Do Not Disturb
Page 75
It takes less than three tries and the lock pops, the door swinging inward from his weight. Darkness inside. Silence. Marcus grins, sliding in and shutting the door, letting the blackness envelop him, his feet making the only sound, a slick step as they step on what sounds to be plastic flooring. He pulls out his wallet and, by feel, returns the card to its spot. He is fumbling through the process, his back to the door, when everything changes.
Simultaneous explosions.
Lights blare on, more than humanly possible, the glare and intensity of them staggering.
A sea of exposure blinding him, causing his hands to raise, his eyes to squint, and that is when his mind has the delayed sense to register a hiss.
Pop.
Hiss.
Pop.
Hiss.
Pop.
Hiss.
The pops increase in speed, the hisses multiply, and his legs flinch as hard items roll and hit the door behind him, the leather of his shoes. One jumps and catches the delicate bone of his shin.
The gas hits his senses. Covering his eyes, pressing hard into eye sockets, trying to prevent penetration, not realizing that his hands, his fingers, are already covered, his inhalations and gasping breaths taking in the fog, a fog which instantly disorients, his brain taking a dip into acid town, nausea and pain gripping his mind and shoving it into a blender of fuck you. He drops to his knees, the light covered for one grateful moment, and he cracks an eye to see the reason for the reprieve. Blinks, despite the pain it creates, opening his eye wider for a painful moment as he endures the agony for one last grip at his sanity.
But it is too late. He has lost it. Must be crazy. An angel of death. Dressed in tight black, her head that of an elephant, disproportionately large, the long trunk winding down and around. She moves closer and points. His body collapses when the first jolt of electricity hits.
CHAPTER 87
TOOTHPICKDICK WASN’T JOKING. Three cans would have been more than enough for my apartment. As it was, I used ten. Puncturing the tenth can, the front door already a bright white cloud, I pulled at the gas mask, paranoid that some of the vapors would get through, my bare spots of skin tingling from it, the urge to take a shower strong. What if my mask is faulty? What if it’s too big? From the sounds of the man before me, his moans, ones that scrape a happy trail through my consciousness, the cans of whatever the hell I bought are doing their job. Doing it well.
I arm the Taser, step forward, clouds of chemicals parting slightly, and aim, at a distance that cannot be missed. Then, I pull. Fire. Smile with satisfaction when he crumples at my feet. I feel capable. Organized. Superior. My hands shake with excitement.
This will be fun.
CHAPTER 88
I USE ZIP ties, not trusting my ability to tie knots, and having seen too many prisoners cut through duct tape with a conveniently found piece of glass. Thank you, Spike TV. Plus, he had them on him, in his pants pocket, my body pat discovering them early on, along with a syringe that I keep for the pure hell of it. Also found: ski mask, knife, keys, and enough condoms to piss me the hell off. Looks like the man had planned for years of fucking. I keep the Taser ready, the tins still attached, a new blast of current shooting through him every time he even thinks about moving.
The gas is still here, showing no sign of dissipation, and I start wondering why I took ToothpickDick’s knowledge vomit without even a cursory verification through Google. What if this shit takes days? How do I eat, shower, talk on the phone, with a gas mask on? Should I open the window? Let the toxic air float through the city, causing sore throats and blurred vision at every turn? At least it is working. More than working. I zip-tie his hands together, at his back, the act a struggle, his hands fighting me for a spell before I get the loop in place and yank. His eyes are shut tightly and he’s blubbering. This man, twenty years my senior, armed with elements of destruction, an infidel knife—impressive—and expensive trappings, is blubbering. Rivers of tears down his face, nonsense hiccupping in big gushy teenagechickattheendofTitanic sobs.
I am crouched at his feet, my hands too small to fully wrap around his ankles, when he shoots a foot up and catches the underside of my chin. Hard. Hard enough to knock me back, the back of my head slamming against the floor. The impact causes tears to spring, a gasp coming from my mouth. Panic sets in when sudden heat sears my eyes, acid from the room creeping underneath my dislodged mask. I reach up, yanking the mask back into place at the same time that the sharp tip of his shoe finds me a second time, this kick connecting at my thigh.
