I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2)

by Tony Monchinski

  Not that Terry or DeAndre had been born in Kingstown or Kingston. That was where their momma was from. Terry and DeAndre both born in St. John’s Hospital on Queens Boulevard.

  “This the bomb right here, yo,” Fred turned the knob on the stereo, raising the volume, Butsa Nuts rapping about the days of way back.

  DeAndre pressed the spatula down on his grilled cheese, looking up at Fred. Fools had the t.v. and the radio on, wastin’ electricity like that. What did Terry and his friends care? Was momma gonna foot the bill.

  “Turn that shit down, Red.” Caprice and the others called Fred Red because of the shade of Fred’s hair, his high yellow complexion. “Tryin’ to watch this movie.”

  “…cuz in the days of wayback/brothers would lay back/cut a line drop a line and press the playback…”

  Fred was blazed off the weed making its way around the room, staring at the stereo speaker like it was talking to him.

  DeAndre flipped his grilled cheese, the one side browning the way he liked it.

  DeAndre recognized his brother and his friends as older boys playing at being men, at what they thought it meant to be men. Most of it harmless, but sometimes crossing the line. Like Juan that time jacking that base head, but it wasn’t really jacking because the junkie was half passed out and didn’t put up no fuss. Put up no fuss, as DeAndre’s momma would indubitably put it. Didn’t put up no stink—another of his momma’s little things she said—when Juan went through his pockets, clucker barely responding at all.

  Not that DeAndre’s moms knew about that incident.

  She did, Juan wouldn’t be sitting here in her living room.

  That for sure.

  “…crazy Fahrenheit outside but still snowin in my mind/every time that I bip I find myself cutting new lines…”

  “Yo, Red,” Terry telling Fred now. “Turn it down!”

  Crossing the line was something Luke and his boys Marquis and Yuri were good at. Like that time earlier in the summer when they brung that slow girl from across the way over, talkin’ bout can they use DeAndre’s moms’ place to run a train on the hoe. Running a train and hoe the words they used; DeAndre would never refer to a female that way. His momma had taught him to respect women. Terry that time having the good Christian sense to tell Luke and them hell no.

  Well, maybe his brother hadn’t said hell no, but what Terr’d said, he’d said their momma’d be coming home from work anytime and that’d sent Luke and them somewhere else.

  The rec room of building four from what DeAndre heard.

  Carlotta was the name of the girl they’d called a hoe. DeAndre knew her from school. ‘Lotta in the special class. Wasn’t right.

  “…lines that astound me/lines that confound me…”

  “Red!”

  “Huh? Whut? Sorry.” Fred lowered the volume on the stereo, Larry Fishburne on the television handing the kids in the fast food place coins for the video games, saying no offense to their grandmother, handing her a hundred, telling her to get the kids whatever they wanted.

  DeAndre’s momma persisted in believing in something called the American Dream. That with enough hard work they would make good, even as she worked her ass off at two jobs to keep food in their mouths. In Ronald’s mouth, DeAndre corrected himself, looking at the fat bastard sitting there. Their momma at work more than she was at home. Their momma at work now, with these fools in her living room smoking weed, wasting their electricity on the television and the stereo.

  Luke with his legs up on her chair and Terry ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to him about it.

  Fred stepped away from the stereo and its speakers, going to the bathroom, not even bothering to shut the door. Fred was gonna piss all over the bowl like always. Leaving it for someone else to clean up. DeAndre knowing that someone else was going to be his momma. Not like Terry was gonna clean up after his nasty-assed friends.

  On the television the cops had come into the chicken joint, had Fishburne cuffed and bent over the counter. David Caruso telling him it was his luckiest day, they had a witness. Fishburne’s Jimmy blurting “I don’t leave no witnesses!”

  “Oh yeah motherfucker? Well you must be getting old.”

  DeAndre wondering where these older boys got their ideas of what it meant to be a man, to be an adult. None of it was any dream or plan he shared. Luke in his momma’s chair talking on some kind of upcoming criminal exploit he’d planned or was planning. Luke liked to talk, especially when his head was up behind some weed.

