Metro

By Stephen Romano

The acclaimed author of Resurrection Express breaks all the rules in this non-stop suspense thriller packed with killers, comic books, drug lords, and film nerds.

For the last five years, Jollie, Andy, and Mark have lived together in a crazy bohemian crash pad in Austin, Texas, immersed in an endless summer of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. But one of them is not what they seem to be. And when that person finally blows a decades-long cover during a violent attack on a powerful Austin dope dealer, all hell breaks loose in the bloody, bullet-riddled aftermath. As the façade of the normal world sizzles away, revealing an ominous shadow league of endemic spies and assassins known only as METRO, Jollie, Andy, and Mark must run like hell into a very dark night, where love and friendship will bind them, a terrifying hatchet man will close in to kill them, and the pitch black truth about everything will be revealed, again and again...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pocket Star
• Release date: Sep 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781476796697

Stephen Romano

Stephen Romano is an award-winning author, illustrator, designer, and screenwriter. His acclaimed projects include an adaptation for Showtime’s Emmy Award-winning Masters of Horror series; the illustrated work Shock Festival (hailed by Fangoria magazine as “one of the greatest homages to B-cinema ever undertaken”); the original novel Black Light, written with Saw franchise screenwriters Patrick Melton and Marcus Dunstan, and the critically acclaimed novel Resurrection Express. He lives in Austin, Texas. Catch him at StephenRomanoShockFestival.com.

Book preview

I

ESCAPE FROM THE

HOUSE OF JAM

In just one hour, a kingdom will fall.

There will be mayhem and death.

A battlefield washed in blood.

Those who survive will never forget this terrible night.

Those who do not survive will be lucky.

Because they will not learn the awful truth about everything.

"So I was thinking about blood."

Oh yeah?

Actually, I was thinking more about that old saying—you know, ‘blood is thicker than water’?

And?

Well, you’re a writer, Mark. I was kind of wondering what they mean by that. I mean, blood really isn’t thicker than water, is it?

It’s just an expression. You don’t take it literally.

"Well, I know that, but I mean what do they mean by it?"

Oh, I get it. You mean what started the expression?

"Yeah. Who said it first? And what did they mean? I’ve never thought that blood was actually thicker than water. The human body is made of water, right? So the expression doesn’t really make a lot of sense, even if it’s a metaphor."

You’re a smart kid, Jackie.

I’m not like you.

Well, we all gotta be ourselves, right?

So . . . what does the expression mean?

Sorry. I’m a little distracted tonight. A lot on my mind.

You worried about the deal?

A little. Those gangsters kind of scare me. I took some Xanax earlier to calm my nerves.

Don’t worry. You’re family, Mark. My father would never hurt you.

He’s your father, not mine.

Yeah, and I know he can be weird sometimes, but he knows you’re my best friend, and he respects that. Just don’t worry.

You been getting along with your father lately, Jackie? Is that why you’re wondering about all this blood and water business?

Maybe. I dunno. I was just thinking about it.

Well . . . the first time the expression was used, it was in a German poem in 1180 about talking animals. ‘Reinhart the Fox.’ But the literal translation of the phrase is ‘family blood will not be spoiled by water.’ It got used later in various forms, and got corrupted along the way. Like how religious texts get altered over the years by monks with quill pens and nothing better to do than reimagine.

The original version makes more sense.

Yeah.

You’re really smart to know all that, Mark.

We all have our talents, I guess.

You’re going to be a great writer someday. I really admire you.

Thanks, kiddo.

"I mean—it’s not like you’re not a great writer now. I didn’t mean it that way. I mean, one day, you’ll be—"

I know what you meant. Don’t sweat it.

You’re thinking about Jollie, aren’t you, Mark?

Yeah. I guess I am.

You don’t like leaving her alone with Andy, do you?

Yeah. I guess I don’t.

What did she say when you asked her to marry you?

I don’t think I wanna talk about it.

I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.

Look . . . I’ve just got a lot on my mind, kiddo. I don’t mean to be rude. You’re doing the house a big favor tonight and we all really appreciate it.

You and Andy and Jollie are my best friends.

