[Demonworld 3] The Floyd Street Massacre

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Find out who these men’s families were,” said Boris. “The families are likely being paid great sums of money for their sons’ sacrifice. Find the families - and kill them. Wipe out their lines utterly.”

  He stalked over to his desk. Whoever the men were, they had attacked because the Ugly appeared weak. All of Pontius could smell the blood from their wounds. He had to make a move, any move. He found a paper on his desk and tore it in half, then extended one half each to Senki and Paul. “Here are the names and addresses of Coil Captains,” he said. “Find them and bring me their heads. First man back with a bag of heads gets leadership of the Right Leg.”

  As the berserkers ran to fulfill the order, Boris remembered the young man who’d given him that list of names.

  Pontius feared us when we were strong. Let them see what we are capable of when our back is to the wall!

  * * *

  Boris and a Hand walked the halls of the granite mansion until they came to a door. Boris stopped and looked at the Hand. He knew that his commanders would be shocked to know how little control he had over those two fiends. He did not even know whether or not they communicated with one another, or were even capable of planning amongst one another. Certainly they knew that one of the two had to remain close to the Head at all times, but Boris had certainly never seen the two bent over a day planner, discussing what they were going to do on their days off. He only knew a little about the torture and programming that occurred in the basement. He knew that there were always more failures than successes, and that it was best to steer clear of the strange sociopaths who ran the operation and the cretinous, failed subjects that they always kept on hand.

  “Hand,” said Boris. “Would you like to visit Mother?”

  The Hand stared back at him. Boris wondered if he comprehended but could not respond, or was only doggedly analyzing the hallway for possible dangers to the Head.

  “As you will,” said Boris, entering the chamber.

  Mother’s room was dimly lit, dark granite with shades of blue. Mother sat on her wooden chair in the middle of the room. She rotated her eyes to her son, then her hands shook at her sides and she moaned in greeting. Boris smiled warmly and took a dagger from Hand before he approached her.

  Boris disrobed, then smiled as he stood nearly naked before her. Disturbed, Scorpio cried out. Boris smelled shit and could feel the stuff dribbling down his stomach. He forced the knife in between the baby and himself and cut the stitches one by one. Finally freed, Scorpio screamed and flailed about.

  “Stronger than he looks!” Boris exclaimed. “A healthy child of the Ugly!”

  Flecks of blood collected on his forearms from the child’s refreshed wounds. He put the child in Mother’s lap and she clutched at him, stroking his face awkwardly as she made clucking sounds. Boris walked behind Mother and wiped the blood and shit from his chest onto one of her drapes. Just as he walked back to her, he saw Scorpio roll off her lap.

  “Mother!” said Boris, scooping the child up before it smacked into the ground. “You must be careful with the little one. I’m glad you held your own sons closer than that!” He picked the baby up and bounced him in his arms, the dagger still in his hand. He looked down at Mother’s face, so old and sagging, so pale and decrepit. She seemed completely disinterested in the child already. Boris looked into her sagging mouth, then his eyes trailed down to the great goiter on her neck. She had had it for as long as he could remember. Pus was draining from it again, and had soaked through her silk scarf. He would have to remember to have a doctor drain it again soon.

  He stared at the soaking wet silk scarf around Mother’s goiter and remembered another time when she’d held him close. It was Mother who’d convinced her three sons to kill their father, the Head of the Ugly. A terrible man, a tyrant. His oldest brother Bartholomaias had taken little convincing. He was a wild goat who hated his father, and he was a bully on top of that.

  It was difficult to remember the event itself. He had been so young, just a child. He vaguely remembered Barkus holding his hand and whispering that they should be quiet. They slipped into the bathroom with knives in hand while their father was bathing. He remembered the terrible violence when Bartholomaias fell on him, stabbing and stabbing, then Barkus joined in, jamming his knife into their father’s throat and face while the old man thrashed about, churning and spilling water. As the beast lay dying in dark red water, Barkus held Boris’s hand and guided his knife to father’s belly. Boris would never forget that strange sensation.

