Flypaper Con: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 4 Page 6

  Nick used the wall and his cane in equal measure to keep himself upright. “Yeah, upstairs. Need to get upstairs. You can stay.”

  She kept pace with him. “I’d rather not leave you alone right now. Can I come with you? To make sure you get there okay?”

  She was one of them. Or she was one of them. She was supposed to not be anymore. But what if she still was? He didn’t know who the Administrator was. And because someone wasn’t wearing a red fly didn’t mean they weren’t a Maggot. The fuckers were everywhere. He could feel them crawling on his skin. He could trust no one.

  No one except Corpse.

  He pressed the elevator button. “I’ll be okay.” That may have been an exaggeration. The planet spun extraordinarily fast. It threatened to throw him free of its gravitational pull.

  The elevator opened. Hellen walked with him onboard, her hands where he could see them. “You’ll feel better after you lie down. Maybe drink some water.”

  Nick pressed the button for the twelfth floor. And maybe the thirteenth as well. His fingers weren’t fully functional. They were fat and clumsy.

  The lift thrust upward and left Nick’s heavy stomach behind. He struggled to hold on to the events of the past several minutes; he didn’t feel well. He left the party. Hellen followed him.

  Why did she follow him? What was her game?

  He was so damn exposed. Get to Corpse. Then he could pass the fuck out and feel safe.

  The doors opened on the twelfth floor. He stumbled into the hallway and Hellen was behind him the whole way. He rounded the corner and passed his room. His stomach flipped at the thought of brains and formaldehyde stench.

  He leaned against Corpse’s door and knocked as he watched Hellen out of the corner of his eye. What had he been thinking? He knew nothing about her or her friends. He could have been drugged, hurt, or worse.

  Stupid. So stupid.

  Corpse opened the door. “Whoa, Bro Hawk Down. You doing alright there, boss?”

  “Don’t feel well,” Nick said as he passed Corpse on the way to the bed.

  He sank face down into the cool sheets and closed his eyes. The blackness comforted him. Corpse’s voice formed a barrier over him. Nothing could touch him. “What happened? What did you do?”

  Hellen’s voice came from out in the hall. “I didn’t do anything, I swear. He had a few to drink. And some… you know.”

  “Ahhhh.” Corpse did know. She used the wacky tobacky to sleep on the rare occasion she actually got any. And no wonder. He could sleep forever. “That’s it? So help me, if I find out you roofied him, I’ll paint my bat with your face.”

  Hellen’s voice was further away. “Yeah, no. But I’m glad he’s got you to watch out for him. Tell him I said good night?”

  Corpse slammed the door. It was the last sound Nick heard before there was nothing.

  Chapter 8

  “Nick. Yo Bro, rise and shine.” Corpse sat next to Nick on the bed and shook him vigorously. “Motherfucker, get your shit up.”

  He sat up like something out of a creature feature, moaning and writhing and willing himself into consciousness.

  Nick was still clothed from the night before. He’d slept on top of the sheets. He searched behind his eyes for the last viable memory he could find; forcing himself along the wall to Corpse’s room.

  Hellen had been with him. He’d freaked out; he’d been sure he was surrounded by Maggots. He understood now on an objective level what he’d been thinking, but the overwhelming fear had dissipated with the drugs and alcohol in his system.

  Nick rubbed his forehead. His melon throbbed beneath his fingers. “Shit. Hellen.”

  “She brought you back last night. Said to tell you good-night.” Corpse opened her throat and shot gunned an energy drink.

  “I think I freaked out on her. Like I was really losing my shit.” He struggled to recall anything after he reached Corpse’s door. “It’s a blur.”

  Corpse finished her drink and set the empty can alongside the others. “Well, yeah, you were three sheets, fool.”

  Nick felt his pockets for his phone. “I remember that much. I drank. Smoked a little. Ate some brownies.” He pulled his phone out and focused on the device.

  “What, like brownie brownies?” Corpse clasped her hands together. “Oh snap. That may explain some things. You were having some ‘anxiety issues’ before you crapped out face down. Not that I blame you. Hellen gives me the creeps, I don’t know what made you think it was a good idea to tap instead of fap.”

