Time Bomb

33

It took a while for them to get the small door open. I heard tumblers and clicks and machine whirrs- some kind of electronically driven combination lock. No one spoke. I was held fast by the limbs, trunk dangling, joints aching. Staring at trouser legs and shoes… Click.

Inside. Floor level. Cement floor. Cold, conditioned air- or maybe I was shivering for another reason.

I was carried by silent pallbearers through an aisle sided with high tan walls. Cardboard tan. Partitions. Plywood doors. A warehouse. Sectioned into cubbies. Unevenly lit. Patches of illuminated cement flooring followed by intervals of darkness that made me feel as if I’d disappeared.

Now into a larger area. My captors’ footsteps echoing. Other footsteps now, softer. Distant. I had a sense of vast open space. Cold space.

Hell was a warehouse…

Was this how lab animals felt, readied for air-freight?

Then other sounds: typewriter pecks. Computer bleeps. Scraping soles.

More cardboard. Boxes, stacks of them. I made out lettering. Black-stenciled. PRINTED MATERIAL. SPECIAL RATE. Lots of those. Then a few that said MACHINERY. FRAGILE.

A flash of yellow. I twisted to see what it was. A forklift. And another. Several smaller vehicles that looked like sit-down lawn mowers. But no gas stink here. Just the yeasty, respectable fragrance of fresh paper.

Lots of huffing and puffing from my bearers. My eyes raced past trouser legs. A few pairs of stockinged female calves. I began counting feet. Two, four, six, eight, ten… I craned upward, hurting my spine, wasn’t able to make out faces.

The aisle angled to the left. My journey as hunting trophy continued for another twenty paces before coming to a sudden stop. Heavy breathing, locker-room sweat. The hands holding me lifted and twisted. All at once I was upright, arms still fastened behind me.

Coming face to face with Them.

Blanchard. Trying to smile while huffing.

Others. Ten of them. Younger. Clean-cut.

I knew them without knowing them. Had seen them at a school. Attending a shooting. Enjoying a concert.

Bright-eyed, then. Dead-eyed tonight. Faces set in the mire of obedience. As if the internal light in each of them had been switched off. Conservation of personality.

The other times, they’d dressed for success. They were dressed for something else tonight: black turtlenecks over black jeans and sneakers. The proper attire for an all-night wait in a storage shed. Or a backyard killing.

I said, “Hello, boys and girls. Take me to your leader.”

It shook a couple of them out of their zombie reverie. They held on to me but retracted their heads, as if I’d just given off a bad smell.

It talks.

Blanchard stepped forward and backhanded me hard across the face. My head twanged from the blow. I focused away from the pain- from the fear. Looked past all of them. Narrow passageway created by ten-foot-high stacks of PRINTED MATERIAL cartons. Directly in front of me was a black wooden door. Something painted on it. A red circle containing a spearhead.

Someone stepped out from behind one of the cartons. Someone wiggle-walked toward me.

Beth Bramble in a long-sleeved black dress. Her hair was drawn back tight. Chromium thunderbolt earrings dangled from her earlobes.

I struggled to clear my throat and said, “Mourning period over for the beloved leader?” It hurt to talk.

Blanchard hit me again. Bramble said, “Aw,” the laughter back in her voice.

She came closer, making kissy-poo movements with her lips. She’d eaten something with a lot of garlic in it. It folded into her perfume- floral pizza.

She chucked me under the chin. Pinched me by the cheek Blanchard had slapped. Pinched it again, harder, twisted, and smiled.

Through the agony I said, “Secret agent time, Beth? Nothing like getting an inside track on the opposition.”

She smiled, said, “Fuck you, darling,” pinched me again, let her fingers drop down my shirtfront, then my fly. She lingered there, gave me a playful honk. Someone snickered. Bramble winked at the young ones, turned, and disappeared behind the cartons.

Blanchard knocked on the black door.

A muffled reply came from the other side.

Blanchard opened it, put his head in, and said, “He’s here, D.F. Everything smooth as silk.”

Another muffled answer.

I was shoved in, and the door slammed behind me.

