When The Tik-Tik Sings

by Doug Lamoreux

  “Bennie will help us?”

  “If you pay him enough.” Ben stared incredulously. Nestor laughed. “What? It's America, who does anything for free?”

  The paramedics had yet to clear the porch when a band of city employees in blue descended to give the New Mexican a set of steel bracelets. Ben told Erin they weren't necessary. She agreed, but said, “No choice. It's the rules.”

  “Can you take him in?” Ben asked in a whisper.

  “Of course,” Erin said. “There aren't any charges right now. We're going straight to the hospital.”

  Soon after Erin drove off with Nestor, the police chief grabbed Ben. He wasted no time and few words chewing the paramedic out for interfering. But, with no reason to fit him for municipal jewelry, Musselwhite let it go at that. Then Ben's own red-faced department chief stepped up like incoming mortar fire. “What the hell's the matter with you?” Castronovo demanded.

  “Nothing, sir,” Ben said. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Don't even bother being a smart ass. You intentionally disobeyed the police chief's order.”

  “I was already inside by the time you and the police chief arrived. Nobody gave me an order. Had they, I'd have told them to kiss my ass. I'm not on the Police Department. As for your brother-in-law, we both had the same objective and I achieved it without violence on anyone's part. As Nestor is one of your men, you ought to appreciate it. Musselwhite made his feelings known without pressing any charges against me. So it's all fixed.”

  “Nothing's fixed.” Castronovo sneered. “In my book, the ends don't justify the means.”

  “Your book?”

  “I know; you didn't know I could read. You're hilarious, Court. My sides hurt every time I'm near you. You are also suspended for the next three days without pay. And I don't need the permission of the Civil Service Commission. Laugh that off, funny man.”

  Ben sat on The Castle steps until long after the last engine, ambulance, and squad disappeared. It took ten years, but Castronovo had finally been right about something. Ben didn't feel like laughing.

  Nineteen

  The last request Nestor made of Ben in public, as Erin told him to watch his head and helped him into the back of her cruiser, was that Ben not give up on him. They were best friends, Ben replied, how could he? The last request Nestor made of Ben in private, before they'd come out to face the music, was that he get to the Garfield burn patient and learn what started this horror show.

  As good as his word, despite knowing it was crazy, Ben arrived at the hospital prepared to do just that. Then fate tried to derail him. Whether by accident, coincidence, or – an even creepier thought – stalking, Mark Forester was somehow there to accost him in the hospital parking lot and, as reporters always do, to turn 'Hello' into a question.

  Instead of answering, Ben asked, “Why aren't you downtown?”

  “At the press conference? I was. If that's what you want to call it. Roses and hearts from the mayor but no answers. Autopsy reports, finally, but heavily redacted. No access to the coroner. Nothing new from the lead detective.” Ben bit his tongue; Forester missed it. “If the administration has any news, they're keeping it to themselves. It's ridiculous, I know, a member of the press expecting something from a press conference.”

  “You have my sympathy. But you're not going to get any news following me around.”

  “Come on, Ben. I thought we understood each other.” Forester jammed a thumb at him. “Protect the public.” He turned the thumb on himself. “Inform the public.”

  “It'd make a great comic book,” Ben said, starting away.

  “I'm telling you,” Forester shouted. “We'd make a good team.”

  “Wonderful,” Ben shouted back. “But there's no game. We'd just be standing admiring our matching uniforms.” He disappeared around the corner into the hospital's west lot.

  Forester stood alone, still with no story.

  At Nestor's urging, Ben had phoned Bennie Bagtas, Angelina's cousin, a hospital employee and a Philippine native who spoke both English and Tagalog, the most common languages in the islands. Not surprisingly, he even spoke Angelina's Taglish. Ben arranged to rent Bennie's services as a translator, and his silence, and laid out their caper. Having passed through the Burn Unit many times during work, Bennie suggested the post med, meal time break as the best opportunity to sneak an interview. Most of the nurses would be in the cafeteria, two floors below. Those still on the unit would be off their feet doing as little as possible. With luck, Bennie had said, they'd get in and out unnoticed. Ben kept the status of his recent luck to himself.

