by Pavel Kornev
"Yes, and that means we're heading into town."
"I don't like this..."
"You can wait for me here."
"Are you mocking me?" Albert objected and hurried off after me.
The dust-caked cables extended under the high ceiling for the length of the whole underground passage. By some miracle, they didn't suffer any cave-ins, although we did have to walk over piles of stone several times and, in one place, wade up to our knees in water.
"Son of a bitch!" Albert cursed out. "My new shoes!"
I wiped the water that dripped from the ceiling off my face and called him to silence.
"Shh! Too much noise might cause a cave-in!"
But the real reason for my worrying wasn't so much the risk of collapse, as much as the bizarre buzzing on the very edge of my hearing. It was measured and unremitting. Inorganic, ringing out right in my head.
We walked a bit further and Albert slowed his pace.
"Is that a transformer?" he supposed.
"With all these cables, why shouldn’t there be a transformer?" I muttered.
"I don't like that," the poet sighed and looked back. "Don't you think it's time to head back?"
I glanced at my timepiece and started walking forward.
"Five more minutes. Alright?"
"What's wrong with you?" Albert sighed, but didn't dispute it.
The hum was growing louder the further we walked and, soon, I started seeing glare from electric light in front of us. I looked closer and realized the corridor would turn and the light was coming from around a bend.
"Stay back!" I warned my friend and put out my torch. I didn't manage to get far, just offered him my left hand and took my pistol in my right. I wasn't too worried to meet a person in this strange place, but it would be terrible to find myself in some mess because of my own fecklessness. A thought flickered by that I should give my Cerberus to the poet, but I decided not to risk it. All in all, I was sorry I had dragged him along in the first place.
At first, I tried to walk as quietly and carefully as possible, but very quickly stopped giving a damn and changed to my usual gait, as the incomprehensible device was now humming with such a force that it easily drowned out all other sounds. The measured buzzing was occasionally interspersed with cracks and clangs, and when that happened, the floor underfoot would give a slight shudder.
Standing at the turn, I peeked cautiously around the corner and instantly hid back and started blinking. The small room was filled with searing electric lamplight. Some of the lamps were flickering, quickly filling my eyes with tears.
"Well, what did you see?" Albert asked, approaching me.
I put on my dark glasses and said:
"Big room, some kind of device, giving off sparks. Didn't see any people."
"But there must be someone changing the bulbs…"
"True," I nodded and handed the poet the torch, myself breaking the hasp of the rusty grate and walking into the strange room. The floor was shaking with a measured shiver, which was of such a high frequency that my teeth were hurting.
The source of the bothersome hum turned out to be an iron cabinet of huge dimension. There were ten of them in the room, but only one was buzzing. From time to time, it shuddered and showered sparks, so I didn't walk up any closer. I just noted the fact that this device was the end destination of the cables.
Or to be more accurate, the cable. The second, broken at the very beginning of the subterranean corridor, had been detached. The first was first hooked into a new resister, which split the charge into four new conductors welded to old contacts. And these changes to the construction had been made very recently: unlike the rusty body of the metal cabinet, the new equipment hadn't even truly begun to get dusty.
"It smells of ozone," Albert told me.
I nodded and cautiously, walking along the wall, approached the door that led into the neighboring vault. The stone columns in its center formed a perfect circle. They not only served as supports for the ceiling, but also surrounded a sheet of light gray metal on the floor. All passages between them were closed off with high grates. A bundle of cables coming out of the electric cabinet passed into a gap in the grates, then split in two: one extended to the lamps on the columns, and the other led under the metal panel in the floor.
The purpose of the device remained a mystery to me. I decided to continue my investigation, trying to find any useful information.
"It's time to go!" Albert Brandt clapped me on the shoulder.
"Yeah–yeah!" I nodded and walked into the strange room. The humming that filled it bounced off the walls and domed ceiling, growing stronger and bashing against the ears such that I couldn't even hear my own thoughts. And that was what misled me.
