A Perfect Machine(34)

Krebosche’s mind turned specifically to Adelina. The closest thing to a girlfriend he’d ever had. He had no doubt she was dead. He’d followed the men as they drove her to the outskirts of the city, shuffled her out, and led her into a rundown house. Probably filled with crackheads and God knows who else, he remembered thinking.

All that he was certain of now was that she went into that house under her own power – yes, being led, but upright and alive – and never came out before it was destroyed. Krebosche had been frozen in place. Had no idea how to react, what to do, who to call. He remembered crying, beating his steering wheel. But within minutes, even those strong emotions, even grief that powerful, began to wane. He felt it coming out of his pores like sweat. For some reason he was still unsure of, he had the presence of mind to write down what he could remember from the night. He scribbled it furiously, breaking the nib of his pencil halfway through, hoping to Christ he had another one with which to finish up.

Now, Krebosche got dressed, finished formulating his plan in his head, then remembered he didn’t have a knife with which to cut Palermo’s throat – and he assumed, as with all the other Runners, it needed to be a knife or a sword, since their bodies apparently just gobbled up bullets. It didn’t have to be anything special, though; in fact, the less special the better.

Why waste a good knife cutting such a filthy throat?

He stuffed his gun into his waistband nonetheless – if he did decide to carry on once he’d sliced the pig’s neck open, he’d want to at least put up a fight, take out a few more of Palermo’s men before he died. He knew he wouldn’t live long enough to take down more than two, maybe three of them, tops, but better than none.

Some distant part of him tried to argue he was also avenging Carl Duncan’s and his uncle Gerald’s deaths, but those internal arguments held about as much water as a sieve in his new state of mind. He was functioning on all cylinders now. No more time for bullshit.

This was for Adelina. For Marla.

And this was for him.

He put on his jacket, walked out of his motel room, spotted a Walmart across the street, headed toward it. Once inside, he made his way to the kitchen section, found the biggest knife he could. Bought it.

Then the thought struck him – with a certain amount of glee, he had to admit – that maybe hollow-point bullets would do more damage to anyone he might need to deal with after he cut Palermo’s head off. Those might even kill a Runner if fired from point-blank range at the head or neck. He turned toward the ammunition section, bought some dum-dum bullets, then left the store, went back to his motel room. Undressed, went to bed.

He slept for two hours, setting his alarm for 3 a.m. It woke him in the middle of a dream in which he was covered entirely in blood. Screaming. Pounding his fists against something. It was only upon waking, getting dressed, securing the knife down the side of his boot, the gun in his waistband, and leaving the motel room again that he realized it wasn’t Palermo’s blood, as he’d first assumed. It was Adelina’s.

And the thing upon which he pounded his fists was enormous.

Made entirely of steel.



* * *



It felt like there would always be snow now. It had waxed and waned over the past few days, but it seemed to Krebosche that it had never actually stopped. It was only due to the temperature being fairly warm that it hadn’t piled up to epic proportions. As Krebosche drove through the darkened streets, he imagined being suffocated under a mountain of snow. The thought appealed to him. He enjoyed the idea of that kind of peace, away from the noise on the streets, and in his head. It comforted him, calmed him.

He barely passed anyone on his way to the street where he planned to park, a few blocks away from the warehouse. He knew security would be tight, so getting too close would be a huge mistake.

All of this is a huge fucking mistake, he thought. But he was committed now. He felt that any choice in the matter had long since vanished. The only way through the situation was down. And down further still.

I’m about to try to cut a man’s head off with something not much better than a bread knife. What a mess that’s going to make. But the thought pleased him. He pictured the skin coming away in chunks as he sawed through. Blood pumping out. Drenching everything.

Tires crunching snow and gravel, he pulled his car into a dirt lot next to an abandoned building. Parked, got out. Surveyed the scene. From where he stood, he could just see the top of the warehouse. He’d need to be closer to know whether or not any lights were still on. But he supposed that was his own fault, since he, Duncan, and Gerald, were the ones who caused the breach.

As he headed toward the rear of the warehouse, where the train tracks and Palermo’s caboose were located, he had to fight to keep his orientation. The streets – especially in the endlessly falling snow – all looked the same, and even when he approached a corner, the text of the street signs would appear blurred, swimming on the signposts. He had to blink and wipe his eyes, refocus, look down at his notebook, run the street names in his mind over and again. He resorted to repeating them out loud under his breath.

Around one more corner, and there was the field and the warehouse. The caboose sat like a crouching animal in the darkness.

No lights on anywhere.

Krebosche touched the knife where he’d tucked it down his boot, then the gun in his waistband. Felt his heart thudding in his chest. For all his thoughts about not caring anymore, he certainly looked like someone about to do something unwise, and was scared to death of the consequences.