  “I didn’t tap anything, thank you very—” 11:46. The numbers on his phone sank in as he looked at the midday sun peeking through the room’s curtains. “It’s almost noon.”

  Corpse snapped her fingers. “Oh right, that’s why I woke you up. You have a thing.”

  A thing. Noon on Saturday.

  The Q and A.

  He was supposed to be downstairs in fourteen—thirteen—minutes.

  He lurched from the bed. His left leg gave out and he tumbled to the floor. His cane. He wouldn’t get far without it. He picked it up and looked down at his clothing. “I should change. Pull something from the bag for me?”

  Corpse rummaged through the brown bag and pulled out a red t-shirt with Nick’s official website URL printed on the front. “This is all that’s left.”

  He pulled off his Rat King tee and tossed it to the side. “This is so lame. Why didn’t I send Blaire out to buy me clothes last night?”

  She threw him the red tee. “Because you was busy getting lit and chasing dat poon?”

  “Rhetorical question, Corpse.” He slipped the tee on. It was at least a size too small. It clung to his form as if soaking wet. He picked up the Inn hoodie he’d worn the day before and pulled it on. “This’ll have to do.”

  Nick’s phone rang as they left the room and moved down the hall. He shook the cobwebs from his brain and answered it. “On the way down, Blaire. We’re meeting by the thing, right?”

  Her voice was far too chipper for the level of hangover he grappled with. “Yeah, what are you wearing? You aren’t still dressed like a hobo, are you?”

  He stopped at the elevator, pushed the button and looked down. “I’m dressed in the clothes you gave me.”

  Blaire made a noise like a sedated cow. “Hmm. That’s what I was afraid of. Why didn’t we get you new clothes last night?”

  The elevator doors opened and he and Corpse boarded. “We were wondering the same thing a minute ago. Could you have something delivered before tonight? We have the charity dinner thing and I don’t want to go dressed like a billboard for myself.”

  Corpse poked at the button for the lobby multiple times. “You look like you dressed out of your own garbage.”

  Nick glared at her. “Not helpful.” He turned his attention back to Blaire. “I don’t suppose I can skip the Q and A, can I?”

  Blaire was quiet for a moment. “I’m literally looking at about six hundred people here who might be disappointed by that. It’s standing room only in the back.”

  He banged his brow against the glass wall of the elevator. The hangover banged back, tightening its vice grip on his head. “I’d forgotten how much I hate public speaking.”

  Corpse hopped up and down and punched at the air like in preparation for a prize fight. “Come on, Nick, get off the phone with the square and get your game face on.”

  “Blaire, I’m hanging up, Corpse is getting punchy. See you in a minute.” He hung up the phone and shoved it into his pocket. “You act like you’re the one sitting in front of six-hundred people.”

  She swung at the air. “No, I act like I’m the one that has to throw down if one of those six hundred people wants to take a shot at you. Gotta get all ‘Eye of the Tiger’ and shit.”

  Nick cracked his neck as the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. “No one’s going to do anything. Think positive.”

  Corpse skipped out into the hallway, jumping and spinning and acting the part of the energy drink post
er child. “I almost forgot. I was up all night digging around in the hotel’s computer network.”

  Cobwebs cleared. Nick was suddenly very much in the here and now. A few feet down the hallway, a line of people filed into the conference hall being used for the Q and A. Among them, the man in the dog mask. Fucker seemed to be everywhere. Or maybe Nick simply continued to notice him because it irked him that he didn’t know what movie his outfit was supposed to be from. He turned his attention back to Corpse. “Wait, you dug into the hotel’s computers? Why’d you do that?”

  She did stretches as they walked. “I wanted to see camera footage of whoever broke into your room. Get this, Nick. There wasn’t any. Nada. Zip. Less than fuck squat. In fact…” She lowered her voice as they approached the back entrance to the conference hall used for the panel discussions. “…there’s no footage of anything for the past day. Their surveillance system went tits up yesterday morning and has been offline since.”

