The Wrong Stuff td-125

by Warren Murphy

  Ronnie headed for the bathrooms. He was pushing open the men's-room door when he noticed that the exit at the end of the hall was open a crack. Through the opening bugs flitted around a tired parking-lot light.

  "Someone skipped out on their tab," he muttered as he walked over to close the door.

  An ancient cloakroom was next to the door. As he passed by the deep alcove, Ronnie saw a hint of movement from the shadowy interior.

  Suddenly cautious, he stopped before the room. "Who's in there?" Ronnie asked.

  It was quiet for a moment. So quiet that Ronnie thought he had imagined the movement. He was ready to chalk it all up to jangled nerves when a face appeared from the darkness.

  The man was short. Had to be, since the face was only about five feet off the floor. The rest of his body remained obscured in shadow.

  "Where is the money?" the stranger asked. His voice was flat, without any intonation at all. Almost mechanical.

  "Huh?" Ronnie asked, his brow furrowing.

  And in the moment he uttered that single, confused syllable, the rest of the man appeared.

  Ronnie sucked in a shocked gasp.

  The human head was grafted onto the most frightening creature Ronnie Marzano had ever seen. Spiky black hair covered the bulbous body. Four of eight legs had carried the beast out into the hallway. The rest were still hidden somewhere in the shadows beyond. The monster had to be huge.

  Ronnie had seen the news reports of the giant spider on TV all day. Until now he'd assumed it was a hoax.

  He wanted to run. Fear kept him from fleeing. Ronnie fell dumbly back against the wall.

  "I have been sent to collect money," the spider said. "According to the human who sent me here, this drinking establishment is utilized as a secret exchange by elements of the subculture that traffics in illegal narcotics. Yet, despite this fact I am unable to detect particulates in the air that would indicate a large quantity of cash. Therefore, I ask again, where is the money?"

  Ronnie gulped. It was hard to breathe. "Not here," he managed to say.

  "This is unacceptable," the spider said, its voice cold.

  The flesh-colored face looked down the hall.

  "I detect slight airborne concentrations of an addictive drug derived from the leaves of the coca plant," Mr. Gordons said. "This drug generates money." The flesh-colored face turned accusingly to Ronnie. The tiny curls at the corners of the human mouth seemed to mock the drug dealer.

  "It's n-not here yet," Ronnie stammered.

  "How soon will it arrive?"

  "I'm not sure exactly. Soon," he promised.

  Gordons considered the information. "Very well," he said all at once. "Do not move."

  Ronnie wasn't about to disobey. He remained stock-still against the wall as the spider skittered backward into the shadows of the cloakroom. There came a strange scraping of metal from out the darkness. When it was over seconds later, a man emerged calmly from the shadows. Ronnie was horrified to see that he wore the same face as the spider.

  "Take me to where the money will be," Mr. Gordons said.

  Ronnie dared not refuse. His legs felt as if they were dragging lead weights as he brought the manwho a moment before had been a giant spider-to the back room.

  The Cubans looked up as the door squeaked shut. "Who the hell is this?" Juan Jiminez demanded. The man with Ronnie Marzano looked harmless in a bland sort of way. His blue suit was a little too perfectly tailored, his face too smooth.

  "Hello is all right," Mr. Gordons said. "I would be able to offer you a drink, as this is an establishment that specializes in the selling of fermented-grain beverages, but unfortunately I am without the funds to do so."

  Juan's brown eyes were clenched with tight suspicion. "Who you bring back here, Marzano?" he asked Ronnie very, very slowly. "This some kind of cop?"

  Already the rest of the men were fanning out. With guns drawn, they surrounded the stiff-looking stranger.

  "I am not a police officer," Mr. Gordons answered. "And I must ask that you cease your current course of action, as it could be perceived as a threat to my survival."

  "Bet your ass it's a threat," Juan snarled. "And you're going down with him," he said to Ronnie. Ronnie Marzano was standing next to Gordons near the door.

  "Please, Juan," he begged, shaking his head.

  But it was already too late. The moment Jiminez threatened to endanger the survival of the man standing next to Ronnie, the drug dealer's fate was sealed.