  “Word?” Caprice said to Luke. “Shit. Hope you know what you getting’ yourself into, rollin’ with Dodd.”

  “Dodds’ no joke,” said Terry. “I heard he was away behind icin’ somebody.”

  “What I heard too.” Ronald stuffed Chinese food in his mouth.

  “And the nigger no snitch, neither.” Luke talked like he knew the man. “Kept his mouth shut, did his time like a G.”

  “Yo, youse niggas is trippin’ yo.” Caprice motioned with the joint in his hand, its red tip glowing. “I heard the man’s a registered sex offender.” DeAndre listenin’ in on their conversation as he transferred his sandwich to a plate, having to smile to himself. Knowing what Caprice was doing, Caprice messin’ with the others. Caprice in some ways the smartest of his brother’s friends.

  “What?” asked Luke.

  “Yo, don’t let nobody hear you talkin’ bout that.” DeAndre not sure if Juan was in on the joke or thought he was being serious.

  “What?” Luke sat up in their momma’s chair, actually taking his legs down off the arm rest.

  “No, I’m for real. Dodd come out of Dannemora or wherever it was they had him, nigga had to go round knockin’ on peoples’ doors lettin’ them know who he was, what he was about. Ask your moms.”

  “Like my Uncle Darryl that time,” volunteered Ronald.

  “You serious?” Luke turning this over in his mind, thinking maybe he’d pass the job off to Yuri or Marquis.

  “Serious like a heart attack, nigga.”

  “Damn.”

  Caprice waited a few beats, said “Gotcha!” He leaned over the couch, high-fiving Terry, both boys laughing. Ronald looked puzzled, asking “For real?” because he’d been for real about his Uncle Darryl that time.

  “Oh no, you didn’t,” Luke realizing they’d been messing with him, starting to relax himself. “That was good.” Luke smiled but did not look happy. “That was good, Caprice, I give you that.” He didn’t like to be made the butt of a joke.

  DeAndre put the pitcher of Kool Aid back in the fridge, very interested in the scene.

  “Cryin’ wolf motherfucker,” Luke said it with a smile, not saying it like he was mad, but DeAndre imagined he was. “You watch. That shit gonna come back and haunt you one of these days. Pass me that cheeba.”

  Caprice and Terry still laughing.

  “This Chinese food alright.” Ronald poked around in the white container with his fork, looking for bits of pork and other holdouts. Ronald saying it like it was okay, not great. DeAndre passed through the room with his sandwich and drink, tempted to tell Ronald maybe next time he should buy his own instead of eatin’ other peoples’. Deciding it wasn’t worth it. Nothing got through Ronald’s fat head unless it went in his gullet.

  “Hey, shorty.” Ronald’s nose sniffed out the grilled cheese. “Let me get a bite of that, huh?”

  “No,” said DeAndre, stepping into his room, closing the door.

  He set his plate on the bed and sat with his back to the wall. The metronome ticked off its beats as he ate his sandwich. DeAndre Watkins in his room, on his bed.

  tic tic tic

  Tamarek on the wall at Kar Dap-Salam, guarding against the Northland invasion.

  tic tic tic

  Because they were coming, the Northlanders. Mazalan’s orcs and trolls.

  Indubitably.

  Friday

  16 October 1998

  11.

  9:17 A.M.

  “I am going to remove your gag,” Th
e vampire that said its name was Colson said to him, “but if you carry on as you were with the Dark Lord I will immediately replace it.”

  “Don’t worry.” The gag had come out and Boone worked his mouth. “I don’t know you fags—” He saw how the one vamp, Pomeroy, reacted ever so slightly to the dig, confirming his suspicions “—good enough to hate you like I hate him. Not yet I don’t.”

  “Not yet.” Halstead was suiting up in traditional Japanese style clothing: Kendo Bogu including a jacket and hakama separated in the middle to form two trouser legs. Most of the floor of the room was padded with thick mats, reminding Boone of when he wrestled in high school.

  “Colson, Halstead, and Pomeroy.” Boone looked the three of them over. “What are you guys, some kind of British royalty?”

