The Devil_s Workshop

Chapter 23

The bugs came the next morning while he was eating breakfast. It was ten o'clock, and he was poking at some eggs, looking at the dining room full of listless and tattered men. Their faces were the faded plastic masks of empty souls. A few that he had shared bottles with in years past nodded at him and then moved on, not happy to see him, not sad he had returned. They shuffled past to find good spots out on the sidewalk, where they would warm their thin blood in the sun, like desert reptiles.

When he saw the first big hairy bug, it materialized like a movie special effect right on his hand. He dropped the fork he was stirring his runny eggs with and shook his hand hard. But the huge, furry spider clung to him, drawing blood. He watched the blood ooze as he screamed in terror.

Two men from the kitchen held him down while others ran to get Clancy. They took him to the D. T. ward, which was just a concrete-block room in the basement of the mission. More than one howling drunk had fought his demons in that cold, tight enclosure.

Cris writhed and jerked with insane madness as the beasts crawled on him. They went straight for his eyes. Others clung to the slick painted walls; they hung upside down on the ceiling over his head and waited for their turn. He screamed until he was hoarse.

It was afternoon before he began to find a few stretches of sanity. Clancy sat with him, leaving only to piss. He held his hand, whispering encouragement. He held the metal bucket while Cris vomited, until all he could heave up was long, drooling lines of transparent yellow bile.

Cris finally went to sleep at two A. M., and woke up a few hours later. He opened his eyes and lay still, sure he was still being invaded by insects and spiders. His skin was crawling, but he saw none of the furry eight-legged demons. He tried to stand; he was extremely weak. He desperately needed a drink. He needed to get in the Lincoln and go home to Pasadena. He couldn't stop thinking about the bar in his father's house, the rows of bottles with their colorful labels: vodka, Scotch, bourbon, rum. The memory of that parade of spirits made his dry mouth water. He licked his lips, and tried to open the door of the D. T. room. It was locked. In a second, he heard a key in the lock and the door swung wide. An old sandy-haired man with a concave chest was standing there.

"How y'doin', brother?"

"Gotta go," Cris said, trying to push past him.

"Clancy wants t'talk to ya."

"Gotta go," Cris said, and moved around him.

The man hurried off, up the hallway.

Cris climbed the stairs and found the front door of the mission, more or less by instinct. He started down the steps, moving slowly, holding the metal banister for support. He could see the Lincoln across the street, and set his sights on getting there.

"Lucky!"

Cris turned and saw Clancy standing on the steps above him in the door of the mission. He had obviously just gotten out of bed, and wore only a pair of shorts with no shirt, shoes, or socks.

"Where you going?"

"Gotta go," Cris said.

"You're through the D. T. S, boy. You're out. Now you wanna go get a drink. That's what they all do. Don't be like them. Clean up. Look up! Grab fer yer higher power. You can do it!"

Cris was so weak his legs were shaking. He had to hold the metal railing to stand. "Gotta go, Clancy," he said softly. "Gotta go home."

"You ain't goin' nowhere," he said, " 'less you go through me."

The Black Attack was sixty and weighed only 135, but he still had the heavy shoulders and trim waist of a fighter. He now moved quickly on bare feet, down to face Cris.

"Don't make me wreck ya, Lucky. Don't make me do it. Come on back inside."

Cris licked his lips.

"The men who made that Gulf War shit are laughing at you, Cris. They're in their big houses, laughing. 'We got ol' Lucky Cunningham 'cause he can't serve his power. We gonna piss on him, an' we gonna go piss on his dead baby.' "

Cris looked at Clancy with pleading eyes, then he started across the street, toward the car. Clancy moved with the lightning speed he'd used in the ring, got around in front of Cris, and stopped him, pushing him hard in the chest, back toward the mission. The two of them faced each other in the middle of the empty mist-wet street.

"I can't do it, Clancy. I can't."

"They sayin' Cris Cunningham don't got it. They sayin' we can all go piss on that little girl's grave."

Now Cris swung at Clancy, who ducked easily under the blow and then popped Cris once on the breastbone with a short, chopping left hand. Cris bent over and started wheezing. Clancy grabbed him by the shirt and straightened him up.

"Yep. Cris Cunningham, he never gave a shit about nothin' but hisself. Everything is always about Cris, poor Cris. Cris gonna go feel sorry fer hisself, drown hisself in a buncha booze. His little baby girl? He don't give a shit about her. We can jus' give her the sickness, fill her up with tumors an' the like… any damn thing we want. Don't mean shit, 'cause Cris Cunningham only worries about hisself. He ain't gonna serve nothin'. He ain't got no higher power."

