Arcade Catastrophe
Page 54
His biggest frustration had come from his inability to accomplish anything. He had hoped that becoming a prisoner might give him access to useful secrets, but so far all he had managed to do was sleep, eat, pace, and stew.
Cleon escorted him down the hall. Pigeon appreciated his ability to move his gaze around rather than having it fixed. He could not help noticing how far the hall extended in both directions, and how many cell doors it contained.
“Big prison,” Pigeon said conversationally.
“Yeah,” Cleon replied.
“Do you guys keep a lot of people here?”
“Not many,” Cleon replied. “The boss doesn’t do things halfway. There are whole wings that I doubt we’ll ever use.”
They turned a corner and Cleon led Pigeon to an unmarked door. “You’ll have the whole place to yourself. I’ll wait out here. I don’t have all day. Make it snappy.”
“I’ll hurry,” Pigeon promised. “Do I just put my same clothes back on?”
“For now, yeah,” Cleon said. “We’ll look into finding something else.”
Pigeon passed through the door into a large locker room. Long fluorescent lights cast an even radiance onto the tile floor. He found soap, shampoo, conditioner, and a folded towel on a bench between rows of lockers. Proceeding to a large communal shower, Pigeon chose a nozzle and turned on the water. He checked the temperature with his hand and adjusted the knobs a couple of times, then stepped into the spray.
Despite the wide, eerily empty room and the guard waiting outside to return him to his cell, Pigeon felt his body relax as warm water gushed over him. With a small sniff, he tried to breathe the water and immediately began coughing. The sub stamp had worn off.
After a few moments wallowing in the relaxing sensation, he remembered his promise to Cleon and grabbed the soap. Pigeon hummed as he washed. Then he started singing. The echo off the bare walls helped his voice sound better than usual. He started getting into it, loudly singing the national anthem, until he imagined Cleon laughing at him out in the hall. Hopefully the door would serve to muffle his voice, but Pigeon decided not to take any chances.
When he finished, Pigeon shut off the water and grabbed his towel. The air felt cooler after the warm spray, so he hurried and pulled on his clothes while he was still too wet, causing his shirt and pants to stick uncomfortably to his skin. Once he was presentable, Pigeon exited the locker room to find Cleon waiting.
“How fast do you think you were?” Cleon asked.
“Pretty fast,” Pigeon said.
“I thought you’d fallen asleep until you serenaded me,” Cleon said.
“I liked the echo,” Pigeon explained.
“I could tell,” Cleon chuckled. “Let’s get you back to that comfy cell. I bet you’ve got an echo in there, too. Have you tried it out?”
“I’m never singing again,” Pigeon said, his cheeks hot.
“Don’t squander your talent,” Cleon said. “I think you’ve got a future! Next time you shower, I just might charge admission. Maybe we’ll play a ball game afterward. Come on.”
They began to retrace their steps to Pigeon’s cell. When they reached Pigeon’s hall, loud footfalls sounded behind them. Pigeon and Cleon turned at the same time.
A man charged down the hall toward them. A large man, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. His shoes slapped the floor unapologetically. An unbuttoned overcoat flapped behind him like a cape. The man was not wearing his customary fedora, but it was definitely John Dart.
“Great,” Cleon muttered. He gave Pigeon a shove that almost knocked him over. “Go to your cell.”
Pigeon didn’t obey. He wasn’t about to miss a chance to see John.
Cleon stepped around the corner, out of John’s view. Then Cleon suddenly teleported four feet to one side.
Pigeon blinked. “How’d you do that?”
Cleon waved him away. “Scram.”
Pigeon could hear that John had almost caught up with them. He backed away a few paces.
John raced around the corner and without hesitation threw a hard punch at Cleon’s face. The blow passed right through Cleon’s head, as if he possessed no more substance than a hologram. The lack of contact left John off balance. Cleon lashed out with his leg, and even though the kick came nowhere near to striking John, the detective doubled over. A few feet to the side of John, Cleon punched. Without any visible impact, John staggered back.
John skipped several steps to one side and closed his eyes, knees bent, fists ready. “Go ahead, hit me again,” John invited.
Cleon frowned. He stepped forward quietly, not directly toward John.
“He’s coming,” Pigeon said.
John shushed him. “I know.”
“He’s not where he seems to be,” Pigeon said.
While John made a motion for Pigeon to keep silent, Cleon lunged forward and threw a punch that looked to have no chance of landing. John’s head snapped back and he stumbled away, hands raised defensively.
“Keep talking, Pigeon,” Cleon invited. “Stamp your feet. Sing us a song.”
Pigeon realized that John had been relying on his ears to hear Cleon approach. Pigeon clamped both hands over his mouth.
John turned to face Cleon’s voice, which originated from somewhere to the side of his visible mouth. As soon as Cleon stopped speaking, he slunk quietly to one side, stepping carefully.
John still had his eyes closed, apparently to avoid interaction with the distracting illusion. Pigeon felt tempted to explain where Cleon was moving, but held his tongue. If John wanted to see, he could simply open his eyes.
“A little less bold this time,” John said.
Cleon didn’t respond. He was creeping forward, fists raised. Pigeon couldn’t hear him.
Lunging to the left of John, Cleon threw another punch that didn’t look like it could connect. John made a blocking motion and seemed to trap something invisible. He swung the invisible attacker into the wall, both men grunting with the impact.
The illusion of Cleon disappeared and his actual form became visible, his arm trapped by John. Cleon tried to twist away, but John landed a brutal punch that sent him sprawling. John flinched as he issued the blow, and blood began gushing from one nostril.
Pigeon winced. John had a huge disadvantage in any fight—he suffered any injury that he inflicted on another. If he broke some guy’s arm, his arm broke as well. If John punched a guy, he received the same damage.
