AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 71

Reed woke up, riding a bicycle in a wet dream, and ejaculating in an elevator.  AWESOME headache.  Spurt, spurt, spurt; he could feel himself coming, could feel splashes of it landing on his tummy; and he could feel two little hands on his penis.  He was flat on his back.  He tried to raise his head up to look, but even moving it a quarter of an inch upward, sent such a blast of pain through his head, that he gave that up quick.

“Wha’da’ya know, it worked,” Liz said.  She let go of his cock, wiped her hands on his guard pants, and got the crack pipe ready for another suck.  “Wake up, BB.  Say, tell me somethin’.  Do you faint every time you get a hard-on?”

Liz did some more crack, while Reed tried to sit up.  It took him three minutes to sit up.  His guard pants were open at the belt and zipper, his underwear dragged down a little with his balls still inside it but his cock out, now half-limp and drooling onto his stomach.  His guard coat was unzipped and open, his guard shirt was pushed up some and unbuttoned several buttons at the bottom.

Reed spoke, timidly easing the words out of his mouth so as not to set off a nuclear explosion of pain inside his head.  “What the hell were you playing with my dick for?  I thought you didn’t like dicks.”

“It woke you up, didn’t it?  What the fuck else am I s’pposed’ta do?  You were un-fucking-conscious.  Nothin’ else worked.  Like, I don’t dig hangin’ out in a dead elevator the rest of my life, that’s stuck between floors.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“I dunno.  Ten minutes?  Half an hour?  Who knows?”

The pain in Reed’s temples faded from unbearable agony down to a wretched torture.  Three more minutes and he was on his feet.  Vertical.  Four minutes to slowly pull his underwear and pants up and get his shirt buttoned and tucked in.  His pubic hair was all sticky with semen.

And down there, on the floor, was the programmer.  He hauled it up by the wire.  Back to work, Reed.

“You smell like you just came all over yourself.”

“Well, you smell like a terminal crack addict.”

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“Give me the pistol,” Reed said.  “I’m ready.  We’ll open up on his floor next.”

“Oh, you’re ready?  You opened up on three wrong floors by mistake, and now you say you’re ready.”

“Don’t give me shit, Tootsie.  I had to learn how to operate this thing.  We’ll open up on Eric’s floor next.  Give me the gun.”

“Uh-uh.”  She shook her head, and held her gun tight, almost pointing it at him.  Then pointing it at him.

“Don’t point that at me!” Reed warned.

There was enough force and potential violence in his scowl, that Liz turned her gun slightly to the side.  It was either that, or blow him away.

“We have to function as a team,” Reed said.  “I can’t have you shooting that thing off.  It’ll make too much noise, and then that’s the end of the story.  Give it to me.  I’ll take the clip out, and let you have it back.”

“No fucking way, Bullet-Brain!  I ain’t carryin’ no empty gun.  What good am I if I can’t shoot?  Quit worryin’, man, I’ll back you up.  I’ll do it just like you said.  And I won’t shoot . . . unless there’s something that fuckin’ needs shootin’ at!”

Reed’s headache was somewhere up in Excedrin’s trillions, but he worked while he talked.  He pulled out the four-shot ASC Dartmaster from Boyd’s briefcase, and unscrewed the puncture-pin at the bottom of the grip, releasing the remaining cold air from the used C02-cartridge.  “Listen, Tootsie.  Surprise is the name of the game.  We either do it without making noise, or we don’t do it at all.  If you fire that gun, we’ve lost the war.”  He dropped the empty C02-cartridge in the briefcase and inserted a fresh one.  “I don’t know what’s on the other side of the door.  But it doesn’t matter.  We do it my way.”

“Nuts!”  Liz was an arctic-cold chill at the front bumper of a cocaine crash.

“Tootsie, give me the gun.”

“Go and fuck yourself!  I’m keepin’ it.”

