Death's Reckoning

by Will Molinar

  “You ain’t much to look at,” Jerrod said.

  “Jerrod, if you could explain this.”

  Shoving aside two of his guards that were helpless to stop him, Jerrod towered over Cassius. His breath was enough to overwhelm the hardiest of men.

  “You don’t listen good, do you? I said shut yer mouth. You know, your boss was a coward; shit himself before I even stuck him. You were there, you smelled it.”

  Cassius felt his knees go weak, and in an ironic nightmare, his bowels loosened. He held them tight, but the urge to wet himself came on strong.

  Jerrod snapped his fingers, and some his men tied Cassius’ guards. They dragged them away to do god knew what on the other side of the alley. The men along the roof disappeared, slinking away into the darkness. Cassius was alone with this monster.

  “Have a seat, pal.”

  Cassius, numb and frightened, obeyed without even thinking of what he was doing. A sticky substance warmed his backside as he plopped down to the ground. Jerrod dropped a bundle in his lap, and at first he thought it might be a severed head. That’s what these people did.

  But no, it smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg, a pleasant bouquet that made his stomach grumble despite his fear.

  “Eat something,” Jerrod said. “Might settle your stomach and help you think better.” Jerrod sat down right in front of him, legs crossed. The killer moved with an incredible amount of agility for a man of any size, let alone one of his bulk. He opened a skin of wine, drank some, and handed it over to Cassius. “Drink.”

  It wasn’t a request. Cassius took the proffered wine and took a sip. It did in fact calm his nerves. It was quite good, of very high quality, and Cassius wondered where a ruffian like Jerrod had gotten it. Then he realized how famished he was. He hadn’t eaten much all day, and the idea of warm bread in his gut was appealing. It was delicious.

  “See,” Jerrod said, “I say a man don’t think too good on an empty stomach, what with important decisions and all in front of him. When I give a guy a choice, I want him thinkin’ clear, see?”

  Cassius did feel better. The sudden realization of his present reality, perhaps his last moments of breath, struck him hard, but the warmth of food in his belly and the heat from the wine steadied him. He burped and almost vomited but held it tight, summoning courage. But the lord held his tongue, remembering Jerrod’s warning about not talking unless asked.

  Jerrod nodded, looking pleased. “There, now. That’s better. Now we can get the preliminaries out of the way. First, why are you rooting around at the arena and the betting tents? Who told you I was someone you could fuck with? You messed up my flow at that place, fella. I had a good thing going.”

  Cassius felt a laugh almost escape his lips. “The arena?! That’s what this is all about? My dear man, there is a misunderstanding here. I am not to blame for your woes at the arena or betting tents. Speak to the management there.”

  Jerrod went silent and the aura emanating from him, crouched down there in the dark like a hulking panther, dank alleyway, his features dark and obscured by shadows, was the most frightening image Cassius had ever seen.

  “You know what, pal, I don’t like it when folks lie to me, nope, not one damn bit. Don’t appreciate wasting my time. Kinda makes me mad, that.” He stood and motioned for Cassius to do the same, but the city official found his legs were weak and his head light again.

  He hesitated standing, but when Jerrod took a menacing step forward he rose in a flash, hands up. “I give you my word, Jerrod! You can run the arena how you see fit. They are yours. We’ll take only the normal tax, the city cannot run without it, understand, but I will interfere with your operation no further. I’m pleased you’ve found success there. It was wrong to set my sights on you. You are most ingenious and skilled.”

  “The fact you know all this about me pisses me off. It’s none of your damn business what I do or don’t do.”

  “Oh, no, no! Of course not. I only meant to ease your mind.”

  “Shut yer face, you little weasel.”

  Jerrod’s gaze never left Cassius. It was eerie. The brutal man sounded so casual yet gruff. His lumbering frame stayed tense and alert, eyes sharp, ready for anything. If a thousand arrows came streaking out of the sky, Jerrod would have been ready. He scratched at the stumble on his chin and smiled. It was not a pleasant sight.