"I think we should find you a girlfriend this winter, Jackie. You’re a good-looking kid. You should get laid."

That’s what Jollie always says.

Jollie is wise in all things. You know that.

She’s amazing. I can see why you love her so much, Mark. And why you’re so jealous of Andy.

I’m not jealous of Andy.

Then why do you worry about leaving them alone together?

"That’s different. Andy is just . . . well, he’s a different kind of person than the rest of us. He doesn’t respect certain things. And Jollie’s always been drawn to him, like all the other girls in the world."

"I think you are a little jealous."

I guess I’m jealous of that part. Who wouldn’t be jealous of a guy who gets all the girls? But Andy will never be like me. He’ll never understand what I do.

I don’t think there’s anyone in the world quite like you.

Thanks, kiddo.

"You know, when I first met you, it was the first party I ever went to. I mean, how fucked up is that? I was seventeen years old and no one ever invited me to a party."

Really? I never knew that.

That was six years ago, Mark. I was so lonely then.

Jackie . . .

I really love you, Mark.

Jackie, stop. Don’t say things like that anymore. We agreed, remember?

I’m sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about it.

"Look, you’re my bro and I love you too. But you know I don’t think of you that way. I think of Jollie that way."

Everyone thinks of Jollie that way.

"But she thinks of me like that too. She loves me like I love her."

When she’s not making out with Andy behind your back.

Shut up. Just stop talking.

I’m sorry, Mark. I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t.

It’s okay. Let’s just not talk anymore.

You mean you don’t wanna be friends now?

"Don’t be stupid, Jackie! I mean let’s just take a fucking break and calm down!"

I’m sorry.

You should be. That was a shitty thing to say.

Why won’t Jollie just be your girl if she loves you so much?

Jackie, I just don’t want to talk about this now.

Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet.

I’m sorry too, kiddo. Let’s just wait for your dad and enjoy the night.

You mean enjoy this parking lot.

Yeah, it’s a nice parking lot. Shit . . . two hours now, waiting. Your car smells like Hostess Twinkies.

Sorry about that. It always has, I don’t know why.

Why can’t your dad ever do anything during normal hours?

He’s a vampire. And he takes way too long with everything because he talks too much. Just like I do. And he always has to do these things here, at his club, or not at all. He feels safe in the bar, I guess. He built his whole empire from that little back room in there.

"You mean you built it for him."

No, it’s not like that. I just run the computers.

I’m sorry, Jackie. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.

"It’s okay. I deserved it. But I do love you, Mark. I love you because you and Andy and Jollie are like family to me. You’re my only friends. It’s why I bring you in on these deals. Lots of people use me to get to my dad. But you never did that. With you guys, it’s always been . . . I don’t know, man, fun."

And we appreciate being dealt in. It helps keep the rent paid.

Hey, gotta keep the House going, don’t we?

Yeah.

Can I ask you one last thing, Mark?

Okay. But let’s keep things light for the rest of the night, huh? No more love talk.

Well, I was just wondering something. I’ve always wondered about it. I don’t know why I never thought to ask before.

Don’t keep me in suspense, kiddo.

Well . . . why do you and Jollie and Andy call your house the Kingdom? Who came up with that?

It was Jollie.

Of course.

She just called it that one day and it stuck. I’m not sure why, Jackie.

Like blood is thicker than water? Someone just says it and it survives the ages?

Yeah. Like that. Like blood is thicker than water.

It really isn’t, Mark. Blood and water are the same thing.

Yes, they are, aren’t they?

Yes, they are.

1 hour and COUNTING . . .

There must be no witnesses.

That’s what he thinks, over and over, as the deal goes down. That’s what he remembers most from his final instructions, and it pounds the inside of his skull like a hammer mantra, the gun burning a hole in his pocket. The room is sweaty and dark, full of bad ghosts—he’s been here a million times, but it’s always really rough in the last few seconds before you make your real move. The training tugs just beneath the surface, tickling the base of his throat like first-date jitters or the dull swell of a kept secret. Everything is a kept secret, he thinks. You were brought forth from the bottom of the worst places on earth to be in this room. You played the part like a champ and here it all is, right in front of you. There must be no hesitation. There must be no mercy.

