BZRK Reloaded by [email protected]

Author:[email protected]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2013-08-15T16:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

The instant Nijinsky, Anya, Wilkes, and a heavily drugged Vincent arrived at the church, Nijinsky held up his phone for Keats and Plath to read a text. It was from Lear.

Karl Burnofsky: inventor of the nanobot. Murdered daughter on orders of Twins. Hold at all cost. Kill before you allow escape.

Keats read it twice just to be sure.

Burnofsky saw all this. He sighed. “I assume that’s about me. Am I a dead man?”

No one answered.

“Anya, would you help Vincent to a room?” Nijinsky asked.

There was something wrong with Nijinsky, it was obvious to anyone, something that was not just about a long drive on the turnpikes and freeways. He looked old. He looked as if he could be his own father. His voice was a whisper. He was carrying a paper bag from the liquor store where he had stopped off en route.

Keats took the bag from an unprotesting Nijinsky and set it on one of the pews. He drew out a bottle of vodka. He crumpled the bag noisily, making sure to draw Burnofsky’s attention to the bottle.

Burnofsky licked his lips, and for a few seconds an expression of terrible desire ruled his face.

Keats saw and understood. He’d been right about Burnofsky. An addict.

“So there he is in the flesh,” Burnofsky said, deliberately looking away from Keats and the bottle. “The great Vincent. Look what you fools have done to him.”

“We didn’t start this,” Plath snapped.

“Of course you started it, your half of it,” Burnofsky said. “We started our part, but no one made you take the other side. Did they? Your father was a friend of mine, you know.” He glanced at the bottle. “We used to drink together, Grey and I. He worked for me at one point. Did you know that? Used to enjoy a drink together.”

Plath, despite herself, was drawn to listen. She was hungry for anything that made her father real again.

“What a brilliant man, your dad. And a good father, too. Better than I was to my daughter.”

“You have a daughter?” Plath asked, keeping her voice neutral. Information was power, and there was nothing to be gained by telling Burnofsky what they knew.

“Had,” Burnofsky said. “Had. Had a daughter. Had. Just like you had a father and a brother. And of course your mother, oh God, I’d have traded my soul for her.” He smiled wistfully. “Beautiful woman. Nothing like you,” he added cruelly.

Plath showed him nothing.

Wilkes lifted a loose brick off the scaffold, stepped close, and calmly smashed it into Burnofsky’s mouth.

Blood erupted from his lips and gums.

She put the brick, smeared red, back in place just as it had been, as if it was an heirloom resting on the mantel.

“Beat a helpless old man?” Burnofsky cried as he spit blood. “It’s like that is it? Fucking little bitch!”

Wilkes made a “Who, me?” face.

Plath waited for Nijinsky to call Wilkes out, to order her to stop. Nothing. So she said, “Maybe not, huh, Wilkes?”

“She’s the nice one,” Wilkes said, helpfully pointing to Plath.

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