Burn, Beautiful Soul

by William J. Donahue

  Mary Jane Pix replies, simply, “Get in.”

  Basil has a willing accomplice.

  He climbs into the back of her cloud-blue Chevy Suburban and asks if they should contact the police. She answers, “Those loaves of dog shit? The sheriff couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a shot bullet if the wall was ten feet in front of him. The only thing he’d shoot without aiming is his own foot, which I think he’s done twice now. You’re better off on your own.”

  Mary Jane suggests a drive-by to scope out the situation, rather than going in “all willy-nilly,” and Basil agrees. She pulls up to the mouth of the parking lot and rolls by slow enough for a look but fast enough to not draw attention, or gunfire. Basil peers over the seat cushion and sees as many as thirty motorcycles crowding the lot. Six or seven bikers mill about with some of Edna’s basket-case klatch, though he can’t quite get a sense of the dynamic. Two or three more bikers stand guard at the nearest entrance. A heap lies motionless on the ground—another smashed redbird, by the looks of it, this one human.

  “Weird,” Mary Jane says. “Want me to circle back for another pass?”

  For a Midwestern woman with no experience in combat or professional subterfuge, she has surprisingly keen instincts.

  “I think I’ve seen what I need to see,” Basil says. “Tell you what: Let me out on the other side of those woods.”

  She makes a left down the first gravel-strewn road past the parking lot entrance—Echo Glen Lane, according to Mary Jane, in homage to a shuttered quarry nearby—and they gain a vantage point of the building’s other two entrances. A pair of bikers stands guard at each doorway. The building disappears behind a wall of bark and leaves. Mary Jane makes another left and then parks the Suburban on a residential street, a row of modest colonials on one side and a stand of chokecherries, buckeyes and towering silver maples on the other. He climbs out of the Suburban and stretches his legs. Boothe follows, doing figure eights around the vehicle’s rear tires.

  “Thank you, Miss. Pix,” Basil says. “Again, you have proven yourself to be indispensible. I won’t forget you.”

  “Wait,” she says, reaching behind her, into the back seat. “You’ll want this.”

  She hands him a shiny nickel-plated revolver.

  “It’s fully loaded,” she says. “Twenty-two long rifle. You can take out six of those bastards if luck goes your way.”

  She places the gun in his palm and shows him how to hold it, how to fire it and, more or less, how to kill a man without being close enough to see the color of his irises.

  His index finger is too thick to squeeze into the space between the trigger and the trigger guard, so he hands the gun back. He doesn’t want the weapon anyway—much too crude and imprecise for the task at hand. He rounds the front of the Suburban and, with a friendly wave, steps into the woods. Boothe trails him, chirping absentmindedly. As Mary Jane pulls away, birdsong and the soft, slow whispers of wind-brushed foliage replace the grumbling of the Suburban’s engine.

  An odd feeling sweeps through him—a mix of calmness and gratitude. He knows he should be strategizing, but he can’t help but feel thankful for having met humans such as Mary Jane Pix. He compares the saint in Mary Jane with the devil in Edna Babych, wondering how two members of the same species could differ so greatly. This, in turn, makes him wonder if he can salvage Our Fiery Home. He always assumed every demon wanted to either lead or be led, to dominate or be dominated, with no room in between. Living here, among the humans, has taught him otherwise. If he wants something else from a life underground, something more than pain and punishment, perhaps so do the others. Many of his fellow demons would follow Lubos to their doom for a chance at something better, while others would follow purely because they see an opportunity to plunder, set ablaze or otherwise annihilate everything their eyes show them.

  This, he decides, is a problem for tomorrow.

  For now he must contend with the Fang and Claw.

  For a hundred yards he sees only fallen leaves, moss-coated rock and columns of gray-brown bark. The trees thin to reveal glimpses of the stucco and tinted glass of his office building. He sneaks behind a tall silver maple at the tree line and leans into the trunk. As he digs his talons into the peeling bark and feels the rough skin against his own, he whispers, “Remember this.” He eyes the building’s northwest corner—the only one without an entrance, meaning the only one without guards—and mulls his plan of attack. Mary Jane Pix probably would have known how to proceed, he figures, wishing her back by his side.

