Because if he had never gotten involved with her and brought Mr. Dark into her life… she wouldn’t be about to do something very, very bad.
More people were going to die.
And that, too, would be Matt’s fault.
He had to stop her. Fast. And he had to stop K-Rad.
The easy way would be to kill her right now.
He thought about it for an instant but knew he couldn’t do it, not in cold blood, not when there still might be a chance to save her from her demons.
That split second of hesitation was a mistake.
Shelly sat up and slammed her fist deep into his groin.
It was a sucker punch, pure and simple, to the most vulnerable part of his body, and it landed with full impact before he had a chance to react. When he doubled over, Shelly kneed him in the face. Droplets of bright red blood dripped from his nose and splattered on the tile floor. The world was spinning now, and Matt felt like he was going to vomit. He leaned on the desk, trying to steady himself, and felt something very hard smash into the back of his skull.
10:15 a.m.
Hal Miller had been fooling around with one of the forklifts when K-Rad blew his left kneecap off. K-Rad knew Hal and had even considered him a friend for a while. They drank beer and shot pool together at the Retro sometimes. He almost regretted the fact that he was going to have to kill him now. Almost. But Hal had been working nights with K-Rad a few months ago, and Hal was the one who’d fucked up the loading-dock door with his forks raised. If Hal had confessed, K-Rad would have never gotten fired. In essence, it was Hal’s fault that all this was even happening. He lay on the concrete floor in the fetal position, holding his ruined knee with his hands and moaning in agony.
“Who are you?” Hal asked, his voice cracking with fear. “Why are you doing this?”
K-Rad was still wearing the gas mask and the drop-down night-vision binoculars. He didn’t need the apparatus now that he was out of Petrol, but he thought it looked cool and menacing. He wanted to be wearing it when his picture was broadcast globally on TV and the Internet. He wanted to look like the killing machine that he was. He walked over, sat on the floor, and pressed the barrel of his pistol against Hal’s forehead.
“It’s me. Kevin Radowski. K-Rad, your old drinking buddy.”
“Look, I’m really sorry about-”
“It’s a little late for apologies, don’t you think? You should have come forward the day you wrecked that door.”
“I have a family to support, K. Come on, man. Give me a break.”
“I gave you a break by not snitching you out. You repaid me by sitting back and watching me get canned for something I didn’t do.”
“Let’s go to Hubbs’s office right now,” Hal said. “I’ll tell him everything. I swear.”
“Oh, I’m going to Hubbs’s office all right. Soon as I blow your fucking brains out.”
“Please. Please don’t kill me. I’ll tell him I wrecked the door. You can get your job back and I’ll be the one to get fired.”
“I’ve already killed a bunch of people, Hal. Call it a hunch, but I doubt they’re going to hire me back.”
“Oh my God. Who did you kill?”
“Lots of people. Including you.”
K-Rad pulled the trigger. The bullet entered through Hal’s forehead, tore through his brain, and exited through the back of his skull. It ricocheted off the concrete floor, then the steel plating on the electric forklift, and hit K-Rad dead center in the sternum.
Good thing he was wearing his Kevlar vest.
“Ouch,” he said, and proceeded toward Mr. Hubbs’s office.
10:17 a.m.
Matt was high in a tree house, and something invisible had pushed his wife, Janey, out the door. She was on the way down, plummeting headfirst like a human missile, arms stretched toward the ground in a futile attempt to lessen the impact.
“Janey!” Matt cried.
He pursed his lips and concentrated, and his physical surroundings blurred to a tunnel of swirling colors. He saw only Janey, sinking slowly now, as if through an enormous vat of molasses, teeth clenched and eyes bulging. A silver ring outlined the tunnel, constricting more and more, like an aperture, until Matt’s entire world flashed to a stark and blinding white.
Against this white background came a galloping horse with a knight in full armor, the rider and his mount as black and dull as axle grease. The knight gripped the reins with one hand and a spiked metal ball on a chain with the other. The weapon was a brutal-looking thing, a skull-busting apparatus of the highest caliber, and the knight wielded it like an extra appendage, like something he’d been born with. The knight’s name was Pain, and his steed Death, and Matt knew he could not defeat them, no matter how hard he tried. He knew that the only way to save Janey was to make a pact with them, to bow down to them and give them what they wanted.
The horse stopped and reared, chomping at the bit, an expression of extreme agony on its face. The tortured animal snorted and sneezed and bucked and stomped, stirring a sandy white storm in Matt’s throbbing head.
When the dust finally settled, Sir Pain raised his flail and spoke: “I will give you the power to save your wife, but with the power comes a responsibility-and a debt.”
“I’ll do anything,” Matt said.
“You must become a soldier in the Dark Army, and you must-”
Another gunshot rang out, and Matt woke with a start. He had the worst headache of his life, and his testicles felt as though someone had parked a truck on them.
“Shelly?” he said.
No reply. She and the flashlight were gone, unless she was hiding in the darkness, but he doubted it.
Another employee had just been murdered, maybe Fred or Shelly, and Matt knew what he had to do. He rose and staggered to the door, exited the Shipping and Receiving office, and headed for Waterbase.
He was still a little dizzy from the blow to the head, and the heat and chemical fumes only made matters worse. He crept behind the massive stainless-steel Fire and Ice tanks, peeked through the eighteen-inch space between them, and in the dim light filtering through the ventilation fans saw the silhouette of a figure walking toward the foreman’s office. The man wore a heavy vest and a backpack and a helmet. He walked slowly, legs stiff, almost shambling along, like some sort of zombie astronaut. He carried a pistol in his left hand.
All Matt could do was try to ambush the man and take him down without getting shot in the process. He had started to creep along the wall toward the office when he heard a childlike moan. He stopped, crouched down, and duckwalked back behind the tanks. He followed the mewling sounds to an area where bags of dry chemicals were stored and saw a petite young woman squirming on top of one of the stacks. He gently peeled away the duct tape covering her mouth.
“What’s your name?” Matt said.
“Terri Bonach. I work in Petrol. The guy who put me here said everything was going to be all right, but then I woke up and I couldn’t move or talk. Who are you?”
“Matt Cahill. I’m a temp.”
“What’s going on? We went into lockdown, and I think everyone in Petrol is dead now. Oh my God. What the hell’s going on?”
“Someone came in and started shooting people this morning. The man who left you here was not a rescuer. He was the bad guy. Kevin Radowski. Do you know him?”
“No, but I heard about him. He works in Waterbase. They call him K-Rad. You know, like A-Rod. Makes sense that it’s him. I heard he’s kind of crazy, and I heard he got fired last week.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
K-Rad.
An anagram immediately formed in Matt’s mind.
K-Rad was Dark spelled backward.
“So why didn’t he kill me? I mean, I’m happy he didn’t, but-”
