Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

by Alessio Lanterna

  Splat.

  He sways before collapsing on top of me. The exit wound on his back is as big as a fist. At point-blank range, the injuries produced by the Altra look more like those of a shotgun than a nine-millimetre gun.

  His body is bleeding all over my shirt and trousers.

  I’ll have to wait a little longer before I can move him without passing out. With a corpse in my arms all I can do is work out my next move.

  Oh, yeah, laugh at Cohl. I totally demolished him, that bastard. The world has lost a genius. Ha ha.

  But I don’t feel much like laughing. A part of me knows full well that the kid was dead right about certain things.

  Well, now that he’s dead, I can even slightly respect him.

  The cramps in my arm and neck are a modest investment towards ending this torture sooner. I finish the still-plentiful supply in my baggie, then I extricate myself from the dead weight on top of me by rolling Cohl to one side. His expression is that of a herring which has jumped out of the sea into the breadcrumbs, and suffocated during the journey. I start to get up but immediately abandon the idea, agreeing with the hammering of my heart in my chests. Too much shit in the vacuum cleaner. I stay where I am, sat next to the Champion and smoke another cigarette.

  “Fucking hell, Cohl. Look at this mess!”

  I point at my blood-soaked clothes.

  “I mean, I’m happy that you opened up to me so much, but this suit cost me an arm and a leg. You could at least say you’re sorry.” I give the corpse a kick. Bastard. I grab a hank of his hair and pull his head up.

  “Forgive m,e Lieutenant, I’m really sorry.” I imitate his voice and make him nod. “There you go, now was that so very difficult? Now I can say, don’t worry, no hard feelings. You could give me one of your eyes to compensate for my arm and leg, what do you say? That way we’re even… yes, help yourself, I’ve got two anyway… oh, how kind. I really appreciate that.

  The chat with a corpse gag always makes me laugh ‘til I cry. Once I’ve calmed down a bit, I find something soft in the palm of my left hand. A white, sticky ball.

  “He took it literally? Hahaha!” Holding the optic nerve between my fingers, I bounce it backwards and forwards, humming a rhythmic boing boing nearly in sync with the movement.

  Yeah, with hindsight, it’s easy to say that I wasn’t completely normal. In any case after a good half-hour I’ve come up with a plan. As deadly as it is bizarre, it’s exactly the kind of absurd response to an extreme situation that you would expect from someone who sits and thinks in a pool of blood while playing with an eyeball he’s ripped out of a cadaver’s eye socket. Maximum collateral damage, minimum probability of success. Based on the idea that everyone, if subjected to the right amount of pressure, can make the same errors of judgment that I have made with a boss-eyed dead body lying next to me.

  “You see, Cohl, I make mistakes, but I learn from them.” I underline this idea by trying to pop the eyeball back in its socket, but it keeps rolling out. In the end I press too hard and it bursts all over my thumb. Yuk. I try and clean my hands on my trousers, without much success. What’s a little more gunk between friends?

  I search the corpses. The book really was in Gilder’s rucksack, together with the missing canvas. I find it rolled up and slightly battered, and discover that it’s different from all the others on the wall, it’s a self-portrait of the artist. Oh, how sweet of him to run away with this. The only self-portrait of his sweetheart, how romantic. There a couple of equally sentimental photos and small boxes of reactants for spells. Not even a clean pair of underpants, dirty bastard. I stuff everything back inside and haul it onto my shoulder.

  I give him a couple of swift kicks in the ribs. Fucking piece of shit that he is for leaving me in this situation.

  Now it’s the turn of Marble-arse, slumped over the coffee table, inside the pizza box with crusts and cigarette butts. You can see that they were master and pupil, Nylmeris has got some of the same ingredients in his pockets. But there’s something else, a magnetic key bearing the logo of the Lovl’Atheron Hybrid Vehicles. An aviomobile is excellent news, it greatly improves my plan’s chances of success. I gather together weapons of various description and with a supreme effort line the bodies up on the floor in the hall. I’m certainly killing lots of people. And I haven’t finished yet. I grab a cape from the wardrobe in the bedroom and put it on, making sure in the mirror that it covers up the worst of the mess.

