By the Sword

by F. Paul Wilson

  All this death…from the Kuroikaze?

  He came upon the shoten. The flashlight beam revealed a shrunken cadaver that looked as if it had been dead for weeks.

  Shiro backed away, then approached the shack. Entering, he found the structure intact but its inhabitants…he had to look away.

  He had only glimpsed them before the Kuroikaze, so he didn’t know how they had changed. They looked shrunken, though not so much as the shoten. But what Shiro found most disturbing was their expressions. Each open-eyed, openmouthed face carried the same look: a great sadness, an unfathomable hopelessness.

  “And this is how it will be.”

  Shiro started and turned at the sound of his sensei’s voice. He found him gesturing to the corpses and to the shack around them.

  “They firebombed Tokyo, atom-bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but worst of all, they humiliated the Son of Heaven, made Him bow to them, made Him surrender. Now it is their turn. We will set up strong, vital shotens around the city. We will feed them the ekisu and we will not pierce them with a doku-ippen. Then the clouds will rise and merge, creating such a Kuroikaze as has never been seen. It will leave the entire city like this. Millions dead, yet the buildings untouched. Imagine, the entire city silent, unmoving. All the structures intact, unmarred, just as they had been before the Kuroikaze, but filled with the dead, millions and millions of dead.”

  THURSDAY

  1

  O’Day…the man’s name was Thomas O’Day.

  It had taken Hideo a while to find him in the police database. Due to the poor light in the captured still, the face recognition program had been unable to create a sufficiently specific map to pin down the man he sought. The result was dozens of hits, followed by the wearisome task of tracing the current whereabouts of each one of them. Some were dead, some were still incarcerated, and some were free and gainfully employed.

  One was the owner of a shop specializing in knives and swords. He had been arrested for possession of stolen property with intent to sell. He had lived free for a number of years now without another arrest.

  But a man who had sold stolen goods in the past might have reverted to his old ways. If Gerrish had wished to sell the stolen katana, who better to seek out than a fence who knew all about swords?

  It was not a sure thing, but it was the best he had. In fact, the only thing he had. He decided to pursue it.

  His instincts said to wait until nightfall, especially considering the Madison Avenue address of this Bladeville store. But he reminded himself that he had waited until dark to visit Mr. Gerrish and had regretted it. He would not make that mistake again.

  He called out to Kenji to gather his yakuza brothers and prepare to move.

  2

  Dawn checked herself in the mirror.

  She’d had a totally terrible night and looked it. Hardly slept at all. Kept hearing people outside her door and worrying they were coming for her. She had the security bar in place and even had wedged the chair against the knob, but still she worried.

  And then the phone had rung. Just one ring and then stopped. She’d stared at it, waiting for another, but none came. Finally she mustered the nerve to pick up the receiver and listen.

  Nothing but a dial tone.

  Probably just some electronic glitch in the system. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But last night she’d stayed on tenterhooks for hours, wondering if it would ring again.

  Paranoia was so not fun.

  The bags under her red eyes made her look like she’d been partying all night. They went right along with the rotten haircut and dye job she’d given herself.

  But at least she looked way different from the girl who’d walked in here yesterday. She’d used the scissors and brown hair-coloring kit she’d bought at the drugstore to give herself a makeover. The shoulder-length blond hair had become short and brown, barely covering her ears.

  She put on her big sunglasses and turned this way and that. She looked nothing like the girl on the flyer. No way anyone would recognize her.

  That made her feel somewhat better. Especially since she was leaving the hotel today on an important errand—a visit to an abortion clinic on West 63rd this afternoon. She’d called first thing this morning and they’d given her a three-thirty appointment.

  She paced the tiny open area near the window. What to do till then? She had no choice but the tube. She turned on the set and found nothing but news. Something had happened last night.

  Please not another terrorist attack, she thought. First the trade towers, then LaGuardia, now what?