  Mother walked in and Boris remembered running into her arms and crying… crying so hard. Others came, and Bartholomaias shouted at them. Throwing things around, smashing mirrors. Bartholomaias soon disappeared after that, shot dead by the men he wanted to rule.

  For many days, many weeks, Barkus held Boris and told him to be quiet, to draw no attention to himself. The men treated Mother very badly in those days. The only one to show Boris any kindness was a small man, an accountant with scars along his face that Boris liked to trace with his fingers whenever the man held him on his knee. The old man had a bird in a cage, a white and yellow singer, and the man gave Boris crumbs of bread so that he could stick them through the bars of its cage and eat from his fingers. The man was very quiet and Boris only understood when he was much older that the quiet little man was the new Head of the Ugly. It was also many years later that Boris heard stories of the man’s cruelty. The way he treated slaves, clansmen - the stories made him out to be a monster, a devil in the shape of a man. But he was never anything but calm and kind to the child Boris.

  At the old man’s knee and at Mother’s side he learned the lessons of the Book of the Red. He learned that the wasteland was more than parched soil and burning sun and freezing night; it was an idea, a way of life, and only a master of slaves could learn its wisdom. That was the black sun: Harsh and cruel, beyond the comprehension of the common man, but eternal.

  It was difficult to remember, but Boris was convinced that he and Barkus had been friends. For a while, at least. But Barkus soon disappeared, drawn by the allure of the streets, the possibility and excitement of courting danger, the rush of gaining power through violence. Boris was not interested in acting tough, in carrying guns, in posing and preening in tough looking armor. He had no scars; he had only the old man, Mother, and his studies.

  The bird grew in its cage. It pecked and bent at the little bars, but could not break free. The Head sat for hours with his head in ledgers and books of finance, deaf to the bird’s plight. Only Boris understood. At night, the man disappeared to do terrible things to consolidate the power of the Ugly. Boris began to believe that the old accountant was a fool for taking no joy in the forbidden things that he did. Power was available to him in such magnitude that the common citizen could only dream of it; Boris alone understood that when the people prayed to the gods in their churches, they were really praying to men like him.

  Boris grew and took an interest in the slave girls. Despairing of their stupidity, their worthlessness outside of his own needs, he began to experiment with them. They were all too stupid, of course, to see that his methods made them a part of something greater than they were on their own. They saw only cruelty and pain, at first, then agony. The Head yelled at him over a matter of missing slave girls, some of them having escaped, some of them found dead. Boris laughed at him for his own smallness. He realized that the men on the grounds began to fear him, despite the fact that he had no scars and was not one of them. He began to realize that their understanding of pain was far beneath his own.

  Then one day the Head tried to overstep his bounds with Boris, so Boris strangled him. Men pounded on the door of the Head’s chamber while Boris was overcome by a fit of laughter. When they shot the lock on the door and charged in they saw that Boris had sewn the great singing bird to his chest, each wing extending out to his shoulders, and from its head came a terrible cry and the men covered their ears against it. The creature flapped and shook on Boris’s chest. T
he robe of the Head hung loosely about Boris and he knew that, to them, he must have seemed terrible and godlike.

  An Ugly in command of the house guard knelt before Boris, for he was a bureaucrat above all else and knew that if the position of Head died with the old man then his own position would disappear with him, and his life as well, and he was quick to see that a new god must take the place so that his own life could continue. The others saw the sight and knelt as well. They worshiped Boris ever since that day.

  Even the Hands had known that it was time for a change. The Hands were emptied of all humanity and filled with the drive to protect the Head. The Hands were trained to find weakness and exploit it. No Hand had ever made a move to kill a Head, but many, many times in the history of their order the Hands had been known to distance themselves from a Head if he became weak. Boris knew that it would be the same with him, if he ever became unworthy to lead the Ugly.

