by Pavel Kornev
One of the kidnappers had returned, and I was immediately left without the slightest illusion that I would manage to get out of this scrape alive, because he returned with his facemask removed.
With a sickly grunting, the illustrious gentleman pulled a white facemask over his head and threw the now-unnecessary mask onto a stack of boxes, then turned around and snorted crossly.
"You’ve understood everything perfectly," he confirmed, having made an evaluation of my wry countenance. "Perfectly."
"You're making a mistake!" I implored him.
"Nothing of the sort," the old man cut me off, his shoulder bandaged up and a hand on his sash as if a bullet fired upward had fallen in the crack between pieces of his armored cuirass. Despite his advanced age and recent wound, he was holding it together confidently and didn't seem either decrepit or ailing.
He scared me.
"I have no idea about any box!" I assured my kidnapper again.
"Doesn't matter!" The illustrious gentleman laughed hoarsely, then began rolling up his right sleeve and my eyes lit up from the black runic lightning bolt on his forearm; the tattoo looked old and discolored.
Chuckling to himself under his nose, the old man went over to get a coal bucket, and placed it near the incomprehensible apparatus. One of its components I did recognize though. It was a steam engine. Using a scoop, he filled the feed bin, poured in ignition fluid and lit a match on the side of a box. A smoky little flame popped up, and immediately caught on the igniter.
The illustrious gentleman stood up straight and began staring at me with his colorless eyes.
"You killed Gustav, and you will answer for it," he stated calmly.
"I didn't kill anyone!"
Or did I? If I did...
"I knew Gustav for more than half a century," the kidnapper continued, as if he hadn't heard me, "and you roasted him like a pig. Who could forgive such a thing in my place?"
"I didn't roast anyone!" I repeated.
The old man shook his head and took the papers the ringleader had left there, leafed through them and started reading extracts from my statements:
"Here, you reported, 'I shot the robber with the flamethrower, and he exploded.'"
"That was self-defense!"
"He was walking away from you!"
"He had just burned two dozen people!" I grew angry despite the bone-chilling horror. "He just walked in and burned those poor people up! What about that?!"
"I don't give a damn!" the kidnapper made a face. "I didn't know them. And also, they were Judeans."
"Are Judeans not people?"
"The guilt of the Judean people is so great," the old man answered calmly, starting the steam engine, "that they have simply lost the right to exist."
I was taken aback for a moment.
"Guilt?" I asked, starting to understand something. "Are they guilty because their ancestors crucified Our Savior?"
The old man just laughed in reply.
"I have little care for who they did or didn't crucify," he told me, coughing. "But it was precisely they who opened the door for the fallen, and that is an indisputable fact."
"Our Savior ascended from the cross into heaven," I objected. "Our Creator grew disappointed with us and stopped caring. The fallen are just a consequence of that..."
"That may be so," the kidnapper shrugged, wincing in pain and rubbing his collar bone. After that, he turned one of the levers and turned on the generator. "I see that you are well versed in this issue, but a blank crucifix on your back will not protect you from electricity."
"Stop!" I screamed. "You can't!"
"I can!" The old man answered calmly and lowered the breaker in an abrupt motion.
I shook from the harsh electric discharge and tears started welling up in my eyes, but all in all, the shock wasn't as painful as I thought.
The old man smiled and announced:
"This will all end as soon as you answer our questions. Then you can die easy and without any more torture."
"Get fucked!" I cursed, and spit out blood from my bit-through lip.
"It looks like we're just getting started, then!" The kidnapper assured me and turned the lever to one o'clock. "If you want to get tortured, that is your right. You'll tell me everything you know eventually, though. Everyone does."
"I don't know anything about any box!"
"Don't try to lie to me," the kidnapper cut me off and sent a charge down the wire again.
The trembling was now noticeably stronger, but when I got my breath back, I decided it would have been incomparably worse if I had unpaid debtors taking me to task.
It was as if the old man could read my thoughts.
"Do you think we're just trying to scare you, and you just have to bear the pain?" With these words, the eyes of the illustrious gentleman not only went white, but began glowing. "Do you believe the memory of Emile will protect you?" The old man took a break to loosen his neckerchief, and suddenly broke into a scream: "Well I didn't give a damn about him, anyway! That waste of breath couldn't hold a candle to Clement! His pointless ambitions jeopardized all of us, and our whole operation! The brainless cretin!"
I wanted to ask what relationship the dead brother of a dead Emperor had with us, but the kidnapper lowered the breaker once again and I shook in convulsions from the electricity flowing through my body.
That punishment was more painful than the ones that came before it. I only came back to my senses after having a bucket of water dumped on my head.
The old man slapped my cheek and stood behind my back.
"Have you heard of the electric chair before?" he asked with an unpleasant smirk. "In the New World colonies, they use this wonderful invention to execute witches, malefics and all other such filth. It works faster and more reliably than burning at the stake. It's also cheaper."
I tried to squeeze a curse out of myself, but my teeth were chattering too hard.
"We will not be rushing it like that, though," the ominous old man assured me and walked back over to the generator. "We will increase the power gradually so you can really feel what it's like to burn alive!"