  “You don’t think Rainford is his real name.” Halstead slipped on his Men, the helmet with a metal grill. Boone took note of the hard leather and fabric flap that protected the vamp’s neck.

  “What are you two?” Boone asked, Pomeroy already similarly decked out. “Bee keepers?” He thought he heard Pomeroy laugh.

  “Let us—” Colson ignored Boone’s taunts “—catalog your wounds in a one week period. A broken nose, broken back, disemboweled—” the vampire extending a finger and tapping it in his palm for each injury, counting them out “—cast out of an automobile window, shot multiple times—” until it ran out of fingers. “You survived not one but two encounters with Kreshnik—” here Pomeroy and Halstead turned their helmeted heads to give each other a look—“and yet here you are, looking as though you’d prefer nothing better than to burst your fetters and have a go at the three of us at once. Does that sound about right?”

  Boone strained against his bounds again, testing them. “You got it.”

  “You’re going to be going into situations where that bull-headed approach will not serve you well.”

  “Done right by me so far.”

  “It will get you killed.” The way the vampire said it, with certainty.

  “Let me loose,” Boone said calmly. “I’ll show you.”

  “I’m going to. In a moment.” Colson stood there, talking to him, Halstead and Pomeroy with bamboo swords in their hands, stretching. “First, a word about that collar on your neck….” Boone could feel it. “You won’t be able to get it off, no matter how hard you try.”

  “Let me guess. It’s electric.”

  “Boogey-woogie-woogie-woogie,” sang Pomeroy, Halstead turning his helmeted head to look at the other vampire.

  “I control it with this.” Colson gripped a switchboard. “You feel that?” A low level electric current coursed through Boone’s body and ceased.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s as low as it goes, but nowhere near as high as it can go. Pomeroy.”

  The vampire went behind him and Boone could feel it back there, letting him loose. It felt good to stand again, no restraints. He shrugged his shoulders, clenched and unclenched his hands, rotated his neck. Colson hadn’t been kidding about his recent injuries; if anything the vamp has left a couple out. Boone couldn’t explain it, knew he should be dead, but here he was, about to play swords with a trio of bloodsuckers. He reached up and felt the collar around his neck and, yeah, it didn’t feel like the thing was going anywhere.

  “You feel good?” Halstead saw Bone limbering up.

  “Feel great.” Boone smiled at him, like fuck you. “Hey,” to Colson, “where’s my equipment?”

  Halstead and Pomeroy were standing there, covered from head to toe. Hands and lower arms protected under long, thickly padded gloves; breastplates over the chest; tare covering their groins and waists.

  “You don’t get any today.”

  “Okay then.” Boone cracked the knuckles of one hand in his other. “Who’s first?”

  Pomeroy stepped forward, shinai raised, four bamboo slats.

  “Ringo then.” Boone took his eyes off the vamp to address Halstead, “Was hoping it’d be you—“ feigning, leaping forward and swinging on Pomeroy, the vampire that had flinched when he’d said fag springing back, the shinai cutting down, rapping Boone across the back.

  “Skill and discipline will always win out.” Colson stood off to the side, the switchboard in his hands.

  Boone waded in on Pomeroy, swinging both fists, blocking the sword with his forearm, snapping out with a leg, driving the vampire back. Pomeroy gave ground and parried, batting Boone about the head and shoulders, the big, young man never pausing, pushing Pomeroy to the edge of the mat and delivering a right hand that knocked the helmeted vampire down.

  Boone hopped right on top of him, reigning blows, looking for a weakness in the padding, ignoring Colson’s commands until the current hit him and he stiffened, muscles locking, his lips peeling back off his gums. He fell over and when he could stand he found he had pissed himself. Pomeroy was already on its feet, circling away from him.

  “…was that…” Boone growled at Colson “…what was that about skill and discipline?”

  “Ah-hem.” Halstead was waiting for him across the mat.

  “What will you do,” Colson spoke from the side, “when you are confronted with multiple attackers?”

  “So what?” Boone snapped. Halstead in front of him, Pomeroy behind. “Playing with sticks is supposed to teach me how to better fuck up you bloodsuckers?”

