This Book Is Full of Spiders (John Dies at the End #2)

This Book Is Full of Spiders (John Dies at the End #2) Page 55

I kept trying to think back to everything that had happened since I woke up with that spider thing biting me in bed, trying to figure out what I was supposed to have done differently. It was stupid, I knew. Questioning how my life would have gone if I hadn’t made bad choices was like a fish asking how his life would have turned out if he’d only followed through on his dream to play in the NBA. I don’t beat myself up over my choices. My shame circuits burned out from overuse years ago.

Wait. This started before the spider showed up in your bed.

See, that was the thing, right there. I’d been so busy running around since that night that I’d never really had a chance to stop and put it all together. There was a common thread through all of these events that stretched back even before that night.

Tennet.

Goddamned Dr. Bob Tennet. He shows up in my life as my supposed court-appointed paranoia therapist. Asking me about monsters and trying to get me to work through all of that shit. Then the spider shows up and starts spreading this infection. And who’s there the whole time, showing up at quarantine? Dr. Tennet. Monitoring the situation. Watching it unfold. Tapping away at his laptop and recording his observations.

Anyway. So there’s two things I wish I could take care of before my execution. People have died with longer to-do lists.

I leaned my head against the wall and tried to make myself smell shampooed red hair instead of hospital sadness chemicals. I dozed off.

11 Hours, 40 Minutes Until the Aerial Bombing of Undisclosed

John was actually weighing the “tooth or tongue” options when Falconer said to Cowboy, “Let me say this as a red-blooded, not possessed by any kind of inhuman organism, all-American man. If you get near my mouth with either of those tools I’m going to shove your head into the ground so hard a Chinaman will see it fly out of a volcano.”

Before Cowboy could react, John said, “Hold on. Do you know who this is next to me? This is Detective Lance Falconer.”

Cowboy looked like he sort of recognized the name, but couldn’t place it. John said, “You can’t tell me you haven’t seen him on the news. He caught the Portland Strangler?”

From behind Cowboy, a lady said, “Oh my God, it is him!”

“Show them your ID, detective.”

Falconer did. The lady was duly impressed.

John said, “We were kind of in the middle of getting to the bottom of this whole thing when you showed up.”

Tightpants Cowboy said, “Is that right?”

John said, “Yeah, that is right. It’s looking like the government is behind it all.”

Tightpants cursed and said, “Son of a bitch. I been saying that since day one. Day one.” To the guy next to him: “Haven’t I?”

Falconer said, “I’m standing up now.”

He did. No one objected. A kid in the crowd said, “What’s it like to fight somebody on top of a train?”

“Windy.” To Tightpants, “What do you mean the feds left town? When?”

“Breach at their headquarters. Somethin’ blew up. You didn’t hear it?”

“Oh,” said John. “We, uh, were wondering what that was.”

“Convoy headin’ out of town right now. So now we got to do what they couldn’t. Which is the way it always winds up. Which is why I been sayin’ it since day one. Me and my brother went door to door, within two hours of the feds roping off the town, gatherin’ up everybody with a gun and a set of balls. We’re the ones who got shit back under control, not the soldiers tripping around in their space suits. We’re the ones who put a stop to the looting, we’re the ones who have been patrolling the streets every minute of every day, in shifts, outside of the so-called Green Zone the feds set up. There’s almost two hundred of us now, working in three shifts, ’round the clock, pumpin’ buckshot into zombies and feedin’ ’em to Chip back there. Making sure everybody outside that hospital is clean, everybody who ain’t gets put down, and makin’ sure that hospital stays sealed off until the president grows the balls to drop a couple dozen cruise missiles on it.”

This got John’s attention. “Wait, what? They’re dropping cruise missiles? When?”

“When they grow the balls, like I said.”

“We don’t have a more specific timeline on the balls situation?”

“Are you askin’ because you want it to happen, or because you don’t want it to happen?”

“Well what about the people inside who aren’t infected? We got to get them out, right?”

“Buddy, anybody that’s spent a day inside that place is infected by now, five times over. If there’s anybody alive in there, they ain’t human no more. That’s the only thing we know about the infection. Once you get it, there ain’t no cure. You’re walkin’ dead. If you got people you care about in there, you need to treat ’em just like you saw them go into the ground yourself. Picture the dirt goin’ in over the casket. Take time to mourn, do what you got to do. But you got to get past that. Feelin’ sorry for them, it’s like feelin’ sorry for the fire that’s burning down your house. These infected, they’ll say anything, anything at all, to make you let down your guard. They can look just like you and me, can talk just like you and me. Or your neighbor, or your best friend, or your momma. But you cannot hesitate. Think of ’em just like a parrot imitatin’ human speech—the words sound the same, but they ain’t got no soul inside. You come face-to-face with ’em? You. Cannot. Hesitate.”