Now Cris was sobbing. He was crying in the street, and as Clancy put an arm around him, Clancy's own heart was breaking. "I can't, I can't," Cris wailed.

"Wanna bet?" Clancy said, and he led his friend back inside the mission.

Twelve hours later, at six o'clock that night, Cris was showered and dressed. His face was shaved, and his clothes had been washed and ironed. Clancy took him across to the Lincoln and stood with him in the gathering darkness. Cris had been at the mission less than twenty-four hours. He was shaky, but sober.

"I want you to tell me who the man is who killed your little girl," Clancy said.

"There's a guy named Admiral Zoll. I read some articles. He runs the program at Fort Detrick. Headed the Pentagon Special Project that did the tests in Huntsville Prison back in the eighties."

"What's he look like?"

"I don't know. I've never seen him."

"Tell me anyway. Look inside and make up a picture."

"He's… He's big."

"Big guy. Yep, he'd have t'be," Clancy nodded. "What else?"

"He's got black hair and real black, mean eyes."

"Yeah, that's the one. That's the guy. Black eyes, mean eyes, like the devil's. Yeah, you got him now."

"And… he doesn't give a shit about anything, about people."

"Fuckin' guy never did, Cris. Never gave one hoot in hell."

"And he, and…" Cris stopped and looked down. "Everybody in the Gulf said I was a hero. Shit, Clance, I was just trying to stay alive. I woulda run from that Republican Guard unit, but I didn't know where the fuck I was, which way to go."

"We don't give a shit about you, Cris. Not anymore. We're here servin' vengeance. Admiral Zoll… tell me more."

"He doesn't care that his bio-weapon killed my little girl, that he ruined my life."

"Fuck you. I don't care about you. This ain't about you. Get that through yer head. I don't wanna hear about how you got fucked. Stop cryin' about poor Cris Cunningham. Vengeance's gotta be aimed, son, gotta be pointed out, not in. It's a higher power. You gotta serve it, it can't serve you."

"He… killed her, and he doesn't care. He doesn't, because all he cares about is money and power."

"And who's gonna get this rotten son-of-a-bitch?"

"I am," Cris said softly, but it lacked conviction.

"Go serve yer vengeance, Cris. Hold it out in fronta you. But the first time you take a sip outta that bottle, this guy is gonna know. First time you take a sip, this motherfucker's won. Vengeance is your power, but this motherfucker's got rearview mirrors. He can see ya back here. He's gonna know if you fuck up, so you ain't gonna drink. You're gonna go get this godless prick."

Cris nodded. Then Clancy slipped forty bucks in his hand, "There's some money and my phone number. Don't go home, son. Don't go to yer Daddy's house. I don't know why, but a lotta your bad feelin's is there. When you're there, you look inside, you start feelin' sorry for yerself. You drink. You gotta look to your higher power, nothin' else."

"Thanks, Clancy."

Clancy nodded and watched while Cris opened the door of the Lincoln, started the engine, and drove off.

Cris didn't know where to go. He didn't have anybody he trusted. He drove around aimlessly for hours. He craved a drink, but instead made his mind blank and thought about Kennidi. Poor helpless Kennidi. He wouldn't let himself think about his hurt, his pain; he focused only on hers. He would seek vengeance for her. Several times he slowed as he saw bars. One had a neon sign, which pictured a glass that filled with neon liquor. He must have watched that glass fill twenty times. He almost went in, but forced his thoughts back to Kennidi. "Daddy, hold me. Daddy, it hurts so much." Cris slammed down on the accelerator and the Lincoln roared away, up the street.

At midnight, he found himself back at Stacy's apartment. He knocked, and after a long time, the light came on. The door opened and she was standing there in her bathrobe.

"Where have you been?" she said. "I called your house…"

"I… I had to go see a friend."

They stood looking at one another. She thought he looked different, weaker, even more unhealthy and fragile.

"I know we don't know each other very well," he said softly, "but I can't go home. It's a long story, but I need a place to flop. Could I use your couch?"

She stood there in the doorway for a long moment, hesitant.

"I've decided I want to help you get Admiral Zoll," he said. "I want to get him for what he did to Kennidi."

After a moment of appraisal she unlatched the door and let him in.