Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

his black jacket is visible. When he lifts his cigarette to his mouth, the motion swivels his weapon into view. The glint of moonlight on a steel barrel.

“She’s been here!”

It’s Doc, shouting from the front porch. The three men discard their cigarettes, one landing just three feet from me, red ember fading to black in the damp grass. Doc’s footsteps are clumsy as he runs from his front door to the driveway.

“She took my notes!”

“Did you check the house?”

“I just said she took all my notes.”

“I meant is she still in there, moron.”

A hesitation. Doc clears his throat. “I, uh… I didn’t think to check.”

“Amateur,” the bodyguard says. He snaps his fingers and all three men are moving, jogging off toward the front door, away from me. Though I can’t see him, from the sound of things Doc has not moved.

With any luck I can subdue him and take the vehicle. I move in that direction. A single step.

But then there’s a whistle, and the muffled voice of the lead bodyguard. Though I only have the sounds of their feet to go by, the shift in tactics is obvious. One of them is moving toward the back of the house, and the third is returning this way to search the garage.

I take a step back, then turn, tiptoeing several steps before I break into a run toward the rear of the property. There’s a gap in the hedge, and I see no fence between Doc’s yard and the neighbor’s, so I dart through.

“Hey, look everyone, Granston Brewery in the house! Fuckin’ finally!”

“Kyle Rollins? I’m so sorry for the delay. Had some problems with the van.”

“I’d be mad, but you did say on the phone earlier that the beer would be free, didn’t you?”

“Yep, there’s no charge on account of the delay. Twenty kegs of the October Bavarian, on us, with my boss’s apologies. It’s all in the truck.”

“Need help unloading? We can store it out back, but bring one in here so I can get all these freeloaders a pint or three. My so-called planning committee. They did wait all this time. Didn’t you, you magnificent troupers?”

“Anything for free beer!”

“Settle down, Dent. C’mon, all of you, let’s help unload the van, huh?”

“Actually, that’s not necessary.”

“Sure it is. You’ve had a rough day. Van trouble. And that broken nose… how’d that happen, anyway? You’re the third person I’ve seen this week with a broken nose.”

“I brought a few friends.”

“You did? Oh. Hey guys. Jesus. You look like a well-dressed rugby team. Whoa, whoa! Chill, put the guns away!”

“Shut the fuck up. Everyone in a chair, now. Hands clasped behind your heads.”

“Look man, take the money. Take our wallets. Just—”

“Kyle, do what he says. This will only take a few minutes.”

“Doc?! Are you with these pricks? What the fuck is going on? Who are—”

“All will be explained. For now you need to do what he says.”

“Okay. Okay. Just… Doc, seriously. What are you… what’s the gear for?”

“Kyle, I mean it. Be quiet. You don’t want to mess with these guys. Ang, how would you like to proceed? Shall I start taking vitals from each of them?”

“There is no time, Dr. Ryan. We don’t need test subjects anymore, we need an army. Give them the beer.”

“But the timing—”

“Play the message on repeat for ten minutes. That should be enough for anyone. It’s time we move out of the testing phase and into application.”

“Doc, who is this prick? What’s he talking about? What message? What are you—OW! FUCK! Try that again, you giant shithead mother—”

“I say we kill this one. An example to the others.”

“No, Deon. We might need him. He and Mary are… friendly.”

“Mary? Doc, what the hell? What does she—”

“All in due time, Kyle. Now, please, sit down and shut up. Who wants a drink?”

One block from the edge of downtown. That’s how close I get before I’m forced to dive into a ditch by the side of the road and flatten myself in the mud.

Ahead, fifty yards away, a black Range Rover is parked across the road, blocking the only route into town. A man with an assault rifle stands at the front bumper, sweeping a flashlight from left to right, forcing me to bury my face in the mud every few seconds.

Worse, though, is what’s behind him.

Silvertown is dead. With the power off the whole place looks like a true ghost town.

But the street and its buildings aren’t entirely dark. There is a roving, shifting, almost amoebic light moving through the alleys and buildings.

The source of which is like something out of an old movie. I believe the correct term is “lynch mob.”

They move from store to store, kicking doors in and shouting. Their words are garbled, too distant and numerous to make much sense of. But now and then there is one recognizable phrase: my name.

The mob is about two dozen strong. Even from here I recognize some of them. They’re people I see every day. People I’m sworn to protect.

But even they are not the worst thing. Far from it, really.

The absolute worst thing is the constant, repetitive voice of Mrs. Conaty, booming from the speakers inside a second black SUV parked in the center of town.

Her recorded voice says the same thing, over and over. A short clip played on repeat.

“Kill the liar Mary Whittaker. Kill the liar Mary Whittaker. Kill the—”

I try to tune it out. After a time it’s actually not that hard, so monotonous are the words. They’re driving the mob, though, that much is obvious.

Kill me I get, but why “liar”? What’s that about? The only reason that comes to me is as diabolic as it is genius. Trusting her words are the driving instinct for everyone in that mob, after all. Simultaneously she’s not only telling them to execute me, but also short-circuiting any plea I