There must be no witnesses.

Razzle has the package, because Razzle always has the package. This same goddamn deal has gone down fifty times like clockwork. It’s always amazed our boy. Theoretically, things like this should never run like clockwork at all because everybody’s a piece of shit and nobody plays fair. The rats all gather after dark in a smelly backroom off a common dive bar, where every cop and every junkie and every scumbag lawyer knows exactly where to look—and, wonder of wonders, nobody is looking at all. Razzle and his rip-off squad are the dumb pride of the local scene, almost-connected mob idiots without portfolio, slogging through the doggy-doo with half a cigar and no matches. Our boy thinks for a minute that it’s probably a genuine miracle this guy hasn’t washed up dead sooner. He wonders why this guy has to die now. He’s been wondering for the last half hour, waiting in that damn parking lot for the moment to come, and it’s against all his training to wonder. You’re not supposed to think, you’re supposed to do. That’s the first thing they teach you. The hand gets bloody, but it always washes clean, and it never knows what the other hand is doing. That’s how these assignments work, they once told him. That’s what makes guys like him silent, invisible, invincible.

The men surrounding our boy have no idea about that kind of discipline. Razzle Schaeffer is the worst of them, of course. He’s about fifty-seven and a typical product of his generation. He relies on other people with iPhones and computers, pretends to be smart and talks on open phone lines about drug stuff because he knows the FBI is recording everything and he just doesn’t give a shit. The reason Razzle just doesn’t give a shit is because he thinks he’s protected. He thinks he’s paid his dues. He’s done four prison stretches, one for manslaughter, and that time he walked after six months. That’s how it works in Texas. They’re harder on drunk drivers than nasty creeps who kill little old ladies. Our boy knows all those interesting facts about Razzle Schaeffer because that’s what he does. Endemic research, down in the trenches, right there with all the assholes who do it for real. All so you can stand in a room like this, the kind held together with peeling paint and cockroach droppings, tinged with the nasty sour smell of sweaty, cocaine-soaked bills in low denominations. You stand here and wait. For that moment. What it all comes down to.

Razzle’s crew surrounds their boss ten-strong as he opens the package. It’s something to see when the top of the crate peels away with a rough crack and the goodies come out. It’s an apple crate, old school, full of coffee grounds to throw the border dogs. Just like in Beverly Hills Cop, our boy thinks, and then he crushes the thought because it almost starts to make grim laughter happen in his belly. If you start laughing in a room like this, someone will ask you why you’re laughing and then you’ll have to explain yourself, and the explanation better be good, because nobody likes Eddie Murphy in this circle jerk of rednecks. You gotta be damn careful with lunatics who think they run the world.

There must be no witnesses.

The packages that come out of the crate are each worth five hundred K, easy. It’s an even bigger score than they told our boy it would be. Ten packages. They’ll all fit in the special carry-on case our boy has stashed in the trunk of Jackie’s car—once he’s done what he has to do. Razzle looks at our boy and asks if he’s happy, and our boy leans across the table and smells nothing but Taster’s Choice, nasty white-trash wake-me-up. It fills him for a moment with a sense of dark unreality, and then he’s back to business. Our boy nods back to Razzle—yeah, I’m happy, everyone in this room is goddamn fucking happy, man—and out comes our boy’s cash. Just a few grand, for our boy’s share of the action, just like Jackie said it would be. The other five guys in the room get much bigger slices. They can afford to roll those dice. Our boy is only here because he’s a friend of the family, and his cut is rinky-dink, small-time. On the table are scales and baggies and knives and spoons and twist ties. The tools to cut up the pie and make them all rich men. The packages are arranged on the table neatly, end to end, and everybody lays their money down. Razzle has one of his goons collect the folding green, makes a dumb remark about little fish and big fish, looking our boy right in the eye.

Razzle tells our boy he’s a lucky man to be in the room with the big fish like this, and maybe one day he’ll have the juice to play in the deep end of the pond.

Razzle has no idea who our boy really is.