  “See, you and me are gonna make a deal right now.” He indicated the men who were still circled around their position, Jerrod’s men, and maybe people Cassius couldn’t even see. “See how easy this was? To get you right here, in this position.” He snapped his fingers. “Came off like that. Think on that. Over the next few weeks, you might start to waver on your promise to stay out of our business, my business. You might start feeling very secure sitting in your little office, surrounded by extra security.

  “Well, you just forget about all that, bub. I can get to you. It might take a longer, but I’ll get to you, like your boss. But this time it won’t be quick. I’ll make you suffer first.”

  Jerrod stepped closer and his body dwarfed Cassius as if he were a child caught by a bear. “Let’s make this all very clear: the arena and the betting tents are off limits to the city council, for all time. Whatever rearrangement you got planned for the merchants and the rest of the city, I don’t give a shit. But you stay the hell outta our business. Ya got that?”

  Cassius swallowed a large lump down his throat and spoke. It wasn’t easy forming the words. He had never been so unnerved by someone.

  “Y-y-yes! Of course. We never had any intention of interfering with that operation, I swear it.”

  Jerrod snickered and waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, pal. Just so we’re clear.”

  ‘What a man this was,’ Cassius thought. ‘What power he wielded, what sheer force. He could be useful.’

  Jerrod walked away with pure simplicity of thought and action, no hesitation. Direct, effective, so much different than Cassius was accustomed to in his line of work. His world was complex. Jerrod was the antithesis. Together they might shake nations.

  “Jerrod,” Cassius said to Jerrod’s back, regaining his composure. “I think a man of your talents would be useful to a man of my resources. I am very thankful to you for pointing out my faults in security.”

  Jerrod stopped and faced him. His tone was serious. “If the price is right, I’m your man.”

  “And my men, my guards, you’ll return them unharmed?”

  “After we ransom them out to their families… they ain’t much use to me.”

  “I’ll pay it. But on the condition I can call on you in the future if I find the need.”

  Jerrod stood still in that dark alley. The black outline of his enormous body visible, hulking. He sounded amused but interested. “I’ll send you the bill.”

  * * * * *

  Cubbins stepped forward and lost himself.

  All thoughts were fleeting… time, place, sense of self. They floated with a vague awareness that Jenkins, Unri, and Madam Dreary were somewhere nearby him. They were lost as he was, yet tied together by her direction, her lustful pull, the wanton whore.

  She was irresistible, though, older, wiser, and more adorable than any of her stock of women. As a man nearer to thirty than twenty, Cubbins could appreciate a woman like her. A seasoned woman, an experienced woman was something to treasure.

  There was no mission, no reason for his presence, no history to his life, nothing but following her through a dim lit hallway. The warm glow suffused the surroundings, grim and dreamlike. The origin of this light was impossible to guess. It seemed to come from all around and nowhere at once.

  Jenkins stumbled and smashed his face into Cubbins’ back. Cubbins felt the hard substance of his bony chin.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Reeeeee-laaaaxxxxx….” The word slurred out slow and ponderous, heavy as his head. Then the world sped up. “Take it easy, sergeant.”

  “I will. But where is she leading us, captain?”
r />   “I don’t know.”

  They looked to Unri for answers, but the swarthy man wore a blank expression, stepping along as if sleep walking. Cubbins continued to follow the exotic woman, the woman of his dreams, one impossible to turn away from. They reached some steps hewn of bone, stiff and grotesque. They were dry, as ancient as the mountains that surrounded Sea Haven.

  They were brittle, and while Cubbins continued to walk forward there was a temptation to charge out the way they came, screaming in fear. The bones crunched and rubbed his boots in a strange way underneath his feet. The walls pulsated shadows, shimmering and wondrous.

  But then it all seemed very natural and fine to Cubbins. It was how the world was, deep within the collective unconsciousness of humanity. All life wasted away; entropy knew no master, heeded no plea of mercy from man nor beast. Nothing could claim eternity.

