Total Immersion, page 29
Suddenly, Travis heard footsteps running straight towards him; he quietly slipped into an alcove, and waited patiently.
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Sam never saw it coming.
He never saw Travis step out and swing the cutter directly at his chest.
His reality shifted into a dull, muted slow-motion as his gun flew out of his hand. His body violently smashed against the shit-stained wall. The hissing sound of the rat disappeared and was replaced by a loud ringing in his left ear as he tumbled hard to the cold, wet concrete floor.
The right side of his chest felt like it had caved in. His ribs smashed to pieces.
He couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t get a wisp of air into his lungs.
He felt like he was drowning.
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Travis dropped back into the darkness of the alcove and watched as the detective lay sprawled out on the ground, desperately gasping for air. It was a pathetic sight.
Kim had specifically instructed that Sam Knight be taken out “as quick as possible.”
She said there was to be no poem this time, but Kim was unaware how close he had come to destroying all their work. Under these new circumstances, Travis was sure Kim would want his death to be slow, and extremely painful.
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Sam felt small bursts of oxygen fill his constricted lungs. He lifted himself off his stomach, and onto all fours. Only a small beam of white light poured down from a half-inch round hole located in the ceiling of the concrete tunnel.
Sam pulled his left hand out of the thick mud, and like a blind man searching for his fallen cane, he frantically searched for his gun.
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Travis lifted the cutter to waist height. He moved out of the alcove and approached the detective from behind, waiting patiently for his moment to strike.
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Sam stopped his search and listened. Maybe Travis was gone? Maybe he had knocked Sam to the ground and made his escape? Sam lifted himself to his knees, trying to focus inside the darkness, and then he heard something behind him breathe.
He spun his head in the direction of the sound and saw the jaws of the pipe cutter moving toward him—a giant, two-headed python appearing out of nowhere, moving in for the kill.
That slow-motion reality was back in full force.
He felt like a helpless fly watching the swatter bear down on it.
Before he could react, the jaws were around his neck. He felt them instantly tighten into place. For the second time in less than two minutes, Sam felt like he was drowning again, only this time . . . it burned.
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Travis felt naked without his welder’s mask in place. The speech kept his mind off the terrible task at hand while he waited for the cutter’s myriad of LEDs to turn green.
He hated to hear them gasping for air.
He hated to hear their muted screams for help.
“Now, no doubt, my friend and I will proceed to lie and lie, till we begin to act the truth and call it sin.”
The poem comforted him as he watched Sam reach up and grab onto the jaws, fighting desperately for his life. Travis knew once his victim was in the powerful grasp of the cutter, there was nothing they could do to stop the process.
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Sam had never suffered through the kind of inhuman pain his body was now experiencing.
It felt like he was standing in the blast of a roaring jet engine, his face as red as the skin on a ripe apple. He felt the sweat pouring off his head, oceans of water leaving his body in a panic. He was paralyzed, unable to move his head right or left, up or down. He smelled his hair burning, and then heard those horrible first words of that strange poem.
The death poem. The last words Joe Billings, Daniel Gracy, Bernard Meyers, and Clarance Whiteford ever heard were now being recited in that same monotone voice, and Sam knew what came next. His head would be lopped off. His veins would cauterize the moment that stainless steel blade made contact with his burnt skin.
Travis would sever an arm, maybe a leg, and leave his dismembered carcass for those monster rats.
They’ll feast like kings tonight, Sam thought as he pulled his body downward and dropped back onto his hands.
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Travis almost lost control of the cutter as Sam’s body violently lurched forward.
Not wanting to pull him back into an upright position, Travis took a few steps closer, and continued his poem. “When hands are clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . . and streaming tears, those whispered accents rise . . .”
The sounds of the whirling blade filled the tunnel as the LEDs continued their climb toward the top, where the green light waited patiently to make its appearance.
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Sam knew he was one verse away from death. After all he had suffered through, there was no way he was going to leave this world wading through human feces twenty feet deep inside the rancid belly of the Chicago sewer system.
Back on all fours, he desperately searched for the gun. The heat around his neck intensified as his hands frantically moved around, feeling for anything that might resemble the shape of his weapon.
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Travis glanced away from Sam’s trembling body, staring at the base of the cutter. He was grateful the detective’s face was turned away from him.
Why hadn’t the detective just taken him out? Shot him when he had the chance?
Travis remembered back to Sam’s pleading words. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Travis shook his head, desperate to remove any thought that the man he was about to decapitate was not a monster.
Sam Knight was a monster. Kim had said so, and he should die for his sins. Travis watched as the green LED finally lit up.
“Leaving to God the objects of our care . . .” Travis continued, wrapping his finger around the trigger of the cutter.
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Sam’s entire body shook violently, but the pain suddenly disappeared. In that moment, a remarkable sense of inner calm washed over him.
Ruth once told him when the human body is put under life-threatening stress and pain, the brain releases chemicals that act like morphine combined with a powerful hallucinogenic. That was her answer to near-death patients’ descriptions of that powerful, peaceful, white light. It wasn’t God or Jesus Christ or even the call of Heaven, just the brain’s brilliant way of stopping the pain.
