by Jon F. Merz
Ian held up his hands. "Harrison, for God's sakes man, get control of yourself!"
"It's too late for me, Ian. I needed that compound. Not some pedantic scientific morality. You're no better than a soapbox vicar who wants his flock to be good but then goes and drinks himself silly. You're a hypocrite."
Ian fell back over the chair and dropped to the floor. Harrison grabbed him by the lapels and hefted him into the air.
"You've as much as killed me, brother," said Harrison. "It's only fair I return the favor."
Ian screamed.
Harrison jammed the jagged shards of the broken test tube into his eye and kept going until they entered Ian's brain.
Ian's body shuddered once and then Harrison let him slump to the floor dead.
"My paradise is lost," said Harrison.
***
From evidence collected by the Southhampton Constabulary following the discovery of corpse later identified as one Harrison Willoughby.
Journal Entry dated 10/24/98
Having pieced together most of my dead brother's journal, I have felt confident enough to begin making the first batch of the elixir. It was a long process and I was forced to dredge up what little memory of chemistry classes I still possessed in order to accomplish the task at hand. The fruits of my labor now rest before me, ready to inject.
If this goes as expected, I will be once again firmly in the embrace of love and all its variations. My Julia, she waits for me there, in some limbo existence that pulls me with strength far greater than anything I've ever known in this life. I must go to her.
When I return from this trip, I will begin making more batches of the chemical to sell. All must have this experience, for surely having loved is the greatest dream of mankind.
I hope my calculations were correct. Ian's journal warns of danger if the wrong measurements and ingredients are mixed, but I must go forth without hesitation, for only when we step boldly into the unknown do we risk the greatest rewards or the worst failures.
And I am, after all, a gambling man.
Reality Shattered
Another example of how I was mixing crime, espionage, and horror to come up with some fairly cool ideas (well, I thought they were cool). This story was picked up by “Cabal Asylum” in 1998 and slated for publication almost two years later due to their incredible backlog. I’m not sure if it ever ran, but I’ve got the acceptance letter to prove they loved it.
Twilight.
In the darkening doorway across from the burned out apartment building, Detective Kevin Bertrand watched the second day of rain, courtesy of El Nino, bombard the pockmarked streets and turn the gutters into overflowing rivers of paper, cans and cigarette butts.
The doorway offered little protection from the rain, but it was enough to allow him the miracle of striking a match for the unfiltered Turkish cigarettes he always smoked. In the cold air, the flame hissed and bit into the end of the tobacco. Bertrand waved the match, dismissing it as callously as he inhaled long and hard on the bright red crushed leaves folded inside the gray cigarette paper.
His contact would come soon.
He exhaled then, a long steady stream of dark smoke that danced in front of his eyes before getting caught by the strong gusts of wind and vanishing almost as fast as Bertrand could breathe in and out.
Just behind his right hip, where the bulge would be least noticeable, Bertrand carried his USP 9mm. The gun was high-tech. And as a cop, he'd even been able to get his hands on one of the military issues, designed for Special Operations teams like Delta Force and SEAL Team Six. It had come complete with an attachable suppressor and light source.
But Bertrand carried just the pistol itself. Damned thing was almost indestructible. And the Winchester Black Talon rounds he carried were lethal man-stopping bullets, no ifs, ands, or buts. Get hit with one of those puppies and it was down to the mat for the count.
Bertrand regarded the overcast sky again, seeking a shred of moonlight among the suffocating canopy of ebony rain clouds.
"Helluva night to be out, Bertrand."
Now he was talking to himself. He sighed. That clinched it. He'd been working much too hard. Hadn't that been what Susan always told him? And she'd been right, as much as Bertrand would never admit it. She'd known that and walked. Bertrand's mistress, the Boston Police Department, was a jealous bitch who never forgave Bertrand for not paying attention to her.
He leaned into the exposed bricks, felt the damp cold seep through the London Fog raincoat he'd bought on sale at Filene's Basement, and then straightened himself again.
Surveillance was exhausting work.
As a kid he'd always fantasized about being on a stake out. The thrill of car chases, shoot-outs, and rescuing the helpless. All those romantic notions and a steady diet of Kojak had driven him into the force just out of high school.
The honeymoon lasted just over a year. Until he'd caught his partner on the take from a small convenience store run by Vietnamese expatriates trying to forge a better life in the States. Bertrand gave him up to Internal Affairs.
For years after that, he'd been the stool pigeon. Nobody wanted to partner with him. Bertrand went to homicide and found a chilly reception there as well. But at least he could work alone for the most part.
He was a good cop. A dying breed, he'd always insist. But inside he knew better. He'd messed up by fingering Louie. And he'd pay the price until he retired.
But that was still another ten years out. Time enough still to make a name for himself.
He spat the last bit of the cigarette out of his mouth, ground it underfoot, and dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets.
When would they get here?
It had started a week ago. Two stiffs found under the 93 underpass by the Chinatown exit. State Cops had found them, but handed it off to Boston. Bertrand's boss had dumped the case on him with a smile and a quick "have fun."