I simply didn't hear the creaking sound as the open elevator cabin lowered down into the vault. The elevator shaft was hewn into the wall, and two figures in identical silver jumpsuits and enclosed helmets with a thin glass visor appeared as if from thin air.
I don't know who was more thrown off. It was probably me, as my mind was buzzing with a mad question: "To shoot or not to shoot?" Meanwhile, though, one of the strangers had already thrown up his flamethrower, the flexible hose of which led to a set of tanks hanging off his back.
The flame from the burner flickered before my eyes and, with unbelievable clarity, I realized that I would now be hit with a stream of fire. And that would be the end...
Albert saved me.
"Halt!" he shouted out, and his ringing voice instantly overpowering the humming of the electric device.
His command reverberated off the walls and ceiling, striking like rolling thunder, turning the men into pillars of salt. The poet's talent only nicked me but, even still, I was nearly frozen to the floor and threw up my pistol only just slightly before the flamethrower spigot began to even out as it rocked to the floor.
The Luger clapped out and the recoil flung the barrel practically straight up. The bullet went through the helmet visor, which immediately went red from the inside. The flamethrower man jerked awkwardly, collapsed to the floor and ceased moving.
I lead my sights onto the second stranger. He managed to shoot first. Blinding lightning shot out from the futuristic rifle's bayonet, striking my Luger. My hand was burned with a strong shock, blowing me backward.
My back slammed against the wall and I collapsed onto the floor like a lifeless sack, then the shooter shifted his attention to Albert Brandt. But if the affectionate poet had any skill perfected beyond rhyming words, it was clearly the high art of running. He ducked into the room with the electrical cabinet just a moment before the stranger's rifle gave another clap. Stone fragments flew off the walls in all directions, and the ricocheting bullet flew away with a howl.
The shooter burst from place in pursuit of Albert. Rage rolled over me in a burning wave of red. My whole consciousness was overtaken by an urge to catch the man and beat the spirit out of him. What rot! At that, though, my soul was burning like red-hot iron with the understanding that my friend's death would be on my conscious. But that moral excruciation wasn’t enough to give me control back over my paralyzed body. While the killer ran to the door in his uncomfortable jumpsuit, all I managed to do was turn over onto my right side. The Luger, which had taken the brunt of the electric shock, had been turned into a useless hunk of metal, so I had to reach into my pocket for the Cerberus.
The shooter was already walking for the door when I managed to aim the pistol and shoot into his shiny silver back. The bullet hit him just above the beltline, and the gunman doubled over, but stayed on his feet. He began turning around and I hurried to shoot again and again.
One bullet hit him in the thigh, and another missed, jumped off the stone facing and dashing off with a whistle, but two shots was all it took. The rifle fell out of the shooter's hands. He fell to his knees and tried to raise his weapon but, not able to maintain balance, he fell face-first on the ground.
His death was prolonged and ugly. Coughing blood
and wheezing, he tore his gloves, scratching the stone floor with his fingers.
I would have eased his suffering, but by the time I managed to get up on all fours, the stranger had already gone silent. Dead. I made especially sure of that, as witnesses who survived a lethal gunfight would be just as unwelcome in my situation as powdered glass in cough syrup. Especially if the two men I’d shot were police, or totally law-abiding guards.
That said, where would a simple guard have gotten a flamethrower? Even Department Three spooks were only issued such weaponry before a raid against a particularly nasty creature.
There were also the jumpsuits. They had a very thin layer of aluminum foil embedded in them. Their helmets were hermetically sealed with air filters and tanks of compressed air, as well. And that was to say nothing of the unbelievable lightning gun! In all my years of working for the police, I'd never even heard of anything like that, much less held one in my hands.
That was the precise reason I was sure to gather trophies, throwing the rifle strap over my shoulder. In the holster on the dead-man's side, I discovered a strange-looking double-barreled pistol of no less than twelve caliber with a removable electric jar in the handle. I put it into my satchel, where I also stuffed the helmet. Although it had blood on the inside, the fall hadn’t caused any more damage.
