[Demonworld 3] The Floyd Street Massacre

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Wodan approached the two men, who sat staring at the sea. The wind against his skin was soothing and the hum of the sea was gentle and subtly intoxicating. He was grateful beyond words to be alive. With some difficulty he pried the crusty shirt from his back and tied it about his waist. He could hear the two young men talking as he approached.

  “You give up, Matthias?” said Justyn.

  The dark-haired young man said, “Yes! No. Let’s start over. Wait. Queen to bishop six. Check!” He fidgeted slightly.

  Justyn scratched his forehead slowly, then said, “Alright. Knight takes queen.”

  Almost before Justyn could finish, Matthias said, “Bishop to king seven – checkmate!”

  Justyn shook his head and cursed in a strange, choppy language. Wodan sat and looked at the two. He saw no chess board.

  “Look who’s alive!” said Justyn.

  Wodan smiled and nodded, but then looked away because there was something incredibly unnatural about the pair. Their faces were smooth and noble looking. He felt small and awkward by comparison.

  “Sorry about what I said earlier, Justyn,” said Wodan. “Looks like you turned out to be a pretty good bodyguard after all.”

  Justyn smiled but Matthias’s face grew dark, and he turned away.

  “My hands,” said Wodan, flexing his stiff fingers. “Did you…?”

  Justyn pointed, said, “Thank Langley, not me.”

  Wodan turned and saw that the black-haired young woman stood over him, bending sideways and smiling slightly. She said something, but Wodan could not concentrate. He was enthralled by the way her green eyes creased when she smiled. Her aura was so strange, so powerful, that he wondered if these people were alien visitors from another world. Then again, he doubted that they could cross the cosmos in a small, clunky airship. He nodded dumbly and she sat down beside him.

  Wodan looked away from them and regained control of his thoughts. He flexed his hands, staring down at them. He suddenly remembered the red lights of an airship following him when he was on the sea, then he remembered the strange story of a laborer from Haven who had seen, according to him, an angel. “Who are you people?” he said.

  They sat in silence for a long time. Finally Justyn spouted, “Come on! Let’s tell him something!”

  “We’re spies,” said Langley, sighing. “Big Dad sent us to spy on Haven.”

  Matthias rose suddenly. “You guys are terrible at this,” he said, frustrated. “Taking a vote on a military operation that already has clearly defined parameters, then spilling the beans to one of the variables. Nice job, very well played.” He stalked off.

  “Big Dad?” said Wodan, ignoring Matthias’s outburst.

  “He’s like our... it’s complicated,” she said. “The whole thing is complicated. We were sent to spy, maybe to spy on you, but really, I don’t know if…”

  “The superbeing,” said Wodan. “You all were looking for the superbeing, is that it?” Wodan looked up and saw Langley and Justyn eyeing one another. “Well, it’s not me, I can tell you that much. Whoever he was, he’s dead now.”

  “Oh.” Langley set her chin on her knees and fell silent.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long time.

  “Let’s forget all that stuff,” Justyn said, smiling. “It’s not important anyway. You know what Big Dad always said?”

  “What’s that?” said Wodan.

  “He always said that anyone who knows what they want out of life, and who keeps that dream alive in their heart, and is willing to kill or destroy anybody who gets in their way… well, that person already is a superman!” Justyn laughed loudly, then clapped Wodan on the back. He felt his ribs nearly buckle under the blow.

  They’re not human, Wodan thought.

  * * *

  The four rode through the night in their airship. The cabin was only dimly lit. Moisture streaked across the windows. They could hear a terrible storm raging in the world far below. Langley sat on one bed and watched the chaos outside. She had been distant and unapproachable for the past few hours and this threw Wodan’s heart into chaos. He sat on a bed beside Matthias, who laid on his back and pounded down beers and tore apart the thin, brightly colored cans quickly and easily and worked on forming them into some kind of origami pattern. Justyn sat at the cockpit, drinking as he held them over the storm. Empty cans full of alien writing rolled about his feet.

