The woman—an inmate wearing prison browns—saw Barry looking in. She raised her chisel and motioned with it. The gesture was clear enough: Get out of here.
Drew T. Barry considered shooting through the glass, but that would draw any defenders who were left. He also remembered the promise he’d made to himself before shooting the second boogeylady in the gym: After this, Mr. Prison Guard, you’re on your own.
He gave the crazy-looking inmate a little salute, plus a thumbs-up for good measure. Then he headed down the corridor. But cautiously. Before being grabbed, Peters had seen something.
19
“Oh, look who I found,” said Angel. “It’s the one who likes to grab girls’ tits and twist their nips and rub up against their hinies until he shoots off in his underwear.”
When she had lifted her hand to wave off the insurance man, Don had slipped away, putting a little space between them. “Put that chisel down, inmate. Put it down this instant and I won’t have to write you up.”
“That ain’t come on your pants this time,” Angel observed. “Too much of it, even for a jizzhound like you. You wet yourself, didn’t you? Mommy wouldn’t like that, would she?”
At the mention of his sainted mother, Don threw caution to the wind and rushed forward. Angel slashed at him, and might have ended things right there, had he not stumbled over the football helmet; instead of cutting his throat, the chisel drew a deep gash across his forehead. Blood sheeted down his face as he went to his knees.
“Ow! Ow! Stop it, that hurt!”
“Yeah? See how this does,” Angel said, and kicked him in the stomach.
Trying to blink blood out of his eyes, Don grabbed one of Angel’s legs and yanked her down. Her elbow struck the floor and jarred the chisel out of her hand. Don wriggled up her body and reached for her throat. “I ain’t gonna fuck you after you’re dead,” he told her, “that’s nasty. I’ll just choke you unconscious. I won’t kill you until I’m fin—”
Angel grasped the football helmet, swung it in a wide-armed arc, and brought it crashing into Don’s bleeding forehead. He rolled off her, clutching at his face.
“Ow, no, you stop that, inmate!”
That helmet-smashing stuff is also a big penalty in the NFL, Angel thought, but since no one’s showing this on TV, I guess I won’t lose any yardage.
She hit Don with the helmet twice more, perhaps breaking his nose with the second blow. It was certainly bent badly enough. He managed to turn over and get to his knees with his ass sticking up. He was shouting something that sounded like Stop it, inmate, but it was hard to tell because the pig was panting so hard. Also, his lips were busted and his mouth was full of blood. It sprayed out with each word, and Angel remembered what they used to say when they were kids: Do you serve towels with your showers?
“No more,” Don said. “Please, no more. You broke my face.”
She cast the helmet aside and picked up the chisel. “Here’s your titty-rub, Officer Peters!”
She buried the chisel between his shoulder blades, all the way up to the wooden handle.
“Mom!” he cried.
“Okay, Officer Peters: here’s one for your ma!” She ripped the chisel out and buried it in his neck, and he collapsed.
Angel kicked him a few times, then straddled him and began to stab again. She went on until she could no longer lift her arm.
CHAPTER 16
1
Drew T. Barry reached the Booth and saw what had stopped Peters before the woman grabbed him: two men, one of them possibly Norcross, the arrogant bastard who had instigated this mess. He had his arm around the other one. This was good. They had no idea he was here, and were probably on their way to the woman. To protect her. It was insane, given the size of the force Geary had mustered, but look how much damage they’d managed to inflict already. Good townspeople killed and wounded! They deserved to die just for that.
And then, two more came out of the smoke: a woman and a younger man. All with their backs to Drew T. Barry.
Better and better.
2
“Jesus Christ,” Clint said to his son. “You were supposed to be hiding.” He looked reproachfully at Michaela. “You were supposed to take care of that.”
Jared replied before Michaela could. “She did what you told her, but I couldn’t hide. I just couldn’t. Not if there’s a chance we can get Mom back. And Mary. Molly, too.” He pointed to the woman in the cell at the end of the corridor. “Dad, look at her! She’s floating! What is she? Is she even human?”
Before Clint could answer, a burst of music came from Hicks’s phone, followed by the proclamation of a tiny electronic voice: “Congratulations, Player Evie! You have survived! Boom Town is yours!”
Evie dropped to her bunk, swung her legs onto the floor, and approached the bars. Clint would have thought he was beyond surprise at this point, but was shocked to see her pubic hair was mostly green. Not hair at all, in fact—it was some kind of vegetation.
“I won!” she cried happily, “and not a minute too soon! I was down to the last two percent of battery. Now I can die happy!”
“You’re not going to die,” Clint said. He no longer believed it, though. She was going to die, and when what remained of Geary’s force got here—which would be momentarily—it was likely that they were going to die with her. They had killed too many. Frank’s men wouldn’t stop.
3
Drew T. Barry slid around the side of the Booth, liking what he saw more and more. Unless some of the defenders were hiding in the cells, all that remained of Norcross’s little cabal was at the end of this corridor, clustered together like pins in a bowling alley. They had no place to hide, and they were all out of running room. Excellent.
He raised the Weatherby . . . and a chisel pressed into his throat, just below the angle of his jaw.
“No-no-no,” Angel said in the voice of a cheery primary school teacher. Her face, shirt, and baggy pants were stippled with blood. “Move and I’ll cut open your juggler vein. I got the blade right on it. Only reason you’re not dead already is you let me finish my business with Officer Peters. Put that elephant gun on the floor. Don’t bend, just drop it.”
“This is a very valuable weapon, ma’am,” said Drew T. Barry.
“Ask me if I give a shit.”
“It might go off.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
Drew T. Barry dropped it.
“Now hand me the one you got slung over your shoulder. Don’t try anything weird, either.”
From behind them: “Lady, whatever you’re holding on his throat, put it down.”
Angel snatched a quick look over her shoulder and saw four or five men with their rifles pointed. She smiled at them. “You can shoot me, but this one here will die with me. That’s a stone promise.”