  Mr. Gordons moved his arms out to either side of his body, the fingertips angled toward the floor.

  As Juan watched, the man's arms were suddenly very long. Much longer than human arms should be. There was something shiny at the ends of them. And when the stranger bent his arms at the elbows, the shiny something of his left hand was flying very quickly in Juan's direction.

  The steel knife blade of the android's hand thunked deep into Juan Jiminez's forehead, splitting apart the hemispheres of his dead brain. At the same instant, a second blade shot through the skull of another Cuban drug dealer.

  There was a moment of shock during which their leader's lifeless body slid from the gleaming silver appendage of the intruder. But it lasted only an instant.

  As one, the remaining four men whipped up submachine guns. Shocked fingers clenching triggers, they opened fire.

  The first barrage sliced Ronnie Marzano to ribbons. He slid to the floor in a bloody tangle.

  The same bullets should have transformed the intruder into hamburger. They didn't.

  Though they fired point-blank, the men were stunned to find their target still standing. Hot lead pounded into the man's chest. Still, he showed no visible reaction.

  Bullet holes peppered the wall behind him. Already screams were audible from the bar beyond. Standing in front of the barrage, Mr. Gordons didn't flinch. While the men fired, he calmly raised his hands, still in the shapes of twin daggers.

  The nearest drug dealer was only a few feet away. Like giant scissors, the blades snapped together. Unfortunately for the man, his neck was between them.

  As the decapitated head thudded to the floor, the intense burst of gunfire burped to silence. The remaining three men quickly gauged the situation. Flinging down their guns, they ran screaming out into the bar.

  Gordons followed.

  He caught the last man just outside the door.

  The blades that were Gordons's hands slashed right and left. The drug dealer surrendered arms and legs.

  The other two men had already raced out the door, along with the other bar patrons. Gordons didn't pursue them.

  It was unlikely now that the humans negotiating the purchase of the drugs would arrive with their currency. There was also a nearly hundred percent probability that the authorities would be arriving soon. Mr. Gordons had failed in his mission.

  Feeling no disappointment, the android turned from the main bar floor back to the rear hallway.

  He found a human blocking his way.

  "You ruined my night," the man drawled. "Only fair I get to ruin yours, too."

  The young man who stood before Gordons was exceptionally pale. The flesh around his soft cheeks was so white it was almost blue. A shock of white hair sprang up from his scalp. It had been short during a stint in the military. Much longer now, it jutted up like curling, demented horns.

  Elizu Roote raised his hands shoulder high, his palms directed toward Mr. Gordons.

  At first, the android ignored Roote. Knife blades shuddering as they re-formed into hands, he continued to stride back toward the exit. But when Roote's hands opened, revealing the tarnished gold pads that were buried at the tips of his fingers, the android stopped dead.

  He tipped his head. "Are you biomechanical in nature?" Mr. Gordons asked with childlike curiosity. The question had barely passed his lips before an audible hum filled the air. The android's optical sensors detected ten distinct flashes at each of the young man's fingertips. Jumping forward, they formed a single white bolt. With
a crackle the electrical arc surged across the space that separated Elizu Roote from Mr. Gordons.

  The shock pounded the android hard in the chest. There was no way Gordons could avoid it. Indeed, his metallic frame made him a lightning rod. Gordons stumbled back into the bar, his face contorting into a parody of human shock. And as his joints seized and his body stiffened, a soft smile of demonic satisfaction kissed the pale white lips of Elizu Roote.

  STEWART MCQUEEN was driving aimlessly through the streets of City Point when his police scanner squawked to life with news of the commotion at the Roadkill.

  He had a street map taped to his dashboard. At a glance he saw he was only two blocks away. Thanking his lord and master the Prince of Darkness for his guidance, the world-famous novelist pressed down hard on the gas, tearing off in the direction of the bar.

  CLARK BEEMER WATCHED With a sinking feeling as the people flooded out the front door of the Roadkill. Clark started the NASA van's engine, his weak eyes trained on the back door of the bar.