  Evergreen shrubs encircle the building, each one two or three feet taller than him. The shrubs will make fine cover. He nods, takes a deep breath and steels himself against the silver maple.

  “You stay here,” he commands Boothe. “You stay.”

  The imp takes a break from gnawing an exposed root and eyes its master quizzically, and then returns to the root with a newfound hunger.

  Basil bolts toward the building, the earth soft and hollow beneath his thunderous hooves. He slams into the stucco behind the nearest shrub.

  No shots fired. First step completed without carnage. Now all he has to do is slip inside the building without detection, infiltrate the hive, and kill every well-armed intruder along the way—all without causing the deaths of Herbert or Melody, or incurring any mortal wounds of his own.

  “Details,” he whispers. He hugs the side of the building as he moves, feeling the stucco nip at his bare back.

  A smoker’s cough breaks the silence, and Basil embraces the nearest evergreen. He breathes deeply, hoping the piney scent will settle his nerves. Cigarette smoke fills his nostrils, and anger replaces his fear. He peeks through the fronds of the evergreen and sees two bikers jawing. As he prepares to lunge, a mourning dove takes flight, cooing as it goes. The two bikers turn and approach, each with a shiny black pistol drawn. As the first one turns the corner, Basil steps out from behind the shrub. He grabs the man by his denim vest and hurls him against the side of the building. Bones snap and pop, shattered stucco falls to the ground in a heap.

  One down, twenty more to go. More or less. Hopefully less.

  The second biker, shocked, watches a Fang and Claw brother in his final convulsing throes. Basil thrusts his right hoof into the man’s face. The head detaches from the body and sails into a patch of grass fifteen yards away. It rolls to a stop at the gravelly edge of Echo Glen Lane.

  Two.

  Basil drags the headless corpse into the shrub line.

  “You two useless fucks all right?”

  The throaty yell comes from the entrance at the building’s southeast corner. Basil squats by the evergreen and waits. The metal of a dropped pistol glints in the sunlight, and Basil curses himself for his fat fingers. Three more bikers approach—two with pistols, the other with a hunting knife nearly as long as a machete. Basil grabs two by the throat and slams them together, repeatedly, until their faces turn to red pulp. Their pistols tumble to the ground. One of the guns sheds a bullet.

  Three and four.

  The third rushes forward, eager to plunge the knife into Basil’s soft middle. Basil drops the dead man in his left hand and uses the one in his right as a weapon. He swings the corpse like a club, and one skull cracks against another. The unused knife falls noiselessly to the dirt.

  Five.

  “There!”

  Basil looks up to see Edna Babych with her arm extended, her index finger pointing the way for those who wish to end his life. She stands stone still, but the cross-less Christ dangling from her neck seems to rattle against her breastbone.

  Basil turns toward the entrance and slips inside. As he locks the door behind him, shots fire. Glass shatters to the floor. Priorities: First, make sure Melody is safe, and then get Herbert and anyone else who needs his help. He creeps down the hall toward Melody’s first-floor office and sees at least seven bikers moving toward him. Change of plans. As he enters the nearest stairwell, he catches two bikers by surprise—six and seven—and climbs to
the landing on the second floor. He peers around the corner to see two more bikers standing guard outside the door to Savage Communications. Each holds a long, black assault rifle.

  Time to change tactics.

  “I’m here,” he says as he steps into the open.

  They train their rifles on him.

  “Holy Christ,” one of them says. “Hunter wasn’t shitting. Look at that fucker!”

  “I’m not here to fight,” Basil says.

  “We got him,” the other says into a walkie-talkie.

  “Peachy,” crackles a voice on the walkie-talkie’s other end. “Bring him in.”

  The men with the heavy artillery open the door to Savage Communications. One of them uses the rifle’s muzzle to nudge Basil inside. Basil complies, and he plants his hooves squarely on the carpet of the reception area.

  “Well? Where we going?”

  “The meetin’ room,” says one of the bikers.