  The strangeness of it all rolled about in Wodan’s mind. The sense of peace he’d found on the beach was now completely gone. He could barely make out Matthias’s features in the darkness. They said they’d been sent to spy on him, not to help him. He knew they had taken a vote to save his life. He suspected that Matthias had voted against the other two. Was Langley disappointed that he was not what they thought he might have been? Could he really trust these people at all? Were they even taking him to Pontius, as they claimed?

  “Matthias,” Langley said suddenly. “What are you afraid of?”

  “This storm is pretty terrifying,” he said, sounding bored.

  “I mean, in general.”

  Matthias stretched out several of the flattened cans and held them like a steel bouquet. “Failure and abandonment,” he said. “I used to have nightmares about the end of the world. I still do. It’s usually something big. Asteroids falling, or the moon cracking up and coming toward us. There’s panic. People eating each other in the last few moments they have. It’s inescapable. That’s what I mean about abandonment. It’s not like Big Dad or some chick is going to leave me. It’s more like the whole world abandons me, just slides right out from under my feet. And all that I have, all that I am... all of it, useless. A failure. What about you?”

  “And what do you want?” she said, ignoring his question. “Out of this life - what do you want?”

  “I have no idea,” he said quickly, folding the thin metal strips with nimble fingers.

  Langley shifted her weight slightly and Wodan glanced at her pale arms, saw the skin pushing upward against her knees. “Justyn, what are you afraid of?”

  Justyn turned slightly, smiled, said, “Dove, now, you know I’m not afraid o’ nothin’. And don’t bother asking me what I want. How should I even know?”

  Langley sighed, as if questioning him further was more trouble than it was worth. Finally she turned to Wodan, then said, “What about you?”

  “I don’t know how much you know about this area,” he said, “but there’s a cult, a church, called the Ugly. They’re powerful. You’ve seen a few of them. They take life and twist it into something hateful. Instead of fighting demons, as they should be, they throw away their humanity and become like them. I want to destroy them. That’s what I want. I want revenge on the Ugly.”

  “Is that all?” She seemed disappointed.

  “That’s just the beginning,” he said. A smile crept onto his face. “I want to make the world a better place. A sanctuary where we can find out who we are, instead of a battleground were we lose ourselves piece by piece. I guess if I was afraid of anything, it would be that I’m the only person who could ever care about something like that.”

  Before Langley could respond, Matthias extended his hand and hit Wodan’s leg. Wodan looked down. Matthias held a giant knife with wicked serrated points along one side. It was colored up like a vomit-rainbow, with alien script along its sides; he had shaped it from the beer cans. He flicked it quickly and, in a blur, the handle was in front of Wodan. Ridiculous as it looked, the knife itself was no joke. It was as hard as steel and very sharp.

  “Here you go, man,” said Matthias. “For your vengeance.”

  Part Two

  Live by the Gun

  Chapter Six

  The Corpse Politic

  Night covered the city of Pontius when Boris entered Mother’s chamber tucked away in the halls of the granite mansion that acted as the center of power for the Ugly. Torchlight was curtained off with blue and purple paper lanterns so that Mother would not complain about the pains in her eye
s. Boris the Living Scar, Head of the Ugly, looked at the jumbled shadow-play cast on the floor and walls by images drawn on the lanterns. There was a story hidden there, if one knew how to pick it out. The story told of forty-seven devils who demanded forty-seven different sacrifices from the villagers who lived here long ago. The story told of the rites they were forced to endure, the culling of the willful, the passing of knowledge to the apt and willing. The men of fallen Vatica came here, and they knew something of sacrifice and compromise and the power of manipulation through belief, and so a city grew out of the village. Bureaucrat-priests directed the building, and escaped sacrifice by living in the shadows. They grew fat on sacrifices; they became devils themselves. The flesh demons faded into the background, but the city of devils endured.

  The door clicked shut behind him and Boris knew that Hand would stand by, watching silently. Boris knew that this Hand would kill Mother if he ordered it, and he knew that this Hand would kill him, too, if his actions demanded it. He did not know which Hand was currently with him, and so the nature of his Death Art would be a secret until it was used. With either Hand one had to be wary, always wary. The Head must always be careful about the use and position of his Hands.

