The Next to Die

“Twice in my gut. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Can you get someone?”

There was a pause on the other end. “We’ll find a doctor for you, Lyle. Can you still drive, or should we send someone to pick you up?”

“I’ll stay with my vehicle,” Lyle said resolutely.

“Good boy. Think you can make it to the designated spot?”

“Affirmative,” Lyle said. “Get me somebody good. No quack. I promised my son I’d take him hunting next week, and I don’t intend to let him down.”

“See you in twenty minutes?”

“Affirmative. Over and out.” Lyle hung up the telephone, smearing his blood on the handle.

Thirty-eight years old, Lyle Bender had a stubby build, straight brown hair, and a pale complexion. An hour ago, he’d thought he looked good in his police uniform. He’d always wanted to be a cop. Now the blue uniform was blood-soaked from the chest down to his knees. His belly was on fire. Lyle could hardly get a breath without it hurting. He staggered back to the police car and got behind the wheel, only to sink into a puddle of his own blood. Starting up the engine, he headed south toward Long Beach.

This was a test of his strength. He’d deliver his vehicle to the designated spot. Hal and the doctor would marvel at his dedication and stamina. Hal might even admit how wrong he was about a lot of things and apologize. Lyle resolved to forgive him. It was the Christian thing to do.

Hal had accused him of getting “carried away” with his job. Maybe he was overzealous at times, but he believed in what they were doing. He believed Tony Katz had to be taken down a few notches after they drove him and his fellow deviate to the forest. So he whittled a tree branch and shoved it up the pervert’s ass. But Hal didn’t understand; he was too concerned about following the SAAMO big shots’ instructions to the letter.

Hal just didn’t get it. In that hotel room with Leigh Simone, after they’d dragged her in from the corridor, Lyle had threatened to rape her. He had no intention of actually going through with it. He was simply having a little fun, as guys do. And the threat worked. When he began to feel her up, that smug black bitch suddenly seemed terrified. She looked as if she might whimper an apology for promoting her twisted lifestyle to the youth of America. But Hal pulled him off her, whispering that there couldn’t be any evidence of an attack. Her death had to look like a suicide.

He could tell Hal looked down on him. It was the way some of those SAAMO higher-ups treated the guys in the trenches. They were too full of themselves and their college educations to get their hands dirty. Hal was a SAAMO lieutenant. All he ever did was give orders and handle communications on the Internet, calling himself Rick—or sometimes Americkan. Lyle knew the real backbone of the organization was made up of people like himself, the soldiers. And after all, they called themselves Soldiers for An American Moral Order. There were fourteen SAAMO chapters in various cities and small towns throughout the United States, with a total of fifty-three members. But those thirty-nine men in the field, all soldiers like him, they were the unsung heroes.

Hal hadn’t wanted him to pull the job tonight. SAAMO had enlisted an amateur from the outside to do it next week. Hal kept saying that Dayle Sutton was too much in the spotlight right now. It was too risky for one of them to handle the job.

Lyle had set off tonight to prove Hal and the SAAMO big shots wrong. He’d expected some interference from the bodyguard; but he hadn’t counted on Miss Lesbo Pro-Abortion Gun Control to be carrying a piece. He’d put down the bodyguard, close and fast, almost a mercy killing. The guy didn’t even know what hit him. Then suddenly from the backseat, Dayle Sutton was firing at him. In those silly movie star sunglasses, she still got a couple of lucky hits. But he managed to get her back, and he was still alive.

“Stay with me, Jesus,” Lyle whispered. His knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It was as if something were eating away at his gut, sharp teeth gnawing at him. He was losing a lot of blood. He felt it slithering down the back of his legs, wetting his socks.

Lyle pressed hard on the accelerator. Switching on the siren and red strobe, he headed for the highway exit. He ran a light at the end of the off-ramp, then made a sharp turn, almost tipping over the car. A stop sign didn’t slow him down. He sped through it, heading into an industrial area. Only a few more minutes, and he’d be at the prescribed meeting place.