  I go out. I pull the hood up. Luckily the LMI 2K4 is parked just a short distance away from the entrance. After all, why park farther away, when the one who was supposed to watch my back was an accomplice? “Stay here, don’t you dare interfere,” he must have told the tawny ninja before becoming invisible so as to listen to the conversation taking place inside the house. And him: “yessir, I’ll do my best,” like a trained dog. Without a scrap of dignity.

  I drag them one by one into the hovering vehicle, inside black rubbish bags I found under the sink in the kitchen. Shoes and boots unceremoniously stick out of the plastic and scrape the ground.

  It would be better to saw them up, but it would take too long and I don’t feel like it. In any case, the 2K4 has got darkened windows, like a good luxury car should have. The plastic is there to stop the cape from getting all messed up while I try and get the bodies inside.

  Nylmeris keeps me company up front in the passenger seat while the other two are in the back. Nobody’s particularly chatty. The colonel lends me his thumb for the ignition pad, it turns green with a low rumble. One thousand ccs are enough when you don’t have to worry about surface friction, along with two air spirits to make the vehicle levitate and four fire spirits for speed: it’s a miniature private jet costing a million, and it handles like a hummingbird. Pity I can’t keep it.

  The satnav is linked to an onboard computer which means that the vehicle flies automatically to the chosen destination, soaring above ordinary traffic. Basically, the steering wheel is a plaything for the driver but it isn’t necessary. Before I settle down with a sextet of cigarettes, I give the vehicle the destination.

  “Tubgorne’s place.”

  In a seductive voice the aviomobile asks for confirmation with a complete address, I am happy to oblige. Gilder’s gloves fit like a... well, like a glove.

  With Cohl’s gun in my hand, I smoke while this unusual ferry crosses the stretch of water which lies between me and an uncertain future. I tuck it into my belt just above my crotch like a cheesy gangster.

  The door jangles. Beron is behind the counter, sorting out the cash register. It’s closing time again.

  “Good evening, how can I… oh, sonny! What on earth are you wearing? thought you were an elf for a minute, ha ha.” He turns his attention back to the cash register. “Shall we go for a drink? Staying open on Sundays does wonders for business.”

  “Have you got any of that special beer of yours left?” I get right to the point. Crazed determination, like an unquenchable thirst, has come over me.”

  “Oh, of course, yes, I certainly have,” he answers absentmindedly, counting a wad of ten-crown banknotes in his hand. “I keep it in the cellar. I shouldn’t have it really—if the authorities got wind of it!—but I just can’t part with it. I’ve grown fond of it, you know? It’s what was left over from the raid on Dun-ver Fort…”

  “I need it,” I announce, failing miserably to stem the rush of memories.

  “ … I made ten barrels, but we used six to transform that hill into a plateau, ha ha ha… it’s been sitting there collecting dust for the past sixty years, with detonators and everything…” He stops, my words finally reach him. “What are you on about? You can’t drink it, ha ha!”

  “I’m not going to drink it, I’m going to use it.”

  He lifts his eyes from the takings to look at me sceptically, then he laughs heartily and blusters “of course, of course” and “right, right”. When it finally dawns on him that I’m not joking the merriment slowly drains out of his face and his
expression turns into one of concern.

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  He breathes in deeply.

  “Do you realise what you’re saying, sonny? That stuff down there,” he indicates the doorway into the back with his thumb, “is the most powerful subatomic explosive on the planet. The rain of fire produced by the greatest wizard in Saros is a hot shower compared to that.”

  “I’m well aware of that. That’s why I need it.”

  “No, hang on, have you gone mad?” he blurts and waves his arms around. “Two drums, for the anvil of Gorfamuld! In the wrong place they could blow half the city sky-high!”

  “If you know another way of bumping off an entire elfish dynasty, then I’m all ears.”

  He goggles, jerks and blinks rapidly.

  “Oh come on, my friend, they’re elves. You hate them just as much as I do.”