And another shock!
I shook and shook for what seemed like an eternity. When I opened my eyes again, it smelled strongly of burnt hair.
"Electricity bakes you from the inside," the illustrious gentleman informed me, walking the narrow passage between the piles of wooden boxes to the nearest window. He first knocked out one board, then a second and a third, opening a path for fresh air to get into the room.
While he was distracted, I pulled on my left arm with all my might, but though the bucket of water had soaked my clothes and the leather belt, my arm was still strapped down tight, and I couldn't pull it out.
Come on! Just a bit more!
But I couldn't.
The kidnapper returned and lowered the breaker with no warning. The power regulator wasn't fully wound that time, but I still shook until I saw sparks in my eyes, and had spasms and hallucinations.
One of the hallucination got up on the box behind the old man's back, pulled up his white face mask and, with a careless grimace, threw it on the floor. After that, the leprechaun took out his tobacco pouch and set about rolling a cigarette. My imaginary friend, borne of my illustrious talent, pain and loneliness, was not planning on helping me even though it only would have taken just one stab from his cooking knife...
"Bastard," I gasped and went limp in the chair.
The old man thought I was swearing at him and turned the power regulator up all the higher yet again.
"You're only making this worse for yourself," he told me. "Just tell me where the box is. Just tell me and it will all be over."
"No," I shook my head.
"It's your choice."
The electricity stabbed me this time with the fury of a hundred lightning bolts, but I didn't lose my consciousness. I would have liked to, but I just couldn't. The pain was stopping me. It was welling behind my eyes and piercing through my h
ead every time I even tried to close my eyelids.
It started smelling of burning again, and when the old man finally turned off the power, I wasn't able to move my arms or legs. My body was simply numb.
"The power level is just gonna keep rising," my torturer told me calmly. "Your internal organs will start cooking very soon."
"Shove it up your ass," I wheezed out. "And shove it up your ass, too..."
The last words were aimed at the leprechaun. His hand-rolled cigarette stuffed into the corner of his wide frog-like mouth, he slipped the edge of his kitchen knife under the top of a box next to him, and tried to pry it open, but the nails were pounded in tight.
"They say electricity is sublime, but it can also be a punishment," the old man whispered. "Think of how it treated Gustav!" And, not turning the piercing gaze of his illustrious eyes from me, he stood up straight and slammed down the breaker.
My scream must have been heard at the other end of the city. My back twisted into an arch. My head started splitting at the point where the belts were stretching out over my forehead, then at the back of my head, which started feeling pressed into the chair back so hard that sparks were coming from my eyes.
Then, the old man stood up straight and broke the circuit.
"Why do you have to bear such pain?" He asked.
"I don't have the damn box, idiot!" I gasped out hoarsely.
And another shock instantly ran through my body.
"I cannot bear lack of respect," the illustrious gentleman warned me. "Your heart will not hold out much longer, so you'd better start talking."
I just shook my head.
The leprechaun finally got the top off the box and pulled an ancient hand grenade from it. It was round, and had a cast-iron body. The discovery baffled the small albino man. He tossed it up at the ceiling a few times, then for some reason, began twisting in the wick.
The situation was growing less and less appealing to me with every passing moment. Though, it seemed, it couldn't get much worse...
The kidnapper had his own opinion of the gaze I was casting past him, so he tried a nicer tact:
"Perhaps, I'll even let you keep your life," he threw out a fishing line and sniffled in confusion, having caught the scent of strong tobacco smoke coming through the odor of burnt hair.
The leprechaun, meanwhile, took a few more deep, purposeful drags.
"Hellfire!" I exclaimed when the small man placed the crimson point of his ember on the fuse, left the grenade on the box and jumped down onto the floor.
Burning fuse, bomb, box. A pile of boxes.
Were they empty? Almost certainly not!
At the very least, the old man didn't think so. He burst out of his place with such a lighting-like furor that the only possible explanation for his swiftness was that it was his illustrious talent. In one moment, the old man hurdled over the boxes blocking his path and picked up the iron ball, but the flame from the wick had already disappeared inside the head; he couldn't put it out now.
The illustrious gentleman didn't falter thought, and cast the bomb powerfully through the window he'd recently pried the boards from. The explosion thundered out just then; a column of condensed air butted me painfully in the chest, overturning the chair I was sitting on. I slammed into the hard floorboards, yet again with the much-suffering back of my head...
I WOKE UP TO WATER dripping on my face. A thin little stream was falling from the ceiling; it was hitting me on the forehead and splashing into my eyes and mouth.
I was lying there and could not believe my luck. The shrapnel from the rifled cast-iron body had missed the boxes, and none of the additional bombs inside had gone off. The old man, meanwhile....
Actually, what happened to him? Where was that bastard?
And just then some slow footsteps sounded out.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
I was twitching feverishly trying to free my left arm, but I didn't have to bother. Just then, who should come out from behind the boxes but the disheveled leprechaun.
"Help!" I asked him.
