Vivisepulture
Page 4
‘Filleting knife. Interesting choice, Mister Krane.’
‘Yes, I find it’s much more suited to this kind of work. Obviously less surgical in precision, but you get a neater finish.’
‘Mmmmmnnnnnngggglllllpphhhh!’
‘Really? Well, each to their own I suppose. However, I find there’s more room for error if you start with the scalpel. You can slip a bit, maybe sever something you didn’t mean to without bringing proceedings to a premature end.’
Krane shook his head at this.
‘Oh please, Mister Milo. As if you ever make an error. You’re an artist.’
Milo glanced away, a bashful expression creasing his flabby face. ‘You say the nicest things, Mister Krane. Sometimes I don’t know where to put myself, I really don’t.’
‘Mmmmmmmnnnnnfffrrrrrreeeeeeccchhh!’
‘Oh, I do apologise,’ said Milo, turning his attention to the man on the slab. ‘You must think we’re so very rude, nattering on like this.’
‘Yes, how remiss of us. Would you like to begin, Mister Milo?’
‘Oh please, Mister Krane, be my guest.’
‘No, no. I wouldn’t dream of denying you the pleasure of the first slice.’
‘Let’s be fair about this then,’ said Milo, placing the scalpel down on a tray lined neatly with surgical instruments. He pulled off one of the gloves that covered him all the way to the elbow, and drew his smock aside to fish around in his pocket. His tongue lolled, as he seemed to have difficulty finding what he was after, then a look of victory crossed his face as he produced a shiny silver coin.
‘Heads or tails?’ he said finally.
‘Tails never fails,’ Krane replied, cheerily.
‘Mmmmmnnnnnggglllcchh!’
The coin gave a soft ping as Milo sent it spinning with a flick of his thumb, deftly caught it in his palm then slapped it onto the back of his left hand.
‘Tails it is,’ he said, revealing the portcullis sigil of the Bank of the Houses on the coin’s shiny surface. ‘He’s all yours.’
Krane grinned an evil bastard’s grin.
He leaned over the man on the slab, whose muffled protestations began to grow louder and shriller. ‘Now, this might sting a bit,’ he said as he lowered the filleting knife towards his victim’s abdomen.
Protestations turned to screams, high pitched and anguished, as the knife did its work, parting the flesh right down to the mucosa and releasing a line of thick red fluid. As he cut, Krane parted the flesh, his gloved hands working expertly to open a wound from navel to pubis.
The cries grew throatier, the man giving off choked grunts behind his gag, but Krane was immersed in his work and no amount of noise would distract him. He delved in, his fingers probing into the wound with a sickly squelch, his eyes rising to the dark roof space above as he concentrated. Then with a foul sucking noise he pulled free a gelatinous tube of intestine.
‘Oh bravo,’ said Milo, as the man on the slab went into spasms, his eyes rolling back in his head. ‘Masterfully done.’
‘Why, thank you. Would you mind?’ Krane said, nodding towards the large frame that stood to one side, just within the shadows.
Milo reached over, wheeling the frame towards the slab. He positioned it over their subject, reaching up to grasp the hook attached to a winch at the top of the frame. Ever so carefully, Krane pulled the intestine further out of the surgical laceration he had made in his victim’s abdomen, causing the man to buck and writhe, straining against his shackles. Both men had their tongues out now, concentrating intensely as they speared the sausage like tendril on the end of the hook.
‘There we are,’ said Krane, taking a step back to view his handiwork. ‘Feel free to begin.’
‘Oh, you’re too kind,’ Milo replied.
Slowly Milo began to turn the crank, spinning the pulley and winding the cruor covered intestinal sausage around it. Screams turned to gurgles as their subject was ever so slowly eviscerated before their eyes.
‘Beautiful,’ Krane breathed, his eyes staring wide in stupefied glee.
‘Indeed,’ Milo replied.
Their victim, eyes crossed and haemorrhaging, face purple and wan, had nothing more to say.
‘So why me? Why not the Judicature?’