  “No.” Colson told him. “One practices Kendo to better perform Kendo. One practices Kendo to instill discipline. Have you ever heard the concept and purpose of Kendo?”

  Pomeroy tried to take him from behind and when Boone turned to face that threat Halstead moved in, his shinai cracking Boone in the thigh—“To mold the mind and body”—Boone twisting and blocking the blow aimed at his head, Pomeroy catching him in the back—“To cultivate a vigorous spirit”—Colson standing there doing shit except spouting off at the mouth—“to associate with others with sincerity”—Boone knocking Halstead back three steps with the sole of his foot, raising a forearm to block Pomeroy’s strike—“to contribute to the development of culture”—but too late, taking the blow to his skull, shaking it off, the Kendo code ringing in his ears—“to promote peace and prosperity among all peoples.”

  Boone dropped to a knee and drove his fist into Pomeroy’s covered groin like a piston—fuck had to feel that even with the armor. He took Halstead’s sword blow to his shoulder and got his hand around to the top of the thing’s helmet, snapping the vampire down, spinning behind it, sweeping Pomeroy off its feet with his leg, smashing Halstead in the back with an elbow, ignoring Colson’s commands.

  He was on top of Halstead, pummeling with his fists and elbows, when Colson let him have it, the collar around his neck frying him, his body stiffening, arms straightening and shaking. His bladder already emptied, Boone would have pissed himself again.

  When he could regain his feet, Pomeroy and Halstead were already on theirs, on either side of the mat.

  “How did that feel?” Colson asked.

  “Think I came in my pants that time.”

  Colson spoke to the two vampires. “Again.”

  12.

  8:35 P.M.

  Gritz was seated at the bar in Jackie’s, a glass of vodka and his Faust open in front of him. The stool on his one side empty. The stool on the other was occupied, but the guy had his back to Gritz, talking to a friend.

  “Let me get three Corona Lights.”

  Recognizing the voice, Gritz pulled himself away from the continuing adventures of Mephistopheles and Doctor Faustus. “You’re too young to be drinking in a cop bar, Smith.”

  “Hello, detective.” Jason Smith, dressed in street clothes, didn’t look overly thrilled to see Gritz.

  “Don’t you got a wife or something?”

  “I have a girlfriend.” Smith looked across the room and Gritz turned slightly in his seat, spying her over there with another guy. Pretty girl. Gritz figured the other guy for one of Jason’s cop buddies.

  “You should be at Webster Hall
with her. Not here.” Jackie’s dark wood paneling with framed photos of police brass on the walls.

  “We’re here for the band.” A small stage was set with a drum kit and other equipment, a sound man or somebody getting things ready. Jason had craned his neck, got a look at the book on the bar in front of Gritz. He didn’t comment on Gritz’s choice of reading material. “How’s the case going, detective?”

  “I’m looking into some leads.”

  Jason picked up some of the change the bartender had deposited on the bar, leaving a couple singles. He nodded at Gritz—“Take care of yourself, Jason”—gathered his longnecks and departed, back to his table, his friend, and his girl.

  Gritz took a sip of his vodka, went to put the glass down, figured the fuck not and threw back what was left in one gulp. He tapped the glass on the bar, getting Jackie’s attention, then lost himself in thought looking across at the shelf of booze.

  This Mephisto serial killer guy. Wasn’t his case, but Gritz had a feeling about this one. Guy—they were invariably men in these kinds of things—was taking it out of the city now, into Jersey. Threatening the local papers that they better publish his manifesto or he would kill again, like that Kaczynski fuck.

  That other carnage over in the Bronx back in the second week of September. Lots of blood and bullet holes, shell casings, but only one body for all that. Guy’d been bled out from the neck; someone had put a hole in his throat, drained him from it like a spigot. Dead guy had a rap sheet on him too: breaking and entering, trespassing, petty theft. From Gritz’s experience, what you could learn about them from their papers was usually the tip of the iceberg. And from the scene at the warehouse, it looked like the guy had been involved in something lot more serious than B & E.