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“In that short, simple prayer . . .” Travis said and took one last look at the sad sight of the great detective on all fours, the jaws of the cutter wrapped tightly around his neck, his head bowed over, sweat seeping through the back of his shirt, his hands scurrying about in a pathetic panic.
He repeated the last line of the poem and prepared to fire. “In that short, simple prayer . . .”
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Sam stretched his right arm directly out in front of him. Trembling, he lowered his hand onto the dirt. His palm came to rest on a muddy, wet patch of concrete, and then he felt it. That unmistakable rough grip of the Beretta handle right at the tip of his index finger.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, Sam made a final, dire grab for his weapon.
“Adieu,” Travis said in a whisper.
At that moment, Sam spun his right hand over his left shoulder and pulled the trigger.
It sounded like a firecracker going off in a cave.
The bullet struck Travis three inches below his left shoulder, the force enough to send him flying against the concrete tunnel. The back of his head smashed into the wall, and his body fell onto the muddy floor below.
As the bullet left the barrel of the gun, Sam felt Travis drop the cutter.
The recoil from the blast ripped the gun out of his hand as the jaws of the powerful machine disengaged, freeing Sam from its deadly grip.
Sam felt a rush of cold air pour into his mouth and nose. The air ran down his throat like water, filling his lungs with precious oxygen.
Sam fell onto his back and breathed in deeply, then exhaled, then another deep breath, and exhaled. The ringing in his ears dropped a notch. His clothes were soaking wet from sweat and urine, and he felt tears streaming down his face.
Both men lay there, no more than five feet from one another, not moving a muscle.
Sam didn’t know if Travis was dead or alive. He didn’t know where the bullet had struck. All he knew was the little piece of lead had made contact, and by some miracle, he was breathing, and still in one piece.
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Travis’ eyelids fluttered rapidly as he lay on his side, his head resting on a thick heap of mud. He floated somewhere between conscious and unconscious. He heard Kim’s voice, but it was distant. “My God, what have you done, Travis?” she asked.
“What you told me to do,” Travis answered back.
He felt himself drifting away, far away from that awful sewer.
The blackness lifted like a thick fog and gave way to the penthouse apartment. He found himself lying on the comfortable, leather couch where he and Kim had spent so many perfect evenings. His head rested on a thick, goose-feather pillow. A sense of relief came over him as he sat up and lazily gazed around the magnificent room.
He had fallen asleep on the couch and had a terrible nightmare that Detective Sam Knight was chasing him through the sewers.
Everything was going to be okay. Kim was not in danger, and they were not going to be destroyed by that rogue cop.
Travis glanced over to an antique mirror and was startled by the image sent back to him. He was dressed in his sewer work clothes, his face smeared with dirt, his greasy hair lying flat on his small head. He wore his thick, cheap bifocals, and he could see the large hearing aid protruding out of his left ear.
He looked beaten, and pathetic.
He turned away from the mirror, ashamed of who he really was, and came face to face with Kim.
She had suddenly appeared, sitting right next to him, smiling that perfect smile.
“You look absolutely sick, sweetie,” she said, reaching out and gently touching the side of his face. Her warm hand felt good against his cold cheek.
“Something’s wrong, Kim. I don’t feel so good,” he whispered back.
“Well, I was hoping we could get some work in, but if you’re just not up to it . . .”
“No,” Travis responded, not wanting to send her into a tirade about his lack of enthusiasm. “I want to work. I want you to be proud of me.”
Kim broke into a wide smile and grabbed a yellow legal pad off the antique coffee table. “I am so proud of you, sweetie. You know how much I love you.”
“I love you too, Kim. I love you more than anything in the whole world.”
She leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. Travis closed his eyes as their lips met. There was nothing he yearned for more than her healing touch. It fed him. It made him feel alive.
As Kim pulled away, he opened his eyes and stared at the stunning, picture-perfect creature that was his one and only. His best friend. His soulmate.
“You’re gonna love this one,” she said. “He’s a cripple, a freak, a fucking pervert. He makes his living working in the sewers. Can you imagine the kind of lowlife who spends his days and nights knee-deep in other people’s shit and piss?”
Travis looked away as a wave of nausea burned in his belly.
Kim continued in that beautiful, sweet, completely uncaring voice. “He’s a pathetic loner, and worst of all . . . a serial killer. He murders men he’s never met, who never did a thing to him, tortures them to death, and doesn’t even have the courage to stare them in the eyes. He’s a coward. a retard, and a virgin.”
“Stop,” Travis mumbled as tears poured from his eyes. “Please, Kim, stop . . . It hurts.”
“He’s a destroyer, a monster. His whole life has been a series of lies. He lies to himself about who he really is. He lies to everybody he meets. He lies about a life that doesn’t exist. He lies about girls who wouldn’t urinate on him, much less hold his dirty, little hand. He’s so caught up in a fantasy world, he’s forgotten what a sad, pitiful, wretched excuse for a human being he really is.”