  Cubbins and his little band of fools could do nothing to stop it. They were mere bumps or hiccups along the way, designed to feed the great machine. Their fate was sealed, as was all of humankind. Everyone would die someday, sooner than later. There was never any question of it.

  Death was a possibility everyday as police captain in the most murderous city on the coast; however, this was different. This was overarching, all-encompassing death, beyond his meager human consciousness. Inevitability came for all.

  They walked down and down into the depths of despair where all hope was forfeit. There was no inclination to buffer himself against it, or to arrest his descent.

  “This is where we all must go,” Madam Dreary said over her shoulder, sounding so matter-of-fact, so casual, Cubbins never thought to question her. “There is no choice in the matter. It happens to us all.”

  Her voice sounded faraway, distorted as if she were underwater. Her form appeared shrouded in a mist like a soft veil covering her. It covered the room and them all; a thin, gossamer curtain clung to their clothes like spider webs, strong and fibrous.

  Cubbins stepped through, over and over, like walking through rain that hadn’t coalesced into a downpour. Their funeral shroud, striking his face, sprinkled across his body.

  “Enough,” the police captain said. “Tell me where we are.”

  Madam Dreary stopped. Her features were obscured by the mist. Her voice sounded slow and dull. “I brought you to the answer. You wanted to know what happened to people when they become lost.”

  Cubbins stepped forward with extreme force, his blood pumping, and his humanity regained. He grabbed her by the shoulders, and she stood numb to it.

  “I came here to find the man responsible and end him.”

  “You cannot kill an idea. You do not understand. This is our end.”

  Cubbins slapped her hard. “Show me where he is! Show me now.”

  The air shimmered and rolled back like a wave. This wasn’t the place. It could not have been. Not here, not like this.

  Different, so different. Not the same. It wasn’t what they—

  Darkness was on their backs. Those were the only two certainties. The rest didn’t matter.

  Rolling laughter struck his consciousness, and then a voice dug deeper. “This one is strong indeed, very impressive. He may, in fact, fill my remaining vessels with his meat and gristle. Yet taking multiples is always problematic. We shall see.”

  Cubbins squeezed his hands and opened his eyes. He saw nothing but a dull grey haze. Flexing his arms hard drew a shocking pain, and a groan escaped his lips. There was a sticky film over his eyes. He held onto a thread from before, a thought, something to tie him with his life, his personal being, and what it meant to be him. The grasp was tenuous.

  There were others. Three others. No, two others. One of them was named Jenkins. His officer. A man like him. No, Jenkins was a boy, with sandy colored hair and the hint of freckles. The young man shouldn’t have been there. It was beyond him. It was beyond them all.

  The other one, the other one, the other one… who was it? Damn you, Barthomew Cubbins, focus!

  His mind screamed at him to move, to shake, to dance, to sit up and take notice, to snap back to reality. That arm… that arm under his bed. That was it. The first plug into this world, the first flush of real death brought to his doorstep. That was his thread, his pull back to reality, and he tugged on the image.

  In his mind’s eye it was there, at that moment, and he was not laid out on a slab. But, that wasn’t the way to go about it. It was more important to be awake, to be cognizant of their predicament, so as to escape. Flexing his fingers again felt stronger. The thread would keep him grounded. His movements would awake his body.

  Blood flowed into his veins, pumping his life’s fluid. He was still alive! Back and forth from heart to body, body to heart. The breathing in his chest, the solid constriction and release of the sternum.

  Rolling laughter struck again. “Ah, such a man this is! What a wonderful bounty I will gather this night. I will reap from his sinews a powerful extraction. This is glorious.”

  Wake up!

  Malthus Benaire will take you, Cubbins. He will flay the skin from your bones. This fiend will gut you and let your entrails hang over the slab while he soaks up every single drop of blood.

  Cubbins flexed his fingers and felt stronger, the haze lifting. The digits moved and the strain in the forearm muscles increased. The pain was immense and made him groan. Pain was beneficial for the visceral impact helped remind him who he was, where he was, and what was happening. It reminded him that he was alive.