  Bennie, early twenties, copper skinned, dressed in a hospital scrub suit, was at the hospital's west entrance, holding two more sets of scrubs in sealed plastic, and had been for ten minutes. He was ready to quit when Ben arrived on the run. “Man,” Bennie complained. “You said you'd be here.”

  “I'm here.”

  “You didn't say you'd be late. I look like a pervert standing here. I'll be lucky if someone didn't report me to security.”

  “I was unavoidably detained.”

  “This is going to cost you a hundred bucks.”

  “What? I don't want to adopt the guy. I just want to talk to him. We agreed on fifty.”

  “I'm unavoidably raising it. You made it harder on both of us. I got a bigger chance of losing my job now and you got to pay.” Ben shook his head. “I nosed around,” Bennie said, sweetening the pot. “This Soomnalung, he's not allowed visitors. Even family, if he has any, which he prob-ly does not, are restricted. The cops pass through regular, keeping an eye 'cause he is hot. No pun intended. You don't have a chance of seeing him without me. And, if you get in, then what?”

  “I don't have a hundred. I've got what we agreed on, fifty dollars.”

  Bennie raised his hands in mock apology.

  “I'll get the other fifty,” Ben said in disgust. “But you have to take this for now and do the job. Or Nestor and I will whip your ass.”

  “Okay,” Bennie said. “I'll trust a fireman. All you got to do is swear on the virgin.”

  “I don't know any.” Bennie eyed him with suspicion. “Oh,” Ben said, getting it. “Fine.” Ben handed Bennie the cash. “There's the fifty we agreed on. And I swear – on the virgin – you'll get the extortion money when we're done, even if I don't eat this week.”

  “Think of the information you will have to digest with an interpreter.”

  Ben followed Bennie into the depths of the hospital. They passed the shipping dock, the pathology annex, and the house kitchen where the patient meals were prepared, doing all they could to avoid the security cameras. They took a back elevator to the eighth floor Burn Unit, then marked time in the service room, peeking occasionally until the north hall was free of traffic. With the coast clear, Bennie led them like panicked mice to a mop closet across the hall from Soomnalung's room. It surprised Ben, at first, to find no police guard. But considering the condition of the patient, and that of the town, using the manpower elsewhere made sense. Soomnalung wasn't going anywhere. They donned the sterile scrubs, turned out the light, cracked the closet door, and waited their chance.

  The hall stayed quiet but the target room had a brief and unpleasant flurry. Nurses came and went, and by their equipment and the sounds of agony coming from the room, the paramedic realized they'd arrived in the middle of a debriding session.

  Flame and human skin do not mix. Second and third-degree burns, over eighty percent of his body, meant most of Soomnalung's skin was damaged and much of it gone. The nerves were burned or exposed. The oozing wounds were a breeding ground for infection. Such burns required debridement. The dead skin tissue had to be removed with enzymes and scalpels, and antiseptic patches applied to replace missing skin, making the patient look like a screaming quilt. The process, not unlike skinning the patient alive, had to be repeated frequently.

  Soomnalung screamed. Bennie moaned in a whisper. “This isn't for me, man. I'm sorry. I don't think I can do this
.”

  “Think again,” Ben whispered back. “You agreed and took every nickel I had.”

  “Not for this. I transport food; I'm not a nurse. I don't like sick people.”

  “You work in a hospital, you fool.”

  “Whoa. Is that any way to treat a friend?”

  “You're Nestor's friend. Not mine.”

  “I'm Nestor's cousin, by marriage, I'm not—”

  “I don't care,” Ben said, cutting him off. “You're my employee. You're going to do the job or I'm going to beat you with one of these mops.”

  Bennie considered the options and, deciding to be happy in his work, nodded his surrender.

  Across the hall, the screaming stopped. Ben peeked and saw two nurses vacate the room with relief on their faces. The procedure had been no fun for them either. Ben gave Bennie the high sign and they sneaked across and into Soomnalung's room.

  Seeing the man again, lying there swathed in bandages, brought the horror of their first meeting flooding back. Ben stifled the memory, leaned over the bed, and whispered, “Soomnalung, my name is Ben Court. I'm the medic that brought you to the hospital. Can you hear me?”

