The Valley: A Lee Harden Novel, page 28
Fucking all the time! All the time I’m fucking right! Motherfuckers try to gaslight me and tell me I don’t know what I know, but I know what I fucking know, and I know this!
Those someones had been the man Jax and his bitch Marie.
Because hadn’t Kat hesitated for a long time when he’d told her to call the infected in on them? And when she did finally let out that godawful howl, hadn’t it sounded different to him than all the other times?
Oh, you speak the language now? You’re a regular fucking Doctor Doolittle. You fucking putz, get your head on straight.
And then: She fucking did something. That little animal bitch did something. I don’t know how she did it, or what she did, but I KNOW IT.
Slipping.
She betrayed you.
—oh, but you’ve done such a WONDERFUL job making her like you—
I don’t fucking need her to like me. Attack dogs don’t need to like their masters. They need to be scared, and they need to be mean, and they need to be kept hungry and pissed off.
—maybe she’s less of an animal than you think—
Oh, less of an animal than I think?
And now just images: Patty, laying in the grass. Patty, with her throat ripped out and her stomach torn open. Patty, with her right leg and left arm missing, the stumps all shredded with the round bone of the joint protruding and the severed tendons sticking out, like something had chewed them off.
And Kat standing there, telling him that it’d been a small pack of infected that had caught his girlfriend out beyond the fence. Telling him that she’d charged in when she heard Patty screaming and scared them off, but it’d been too late for Patty.
But hadn’t she had blood on her hands?
At the time, he’d figured she’d just touched the already-dead body. But later, after he’d played the scene over and over in his mind, he wasn’t so sure. He wished he’d told her to take her bandanna off so he could see if her mouth was bloody too.
Lies. Everyone’s fucking lying. They lie, and then they gaslight you when you catch them. They tell you that you’re crazy. They tell you that you’re being irrational. They tell you that you’re being paranoid.
He didn’t even realize he’d driven the distance back to his ranch until he saw his house looming up in front of him.
Where had those moments gone? He’d been so lost in his own head…
He pulled up in front of the house, braking hard, and then throwing it into park.
“Uh, boss?” one of the guys said from the back—Kyle, or something like that. Or maybe Skylar. He remembered thinking it sounded like a girl’s name, so probably Skylar.
Colin ignored him. Thrust his way out of the vehicle. Slammed the door behind him. Marched up the front steps, with his nostrils flaring and everything around him seeming to get a lot closer to him. To stare at him. To watch him. To judge him.
The entire world was fucking with him. Running a game on him.
—remember that little bottle of pills?—
Of course he remembered.
—and what’d you take those for?—
Fuck the diagnosis. Fuck it, and fuck the doctor that gave it to him. You know, he wasn’t that different from his father, and his father hadn’t been labeled, and had pills shoved at him by some overeager head shrinker. Back then, you were allowed to be pissed and question the loyalty of your family and friends without everyone telling you that you were crazy.
Still, he missed those little pills. Even right at that moment, when he was somehow so sure that his perceptions were true and not delusions at all, he missed the peace and calm he’d felt while taking them. He missed the clarity.
I have clarity right fucking now, part of him insisted. Just because everyone lies to your face doesn’t mean you’re not seeing clearly.
And, of course, part of him just feared that he was losing it. Feet dipping into that cold, dark chaos of unstoppable thoughts that all bore the weight of extreme conviction.
A constant tug of war in the core of him, stretching who he was, threatening to shear his identity in two. The conviction of his perceptions hijacking his sense of truth. But then his rational brain would tell him that truth only came from logic. And then came all the mental contortions of trying to reconcile the two. Trying to make his perception of truth agree with his logical brain, and always coming up just a hair short, like not having quite enough length on two ends of string to tie them together. Because if he couldn’t make them agree, then he was going to tear, right down the middle. He’d lose himself in that darkness.