  “That’s disconcerting.” Nick waved at the security guards positioned at either side of the doors and walked through. “Any idea how that happened?”

  Corpse kept her voice low. “A couple. But I need more time.”

  Blaire waved at them from a partition behind the main stage. Nick took a deep breath. “You need more time?”

  The webmaster shrugged. “I admit, for once I have no idea what I’m looking at. Someone’s tossing around the computer equivalent of black magic. Real weird juju. Gimme a few hours, I’ll figure it out.”

  “Let me know how that goes.” He turned his attention to Blaire. “We all set?”

  She waved at a man with a microphone near the stage entrance. He walked out and began rattling off an introductory spiel. Celebrated author…’the Teller of Terror’… that sort of thing.

  Nick stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles, before pulling the hoodie off. It was hot as hell in here. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

  Blaire gave him two thumbs up. The announcer said his name.

  He walked out onto the stage, where bright lights half blinded him. Six hundred and change in warm bodies clapped and cheered.

  A long table sat on the stage, along with enough chairs and microphones for a dozen panelists at once. For this panel though, there was only one seat with a name placard in front of it: his. He pulled up the chair and thumped at the microphone. It was live.

  “Okay, simmer down. Knock it off.” Nick waited semi-patiently for the applause to wind down. “I am way too hungover to shout over all of you.”

  Laughter and cheers, accentuated with the occasional hoot.

  “Thanks for coming out, guys. You make me want to come out of my hole more often.” More applause. “Seriously, though… you want a new book?”

  The response was a resounding yes.

  “Throw the slide up.” He looked up at the screen behind him. A graphic appeared on it; storm clouds, with the words God Complex written across them. “There we go.”

  The audience went berserk, with no concept of what they were cheering for.

  “It’s about a guy who realizes he’s God, and the entire universe is his plaything. Alternately, it’s about a guy having a psychotic break. Imagine Lovecraft had a sense of humor. Then you’re in the ballpark.”

  A standing ovation. He could get used to this. He followed up with, “And it’ll be available exclusively as a digital download from my site, the address to which is conveniently printed on my shirt.”

  That didn’t work out so badly. He still felt like a shill, but a clever shill.

  He waved the audience back down into their seats. “Okay, let’s take some questions.”

  A microphone in the middle of an aisle grew an impressive queue. It’d been a while, but he remembered what worked for him in the past. Short, punchy answers. Keep the momentum going so it was harder to get bogged down in any one thing. “Okay, first question, let’s go.”

  A twentysomething with short, curly blonde hair and glasses pulled the mic down to her height. “Considering everything that’s happened to you lately, has it been more difficult for you to get out in the past year?”

  Easy one. “Short answer, yes. Long answer, fucking yes. Although, I must say, I’m thus far very pleased with the lack of attempts on my life this weekend.”

  Nick caught Blaire in the corner of his eye off to the side of the stage. She had her head in her hand. “My publicist-slash-agent is over there hoping I didn’t jinx it just now. Sorry, Blaire.”

  Laughter. Good start. Keep it up.

  Do you still have a relationship with your mother, in light of what she did to you when you were a kid? Second part: If so, what’s it like?

  “Yes, and as a matter of fact, she’s house-sitting for me this weekend. In answer to an anticipated third part to your question, yes, I’ll throw out all my food when I get home.”

  What was the biggest inspiration for God Complex?

  “The desire to give less fucks about what other people think and more about what I think.”

  Best horror movie you’ve seen recently?

  “Deathgasm. The spirit of pre-Hobbit Peter Jackson is alive and well in New Zealand.”

  Question after question, he rattled off answers. He navigated the rapid-fire back and forth like riding a bike. It occurred to him for the first time that he might get through the panel without incident.

  A kid—late teens, maybe early twenties—in a shirt with a massive red fly emblazoned on the front approached the microphone. Despite his apparent age, his voice had yet to drop. “Can you tell us why you haven’t spoken publically about the deaths of Danielle Johnson or Clark Abernathy?”