  The other man, the other man, the other one was a foreigner! Dark skin, weathered by a life in the sun. A beard, black with streaks of white gave him a handsome though rough appearance. The features were taciturn, but there was a deep sense of sadness to his eyes and a hint of kindness.

  Cubbins had it. Unri, which was his name. They came to fight this evil, this entity. The arm, the severed arm! Hold on to that, damn you. That’s the link, what started him on this path, that and his own fatalistic attitude. The men came to fight this thing, and when it had slaked its thirst on the people Cubbins was paid to protect, it would move on and leave them a shriveled husk.

  Some of the people would survive, but the city would be changed into a blighted vortex of death where people would grow up different. It was a wicked town and deserved this fate.

  Cubbins and Jenkins and Unri wouldn’t survive to see this end anyway, so it didn’t matter.

  Moaning again and working his jaw felt good, along with a shift of his hands. It began to dawn on him, that it was not a physical imprisonment but one of the mind. A trickle of vague shapes danced in his vision, but it didn’t matter, none of it did. They were all doomed to die, every single person alive, except this thing, this scourge would always be there. For death rules the world.

  Someone moved neared him, shifting their weight. Their breathing grew heavier, added to rapid pulse of desperation. It was the breathing of the damned. They couldn’t fight. It was so much easier to submit to the inevitable. Lay back and rest and the world’s troubles would disappear.

  Fight! Damn you, fight!

  Squeeze your damn fingers, Cubbins, harder. Great pain. Harder. There, much better. The pain reminded him he was alive, he lived! More pain, shooting down his arms, electrified his body.

  Then it was like coming up for air, rising above the surface of water, and the haze lifted. Sound returned in a blare of crunching noise and the clang of metal on stone, like a pole axe striking a castle wall. He was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling of some unknown room. Red silk billowed by some indoor breeze. His arms hung down to his side. Being unbound didn’t surprise him. Their enemy didn’t need mundane contrivances.

  The smell of perfume hung thick in the air, yet the scent of offal and loose bowels, like a war time latrine, flittered about.

  Others were with him, though impossible to see because of another partition somewhere to his right covered a vast majority of the room. Cubbins feared to crane his neck too far or his head might’ve exploded i
n pain. His temples throbbed. Unri was close by, laid out on a table like a sacrificial victim, arms down to his side much as Cubbins was, and like the police captain he struggled and fought against his mental bounds.

  His teeth were clenched; his eyes shut tight. His breath came in short, tight bursts and veins stood out on his neck like corded metal. Sweat rolled down his face, and his body twitched.

  “Un-Unri,” Cubbins said, forgetting for a moment how to speak and unsure if he could. The words caught deep in his throat and stuck like tar. He gagged on a heavy tongue and coughed again and again. He hacked up slimy phlegm and tried again. Another coughing fit left him spent. His eyes burned and swam with tears brought on by the searing pain in his entire body. Every part ached with sheer agony.

  Jenkins was here too. Somewhere, behind the curtain, along with another. Somehow Cubbins knew that. A fourth victim was here, already stripped and laid bare.

  The police captain jerked his head around. An explosion of pain erupted in his skull, yet he glanced over to where another table was set up. Another victim lay in garish display, eviscerated and forgotten. Poor foolish bastard, whomever it was. This was the place their enemy brought all his prey.

  Someone whistled a clear and happy yet sinister sound. A figure crouched back by the large curtain. There was the outline of a large hat through the gossamer red silk covering the two compartments. A cape hung on wide shoulders and dripped down to the floor. It was flung about when the figure’s arms moved.

  The hat tilted and turned as something in front of him warranted his full attention. The figure poked and prodded at something. It mumbled some incoherent gibberish.

  A poor fool laid prostrate like a shorn deer, sprawled out on the table. Cubbins had seen it, seen it all happen. He remembered. The madam brought them in, and the man had made them watch! It was gruesome, horrific, more than a human being should be made to endure. More death, more undeniable fate placed upon Cubbins’ mind to ensure submission.