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.A dining tablestood in the far corner, on a worn Persian rug.To my right was a smallgalley-style kitchen, separated from the main room by a pair of saloon doors.Wire-rimmed lights hung from the ceiling.A set of shelves in one corner layempty, a box filled with books and newspapers on the floor beside it.Therewas a smell of wax polish in the air.The tabletop gleamed, as did the shelvesand the breakfast counter.But it was the walls that drew the eye; every available space, every inchfrom corner to corner, ceiling to floor, had been illustrated.There wereKohn-like impressions of death upon a dark horse; images of war victimsinspired by Dix and Goerg; cities crumbling in a fury of reds and yellows asin Meidner's apocalyptic landscapes.They overlapped one another, blurring atthe edges into greens and blues where the pigments had mixed.Images takenfrom one artist recurred in the work of another, at once out of context yetstill part of the greater vision.One of Goerg's demons fell upon the crowdsfleeing Meidner's destruction; Kohn's horse wandered among Dix's battlefieldcorpses.No wonder his kids were screwed up.The next room was similarly decorated, although this time the images weremedieval in origin and much more ornate.This room was larger than itsneighbor, with two double beds on a linoleum floor, a slatted wood dividerbetween them.There were books and magazines on rough shelves, two closets,and a small shower and toilet in one corner, separated from the main room bysliding glass doors.The only light came from a single bedside lamp standingPage 214ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlon a table.Close by where I stood were two cardboard boxes filled withwomen's clothing and an open suitcase containing some men's suits and jackets.All of the clothes looked at least two decades out of date.The sheets hadbeen removed from the beds and tied in two bundles.A vacuum cleaner stood inone corner, its dust bag removed and lying beside it.It seemed that alltraces of the bunker's occupants were in the process of being removed.A door stood half open at the entrance to the third room.I paused as a soundcame from inside, a noise like the jangling of chains.I smelled blood on theair.I could sense no movement close to the doorway.Again the sound of metalon metal rang out.I pushed the door open with my foot and drew back againstthe wall, waiting for the shots.None came.I waited for a few seconds longerbefore glancing inside.A butcher's block supported by four thick legs stood in the center of thestone floor.There was old, dried blood at its edges.Beyond it, against thefar wall, was a stainless steel table with a sink attachment and a pipeleading from the drain to a sealed metal container below.There were surgicalimplements on the table, some recently used.I saw a bone saw, and twoscalpels with blood on their blades.A cleaver hung from a hook on the stonewall behind.The whole room stank of meat.It was only when I entered that I saw Angel.He was naked and attached to ametal rail above an iron tub, his arms held over the rail by a pair ofhandcuffs.He half stood, half knelt in the tub, its sides stained brown withdried blood.His body was twisted toward me, and his mouth had been tapedshut.His torso was streaked with blood and sweat, and his eyes werehalf-open.They closed briefly as I moved to him, and he made a small soundfrom behind the tape.There was bruising on his face, and a long wound to hisright leg; it looked like a knife slash, and had been left to bleed.I was about to reach around his back to support him before releasing him whenthe mewling sound rose in pitch.I stepped back and turned his body slightly.A patch of skin, easily six inches square, had been cut from his back, and theexposed flesh pulsed redly.As I stared at the wound, Angel's legs began toshake and he started to sob.I found the keys to the cuffs hanging on a hook,then gripped him around the waist and released him, the full weight of himfalling into my arms as I eased him from the tub and lowered him to the floor.I pulled the tape from his mouth as gently as I could, then took a plasticbeaker from a shelf and filled it from the sink, the water sending the bloodspiraling down into the drain.Angel took the cup and drank deeply, waterspilling down his chin and onto his chest. Get me my pants, were his first words. Who did this, Angel? Get.Me.My.Damn.Pants.Please.His clothes lay in a pile by the tub.I found his chinos, then helped himinto them as he sat on the floor, supporting himself as best he could on hisweakened arms as he kept his back away from the wall. The old man, he said as we hauled the pants up to his waist.Immediately,they stuck to the wound in his leg and a red stain spread across them.Everytime he moved, his face creased with pain and he had to grit his teeth to keepfrom howling. There was gunfire from outside, and when I looked around he wasdisappearing up those stairs.He left the oven open.I might need what'sinside.Page 215ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlHe pointed behind me, to where a steel box with a temperature dial at the topstood against the wall.A thin sheet of what might have been paper hungwithin, assuming paper could bleed.I turned off the dryer, then flipped thedoor closed with my foot. You meet the other two?I nodded. They're his kids, Bird. I know. What a fuckin' family. He nearly smiled. You kill them? I think so. What does that mean? The woman's dead.I fed Pudd to his pets.I left Angel and walked over to where a staircase led up from a small doorwayat the back of the room [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]