The dead man was young, no older than thirty with a short, blonde crew cut. It was impossible to tell by looking if he was a robber or a cop. And it really didn't matter...
I threw my satchel over my shoulder and hurried back, guessing where Albert had gone. The poet had watched me get shot with his own eyes. The most rational course of action in that situation is to run. At least he managed to keep our opponents on their toes...
My teeth clenched, I went into a run, but backed down when I reached the stairs. I needed to catch my breath, but I was also worried I might be struck on the head with something heavy, if Albert had decided to return for my cold body. I got up quietly, carefully and without particular hurry. Then, when I heard a heart-rending wheezing coming from a platform above me, I grabbed the electric rifle and called out quietly:
"Albert?"
"Leo?! There's no way!" I heard in response, and the disheveled poet ran up to me. "But how? You were struck by lightning!"
"The shock all hit my pistol. I just got stunned."
From a physics perspective, I'd just said complete nonsense, but Albert was completely satisfied with that explanation. He leaned against the wall and pressed his face in his hands.
"What a shame! I abandoned you and fled, like the king of cowards!"
Brandt's remorse was sincere, and in that the last thing I needed right now was a despondent friend, I told him in a direct, military manner:
"Albert, you're an idiot! Only an idiot would be ashamed not to return to a comrade once shot. That's how you get yourself killed. I'll tell you straight: I'd have abandoned your corpse without the slightest hesitation. That is the sensible course of action. I'm actually surprised you're still here."
"I couldn't move the stone slab without your crowbar. I was sitting and waiting for them to come for me and..." the poet placed a finger to his temple and exhaled, "boom!"
"Let's get out of here."
Working together, we moved the section of wall aside and got out of the basement, then put it back in place. We stole quietly across the first floor to the back door and jumped outside. I delayed just for a moment to pull the tablecloth off one of the tables so I could fold the electric rifle up in it.
On the back wing, we saw the bottle of rum left by the leprechaun. Albert threw himself at it like a vulture on rotting flesh, but he held back and only put his lips to the bottle when we were already beyond the garden fence.
"Excellent!" he exhaled, extending the bottle to me.
I took a gulp and coughed at the liquid burning my throat.
"Weakling!" the poet laughed patronizingly and finished the rum.
On the way, he pulled me into a wine shop and bought a bottle of port.
"This is for the come-down," Albert told me reasonably, popping out the cork and swallowing before he warned me: "Next time I ask to come with you on a case, be bold and send me away. Bold! Tell me to fuck off to the devil's grandmother! Whatever it takes! You can even give me a kick on the ass, I won't get offended!"
"Well, you saved my life today, in a certain way," I reminded him.
"And that's what we're drinking to!"
And so we drank. Somehow lightly and unnoticed, the shock died down and I grew drunk, but I didn't go home with the poet, no matter how he insisted. I headed back to mine for some rest. The last day had just been too action packed. If not to say utterly insane...
After locking the door behind me, I checked the back and all windows, went up into the bedroom, tossed the satchel of trophies and tablecloth-wrapped rifle under the bed. After that, I removed my shoes, and found I didn't have the strength for more – I just collapsed on the pillow and went down, like a mechanical hare at the end of a dog race.
I woke up from the sound of glass shards jingling in a window frame. It wasn't yet light outside, but my heightened metabolism had already processed all the alcohol, and my mouth was dry. My tongue was swollen, and my throat felt like it had been run over with sand paper. Stumbling, I went down into the kitchen, found a decanter in the darkness and just managed to tilt it to a glass before my intuition sensed that I was not alone.
What it sensed was a gaze in my back, as if from over a pistol barrel...
Chapter Five, or the Amphitheater and a Bit of a Clue
ANY DANGER is, above all else, a chance to test one's mettle. So said my father.
