Billy tabbs, p.24
Billy Tabbs, page 24
“Claire was with us. In there,” cried Lola. “Only she didn’t run when we had the chance. She’d been going on and on about Brian the whole way there. She became too hopeful. She wasn’t thinking straight…”
“What happened to her?”
“I called for her,” said Lola. “But she didn’t run. She looked straight at me, then slipped into the facility through the opened door. Just walked right inside…”
Billy just listened. He pictured Claire—meek little doe-eyed Claire—stepping hopefully and willingly back toward her death. He hung onto the words, not just for the images they held, but for the way they were delivered. Short. Choppy. Labored breaths.
“We ran,” said Tommy. “Rufus ran too. Hobbled is more like it. Whimpered as he did. But he still ran.”
Billy looked at Rufus and saw that his paw had morphed into a lumpy, soggy mess. Dried blood still caked the edges of his mouth.
“We wouldn’t have gotten out of there without him,” said Lola. “He saved us more than once.” Billy noticed she wasn’t looking at him.
“We ran,” continued Tommy. “And then Lola couldn’t run anymore. Couldn’t catch her breath. Said her heart was beating too fast.”
“It’s OK now,” she said, her gaze still averted. “Better.”
A lie, thought Billy.
Knew Billy.
“Has it happened before?”
She pinched her teeth and shook her head. He believed her grimace.
“It’s late,” said Billy.
They moved along at a slow pace, stopping often for breaks. For Rufus, said Billy, which the others seemed to accept.
It was nearly curfew by the time they returned. By then Darrow had become privy to their defiance, and the participants were called into his office the moment they returned.
Darrow sat on the desk looking down at them, his stare icy cool.
“You leave as four members and one dog,” said Darrow.
The group held silent.
“You return as three members and half a dog.”
Again the group held silent.
The meeting wasn’t a long one. His anger was transparent, so few words were necessary. Tommy, who bore the brunt of the blame, was to have his rations cut. Lola, given the emergence of a heart malady, was from that moment forward restricted solely to labor within the House of Darrow and tending to The Progeny. As for the Lab, they would heal him as best they could, but it would be largely left to nature and time.
The reproaches seemed to end there. Billy was left unscathed, benefiting either from a reserve of goodwill, or Darrow’s appreciation of his limited role in the affair.
They would never see Bing or Claire again, nor would they ever visit the facility again. “They will pay in other ways,” said Darrow, “they all will.”
Billy believed him, his thoughts turning inescapably to the man who’d maimed George; the man with one corkscrew and no eyes.
They were preparing to leave when Darrow spoke once more, his final words of the evening, uttered beneath his breath and as much to the wall as to anyone. “And further treason will be dealt with harshly.”
Billy believed those words, too.
Perhaps it was a result of the previous night’s actions, or perhaps it had been coming all the same. Whichever the case, Chester announced the following morning that the sentries would not only rotate twice per day, but they would now carry a password. The password would be known only to Darrow and to those to whom it was distributed, which meant, effectively, that members could no longer leave the House of Darrow without his blessing.
When a few individuals bemoaned the loss of their freedom, Darrow told them that it was now a time of war and, as such, individual liberties must be curtailed for the greater good. He also reminded them of the ninth tenet, and any voices of disaffection were squelched as soon as they were raised.
Billy and Lola had talked through the night, whispering, for the first time, of desertion. Neither could predict what the consequences might be if they were caught, yet Lola was undeterred.
“It’s not safe here anymore,” she’d said.
“No,” agreed Billy.
“Not for us. And not for Sam.”
“No,” said Billy. He tried to blind himself to what she was alluding to, but Lola quickly removed any doubt.
“I won’t leave here without Sam.”
Billy hadn’t immediately answered. She’d whispered it directly into his ear but still it was far too loud. He’d perked his ears up and listened to the healthy snores all around him, responding only once he was satisfied everyone around him was quite surely asleep.
“It’s not our child to take.”
“Sam doesn’t belong here.”
