When The Tik-Tik Sings

by Doug Lamoreux

  Bleeding, Rickie lifted Erin out of the pool of gas. Stifling in the fumes wafting from the engine room, he helped her to her feet. Neither of them remained standing long.

  The explosion shattered every window on the main deck and most on the deck above. The tik-tik, still flapping madly on its way out of the engine room, was caught in the eruption. A bright orange ball of flame chased it out through the double doors, and overtook the creature over the top of Erin and Rickie. The bird shrieked and burst into flames. Frantically flapping, the tik-tik rose to the top of the smokestacks, then plunged into the harbor.

  Erin found a reserve of strength she didn't know she possessed. Between the last flight of the tik-tik and a second equally impressive mushroom of rolling fire, the detective changed places and lifted the stunned and burned Rickie. She hurried him to the fence at the edge of the deck and shoved him over. She dove in after him as the wood frame of the William T. Greene went up in flames.

  Rickie popped to the surface slapping the water and shouting for help. “I've got you! I've got you,” Erin cried, slipping an arm around his shoulders and dog-paddling to shore. Still in the museum enclosure, she dragged Rickie onto the heavily-weeded bank of the wetlands display. She took a breath then dragged him, sputtering, away from the water. She propped Rickie against the fence. “It's all right. Don't be afraid.”

  “The boat gone?”

  “It is Rickie. The boat's gone.”

  “Nestor okay? Mark okay?”

  Erin shook her head, fighting back tears. “They're gone too, Rickie. Nestor is with Angelina and their baby.”

  “A family again?” Rickie asked. Erin nodded. “Where's Ben? Ben okay?”

  Now there was no holding back the tears. But she fought it as best she could to calm Rickie. “It's all right. Everything will be all right.” She pointed to the top of the street fence, lit brightly from outside by approaching emergency vehicles. She turned to the glass doors, beyond the boardwalk, to see the first police and fire personnel just coming through the museum. She turned to the harbor where the William T. Greene burned like a lightning-struck forest. “You stay here, Rickie. My friends are coming to help you. Don't be afraid.”

  Erin had never been so afraid in all her life.

  She left Rickie, slipped back into the harbor, and swam out past the dredger and the debris burning on the surface. She trod water, searching for a sign of Ben. She swam in a circle, saw nothing and no one. Hope had kept her going, but hope was fading. From the shore, she heard Rickie crying over and over again, “Your friends are coming. My friends are gone away.”

  Pain and fear crept in. Ben wasn't in the water; the boat was burning like Hell. Common sense told her Ben was dead. Terror told her aswang was still alive.

  Few things are as dark as a country night. But that night, at the confluence of Iowa, Wisconsin, and Illinois, the Mississippi River valley glowed. The golden dome of the City Hall glistened. The red and blue lights of the squad cars, ambulances, and fire apparatus stabbed the dark and dissected the shadows of the old Port District. Helicopters, one operated by the county sheriff, the other the familiar ship of Duncan-by-Air, hovered and swooped blinking pinpoints of green and red while their white searchlights carved trails through the sky. And the William T. Greene burned brilliantly in flickering shades of orange, red, yellow, white, and blue. It was Easter, but in the little town of Duncan, Iowa, and for miles around, you'd have sworn it was the Fourth of July.

  Thirty – Nine

  Only a few weeks before, Erin Vanderjagt had been a successful police sergeant, a Training Officer, a rising star. Then a nightmare came to Duncan. Since then, she'd been up to her ears in conflict and death. But she had the work she loved, the man she loved, their unborn child, and the future. Then the William T. Greene exploded. Traumatized, confused, angry, guilty, unsure if Ben was alive, but fearing he was not, unsure if the demon was destroyed, but fearing it was not, out of weapons with which to fight, out of courage, or perhaps, with nothing left but courage, Erin followed the plan.

  It was crazy. It had been a joke, a romantic fancy at best. But she'd been well trained, conditioned, to take orders and follow them, to give orders and expect they be carried out. When horror had consumed everything around her, what could Erin do but follow the plan?