“If you wanted to hurt me, you should have just let me hit you,” John said, wiping away blood with the back of his hand. “It would have saved us time.”
Cleon escorted him down the hall. Pigeon appreciated his ability to move his gaze around rather than having it fixed. He could not help noticing how far the hall extended in both directions, and how many cell doors it contained.
“Big prison,” Pigeon said conversationally.
“Yeah,” Cleon replied.
“Do you guys keep a lot of people here?”
“Not many,” Cleon replied. “The boss doesn’t do things halfway. There are whole wings that I doubt we’ll ever use.”
They turned a corner and Cleon led Pigeon to an unmarked door. “You’ll have the whole place to yourself. I’ll wait out here. I don’t have all day. Make it snappy.”
“I’ll hurry,” Pigeon promised. “Do I just put my same clothes back on?”
“For now, yeah,” Cleon said. “We’ll look into finding something else.”
Pigeon passed through the door into a large locker room. Long fluorescent lights cast an even radiance onto the tile floor. He found soap, shampoo, conditioner, and a folded towel on a bench between rows of lockers. Proceeding to a large communal shower, Pigeon chose a nozzle and turned on the water. He checked the temperature with his hand and adjusted the knobs a couple of times, then stepped into the spray.
Despite the wide, eerily empty room and the guard waiting outside to return him to his cell, Pigeon felt his body relax as warm water gushed over him. With a small sniff, he tried to breathe the water and immediately began coughing. The sub stamp had worn off.
After a few moments wallowing in the relaxing sensation, he remembered his promise to Cleon and grabbed the soap. Pigeon hummed as he washed. Then he started singing. The echo off the bare walls helped his voice sound better than usual. He started getting into it, loudly singing the national anthem, until he imagined Cleon laughing at him out in the hall. Hopefully the door would serve to muffle his voice, but Pigeon decided not to take any chances.
When he finished, Pigeon shut off the water and grabbed his towel. The air felt cooler after the warm spray, so he hurried and pulled on his clothes while he was still too wet, causing his shirt and pants to stick uncomfortably to his skin. Once he was presentable, Pigeon exited the locker room to find Cleon waiting.
“How fast do you think you were?” Cleon asked.
“Pretty fast,” Pigeon said.
“I thought you’d fallen asleep until you serenaded me,” Cleon said.
“I liked the echo,” Pigeon explained.
“I could tell,” Cleon chuckled. “Let’s get you back to that comfy cell. I bet you’ve got an echo in there, too. Have you tried it out?”
“I’m never singing again,” Pigeon said, his cheeks hot.
“Don’t squander your talent,” Cleon said. “I think you’ve got a future! Next time you shower, I just might charge admission. Maybe we’ll play a ball game afterward. Come on.”
They began to retrace their steps to Pigeon’s cell. When they reached Pigeon’s hall, loud footfalls sounded behind them. Pigeon and Cleon turned at the same time.
A man charged down the hall toward them. A large man, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. His shoes slapped the floor unapologetically. An unbuttoned overcoat flapped behind him like a cape. The man was not wearing his customary fedora, but it was definitely John Dart.
“Great,” Cleon muttered. He gave Pigeon a shove that almost knocked him over. “Go to your cell.”
Pigeon didn’t obey. He wasn’t about to miss a chance to see John.
Cleon stepped around the corner, out of John’s view. Then Cleon suddenly teleported four feet to one side.
Pigeon blinked. “How’d you do that?”
Cleon waved him away. “Scram.”
Pigeon could hear that John had almost caught up with them. He backed away a few paces.
John raced around the corner and without hesitation threw a hard punch at Cleon’s face. The blow passed right through Cleon’s head, as if he possessed no more substance than a hologram. The lack of contact left John off balance. Cleon lashed out with his leg, and even though the kick came nowhere near to striking John, the detective doubled over. A few feet to the side of John, Cleon punched. Without any visible impact, John staggered back.
John skipped several steps to one side and closed his eyes, knees bent, fists ready. “Go ahead, hit me again,” John invited.
Cleon frowned. He stepped forward quietly, not directly toward John.
“He’s coming,” Pigeon said.
John shushed him. “I know.”
“He’s not where he seems to be,” Pigeon said.
While John made a motion for Pigeon to keep silent, Cleon lunged forward and threw a punch that looked to have no chance of landing. John’s head snapped back and he stumbled away, hands raised defensively.
“Keep talking, Pigeon,” Cleon invited. “Stamp your feet. Sing us a song.”
Pigeon realized that John had been relying on his ears to hear Cleon approach. Pigeon clamped both hands over his mouth.
John turned to face Cleon’s voice, which originated from somewhere to the side of his visible mouth. As soon as Cleon stopped speaking, he slunk quietly to one side, stepping carefully.
John still had his eyes closed, apparently to avoid interaction with the distracting illusion. Pigeon felt tempted to explain where Cleon was moving, but held his tongue. If John wanted to see, he could simply open his eyes.
“A little less bold this time,” John said.
Cleon didn’t respond. He was creeping forward, fists raised. Pigeon couldn’t hear him.
Lunging to the left of John, Cleon threw another punch that didn’t look like it could connect. John made a blocking motion and seemed to trap something invisible. He swung the invisible attacker into the wall, both men grunting with the impact.
The illusion of Cleon disappeared and his actual form became visible, his arm trapped by John. Cleon tried to twist away, but John landed a brutal punch that sent him sprawling. John flinched as he issued the blow, and blood began gushing from one nostril.
Pigeon winced. John had a huge disadvantage in any fight—he suffered any injury that he inflicted on another. If he broke some guy’s arm, his arm broke as well. If John punched a guy, he received the same damage.
“If you wanted to hurt me, you should have just let me hit you,” John said, wiping away blood with the back of his hand. “It would have saved us time.”