  She stopped to watch and listen to a talking head…

  “The news from Staten Island just got worse, I’m afraid. Five bodies have been found in the dead area—an adult male and four teenagers. They have not yet been identified. For those of you who have just awakened, here is the breaking story: A half-mile-wide circle of Staten Island died during the night.”

  An aerial view of a wooded area filled the screen, green except for a circle of brown at its center. It looked like a lawn where someone had spilled weed killer. Dawn felt her neck tighten and crawl when she realized how perfectly round it was. The newscaster spoke over the image.

  “People on the island, and even some in Brooklyn, reported a strange meteorological phenomenon—a vertical black cloud by most accounts—that lasted only seconds, but seemed to originate in the area some have begun calling the ‘kill zone.’ Everything is dead. The floor of the wooded area is littered with the bodies of birds, squirrels, mice, moles, and chipmunks. Every single bit of vegetation is brown and wilted. Nothing was spared.”

  Chilled, Dawn switched to the next station where she encountered a talking head described as a “cereologist.”

  “…obvious that since their crop circle warnings were at best ignored or at worst ridiculed, they’ve progressed to the next level. Now, instead of merely knocking down vegetation, they’ve started killing it…”

  Next she came to someone labeled a “chemical warfare expert.”

  “Look, we know it’s not an infestation—first off because parasites don’t kill overnight, and secondly because too many species of plants died. And a parasite won’t explain the dead birds. No, it has to be a toxin—herbicidal, but toxic to birds and mammals as well. Frankly, I’ve never heard of such an agent, but obviously it exists, because that’s the only way to explain the across-the-board lethality and the confined location.”

  Another channel showed a man-on-the-street interview with an old codger who looked to be in his eighties.

  “What about you, sir. Are you scared? Could it be terrorists?”

  “Could be. I saw something like this back in the Pacific theater during war. We called it a ‘wilt’ back then, and it was always associated with a black cloud. Atolls and whole islands would get hit, leaving nothing alive—even the fish would be dead. And if any of our guys were there, they’d be dead too, all with these awful looks on their faces. It was a Jap secret weapon then, and it stayed secret from us. But it looks like someone else’s got hold of it now.”

  Dawn turned off the set. This was creeping her out. She turned her thoughts to her appointment at the clinic.

  She had all her moves planned: Out the front entrance and into one of the waiting cabs, up to the clinic for her interview, examination, and blood work, then call a cab to bring her straight back here. She estimated her maximum exposure on the street at less than two minutes. That sounded totally safe and doable.

  So why then did she feel like she’d be entering a combat zone?

  3

  Jack timed his arrival at Bladeville for a few minutes after ten A.M. Maybe he was wrong, but his gut told him otherwise.

  As he stepped through the door—keeping the beak of his hat between his face and the security cam—the chime sounded and Tom O’Day stepped in from the private area at the rear. He stopped in his tracks with a startled expression.

  “Um…Jack, right?”


  Jack nodded. He’d gone over all the possible approaches and had decided on balls-to-the-wall directness.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  What little openness there’d been in O’Day’s expression shut down like the security shutter on his store.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The guy who stole the Gaijin Masamune is dead, his throat slit by the katana in question.”

  Jack didn’t know that for sure, but figured it was a safe assumption. O’Day’s sudden pallor went a long way toward confirming that.

  “Wh-what do you mean? How do you know?”

  “I arrived at his place shortly after it happened.”

  O’Day quickly regained his composure. He gave Jack a narrowed-eyed stare.

  “How do I know you didn’t do it?”

  “Because you got caught on the lobby camera entering and leaving around the time of death.”

  O’Day blanched. “Bullshit!”

  Which was right on the money. Jack hadn’t even seen the lobby, and had no idea whether it was fitted with a security cam or not. But he had a feeling O’Day wasn’t anywhere near as aware of them as Jack was, so it was a good bet he’d never noticed either way.

  Jack shrugged. “After I found the body I broke into the security office and ran a quick review off the hard drive there.” He smiled. “It’s not much more than a glorified TiVo, y’know. Watched you walk in empty-handed, then a little later, not so empty-handed—a long, wrapped object under your arm.”

