Siege of Station 19 Page 5

  “Don’t.”

  Torres released him and returned to his bunk. Mootz backed away, rubbing his neck. He wouldn’t have believed the smaller man was capable of such speed and strength. Mootz hit the weights regularly when he was in the joint and he was tall and bulky, but Torres had schooled him like a naughty puppy.

  “Hey Torres,” called Butch from under his bunk.

  Torres sighed. A nattering bunch of fucking jailbirds. “What?”

  “Did you get a look at any of those things when we were outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ever seen anything like that before?”

  “Oh yeah,” Mootz needled him. “Everybody knows about them, Butch. We just never told you.”

  “Shut up, dick cheese!” Butch sneered. Then, indicating Torres with a stab of his finger, he said, “He’s been down so many roads that most of them are named after him. If anybody has heard of this shit, he has.” He poked his head out from under the bunk and fixed his beady eyes on the wiry assassin. “Have you ever heard of anything like this?”

  It was a long time before Torres answered. When he did, he had the complete attention of every man in the holding tank.

  “I’ve heard stories, over the years,” he said slowly. “From places like Mexico and Puerto Rico. Stories of farmers finding their livestock drained of blood, strange wounds in the neck.”

  He sat back on his bunk and tried to work the stiffness from his hands by flexing his fingers. He’d been wearing those cuffs for a very long time. “Dead sheep, cows, and goats,” he said quietly. “Not a drop of blood in them and their eyes missing.”

  He leaned forward on the edge of his bunk. “They say it’s a gigantic flying reptile that makes strange whistling sounds and has a sting that can paralyze an intended victim and permit it to suck its blood.”

  “If I hadn’t already seen some outrageous stuff tonight I would call boo-shit on that,” said the kid. “But I think that’s what we got going on outside. Some…what you call them things?”

  “I don’t know, goatsuckers or eyeball-eaters, or something like that.”

  “Yeah,” the kid nodded. “That’s what we got outside trying to eat our asses.”

  “I never would have thought I’d go out like this,” lamented Butch. “Killed by bloodsucking monsters.”

  “You ain’t dead yet, you fool,” Torres scoffed. He shook his head. “I swear I’ve never seen guys more willing to throw in the towel before in my life.” He turned from them dismissively. “You have given up before you have even begun. That’s the surest way to lose.”

  “You could have a great second career as a motivational speaker, Torres,” Mootz said wryly. “When you get tired of killing people.”

  Station Nineteen

  9:22 P.M

  The Mexican’s name was Arturo Vega and he had an interesting tale to tell. He clenched his teeth and sat sweating at Juanita’s desk, surrounded by a ring of unhappy faces. His mangled legs were giving him fits. When he was finished with his story it was very quiet in the office. Everyone’s thoughts were galloping like a runaway horse. None of the thoughts were very pleasant.

  “We have to tell Torres,” Love finally announced.

  “Whoa! Wait a minute!” Martell got up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of Tiffany’s desk. “He’s locked up back there, safe and sound. No need to get him all riled up.”

  Love ignored him and walked to the hallway leading to the holding cells. He cast a quick glance at the broken window and stepped warily into the hall. Glass crackled under his feet like breaking ice. At the sight of him, the convicts started in again.

  “Hey! What was all that shooting?” demanded Butch.

  “Yeah,” Mootz joined in. “What’s going on?”

  “Let us outta these cells, please!” whined the kid. “I am not a bad person. I swear I’ll never steal another car again, just please don’t let me die in here. Don’t let the goatsuckers get me.”

  Ignoring the pleas, Love moved to Torres. “I need to talk to you.”

  Torres sat up languorously, like a bored panther at feeding time. “I am all ears, Lieutenant.”

  The others crowded over to listen. Love sighed. They might as well hear it too. “We rescued that man out there in the Nova,” he began.

  “Is that what all that shootin’ and hollerin’ was a little while ago?” the kid asked. They had listened spellbound to the drama unfolding in the parking lot, infuriated by their inability to see what was happening.

