Ring of Knives

CHAPTER SIX

Together they blew out the door, into the darkness. Matt led Dindren back to the Admin Building.

"Must we?" the doctor asked, stopping short of the door.

"My rucksack's in the Control Room. Won't take a minute."

Dindren, shivering, stepped back into the shadows. "I'll wait for you here, then."

"Suit yourself."

Matt went through the kitchen (nine roaches, half the knives gone, weird cuffs still there) and down the hall, back to the Control Room. The smell of old meat in there was worse. It burned in his nostrils and made his heart beat faster. Time to get gone, he thought as he pulled his bag from the closet-and noticed immediately that it had been opened in his absence.

He crouched, looked through it quickly. He was missing some cash, a Leatherman knife, and his disposable cell phone.

Wonderful.

Matt ripped the zipper shut and was about to leave when he saw a flash of movement.

He turned, his chest tight.

Let out a breath. It was just one of the monitors, the one showing the front entryway to the Admin Building. The door had opened, and several employees were walking in for the shift change.

He looked at his watch, forcing his mind to focus. 11:02 p.m. He was officially noncompliant with Maloria's warning to be gone before the night shift.

Ah, well. As long as he had his uniform and mop, they wouldn't know any better than day shift had that… that…

Matt stopped breathing.

Leaned close to the monitor, eyes wide.

"Oh… crap."

The front entryway had filled with eight or nine men. They crowded around the front desk, signing in on the clipboard. The were big guys, bull necked, muscle-bound. A different breed from second shift. But that wasn't what made his breath catch in his throat.

It was their faces.

The grainy display may have had shit resolution, but it was still clear enough that he could see the dead flesh scrolling off the cheeks of the first aide to strut from the desk to the back hallway. And the second had a jagged hole where his nose should have been. The third had corroded skin hanging in tatters from his lower jaw. The fourth had no lower jaw. The fifth was awful. The sixth was worse. The seventh was indescribable.

"Fuck me."

Every single member of the night shift showed a hefty helping of Mr. Dark's rotting touch.

What had Maloria said?

Them fucked-up niggahs workin' midnights? They don't play.

He believed it.

And he believed he had to get out. Now.

Palms sweating, Matt hefted his rucksack, slung it over his shoulder, and spun around right into Darak's fist.

"Jesus." Matt staggered back into the console, clutching his eye.

"Think that was funny, motherfucker? Sendin' me all over the fuckin' place?" Darak, a black blur in his Wu-Tang outfit and dollar-sign do-rag, closed in quickly, using a bowlegged karate stance. "How funny you gonna find this?" He swiveled backward, and Matt ducked just in time to avoid having his head taken off by a completely respectable roundhouse kick. He could feel the wind of it ruffle his hair as it flew past.

Matt wasn't in the mood for a cage match, so he tried to shove past Darak and bolt for the door.

He almost made it. Almost.

Instead, Darak grabbed him by the collar from behind, said, "Oh, no you don't, bitch," and flung him into the "Treatment Plans / Overflow" file cabinet.

The back of Matt's head hit the metal cabinet with a hollow boom. He hit so hard that when he bounced off, the metal drawer slid out on its rollers.

"Guess you felt that," Darak laughed, closing in again in a low crouch as Matt backed up, head ringing, his shoulder brushing the open metal drawer. "And I got more where that came from. Guess you didn't know I'm a black belt, huh? Well, I am." Darak gripped the lip of the open metal drawer, leveraging himself for another kick. "Pay attention, bitch: I'm about to demonstrate the Flying Dragon, which goes a little like-AAAH!"

His threat morphed into a high-pitched scream as Matt shouldered the metal drawer closed on his hand. Darak spun around towards the cabinet, trying to pry his hand free, and that's when Matt punched him in the side of the neck. Darak gagged. Matt grabbed the back of his head and drove his face into the file cabinet. When he rebounded with a wail, Matt used his momentum to swing him by the hair across the small space, trip him with an outstretched leg, and drive his fall into the surveillance console.

Darak crashed into the low steel shelf with a deep groan. He slid to his knees, leaving a trail of blood across the control panel.

Matt grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him to his feet. He was about to reintroduce Darak's face to the console when a blur of movement caught his eye.

Shit, he thought. What now?

It was the monitor showing the hallway to the women's dorm in Module One. The grainy, black-and-white relay from the security camera showed two male aides dragging a young girl out of the women's dorm. He recognized her: it was Annica, the not-so-telekinetic blonde with the smeared makeup. She was fighting their grip, but it was no use. Together they dragged her across the hall and into the women's washroom. A third aide sauntered behind them casually, and then stood in the open doorway, arms crossed, on guard.

"Goddammit." Matt dragged Darak over to the closet. Darak's eyes rolled his way, and he made a feeble attempt to claw Matt's face. Matt rewarded his efforts with a brief but meaningful head butt, then said, "Pay attention, Darak: I'm about to demonstrate the Flying Foot, which goes a little like this." He buried his steel-toed Carhartt in Darak's crotch and shoved him into the closet.

"Namaste," he said, "you fuckhead."