  Boris crossed the center of the chamber to a tall chair that was turned toward a small incense-burning altar. “Mother,” said Boris, “how I’ve missed the smell of your private chamber.” He picked up the chair by two handles near its base and, steadying himself, rotated it around. The bundle beneath his robes kicked and spat as it was crushed uncomfortably. He crossed to the chair’s front and knelt down on one knee.

  Mother lay crumpled up in the chair, decrepit, face hanging in deep wrinkles, hard gray eyes lined with sagging, inflamed pink flesh. Rich purple robes were draped over her bony, rickety frame, and a few hanging jewels gave her the garish appearance of a Yule tree lingering long after the holy days had ended. Her mouth hung open. Only the eyes seemed alive, darting and stabbing, like two hard points of will making their home in a rotting corpse.

  Boris eyed the silk scarf at her throat. It covered a massive goiter, and was wet with the growth’s discharge. Mother cleared her throat, a long and laborious process, then her head wobbled as a croak rose from her throat. “Ah-ah-a-a-a-a-ah...”

  Boris picked up her hand and stroked her dry fingers with his hair. The eyes warmed a little. “Bar-kus,” she asked.

  “He’s back in Pontius, Mother. He’s hiding. He’s afraid that I, or someone else, will kill him.”

  Mother shook angrily.

  “He will survive!” said Boris. “He always has. He’s consolidating the remnants of his and Heffer’s forces to make a single Arm. I heard that he is very happy, despite the outcome of the Crusade.”

  “Know... I... know...”

  As far as Boris knew, Mother had no spies, and should know nothing more than what Boris told her. When she was younger, she claimed to have a direct line to their gods. Now, decrepit as she was, she could only passively bask in the knowledge of deeds done outside her direct observation. “The mighty gods who helped us,” Boris said quietly. “They were beaten back.”

  “No long... er... help us... this test... for you, alone...”

  “We will be tested, yes,” said Boris. “The Smiths say that my brother betrayed them. The Law will push us, as well, since we seem to be weakened. But the Coil… they will push hardest of all.”

  From the corner of his eye, Boris saw Hand switch from one side of the door to the other, then stand silently, giving the impression he had never moved at all.

  “We are not broken,” said Boris. “Brother’s agents delivered some toys to us. Weapons, strange armor, and other devices from the Crusade that the Smith would like to play with. Things that we can bargain with. Look...”

  Boris produced a small, flat device and laid it on Mother’s lap. He pressed a button and, on a small viewscreen, a spotted egg appeared. The screen was bright and colored childishly. “Brother picked up this little trinket on his Crusade. It’s a simulation of an animal. A pet. See... you push this to feed it, this to brush it... oh, look!” The egg hatched and a little caricature of a mammal climbed out, eyes wide, tongue poking out.

  “Gar... bage,” said Mother. Her top lip twitched; this was a smile.

  “It is,” said Boris, “but I thought you might have fun raising this critter. It almost seems alive.”

  Mother’s hand shook, then leaped wildly. Boris snatched her hand and pressed it to the device. She clutched it, knuckles turning white.

  An intense air of familial warmth shivered between the two and Boris turned to Hand. “Stand outside the door,” he said, and despite the flush in his cheeks his eyes turned icy and hard.

  Hand was dressed in black from head to foot, eyes invisible behind sheer cloth. He stood immobile.

  In the warped mind of the Hand, who had been raised and programmed for brutality, the words sounded like, “My secret desire is for weakness.” Even Boris did not know the extent of the secret rites used to create a Hand. It took years to turn a human child into an adult weapon, and having too many of them around always proved just as dangerous to their handlers as their enemies. Boris knew full well that the Hand was immune to the withering stare that could break other men, but he gave it all the same simply to show that he could. He was still the leader of the most powerful gang in Pontius. Even a killing machine must be made to understand that Boris could have a warm moment with his dear Mother if he wanted to.