  The audience erupted in a chorus of boos. He had an easy open. If he had the right response, hundreds of people already on his side would tweet and message and broadcast it to anyone in the world who cared.

  On the other hand, the wrong response could make him seem callous. Blaire would tell him to avoid it. Not worth the risk of backlash, he heard her say in his head.

  He pondered the wording.

  “You know, it’s a fair question, and one I don’t have a particular answer for. Lots of reasons, though. Legal reasons, personal reasons. Consideration for their families. Those are all good reasons, I think.”

  Sporadic applause from the crowd. Good enough.

  The Maggot wouldn’t have it. He planted himself at the mic. “Okay, but when you’re talking about people who were prominent members of a community, and then they meet the same person and both end up dead, don’t you agree that there are questions that need answering?”

  He resisted the urge to immediately push back at the kid. He powered through the headache and the bleary eyes, attempting to satisfy the Maggot’s questions. “See, this is a line of questioning I see a lot when I do visit the Myiasis boards. I admit it, I do log on sometimes. Morbid curiosity, I think. But I see this insistence that there are ‘questions’, right? And there are, of course, but they’re usually asked by law enforcement agencies. I cooperate with them and answer any questions they have to their satisfaction. Everything beyond that is personal.”

  Nick snuck a peek at Blair. She nodded and motioned for him to move things along. He wouldn’t maintain this balance of respectfulness and forcefulness indefinitely. “So, next question…”

  The Maggot clutched the mic as though someone might pull him away from it. “Due respect, Mr. Dawkins, you haven’t really answered my questions.”

  The crowd thoroughly lost its shit. People stood up and jeered. Convention volunteers and employees moved toward the microphone.

  The only thing Nick had to do was wait. The crowd would shout the guy down. People paid to take care of situations like this would show him the door, willingly or unwillingly. The situation was on an easy track to Self-resolution Station.

  It occurred to Nick that he hated train metaphors now.

  He felt the electric spark in his head; the one that ignited tirades from the damaged parts of his soul.

  “I
t’s okay, guys.” He grabbed his cane and pushed himself to his feet. He pulled the mic free of its stand and waved it downward. “Give me a second with him.”

  Blair waved her arms from the side of the stage. He smiled at her and wondered why she bothered. Maybe it was the exercise. Beside her, Corpse pumped her fists in the air. He didn’t think anything amused her more than watching him go on a tear.

  Nick cleared his throat. “I want to talk about something here and I apologize in advance. This is going to be what my best friend over there calls an ‘old man screed’. Bear with me. Now… what’s your name?”

  The Maggot relaxed a little. It didn’t hurt that the crowd had mostly returned to their seated positions. “Brundlefly.”

  Nick laughed and the crowd forgot they were prepared to eat the kid alive mere seconds earlier. A few of them clapped and hooted at the reference to Jeff Goldblum’s character in The Fly. “Brundlefly, that’s good. I like that.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m going to do you a favor, Brundle. Please allow me to forever alleviate you of the terrible burden of knowing every fucking thing about every fucking thing.”

  The crowd shrieked with approving glee while a nicotine craving nipped at the back of Nick’s neck. He continued to unload. “Now, as it happens, I did talk about Danielle in an interview yesterday, and I’m sure that’ll be up for you to watch sooner rather than later. But the original question was why hadn’t I talked about it before now, and I’ll tell you the only answer that matters. Because I didn’t fucking want or need to.”

  The audience went stark-raving bananas, but that was incidental. This was everything Nick had bottled up for months and had absolutely no outlet for. This was catharsis, pure and simple; it was only a coincidence that it was in front of six-hundred card-carrying members of the choir.

  He paced back and forth. “This is the biggest first-world problem I have with society today, and is, incidentally, why I don’t have Facebook or Twitter. Whether it’s me, or Kim Kardashian, or Rainn Wilson, you do not need to know every time we take a piss. You don’t. I know that’s the expectation now because some people tweet shit like ‘Just took a pee, smelled funny, hashtag asparagus, hashtag YOLO’. But I will happily be the one to remind you that you are entitled to nothing.”