  A croak from Mother woke Boris from his reveries. “Barkus… where… is… Barkus…”

  Boris looked away suddenly, then said, “Busy, I’m sure, Mother, but thinking of you, I’ve no doubt. He will return soon, and will come to see you.” Boris paced about with the baby. He wanted to change the subject, but since he knew that Mother would not drop the matter, he decided to shift it slightly. “You know, Mother, when I last saw Barkus, he told me something very interesting.”

  Mother shifted around, lifted her head, then let it flop back against her seat with a heavy thud.

  “Do you remember that I told you he said he met with many devils in the earth? He was even allowed to hear their voice, for one spoke to him and told him a great many things.”

  “Hnnnnnnnnnn...” she said, remembering.

  “It was there that he was given a scouting devil so that he could see the wicked land where we sent our crusading forces. But he told me something new just recently.” Boris did not mention that Barkus had told him the latest detail in a letter because he was paranoid that Boris would have him killed if they met in person.

  “Nnnnnnuh?”

  “He said that he made love to a devil.”

  “Aaaah! Oooooh!” said Mother, shaking her hands as if to clap them together.

  “Yes - I said the same thing! Imagine, the divine honor of being allowed to make love to a demon in the flesh! He said… he said that it felt as if a god was crawling into his skull and was stroking his brain. I wonder if-”

  Just then, little Scorpio reached up and slapped his face. Boris pulled away, then spat out, “Willful brat!”

  Mother fumbled at something in her gown and held it toward Boris. Boris saw the rectangular thing, then remembered. “Ah! That’s the device I gave you from the Crusade, the simulated pet. How have you been taking care of your pet, Mother?”

  He knelt by her side and looked at the digital monitor. The cartoony animal cowered in a corner of the screen, shivering. It looked skinny and bandages were crossed about it. A tear enlarged to comical proportions dangled from its eye. Mother’s finger shook back and forth over a small red button. She pressed it and a hand with a stick extended across the screen and smacked at the animal, which yelped. Her body shook and an unhealthy gurgling laugh bubbled up in her throat and she pressed the button over and over.

  “Oh, Mother!” said Boris, smiling. “Mother, you are a delight!”

  * * *

  The three Master Thieves of the Coil sat in their chamber deep underground. The smoke of burning incense hung in the air and an electric bulb cast shadows on images of green and silver serpents covering the walls. Alpha coughed behind his mask of silk, then said, “Soon the exchange will take place, and we will be closer to stability once again.”

  Primus laughed and his golden mask caught the dim light. “Stability! As if you or any of us care that our Soldiers have easy days!”

  “What do you mean?” said Alpha. “Stability is ease of business. You yourself spoke of stability when last we met. All else is...”

  “Listen to my plan,” said Primus. “I say that we do not go through with the exchange of hostages. I say we sell Barkus to the Law.”

  One, who wore a mask of paper, whipped his head around. “The Law could not give us any more than we make in a single day,” said One. “Primus, Barkus is a treasure! Even if we do not go through with the exchange as it is - and you know that I stand against the exchange - but even if we change the nature of the exchange, we should make it such that we drain the Ugly of everything they are worth.”

  “We won’t sell him for money,” said Primus. “We will give him to the Law with the understanding that we are going to move against the Ugly, in force, and destroy them... and the Law will step out of the way and let it happen.”

  One sat back, crushed by the sheer audacity of the plan. But he was also intrigued.

  “Foolishness!” said Alpha. “Utter foolishness and a complete renunciation of everything that the Coil stands for!”

  “Does the Coil stand for the continued existence of the Ugly?” said Primus. “If we can wipe them out, do we not stand for the greater profits we will make in taking over the flesh trade which, until last year, they controlled without challenge?”

  Alpha looked away, staring into nothing. “But the Hands…”

  “Will be destroyed by the Cognati,” continued Primus. “Even if the Cognati cannot kill them, they can at least distract them long enough for us to smash their fortress and cut off their Head. If the Hands survive, we can absorb them into ourselves. If the Cognati are killed, then we can cancel their payment.”

