by Mike Leon
“Why wouldn’t we just kill them?”
“Is he serious?” Chuck asks. “I can’t tell.”
“I’m a former Delta Ranger,” Tim says. “I know an operator when I see one, and this guy’s no operator.” That comment catches Victor’s attention. He turns and glares at Tim.
“This is Kill Team One’s kid,” Niggerfucker insists.
“If he’s a real operator, then why is he walking around with a nine tucked in his pants like this is South Central? Operators don’t use nines. A Delta Ranger wouldn’t be caught dead with one.”
“Why not?” Victor asks.
“Not enough stopping power. Operators use forty-fives, or at least forties.”
Victor puts his hand on his pistol.
“Tell me again, how much stopping power do I need?” Victor asks.
Chuck slowly stops laughing. Tim looks around at the other faces in the room and then back to the grip of that nine sticking out from Victor’s pants. He only confirms what Victor already knows without looking at all – that all eyes are on him now.
“That’s a bad idea, son,” Tim says. He gives a single nervous laugh. Victor especially hates when people call him son. “I’m a former Delta Ranger. Do you know what we do?”
Niggerfucker shakes his head subtly.
“You really shouldn’t do that, kid,” Chuck says. “These guys aren’t piss ant army regulars.”
Victor recalls what Niggerfucker said on the way in the door. Try not to kill nobody in here. He needs these people to join his cause. If he kills them all, they won’t be doing that. As much as he would like to exterminate every rag himself, he can’t. The fucking things breed faster than he can kill them. He needs help to do this.
Victor slowly removes his hand from the grip of the pistol and back to his side. For a moment afterwards, everyone in the room is still holding their breath.
“Well,” the Philistine says. “That was rather tense.”
“No shit,” Chuck says. “For a second there I thought the kid was really going to do it.”
“You underestimate me,” Victor says. “I’m not entirely without control.”
He smiles.
“Yeah,” Chuck says, starting to laugh. “Kid’s got a sense of humor.”
“What did you think?” Victor asks, laughing as well. “I was just going to shoot him because he doesn’t like my gun?”
“Yeah!”
“That’s suicide! There are five of you!”
“Damn right, son,” Tim says. “And a former Delta Ranger doesn’t go down so eas…”
Victor shoots Tim in the fucking face. No one even sees him going for his gun. It’s just out and Tim’s brains are running out the back of his head and all down the wall. Blood trickles down the back of the folding chair he was sitting in as his head rolls around on his shoulders, squirting jets of crimson around him like an out of control garden hose.
It happened so fast the other cronies at the table are frozen in fear. Victor could kill them all in a blink. None of them will make a move.
“Was that enough stopping power?” Victor says.
No one speaks. Killa pisses himself. Niggerfucker only winces with shame.
“Was it?” Victor screams, reiterating the question to the dead body. Tim’s head comes round in such a way that it tilts the rest of his body forward and he slumps out of the chair and on to the floor beneath the card table.
The Philistine shrugs.
“I was waiting for someone to kill that idiot,” she says. “Come on. Delta Rangers? That’s not even a real thing.”
BORING EXPOSITION IV
“I should have SOCOM drop a bunker buster right down your fucking throat right now while you’re flapping your fucking jaws at me like, like, like, I don’t even know, you incompetent, miserable, backstabbing piece of shit fuck-hole.”
“Are you done?” Victoria Russell asks in a dry, annoyed tone.
“No. I’m not done,” Anton Reynolds continues loudly. Little specks of spittle spray from his mouth and stick to the monitor to form tiny rainbow colored dots over his face. “Do you hear me, Walter? I’m going to pay every sniper in the Marine Corps to put a bullet in your brain. I’m going to bomb every building you try to hide in. I’m going to train AIDS monkeys to rape everyone you love. I will bend you over a table and break Jim Beam bottles off in your asshole and when I’m done with that then...”