  After pulling Rickie from the harbor, after searching and being unable to find Ben, convinced that nothing inside the dredger could have survived, nothing but a demon, Erin swam to the other side of the harbor, away from the destroyed steamer, away from the police and fire personnel flooding the grounds of the museum, away from the questions she could not answer alone, away from aswang. For want of a better term, she 'borrowed' a boat, and in the dark, rowed across the Mississippi. At an East Duncan, Illinois gas station she hitched a ride to Galena. At Galena, she caught a bus for Chicago. In a controlled panic, she did these things because all Erin had left was the plan.

  That was the reason, simple or insane, the nightmare ended in a low-end hotel in the Chicago Loop, a place so seedy, no self-respecting civil servant would be caught there dead. What better place, Ben had asked when suggesting it, to hide and wait? It was a huge city, a couple of hundred miles away from the terror. As the first to arrive, Erin checked in as Julie Duncan, in honor of their town, and had the clerk make a note of the group name, the Court Reunion, in case they were hinky about giving out guests' names. Ben, if he was alive, would follow as soon as he could.

  The twelve story Travel Inn Hotel – Downtown Chicago had everything their plan demanded, an uninterested staff, cheap accommodations, and a South Loop location (on east Hardigan), between Wabash and Michigan, a half block west of Grant Park, two blocks south of the Public Library on the Congress Parkway, around the corner from the Museum of Contemporary Art. It was an easy walk to shops, theaters, museums, restaurants and the famous tourist attractions, McCormick Place, the Sears Tower (regardless of its current name), Millennium Park, Navy Pier, and Lake Michigan. It wasn't a palace, the carpet was worn, the towels thin, the low-pressure water took forever to get hot, and the sink took forever and a day to drain. The thin walls let in outside noises; the El red line, the traffic five floors below, the elevator bells down the hall, and her transient neighbors. But the room was relatively clean and the bed comfortable. She hadn't slept; but it was comfortable for crying on, crying and waiting.

  The room had cable television and free HBO, neither of which she'd watched. She had caught the news and an odd story from Duncan, Iowa about an inexplicable explosion aboard a museum display. A police detective, two firefighters, and a reporter were missing. No further information was available. An investigation was ongoing. A minor item buried on a back page of Chicago's leading newspaper offered even less information.

  On her sole excursion, to get the paper, Erin noted a Thai restaurant off the main lobby. She hadn't stopped. She did pop in and out of the donut shop across the street. She was a cop after all; at least she was once upon a time. But she wasn't a cop anymore, merely a nervous wreck. In the heart of a city where nobody needed a car, Erin had refused to take so much as a short walk. She'd considered a pre-dawn run through Grant Park and around Buckingham Fountain, but only for an instant. Fear got the better of her – make that blind terror. She put running on hold, as she had her life, in favor of waiting.

  Between bouts of emotion, Erin stood beside the window, watching through the curtain, like she was then. From that vantage point, most would have looked out to the excitement of the nighttime bustle, the lights, the skyline, the crescent moon reflecting off the wide black sheet of Lake Michigan beyond the park. All Erin saw was Hardigan Street five stories below, the hotel's massive marquee above the entrance, and at the curb, a white and black checkered cab idling. She'd been watching for Ben, night and day for days, watching and waiting. At the same time, praying she'd never again see…

  She found herself concentrating on the roof of the parked cab, on the glowing roof light amid the painted checks. The light could b
e a target, a point to keep her eyes on while she wrestled the sash up, ducked under and through, and let herself fall. Erin blinked, and 'came to', with no clue where the thought had come from. She'd never had a suicidal thought in her life. She released the curtain and leaned against the wall. The phone rang, and Erin's heart stopped.

  She stared at the instrument on the bedside table, ringing like a singing monster. It couldn't be for her; nobody knew she was there. The only one who might guess was Ben. But Ben was… Erin started to shake. It rang again. She knew she had to pull herself together. It was a terrible world out there and, no, she wasn't thinking of crime and poverty and overpopulation. She was thinking of darkness and evil, real evil, at a level no one could know until they'd seen what she'd seen. Even then how could they believe? She didn't answer it; she couldn't. The silence, when the phone stopped ringing, was numbing.