“You better be there with a doctor, Hal,” Lyle whispered, gritting his teeth at the agonizing pain. He’d bleed to death if he didn’t get help soon. Up ahead, he saw Newell Avenue, and he turned into the cul-de-sac. NO OUTLET, the sign said. He drove over a set of railroad tracks. The full moon illuminated a silo and a couple of smokestacks in an abandoned chemical plant. Lyle saw the entrance gate, closed and padlocked; and he saw the Corsica, parked across the street, waiting for him.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he murmured, tears in his eyes. Lyle killed the police lights on his roof, then straightened up the best he could. He imagined the bullets lodging deeper inside him with every movement. Despite his agony, he had to smile when the Corsica’s headlights flashed on and off.

Lyle shifted to park and shut off the engine. He started counting the seconds as he waited for his friends to climb out of the car. He counted up to seventy. The puddle of blood in which he sat had turned cold. He was losing feeling in his legs. “C’mon, guys,” he grumbled. “I’m dying here.”

Hal and the doctor finally emerged from their vehicle. They were sure taking their sweet time about it.

“Fuck,” Lyle growled, and he punched the horn.

Startled, the doctor jumped a little. Lyle could see him now as he walked into the headlights: an old man in a loose trench coat. He seemed timid and scared. Hal must have bullied him into coming. He had a grip on the old guy’s arm as they approached the car.

Lyle fumbled for the handle, then pushed the door open. The interior light went on. Hal walked up to the car, practically dragging the old guy. “Lyle, my God, look at you.” His eyes widened at all the blood. “Well, listen, it’s okay. I brought someone who’s going to take care of everything.”

Slumped over the steering wheel, Lyle managed to grin at his friend. “Praise the Lord,” he said in a raspy voice.

“I also have some bad news,” Hal said, frowning. He let go of the old man’s arm. “Our source close to Dayle Sutton phoned a few minutes ago. She’s very much alive. That was her stunt double you shot. She’s the wife of a cop. It’s a real mess you’ve created, Lyle. Once again.”

“Oh, fuck,” Lyle said, clutching his stomach. “You can’t be serious—”

“It’s okay. We’ve already started the cleanup.” Hal grimaced and shook his head. “Damn, Lyle, you’re hurt bad. Pray for forgiveness of your sins, all right? You hear me, Lyle?”

“What do you mean?” Lyle started to reach out toward them. Then he saw the old man pull a gun out of his coat pocket. All at once, Lyle realized he was going to die. “No, NO, NO!” he screamed.

The old man shot him in the shoulder. Then he fired again, putting one more bullet into Lyle’s gut. Stunned and mute, Lyle gazed at Hal as if to ask why they were doing this to him.

“It’s part of the cleanup, Lyle,” Hal said soberly.

Lyle Bender barely felt an impact from the next bullet, which blew off the side of his head. He recoiled, and then his lifeless body flopped across the seat, blood splashed up from the wet cushion.

The old man dropped the gun. He staggered back to the chemical plant’s chain-link fence, bent forward, and vomited.

“Well, that’s that,” Hal said. He picked up the gun. “You’ll need some work on your aim, Tom. Otherwise, you did a fine job.”

Tom Lance wiped the dark spittle from his mouth with a shaky hand. “Is it Dayle Sutton?” he asked. “Is it Dayle Sutton you want me to kill?” He nodded at the corpse in the front seat of the patrol car. “I can’t do that again! I can’t! Please, don’t ask me…”

“We aren’t asking you, Tom,” Hal said. “When the time comes, you’ll do what you’re told. You understand that, don’t you?” Hal frowned. For a moment, his face was illuminated by headlights. A minivan cruised down the cul-de-sac toward them.

The cleanup guys. Hal had explained to Tom on the way to Newell Avenue that a couple of their men were handling disposal of the body, repainting the car, cleaning it up. They would do whatever was necessary.

“Just in time,” Hal said, with a glance at the approaching minivan. “C’mon, Tom. I’ll take you home. You did well tonight.”