“Listen to me,” Reed said quietly.  “I need you.  I can’t do it alone.  I’ve got to have your help.  But we have to work together.  You’re a crack addict; I’ve got a bullet wound in my head.  We’ve both got problems.  But——”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with crack!  It’s great!  Try a hit!”  Liz started to prepare the crack pipe for another suck.

He reached his hand to stop her.  “I appreciate that you’re in a down, and that you need more crack to come out of it, but just wait a sec.  Do you want to help Courty, or not?  You’re giving me too much shit.  This is a tactical assault that has been well thought out.  Course, there’s supposed to be four healthy guys . . . and instead we got, well, we got you and me.  And we’re way behind schedule.  I don’t even know if it’s going to work anymore.  There could be two hundred cops when we open the door.  But somehow I get the idea that Des Barres doesn’t want cops anymore than I do.  I think I’ve listed this elevator on the status board as being down for service.  But I’m not sure.  There could be physical limit-switches that trigger alarms when the elevator goes to Eric’s floor.  The plan was to climb up on top of the elevator to check that.  But I’m too out of it to get up there, and if I boosted you up, you wouldn’t know what to look for, so we just have to hope that nothing’s there.  Hell, there could be microphones that are listening to us right now.  I don’t know.  Listen, I thought I was going to have to go after Eric a long time ago, but I could never get proof.  I thought he hurt Courty a long time ago, but I could never find out for sure.  Then, for awhile, I thought that I was wrong about him, so I shelved all the planning we were doing.  Well, now it seems like it’s him after all.  But there’s a lot of guesswork.  Maybe Eric doesn’t even have Courty here.  Maybe she’s in Hawaii soaking up the sun by herself and just getting her head together.  Maybe she’s even here, and wants to be here.”

“Talk my ear off, talk my ear off, talk my ear off. Let go of my hand, Bullet-Brain, I wanna hit off the pipe!”

Reed released her hand.  She did the crack.

Reed retold her what to do, went over it and over it.

When he was finished talking, Liz retold Reed what to do.  A simple short phrase.

Reed readied himself.  He entered 86 into the keyboard, the number that would bring the elevator up to the 87th floor.  He did not move the elevator.  He was about 95% certain that there would be no ding or warning bell to alert anyone there on the Des Barres floor.

“Well?” Reed asked her.  With one word and one look, Reed said, ‘That’s right, just sit there on your butt while I do all the work.  Bitch!’

Liz sparked up with energy, on tiptoes, ready to charge out that door and do some dirt!  “This is gonna be GREAT!”

Reed propped up the programmer, and set down the zoo-gun for a sec.  He moved fast and knocked Liz’s gun aside, got a grip on her wrist and squeezed the hell out of her!  His head was a roar of pain and flickering stars that attacked his vision.  He pried her trigger finger away from the trigger.  He yanked the gun out of her hands.  The semi-automatic pistol did not fire.

Liz came at him with furious windmill energy; Reed shoved her HARD!  She bounced against the elevator wall.  He SHOVED her hard again!  It hurt her enough to make her fall to the floor.

Liz was not exactly happy about it, and she called him a few naughty names; she told him where he could go, what he could do with his sexual organ, and had several suggestions for his tongue, his thumbs, his anus, and his nose.

While Liz made with the malediction, Reed calmly flicked out the .357 caliber cartridges from the clip and dropped the gun back down into Liz’s hands.

Liz caught it, gave Reed the one-finger salute, and continued with her potty-mouth flush of phrase.

Reed was hardly listening.  He picked the ASC-Dartmaster gun up from the top of the briefcase, turned down the puncture-pin three half-turns after the pusssshhh, and hit the return key on the programmer.

“. . . and give yourself a sperm-AIDS enema, rape-face!” Liz yelled up at him.  “Braid your pubic hairs, and call it . . . FUCK!”

The elevator accelerated up.  Fast!  Decelerated.

Liz was still sitting there on the floor, and the door was about to open.

“That’s what I like,” Reed said.  “Teamwork.”

COURTNEY, Chapter 72
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47