“That’s enough, Anton,” Elkan Rothschild proclaims on the monitor next to Anton. His voice is smooth like velvet, even as he rolls his eyes at the talking head next to him.
“No. That’s not enough. I’m going to crush you. Do you hear me? Crush you!”
“That’s enough!” Elkan barks. He only has to raise his voice slightly for Anton to get the point. The balding little man shuts up. Elkan never loses his calm. He probably takes something for that, Walter thinks.
In front of him is the video bank in the war room at the top of the Graveyard building. Stacked five monitors tall and six wide, three of them display Anton Reynolds, Elkan Rothschild and Eric Du Pont. Reynolds’ raging face fills his monitor completely so that Walter can’t see any other part of his body or the room behind him. Elkan is garishly refined as usual. He sits in a hefty leather upholstered chair with a backing that towers over his head, a fireplace flickering besides him. A shiny black suit makes him appear like Walter’s imagining of the devil come to make a deal. Eric Du Pont is casual as always. He wears his workout clothes, a pair of tennis shorts and a tank top, and Walter can see a large collection of gym machines in the background.
“Clearly, Mr. Stedman understands the severity of the situation,” Elkan says.
“Are we on the short bus right now?” Anton says. “He’s working with Kill Team One!”
“Kill Team One is dead.”
“Then who killed Henry? Want to answer that question?”
“It wasn’t Kill Team One,” Walter says. “He didn’t kill Eli either.”
“Then who was it, Walter? The one-armed-man? The Phantom of the Opera? Keyser Söze?”
“It was the reptoids,” Walter says. He watches them carefully for the next second, as if the reactions to his lie might tell him something – might give away some insight into which one of them is his enemy. He gets nothing but the naturally confused looks one would expect.
“The who?”
“Reptilian humanoid shapeshifters.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true, Anton,” Victoria says. “They killed Eli because he knew too much. His daughter saw it happen. They’ve been trying to finish her off ever since. These things are real, Elkan. They’ve infiltrated the highest levels of government and they are in our circle.”
“He’s got you believing this shit too?” Anton shrieks.
“It’s the only way any of this makes sense,” Victoria says. “The girl stands to inherit Van Duyn’s holdings and his place in the circle. As soon as she meets with the rest of us, she’ll recognize the monster. They have to kill her before that happens, otherwise all their plans fall apart. Their whole secret society is at risk.”
Walter is impressed. Technically, nothing Victoria has said is a lie. Her earlier reluctance to cover up the truth of Henry’s death made Walter uneasy going into this. Now he can see he has nothing to worry about.
“You’ve gone mental, Vicki,” Anton says. “You’re imploding like Miley Cyrus. Why don’t you shave your head and go flash your beaver at the paparazzi? Leave the real thinking to the grown ups. He’s in league with Kill Team One! He has been this whole time. They’re hoping to pull off some kind of coup. Am I the only one seeing this?”
“You’re awfully defensive, Anton,” Vicki says. “Maybe it’s you.”
“What the fuck have you been smoking, you ignorant gash? If I were just a little less defensive it would be my ass nailed to the dining room ceiling of my villa instead of a look-alike!”
“We should be so lucky.”
“Stop bickering, b
oth of you,” Elkan says.
“Here we go. Rothschild’s wearing the daddy pants again.”
“We have a way to detect the reptoids,” Walter says.
“I’ve had about enough of you clearing your throat and talking to the rest of us like this is your rodeo,” Reynolds continues to yell at Elkan.
“Maybe you should calm down before you say something you end up regretting, Anton,” Elkan warns.
“That’s what I’m talking about right there. Is that some kind of threat? What is that?”
“What was that, Walter?” Eric Du Pont asks, curiously. The rest of them continue their shouting match.
“I don’t make threats, Anton,” Elkan says very calmly. “Threats only serve to telegraph actions.”
“Cute. Here’s an action you can telegraph,” Anton flips the finger to the camera.
“What was that, Walter?” Eric repeats.