Have fun, indeed. Homicides were a bitch to solve with no witnesses. Well, there'd been that wino who claimed the victims had been disemboweled by some kind of winged demon with sharp fangs and claws.
Bertrand grinned. That'd last long in a court.
Two men had been killed. At least that's what the medical examiner had proclaimed. For his part, Bertrand couldn't make heads or tales of them. Tough to do when the genitalia, intestines, and heads had been torn off of their bodies.
Two more showed up two days later. This time over in Allston by the Massachusetts Turnpike. Bertrand developed a migraine.
The phone call hadn't helped.
Bertrand had been going over the fine print of the ME's autopsy report which concluded the damage had been caused by a raking motion, most like by some kind of garden tool like a rake, when the phone purred on his desk.
And then the voice had filtered into his ear. Seductive. Low. Gravely.
"Detective Bertrand?"
"Yes."
There had been a pause. Bertrand heard a long intake of breath, like wind through tall grass late at night. Then the voice continued.
"You needn't worry about the murders."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because they're not your concern."
"Well, unfortunately, I get this paycheck every week that says they are."
Another pause. "I'm telling you they're not."
Bertrand never liked bullies. "So who the hell are you?"
"Let's just say I'm taking responsibility for the murders, all right?"
"No."
"This doesn't concern you, Detective. Stay away from it."
"Bull shit." He motioned another cop to trace the call. He heard chuckling.
"Do not bother with that useless technology. You won't like the results anyway. I will tell you this: the murderer you seek is also being sought by us."
"Who's us?"
"His family." And the line had disconnected.
Bertrand had looked up but the call had terminated before the trace could be completed.
Two days later, another p
air of bodies had surfed into the morgue. Bertrand's boss began sighing heavily whenever he neared Bertrand's desk.
Bertrand began cruising dark underpasses at night. The ME had given him times of death at midnight in each case.
Two weeks in and he got lucky one night in Somerville.
Or maybe it was unlucky.
As he sat in his souped up overt Ford Crown Victoria Ltd. listening to some barely tolerable monotonous deejay carve away the evening hours with old REO Speedwagon songs, he suddenly observed a dark mass swoop past his car windows and head directly into the underpass.
Bertrand had clambered out of the unmarked cruiser and thumbed the safety off of his USP before venturing forth with his Mag Lite in his other hand.
The entrance to that underpass had been strewn with broken glass that crushed underfoot as Bertrand moved forward. It was then the sounds reached his ears.
The way he remembered it now, it sounded like someone sucking the last bits of sauce-laden meat off of buffalo wings. But there was something wholly unsettling about hearing those sounds when the nearest restaurant was two miles away from there.
The Mag Lite tossed the equivalent of 1200 candles worth of light into the tunnel as Bertrand brought his pistol up to just below the horizon.
It would be tough to adequately describe what he saw in that pool of light before whatever it was fled with such speed, Bertrand had no chance to fire a single shot. But the frame snapped by his mind's eye showed a creature perched on a large dumpster with black leathery wigs folded back against its horned back. And in its huge claws overflowing with crimson, a pair of bodied dangled. Bertrand knew they were dead.
After all, they had no heads.
He kept what he'd seen to himself. Who would have believed him?
But another phone call came this morning.
"I told you to leave it to us."
Bertrand gripped the phone. "I can't do that. What the hell was that thing?"
"You do not want to know."
"I do wanna know, dammit," said Bertrand.
"No. If you know, it will disrupt the pathetic perspective you humans cling to with such zeal. Your entire view of the cosmos will change in a single second. That knowledge has driven better men than you insane."
"It was a demon, wasn't it?"
There was a pause. "Is that what you think it was?"
"I don't know. I think it looked like that. I guess. Jesus, what the hell am I supposed to do? I can't ignore it."
"You must. Your life depends on it."
"What about you?"
"What about us?"
"How come you can...hunt it?"
"I told you already, we're family. One of our own has gone astray. We'll find him and bring him home."
"I need..." Bertrand stopped. "Never mind."
"You need to know. That's what you were going to say."
"Yes."
The he heard a sigh. "You humans are at once so courageous and yet so utterly foolish. All right, Detective, you'll get your wish. Be at this address tonight just after dark. You'll see what you say you need to know."
And Bertrand was here now. Waiting.
The cloak of darkness settled completely over the city and with it, the sheets of rain continued to fall.
Bertrand shivered.
And then the same voice he'd heard over the phone suddenly filled the doorway.
"You came."
Bertrand wheeled around and saw the red eyes staring at him from the further recesses of the darkness. He could make out no discernible shape around the eyes. They seemed to float there, suspended.
"Yes." Bertrand's hand instinctively ventured for his gun.
"Don't," said the voice. "If I had wanted to harm you, I could have torn you apart already. You don't need the gun."
"What," said Bertrand, "are you?"
"A nightmare born in the bowels of fantasy, now here on this miserable plane."
"Plane? What do you mean?"
"Planes of existence, Detective Bertrand. Not those silly metal flying things that seem to crash so much. Humans call the strangest things progress."
"How did you get here?"