  When Gordons failed to materialize, Beemer grew even more anxious. But when he heard the sound of approaching sirens, he panicked.

  Knocking the van into drive, he twisted the wheel, flying across the lot. Frightened people scattered from his path as he goosed it out into the street.

  Bouncing off the curb, Clark Beemer raced away from the bar. As the PR man tore off into the night, he hoped that Florida's famously strict laws were muddy on the punishment for being accessory to a killer mechanical space spider.

  STEWART MCQUEEN ARRIVED at the Roadkill moments before the police. He screeched to a halt in front of the bar and bounded for the entrance.

  The novelist didn't know what to expect when he flung open the battered door. In spite of all the strange, paranormal events he'd written about in his long career, he was ill prepared for what he found.

  Toward the back of the dimly lit saloon a ghostly white young man appeared to be firing bolts of lightning from his fingertips. The arcing current was pounding against a figure that was sprawled back against the bar.

  Despite the apparent amazing abilities of the first man, it was the second figure that shocked McQueen more.

  The thing appeared to be half man, half spider. Twisted arachnid legs jutted from a sparking torso, thrashing as if in pain with every surging burst of power.

  When Roote attacked, Gordons had tried to assume a shape that would frighten the man into retreat. With his circuits overloading, the transformation hadn't been fully successful.

  As McQueen watched, the powerful hum that seemed to rise up from Roote slowed.

  Confusion marred Elizu Roote's pale face.

  His power charge was weakening. Cutting the juice, he wheeled from Gordons. Staggering slightly, the thin young man disappeared down the shadowy hallway and was gone.

  Mr. Gordons reeled away from the bar. His face showed no emotion as his spider legs flailed in space. Pitching forward, he fell against a chair.

  Extra furry arms kept him from falling. He pushed himself back to his feet, staggering for the door. Near the entrance to the Roadkill, Stewart McQueen shook his head, snapping himself from his trance. Racing over, he grabbed Gordons up under his human set of arms. The writer was relieved when he received no shock.

  A soft word croaked up from the belly of the android.

  "...survive, survive, survive, survive..."

  Gordons didn't seem to be aware of where he even was.

  Stewart McQueen nodded tightly, struggling to support the android. He was amazed by how heavy Gordons was.

  "I can help you to survive," McQueen promised. "Just remember, one hand washes the other."

  He hurried the android outside, dumping him into the back of his rental car. McQueen tumbled in behind the steering wheel.

  With fresh images of New York Times bestsellerdom dancing in his head for the first time in months, Stewart McQueen thanked the prince of all that was unholy before tearing off into the night.

  Chapter 17

  Remo had to swerve a dozen times to avoid fleeing cars. They were barreling up the middle of the road away from the Roadkill Tavern and into oncoming traffic.

  One of the vehicles in particular headed straight for him up the double yellow line. Twisting the wheel to one side, Remo scraped sparks from the sides of three parked cars. The menacing black shape tore past them.

  "Wasn't that another one of those boohawdle vans?" Remo growled as he pulled back onto the road.

  Chiun was carefully scrutinizing the escaping van in the side mirror. "One ugly American vehicle looks the same as the next to me."

  Given what they had seen already, Remo was reluctant to let the van get away. Hoping that their giant spider wasn't caged inside it, he continued down the road to the bar.

  When they pulled into the parking lot a minute later, the police had just arrived. Remo waved his FBI ID under as many noses as was necessary to gain them admittance.

  Inside, the two Masters of Sinanju noted the fresh black burn marks on the floor. There were two of them. Side by side, they traced the approximate oval shape of a pair of shoe soles.

  Remo and Chiun exchanged a quick glance. They had seen similar marks before.

  It was Remo who shook his head dismissively. "Can't be," he insisted. "He's dead. Besides, look at this." He indicated the severed limbs lying on the floor near the bar. The rest of the drug dealer's corpse lay in a bloody heap nearby. "This is something different."

  Chiun nodded sharply.

  There was greater police activity in a room behind the bar. When Remo and Chiun stepped through the door, they found an even grislier scene. One man's head looked as if it had been sliced off by a portable guillotine.