  And the sound, when something heavy hit the window beside her, made Erin all but jump out of her skin. Amplified, it might be the sound of a bird hitting a windshield. A bright red tik-tik smashing her car outside of Duncan Memorial. Erin gasped, grabbed the curtain, and yanked it down. There pressed against the spidered glass, dark wings feverishly flapping, viscera dangling from its torn lower half, hung aswang suspended in air. Save for a few pathetic strands, its wild hair was gone, singed to brown, brittle curls. Its rotten green-black face, horrible before, was now horribly scarred with pink and oozing burned flesh. Its tongue, the hated tongue, poked past the fangs in its blistered red mouth, tap, tap, tapping at the window. The glass gave way, rained on the carpet, as the creature tucked in its wings and crawled through.

  Erin couldn't back away fast enough, couldn't scream loud enough. Aswang was upon her. Its ice cold claws clamped her wrists, pulled her hair, ripped her shirt, and scratched her breasts, as its wings fluttered and drove her back. The stink of burned and rotting flesh overwhelmed the room. In an instant, Erin was on the bed and aswang on her. Its green eyes bored a hole into her mind. Its tongue unrolled…

  Erin stretched… She'd moved the coffeemaker – on the bureau when she'd checked in – beside the bed for her convenience. Now it was. Erin grabbed the pot and smashed it on aswang's pointed ear. The coffee burned like hell. She didn't care as it burned the creature too, with glass shards. She jammed the broken edge home and the monster let loose. Erin slid from under it and rolled off the bed.

  Aswang lashed out again, knocking the lamp off the bedside table. The table cartwheeled. Erin backed away, avoiding the claws. Wings stuttering, the monster pulled itself off the bed and digging into the worn carpet, started toward her. Erin took advantage of another of the few amenities afforded Travel Inn customers; with all her might she planted the microwave into aswang's scalp.

  Erin leapt over the downed creature, or tried. Like the slap of a cane, one of the ever-flapping wings caught her foot. She went down hard, hitting her already bruised head. She regained her senses to find the monster crouched over her. Its face hovered above hers, green almond eyes blinking in pain and lust, fangs dripping saliva. Its hot acrid breath seared Erin's nose and eyes. Revulsion hit. Her stomach turned, and she gulped air, fighting not to vomit. The creature threw a claw over her face, stifling her, pinning her head to the floor, and turned to stare at Erin's bare stomach and barely-showing baby bump. With the wet sound of an old pervert smacking his lips, aswang unrolled its tongue and leveled the tip at Erin's belly. Erin couldn't see it, but she heard and knew what aswang was about to do. Straining, she grabbed the ears of the demon bitch and pulled for her life. She pulled for the life and soul of her baby.

  From a thousand miles away – or just across the room, Erin couldn't tell – came a thunderous crash of flesh, wood, metal, and plastic. Pinned down, she couldn't see the cause. Aswang, intent on its feast, paid no attention. After the collision came a startling series of events. The creature halted its tug. The grip on Erin's face let loose. A splash of hot liquid hit Erin's belly. She screamed; aswang shrieked.

  The creature jerked up, into Erin's line of vision, howling and spitting the disgusting oil it called blood. Erin saw a glint of gold against the dead green-black of the back of aswang's neck. It took her an instant to realize the creature had been stabbed – by a stake of copper. It took an instant more to wrap her mind around who had done the stabbing.

  Ben reached between the creature's frantically beating wings, grabbed the demon beneath the chin, lifted it gurgling and choking on its own blood, and yanked it off of Erin. She rolled away in disgust, jumped to her feet, and grabbed the bed sheet. Half blinded by the blood spat in her eyes, Erin used the sheet to wipe the gore away. Beyond her face, she was drenched. Trying to wipe the rest off would have been pointless. Besides, the party wasn't over.

  Ben Court – her Ben – was alive and there, grappling with that thing! His clothes, the same ones she'd last seen him in, were filthy and scorched. He had a black eye, swollen shut, but was otherwise pale as a ghost, exhausted, and even from across the room Erin could see his face and arms were burned and several red gouges marred his cheek. He was hurt, but he'd survived. And he'd remembered their plan.

  From the corner of her eye, Erin saw Mark Forester as well, standing in the doorway, wearing a big bandage on his face and looking as grungy and used as Ben. The crash she'd heard had been Ben and the reporter breaking down the door. Forester stared wide-eyed, taking in the scene, searching for a way to help.