Blaklok was starting to get annoyed with this arsehole’s caginess. Then again, he was offering a lot of money, so he could probably afford to be cagey. Even so, there was only so much cowshit a man could take, even for a bucket-load of cash.
‘Come, Mister Blaklok,’ replied the fat man, sitting behind his mahogany writing desk. ‘You know as well as I do the Judicature are useless unless you’re landed gentry. And this case requires someone with specific talents – talents I’ve been led to believe you possess.’
He was right there, the Judicature were about as much use as a see-through mirror, unless you were of the Noble Houses – then they’d break their backs to help you out.
‘All right, so what exactly is it you think I can do for you?’
‘I need you to eradicate a problem… a life threatening problem that’s come to my attention. I’ve been told you’re good at that.’
All of a sudden Blaklok was conscious of the light pouring in through the huge bay window. It illuminated him far more than he was comfortable with.
‘Been told by whom?’
The fat bloke smiled knowingly. ‘Mister Blaklok, I’m a discreet man. It would be remiss of me to reveal my sources, now wouldn’t it.’
This whole thing stank. Blaklok had been summoned here, to the industrial quarter of the Manuactory, by an anonymous messenger promising plenty of ready cash if he was to take on one simple job. If his finances hadn’t been so strapped he would have ignored it, but as things were he simply needed the money. Now he was here, in front of this fat, grinning business-type – what was his name? Bunkle? Tinkle? – on a promise for cash to ‘eradicate a problem’. And Blaklok could guess what that would involve.
‘All right, who do you want dead?’
‘Oh, no, no, no, Mister Blaklok. I’m certainly not in the business of hiring assassins. I merely require your talents in the capacity of domestic security.’
‘I’m no one’s fucking bodyguard, Spunkle.’
The fat man frowned. ‘My name’s Arkell, Mister Blaklok. Clarence Arkell – it says so over the door in big gold letters.’
‘Whatever. If you want security get a fucking dog. That’s not what I do.’
‘No indeed. That’s not what you do. However, I’ll only require your services for two nights… three at the most. I’m sure for the recompense I’m offering you can spare that much of your valuable time.’
‘Expecting trouble are you?’
‘Oh yes, Mister Blaklok. Trouble is indeed what I’m expecting. And when trouble comes knocking, what better way to face it than with someone notorious for making trouble of their own?’
This geezer knew far too much for Blaklok’s liking. Nevertheless, he was paying, so he could know what he wanted… within reason.
‘I’ll want payment up front,’ said Blaklok.
‘Of course.’
‘Just three nights, then I’m gone, whether this ‘trouble’ you’re on about turns up or not.’
‘Naturally. But I can’t imagine that’ll be necessary. I’m expecting them long before that.’
‘What exactly is it that’s coming?’
Arkell inclined his head to the left, creasing the jowls that hung down over his thick neck. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle, Mister Blaklok. By all account you are skilled in all areas martial and… occult. I’m sure with both those talents at your disposal the gentlemen I’m expecting will be no problem for you. I would only make one request though – hurt them… make them pay.’
So the fat fella did want an assassin. But then again, if someone was coming here to do him over they were assassins too, so he guessed it balanced out.
‘Not that I’m overly bothered,’ said Blaklok, ‘but why are thes
e people coming? What have you done to upset them?’
This time Arkell smiled, a wide shit-eating grin that reminded Blaklok of an alligator after it had just filled its belly. ‘I’m an industrialist, Mister Blaklok. A businessman, and a very successful one to boot. It’s inevitable that over the years I will have made more than my share of enemies. This entire affair is simply time, and an assiduous past, catching up with me. In my time I’ve created jobs and wealth for others, my philanthropic endeavours are known throughout the Manufactory. I’m well loved – ask anyone. But there are those who would seek to destroy what I have created, those who look upon my work with covetous eyes. I’m not about to let them win – oh no – they will pay, Mister Blaklok. With your help, they will pay.’