  Finally the Hand turned and left the room, leaving Boris alone with Mother.

  * * *

  Deep underground in a soundproof room, the three Master Thieves knelt around a low table. The chamber was covered in thick green and black draperies embroidered with the sign of a four-legged serpent eating his own tail. Dim light was given off by electric bulbs that hung from the ceiling, more as a sign of the Coil’s wealth than to actually provide illumination.

  The Master Thieves wore suits of black velvet. The one called Alpha wore a green silk mask that covered his entire head. Primus wore a heavy golden mask. The last, called One, wore the most valuable mask of them all: It was made entirely of paper, perhaps the rarest substance in Pontius. The Thieves had no guards with them. In this place, the protection of one’s identity from one’s peers was paramount; since any hired goon could be bribed, secrecy was the first and last line of defense.

  “My spies tell me the rumors of the Ugly being weakened are exaggerated,” said Alpha. “Their Arms have been cut off, true, but behind city walls, it’s the Leg berserkers who have always given us the most trouble.”

  “As long as we have young soldiers willing to throw their lives away, things have changed little regarding the brute power of the Ugly,” said One. “But the Ugly now have the appearance of weakness. If we do not make moves against them now, then we, too, will have the appearance of weakness.”

  Primus shifted his head, his gold mask flashing in the light. “But a full-scale war could destabilize business. If we rile up the Ugly, their Body could become a horde of drunken youths on a rioting spree, burning businesses, killing customers in the cross-fire...”

  “Would both of you hand Pontius to the enemy when all the world is watching to see how we will react?” said One, glaring at the others. “I’m not talking about outright war! That is not the Coil way. The appearance of a decisive victory could be had, if we could take one of their figureheads. Barkus still lives; my spies with the Smiths say they are searching desperately for him. They want blood as penance for some betrayal. I say that we find him first and sell his head to the Smiths.”

  Primus nodded after a moment, then said, “I would go along with this - so long as our business flows uninterrupted.”

  Alpha looked away for a moment, then said, “With the Left and Right Arms broken, Ugly slave trade will suffer. We can fill the void, perhaps, for now. If we took Barkus, it’s feasible that we could begin our own slave gathering operations in the wasteland-”

  Pri
mus grunted. “That is too far-ranging.”

  “- and increase our influence in the process. We could have the Ugly on their knees, ready for negotiating. A hungry foe will give away anything to maintain the bare essentials.”

  “That would bring them one step closer to destruction,” said One.

  “We cannot destroy the Ugly,” said Alpha. “Ever.” At that moment Alpha suspected that One was under the influence of the Smiths, if not a Smith himself.

  “Fine,” said Primus. “So we look to disrupt the Ugly’s wasteland operations by playing with one of their figureheads. So long as Pontius remains in balance, I will go along.” Primus rose suddenly and nodded his golden head, then twisted his hands in the ritual manner to prove that he had come in a loyal Coil and was leaving the same. He tossed a bag of coins onto the table and quoted, “For the borrowing of my soul,” then he turned and left the chamber.

  * * *

  Detective Virgil entered the wide double-doors of Precinct Zero and was blasted by a wall of sound. He saw denim-clad Lawmen struggling with hand-cuffed Ugly kids, lining them up at the processing desks manned by bleary-eyed secretaries. He saw drunks tied to benches on the sidelines, throwing up into buckets or leaning back, eyes shut and mouths open, catatonic. Gaudy hookers were cuffed beside the drunks, screeching for their pimps and declaring revenge on any cop who dared handle their breasts during processing.

  A youth stared down Virgil as he passed by, face cold and imperious, rough clothes clashing with his regal disdain; Virgil knew this punk to be a Coilman, for he had walked in and out of Precinct Zero on another occasion without ever seeing the inside of a cell. He was a known arsonist and a suspected killer and, because he must be good at it, bail was thrown down by mysterious backers very quickly. Virgil seethed inside as the chaos blared all around. Pontius on a Saturday night, he thought, grinding his jaw.