  It was a battle of mythological proportions, the winged griffin and the cyclops, an unbelievable jumble of arms, legs, claws, and slapping wings; the whole affair decorated in oozing red and spattered black blood. Ben shouted and swore. Aswang screeched and sputtered. The creature flexed and flitted, grabbing for Ben's face and eyes. Ben ducked the claws and thumping wings. Then a claw got through, reopening his cheek. Ben returned the sting, grabbing one of its few remaining locks of hair with one hand and its tongue with the other. They smashed into the wall, the window frame, and against the broken window. The creature's wings whipped wildly; neither Erin nor Forester could get close.

  The struggle rattled the window frame. The broken glass cut the creature's hide, tore Ben's skin. Gore painted the woodwork and walls. Ben wrestled the monster into the opening and nearly pushed it out. The flailing demon shrieked, gurgled, and fought to pull itself back. The positions were reversed and Ben held on for dear life. The sidewalk and pavement waited five floors below. The unthinkable happened. Ben and aswang toppled out the window together.

  Erin went berserk. Forester, freaking himself, had to restrain her.

  For Ben, time stood still. A hundred thoughts flashed through his mind, all merging into this reality. Distantly, he heard Erin scream as he and the creature fell through space. Aswang, still choking on the copper rod in its throat, tried to grab the building but couldn't get a hold. It tried to fly, but Ben locked onto its wings. Screw it, Ben thought. At least I'm taking this bitch with me.

  The marquee above the Travel Inn entrance hung in place from anchors outside the building's third floor. To end their thirty-foot plunge, the pair hit one of the tension cables. Like a cheese wire, it sliced off the creature's left wing, missing Ben's arm and head by inches. The force of the blow rolled them. Ben was riding on top and landed that way when aswang hit the edge of the marquee. Aswang broke Ben's fall, broke its back, and broke the tension cable. The marquee gave way.

  Erin didn't wait on an elevator. She hit the stairs running, with Forester on her heels. Both burst from the stairwell five floors below as if on fire. They raced across the lobby, shouting, “Move!” and “Make a path!” and pushed through a crowd of gapers gathered at the front windows and doors. Erin reached the sidewalk, gasping, with Forester behind, expecting… neither knew what.

  From the anchor cables to the sidewalk was another twenty-foot fall for the marquee, Ben, and the demon. Aswang landed and lay struggling in the concrete parking space in front of the hotel doors. A yellow taxi skidded, trying to avoid hitting its flopping wing. The alarme
d hack jumped out, mouth gaping, hands on his head. An instant later, and whatever it was, would have landed on his cab. Horns honked, tires squealed, and metal crunched up and down Hardigan Street as drivers tried, some more successfully than others, to avoid hitting the stopped cab and each other.

  Ben lay on the sidewalk, to the north of the entrance and the collapsed marquee, unmoving. Aswang had broken his fall above, but the last twenty feet had been all his. He stirred on the ground, alive but gasping like a landed fish, trying to refill his lungs. Erin ran to him, crying. He stopped her with a raised hand. He wanted her embrace, of course, but needed a breath worse. Erin helped him to his feet, then released him to resume his struggle for air. Ben got his breath back, as over the shouts of the stunned crowd, sirens rose and filled the night air.

  Erin shouted, “Ben, look!”

  There was plenty at which to look and Ben and Forester saw what Erin saw at the same time.

  The copper stake, previously lodged in aswang's throat, lay shining in the gutter. And the demon, now on its stomach, raising itself on flexed arms, was sprouting a new wing.

  Ben pushed Forester down going for the stake. Copper rod in hand, the paramedic dove for the creature. Up again in seconds, Forester got hell slapped out of him as he grabbed the monster's wings. Ben stabbed aswang's neck, again, and shoved until the point of the rod popped through the flesh beneath its chin. “Roll it!” he shouted.

  They flipped the demon. Erin was there to add a headlock. The cop and the reporter held aswang fast while Ben stuffed its mouth with ash from a pouch on his belt. The creature coughed a gray cloud. Its shriek became a choked gurgle, then stopped altogether. The trio released the demon and watched as a pool of black ink grew on the pavement around it.