  No way would O’Day walk out carrying a sword for all to see. He’d have it wrapped in something—a towel, a sheet, a rug. Jack had no idea which, so he’d kept it vague.

  O’Day looked weak. Sweat beaded his face.

  “Hey,” Jack said in his most reassuring tone. “Told you: I’m not a cop. Too bad about Gerrish. Never knew the guy, and there are probably worse ways to die, but that’s between you and him. What’s between you and me is the matter of the sword. I’m ready to do you a favor and take it off your hands for a nice price.”

  O’Day shook his head as if to clear it. “Favor?”

  “Sure. Once the cops see that tape, you’ll become what they like to call ‘a person of interest.’ When they find you—and that’s when, not if—they’ll learn about your trade and your collection, and when that happens you’ll graduate from person of interest to suspect numero uno.”

  “And selling to you’s gonna help?”

  “Sure. You’ve got a murder weapon hidden away. Gerrish may have shown it to a friend. It’s pretty distinctive, and if they find it on you, you’re cooked. But sell it to my guy and he’ll sneak it back overseas where he came from. You’ll have big bucks, he’ll have his sword back, and I’ll have my fee. Win-win-win.”

  O’Day chewed his lower lip in silence for a moment, then gave a quick nod.

  “For the record, I found Gerrish dead, just like you did. The katana was lying next to him. Since he wouldn’t be having any more use for it, I decided to give it a good home.”

  Riiiight.

  “Like I said: Never knew Gerrish. What happened between you and him stays between you and him. Like Vegas. What do you want for the blade?”

  “A hundred grand.”

  Jack blinked. “Whoa. I don’t know if he wants it back that badly.”

  O’Day gave him a sour smile. “Well, we’ll never know if we don’t ask, will we.”

  “I getcha. Where is it?”

  He didn’t want to be responsible for involving his customer in some low-rent scam.

  “In the back. Wanna see?”

  “I think I should, don’t you.”

  He shrugged. “I guess so.” He started toward the front of the store. “But first…” He went to the door and pulled down the security shutter, closing them in behind a wall of corrugated steel. “Like a fishbowl in here. Can’t be too careful.”

  “We could’ve just gone back there.”

  “Don’t want anyone wandering in.”

  Jack felt an uneasy tingle in his gut. Something askew here.

  As he watched O’Day stride toward the back room, he wondered if he’d bought the security cam bit. If he hadn’t, then Jack was the only person who could connect O’Day to Gerrish, and it would be in O’Day’s best interest to eliminate that link.

  He pulled his Glock from the small of his back and turned sideways, shielding it behind his right thigh.

  O’Day returned balancing the katana on his palms. The blade was riddled with pocks and holes, just like in the photos. Jack noticed that he’d done some fixing up.

  “You put a handle on it.”

  “It’s called a tsuka. Yeah. I spent half the night getting the wrapping right.” He pushed the sword closer to Jack. “Wanna closer look?”

  “That’s okay.”

  A little farther out. “C’mon.”

  “I can see what I need to see. Okay, I’ll tell my guy—”

  O’Day was fast for his age. In a flash he had the katana raised in a one-handed grip and swinging toward Jack’s head. With a choice between getting off a shot or being scalped, he ducked and raised the Glock to ward off the blade. It struck the pistol with almost enough force to knock it free. As it was, the blow pulled his finger against the trigger and fired off the chambered round. Jack rolled and pulled the trigger again.

  Nothing.

  He glanced at the Glock and saw only half a pistol. The blade had sliced through the plastic frame just forward of the trigger guard, then through the spring and guide rod and—hell, it had cut through the barrel as well. The slide had been knocked free, exposing the chamber. He could see the next round waiting to be chambered.

  What the—?

  He leaned back as the katana made another slice at his head—the guy had one hell of a reach. He heard the whisper of lacerated air and felt the breeze in its wake.

  O’Day had a two-handed grip now and was already making another swing for the bleachers. Jack flung the remnant of the Glock, bouncing it off his forehead. O’Day grunted in pain and his swing went wide.

