Page 87 of All Saints Day
I do my best to help drag him along while covering the both of us.
Quentin makes a pinched, disgusted expression as we drag the body to the scanner and clumsily slap his hand onto the plate.
All three of us are relieved when the heavy doors hiss open on powerful hydraulics.
We scuttle down the hallway and into what appears to be… a cafeteria? Or possibly a small area to receive lectures or view presentations? There are scattered tables with safety stool attachments, a small elevated stage area with several banks of fixed seating hewn from rubberized foam; the whole space outfitted in institutional calming beige.
I am about to ask Quentin and Louise what they think this space was used for—when something moves in the shadows of the distant dais and we all stop short.
“Oh god.” The words leave me in a gust just as the bright overhead lights of the cafe auditorium come up—Frank strapped to an inversion table beside a gleaming tray of syringes, forceps, and scalpels.
Beside him, Compton stands—eyes shadowed with lack of sleep and glittering with unhinged mania. He looks grayer, more run-down than I’ve ever seen him. I can feel that the loss of Susan has undone him.
“You all showed up just in time!” Compton booms, brandishing his handgun, turning it so that the tip of the barrel rests against Frank’s temple. “Mr. Castle and I were just about to start playing a little game.” He grins, steely blue eyes flitting down to the tray of insidious medical tools just within his reach.
“How about you put the gun down and step away and we find you a nice cushy Supermax facility you can spend the rest of your days at—huh, Walt?” I try to reason with him as I take another few slow, steady steps toward him—my gun trained on his head.
“Go ahead and take another few steps, McBride,” Compton warns as he pulls back the hammer. “See what happens to your boy.”
I stop, my gaze darting to Louise and Quentin for the briefest moment before it returns to Compton.
“What do you want, Compton?” Louise hedges as she begins to lower her gun.
“I want you to drop that gun and come up here,” Compton snarls—pressing the muzzle into Frank’s temple. Frank gives a grunt of protest at Compton’s words.
“And what do I get for giving you what you want?” Louise continues to bargain—the hard set of Quentin’s jaw ticking as he glares at her.
“I won’t kill you where you stand.”
There’s a mechanical whirring, and in an instant several green lasers track along the floor—repositioning themselves so that they fix Quentin, Louise, and I squarely in the chest.
“Sniper drones—fully automated crowd control for when our test subjects get restless during group activities.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“Test subjects?” Quentin echoes.
“Viruses and bio weapons research isn’t the only thing that goes on here, kids,” Compton scoffs. “You are way above your pay grade.”
Compton is right. We knew there were plenty of fucked-up oddities lurking in the shadows of the Windmill—but none of our intel had mentioned details like this.
My heart races, panic about to overtake me—when Louise flicks the safety on her gun and drops it to the ground, kicking it away from herself and Compton.
“Fine, you win—you don’t kill them—you get me,” Louise dangles the proposition, hands raised in surrender as she steps onto the stage in the cold beam of the spotlight alongside Compton and Frank.
“You’re not in a position to make any deals,” Compton seethes, his eyes glittering with pure hatred.
“Maybe not with you, but the Windmill will be invested inkeeping me alive for their research,” Louise counters, her hands lowering to hang at her sides as she stares Compton down.
“See, that’s the funny thing,” Compton grins, a terrifying glee lighting his hollowed-out face like a Jack-o'-lantern. “The Windmill may want you—and in her own fucked up way, Susan really did care for you, more than she ever cared about me, really,” he snorts a joyless laugh. “But I’m not stupid enough to think that the Windmill keeps me around for long to celebrate all my failures once they finally get their little red bird in hand,” Compton sneers, and my heart rate skyrockets, understanding washing over me just as he says the words. “But all I care about right now—is destroying the little bitch who ruined my life!”
Before Louise can argue—Compton lifts one of the syringes from the tray, and jabs it into the side of her neck.
Chapter 33
Frank
In my dream, I'm sitting across from my old man.