  They sat in silence. Alpha gripped the table for a moment, then stopped the nervous gesture. Suddenly One slapped the table and laughed behind his mask of paper. He nodded to Primus, then turned to Alpha, and it was obvious that he was relishing the fear shown by their comrade who, normally, displayed the greatest amount of control. “While I do not like the idea of giving up Barkus,” said One, “I will go along with this plan. Primus - I suspect you are a young buck. I had no idea you had such a wild card up your sleeve.”

  “These old sleeves are very long!” laughed Primus.

  It was obvious that Alpha was outnumbered. “How will we make the transfer of Barkus to the Law?” he said quietly. It seemed he was stalling for time.

  “I have contacts within the Law,” said Primus. “In fact, things are already set up to make the transfer within a matter of minutes. I would not have proposed such a plan if I didn’t already have it ready to go.”

  “Indeed,” said Alpha, staring at the table.

  “Better still,” said One, “I have some contacts with the Smiths. They are ever greedy to get their hands on the technology stolen by the Ugly in their Crusade, I hear, and their grievance against Barkus’s betrayal runs very, very deep. It would be easy for me to speak into a few ears and gain their help in the attack. Perhaps they would even use their new flying machines, those zeppelins.”

  “And artillery,” said Primus, nodding. “They have artillery!”

  “We will have to make a donation to their leaders, of course,” said One, bobbing his head sideways.

  “They may ask... for a lot,” said Alpha, raising his head suddenly.

  “No matter,” said Primus, waving his hand. “It’s only money.”

  “Money is our blood,” protested Alpha.

  “And control of Pontius is our sustenance,” said One, glaring at him.

  “Brother,” Primus said darkly. “What is this reluctance? The plan is without flaw. Are you, perhaps, an Ugly yourself?”

  “And if I am?” Alpha snapped. “If I were, would that matter one way or the other? We, all of us here, most likely have two or even three other identities. We live in a world in which it is not safe to be one self. We, the Masters of the Coil, lead only because we are better able to contain more identities than the weak, who live one life and die one death, like animals. I admit that I have no less than six identities. I’m sure that all of us sometimes wonder about that old saying… about a house divi
ded.”

  “If you are some sort of Ugly, my brother,” said One, “then weaken them while you can, and get out while you can, because you are outnumbered in this thing.”

  “So be it,” said Alpha. “We will go to war with the Ugly.”

  “We will have to announce it at the last minute,” said One, “so that their spies will have little warning.”

  Primus nodded, then stood.

  “But,” said Alpha, “I leave you with this warning. The Hands are rarely in the same place at any time. Chances are good that one, if not both, will survive our assault. You say that we could absorb them into ourselves. But I have seen them and I tell you… they are not human. If we destroy our rivals, we may learn that it was the Ugly who kept those monsters bound. If they are set loose - none of us will be able to rest, not ever again.”

  “The Hands are human,” said Primus, standing over him. “And all humans, no matter how powerful, require food to live. We will destroy their organization, and their sustenance will be cut off. Anything that eats can be denied its food - as a man of business, you should know that.”

  “Yes,” Alpha hissed. “Anything that eats can be killed.”

  * * *

  Director Janice jostled a group at the water cooler and slapped a fresh-faced young detective on his back. “There you go, boys!” he shouted. “Now you can rest easy, knowing that that devil Barkus is rotting away in the deepest cell we could find in the Precinct!”

  The men laughed and elbowed one another. Detective DeSark rubbed a hand through his gray whiskers and said, “I just wonder how it was done, though...”

  “The Coil just turned him over!” said Janice, eyes wide, jowls flapping. “It wasn’t that complicated, old boy!”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said DeSark, eyeing them all with a rueful smile. “What I mean is... why’d they do it? Now, I heard talk there was going to be an exchange of some sort… and I know the Ugly must be hurting for money, but I don’t think they’d deny the Coil anything if they thought they could get one of their top boys back.”