Razzle tells his largest flunky to count the money twice.

The kid who grabs the green from the table doesn’t even look old enough to shave. None of Razzle’s guys look very old, even the ones who aren’t Jackie-Boy. It’s a real shame. This will be hard to do.

Our boy senses that the moment has come.

The moment is perfect.

And so he kills everyone in the room.

58 minutes and COUNTING . . .

"It’s all shot to hell, Jollie says to the thin platinum-haired lesbian in overalls, who leans against the open doorway to her room, smoking a joint, her foot lightly tapping in time to the party music, which is a Bob Marley CD that never seems to end. Jollie watches the lesbian’s foot tap, pausing for a perfect beat, and then she hammers the thought home with a hoarse squeak that accelerates her low baritone voice into Kathleen Turner overdrive: The world is ending and the tragedy isn’t that nobody made plans—it’s that everyone was an asshole to begin with."

That’s real deep, honey, the platinum lesbian says.

I’m serious. It’s a statistical fact.

What, that nobody plans for disaster or that everyone’s an asshole?

As the platinum lesbian hands her the joint, Jollie squeaks: "Both, really. Most people are more worried about looking good and upgrading their toys rather than helping out. But some people can choose a higher path, especially when they’re street level like us."

I don’t even vote. The president always turns out to be a crook.

Jollie smirks. That’s like blaming Ronald McDonald when you get a bad cheeseburger.

Thank you, Bobcat Goldthwait, she thinks.

Then she catches up with the monotone relay race of the Bob Marley music in her bones again, swaying a moment as the sweet electric rush of it surges through her extra-love-size body, the fabric of her big blue blouse like shimmering mist over goosebumped skin. And she tunes in to the party, sensing so many disparate sensibilities so close and so far. Laughter up and down the hallway. Giggling and screaming and yodeling. Plumes of reefer smoke and the faint, thick scent of bourbon sour on the air, like the smell of the witching hour, which has already come and gone, leaving only the faithful. Jollie loves it when this many people show up at on a moment’s notice at the Kingdom. Makes her feel safe and loved and popular. The sweet rush of the Molly washes in again—pure undiluted ecstasy, rare and wonderful, special treats tonight from Mark, who always wants her to feel good because he’s in love with her. That makes her feel safe also. Their place is always the last stop after last call for everyone. Tucked in on the south side of Austin at the bottom of a hill on Montclaire Street and surrounded by trees, just blocks from South Lamar, which is a main drag for the bohemian set. The house has high ceilings, three bedrooms, a big living room annexed to a kitchen and a dining area. And there’s always a party, always a celebration. Jollie will look back as an older, wiser woman and say Those were the good old days.

Not everyone has ambitions to save the world, says the platinum lesbian, whose name Jollie will probably never know.

Jollie’s already dubbed her Platinum Lizzie in her own head.

You know, just because.

"Some of us totally have ambitions to save the world, Jollie says, almost squealing. Do you know why we threw this party tonight?"

Um, no.

Do you watch much news? Do you know what’s going on right now in Congress?

Oh yeah, isn’t there a protest or something?

They call it a filibuster. When a senator won’t sit down after he’s recognized.

Yeah, yeah. He’s been, like, standing up for a couple of days, right?

Twenty-seven hours just now. Senator Bob Wilson.

Yeah, it was all over Google and CNN this morning.

It still is. Biggest goddamn news item of two thousand and fucking fifteen.

Okay, so what about it?

Jollie smiles like a proud parent. Well, those are my guys.

"What do you mean your guys?"

"I mean the people behind that filibuster protest are my guys—my friends in Philadelphia. They organized the whole thing in advance. I’m not really sure how Peanut managed to pull it off, but he’s been in Senator Bob’s ear for months now. It’s all about a bill before Congress that was really a front for toll-road kickbacks in New York."

"Peanut?"

That’s my boy in Philly.

Sounds like a rapper.

He might as well be. He’s kinda this crazy rich kid who came out of the suburbs when he was sixteen, took it to the street, and rapidly became known as the Eminem of the political blog scene. A scary zeitgeist activist who makes scary moves that require big money and brass blackmail balls. One of those virtual information terrorists who usually gets groomed early to work freelance for government subagencies run by the CIA. He’s just that awesome at what he does. But he’s one of the good guys.