The short albino moved his top hat back on his head, looked me over thoughtfully from top to bottom, then tossed his cigarette butt in the puddle next to my head, and left my field of view. A moment later, I heard a pair of toe-less boots clacking down the iron stairs.
"Bastard!" I shouted behind him, and gagged on the water falling down into my mouth from the ceiling.
I lay there gathering my strength, then caught another dribble in my mouth. Then, my head raised, I spit the water at the unyielding belt. Then I did it again and again.
If I did not manage to get out of here before the mean-spirited old man and his friends returned, it'd start all over again. And if he did wake up...
I didn't even want to think about what might happen.
After I wet it, the belt became much more forgiving, and a few minutes of struggling later, I finally pulled my hand from its hellishly tight embrace.
It got easier from there. The other belts weren't screwed to the chair, just buttoned, so getting out of them was easy. I got out of the chair into the puddle, lied there, gathering my strength, then, quietly whispering curses through my clenched teeth, stood to my feet. And when my head was spinning a bit less, I looked at the explosion-twisted pile of wooden boxes.
The old man was propped up against a wall. The cast-iron body of the grenade, which had flown apart into several large fragments, had crushed his head and almost torn off one of his arms. The rest of the pieces had hit the wall and windows; everywhere around there were chips of whitewash and wood.
I was doubly fortunate – the old man had not only gotten a one-way ticket to the other side, but had also taken the brunt of the blow himself. If he hadn’t, this really would have been hellfire for me, too. The box the leprechaun had opened was wall-to-wall packed with bombs.
There were enough combustibles in the room to launch us to the moon.
I cursed out loud and moved back onto the stairs. With dread, I walked over the metal railing and looked around the room, which looked to be a small warehouse or a coach house. It was filled with boxes of weapons. Near the entrance gate, there was a police armored car that had been brought inside; I would bet my life it was the very same vehicle used in the attempt on the bank.
But it didn't matter now. I had to hurry down. Down!
I found my things piled up on a workbench under the stairs. In the heap of clothing, I found my holster and Roth-Steyr and, as I was, barefooted and wearing nothing but my undergarments, I rushed to the gate. Pistol in hand, I looked out at the street, but the rain was falling in a solid sheet and I couldn't even see the neighboring buildings. Basically, the courtyard was empty...
Locking the door, I threw open the back door of the armored car and got behind the six-barreled Gatling gun installed in the back. First, I adjusted the belt, then I checked the levels of the electric jars and gave the barrels a few idle spins.
Everything was working like clockwork. Or, to be more accurate, like a sewing machine.
The back of the armored car was pointing at the gates as if to defend the building. That gave me a very compelling argument in the event that the two ornery old men showed up and wanted to herd me back into their secret lair.
I just sat there for a few minutes, not feeling strong enough to move either my arms or legs, then I checked to make sure the iron lock bars on the gates were shut tightly. Only after that did I put on my shoes and clothes, going as gingerly as possible around my chafed wrists and ankles. I grabbed a short split-end crow bar from the workbench. Using it, I opened the first box I came across, and inside that, I found a set of semi-automatic Madsen-Biarnoff rifles wrapped in oil paper.
The neighboring box had ammunition. I gutted it and outfitted myself with a couple of magazines. I loaded one into my new souvenir and immediately chambered a round, then quietly laughed to myself under my nose.
Life was working out for the best.
I had a fully loaded semi-a
utomatic carbine under my arm and a machine gun in the armored car. What else could you need for total happiness?
As it turned out, 'hand grenades' was the answer. Not those cast iron monsters with fuses, but more modern ones with wooden handles and chemical igniters. I threw two boxes of grenades into the car as well, and I pulled another box up an inclined board into the car after it. That one contained heavy granulated TNT for the motor, a hand-held Madsen machine gun in factory packaging and rounds for it. Then I stood next to a table looking at a backpack flamethrower considering whether I really needed the ghastly armament. In the end, I placed its tanks very carefully into the back of the vehicle, setting the hose atop them, the jet piece on top of that, and the mask with glass eye-holes at the very summit.
My interest was also piqued by a hand-held mortar fed by an over-the-shoulder pack. It's air-feed sent the charges down a flexible hose, allowing the weapon to shoot quickly. The compressed air tank also allowed the construction to have a total weight of less than twenty kilograms.
Should I saddle myself with such a weight? What for?
Though actually, why have any of this stuff?
Why even bring the weapons with me at all? How would I ever use them? Was I going to start a little war?
But, in the end, my good sense capitulated to my greed, and I continued to open boxes and gut cases. Soon, among the pile of pistols and carbines, I found a drum mortar I had already seen once before in action. With it, I took fifty rounds, then decided not to limit myself and picked up another couple of rifles and some extra ammunition.
Even if I didn’t use it, I could sell it.
With that thought in mind, I pulled the Gatling-gun-belt packing machine into the car as well, making sure not to forget eight-millimeter rounds for my Roth-Steyr either. I looked over the shocks. They were sagging, but not as badly as I was expecting. I started considering which of the means of destruction near me would be best if I found myself in a grapple with the werewolf.