  As Remo examined the corpse, he glanced at the Master of Sinanju. "If I didn't know better, I'd think this was your handiwork, Little Father," he commented.

  Chiun shook his head. "This butchery was done with an implement," he said, his face registering disgust.

  Remo nodded. "Not a single blade, either," he said. He noted the slight irregularity on either side of the neck. "Looks almost like a big pair of scissors."

  As he stepped around the body, he felt something under the heel of his loafer. Turning, he scuffed his foot across the floor. Chiun's gaze tracked the movement of his pupil.

  On the floor were tiny black flecks, so small they would have been invisible to the average naked eye. Crouching, Remo gathered a bit of the residue on one finger, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. His fingertips barely registered the presence of the frictionless material.

  "More spider poop," he pronounced, dusting the thin black powder from his hands. "And just what the hell kind of spider sheds metal anyway?"

  Tipping his head low, he found a few larger fragments scattered beneath a desk and chairs that sat back against the wall. Judging by the many bullet holes in the wall, they had apparently been blown off the creature.

  Remo rose, fragments in hand and a dark cloud on his face. "Dammit, we should have followed that van. You get a look at the driver?"

  "Of course," Chiun sniffed.

  "And?" Remo asked after a brief moment of silence during which the old man said nothing. Chiun shrugged. "He had a big nose, big hands and big feet. I would say he was a typical white."

  Remo's lips thinned. "He wasn't driving with his feet, Chiun," he said.

  "I merely extrapolated from that which I could see," the wizened Korean replied. Eyes growing conspiratorial, he pitched his voice low. "Although I have toiled in this land lo these many years, Remo, it remains a mystery to me to this day how you people are able to tell each other apart."

  "Yeah, our lives are just one wacky Patty Duke Show episode after another," Remo said. "Guess we're screwed."

  He found a plain white envelope on the desk and dumped the black fragments into it, stuffing the envelope deep in his pocket. Hands clenching, he turned back to survey the macabre scene.

  He was thinking about how hard it would be to track an
eight-legged opponent. Did eight legs mean it could run four times faster than a man?

  "Of course," Chiun observed all at once, "there are always those numbers to differentiate one of you from the next."

  "What numbers?" Remo asked, turning slowly. "The identifying numbers on the back of the vehicle that drove directly at us," Chiun replied. "You know, Remo, the numbers that you failed to note since you were preoccupied with the task of not even glancing at the driver."

  "You got the license-plate number?" Remo asked.

  "Of course," Chiun said. A knowing sadness touched his weathered face. "And need I point out yet again that my eyes will not always be here to see for you?"

  The dark lines of Remo's face grew firm. "Nope," he said, shaking his head. "You're not sucking me in with that now, Little Father, so you can just save the morbid stuff for another day. I've had enough lemonade making lately. For the moment my life's gonna be about the here and now-not some far-off time when everything's supposed to come crashing down around my big white ears. And right now I've got a bug to squash."

  Face resolute, he went off in search of a phone. Behind him Chiun considered his pupil's words. Remo hadn't spoken in anger, merely with determination. And in his heart of hearts, the Master of Sinanju knew that his son's resolve was correct. The future would come in its time and would be whatever it would be.

  Nodding silent agreement, the old man padded off after his pupil.

  THE MIDMORNING SUN BURNED fiery hot over Cape Canaveral. The sunlight dragged across the halfopened venetian blinds, slicing perfect yellow lines across the hard-edged face of Administrator Zipp Codwin.

  Zipp sat behind his sparkling white desk, his sharply angled chin braced on one bare-knuckled fist. His free hand drummed the desk's surface.

  This kind of waiting was more than tedious to an old flyboy like himself. It was made all the worse by the A #1 screw-up of them all, that PR flak, Clark Beemer.

  Not that everything had been going swimmingly.

  In truth at first the NASA administrator and Pete Graham had made little progress on their plan to defeat Mr. Gordons's enemies. The thing that made it most difficult was the fact that Gordons himself seemed so unstoppable. If he couldn't kill the two guys he feared, how could Zipp hope to?