Billy tabbs, p.32
Billy Tabbs, page 32
Then, inevitably, it happened.
The guards stopped at Billy’s cell. He hugged tight against the back corner, tilting his head down and speculating wildly about who might be coming through the door. Sherman? Marlon?
Maybe even Darrow himself?
He heard the door slide open and a rustle of footsteps. His adrenal glands started pumping as his body readied for a fight.
They will know, thought Billy. All of them will know what I did. What I’d tried to do.
What I’d do again.
The footsteps shuffled closer, now coming from inside his cell. He heard them moving in his direction, his muscles taut. He lifted his head and drew himself into a defensive stance. Then…immense relief.
The two arrivals were unknown to him. Perhaps even unrelated to the organization.
Safe.
At least for now.
But with new prisoners regularly flowing in, Billy wondered how long it would be before he found himself face-to-face with a handful of his former colleagues. And when that happened, would he be able to defend himself? It would surely depend on which members, the odds, and whether or not he received any help from Lucius. He couldn’t count on help from any of the other inmates in his cell—not from Scarecrow, and certainly not from Keith, who would likely be more inclined to join an attack on Billy than to defend him, what with his dented nose and crooked smile.
By then many had started into the battle hymn, a chant that ceased to reverberate only when the Bossman entered the cellblock and rattled his club against cold steel.
For the rest of the night Billy remained curled up in the corner and out of sight. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hide forever. Eventually they’d be in his cell, or he’d be sent out to the range, where security was lax. He could be thoroughly worked over before the closest staff could intervene, assuming they would even care to. He wondered if he might feign illness when the time came, then pushed the idea away, remembering Cecil’s words: And he wasn’t the first…to go and not come back.
It is said that every dark cloud has a silver lining, though Billy had yet to identify any benefit to his steadily eroding predicament. One day they would get him—if not that night, then the next. If not the next, then the day after that. Eventually the time would come when he would be badly outnumbered by those seeking retribution.
But then, just as quickly as the panic had set in, he found some semblance of calm, some semblance of relief, as he realized that one good thing might come from this reunion. Certainly they would know what had become of Lola and little Sam. And if they told him that Lola had been spared, that she was safe and well, then his anguish would relent. And within the shadow of that fiercely dark cloud, he would at last have found a silver lining.
One that to him would be golden.
The night passed without incident, though Billy was exhausted come morning. What little slumber he managed had been spent on the branch of his tree. The fireman reaching for him and his mother screaming from below. Each time he heard footsteps he’d awoken and readied for a fight, only to eventually return to his nightmares.
Now it was morning. He’d made it through the night intact.
One down, countless to go.
“It’s not normally this packed in here,” said Lucius, having just arrived by Billy’s side.
Billy didn’t respond. He knew exactly what was going on, but kept his tongue still and his gaze fixed on the main door. It had been shut for hours, but soon enough swung open to reveal Keys and an unknown person. And, to Billy’s relief, no new prisoners.
But it was also too early for breakfast. Far too early, thought Billy, as he blinked sleep and concern from his eyes. He and Lucius watched the two men walk slowly down the corridor and stop between the first two cells. The unknown man looked at his clipboard and scribbled something in blue pen.
“Start with these two?” he asked, pointing to Billy’s cell and the one beside it, where Cecil had also roused to his feet.
Keys unlocked Billy’s cell and stepped inside. “C’mon, guys…”
“Where are you taking us?” asked Billy, as one by one they were escorted out.
No answer.
“I said, ‘Where are you taking us?’” demanded Billy.
“Be quiet,” said the second man harshly.
Without delay, all the inmates from the first two cells were transferred to a nearby truck and locked into the rear.
THWUMP!
A reprieve, thought Billy.
Doubted Billy.
The unknown man assumed occupancy of the driver’s seat. Keys took the passenger seat, and the truck roared to life as the driver turned over the ignition. They immediately set out onto the road.
The trip was a loud and bumpy one, the shocks in dire need of repair, the exhaust growling and spitting just inches beneath their feet. Stingy beams of morning light oozed in from thin slats in the two rear doors. Billy looked across the aisle; Cecil was bouncing up and down each time they hit a pothole or fumbled over uneven terrain. He could see that Cecil was nervous. Scarecrow was to Cecil’s left, Lucius to his right. On Billy’s side of the truck, Gabriel was to his immediate left, offering up some sort of prayer to whatever deity currently bound his conscience.
Billy saw a marked resignation in their faces. They looked demoralized and beaten. Most of them had been trapped in the system longer than he had, and he expected the same forlorn look to eventually wash over his own face once his already waning hopes had sufficiently frittered away.
They rode in silence, speaking only through puzzled eyes and worried faces.
Then a hard jerk to the right and the squeal of tires as the truck came to a violent halt. The roadway calamity sent several of them careening forward, including Billy, whose rusted metal restraint buckled under the pressure and broke loose. A quick glance told him that Gabriel had equally benefited from the crash.