  The patient's eyes opened to slits. He groaned and closed them again.

  Ben looked to Bennie. “Tell him, in his language. Say I need to ask a few questions.”

  “I don't know what his language is. I can try Tagalog.” He did. The groaning patient looked at Bennie, then Ben, then Bennie again. He mumbled something. The interpreter furled his brow and renewed his efforts. Again Soomnalung mumbled a reply. It was gibberish to Ben, and he was about to discover, mostly gibberish to Bennie. “This guy may or may not be Soomnalung,” he said. “I don't know. But if he's from the Philippines, I'll eat his bed sheet.”

  “What? He's not Filipino?”

  Bennie shook his head. “Prob-ly been to the islands, I don't know. Every once in a while, he says a word in Tagalog. Maybe he's seen an Eddie Romero movie. But he isn't from the Philippines.”

  “That doesn't make sense.”

  “I'm just telling you.”

  “Try again,” Ben said, desperately. “Ask him what Aswan is?”

  “What? Aswan? What's that?”

  “That's what I'm trying to find out. Ask him?”

  “You don't mean aswang, do you?”

  The patient groaned loudly. Both Ben and Bennie turned to look. His eyes were open, bloodshot, filled with tears, and suddenly, with terror.

  “I don't know,” Ben said, answering Bennie but staring at the patient who was staring back at him. “Do I? I might have misheard the word. I could have been mispronouncing it all along. What's aswang?”

  “Aswang!” the patient cried.

  “It's goofy, that's what it is,” Bennie said. “This guy is not Filipino.” He pointed at Ben. “You're not from the Philippines. But you're telling me the word we're all going to get together on is aswang? That's just goofy.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “It's nothing. It's superstition. Old ladies use it to scare their kids into being good.”

  “It's a ghost?”

  “No. Filipinos don't believe in ghosts. It's more like a—”

  “A monster?” Ben asked. “Is aswang a demon?”

  Bennie studied Ben. The firefighter returned it. The staring match was interrupted when the man on the bed, in pained but perfect English, said, “You know aswang? You know about the demon?”

  Ben and Bennie both turned. The patient licked his lips through a slit in his bandages and repeated the question. “You know about the demon?”

  “I've heard of it,” Ben said. “My best friend's wife is dead. He says she was killed by a demon. I don't know anything. What it is? Where to find it? How to stop it? Can you help me, Soomnalung?”

  The patient shook his head, winced, then nodded in the same slight fashion. “I'm not Soomnalung. My name is Dylan Ruzicki. I'm an American.” He began to shake. His groans turned to sobs. His wet eyes began to soak the surrounding bandages. “You're telling me it's still alive? Please, God, no. The aswang is destroyed. Isn't it? Isn't it? I destroyed it! Didn't I?”

  Twenty

  “I sent the monster back to Hell,” Ruzicki insisted, raising his voice.

  Ben shushed him. “Take it easy. We're on the same team. But we're not going to be able to help each other if they throw us out of here.” Ruzicki nodded. Ben dabbed at the man's eyes with a tissue.

  “Are you sure?” the patient asked. “It's still alive?”

  “I'm not sure of a thing, brother,” Ben said. “I don't know. I don't know if I can even believe in this… aswang. But something in this town wasn't here a week ago. People are dying because of it.”

  “It's my fault,” Ruzicki said. “My fault it's here. My fault it wasn't destroyed.”

  “Don't get upset again. We don't have time to keep drying you off. The minute they find us here, they're either going to throw us out or arrest us. If this thing exists, if it's out there, I need to know what it is, where it came from, and what I can do to stop it.”

  “Promise me,” Ruzicki said. “Swear you won't stop until the creature is destroyed.”

  Ben frowned. He thought of the promise Nestor had insisted on. And the promise Bennie had insisted on. Then he looked at the wrapped mummy on the bed. These guys, Ben thought, and their oaths of honor. What was he getting into? “Fine,” Ben said. “What's one more? I promise. I won't stop until the thing is destroyed. Now tell me about aswang.”