“I said, we found a…” Walter stops. The rest of them are still shouting. Only Eric is listening, and the boy struggles to hear over the others.
Walter tilts his head back and looks to his left, then his right. He’s looking for the little room mic that dangles from the ceiling above him in the war room. When he finds it, he snatches hold of it and pulls it over to the speaker below the TV bank. The ringing feedback it produces is enough to stop all of them from screaming at each other.
“There,” Walter says. “As I was saying, we have a way to detect the reptilians.”
He is greeted with silence from all of them.
“How?” Elkan asks, before any of the others has fully processed the statement.
“We developed a test,” Walter answers.
“What kind of test? How does it work?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“That’s because he’s bluffing,” Reynolds says.
“No. I can assure you,” Walter says. “It’s real, and it’s one hundred percent effective.”
“And what? You want us to come take your test?”
“No,” Victoria says. “I want you to come take his test.”
“Fat chance getting any of us to agree to that.”
“Why wouldn’t we agree to that?” Eric asks.
“Are you joking? The fucker is trying to kill us, and you’re okay with parading into his building out in the middle of nowhere with his army of commandos? He’s probably got Kill Team One waiting for us there too. I know I’m just itching to find out.”
“That’s why we’re not asking you to come to the Graveyard building,” Victoria says.
“Where then?” Elkan asks.
“The Ark,” she answers. “It’s completely neutral territory.”
“The Ark. Great,” Anton rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “How is that better?”
How is that better? Walter and Victoria spent several hours discussing this already. The ark, actually a hulking system of tunnels and bunkers built beneath the Denver International Airport, is the perfect place for the group to meet for this. Constructed in 1990, long before the airport opened to the public, the catacomb-like structure was intended foremost as a centralized shelter for the group in the event of a nuclear war, zombie epidemic, or other doomsday scenario. The tunnels stretch on for miles and the living quarters can comfortably support fifty thousand. It also houses a library containing many works marked for preservation, massive food stores, and a small prison.
“For one,” Victoria says, “all of the entryways are coded for voice recognition. Only the four of us can access the Ark.”
“You’re not selling me, sweetie pie.”
“You can bring your own security teams.”
“That was already a given. I’m not walking into this without my people and my people’s guns.”
“Because you’re one of those things,” Eric interjects.
“What is this? The inquisition?” Anton shouts. “Are you going to throw me in a lake and see if I float next?”
“I’ll go to Victoria’s meeting,” Eric says.
“You’re insane. The evidence is stacked higher than Burj Khalifa against these people. You’re walking into your execution!”
“No. I’ve been surfing in Bells Beach for the last two weeks. Nobody knows I’m here but an Australian porn star and the Graveyard fire team I brought with me. They had a thousand chances to kill me and toss me in the Bass Strait and no one ever would have found the body. They could have made up any story they wanted. Walter’s people are on our side.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Elkan? Are you in?” Victoria asks.
The older man sits quietly for a moment, considering the question before he speaks.
“If I say no, then you can only assume the worst. That would mean war between the members of the circle. There has not been a schism as such since the beginning of the last century.”
“But if Eric passes Walter’s test, then one of you is the reptoid, and the other one is allied with the reptoids,” Victoria says.
Elkan smiles.
“I will come to this meeting as well,” Elkan says. “You will come too, Anton.”
“And if I don’t?” Anton flippantly remarks.
Elkan shrugs. He presents the answer as a simple matter of fact.
“Then the rest of us will kill you.”
SCREAM LOUD
SCREAM SAYONARA
Tanaka smashes through the aluminum wall of the reptoid’s hidden lair with nothing but his fist. His sword is out before the flimsy metal panel falls to the ground.
A lizard man sitting on a wooden packing crate stands, a look of shock on his face as Tanaka takes his head off with the blade. Another reaches for a gun, this one still human in appearance, but Tanaka slices his hand off with a quick swipe of his sword. Another stroke cuts the thing in half down the middle.