Arkell had the look of madness about him when he’d finished. Not that it unnerved Blaklok, he’d seen real madness aplenty, and this guy didn’t come close, but still, it gave him pause. There had to be more to it, had to be something this Arkell had done if someone wanted him dead. Blaklok had to admit, he’d never heard of the bloke, philanthropic or not, but then those weren’t the circles Blaklok moved in. He spent most of his time in the shadows, scrabbling round in the dirt, eradicating the filth rather than mixing with captains of industry.
And this geezer was offering a decent wedge for a couple of nights work.
‘All right, you’re on,’ said Blaklok. ‘But as I said – money up front.’
Arkell smiled, opened the drawer to his writing desk and produced a stack of bills.
‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Blaklok,’ Arkell said, pushing the stack across the desk.
‘We’ll see,’ Blaklok replied, stuffing the bills into his coat, and moving back into the shadows.
The window slid open, silent as death, quiet as the grave. A bowler-hatted head peered in, the big beaky nose beneath its brim sweeping to left and right like the rudder of a ship, taking in the view of the long dark corridor within. Slowly, silently, Krane eased himself inside, his long limbs pulling him through the window like some gigantic arachnid homing in on its prey.
Once inside he turned and grabbed hold of Milo by the scruff to pull him inside. Milo huffed as he squeezed his portly girth through the window frame, landing on the floor of the corridor with a muted thump.
Both men froze, glancing up and down the corridor to check if the sound of their entry had alerted anyone to their presence.
No one came.
Mister Milo stood, dusting himself down and composing himself before they moved on. Krane could only shake his head. ‘You really should ease up on the pie and liquor, old chap,’ he whispered.
Milo merely shot him a disconsolate look.
Together they made their way down the corridor, with Krane occasionally stopping to snigger at one of the portraits that hung on the wall, or Milo pausing to take a closer look at one of the busts or vases that lined the hall. Eventually they came to a large set of panelled doors at the end of the corridor which stood slightly ajar, the room beyond bathed in pale moonlight.
Krane reached out with one hand to push the door wider, while his other pulled out a long serrated blade from his coat. Behind him, Milo produced two blades of his own, one a long thin stiletto, the other fat and curved. They moved through the gap in the doors, taking care to walk on tippytoes lest they make a sound and wake their quarry.
In the room was a large four-poster bed, covered in a single blanket. Someone was lying beneath it, an amorphous bulk under the thick wool.
Milo and Krane moved to each side of the bed, lurking, looming as they went, their blades raised in anticipation, hungry for the kill. Gingerly, Krane reached out to grab the edge of the blanket between finger and thumb. He glanced up at Milo, who gave him the nod, his portly face shining in the moonlight, eyes wide with excitement.
‘Surprise!’ Krane bellowed as he tore back the blanket… then he and Milo froze.
Lying on the bed was a figure they hadn’t expected. They had been told Arkell was a fat man, a sedentary chap, heading fast towards old age. But the man lying on the bed was lean and hulking, his head shaved, his face looking like it had been used to hammer in nails, his body, bare-chested as it was, covered in scars and welts and tattoos. He lay with his hands behind his head, his expression unreadable as he looked up at the two phantoms who had stalked him in the night, their hands holding deadly blades, their intent only murder.
‘Surprise?’ he said, regarding Milo and Krane with disdain. ‘I’ll fucking bet it is.’
Krane plunged the knife down like a striking serpent, but it hit only pillow, sending a plume of goose feathers into the air. The man was fast, impossibly fast despite his bulk, and Krane barely had time to look up before he took a fist to the jaw.
Milo was next to strike forward, ready to defend his companion, the blades in his hands cutting the air in violent swipes as he desperately tried to lacerate the brute, but he was not fast enough.
The man retreated through the open doors and into the corridor, walking backwards slowly as if beckoning them after him. A trace of a smile crept across his thin lips as Milo watched, breathing in gasps of air after his exertions. Krane came to stand beside his partner, rubbing his jaw vigorously and the two of them gave one another a glance.
‘What to do, Mister Krane?’
‘I say we stripe the bastard, Mister Milo. I say we stripe him good and proper.’
‘Agreed,’ said Milo, a wicked grin creeping across his face.
‘You lads might want to have another think before you try the rough stuff with me,’ said the brute.
