03. The Maze in the Mirror (42 page)

She would have to wait until Carlos made another mistake.

Carlos had thought of everything in terms of escaping a threat. The hideout wasn't all that comfy, but it would do, and all the necessary basics were there for a very long siege. In spite of small lapses such as forgetting the extra clothes, he'd pretty well prepared for every eventuality except one.

He was an active man, a compulsive worker whose mind was always on things and who was used to doing, not sitting. He could sit for days without complaint; for a few weeks progressively chafing under the sheer boredom of the existence, but after a while he just couldn't stand it any more. He had to get out. He had to do something.

The first couple of times he left the bunker were relatively brief, just testing how much heat was on and getting out of those confines. He did not take her with him on either foray; if there was any danger still lurking out there, he didn't want to be bogged down with her.

And he continued to talk to her, because there wasn't anyone else to talk to.

"It looks quite desolate, my sweet," he commented after the first time. "No sign of life out there that's not native. I think tomorrow I will risk
going further south and see how our getaway boat is faring. If they found it, or destroyed it, then it will complicate matters a great deal."

It was mostly an excuse for him to really be doing something, but it began what she hoped would be an opening.

He didn't put on all his clothes when he went out; she checked by going over to the small storage area and finding the bulk of them still there. He did, however, wear his increasingly rancid underpants, as if this kept him somehow civilized and superior, and his gun and gunbelt-just in case. He apparently didn't want to risk the clothing on such clandestine journeys, saving it for when he would be back in civilized society again.

Also just in case, he took one capsule of the juice with him. The addict never wanted to be caught short, although the last thing he wanted to do was have to use it while out there. That was okay. One night she delayed taking her own fix just long enough for him to go into ecstasy, got up, found the gunbelt, and found the spare capsule. She replaced it right then and there with the empty one he'd just used and put the fresh one back in the carton.

Each outside foray made him bolder and bolder, and they increased in length. Now he was leaving her alone most of the afternoon, and not returning until close to time to sleep. She finally decided that the time had come to bet it all. He was beginning to talk about moving out, moving everything to the boat, being ready to move.

He was clever. He might have outfoxed her, and she might well lose it all acting now, but to do nothing was to let him win, and there didn't seem to be any reason not to try. She did not regret coming to him back on the cliff, even though it wasn't a conscious decision at the time, because they already had the drop on Bill and there would have been no escape anyway. It was up to her, and if there was a God somewhere He would ultimately allow this justice.

She, too, had been out of the bunker, after she realized how long he was going to be away and how far it must be to the boat. She didn't know the area and so couldn't go far, but the sound of breakers off in one direction gave her orientation, as did the hidden entrance to the bunker, and she began to pace off and get to know the immediate area. It was sufficient for her purposes.

She didn't really know enough, but hate was a great fuel for determination and she certainly knew how juice addicts acted and thought and she was pretty damned sure she understood Carlos and his ego.

When he returned the one night he was in particularly good spirits and talking about moving out in the next couple of days. He had spun grand plans after his escape, and she would be both his insurance policy and bait for grand schemes in the future. They ate out of the containers, and he complained as usual about the quality and looked forward to fine food once again, and revenge on those who had snatched the sweetness of victory from under his very nose.

Finally, he went to the cupboard to get their juice capsules, opened it...

And found that the cupboard was bare.

Instantly he realized what had happened and flew into a rage, grabbing her and slapping her back onto the bed.

"So, you've been acting lately!" he roared. "Yes -the drug. Of course. I should have thought of that. But it won't do you any good! Now-where did you hide them?"

Her voice sounded hoarse and cracked from all the long time of disuse, but she managed. "Gone. I've been busy. Flushed them all down your damned septic tank where they're meltin' into useless goo with the shit."

More slaps and violent reactions, which she expected. Right now she didn't resist; she might try later, for what it was worth, but right now the pain his rage caused was nothing as compared to the pleasure it was giving her to see him this way.

"Liar!" he screamed. "No addict could bring herself to do that! Never in all my experience was anyone hooked on it able to bring themselves to do that. Now-
where did you hide them?"

"No addict before ever had this much cause for willpower," she responded. "Yeah, I'll die and I'll hate myself for it, but I juiced up early, as early as it would let me. I'll get to hear you suffer and groan a long time before it hits me."

The evenness of her tone, the sense of total satisfaction in her voice, unnerved him. It would be hours before he would feel the first pangs of withdrawal and demands from his microbic masters to be fed, but that was physiology. Psychologically, he was beginning to feel withdrawal right now.

He abandoned her and started tearing the place
apart. She didn't know what if anything would be left by the time he got through.

Then, suddenly, he stopped, getting hold of himself. "You have undone only yourself," he told her with some satisfaction. "Carlos never puts all his eggs in one basket." He picked up the gunbelt where he dropped it, fumbled in its hidden compartment with nervous, shaking hands, and brought out a capsule. She heard what he was doing, and smiled.

"I found that one," she told him. "I got up earlier'n you. That's an empty. No good. I found the others you squirreled around, too. Flushed them with the rest."

Normally he wouldn't have exposed himself, but it was the addict's mind working now, not the full and rational Carlos. She understood that mind and exactly what was going through his head far better than he did. He'd been accidentally hooked in early experiments; she'd undergone it all before and knew the awful dependency and the terrible psychology of the addict firsthand, rather than by observation and clinical reports. In fact, if it wasn't giving her such perfect pleasure she'd be getting the shakes herself from just being in his company. But the juice was wrong. It didn't induce perfect pleasure. It had been defeated in her once by love, and hate seemed to work just as well.

He pressed the capsule to his flesh-and found it empty as promised.

He flew into a rage, threatening, roaring, and then, getting hold of himself as much as he could, he started back on her.