  Basil nods and follows the hallway toward the conference room. He imagines Herbert and Bulcavage lying dead on the floor, pooled in gore, Karen bent over a chair with her ass in the air and panties around her ankles. He shakes the image from his head as he creaks open the door to the conference room. He’s relieved to see all three of his co-workers alive. Bulcavage sits at the head of the table, stoic as ever. Karen sits next to him, trembling, with her face buried in her cupped hands. Herbert sits by himself on the edge of a credenza, trying to look like he’s not about to shit his pants.

  Basil’s attention turns to another man in the room, emerging from the corner over Bulcavage’s left shoulder. He’s tall—almost seven feet, by Basil’s best guess—thin and muscular, skin dark from the sun. Salt-and-pepper whiskers stubble his chiseled face. He wears a black T-shirt emblazoned with a coiled silver cobra, a long knife dangling from his belt. Bluish-black tattoos color the skin of both forearms: a row of serrated shark’s teeth encircling his right wrist; a viper biting its tail constricting the left; a flaming black billiard ball with the number sixty-nine in its center; the caricature of the devil astride a motorcycle, the handlebars made of bone, the wheels more like circles of flame, complete with a banner that reads, “Chew the Road”; and a young girl’s cherubic face, with feathered wings on either side, and the name “Laura” scrawled beneath. The man gives a shrill whistle and says, “My, my, my. You are quite a specimen, ain’t you?”

  More bikers file into the conference room behind Basil, including the one from Beak Tavern so many weeks ago—the one who got away.

  “All of you should leave now,” Basil replies.

  “We just got here, and we’re enjoying the hospitality of our gracious host,” the tall man says. “Ain’t that right, Robert?”

  “You two know each other?” Basil asks.

  “We’re just starting to become acquainted,” the man says. “I’m Ronald, and it’s a pleasure to meet someone of your … stature. Wouldn’t have guessed someone like you existed, to be frank. When Hunter here told me about the misunderstanding at the bar a while back, I figured he just lost his mind somewhere along the way. But I’d say he’s right on the money. You are a beauty. Have a seat.”

  Basil stays put.

  “As long as you’re comfortable,” Ronald says. “So. We find ourselves in a bit of a pickle, don’t we? You left two of my brothers dead and bleeding on the floor of that shitty roadside bar. True?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Good of you to admit it,” Ronald says. “I respect a man who owns up to the things he’s done. Now, shit happens from time to time. I’ll grant you that. But you took something that doesn’t belong to you. One of our bikes, I mean. True?”

  Basil nods.

  “See. Now that I just can’t abide. The way I see it, you owe me a debt.”

  “Consider it paid. Get up, Herbert.”

  Herbert leans off the edge of the credenza.

  “Sit down, Herbert,” Ronald says, his eyes not leaving Basil’s. He pulls a revolver from the small of his back. He cocks the hammer.

  “I don’t doubt my boys were being pricks as usual. In fact, I expect it. So you did what you thought you had to do. No foul there. My issue is with the bike.”

  “You can have it,” Basil says. “I no longer need it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, amigo.”

  “Just take it and go. You’ve made your point.”

  One of the bikers approaches Ronald and whispers in his ear.

  “Looks like the body count just keeps on growing,” Ronald says. “My boys just informed me of your handiwork downstairs. I’m impressed. But I can’t let you walk out of here. It would make me look bad. And that’s a damned shame, because you and me? I bet we’d get along famously under different circumstances. But you always have to consider the circumstances.” He pauses. “Robert?”

  “Yes?” Bulcavage lifts his eyes.

  “You’re first.”

  “To do what?”

  Ronald holds the revolver to Bulcavage’s head and pulls the trigger. Tangles of Bulcavage’s brain paint the wall. Bulcavage falls forward. His face slams into the table, the chair kicks backward, and the body flops onto the floor. Karen screams and bolts from her chair. She runs straight into a thick glass pane and knocks herself unconscious.

  “Sort of figured she wouldn’t get far,” Ronald says, laughing. The two bikers with rifles flank Basil.

  “Yeah, it’s a damned shame we didn’t meet sooner, amigo,” Ronald says. He steps toward Basil and again cocks the hammer. “Open wide.”

  “His rack of antlers will dress up your trophy wall real nice, boss,” says one of the bikers at Basil’s side.