He found himself standing in his office, behind his desk. Vaguely recalled stalking through his house to get there. He stared down at the desk, his hands on his hips, breathing slowly but heavily through his nose.
Do it, do it, do it.
Sometimes it was hard to tell whether his mind was goading him or begging him.
He glanced up at movement. Felt his stomach drop as he realized he’d left his office door open, and there was Skylar, creeping towards him, staring at Colin from under his heavy brows.
Had that motherfucker been sneaking up on him?
—maybe he’s just scared of you—
Because he’s a fucking pussy.
Skylar halted the second Colin looked up at him, and that made it seem like he’d just been caught.
Colin let out weird noise, something between a gasp and a gag, his hands dropping from his waist. “Were you…?”
Skylar blinked, terror leaking into his eyes.
Little rat’s been caught. Every rat thinks they’ve got the run of things until they get—SNAP—caught in a fucking trap! Rats and squirrels and weasels—all ways to describe someone like Skylar.
“Boss—”
Colin’s face wrinkled up, and something in him was either stricken, or enraged. “Were you sneaking up on me?”
Skylar’s shoulders drooped. Almost like he’d been hoping this wouldn’t happen, but expecting that it would.
Hoping what wouldn’t happen?
—you, going insane—
Losing your grip
—bonkers—
Bananas
—Jesus Christ, could you do the whole world a fucking favor and blow your brains out already?—
“It’s not like that, Boss,” Skylar tried.
Tried, and failed.
“Huh!” Colin sounded like an offended old woman in his own ears, and he loathed himself for it. If he could, he would’ve beat himself until his brains came out his ears.
That’s what this fucking world always does! They drive you crazy, and then blame you for going crazy! Gaslighting me! Motherfuckers!
And then he was back to hating the world more than he hated himself.
Maybe Skylar saw what was wriggling through his features. His face went all faux-calm, and he spun with a quiet, “No worries, nevermind.” Colin was already coming around the desk, but if Skylar heard his heels clacking on the floorboards, he didn’t look around.
Colin had the urge to tackle him from behind, the images of him beating his own brains out shifting and melding into him beating Skylar’s brains out. But the desk was calling to him.
Do it, do it, do it.
He slammed the door on Skylar’s retreating figure, causing the wall to shake and the decorations to rattle. The slam seemed to give him a blast of self-reflection. He was losing it. He couldn’t afford to lose it. He was losing it more often lately, and losing it for longer, and the only thing that had helped was
—the pills—
what he had in the desk
Do it, do it, do it!
If he let his thoughts run amok, they’d spiral out of control. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not right now. Not with everything going on.
—because eeeeeeeeeeeeveryone depends on YOU—
Because they’re rats and ticks and leeches! Pests! Bloodsuckers! Gaslighters!
He stalked back to his desk and practically fell into his seat, his hands sliding up and down his thighs, up and down, up and down. He thought about it for the barest of seconds. He knew addiction was a factor—Do it! Dooooo iiiiiiiiiit!—but it really did help. And help was what he needed. Because he’d run out of pills a long time ago—seventy-five days after the collapse of Western society, to be exact.
He snatched the center drawer open. The contents shifted violently. Pens and pencils. A little pocket pistol and some loose cartridges. Some spare change. An old flash drive with who-knew-what on it. And a little tin that used to hold mints.
He felt better just looking at it. But he’d feel even better after he snorted what was in it.
He grabbed up the tin and slapped it on the desk, then slammed the drawer closed, because everything felt like it needed to happen violently. He took the little tin in both hands and thumbed the lid open.
Dammit it all to hell. There wasn’t much left.
Well…not in here anyway.
About a year after his pills had run out he’d miraculously found this shit.
No…his ranch hands had found this shit. They’d gone on a scavenging trip, and come back all hootin’ and hollerin’ about it. Told him it was meth, and they planned to have a mighty fine party with it—two kilos of it. Colin guessed they thought that since there were no laws anymore, he’d be okay with having all his ranch hands turn into meth-addled shitbags. He wasn’t, and told them so in no uncertain terms, and then relieved them of it.