  Love nodded. “The man said he was following the chain bus.”

  “What for?” muttered the kid.

  Love kept his eyes on Torres. “He was shadowing Torres.” He saw the assassin stiffen. “Seems your bosses are afraid you might talk.”

  “What?” A puzzled look from Butch. “I don’t get it. What’s wrong now?”

  “When he saw the bus pull in here,” Love continued. “He stopped to use the phone booth on the corner down the street.”

  Torres slowly stood up from his bunk. He rolled his head around on his shoulders, stretching, like a boxer beginning his pre-fight warm up. He cracked his knuckles, one by one, on both hands.

  “He was using the phone when those things attacked him,” Love explained. “He managed to get to his car and make it here.”

  “Did he get through on the phone?” asked Torres.

  Love nodded. Torres went still for a moment, his eyes far away, his face hardening.

  “What does that mean?” asked Butch.

  Mootz remained unusually silent. Perhaps he’d figured it out. The kid looked as if he was about to cry. Home, Mama, comfort, and safety seemed far away right now. This was the thug life, for real.

  Love looked at the various faces in differing states of awareness and emotion. “It means we’ve got more than just those things out there to worry about.”

  “Hey, man, pump the brakes,” Butch complained. “One disaster at a time, okay?”

  Love looked at Torres. The killer favored him with a smile. “Well, Lieutenant. Are you going let me out of here to help you fend off the bad guys?”

  “You are a bad guy,” Love reminded him.

  “Right now I am the best ally you’ve got. Do you think a hit squad from the Mexican mafia is going to leave anyone alive in this station?”

  “What?” cried Butch. “What hit squad? I thought we were being attacked by bloodsucking monsters!”

  The kid jumped off his bunk and started pacing in tight circles. “Oh no, man, no, not this! This is too fuckin’ much, man! The Mexican mafia? All we need now is a motherfuckin’ earf-quake!”

  “Hey, be careful what you say,” cautioned Mootz, his eyes filled with superstition.

  “Okay,” Torres growled, for the first time raising his voice. “Enough of that bullshit.” He cast his chilly eyes on the other prisoners. “You three idiots wanna see the sun rise tomorrow, then you had better do exactly as the Lieutenant tells you.”

  “Hold your horses there, buckaroo,” interjected Love. “I don’t recall agreeing to let any of you out of your cells.”

  “If you don’t, everyone in this station will die,” Torres said simply.

  Before Love could answer, a reptilian head loomed behind him in the broken window. The kid screamed. “Look out!”

  Love pivoted with his .357 already out and firing. The muzzle flashes lit up a steel-trap grin as the beast lunged through the window with jaws parted wide to feed. The shots pushed it back, but the thrusting tail whipped at Love. He jerked his head to the side just in time to avoid the stinger as it buzzed past his ear. He kept firing, emptying his revolver into the thrashing form until he clicked empty and the beast tumbled out the window.

  The men in the cells went completely ape shit.

  Mootz hopped up and down, pulling on the bars of his cell in teeth-gnashing fury like an agitated chimpanzee. He kept screaming, “Let us out of here! Let us out of here!”

  Butch, still under his bunk, muttered
to himself, “We are dead. We are so dead.”

  The kid sat on his bunk weeping desolately, crying out to Jesus, to Mama, to anyone who would listen to save him.

  Torres remained impassive, waiting patiently.

  Lieutenant Love once again shouted them down to silence. He was growing hoarse from yelling so much. He holstered his pistol and turned and stared at the men in the holding cells. Their lives were his responsibility. He’d already lost too many people tonight. He came to a very difficult decision. He moved forward and began to unlock the cell doors.

  Station Nineteen

  10:00 P.M.

  Arturo Vega looked up fearfully when he saw Torres making straight for where he was sitting at Juanita’s work station with strips of hand towels strapped to his bloody shins. Torres perched on the lip of the desk and began speaking with Vega quietly in Spanish. The guy looked like he was amazed to be alive and conversing with the devil incarnate. Tiffany and Juanita moved to the front door to give them privacy.