The room wasn’t much, maybe fifteen feet square, poorly lit. Maroon linoleum floor worn through to the concrete slab in several spots, block walls painted institutional white, warped acoustical ceiling browned by moisture, sheet-metal ceiling vent that dumped out stale, frigid air.

In the center was a seven-foot olive-drab desk that had to be army surplus. Two green metal chairs sat in front of it. Extra chairs stood folded in one corner. On top of the desk was a black multiline phone and a short stack of papers weighted down by a tarnished artillery shell. Running against the left wall was a brown couch that looked thirdhand.

Bunker-nouveau? All that field-command drabness provided a nice sense of contrast with what covered the wall behind the desk. A flag big enough for City Hall. Black muslin bordered in red satin. In the center a red spear-in-a-circle motif.

Gordon Latch sat on the couch, wearing double-pleated ankle-pegged black slacks with narrow cuffs, black snakeskin boots with riding heels, and an oversized black silk shirt buttoned at the collar in the pseudo-nerd style favored by actors and dope dealers. The shirt had twin breast pockets with flaps, pearl buttons, and ostentatious epaulets. Chrome spears glistened from the lapel tips. His legs were crossed, his posture relaxed- the casual but calculated slump of an old favorite guest on a late-night talk show.

He tossed me a victory smile. The smile flickered. His triumph marred by something…

I looked over at the green desk and understood.

Behind it sat Darryl “Bud” Ahlward in a high-backed green leather swivel chair. His uniform was identical to Latch’s but for rainbow splashes of battle ribbons over each breast pocket and a black leather shoulder holster from which a black gun butt protruded.

Gold spears on his lapels. Despite the generous tailoring of the shirt, his shoulders stretched the arm seams.

He sat very straight and very still, eyes static and changeless.

I turned back to Latch and said, “Nifty little role reversal. Still second cadre, huh, Gordon?”

Latch sat up straighter and started to speak. Ahlward shoved the words back down his throat with a quick look. Latch turned away from both of us, recrossing his legs and making a show of boredom.

I said, “So this is what the well-dressed storm trooper’s wearing this season. What’s the official greeting? Sieg Heil Ciao?”

Ahlward reached across his chest and took the gun out of his holster- a big black affair with a long barrel and a high-tech profile. He caressed it, then pointed it at me.

“Sit down.”

I said, “Or is it Haberdashery über Alles?”

Latch said, “Asshole.”

I feigned puzzlement. “Let’s see now, which one are you, Gordie? Goebbels or Goering? Must be Goering, ’cause it looks like you’ve got a little paunch sprouting under those baggies. And what about the charming Ms. Crisp? Is she doing Eva Braun in tonight’s pageant, or is that Beth Bramble’s role?”

Ahlward sighted down the barrel of the big black pistol. His left eye closed. I fought to keep my eyes open, staring straight ahead. Behind him.

Concentrating on the spear logo, glowing scarlet and ugly. Thinking of photos at an exhibit. A wintry day in Bavaria. Bodies collapsing into a ditch.

“You’re a puzzling piece of turd,” said Ahlward. “I’ve researched you. Always getting into things that aren’t your business.”

“For the last time,” said Latch.

Ahlward said, “Show and Tell time, turd.” Gestured with the gun.

I said, “Why should I bother?”

Ahlward smiled. “Because,” he said. “Every second’s precious. Everyone thinks they’re immortal. Amazing the things creatures will do- how low they’ll sink- to buy seconds.”

I said, “Is that a fact?”

“Scientific fact. Toss a kike-creature in freezing water and watch him prolong his agony just to buy seconds.”

“Toss a penny in the pool and he’ll dive in voluntarily,” Latch added.

Ahlward smiled and said, “They gasped like fish and screamed in Yiddish for mercy, even though they knew it was no use. Just kept going until they turned into Popsicles. Scientists are using it today. Hotshot research on hypothermia. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up benefiting mankind too.”

“An entire new area of inquiry,” said Latch. “Pain tolerance.”

“So,” said Ahlward. “You’ll cooperate. What’s the alternative?”

“The alternative is, I say fuck you.”

Ahlward put his gun away and pushed a button on the phone. His reward was a single short ring. He picked up the receiver and said, “Now.”