They sulked but got over it.
Colin had intended to burn the stupid shit, but decided to hold onto it. Call it intuition. Because a week later, he was being swallowed up by that chasm, and the only thing that kept him from breaking with reality completely was a big old snort of meth.
It didn’t exactly make all the intrusive thoughts go away. But it made him strong enough to withstand them. It sped his mind up to a level that the thoughts didn’t seem like disjointed blurs anymore, because he was thinking as fast as they were. He could keep up with those bastards. He could get his hands on them. He could wrangle them into submission.
His thoughts were like stampeding cattle, and without help, he was just one man standing in their path, destined to be trampled to death. But with this stuff, it was like he could be on horseback and run alongside his thoughts and steer them in the direction he wanted them to go.
Yeah. Something like that.
He’d burned through one of the kilos, even trying to ration it. So when he’d started on the second kilo, he’d made a promise to himself: He’d only use it when he needed it. He wouldn’t let himself get addicted. He’d treat it like medication.
That was when he’d hid the second kilo, and only refilled the tin once a month.
Of course, that’d been some time ago, and that last kilo had been depleted pretty heavily. And maybe he’d fudged it a few times and refilled his tin after three weeks. Or two weeks. But shit, come on. He had to stay in control. And the world was always fucking with him. Always driving him crazy and then gaslighting him.
He tipped the tin until all the white powder shifted to a corner, then spilled it out in more or less a line. It was a fat one. But if he took his normal-sized dose, then there would only be a tiny bit left in the tin that wouldn’t even be enough for a regular dose. Might as well take it all.
He snapped the tin closed, staring at the line of powder. His mouth was watering like it expected a sweet treat. Vaguely, he perceived some commotion beyond the door of his office. Vaguely, he recognized that he needed to do it do it do it or don’t do it at all and hide it.
He did it.
Fire in his nose. Fire in his mind.
He rocked back in his chair, pinching his nose and shuddering and squeezing his eyes closed, waiting for the horrendous burn to abate. How could something hurt so bad and feel so fucking fantastic at the same time?
Like a grassfire, it burned hot and quick, and then smoldered out. Left everything in him feeling lightly toasted. It would take a moment for his brain to accelerate to the speed he needed to combat the torrents of thoughts.
Something slammed into his office door.
“Fuck!” Colin exploded, adrenaline coursing out to his fingertips, watering eyes snapping open to stare at the door. It took him a second to realize it hadn’t been something slamming into his door. Someone was just knocking.
“Boss, it’s me.”
Bran.
Colin slapped the tin back in the drawer and slammed it shut. Palmed the white residue from his desktop. Wiped his nose a few times. Took a few steadying breaths as he rose to his feet—carefully, so as not to make himself faint, which he was prone to after a fat rail like that. Blinked and thumbed the tears out of his eyes.
Apparently he’d taken too long in his preparations.
“Boss?” More worried this time.
“What, goddammit?” Colin snapped, maybe a bit louder than was necessary.
Bran opened the door enough that he could stick his head in. An urge to scream at him came over Colin—Did I tell you to open the fucking door?!—but he stifled it by literally biting his tongue.
Bran’s heavy brow was all worked up with concern. But after a moment’s suspicious inspection of his boss, Bran apparently decided nothing was amiss and strode in.
Kat followed behind.
Colin stiffened, his eyes landing on hers. She immediately looked down. But he just kept watching her as they approached his desk. Rudely leaving the door open, Colin noted, which caused his hands to ball into fists.
Bran stopped in front of the desk. “We got her. And one of Jax’s guys.”
“Why?” Colin said, working hard to maintain a neutral expression.
Bran seemed taken aback. “Be…cause…you told me to?”
Colin jabbed a finger in the air to the rhythm of his words: “I told you to kidnap Bea!”