“You mean ‘The Progeny.’” Billy corrected.
“I don’t like that name,” she said.
“No,” said Billy.
It was all they’d say on the subject that night, but it would weigh on Billy from that moment onward. The fact was that the walls were crumbling all around them, but Billy wouldn’t leave without Lola, and she without Sam—a simple but untenable calculation.
As it was, Sam was likely even less safe than Lola realized. Billy had seen the look in Marlon’s eyes each time he looked at Darrow’s child—a slight shift of brows and mouth, the embryonic stage of the scorn that he once held for Jacob. The look sharpened each time Darrow publicly trumpeted Sam as his heir; a plotting telling look that could never be exposed or proven.
Still, Billy couldn’t fathom abducting The Progeny. Nor could he imagine how far they would get if they tried. As it was, it was all he could do to keep his mind from the looming bloodshed.
It was those same doubts that spurred him into Darrow’s office the following morning, where he tentatively expressed his hesitation about committing acts of violence.
“I have some reservations,” admitted Billy. His head was cloudy after very little sleep.
“I’m surprised to hear this,” said Darrow. “With all that we’ve been through, how can your blood not boil?”
“This time is long overdue,” added Marlon, also in the room. “So long we’ve sat back, meek like sheep. I’ve assured Him that if Jacob had been aware of the horror taking place in the facility, he too would finally have embraced this path.”
Billy didn’t believe that. Not for one second.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, queasily.
With Marlon’s help, Darrow had constructed Jacob’s posthumous blessing to proceed to war. But to what end? Did they really hope to “defeat” the city? What would that even mean? What would it even look like? Billy then noticed Marlon staring at him. Jacob’s fatal plummet arced through his mind, and he decided not to voice any further objection.
He had started for the door when Darrow stopped him. “Don’t worry yourself, young Billy. You’ll rise to the occasion when the moment is at hand. All individuals merely need the proper motivation. Once you discover yours, the desire for retribution will come naturally.”
“I understand,” said Billy. “I guess I just haven’t found mine yet.”
“Nevertheless,” added Darrow, “I am counting on you to perform ably in the missions ahead of us.”
“I understand,” Billy said once more, then excused himself from the room.
Darrow and Marlon remained. They met at length that day before emerging to announce the organization’s first wartime campaign: Operation Overpass.
A simple plan: They would position themselves atop highway overpasses around the city to drop stones and rocks—the largest they could collect—onto the roadways below. This would hopefully throw the drivers off course, crash in their windshields, and cause all manner of accidents. They were told to aim for the newest, shiniest, and most luxurious looking cars.
Chester announced ten teams of four, with each group assigned to a major overpass. They were to act quickly, cause whatever havoc they could, then immediately make their escape.
All chosen members seemed genuinely excited about being selected for the mission—except for Billy, who faked his enthusiasm, and Tommy, who asked to be excused by reason of illness. Darrow acceded to his request, but had good reason to doubt Tommy’s candor. It wasn’t just his defiance in taking Bing and Claire to the facility; Tommy had recently been put in charge of meal distribution, and it wasn’t long into his shift before one of the well-to-do members caught him providing equal food shares to Gerry, a very likable member, but one hobbled by both a limped step and stuttered tongue. Tommy was also seen doing the same for some of the sick, and a few of the lowly riff-raff.
The information had quickly gone to Darrow. When called into the office and charged with the allegation, Tommy apparently hadn’t denied it. “The problem,” he’d said, “is that all food looks the same to me.”
Tommy was immediately pulled from the position and replaced with another. This didn’t dissuade Tommy from doing what he could to help those less fortunate, such as donating portions of his own food, or swapping a high-end cut of meat for a piece of cheap bologna, as he’d seen Jacob himself do many times. And while a handful of other privileged members had also taken to sharing their food with the downtrodden, unlike Jacob and Tommy, they seemingly did so only in return of favor—be it labor, sexual, or whatever sacrifice of energy or dignity the subject was willing to offer.
