bent at a steep angle. It needs to be. No one wants to be on the wrong end of an accidental discharge. The guy adjusted his grip. He raised his right elbow. Maybe he thought that would give him improved leverage. I didn’t wait to see if he was right. I just pushed off my back foot, hard, and started to run. As fast as I could. Straight ahead. Directly toward him. I covered half the distance. Three-quarters. Then I threw myself forward.

My shoulder sank into the guy’s midriff. It knocked him off his feet. We clattered together into the doors. A combined 450 pounds. And the effect of my weight was multiplied by the speed I’d gained. The old lock was no match for that. Not even close. The doors burst open. One swung around and crashed into the wall. The other came right off its hinges and cartwheeled away. The two of us landed on the ground. Him underneath, on his back. Me, on top. I was crushing his chest. I felt some of his ribs shatter on impact. Maybe a collarbone, too. Maybe both of them. But those injuries didn’t matter. He would never feel the pain. Because his shoulders wound up level with the lip of the top step leading down to the street. My bulk pinned his torso in place. But his head continued to move. It swung around another five inches. Then the back of his skull hit the concrete. It split open like a watermelon. Something sticky sprayed up across my face. The guy twitched. Just once. And then he was still.