"I will kill you," he snarled. "I know you did not
destroy the capsules. You could not! We will see what kind of pain you can endure before you tell me!"

"A lot," she responded. "You taught me, remember? I'm your experiment. You said you wanted me to feel like you felt. You wanted me to be consumed by hate. How much pain can
you
stand, Carlos? How much withdrawal before you take that gun and shoot yourself? You know I can't have hidden nothin'! Where? I can't see, damn you! This bunker has been the only place I could get around in."

"Liar! Bitch! Whore!" he screamed. "You may have got rid of most but you kept something. You wanted to be sure to be here when I died! I know how to make you tell! No one is
that
strong!"

And then the beating and torture began. Now she resisted, fought back, showing surprising strength against him, but she couldn't see and he was larger, stronger, and more experienced in the ways of inflicting pain. She knew in the end she couldn't hold out indefinitely, but the longer the better.

"One capsule!" he screamed at her. "That's all I need! One capsule! One fix and I can leave this cursed place and get to my stashes in the Labyrinth! I know you have at least one! Where? Where?"

And the pain finally grew too much, and she screamed, "All right! All right! There is one-just one-left! I hid it outside!"

He picked her up, and shoved her against the wall. She felt weak, her body bruised and battered, and she tasted blood at the corner of her mouth, but she had one satisfaction. Her hurts would be quickly repaired; the juice was real efficient at that. His hurt was inside, in his head, and even though he still really wouldn't be feeling one major physical symptom of withdrawal, in his mind he was already half gone.

She led him outside into the darkness, and for a moment considered attacking him here and now, or running off if she could into the dark jungle, but she knew she just didn't have it in her. That wasn't the plan. No, that wasn't the plan.

She found the main air intake by counting steps, dug down on one side, and came up with a small used food container, its top bent back over to somewhat seal it.

He had a light and he shined it on her as she got it out, and then he ran to her with a cry and snatched it violently out of her hands, knocking her down, lest she toss it into the jungle or something. His mind was no longer on her, on where they were or the conditions involved. It was past all rationality, and well ahead of schedule.

He pried the container open with shaking hands, shook its contents out into his hand, and came up with a capsule.

"Ha! Now you see!" he screamed at her triumphantly. "Now it is reversed! You will withdraw and rot here tomorrow while I take the boat alone to freedom! And the first thing I'm going after is that bastard kid of yours!" And, with that, fumbling with the capsule, he pressed it to his skin, right out there in the opening.

It unloaded its contents and he felt near instant relief. All was right, all was good, and his microbial masters pushed their reward button in his brain. A broad smile swept across his face and he sank
down on the forest floor and began to writhe in ecstasy.

She allowed a few minutes to pass, just to make sure that the ever-clever Carlos wasn't tricking her one more time, then got up and made her way back inside the bunker.

Carlos had really trashed the place, and she stumbled several times and rumbled for what seemed an eternity before coming up with the gunbelt and gun he'd dropped. She removed it, flicked it on, heard the low whine telling her it was fully charged. She flipped the little switch all the way to the top, holding in the safety button so it would go to maximum charge.

Then she made her way back out, oblivious of the pain she was feeling, and found him again. He wasn't hard to find; the moans and sighs were clear to her and genuine. She got down on her hands and knees, fearing that even now something would go wrong, that something would turn and destroy the moment, but she reached him without incident and felt his head.

She took the pistol, held it square against that head, and without even a moment's hesitation she blew his brains out.

Then she lay there, near him, for quite a long while, hearing only the sounds of the jungle and the far-off crash of breakers.

Brandy had no idea if anybody from the Company was still around. Certainly Carlos hadn't thought so, but it was the only hope she had. She wanted out, wanted to see Sam and Dash again, wanted it over, but even if she were to eventually
die here on this now desolate and deserted world it had been worth it.

The remaining food in the bunker and the carton of juice capsules, retrieved from where she'd hidden them exactly a hundred paces north of the main air intake vent under some big, leafy plants, would sustain her for quite a while. Even if it took the two and a half years her supplies would last, she wasn't going to give up. Not again. Not ever. And if she eventually died, well, she would die fighting.

It took her several days just to work out a safe route to the shoreline from the bunker with any confidence that she could get back again. She used Carlos' knife to cut notches, used empty food containers, pieces of broken up furniture, anything, to mark as permanent a path as she could for the half-mile or so distance to the coast.

She had no thought of finding the boat. Carlos was very good at hiding things, and it wouldn't have done her any good if she had. It probably wasn't much of a boat anyway; just some powered raft that would get him where he had to go. Even if it had been a cabin cruiser, though, she couldn't see to pilot it and she had no idea where to take it anyway.

The best way was to stay right here, find what she could, and build a smoky fire each night and hope that somebody was still around to see it. The beach was an easy access and piled with driftwood, although the stuff was often damp and hard to ignite. For the first few times, a low jolt with the pistol did wonders, and after that she found a cache of gasoline or something in the bunker that
worked just as well once she laboriously hauled it to the beach area. Carlos had
almost
thought of any eventuality, even the batteries going dead.

In the meantime, all she could do was build and then sit by the fire every night weather permitted, then make her way at daybreak back to the bunker, take her juice, get some sleep, eat, and start it all over again.

She didn't really expect rescue-even through her brain fog she could remember that explosion -and if it did come there was no guarantee whether it would be Company people, if there still were any, or Carlos's friends, but she was determined to go along with it as long as supplies permitted.

A couple of times she thought she heard some motor sounds out in the ocean, but it wasn't clear whether they were for real or just wish fulfillment, imagination, or whatever. Real or fancied, they didn't seem to see or at least want to investigate the glow of the fire.