The Dead Man: Ring of Knives

A heavy weight, pressing down upon him, crushing the breath out of his chest. And cold, cold, cold!

Ice packed into his ears, his eyes, his mouth.

The Christmas-tree smell of smashed pine.

Can't move his left hand. Right hand throbbing. Right knee jammed against his chin. Teeth feel loose.

Can't draw a breath!

Unable to breathe, he starts to hyperventilate.

Red sparks flash before his eyes in the darkness.

Far above him, a muffled roar.

Far above him, impossibly, the weight increases. Like being crushed into a cold marble floor by a giant's icy heel.

His ribs creak. His lungs rattle as he fights to draw a breath and fails.

Realizes he's going to die. His only thought: Like this?

His breathing gets so shallow, it's just the slightest flexing of a single nostril.

He stops hearing the muffled roar.

He stops seeing the red sparks.

He stops feeling the smashed hand, the loose teeth.

He's blacking out.

But as Matt's five senses fade, another sense becomes apparent to him. One he's never noticed before. It's almost like sonar: somehow he can feel the space beyond his body: its shape, density, distance. Like his mind has been somehow freed of the confines of his compressed skull.

He can feel the jagged, dark weight of a shattered boulder to his right.

He can feel the long, soft, rotting trunk of a felled tree lying diagonally behind him.

Above, he can feel the chaotic tangle of torn brush.

Below, shelves of ice lying atop one another like shattered mirrors.

Help me.

He doesn't say the words. He doesn't even think them. He's beyond that now. But even so, the impulse behind those words, the raw need they express, pulses out of him like the cry of a bat. And like the cry of a bat it bounces off the jagged teeth of the boulder, the soft line of the fallen trunk, the crown of brush above, the broken ice-glass below.

Help me.

Help me.

Help me.

The pulse goes farther, faster, as his other senses fade. It travels all the way up to the surface, where snow swirls in a helix and the pale orb of the sun hangs above it like the ghost of heat. The pulse travels all the way down, far below the panes of ice, through endless strata of stone and earth and ice.

And it is there, miles below him, that the pulse finds purchase. Where, for the first time, it is not reflected, but absorbed. Reaches something far below that wakens, takes notice. That stirs. Uncoils. Grows attentive.

He can't feel its shape . . . or weight . . . or nature. Only that it is very old, very dense: is somehow compact—somehow folded in upon itself many, many times over. And it's very far down. So far down that if it were left alone, it would almost certainly stay put. Stay buried. Maybe forever.

Help me.

That final pulse hits home. The thing far below responds, begins to ascend. Sluggishly at first, then gathering force. He can feel it slowly spiraling upwards, its shape shifting like the shadow of a cloud.

It draws nearer to him, eager now, homing in like a flock to a tree, a swarm to a hive. Clearly, he's drawing it to him. But is he drawing it intentionally, like a fly fisherman luring a trout? Or unintentionally, like a bucket of chum drawing a hammerhead?

He can't tell.

But he can sense it draw closer, closer, until it's close enough to make a pass, then another. Feints away, then closes in.

Now it is in the ice with him.

Now it is on him.

Now it is in him.

A gasp—and Matt can breathe again. His lungs expand, contract. Not much, but enough.

The red sparks dance before his eyes again.

Again he feels his right hand, but it's a little less painful, and his teeth are a little less loose.

He draws another breath, but strangely, it's a double breath.

His heart pounds, but with a double beat.

His brain forms a single thought: Alive!

And promptly falls into a deep, dreamless sleep, to the sound of faint, echoing laughter.

RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK

'Stop it, stop it,' Maloria was yelling. 'We was just told to hold him here. Now they ready for him, and you gonna fry his ass 'til he can't take a step? I ain't answerin' for that!'

Though Matt's mind was foggy with pain, and his vision blurred, he could see Hirotachi's face grow strangely blank. 'Listen to me, nigger.' She pointed a finger at Maloria, whose mouth had fallen open. 'For the last time, shut your South-Side-of-Chicago, ghetto-ass piehole. I run this shift. And if I wanna fry this boy like a day-old wonton at China Buffet? I'm gonna do it. So: Back. The Fuck. Off.'

Jaw locked, Maloria bent over, pretending to rummage through her purse.

Hirotachi turned back to Matt. 'You like Emeril, Lover Boy? I do. Watch his cooking show every day. And he's the one that taught me what I'm about to teach you: that to make a good impression, you've got to kick it up a notch.'

She turned a knob on the console all the way to the right.

Took the switch in hand.

And then Matt watched in amazement as Hirotachi—as if to demonstrate what he was in for—snapped upright, hands clenched pharaonically across her chest. She clacked her teeth together, stared bug-eyed at him, and made a hissing sound.

Then teetered from foot to foot . . . and toppled forward, trailing a line of wires that extended from the center of her back to the yellow plastic gun in Maloria's hand.

'Paid three hundred twenty-five dollars for this shit, bitch—and WORTH EVERY PENNY.'

CHAPTER NINE

It took Maloria only a few seconds to unbuckle the straps that held Matt in five-point restraint. He needed her help to stand, and even then it took a few tries. His legs were jelly.

'Boy, I wouldn't a' helped 'em out, but they so crazy—'

He waved her off.

'Gotta . . . gotta call the police,' he croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper.

'Yeah, I'm all about that. Only I left my cell phone in my car, down the driveway. And Admin's crawlin' with night shift.'

'I'll go with you.' He took a few experimental steps. Stayed upright. 'But we've got to bring the girl with us.'

'Annica. Huh-uh.' She shook her head, eyes big, pulling him towards the door. 'Too late for her. She already at the Ring.'

He stopped, pulled away. 'The Ring? What the hell is that?'