  “You are… utterly insane.”

  “Since when have you cared about them? You’ve been fighting them for centuries!”

  “They were different times!” He brushes me off, shouting, “I don’t like them, okay, but that doesn’t mean I’m in favour of a massacre! That’s before you even start to think about the fact that the tower is protected by an impenetrable shield, the explosion wouldn’t so much as scratch it!”

  “Not if it takes place inside.”

  “And just how do you think you’re going to get in, eh? Are you going to knock on the door holding twenty kilos of runic explosives?”

  “That’s my problem, don’t you worry about that.”

  “Don’t worry! Don’t worry, he says!” He’s astounded, he stretches his arms out towards me as if he’s showing me to an invisible audience. “Even if you managed to sneak in somehow, the explosion would involve the surrounding area… can’t you see what… a disaster…” He falters at the mere thought of it all.

  “Me or them, Beron. They’ll never let me go, and they deserve it, believe me. It’s too difficult to explain, but they deserve it.”

  “Well, whatever it is they did, it doesn’t justify genocide. And even if there is, just for argument’s sake, a crime so serious, so heinous as to cause such a… in any case thousands of innocent people would be killed!”

  “A calculated risk. The game is worth the sacrifice. Omelette, eggs.”

  Tubgorne is bewildered by my words. He seems more hurt than angry.

  “You are raving. It’s that white shit you take, it’s fucked your brain up!”

  “No, Beron. It’s the only way I can save myself. It must be done now, and it must be like this. There’s no other way and there’s no time.”

  “No, no and no!” he rants, before calmly trying to persuade me to abandon the idea, in a more understanding tone of voice. “Listen, why don’t you sit down and explain everything to me… you’ll see, we’ll find an alternative to this madness…”

  I take out Cohl’s gun. I grip it without feeling the cold metal, protected by the glove. I keep my arm hanging by my side, because the dwarf’s incredulous stare is proof enough that pointing it at him would be superfluous.

  The threat is clear enough.

  “For the love of Gods, Arkham… what are you doing… look at me, it’s me, Beron!”

  I’m looking.

  “I know who you are, and I’m asking in the name of friendship. Please. Don’t make me use force.”

  Please, old friend. Don’t reach out for the sawed-off shotgun underneath the counter. I know you keep it there. Don’t do it. I beg you. I implore you not to do it. Gods, make him see sense.

  He hesitates, his face is sad.

  Shiny eyes.

  Oh I beg you, I beg you, don’t you leave me on the ground as well.

  Don’t go against me.

  Don’t do something so…

  “I…” he says in an unsure voice, heartbroken, but gaining confidence as he speaks. “… I cannot be an accomplice to this massacre, sonny. I can’t allow it. Even if it’s you. Even if I owe you my life.”

  … stupid.

  “I have to stop you, don’t you see?” It’s more of a case of distraught imploring than a threat.

  His stubby right hand starts to make its way down, slowly. Downwards, out of my line of vision. Towards the butt of the shotgun. I follow it out of the corner of my eye, while it moves farther away, my pupils never leave his. They are genuine, wrought by deep torment. But bitterly determined.

  “Don’t do it, Professor.”

  “… I have to…” he replies in a faint voice.

  His hand has disappeared. It’ll be on the butt of the shotgun by now.

  “Goodbye, Beron.”

  I’m not sure how long I stood there staring at his body lying on the floor. When my brain starts up again it’s as though it has excluded what has just happened. I don’t remember shooting him. But there he is, on the floor, a rivulet of blood snaking out of a hole in his forehead, I’m the only person here, and there’s a gun in my hand.

  I step over him, careful not to touch him. Contact will make it all real, materialise the event in all its horror. Without turning around I back away towards the stairs to the cellar, until he disappears behind the wall.

  The circuit breaker comes on. The emergency system kicks in which cuts out all secondary circuits. My movements are jerky. Only one of the two neon strip lights hanging in the cellar is working, it projects its insufficient, gloomy light. The two war weapons are sitting in a metal cage, whitened by over half a century’s worth of dust. There are also several bottles of whiskey on a shelf. I feel like I’m watching myself from a distance.

