Free The Junkie Quatrain by Peter Clines Page B

busy in a meeting, but Mathis can accept delivery. Or you can wait in the lounge on nine.’ His eyes didn’t rise from his computer screen as he held up a tan card. ‘Your weapons are in lock-up. Present your ticket when you exit the compound.’
    Barney nodded. He stepped outside and found Chit buttoning her shirt. Monica joined them a beat later. She wore a pale hospital blouse over her jeans. ‘They burned half my clothes,’ she said. ‘Too much blood on them.’
    Barney snorted out a laugh. They grabbed their packs from the clerk, clipped on their VISITOR badges, and headed toward the Federal Building itself.
    ‘At least they let you keep your new pigsticker,’ Barney said as they trotted up the steps. He nodded at the machete on Monica’s thigh.
    She smiled. ‘Yeah. I guess they figure if they’ve got all the automatic weapons there’s not much I can do with an eighteen-inch blade. Or the bozo was too distracted by me not having a bra.’
    ‘I’d keep it to yourself,’ said Chit. ‘You know they’ll go crazy if they find you with a weapon in here. Especially if it was their mistake.’
    Barney swung his pack into his other hand and Chit stumbled off the side. He shifted to look and Monica thought he’d hit the smaller woman with the backpack. Then the shift became a few big, awkward steps toward the big pillar and then he turned abruptly around to face her. The bag slipped from his fingers and he stood straight.
    Chit slumped to the ground. She twitched twice and let out a small whine. It wasn’t much louder than a breath.
    The knife at Barney’s throat kept him standing straight. It was black metal, but Monica could see the gleaming edge even through her boss’s beard. As if it knew where she was looking, the blade adjusted its angle. It bit into Barney’s throat, not quite enough to draw blood but close enough that any move would make it happen.
    Monica let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d taken and raised her palms. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘let’s take it easy.’
    ‘I would like my machete back,’ someone said behind Barney.
    The woman the other day—the lean, ragged woman—she’d had a dry voice. She’d probably gone a whole week without talking before stumbling across her infected girlfriend.
    This voice was hot air out of an Egyptian tomb. It wasn’t the voice of a gun-nut executive. It was the sound of dust, a voice that hadn’t needed people in a long, long time.
    Monica could just see the man in the shadows. He was whip-thin with a bristle of dark hair across his scalp. A pair of round lenses— John Lennon glasses flitted across her mind— covered his eyes. The lower half of his face was hidden by a gray dust mask. It made him look like an evil surgeon.
    ‘Are you serious?’ She looked at the man, then down at the blade strapped to her thigh. ‘That’s what this was all about?’
    The hand with the knife didn’t waver. The other hand reached out, palm up. ‘Please,’ said the man.
    Monica cursed him again, shook her head, and unbuckled her gun belt. She wrestled with the canvas scabbard for a few moments, then held it out.
    The evil doctor didn’t move. He flexed his open fingers once and turned the blade against Barney’s throat just enough to catch the light.
    She leaned forward and set the machete in his hand. The thin man’s fingers closed over the scabbard and pulled it back into the midday shadows.
    A beat passed and Barney let out a deep sigh. Monica realized the blade had vanished from his throat. She turned her head toward the lobby and took in a deep breath to yell.
    ‘No,’ he said.
    She bit back the call for help. ‘That psycho killed most of our crew.’
    Barney took another breath and looked over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that guy’s killed a lot of people,’ he said. ‘At the moment, I’m focusing on the fact that he didn’t kill us.’
    Monica bit her lip but said nothing. Barney went to help Chit up, and