For this first wartime mission, Billy was assigned to lead a foursome composed of himself, Ash, and two newcomers named Carl and Trevor. Darrow was either unaware of the icy disconnect between Billy and Ash, or else he simply didn’t care. All forty mission participants, armed with the current password, immediately filtered out onto the streets through the various sentry points.
Billy’s team soon found their intended destination: a downtown overpass that cut across a major eight-lane highway. They arrived shortly before rush hour, the time during which they could expect heavy, yet free-flowing traffic.
The overpass road itself was fairly wide: two lanes running in each direction, with a median in between and a sidewalk on each side. The stretch of highway below them had four lanes running in each direction. Billy and Carl took up a position on one side of the overpass directly over the eastbound lanes; Ash and Trevor on the opposite sidewalk, overlooking the westbound lanes. They waited some time, to allow the other teams to take up their respective positions, the attacks to be as synchronized as possible. In the meantime, Trevor stepped to a nearby hill to cut their symbol into the grass. The others loitered, trying their best to look inconspicuous.
Each had now gathered a pile of rocks and stones. Ash and Trevor were particularly fortunate, finding some larger pieces of debris lying about on the sidewalk, including a few clumps of brick and an empty beer bottle that someone had set down precipitously close to the ledge. By then Trevor had finished marking the grass. He and Ash were already looking anxiously to Billy for the signal.
Billy looked down at the cars roaring by, hoping for some sort of congestion or gridlock, but the traffic ran quick and smooth. He looked into the car windows fifteen feet below him. They whizzed by one by one, but not so fast that he couldn’t make out some of the faces in the windows. Men. Women. Children. Elderly.
Happy. Alive. Blissfully unaware of the cruel intent from above.
By then Carl had also turned to him. “Billy?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he reached out and touched one of the stones, almost petting it. His sweat dampened the rock as he turned to see all three staring at him, looking for the signal.
He heard Darrow’s voice. Further treason will be dealt with harshly…
Lola.
Harshly…
He gave it.
Carl immediately pushed a large stone from the overpass ledge. It narrowly missed the head of a motorcycle driver and ticked harmlessly off the pavement below.
Billy studied the stream of traffic, watching car after car fly past. He too pushed several rocks off the overpass, but only off to the side, or when there was a sizeable gap in the procession.
On the other side of the road, Ash and Trevor tossed whatever debris they had at their disposal. Ash managed to hit the windshield of one car, and though the rock cracked the front glass into something of a spider web, it did no more damage than that. Trevor only hit the top of a minivan, the effect negligible. However, their actions hadn’t gone unnoticed. Some of the drivers were changing lanes. Others honked their horns.
Billy flung his last stone. He saw Carl do the same, a clear miss to the left of a speeding yellow coupe.
“I didn’t hit anything,” said Billy.
“Me neither,” said Carl, genuine in his lament.
Once there was a sufficient break in the traffic, they crossed the street and joined their two colleagues, arriving just as Trevor pushed the bottle over the ledge, lining it up perfectly with an oncoming vehicle.
It happened so fast. The driver appeared not to notice the tumbling object until the last moment, when he instinctively veered into the right lane. His vehicle clipped the front left bumper of the second vehicle, which sent the target vehicle hurtling off to the right. Billy lost sight of it, then heard the piercing sound of crushed metal and shattered glass.
“We got one!” yelled Ash. He jumped into the air.
They could no longer see the car from their position, its having crashed almost directly beneath them into one of the concrete pillars.
Just then Ash turned to him and cheered, “Billy, we did it!”