Motherfucker. I wheeze, my eyes blinking rapidly as I roll out of reach, my throat burning as I grab at my thigh, rubbing the spot where I can already feel a knot forming. Anger erupts, my hand grabbing along the floor until I locate the Taser and sit upright, sending a long volley of jolts into this bitch of a man that I may just lose control over and kill.
Simultaneous explosions.
Lights blare on, more than humanly possible, the glare and intensity of them staggering.
A sea of exposure blinding him, causing his hands to raise, his eyes to squint, and that is when his mind has the delayed sense to register a hiss.
Pop.
Hiss.
Pop.
Hiss.
Pop.
Hiss.
The pops increase in speed, the hisses multiply, and his legs flinch as hard items roll and hit the door behind him, the leather of his shoes. One jumps and catches the delicate bone of his shin.
The gas hits his senses. Covering his eyes, pressing hard into eye sockets, trying to prevent penetration, not realizing that his hands, his fingers, are already covered, his inhalations and gasping breaths taking in the fog, a fog which instantly disorients, his brain taking a dip into acid town, nausea and pain gripping his mind and shoving it into a blender of fuck you. He drops to his knees, the light covered for one grateful moment, and he cracks an eye to see the reason for the reprieve. Blinks, despite the pain it creates, opening his eye wider for a painful moment as he endures the agony for one last grip at his sanity.
But it is too late. He has lost it. Must be crazy. An angel of death. Dressed in tight black, her head that of an elephant, disproportionately large, the long trunk winding down and around. She moves closer and points. His body collapses when the first jolt of electricity hits.
CHAPTER 87
TOOTHPICKDICK WASN’T JOKING. Three cans would have been more than enough for my apartment. As it was, I used ten. Puncturing the tenth can, the front door already a bright white cloud, I pulled at the gas mask, paranoid that some of the vapors would get through, my bare spots of skin tingling from it, the urge to take a shower strong. What if my mask is faulty? What if it’s too big? From the sounds of the man before me, his moans, ones that scrape a happy trail through my consciousness, the cans of whatever the hell I bought are doing their job. Doing it well.
I arm the Taser, step forward, clouds of chemicals parting slightly, and aim, at a distance that cannot be missed. Then, I pull. Fire. Smile with satisfaction when he crumples at my feet. I feel capable. Organized. Superior. My hands shake with excitement.
This will be fun.
CHAPTER 88
I USE ZIP ties, not trusting my ability to tie knots, and having seen too many prisoners cut through duct tape with a conveniently found piece of glass. Thank you, Spike TV. Plus, he had them on him, in his pants pocket, my body pat discovering them early on, along with a syringe that I keep for the pure hell of it. Also found: ski mask, knife, keys, and enough condoms to piss me the hell off. Looks like the man had planned for years of fucking. I keep the Taser ready, the tins still attached, a new blast of current shooting through him every time he even thinks about moving.
The gas is still here, showing no sign of dissipation, and I start wondering why I took ToothpickDick’s knowledge vomit without even a cursory verification through Google. What if this shit takes days? How do I eat, shower, talk on the phone, with a gas mask on? Should I open the window? Let the toxic air float through the city, causing sore throats and blurred vision at every turn? At least it is working. More than working. I zip-tie his hands together, at his back, the act a struggle, his hands fighting me for a spell before I get the loop in place and yank. His eyes are shut tightly and he’s blubbering. This man, twenty years my senior, armed with elements of destruction, an infidel knife—impressive—and expensive trappings, is blubbering. Rivers of tears down his face, nonsense hiccupping in big gushy teenagechickattheendofTitanic sobs.
I am crouched at his feet, my hands too small to fully wrap around his ankles, when he shoots a foot up and catches the underside of my chin. Hard. Hard enough to knock me back, the back of my head slamming against the floor. The impact causes tears to spring, a gasp coming from my mouth. Panic sets in when sudden heat sears my eyes, acid from the room creeping underneath my dislodged mask. I reach up, yanking the mask back into place at the same time that the sharp tip of his shoe finds me a second time, this kick connecting at my thigh.
Motherfucker. I wheeze, my eyes blinking rapidly as I roll out of reach, my throat burning as I grab at my thigh, rubbing the spot where I can already feel a knot forming. Anger erupts, my hand grabbing along the floor until I locate the Taser and sit upright, sending a long volley of jolts into this bitch of a man that I may just lose control over and kill.