  Martell came unglued when he saw the convicts. “What do you think you are doing?” he bellowed at Love. “Those are my prisoners!”

  Love directed the other prisoners into the captain’s office, but let Torres continue his interrogation. “It isn’t safe back there,” Love said tersely. “I am going to close and lock the door to the back hallway and seal off that part of the building.”

  “You’re not authorized to move my prisoners.” Martell was grasping at straws and even he knew it. It was plain on his face. But he had to protest in some way.

  Love reloaded his Python with a speed loader, sliding the fat metal cartridges into the revolver all at once and then twisting the base of the speed loader with a metallic snick. “Now who are you kidding,” he said, clicking the cylinder shut.

  Martell shook his head in disgust and barked, “Smith! Get your ass away from that window and keep your eyes on Torres.”

  Smith moved to comply. The sound of glass breaking brought him to a halt. Something fell past the window behind him. The convicts in the captain’s office began to shout in alarm. Vega stopped talking with Torres and threw a terrified look at the ceiling. Torres slid off the desk and stood ready.

  Tiffany spun from her vantage point at the front door and cried, “They’re going for the windows upstairs!”

  Love rushed to the staircase at the end of the hallway with Smith at his heels. Torres made a move to join them. He was confronted by Martell. The big marshal stuck his revolver in the smaller man’s face.

  “Get back to that desk and sit down,” he commanded.

  Torres saw the fright in his eyes, the knife edge of panic lurking there, and knew better than to argue. He sat down at Tiffany’s desk across from Vega.

  “Why would animals want to attack a police station?” Tiffany wailed. No one answered her.

  Love halted at the bottom of the staircase. He’d never been up on the second floor. He had no idea of the layout. Motioning to Smith to remain where he was, Love cautiously moved up the steps. It was a U-shaped stairwell, so that the upper floor couldn’t be seen except from the middle landing, where it twisted and continued up. Love paused there and shifted his grip on the .357 magnum. He took a deep breath and moved up. At the top of the stairs there was another small landing leading to a hallway branching out.

  Love crept to the hall. He peered to the left and saw six office doors with beveled glass upper panels. To his right was an identical set-up, except these doors had no windows in them. Both hallways continued around sharp corners, snaking off into the darkness.

  He heard glass breaking somewhere to his right. He moved to his left and tried one of the doors. It opened easily. He peeked inside. The office was filled with stacked chairs, filing cabinets, desks. He closed the door and hurriedly returned to the middle landing and called down to Smith. “Come up here and help me.”

  At the landing, Love urgently explained, “This is the only way down to the first floor.” He pointed to the stairs, then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the offices. “We need to grab as much junk from those rooms as possible and barricade this staircase.” He flinched when the sound of more glass breaking came from one of the rooms.

  “They are inside the building!” Smith hefted his shotgun in alarm. His eyes searched the darkness at the end of the hall and found only shadows and dim moonlight.

  “There’s no way to keep them out up here,” Love said, moving to the first office and opening the door. “We can create a choke point at the staircase, with you and me at the bottom with the shotguns. We can funnel them into our killing zone.”

  They got busy stacking obstacles in the stairwell, blocking the path as best they could. Juanita appeared at the starter step just as they were finishing the top flight. “Lieutenant,” she called up. “You’d better come down here.”

  He found Martell standing in the doorway to the captain’s office waving the shotgun around with reckless abandon. “You can piss in your pants!” the marshal shouted at someone in the room. “This ain’t a hotel. You convicts are always bitchin’ and moanin’!”

  Butch’s voice whined, “Come on, man! You gotta let us use the toilet!”

  “What’s going on here?” Love interrupted.

  Ignoring him, Martell barked over his shoulder at Smith, standing in the hallway. “Get your eyes back on that son-of-a-bitch!” He pointed savagely with the barrel of his shotgun at Torres.

  The killer sprang to immediate attention. “Old man, you do not want to be pointing that weapon at me.”