Nearby, somebody said, “Fuckin’ A.”

Falconer said, “See, that just makes me more pissed off at the bastards who are gonna get away with this. They’re going to turn all the victims to ashes and sweep it all under the rug. Somebody needs to answer for this shit.”

About ten different people muttered, “Damn right” or something to that effect.

Tightpants said, “Tell me what you need, detective.”

“As you see, I’m gonna need a ride. Unless you know a tire shop that’s open.”

“What the hell are we waitin’ for? Hop in the truck.” To another guy Tightpants said, “Tell Bobby to follow me. Everybody else should finish their sweep. We’re behind enough as it is. Don’t forget to check in on Eve Bartlett, make sure she got her insulin okay.”

The crowd started to disperse. John didn’t move from the spot where he was sitting in the yard.

Falconer said, “You comin’?”

“Dave is alive. I saw him, when I was on the Sauce earlier. Gonna go find my car and see what I can do.”

The look on Falconer’s face told John that he thought he was looking at a dead man, but knew that there was also no point in trying to talk John out of it. Instead, Falconer shook John’s hand and said, “Don’t fuck everything up, okay?”

3 Hours, 10 Minutes Until the Aerial Bombing of Undisclosed

The supply closet door was yanked open and I awoke to see Owen there with his co-chair, Mr. Gun. They led me to the yard and I found that it was morning—I had managed to sleep several hours among the mops and buckets, exhaustion catching up with me. The group of reds had swelled, huddled around the bonfire to hear my sentence.

Owen said to me, “We figure we’ll give you the choice, bro. You can either crawl through that steam tunnel and whatever happens, happens. Or I can shoot you right here and let your fat ass fuel the fire. It’s all the same to me, aside from the second option settin’ me back one bullet.”

I shook my head and said, “Nah, that tunnel smelled like a graveyard for dogshit. Am I allowed a piece of paper and a pen to write a note to my girlfriend, if she’s even still alive? No idea how she’s ever going to see it but I’d feel bad if I didn’t make the effort. You know like when you forget to call home on Mother’s Day.”

Owen didn’t answer, because he was looking past me. Something deep in my nasal passages noted that the scent of the smoke took on a more sophisticated tone. Instead of the meaty smell of barbecue mixed with the acrid smell of particle board and veneer, I suddenly smelled the sweet, rich fragrance of pipe tobacco. I turned and there was Dr. Marconi, puffing on his pipe with one hand dipped into the jacket pocket of a pinstriped suit. He looked so out of place here he seemed like a hologram.

Marconi said, “Can I ask what this gathering is about?”

I said, “I been sentenced to die but Owen here has agreed to let me write a note to Amy before he shoots me.”

Marconi nodded and said, “I see. You realize, David, that other men do not find themselves in this kind of predicament with the same frequency that you do? I’m beginning to think it’s something you’re doing.”

To Owen, he said, “Can it wait fifteen minutes? I would like to pull Mr. Wong aside and take him up to my floor. I actually believe I’m on the verge of a breakthrough with detection but I’ll need his skill this one last time.”

No answer from Owen. Marconi said, “It really is for the good of all of us, if it works. You can stand right outside my door, if you think this is a ruse to help him escape, though I personally cannot imagine what such a plan would entail. It would also give him the chance to confess his sins, so it would be a personal favor to me, as a former man of the cloth it would weigh on me greatly if I didn’t at least offer him the opportunity.”

Owen pointed the gun at the sky and said, “If it was anybody but you, doc…”

“You know I do not ask lightly.” To me, he said, “Will you take this opportunity to let me show you something? And to reconcile yourself with the creator you’re about to meet?”

3 Hours Until the Aerial Bombing of Undisclosed

John jolted awake to find himself staring down a shotgun wielded by his greatest enemy: himself.

He had fallen asleep in the Caddie, his shotgun in his lap. He must have shifted position at some point. If he’d coughed, he’d have vaporized his own skull. The sun stared angrily through his windshield. John blinked and threw open the driver’s-side door, needing to get out and take a piss. He almost fell and broke his neck—the Caddie was sitting six feet off the ground. Then he remembered.