‘And why is that?’ asked Krane.
‘Because I’m Thaddeus Blaklok.’
Milo and Krane looked at another and shrugged. ‘Never heard of you,’ said Milo.
‘Then you lads must be from out of town, because everyone in the Manufactory’s heard of Thaddeus Blaklok. And they know better than to face up to me… unless they want a kicking.’
Milo began to snigger, with Krane following straight after. ‘Well, we’ll just see about that won’t we,’ he said. ‘Since we’re the ones with the sharp knives and all.’
‘All right, but don’t say you weren’t warned,’ Blaklok replied, as Milo waddled forward, his blades held out wide. He moved with a speed that belied his portly figure, his knives, one wickedly thin, one wickedly curved, sang a high-pitched song as they sliced the air. Blaklok dodged backward, to the side, ducked low as the weapons swept in from all angles, missing him by a hair’s breadth to take chunks out of the walls. All Blaklok could do was wait for a gap – surely this fat bastard couldn’t keep this up all night.
Milo’s breath became more laboured with every swing of his arms until eventually he was forced to pause, blowing hard from out of a bright red face. Blaklok struck, taking the brief hiatus to leap forward with his head, smashing it into Milo’s nose and sending him reeling back into a polished cabinet. As a vase toppled over to smash on the floor, Krane moved in with his serrated blade. Blaklok only just managed to avoid it, feeling a sting of pain flare in his shoulder as he was cut.
This one, tall and thin, seemed to revel in the dance, the grin on his face wide and toothy, his long limbs moving with expert precision ready to slice and dice. It took all of Blaklok’s speed and guile to avoid another wound. It was clear this one wasn’t going to tire any time soon. The initiative had to be taken.
Blaklok stepped in, arm raised to block Krane’s knife arm. Then he reached out, grabbing the lanky bastard by the back of his neck and pulling him forward. His jaw clamped closed, teeth biting deep into Krane’s beaky nose. There was a brief struggle, as Krane dropped the knife, desperate to unclamp himself from Blaklok’s bite, but it was no good. He shrieked as Blaklok bit down hard, teeth crunching through flesh and cartilage, head writhing from side to side with a mouthful of nose.
Krane fell back to the ground clutching his face as blood spurted through his fingers. Blaklok saw Milo coming in once more, too late to hel
p his friend, but quick enough to get his vengeance. As the fat bloke advanced, Blaklok spat a gob of flesh, bone and blood into Milo’s face, at the same time catching the hand with the big curved blade as it scythed in. In a flash he’d twisted that fat, podgy wrist and dragged the knife from his hand. Milo had just enough time to gawp in surprise before Blaklok cut his other hand clean off, sending it falling to the ground, still gripping the needle thin stiletto. He kicked out, sending the fat bastard reeling as he let out a girl’s squeal, clutching tight to his severed appendage.
Both men sat in a heap now, one gripping where his nose had been, the other desperate to stem the blood pissing from the stump at his wrist.
‘I did try and fucking warn you,’ said Blaklok, wiping the blood and snot from his lips. He wasn’t sure what kind of response he expected, but it wasn’t for the fat lad to stand up, screaming at the top of his voice before sprinting to one of the windows and jumping through it. Before the echo of smashed glass had even finished, the tall lanky one had followed his mate, jumping through the broken window, still clutching his shortened nose.
‘Bye then,’ Blaklok said, waving them off. He glanced around the corridor, at the bloodstains on the rug and broken glass and shattered furniture strewn all around. ‘Well, I think that was a good night’s work, all things considered.’
‘I want them dead!’ Arkell screamed, his face, so amiable a day before now twisted in rage.
‘Shout at me like that again and there’ll be a fucking corpse all right,’ Blaklok answered.
That seemed to quell Arkell’s fire. There was no way he was going to push his luck, not with all six-foot-odd of Thaddeus Blaklok standing in front of him.
‘I’ll give you money – more money – if you hunt them down. Find them and kill them.’
‘I’ve got all the money I need for now. Besides, they won’t be back, trust me.’