  “I’ve got your old man hanging right here,” Martell replied, letting one of his hands down to fondle his crotch. The shotgun now swung toward Love as Martell held it with only one hand. The lieutenant grabbed the barrel from the side with all the force he had. The fat marshal stumbled as Love angrily jerked the shotgun from out of his grasp and said, “Marshal, if you do not stop waving this thing around and causing dissension, I will place you under arrest.”

  Martell gawked, jaws working soundlessly. He looked like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. His head twisted around to Smith. “Did you hear what this fuckin’ nigger said to me?” Spit flew from his mouth. “Help me disarm him before he gets us all killed.”

  Smith made a disgusted sound like he was clearing his throat and then looked to Love pointedly, as if waiting for an order. It was clear to everyone that he’d chosen his side.

  Love got in Martell’s face. “Oh, so I am a nigger now, huh? I wasn’t before, but suddenly I am.” He made sure he had the shotgun pointed down at the floor and not at anyone. He was a professional. “Am I getting a bit too uppity for you, Marshal? Is that it?”

  Love had dealt with this kind of crackerjack horseshit a few times since moving to Texas. It hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d been expecting, frankly, but it was a disappointing experience whenever it occurred.

  “You are crazy,” the marshal stammered. “You’ve lost your mind. You wanna put me in chains and let the convicts run free. It ain’t right!”

  “I want all of this conflict to cease!” Love suddenly bellowed, finally losing some composure. “The problem is out there!” He pointed with his free hand. He still had the shotgun aimed at the floor with his other. He brought his voice down. He didn’t have the luxury to indulge his temper.

  “We need to work together. All of us. Black and white. Fat and thin. Young and old. The short, the tall, and the lean. All of us.” He paused. “We have got to get our act together and work as a team.” He paused again. He would have made a good preacher. “Because these…what did you call them?”

  “Goatsuckers,” called the kid’s voice from the captain’s office. The convicts had been listening from there, hanging on every word.

  “These goatsuckers are up to something,” Love said. “They don’t act like animals looking for food. It is more than that.”

  Tiffany held her face in her hands. “Why is this happening?” she sobbed uselessly. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why th
is is happening. But I know this,” Love said forcefully. “I am not going to die here tonight!”

  Martell moved off grumbling. Smith posted up at the front door with Tiffany and Juanita. Love went to Torres and Vega. Pointing to the Mexican man, Love asked Torres, “Did you get anything useful from him?”

  “Not really,” Torres admitted. “Same story he gave you.” The assassin gave Love a penetrating look. Finally he said, “But he did tell me more about the phone booth on the corner two blocks down the street.”

  Love returned his look for a long time before he answered. “You think anyone could make it?”

  “To the booth, yeah,” Torres confirmed. “But could they make it back?” He shook his head. “Probably not.”

  Love nodded grimly. “So that’s out.”

  “Not necessarily,” Torres said casually.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whenever we were about to do something incredibly fucking dumb in the army we always asked for volunteers.”

  Love cocked an eye at him and then slowly ran his gaze around the room. Tiffany, Juanita, and Smith were at the front door. Martell pouted at the front admissions desk, sweating and glowering in the gloom. The other convicts were grouped in the doorway of the captain’s office.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” Butch announced loudly. “I need to pinch a ferocious loaf, man!”

  “Smith,” Love called wearily. “Take him to the bathroom.” Before Mootz or the kid could say anything, knowing they’d want to use the facilities too, he added, “Take them one at a time.”

  “Hop to it, boy,” Martell sneered at Smith as he moved past. “I won’t forget what happened here tonight. You didn’t back my play.”

  Smith ignored him.

  The bathroom was bigger than either Butch or Smith expected it to be. For some reason, perhaps the emptiness of the derelict station, both men were expecting a single porcelain toilet. This restroom had three stalls with dented and scratched metal walls and three metal sink basins. A window at the end of the room looked out over a vacant lot bisected by old railroad tracks. Nothing stirred on the other side of the glass. Aside from the distant sputtering of fireworks, the night was silent. Not even the crickets chirped.