Bran’s face settled into a familiar formation. It was his longsuffering expression. Like a soldier might stand at attention while having his ass chewed by his unreasonable superior. Colin had the brief fantasy of ripping Bran’s face clean off his skull. One-handed. Just grabbing it and shucking it like a corn cob.
“It was a split-second judgment call,” Bran said, levelly. “I had the opportunity, and I thought we could use a bit of insurance against retaliation.”
Colin drummed his fingers against his thigh. It actually made sense. It just pissed him off at the same time. He didn’t like it when people didn’t do exactly what he told them to do.
Oh, that reminds me…
His gaze shifted to Kat. She was looking at him again.
—Is that fucking insolence I see in those bitchy eyes?—
She snapped her eyes down when he caught her.
A new flood of thoughts and images. Ah, but this time he could keep up with them. His brain was starting to gain speed. And he had confidence now. Confidence that he wasn’t going insane. Confidence that he could handle this shit. He could see clearly. So fucking clearly. All those thoughts, instead of whizzing by like detritus in a hurricane wind, were all laid out before him like puzzle pieces.
“Take your mask off,” Colin grated in a dry throat.
Momentary hesitation—fucking insolence!—but then she reached up and tugged it down, revealing her twisted features. God, she was disgusting to look at.
She glanced sharply at him.
Shit. Had he said that out loud? Ah, well, fuck it. Truth hurts, bitch.
And now I’m gonna get the truth out of you. And I can see you, you fucking whore. I can see the truth all over your face. You can’t hide your lies behind that fucking bandana now. No, I’m going to see right through you now, and you can’t fucking stop me.
Colin leaned forward onto the desk. “I want you to tell me…right now…what you did.”
Bran shifted. “Boss, you know she can’t talk all that well—”
“She’s mine!” Colin suddenly roared at Bran, practically coming over the desk at him. He could feel his face flushing with the pressure of how hard he’d screamed, the corners of his vision darkling.
Bran rocked back on his heels, but didn’t retreat.
“She belongs to me! I fucking own her! I don’t need you to speak for her! She can fucking talk! I don’t give a good goddamn if it takes her all fucking night, she’s going to say what she did to me!” Back to Kat, incensed beyond the ability to control himself now. “What’d you do to me, you little cunt? Huh? What’ve you been doing behind my fucking back? I feed you! I clothe you! I put a fucking roof over your head! I give you a job! I welcome you into my house, into my ranch, into my fucking life! And you…” he gasped, because he’d run out of air. The fury seemed to run out at the same instant. His gulp of breath seemed cold. Everything in him, suddenly cold. He felt like crying. “…you betrayed me. Didn’t you?”
She was looking at him now. Full on. No glancing away. Was that insolence? Or was she just trying to appear honest by meeting his gaze?
Or did the prolonged eye contact mean she was lying?
Everybody’s always fucking lying to you!
Her lips split open. Hideously long teeth flashed.
“Didn’t,” she growled.
Colin felt like his heart was going to break. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so emotionally affected by something. Why was this always happening to him? Why was the world and everyone in it always fucking with him? What had he done to deserve this constant abuse?
He leaned back off the desk, shoulders slumped. His mouth hung open, drying out with the heaving breaths running through it. He couldn’t look at her anymore. Couldn’t look at Bran either. Decided to stare at the desktop.
“Who was it that killed Joaquin?” Colin finally said, quietly.
Quiet like a spider in a web. Quiet like a coiled snake. Quiet like a gun that only needs a few ounces of trigger pressure to go off.
Silence.
Ringing fucking silence.
Colin smiled forlornly and lifted his head to stare at the ceiling now. He wagged a finger in the air, inclining his ear. “Do you hear that?” He glanced at Kat—her eyes half terrified, half defiant. He glanced at Bran—his eyes hooded and worried. “Mm?” Colin prompted. “Anyone want to tell me what that sound is?”