As Ash stood there, his mouth gaping open, Billy instantly knew that the “we” wasn’t just meant for him and Trevor, but he was sharing the praise among all of them, those who he’d so often failed to impress. And Billy knew in that look, that look of pure and honest joy, and of indescribable relief, that Ash had not sabotaged him at the gallery. From the light in Ash’s eyes it was clear that it was not a lack of being earnest that had resulted in the mayhem or Cecil’s capture, but at most a failing of courage or ability. His role in that evening’s failure had likely cut him as much as it did Billy; the reason behind his increasingly surly nature being his raw desperation to be liked, respected, and valued. And Billy could tell, by his quick turn to him, and by the unbridled elation in his voice, that it may have been Billy’s opinion that he had valued above all, and any hardness that Billy had felt for his salt-and-pepper-haired colleague fell instantly away with that return of brightness that had so faded with the seasons. It had always been there, blotted out behind a black hole of self-doubt. Only now he’d been released, as if he’d been holding his breath the entirety of these last months, and the instant before he was set to burst, was finally permitted to exhale. To be liked. And in that moment Billy did like him, very much, but pitied him all the more.
Ash was waiting for a response much in the same way that Rufus awaited the delivery of his next meal. Finally Billy obliged him. “Yes, Ash,” he said softly, “we did it.”
The affirmation on Ash’s face was electric. Yet at what price had it come? Billy could already smell the stench of burnt rubber, could see the thick billows of smoke wafting past the overpass and navigating their way toward the clouds above them.
Ash and the others had quickly made their way to the end of the overpass. “C’mon Billy, c’mon!” called Ash.
Billy followed, reluctantly, and they tumbled partway down the hill to get a better look at the carnage.
It was a pitiful scene. Various liquids dripped from the twisted metal carcass, smoke billowed from the crumpled hood. Billy watched the frantic movements—cars pulling over, people rushing to assist. A small plush toy lay miserably on its side, soaked now with oil and carburetor fluid. There was no sound or movement from the wrecked vehicle.
“The city is going to burst!” screamed Ash.
Billy, already exhausted, now felt nauseous. “We have to leave,” he said, trying to hold his breath against the smoke and chemicals permeating the air.
“Look at ’em scramble,” said Ash.
“Ash, we need to leave,” repeated Billy, having already taken several steps back.
Still Ash didn’t budge, not even when several police cruisers pulled up to the scene. Not even as a witness approached one of the officers, first pointing up at the overpass, then emphatically to the foursome on the hill. The officer had taken only a single step in their direction before Billy commanded them to run, and run they did—all but Ash—back up the hill and onto the overpass sidewalk. All three darted across the road, weaving their way through a stream of cars, and several times coming within a whisker of being pummeled by the oncoming traffic. Only Ash remained behind. Staring down the police officer. Taunting him. Goading him.
Finally, once the man got too close, he absconded. He ran up the side of the hill and, seeing his friends already across the street, jumped immediately from the curb in an effort to join them.
“Tricky tri— ” His sentence was cut short by a passing minivan. It launched him nearly a dozen feet through the air where he landed crumpled on the side of the road. The minivan slammed on its brakes and was in turn rear-ended by a sports car.
The driver of the minivan jumped from her car and ran to check on Ash’s condition.
The driver of the sports car also jumped from his car and ran to Ash, but only after he first glanced over his shoulder, seemingly to survey the damage to his bumper.
Billy and the others looked on from the side of the road.
Ash was still, exhibiting that same peculiar stillness that Billy had seen in Chuck, and Jacob, and the blue jay. And though they couldn’t say for certain that he was dead, they ran at the first arriving siren.
It was a heavy walk back to the House of Darrow, Billy’s mind shifting back and forth between the limp carcasses they’d left behind them: both steel and flesh. All horribly shattered. But mostly he thought of Ash, of how he’d gained him and lost him and, in the course of the last hour, had gained him and lost him once again.
Things were unraveling, Billy thought—if they’d ever been raveled at all—and they were unraveling quickly. They learned, upon returning, that Ash wasn’t the only member who’d failed to return. They’d also lost Christian who, leaning too far over the right ledge, had slipped and fallen to the highway. If the impact of falling thirty feet to concrete hadn’t immediately killed him, the tractor-trailer that “picked him up” certainly had. Yet in all, their casualties were viewed as unexceptional.