Wait a second, Platinum Lizzie says. So you’re telling me some twentysomething civil-rights protestor with a trust fund bought a senator somewhere and got him to stand up in the House of Representatives?

That’s exactly what I’m telling you.

"That’s crazy. How is something like that even done?"

It’s easier than you might think. We learned it from a Billy Jack movie.

Who’s Billy Jack?

A cool dude, Jollie says, laughing. Then she dismisses it with a silly wave. Like If you gotta have it explained, you don’t need to know, baby.

I don’t know any dudes that are cool, Platinum Lizzie says.

I’m sure you don’t, Jollie giggles. Anyway, Senator Bob has the floor as we speak. He’s just been reading off hundreds of pages of names and dates and more names—all provided to him and verified by our people. The seventeen members of Congress who were bought off, the five major above-the-line corporations involved in the conspiracy, the two million stockholders who profited illegally from the scam. I was one of the fact finders. It’s all a part of the Wildcat River mission.

Is that a blog or something?

Something.

Sounds like you’re playing with fire, Platinum Lizzie says, her tongue planted firmly in cheek, not exactly believing any of this, but sort of believing some of it. I mean, it’s a pretty impressive thing in terms of organizational skills, I guess . . . but what are you people really hoping to achieve by kicking the hornet’s nest like that?

Jollie almost laughs again.

Whaddaya mean "you people"?

Jollie shivers just a bit from the cool air wafting through the open window of her room, sharp dampness and the muddy smell of autumn leaves a vague comfort, hovering at the edge of the party. Then, just like a politician’s aide giving a quote to the media, she pauses, checks herself, and carefully selects her next answer. It flows sweetly from her full lips, and Jollie instantly radars that Platinum Lizzie wants to have her in the sack more than ever when the words hit home:

"Robin Hood once stood on a mountain and asked his personal god why it was necessary to keep hammering the Sheriff of Nottingham. Robin said he was tired and outnumbered and beaten down and his quest was like shooting arrows at the moon. And Robin’s god, who was Herne the Hunter, replied to him: It is enough to aim."

Platinum Lizzie leans forward to kiss Jollie in the doorway, and Jollie pushes past her.

Keep aiming, pretty, Jollie says, and melts into the dim hallway, ducking under plumes of smoke and streams of spirited conversation, homing toward the living room music. She’s thinking about her boys. Thinking about Robin Hood.

Thinking that the moon isn’t so far away after all.

55 minutes and COUNTING . . .

She’s the girl everyone in Austin wants, but her beauty comes from being smart, and being smart isn’t just about books or experience or street savvy—it’s about being beautiful. She explains a lot to Andy what she means by that, and Andy doesn’t really get it most of the time. It’s too complicated for him. And then Andy will say something stupid and twentysomething like The beautiful people rule us all, and she’ll pretend not to understand what he means for a second or two before she busts him on being a two-dimensional thinker, and he’ll sincerely apologize and come at her a different way. Then she’ll tell him that he’ll never really understand because he doesn’t have to work for these things, he’s never lived through any of it. See, Andy is one of the beautiful people. He might be a sweet guy under all that silly surface posturing, but he’s been beautiful all his life—obvious, mainstream, outside beautiful, the kind that most people run straight for. She’s just as guilty as the next lady of seeing him as a piece of boy meat, but old-school humanity dies real hard, even for the intellectuals.

Still, Andy desires her more than any woman he’s ever known.

And Jollie Meeker ain’t beautiful on the outside—not like he is.