  Ruzicki nodded slightly. “It's a long story,” he said in agony. He pointed to a water glass beside the bed. Ben held the straw while he sipped. “I'll try… to get through it.”

  “We were mercenaries. Soldiers for hire, handling mostly black operations for whoever paid the bill. Hired to do the dirty things a country's own military couldn't or wouldn't do. We moved a lot, got in and out, fighting Communist insurgents in one country, garden variety revolutionaries in another, Islamic extremists in yet another.”

  “Over a year ago, I was sent to the Philippines, one of the islands south of Manila, commanding a small group of men posing as military construction workers. We were working covertly for their Army. My men took orders from me. I took suggestions from the local commander with their mission in mind. The Philippine authority needed plausible deniability, a way to disavow our group and activities in the event the operation blew up. We were stationed in a mountain jungle,” Ruzicki said, licking his lips. “I don't mean a rainforest; I mean a fucking jungle. In daylight, we hacked our way from a base camp to the mountain top, to build a communications tower. That was a cover. By night we ran guns, shipping them in and out from an abandoned port on the other side of the mountain; the west side of the island. Those details aren't important now.” He stared into Ben's eyes. “They have nothing to do with your promise.”

  Ben nodded, renewing the agreement.

  “Let's say I had no moral quibble with our actions. The world is full of bad guys that need to be swatted like flies. We sold fly swatters. We sent shipments to China, Vietnam, Korea, and the African coast, Somalia, Ethiopia, the Sudan. Lots of dead rat bastards because of us.”

  He paused to gasp. Ben held a box of tissues and Ruzicki dabbed at his blinding tears. He got hold of the pain and continued. “We had the equipment needed to make the cover real, generators, backhoe, a trencher, tools, concrete mix and lumber, spools of electric wire, pallets of metal tubing. When we weren't in the port or sleeping, we worked the cover, steadily erecting a communications tower that was never going to communicate with anybody. Everything was aces until, one night, some equipment disappeared. Not the munitions, the weapons and ammunition, they were secure. I mean the equipment for the cover, for building the tower. A whole shitload of it vanished overnight in a robbery so smooth it had to be an inside job. The night guards had to have had a hand in it. The Philippine commander, a major, was incensed and turned their camp upside down. He discovered the responsible individuals and had them brought to t
he scene.

  “There were five of them, four privates and a sergeant. He accused them of the theft and got their confessions. Then it got crazy. Right there in front of us, the major ordered all five to strip. We were speechless; we didn't get what was happening. The five were scared shitless but they did as they were told, stripped to their skivvies and put their uniforms in a pile. Then the major pulled his service pistol and, without so much as a kiss my ass, shot all five dead. No charges, no trial, no last words. It was the goddamnedest thing I ever saw. As each one took it, the others stood terrified and shaking, waiting for theirs. It happened so fast, the killing, my men and I stood there with our mouths open. When I found my tongue, I protested, but it fell on deaf ears. The major said discipline had to be maintained and that was that. Not that it mattered. They were dead as dirt; what good was I doing them? Worse, we were made accomplices. The major reminded me that, at great expense, we had been detailed to him and suggested I order my men to dispose of the bodies.

  “We carried them into the jungle for burial. There was no service. As far as the major was concerned they were trash to be gotten rid of. We were to hurry up, dig one hole, pack the corpses in like sardines, and be done. I put my men to work digging the grave. That's when the trouble started.”

  Ruzicki gritted his teeth against the pain. “My guys attacked the job. We wanted to be done and out of there. They hadn't been at it long when Janeke hit something with his spade. I had no idea what it was but there was my best man, shouting like a frightened school girl. I cleared the hole, jumped in, and brushed the dirt away. He'd hit a chunk of bone. I teaspooned around until I figured out it was a skull. It was the goddamnedest thing you ever saw. Sort of round, but misshapen, tortured, with nasty yellow fangs in a long jaw. I thought it was an animal, but I'm not a biologist or an archeologist. I dug it out for a look. The more I looked the less I believed it. It was too big for a jungle animal; had to be human. But there was something wrong. We were soldiers; we'd seen every horror of war, but this thing—