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. Same stance I’d seen a few days ago. In a classroom.

A single knock sounded on the door.

Ahlward said, “In.”

Two clean-cuts came in, grasping something big and white and limp under the arms. Both of them were husky, very young. One was blond and had bad acne. The other, dark-haired, with a wispy mustache.

Twenty years old, tops. They should have been beer-bashing. Trolling for cheap thrills.

They stood at attention, grim, pithed of soul.

The white thing between them was Milo, head lolling, heels dragging.

Dead weight. My heart did a high jump and landed in my gullet, choking off air. I moved forward. Ahlward snatched up the gun and said, “Stay.”

Buy seconds.

I remained in place and looked at my friend.

He was barefoot and had been stripped down to his undershirt and trousers. The shirt was ripped and splotched with blood. His eyes were swollen shut, his lip split in a couple of places and blood-engorged. Worms of dried blood crawled all over his face, trailed down his chin and onto the shirt. One of his shoulders was exposed through a rent in the undershirt. Scraped raw and still weeping. Blue-maroon cabbage-shaped bruises blossomed along his arms. Despite his bulk, he looked small.

His head sank lower and bobbed. I saw more blood at the crown, crusting his hair. Where it hadn’t been damaged, his skin, always pale, had the dirty-porcelain cast of the terminal ward.

But faint pumping movement under the shirt. Respiration.

He passed wind; a raw growl.

Latch chuckled. The boys in black grinned.

I said, “Milo.” Louder than I’d intended; it made me sound desperate.

His face didn’t change but something passed through the raw-liver lips. Half sigh, half retch; I couldn’t tell if it was voluntary.

He sank again. The black-shirts tightened their grip. Eagle Scouts helping a drunk across the street, whether he wanted to cross or not…

Ahlward said to me: “Here’s the way it’s going to be. You’re going to sit down right now and not give me any shit, or I’m going to walk up to your asshole buddy and hurt him while you watch. When he’s no longer of any use, I’ll blow his brains out, making sure lots of wet gray stuff lands right on your shirt. Then I’ll cut the stuff with a fork and knife and feed it to you. Vomit it up, you’ll eat vomit for dessert. One way or the other, you’re going to get it all down. After that I’ll hurt you. Take you apart- surgery- and make you watch it happen. Turn you into a fucking cartoon. You’ll be the only one not laughing.”

Shrugging with my arms behind me was painful. I sat down. “Well, if you put it that way, D.F… D.F. Let’s see- gotta be Der Führer, right? You guys have a thing for initials. D.F., L.D.- where’s the harmonica, Gordon? Still playing requests? How about the old ‘Horst Wessel Song,’ or isn’t that in your repertoire?”

Talking fast. To keep from shaking.

Ahlward gave his hand an impatient wave. The Gestapo-scouts began dragging Milo out of the room.

I said, “No. I want him here.” Surprised at the assertiveness in my voice. Good clear sound, finally, shooting out of my aching throat.

Buy seconds; I half-expected to die.

But Ahlward looked amused. He held up a hand and the black-shirts stood still.

“You want.”

“You want what I’ve got, D.F. What I want in return is seconds. Just like you said. For both of us.”

“You want.”

He got up and put his hands on his hips. He wore a narrow tooled black belt with a gold spear buckle. Hanging from the left side of his belt was a black leather sheath that dangled like an off-center codpiece. He slid something out of it. A hunting knife with a black haft and gold crosspiece. Wide, tapering, foot-long blade. Big enough for butchering large game. Outdoorsman’s knife…

He turned it, examined the blade, then lowered it and held it parallel to his right leg. Then he came from around the desk with remarkable speed and stood in front of me.

“You want,” he said.

Smiling was as easy as chewing ground glass. “Got to play the few cards I’ve got, D.F.”

His pink eyebrows arched. “You think you have cards?”

“I know I do. The only reason you brought me here is because I have something you want- information. You need to find out how much I know, who I’ve talked to. About Bear Lodge. Wannsee Two.”

“Three,” said Latch.

A silencing look from Ahlward.