But she’s the girl you want because she’s smarter than everyone, short and sassy, lives to stick it to the man, sways like a flower child at hip-hop shows, dresses like a plump, sexy 1970s time-warp experiment, and her poetry is actually damn good. Ask her what she does for a living and you might get any number of answers, but when you Google her, you’ll get a lot of hits, mostly tied to her political blogs, which she runs in a network with three other guys in Alaska, New York, and Philly. But Jollie is also smart enough to realize you gotta pay the rent before the revolution hits, so there’s the three other websites devoted to entertainment news, which she runs under aliases. That’s where most of her money comes from. The horror movie site is her favorite—a gothy, pop-up-crazy abomination called Dripping Fangs of Doom, where she stirs a melting pot of super nerds who blog out about the latest thing in splatter porn or how much ice the new found-footage Freddy flick sucks on. She logs on as Scary Mary once a week, gets quarterly checks from online advertisers, clocks regular wait shifts slinging pancakes at Kerbey Lane Cafe South, and saves her pennies to get on planes and protest at Capitol Hill during budget hearings. She sees a lot of dumb, beautiful people at those gatherings.

Jollie would rather be fat and smart.

She was twelve when she noticed her baby rolls for the first time, when she realized her nose was round and cute in a puggy sort of way, not sharp and upturned in a bitchy sort of way. Realized she liked ladies and men, but not equally. She aced high school in a few fast eyeblinks. Her mom was dead just a year after. Jollie tells the story now with detached amusement—the kind worn through years of denial, and you don’t have to ask her about it either. She’ll tell you right off any number of triggers. Mark thinks that’s a sign that she’s deeply depressed.

Mom blew herself away, you see.

Aimed a gun right for her own head with a .45 Magnum purchased just for the occasion and unloaded the one bullet in the chamber. Instant mommy hash, Jollie calls it now. Jollie was looking right in Mommy’s eyes when the hash happened. She was seventeen and still a virgin. She’s still a virgin now, at twenty-six.

She’ll tell you all about that when you first meet her. She told it to Mark when she first met him, in so many words. That was five years ago. They’ve been living with Andy in this house ever since then.

The Kingdom.

The House of JAM.

(That’s Jollie, Andy, and Mark, silly you.)

Her own social scene.

Mark says he’s in love with her, Andy says he can’t imagine a world without her, and everybody else in Austin wants her.

She smiles and lets it ride, knowing this is her time, that 2015 is her year, because she is still young and beautiful—the right kind of beautiful. Sometimes, in those weird midnight moments, when she sits in the dining room nook pounding at the truth, the party long over, her angelic cherub face awash in the dreamy blue glow of the laptop screen, she wonders how long that beauty will last. How long will it take to break me? How long can I survive in a world filled with so many people who see things so differently? And then she’ll see her thick smile reflected in the screen and she’ll shift her great weight in the comfy chair, and she’ll realize how lucky she is. Lucky that she never gave a shit about those cheerleaders in high school. Lucky that she never understood why men chase after ideals they don’t even comprehend. Lucky that she knows—like most people don’t—that the world is ending and she has to do something about it.

And still she wonders.

How long will it take to break me?

52 minutes and COUNTING . . .

"I have no clue," Andy says, and he really means it, on multiple levels.

He’s answering a question posed by a dazzling young teenage girl in a Spider-Man T-shirt, and his voice is gentle and pretty and even understanding in a way she wouldn’t have expected. He emphasizes the word clue with an upturned sense of wonder, like he really wants to know what’s on her mind in this moment, and he leans slightly forward, moving toward her on the couch in a way that isn’t exactly practiced, and not exactly insincere. He can tell she wants to say back off, buddy, but he disarms her, tilting his head with a gentle smile, as if to say Please explain it to me. And he comes off like a fucking saint.

Her question was this:

Can you tell how old I am in dog years?

Andy doesn’t even know what the heck a dog year is.

(Does anyone?)

He thinks she may have been talking about her dog when she brought that up, in the middle of some weird tangent he can piece together now if he really works on it. The peak of the Molly is so strong on him and the party has gotten so loud on that endless Bob Marley loop that each moment blurs forward into the moment after it very quickly, coloring his ADD in beautiful waves. He focuses on her pretty eyes and her hard chin and her white hair as she speaks again: A dog sees time differently than we do because they only have a fifth of our brain capacity.

Andy makes a face and says the first thing that pops into his mind: I thought it was just because dogs slept all day long.

It’s a quantum reality thing.

Really?

"Really, smarty boy. I’ve been studying in