  I snatch a bottle and knock back a quarter of it without pausing for breath, wipe my mouth on a corner of the cape and stuff the bottle in my bag. I wrench open the old padlock on the cage with a crowbar I found lying around. One by one I roll the barrels as far as the stairs, inside a grey cloud. When I turn them they make a noise that sounds like sand. They contain pulverised bars of edomancy, before they were reduced to powder they were engraved with runes which are now lost forever. In this respect, Beron’s wishes have been honoured: his secret has died with him .

  I carry them upstairs, completely immune to the physical strain. I dodge the body and push them to the door. I go out, open the boot of the vehicle, go back inside, load one of the barrels, make sure no one’s seen me, then I load the other and close the boot again. The aviomobile softly bounces on its magical cushion. I return inside the shop, get the remote control and the detonators and go upstairs again.

  I stop for a moment and gaze at the dead dwarf. I cock my head to one side, then to the other. I don’t know what it is that’s keeping me at the scene of the crime. It doesn’t make sense. I should go immediately.

  Tonight

  Without realising it I find myself at the wheel of the aviomobile. I’ve driven several kilometres. I’ve done something terrible but at this point in time I can’t remember what it is. There’s time for that later.

  I bring the hovering vehicle to a stop at the bottom of the Lovl’Atheron spire, next to the car that I fortuitously parked here aeons ago.

  Gilder is not being very helpful, however, I still manage to transfer his prints onto Cohl’s gun. Then I dismantle the gun and put it in an evidence bag I get out of the glove compartment of my trusty old banger. All I have to do now is position the detonators in the boot. I run my finger along the activation runes, which respond by glowing bright red for an instant. The remote controls, similar in terms of size and weight to dominos, attune themselves and produce the same phenomenon. One would be enough really, but just to be on the safe side. I’ve never heard of a faulty rune however. I put them in my pocket and close the door.

  If I remember correctly, this is the whole story nearing its epilogue. There is a list of locations saved in the memory, I instruct the satnav to go “home”, Nylmeris’s, obviously. While the LMI rises and my car gets smaller and smaller, the past week—in actual fact it
’s not even a whole week—whizzes before my eyes like a film on fast-forward.

  I take a deep breath and force the air out through my nostrils hoping that it takes all my anxiety and that lump in my throat with it. But it doesn’t happen. My hands are trembling, locking them until my knuckles turn white, doesn’t help in the slightest. It doesn’t matter much, the plan doesn’t include any more shooting; in fact, once I’m inside, if I touch any weapon at all for any reason, it means that I am mathematically dead. No stroke of luck can save me from a tower packed with livid asses. I have to use my brain.

  I fly over the dismal urban landscape. Deformed, grandiose, branded by a particular destiny which has been clear for over a thousand years. Nectropis is dazzled by itself. It is unaware of its own vulnerability, it forgets that it was wounded once before, a long time ago. Indeed it laughs at the idea that it could happen again. The elves’ city belongs to the vampires now, it thinks it is eternal, blind to the sunrises and the sunsets, removed from recurrences of history. Facing Valan, the very thought electrifies me, means facing the whole City. Nobody personifies its essence quite like the patriarchal elf, whom not even the Apocalypse was able to break.

  The idea that I will be the first one to defeat him makes the world’s silent mockery more resonant. A monkey scampering across the palm of a god. All I have to do is close my fist and this madness will be over.

  The vehicle continues to gain height, nearly the whole height of the tower, my ears block. I slow down just before I get to the terrace where I was greeted by the naked slut, then the autopilot automatically continues horizontally towards the wall, threatening to crash into it. A section of the wall opens up just in time, falling forwards like a drawbridge hanging in thin air. With only millimetres to spare on each side, the aviomobile enters the opening while progressively reducing its speed, until it comes to a complete stop inside a tidy garage, smelling of petrol. From the rear view mirror I watch the wall go back to normal, thus sealing the room. Elves think of everything, they seem to have included a system which compensates for the annoying noise.