I said, “We’re talking damage control, D.F. You worked on Milo and he didn’t tell you much. Maybe he just didn’t know, or maybe he was tougher than you thought. In either event, you figure I’ll be a softer touch. And maybe I will- but not if you’re going to kill him anyway.”

“You and he have something going, do you?”

“It’s called friendship.”

“Right.” He smiled, lifted his right arm, and brought the knife up to my chin. And under.

“It’s your kind of decadence that brings a society down,” he said. “Softness. Putting it and taking it up the ass.” Probing with the knife.

“All soft,” he whispered. “Every inch of you.” A tiny flick of his wrist and the blade came away red-tipped and wet. He turned again, holding it so that it caught the light- and stared at the candy-apple glint.

No pain for a moment, then a throbbing pang just above my Adam’s apple. Wet heat. Like a wasp sting.

“This is you- this is all you are.” Blood-entranced. I wondered how many animals he’d tortured as a kid. How many people…

I said, “What can I do, D.F.? Sure, you’ve got most of the cards. But I’ve still got to use what I have. Survival. Just like you said.”

His blunt face was motionless. Then amused once more.

Then something else, dark and empty.

He raised the knife high, stabbed down hard.

I stumbled back, away from the slashing blade, anticipating agony. But less afraid than a moment before. Less afraid than I imagined I’d be- nerves deadened, anesthetized. The same kind of anesthesia they say overtakes gazelles just before the hyenas rip them apart.

I was on the floor, curled, head tucked, trying to be tiny.

But still alive. He’d stabbed air. From the look on his face I knew it had been intentional.

He began laughing.

Latch laughed too. The Gestaposcouts joined in.

A regular black-shirt gigglefest.

Through the gaiety, Ahlward’s voice, soft and boyish: “Get up.”

The laughter died.

He nudged my butt with his boot tip. Shiny black cowhide; no lizard for him. Gold chain dangling from instep to ankle.

Deprived of arm-balance, it took me a while to get to my feet. I didn’t want to see his face. Concentrated on his clothes. The battle ribbons looked phony. Homemade…

“Yes,” he was saying. “We’ll keep the faggot here, for efficiency’s sake. I’ll want both of you together anyway. The grand climax.” Smile. Frown. To the junior SS: “Dump it there.”

He crooked a thumb at the couch. Latch gave an uneasy look.

The Gestaposcouts dragged Milo over and dropped him next to Latch. The big bruised body landed on its belly, head on the armrest of the couch, mouth gaping, cabbage-arms flaccid, grubby feet brushing against Latch’s slacks. Latch wrinkled his nose and scooted to the far end. The scouts waited at attention until Ahlward nodded.

Then they were gone and the door closed behind them.

Milo groaned, rolled his head, stretched, and was touching Latch again. Latch looked as if he’d been ordered to drink a cup of spit. He shoved Milo’s foot away, wiped his hands on the arm of the couch, and squeezed himself farther into the corner. “Don’t you think we should tie him?”

Ahlward’s heavy jaw tightened and the hand holding the knife blanched. “Why’s that?”

“Just in ca-”

“Do you feel he’s a threat to you?”

Latch pushed his glasses up his nose. “No, not at all. I just wanted to be-”

“If there’s no threat, then there’s no need to worry, is there?” said Ahlward. “Let’s keep things logical. And as for this one”- he put the knife in its sheath and used his right hand to take hold of my nose-“he’s not going to be any problem, is he?” Finger pressure, cutting off my air. “He’s white-collar all the way.”

He gave Latch an amused look. “The talking class, right, Gordon?”

Latch gave a weak smile. “Absolutely.”

Led by the nose, I was pushed down in one of the folding chairs.

Ahlward said, “Wet and gray. All over your shirt. Maybe infected wet and gray stuff- all those little fag-viruses just waiting to squirm out and swan-dive into your blood system. If you’re not already infected. You like to eat men, turd? You’ll be eating men.”

I said, “Better give your knife a thorough cleaning afterward, D.F. Keep yourself healthy for the revolution.”

He went back behind the desk, sat, picked up the black gun, and used a fingernail to scrape something off its barrel.

“Start,” he said.