Tanaka moves for the door.
The hallway is dimly lit. This matters not to the master shadow warrior. He needs not eyes to see. He glides down the corridor like the shadow of some flying predator set against the ground by the afternoon sun – simply a fleeting darkness that is already gone by the time anyone turns to see.
As he turns a corner, he confronts a guard armed with a small submachine gun. Tanaka thrusts his sword into the reptile man’s chest and growls “SEN SATSUJIN KAMISORI!” The edge of his sword cuts a thousand directions at once. The guard crumbles into diced cubes of meat and bone that form a pile on the floor. Tanaka continues along the corridor.
Tanaka makes a left at the door into the stairwell, a railed concrete set of steps with one landing halfway to the next floor. He hears a reptilian walking up the stairs below him and he leaps over the railing with his sword leading the way to impale the cretin as he lands. He skewers the reptilian vertically, his blade punching through the spine at the base of the skull and erupting from the groin. Tanaka pulls his blade free and turns into the basement hallway.
He finds this corridor empty, but that is not a comfort. He will be tested. His father warned him as much when he was between worlds. He stalks down the hallway until he sees the red door. He listens through the door for any sounds inside. Hearing none, he checks up and down the hallway one last time before cutting down the door with his blade.
The room beyond is not overly large, but has a high ceiling. It is a simple room with four bare walls. There is no light here, but Tanaka does not need light to see. He sees the tools of torture lying on the floor, iron pokers, pliers, a blowtorch. He sees dried blood on the concrete, a tooth, even the tiny fingernails collected nearby. He sees Kill Team One dangling upside down at the end of a long black chain. His hands are shackled behind him and his scraggly black hair is crusted with blood and scabs. Open cuts criss-cross his naked skin in a grid-like pattern all over his body. Blistering white burns from a hot poker dot his chest. His lengthy beard hangs in his face and covers his eyes. He looks like a ragged, torn, dead thing.
“You have come back for more torture?” says the kill team. He drools blood as he ta
lks. “Good. There is still a spot on my ass where there are no scars.”
“I have come for no such thing,” Tanaka replies.
Kill Team One tilts his head to see around his beard and squints through the darkness.
“Is that you, Tanaka? No. I am delirious.”
“You are not hallucinating.”
“Katsuhiro Tanaka is dead. He died long ago.”
“Katsuhiro Tanaka was my father. He sent me here to free you.”
“Then what are you waiting for? There’s a switch on that wall that will lower the chain.”
Before the kill team can even finish speaking, Tanaka has leaped into the air, rebounded from one of the walls to gain even greater height, and chopped through the chain above Kill Team One’s feet. The old man falls to the floor.
“My father died protecting your secret,” Tanaka asks, “For what did he owe you such a great debt?”
“I owe it to him never to speak of it.”
“What secret could bring so much shame?”
“Your father was a very complicated man,” the kill team says. He tries to bring himself to his feet, but falters and falls. Yoshida moves to help him up from the ground, but then he stops. He senses a presence. Someone is behind them. He turns.
“How pitiful a sight,” proclaims a wiry man wearing an old Nazi uniform. His skin is like paste and thin lips open to reveal needle teeth that could only have been filed to such inhuman points. He sounds like he has razors stuck in his throat. “The great Kill Team One cannot stand up on his own.”
Yoshida wastes no time throwing a shuriken at the man in the doorway. The shuriken finds its mark, but the wicked Nazi simply plucks it from his chest and flings it aside.
“Blood Drinker,” says Kill Team One, summoning his titanic will to push himself to his feet. Once he reaches full height, he still strains to keep his legs from buckling. “Move aside, Tanaka. You cannot hope to fight this monster.”
“I have a better chance than you,” Yoshida tells him.
“HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!” Blood Drinker’s maniacal laughter fills the chamber. “You could not even defeat a pathetic robot, ninja.”