I personally never could bear this method of self-actualization. In fact, when I got into a mess, I always managed it with another piece of his advice: "Don't sit around and wait for a problem to solve itself, act!" So, with a sharp swing, I cast a heavy decanter underhand, throwing it at the criminal's back. Or the hypothetical crimin...
The glass jingled sharply, and the heavy object thundered onto the floor with a metallic clang. Grabbing a carving knife from the table, I spun in place and jumped over to the burglar I'd caught red-handed. Dressed all in black, the person stumbled aside, but somehow unconfidently, and the knife sunk into his chest. Or to be more accurate, should have sunk!
Not having felt the taught resistance of flesh, I dropped it into the emptiness and it fell to the floor. The blade landed handle down on the boards and, a moment later, a heavy boot flew into my ribs. My lungs emptied with a wheeze. I was turned onto my side and, continuing that motion, rolled away. A stool happened to be at hand. I covered myself with it and immediately heard the seat crack to the blow of a set of brass knuckles. Its spikes went deep into the boards and my disarmed opponent tried to put some distance between us but I tripped him, and swung the massive stool with all my might, breaking it over his head.
The black-masked burglar simply disappeared into thin air. He moved with such blistering speed I didn’t even see, and it became clear that the thing I was facing was no human. To be more accurate, it was no normal human, this person was either illustrious or a malefic.
When it hit the floor, the stool burst into pieces and I ran off in pursuit with the knife still in my hand. In the gloom of the kitchen, I saw a dark spot and struck with my left, but this time, I didn't put my whole weight into the punch, just swung. In an unnaturally fast motion, the agile person contorted himself, letting my fist pass overhead, catching it and jerking it toward him. I didn't try to compare strength and cut right in with a second stab. The strike hit his forehead, and my opponent collapsed to the floor like a felled tree.
The sharp motion caused my rib, bruised by the man's boot, to explode in severe pain, but I didn't succumb to my feelings and do in the uninvited guest. Instead, I came down on him from above and twisted his arms behind his back. After that, I patted over his clothing and, when I reached his back pants pockets and heard the clanking of metal handcuffs – p
olice?! – my desire to break the rascal's neck finally subsided.
After dragging the burglar over to a washbasin, I cuffed his hands, taking the precaution of leading the chain behind a sturdy water pipe, which Hercules himself wouldn't have been able to tear out of the wall. After that, I pulled the ankles of the now unconscious captive together and tied them with a kitchen towel and stuffed a napkin in his mouth.
I only stood back up straight when a sharp pain shot through my ribs. I stood for about a minute, coming back to my senses, then I started a careful search. I set the pistol clips I found in his pockets on the table, along with his secret torch, knife and wallet, took a drink from the faucet and started to think what I should do next.
I didn't want to risk leaving the agile man alone and go up to the bedroom after the Cerberus. Instead, I turned on my trophy torch and found the pistol that had flown under the cabinet. The hammer of the Colt forty-five was raised. Just one second of hesitation, and I'd have gotten a bullet to the back of the head.
The decanter, for the record, survived. I returned it to the table, took a wallet and shook the contents out but, inside, I discovered only the handcuff keys, a few ten-franc notes and a greasy stack of colonial dollars.
There was no police identification among his things, and that unbound my hands. I filled an iron mug with chipped enamel from the faucet, pulled the elastic mask from the burglar’s face and splashed it with water. The handsome young man gave a jerk. I had to grab him by the hair and yank his head up toward me. A fairly large lump immediately met the eye – the knife had hit him flat against the forehead. I was lucky not to have fractured his skull.
But what was worrying me now wasn't the wellbeing of my captive: with a free hand, I pulled back an eyelid and cursed out – in the middle of his white iris, there was a little black pupil.
That meant he was not illustrious. That made everything more complicated and simpler at the same time.
On the one hand, I could strangle this malefic without the slightest mental anguish, on the other – he had absolutely no cause to be frank with me, and this kitchen would clearly not do for a heated interrogation. I'd never get the blood out, and my neighbors would be alarmed. Not good.