"Inter-dimensional travel isn't difficult at all, Detective. But there are rules. Ancient laws governing what is acceptable and what is not. My brother broke them by coming here."
"Brother?"
"Yes. You see, by law, we are not permitted to enter this plane. Our appearance would upset the realities of this planet. But there are those who do not abide by the laws. They come here."
"Why?"
"Isn't that obvious? To hunt. To feed. Human flesh is a delicacy, after all."
Bertrand backed up. "Good Lord."
"And on occasion, when one of us does venture into this plane, we're spotted. We appear in the annals of legend and folklore, commonly dismissed as fiction, but we are real. Real enough here, and elsewhere."
"You are a demon."
"That, I believe, is your label for us. You seem to attribute our dwelling place as being in Hell. It is not. But I suppose our appearance would inspire that thought."
"And now," said Bertrand, "you'll take your brother back with you?"
"That is the plan, as you say."
"What if he doesn't want to go?"
A low chuckle filled the darkness. "He has no choice. Now come with me. We'll go and see him."
Bertrand stopped as the shape moved past him. "Go see him?"
"That is what you said you wanted, isn't it?"
"I said I wanted this thing finished."
"Then come with me and it will be."
And then they were out in the rain. Light from the lone street lamp down the street penetrated the darkness just enough for Bertrand to make out the creature moving in front of him. Thick scaly skin covered a body of lithe musculature and sweeping limbs. Claws curled back under long arms like sinister fingers. Wings folded down against the horned back.
But there was no tail.
Bertrand caught his breath and started moving again. This must be a bad dream, he thought. A really bad dream.
The demon turned then and regarded him. "It's not, Detective. Get used to it. You're stuck with this knowledge now until you die."
Bertrand said nothing more but followed him to the foundation of the building.
"We go up to the roof now."
Bertrand looked at him. "I'll take the stairs."
"No, you'll ride with me."
Before Bertrand could utter a word of protest, the demon's claws were around his waist and then Bertrand heard a snap of unrolling wings a second before they left the ground.
It felt more like they'd taken a leap than flown up five stories, but then they were on the roof. In the distance, Boston's skyline shone through the rain and darkness.
Then the claws were off of him and Bertrand could move again. "Good lord."
The demon regarded him. "My brother is here. Stay quiet." He turned and took a breath. "Asgarth."
There was a rush of wind that caught Bertrand and sent him staggering back toward the edge of the building.
"Geryuj. So, you've come."
Bertrand looked again and there before them sat a second demon. Bertrand's demon smiled.
"Of course I've come. You broke the law. I have to bring you home."
Asgarth laughed. "I won't go. Geryuj, do you know the pleasure that is mine here? It is nothing like home. Nothing at all. There is so much to do here. The thrill of the hunt is admittedly minute, but the prey is utterly exquisite."
Geryuj shook his head. "You cannot choose this place. It is against the laws of the cosmos."
Asgarth smiled. "And you are innocent of violations?" He gestured at Bertrand. "Consorting with humans? Allowing one to see you? How do you explain that?"
"This human was hunting you. I could not allow him to do so. It required my intervention."
Asgarth laughed again. "You seem convinced he would pose me a threat."
"He could have. This on
e is determined."
"Bah, they are all useless, save for the flesh that grows over their weak bones." Asgarth leaned forward. "Geryuj, admit it, you're curious, aren't you?"
"I'm not."
"You've never indulged, have you? Never tasted the meat of these humans. Never drank the sweet nectar that flows through their veins. Never." he shook his head slowly. "Pity."
Geryuj rose up. "It's time we went."
Asgarth frowned. "Never."
"Don't make me drag you back, Asgarth."
Asgarth laughed. "Geryuj, you always were such a prima donna. Do you think I would come here alone?"
In a flash three more demons flew down to the rooftop. Bertrand fondled his pistol.
Geryuj frowned. "You cannot stay here."
"Why? Because the creator deems it? He is old. Weak. Fragile. Look at the way he allows humans to abuse their world. He cares little for anything anymore. I'm doing him a favor."
"I cannot allow you to stay here."
Asgarth sighed. "That is a shame." And then faster than Bertrand could notice, Asgarth swept his clawed hand out and plunged it straight into Geryuj's skull. Geryuj staggered back, dropped to the rooftop and lay still.
"Jesus," said Bertrand.
Asgarth looked at Geryuj's corpse. "Sorry, brother, but this is too much to give up." He turned and looked at Bertrand. "And you. The threat my brother spoke of. What would you do now?"
Bertrand yanked the USP up and squeezed the trigger three times, aiming at Asgarth's head. The gun exploded thrice and empty shell casings flipped and tumbled out of the ejector port, spilling to the rooftop.
Asgarth yawned.
And as he nonchalantly reached toward Bertrand, the detective consoled himself with the knowledge that decapitation meant instantaneous death.
Asgarth plucked Bertrand up and brought the detective close to his mouth.
"That might be helpful if I intended to start there."
It was then that Bertrand felt the indescribable sensation of Asgarth's claws plunging into his belly. He grew faint as his intestines spilled out of his abdomen, cascading to the roof below.
Then he screamed.
