The Dead Man: Kill Them All Read Online Free PDF Page B
locate and copy, or at least secure the rights to.” Scotty leaned closer. His breath stank of the rot eating him from inside. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Why not just steal a sample and go to work on that? Why bleed you dry? So I asked the same question. Seems to me we could take some, let you eat and rest, then take some more, and even go on and on for months or years that way.”
“Uh-huh.”
Just let me stay alive long enough to figure a way out of here…
“But no, we’re supposed to get as much as we can over a few days, then punch your ticket and dispose of the body. In case you’re curious, it will be a state-of-the-art cremation. That is, we plan to burn your ass up with a frag and split.”
“Why kill me? Just to leave no evidence?”
“Monopoly, dude. Once we have enough healthy samples, taking your ass out leaves no way for anyone else to compete. Business is murder these days.”
Matt licked his lips. “Water. Please.”
Scotty snapped his fingers. The mercenary with the marijuana sighed, pinched out his joint, and got a small bottle of water. He tossed it to Scotty, who opened it and poured a taste into Matt’s mouth. “Go easy, partner. Wouldn’t want you to get sick. We’ll turn off the drip now, let you get some strength back.”
Matt managed to make his left hand crawl up to grab the bottle. He wanted to handle it himself. He took another sip. “You must feel really proud of yourself.”
Scotty blinked once, then looked away.
A hit, a palpable hit.
The mercenary got up, walked around the gurney, and stopped the blood flow. He put some grapes and orange slices on a paper plate and set it down on Matt’s legs. Something in Scotty’s weakened mind wandered, though, and instead of feeding Matt he began to absently snack on the grapes himself. He looked normal again, and then horrific. These dangerous men were rapidly being taken over by their own mindless appetites.
Matt swallowed some more water, choking a bit but keeping it down. He looked to his right, where the needle protruded, and his mind raced for some kind of answer. He was alone in a huge trailer parked out in the desert, guarded by mercenary soldiers recruited in the cause of evil. Everyone thought he’d left town. The rancher he’d visited was dead, and perhaps Matt would be blamed for the murder. As for any chance of rescue, no one even knew he was here. Only one thing was certain.
Matt was in deep, deep shit.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sunday, 11:34 a.m.
He lost track of the number of times they woke him up to give him water, fruit and juice or to change the trickle of urine in the bedpan. As soon as he’d regained some of his strength, they’d start collecting blood again. Matt was light-headed all the time now, and his vision was blurring. The mercenaries looked horrific, their souls pocked with the unspoken evil of what they were doing. One with a shaved head never looked at him. One with thick red hair never stopped. The stoner never quit smoking. Their lack of sympathy and interest betrayed souls too far gone for any kind of recovery.
These were trained mercenaries, in great condition and still quite lethal, but the Dark Man had found a way to touch them. They ate Matt’s food on a whim, smoked dope, drank booze, and napped. When Matt was able to concentrate, he wondered if these men would even remember what they had done here. They seemed beyond caring.
And Matt didn’t have much longer to live.
The mercenaries rotated positions. Scotty was the only one with a smidgen of bedside manner. The others rarely spoke, except to grunt a request or use a four-letter word. One had the habit of constantly scratching his balls. They argued violently, exercised, cleaned their weapons endlessly, burped and farted, slept and snored. Sometimes they fought like animals over a scrap of meat. Killers without a purpose.
Matt was pretty certain it was just the next day, not two days later. The sun was up again, and the light
“Uh-huh.”
Just let me stay alive long enough to figure a way out of here…
“But no, we’re supposed to get as much as we can over a few days, then punch your ticket and dispose of the body. In case you’re curious, it will be a state-of-the-art cremation. That is, we plan to burn your ass up with a frag and split.”
“Why kill me? Just to leave no evidence?”
“Monopoly, dude. Once we have enough healthy samples, taking your ass out leaves no way for anyone else to compete. Business is murder these days.”
Matt licked his lips. “Water. Please.”
Scotty snapped his fingers. The mercenary with the marijuana sighed, pinched out his joint, and got a small bottle of water. He tossed it to Scotty, who opened it and poured a taste into Matt’s mouth. “Go easy, partner. Wouldn’t want you to get sick. We’ll turn off the drip now, let you get some strength back.”
Matt managed to make his left hand crawl up to grab the bottle. He wanted to handle it himself. He took another sip. “You must feel really proud of yourself.”
Scotty blinked once, then looked away.
A hit, a palpable hit.
The mercenary got up, walked around the gurney, and stopped the blood flow. He put some grapes and orange slices on a paper plate and set it down on Matt’s legs. Something in Scotty’s weakened mind wandered, though, and instead of feeding Matt he began to absently snack on the grapes himself. He looked normal again, and then horrific. These dangerous men were rapidly being taken over by their own mindless appetites.
Matt swallowed some more water, choking a bit but keeping it down. He looked to his right, where the needle protruded, and his mind raced for some kind of answer. He was alone in a huge trailer parked out in the desert, guarded by mercenary soldiers recruited in the cause of evil. Everyone thought he’d left town. The rancher he’d visited was dead, and perhaps Matt would be blamed for the murder. As for any chance of rescue, no one even knew he was here. Only one thing was certain.
Matt was in deep, deep shit.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sunday, 11:34 a.m.
He lost track of the number of times they woke him up to give him water, fruit and juice or to change the trickle of urine in the bedpan. As soon as he’d regained some of his strength, they’d start collecting blood again. Matt was light-headed all the time now, and his vision was blurring. The mercenaries looked horrific, their souls pocked with the unspoken evil of what they were doing. One with a shaved head never looked at him. One with thick red hair never stopped. The stoner never quit smoking. Their lack of sympathy and interest betrayed souls too far gone for any kind of recovery.
These were trained mercenaries, in great condition and still quite lethal, but the Dark Man had found a way to touch them. They ate Matt’s food on a whim, smoked dope, drank booze, and napped. When Matt was able to concentrate, he wondered if these men would even remember what they had done here. They seemed beyond caring.
And Matt didn’t have much longer to live.
The mercenaries rotated positions. Scotty was the only one with a smidgen of bedside manner. The others rarely spoke, except to grunt a request or use a four-letter word. One had the habit of constantly scratching his balls. They argued violently, exercised, cleaned their weapons endlessly, burped and farted, slept and snored. Sometimes they fought like animals over a scrap of meat. Killers without a purpose.
Matt was pretty certain it was just the next day, not two days later. The sun was up again, and the light