  “Shut up, moron,” Ronald says. “Respect the process.”

  Basil does as instructed and opens his mouth.

  Ronald moves the revolver into Basil’s maw until the muzzle touches the tip of the sandpaper tongue, the front sight an inch below the enamel of Basil’s front teeth.

  “I’ll be gentle,” Ronald says.

  Basil closes his mouth around the pistol and wrenches it from Ronald’s hand, taking the index finger up to the first knuckle. Ronald drops to his knees, eyes wide at the spurting stump. Basil swats the rifle away from the biker standing closest to him and then sends the man face first into the drywall. He kicks the other one between the legs, feels the man’s genitals pop against the keratin of his hoof. He then turns to collect Herbert and runs straight through the thick glass pane, into the hallway, toward the exit. He deftly slits the throats of two bikers standing just outside the office door. They crumple to the floor and watch their carotids run dry.

  Eight, nine.

  Shots fire as Basil turns the corner, and an ember bores into his side. He enters the staircase and meets a waiting muzzle. Basil brushes the gun aside and thrusts two fingers—index and middle—into the gun bearer’s eyes, fishing around until they find the brain.

  Ten.

  Basil hears a door open downstairs, followed by the clamor of more men eager to meet their doom. The smells of fear and tobacco smoke find his nostrils. Basil studies the panic on Herbert’s face, calculates the chances of his friend surviving a firefight in the close quarters of a stairwell—far too slim for his liking—so he chooses the only other option: flee.

  “Don’t you worry,” he whispers. “We’ll get out of this yet.”

  He tightens his grip around Herbert’s waist and bounds up the staircase. He turns the corner, wincing from the red-hot slag of metal that has ripped his side wide open, and sees the exit door, mercifully unguarded.

  * * *

  “Just calm down and be quiet,” Melody says.

  “I don’t want to die in here,” says Audrey Pernie, her voice piercing, her words rapid. “I want to go home.”

  “If you shut up and calm the fuck down, you will,” Melody responds. “Now stay away from the goddamned door.”

  The door rattles, and Audrey peeks over the desk to see two silhouettes through the frosted glass. The han
dle shakes, and then a second time with more intent. Something hard and metallic taps against the glass—the muzzle of a gun, Melody assumes, or maybe the butt of a knife.

  “We see you in there,” says a hardened voice. “Now open up and say ahhhh.”

  Metal hits glass once more, hard and loud. Audrey gets up and runs away screaming.

  “Damn it to Christ, Audrey!” Melody seethes. She backs away from the reception desk and crawls on all fours to find a suitable weapon.

  A series of hollow thuds echoes through the office, and Melody follows the sound to the conference room, where Audrey slaps her palms against a tinted window, pleading for help from the outside world. Melody hurries to her office and rummages through the drawers of her desk for a letter opener, a screwdriver, a stapler with some heft—anything to fend off an attacker. Her fingertips brush the cold marble of a paperweight with sharp edges.

  The glass entryway shatters and falls to the floor in a sheet. And just like that, Audrey has new justification for her shrieking.

  * * *

  The biker named Hunter slicks his finger against the trigger as he leads seven would-be assassins up the dimly lit stairwell. His left hand cradles the barrel of the Remington pump-action shotgun, ready to blow a hole the size of a bowling ball through the demon’s chest—just as Ronald instructed before Hunter left the conference room.

  “No more fucking around with this shit-heel,” Ronald barked, swaddling his newly four-fingered hand in a T-shirt cut from the back of a slain Fang and Claw brother. “Take no chances. When you see the fucker, blast him. And put a bullet in that faggot friend of his too.”

  Other than the motionless bodies of more of his fallen brothers, Hunter sees no trace of the demon on the second floor or the abandoned third. Then, he finds the first breadcrumb: a thick bead of nearly black blood, congealing in the gritty treads of a concrete stair. He turns the corner slowly, sees more blood—small puddles rather than discrete drops—and eyeballs the exit door leading to the roof. A bloody handprint browns on the silvery finish of the door’s push bar.

  “Fucker’s on the roof,” Hunter says into a walkie-talkie. “And he’s hurt.”