The other prisoners started to clamor, begging Billy and Gabriel to help them get loose. Many, including Billy, were bleeding, the soft tissue of his thigh no match for hard steel.
Gabriel ignored their cries. He immediately huddled by the two rear doors and tried to figure some way to the other side.
Billy looked over at the door, to the slats of light now splayed across Gabriel’s fidgeting feet. Freedom just inches away.
Then he looked over at Cecil and Lucius, both screaming for him to help them. Billy hurried to their side, his thigh trickling blood to the floor below. He sized up their restraints and shook his head, seeing no apparent way to free them.
Billy could hear people’s voices outside. There was some sort of clamor and loud accusations, muffled and uneven. Again he looked at the restraints. No way to free them. No way to…
The faint rattle of keys drew his attention. “Get over here,” whispered Gabriel, excitedly. “They’re gonna open it! They’re gonna open it!”
Billy looked at Cecil and Lucius, both struggling against their restraints and pleading for help. Both had been kind and loyal. He owed them.
But then he imagined the doors swinging open and the thin slats of light spreading open and full across his face, and he could practically taste the cool autumn air passing into his waiting lungs—could practically feel the brittle leaves crunching beneath his hurried feet. And with those irresistible images, he buried his sense of loyalty somewhere deep down inside him, turned away from his two friends, and hurried to the door. He knew they deserved better.
But then, he figured, so did he.
“Get ready,” whispered Gabriel.
More muffled jangling.
A key grooved into its home, then the lock clicked and turned. They could make out Keys’ muted voice on the other side. Billy lined up immediately behind Gabriel, who was centered at the rear, ready to bolt regardless of which door swung open.
It was the van’s right door that fell away, bringing an influx of light and a look of astonishment on Keys’ face as Gabriel launched himself out of the van toward the pavement. Keys’ reaction was quick; he grabbed hold of Gabriel and they struggled on the sidewalk.
The flood of the sun was nearly blinding as Billy himself sprung to the concrete. The landing sent a bolt of pain through his thigh and buckled his leg, holding him captive long enough for the driver to turn the corner. He reached for Billy, who darted quickly into the street, shutting out the pain, oblivious to the traffic that flowed undeterred by the roadside spectacle. The man chased closely behind.
Tires squealed, cars honked, people yelled, the city groaning its general displeasure through this impromptu chorus. Billy ducked into the first alley he saw, ran halfway down, then stopped.
Dead-end.
Should have kept to the sidewalk.
He spun around, spying the driver at the entrance.
Billy turned back toward the alley, scanned frantically for something, anything.
Then he spotted the dumpster, and with the man’s closing footsteps in his ears he ran as fast as he could toward the large green structure.
The man yelled for him to stop. His thigh screamed its concurrence.
He ignored them both and launched himself onto the bin, clamoring to pull himself up. Before the man even reached the dumpster, Billy had jumped to a rusted fire escape and started his frantic ascent skyward. He arrived at the top of the ladder, turning just before he slipped up onto the roof to see the guard already walking out of the alley.
The roof was covered with steel plating, the surface oddly hot despite the cool fall air. Billy ran across to the other side, his feet pounding hard and ringing tinny pings into the morning air. He could hear the approach of a fire engine down below as he slowly started to digest his new liberty. Only he didn’t dare stop to appreciate it. He kept going, to the edge of the first building, where there was a second within reach. A hearty jump took him across. It brought him to a third building, with some sort of metal duct connecting them. He stepped gingerly on it, ensured it would hold his weight, then slipped over to the other side. This third building also had a fire escape. He peered over, found the alleyway clear, then descended to the ground and slunk away. The commotion, along with Cecil’s and Lucius’s chance for freedom, was left behind in a hazy fog of chaos.
A short distance from the scene, he pulled himself up against a tree in front of Azrael’s Attic, a local dessert shop specializing in frozen yogurt. He inspected his wound—the cut wasn’t deep. The bruise was another matter, but he was still in decent shape, all things considered.
Billy shut his eyes, replaying his escape in his mind, the events as fresh as the wound on his thigh. Regret had already brewed inside him—and though he surely would have doomed himself if he’d remained to help his friends, he expected their ghosts would eventually creep into his dreams, or into his waking hours, once he had a fuller opportunity to ruminate.
For now he pushed it all aside and managed to his feet, then started into labored steps toward the House of Darrow, not the slightest idea what he’d find once he got there.
Over the course of the next two hours, Billy cautiously made his way, the bite of the wind and the state both nipping at his heels. Everywhere he looked was the symbol: next to a bus stop, by a park entrance, outside the train station.
Scratched into light poles. Carved in the grass.
He’d been diligent to stay in the shadows and avoid anyone who might know him. He got as close as he dared, then holed up in an alley four blocks from the closest sentry point, sifting his mind for some sort of plan. Nothing came.
Hours passed, the bulk of which Billy spent peeking out from behind a large cardboard box, fighting back the pain in his thigh and the call for sleep as he studied the comings and goings at sentry point four.