Travis’ chest heaved up and down. He lifted his shaking hands up to his head and tightly covered his ears.
“He lives at 863 N. Caldwell Drive, and his name is Travis Taylor. He makes me fucking sick. I find him repulsive. I hate him. He’s an ugly, repugnant little freak, and he deserves more than anybody to die for his sins.”
“I just wanted to be with somebody,” Travis whispered, and started to cry. “I just wanted to love somebody. I just wanted to touch somebody.”
He turned to Kim, tears streaking down his face. “I’m so sorry, Kim. I’m so sorry about what I’ve done. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
Kim showed no emotion and said, “I hope he burns in hell.”
Travis fell back against the thick, goose-feather pillow, and closed his eyes.
When he reopened them, he smelled the familiar stink of the sewers.
He stood and glanced around. To his left, Sam was collapsed on the concrete floor, his back pressed up against the slimy wall. A few feet away lay the pipe cutter, the jaws opened wide. Travis shifted his eyes to the floor and spotted Sam’s gun less than a foot away. He bent down to pick it up and felt lightheaded. Blood poured from the wound in his shoulder, and it took all his concentration, and energy, to lift himself back up.
He transferred the gun from his left hand and into his right, placing his index finger around the trigger, and turned to Sam.
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Sam felt paralyzed as he watched Travis take four wobbly steps toward him. A surge of adrenaline kicked in as his eyes focused on the object in Travis’ right hand: his own gun aimed right at him.
“I don’t want to die down here, Travis,” Sam said in a calm voice.
Travis had to use both hands to keep the gun leveled at Sam’s head. “Now, no doubt, my friend and I . . .” he said in a low, but strong tone.
Sam let out an incredulous laugh, not wanting to believe the surreal scene playing out before him.
“Will proceed to lie and lie, till we begin to act the truth and call it sin.”
“Drop the gun, Travis,” Sam ordered. “Drop it.”
“When hands are tightly clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . . and streaming tears, those whispered accents rise . . .”
“Give me the gun . . .”
“Leaving to God the objects of our care . . .”
“Don’t do this. She was lying to you. She’s not real. It was all a lie!”
“In that short, simple prayer . . .”
“SHE DOESN’T EXIST!” Sam screamed at the top of his lungs.
Travis looked Sam straight in the eyes as bloody, dirty tears streamed down his round face.
“I just wanted a girlfriend!” Travis cried out. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I’m sorry about Mr. Tyler. I’m so sorry. I was lonely! I didn’t want to be alone anymore. I just wanted to love somebody!”
A tear escaped Sam’s eye. He knew that pain; he understood it all too well.
Travis Taylor and Sam Knight shared the same disease.
“We’ll walk out of here together,” Sam pleaded. “You have to trust me. I’ll help you, I promise, but you have to put the gun down first.”
“I love her,” Travis said, the gun lowering away from Sam’s head. “I love her so much. She cares about me, and she loves me. Kim loves me.”
“It’s gonna be all right, Travis. Everything’s gonna be all right.”
“All I wanted was a girlfriend,” Travis muttered. “I wanted somebody to love me.”
“I understand. I understand more than you know.”
There was a long pause as Travis took a deep breath, and exhaled. “And in that short, simple prayer . . .” Travis continued, raising the gun back up.
Travis stared directly at Sam, and a peaceful smile lit up his dirty face. “Adieu.”
Travis lifted the barrel of the gun and placed it deep inside his own mouth.
Sam screamed, “NO!” and bolted up, reaching out for Travis’ arm.
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Sam slowly stood and stared down at Travis’ corpse lying in the shit and mud, his skull shattered, his lifeless eyes slammed wide open.
He could feel Travis’ still-warm blood sprayed across his face.
As he staggered away, he could only imagine the grotesque feeding frenzy soon to take place as those oversized rats hissed and shrieked and devoured the remains of the famed Revenger.
He followed the tunnel for more than a hundred yards, where he could see light emanating from a large street-side drain opening.
He was numb and felt no pain as he walked toward the bright, white light.
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He had to suck in his gut to slip under the steel rod that kept large objects from falling into the drain. Sliding onto his back, he eased himself from the darkness of the sewers and into the dim streetlight of the gutter.
Taking comfort in the loud, obnoxious sounds of the city, Sam lay there motionless as cars and buses passed within feet of his damaged body.
What he experienced in the last forty-eight hours was beyond anything his mind could comprehend. One long nightmare. A drug-induced haze.
He lifted his hand to his neck and gently pressed on the black, burnt skin. There was no sensation. The nerves were gone. Fried away. He needed to get himself to a hospital.
He slowly stood and stepped onto the curb. His head throbbed as he rubbed his temples, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply out of his nose.
As he opened his eyes, he could see the reflection of a red neon sign in a puddle. Lifting his head, his eyes focused, and what he saw in front of him sent an all-knowing smile across his marred face.
This thing is going to end freaky.
He could hear James’ prophetic words as he stared at the A.I.F. store standing in all its seedy glory twenty-five feet in front of him.