  With that, Jack vaulted over the counter, grabbed a dagger off the wall, and flung it. O’Day knocked it away in midair with the blade. He grinned, confident. He knew how to handle a katana.

  And now Jack knew it too.

  He grabbed another knife—a heavy dirk—threw it, and reached for his Kel-Tec in its ankle holster. But the dirk went wide and the katana smashed into the display case inches from Jack’s head, showering him with glittering shards of glass.

  He forgot about his backup for an instant as he rolled away from the glass and O’Day’s follow-up swing. Then O’Day climbed over what was left of that section of the display case and charged, the katana held high with both hands, his mouth wide in a scream of rage. Looked like he’d had enough and wanted to end this here and now.

  On the floor, with no room for lateral movement in the narrow lane behind the cases, Jack scrabbled away on hands and knees. In desperation he grabbed a wavy bladed kris from a case as he passed and winged it over his shoulder. He heard O’Day’s scream choke off but he didn’t slow. Without looking back he dove onto the display cabinet and rolled to the other side. As soon as he hit the floor, he rolled again, yanking his backup free along the way. He leaped to his feet, aiming the Kel-Tec P-11 at O’Day’s center of mass.

  But didn’t fire.

  O’Day stood behind the counter, leaning against the wall. He’d lowered the katana, though he hadn’t dropped it. His eyes were glazed as blood poured from his mouth. Somehow, the kris had landed point first in his open mouth, piercing the rear of his throat. The wavy blade protruded at an angle, and began to bob as he made a slow turn and staggered toward the rear of the store.

  Jack heard a clattering clank and figured he’d finally lost his grip on the sword. He made it to the NO ADMITTANCE door before collapsing face-first onto the floor. The dead-weight impact of the floor against the pommel of the kris drove its blade deeper into his throat and out the back of
his neck. His legs spas-kicked a couple of times, then he lay still.

  Jack watched it all and felt nothing.

  Bye-bye, Tom O’Day. Maybe Hugh Gerrish will be waiting for you on the other side. Should be an interesting conversation.

  He hurried around to the back of the counter and lifted the katana, careful to avoid its cutting edge. He felt a strange sensation run through him as he touched the blade. Couldn’t identify it—at once thrilled and repulsed. He gripped it by the handle and had to fight off a mad urge to swing it in a decapitating arc.

  Was that what had happened between Gerrish and O’Day?

  No matter. He wasn’t going to keep it…

  Or was he?

  Jack felt this mad rush of desire to take it and hang it on his wall and shred anybody who tried to take it from him.

  He shook it off. Three people dead now because of it—at least he assumed the bat-wielding guy who had charged into Gerrish’s apartment had left the living. Three that he knew of. Who knew how many it had killed since Masamune had made it? He couldn’t see how it could be worth it.

  Time to get out of here. He needed something to wrap it in, and then he’d be gone. He looked around…

  And his gaze settled on the security cam.

  Shit!

  Despite his hat, with all that dodging and weaving and rolling over the counter, no way his face hadn’t been exposed. Had to find that tape or disk or hard drive or whatever and trash it.

  He dragged a chair over to the corner and was climbing toward the cam when a rattling racket came from the front of the store. Someone was banging on the security shutter.

  “Mister O’Day?” a voice called. “Are you in there? You are supposed to be open by now.”

  That sounded like the yakuzas’ boss from last night. The same guys? Could it be possible?

  Didn’t matter. Couldn’t be caught here.

  He hopped down and pulled on the NO ADMITTANCE door, but it wouldn’t budge because O’Day’s corpse was slumped against it. Jack was trying to slide him out of the way when he heard the steel curtain begin to roll up. No time to get out, so he darted toward the counter. On the way he spotted the pieces of his ruined Glock on the floor. He snatched up everything in sight and ducked behind the display cases. Beneath them he spotted wooden doors. He slid one open and found a near-empty space occupied by a few stilettos and folding knives. A tight fitbut…