Morning turned to day turned to afternoon. Then the first sense of hope was born at the sight of a familiar face walking in his direction. It wasn’t Lola, but it was close.
It was George, and he was alone.
He’d been as good a friend as any.
Billy rose to his feet and nearly fell down, his limbs numbed from his prolonged crouch. The wound in his thigh had tightened. He shook out his legs and held his breath as George came slowly in his direction.
Same side of the street.
Billy stole a look at sentry point four and saw the guard looking his way, so he stayed hidden—only George was getting closer. He was about to pass when Billy called his name in a loud whisper, knowing he was taking a chance, equally knowing there was no time for discretion.
George’s head cocked toward the sound of his name. Billy called again. This time George caught it, identified the source, and stepped into the alley. He saw Billy.
Then a look. Alarm? Surprise.
Relief.
It was emphatic. Required no translation. Clearly, he still considered Billy a friend. George entered the alleyway and walked with Billy deeper into the narrow passage, finding some privacy behind a collection of garbage bins.
“It’s good to see you,” said George, his good eye alight. “We were told you ran away.”
Billy’s thoughts were too single-minded to return the gesture. He looked to his friend, prepared to say her name. He didn’t get the word out before George gave him a look. It, too, required no translation. “Lola,” said Billy. It was more declaration than question.
George’s silence…excruciating confirmation. “I’m sorry, Billy.”
Billy’s legs buckled. He dropped to the ground, his head lolling to the side as if it was suddenly much too heavy for his flimsy neck. He would have cried if he could. He could not.
George waited patiently, watching Billy’s grieving through his good eye. He was momentarily inconsolable, but soon managed a foggy, “What happened?”
George explained how Lola died. That she passed away shortly after her return. Darrow had ordered Marlon to punish her for her “transgression.” He said a message had to be sent to all who might ponder such treachery. He’d even offered up some explanation as to how this order complied with the eighth tenet⎯that no member shall harm any other⎯one that George couldn’t readily remember, but remembered how the explanation had been accepted by most. “He was enraged by what you did. I hadn’t seen him that way in a long time. Not since the facility. Maybe not since...” He stopped himself. “They’d barely started. Me an’ Ears tried to stop it, along with some others, but we were outnumbered. She cried out, and then…”
“And then she stopped breathing,” said Billy.
“Yes.”
Billy closed his eyes. He tried not to imagine it but succeeded only in the opposite.
“Rufus went wild,” said George. “He nearly tore the place apart. It took so many of us to hold him back from Darrow, and those who’d done it.”
“I don’t want to hear any more.” Billy slunk back against the wall, seething anger intermixed with massive anguish. Only then did he think of Sam. Thought of how much Darrow’s child had meant to Lola. Knew, too, that Marlon felt threatened by the existence of The Progeny. “And Sam?”
Billy choked out the words, and George informed him that Sam had been returned safe and sound, and was now being tended to by Helena. Billy expelled a short breath of relief, then fell silent again, hemming himself in desolation. Something from the street had caught his attention. Something shiny.
“Are you listening, Billy?”
A weak nod, and George slowly began to fill him in on the weeks he’d missed.
“We set the city on fire. Good parts of it, at least.” He forged ahead, his affect flat. “It was awful. The things we did. The things I did.”
Billy stared ahead blankly.
“We did some good, though.” His voice lightened. “The promise. You remember Darrow’s promise?”
“Darrow promised a lot of things.”
“But the part about the facility. About going back. Well they got it. Burned it down to the ground.”
Billy briefly pictured the facility razed to ash, brutes and blue scrubs alike running frantically from its charred and smoking carcass. But the elation soon slipped free like the air from a carelessly tied balloon. “How was it done?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go.”
“Who went?”
“I don’t know. Darrow, for one.”
“Did you see it yourself?” asked Billy.
“See it?”
“The facility.”
“No,” said George. He paused, before adding, “But I saw smoke. Far off in the distance. In that direction.”
Billy kept quiet.
“There was a lot of smoke….” He started to say more, but when Billy didn’t comment further, George moved on.
George said that with Project Pyromania behind them, the House of Darrow was preparing to unleash its fourth wartime campaign, one that would center around home invasions of the largest and most decadent residences. Get inside, attack whoever was home—man, woman, old, young…it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t discriminate, since the man didn’t discriminate in his systemic subjugation of their kind. It was a maniacal plan called Homicidal Housecall, and though there was surely poignancy in it somewhere, Billy wasn’t currently inclined to consider it.
As George told it, the announcement of Homicidal Housecall hadn’t stirred the usual fervor among the base. Divisions had widened. A greater percentage of membership, particularly those beholden to the niceties of the first railcar, had exhibited increased malingering, and a diminished urgency for social reform, while those in the second railcar and caboose remained the most motivated, keen not only to maintain their current positioning, but with an eye toward upward mobility. And none of the three, it seemed, had shed any tears for their growing mass of unfortunate comrades scuttling in the dirt below.
