“It was always going to come down to this, Chinaman. It was always going to come down to the two of us. One of us was always going to die.”
“Yes, a pity it has to be you, Mr. Mallone.”
Victor laughed and flipped Wang Li the middle finger.
“Fuck you, Gollum.”
Wang Li grew serious, and in an inhumanly fast motion, he bit into Salvatore’s throat, tearing it away with a great wet ripping sound. Wang Li gorged on the flesh, rubbing the blood all over himself as Salvatore convulsed and gurgled.
Victor struggled to his knees and began to crawl, desperate to get away from Wang Li and the sight of his dead brother. He pushed through the door into the main room of his quarters, trying to ignore the dead bodies of his men; loyal men who had worked for him for years. He struggled to his feet, gingerly hobbling and trying not to put too much weight on his ankle, which was already swelling and terribly painful. The doors swung open behind him and Victor looked over his shoulder to see Wang Li standing there, naked and streaked with blood.
“Leaving so soon, Victor? I don’t think so. We have business to attend to.”
Wang Li scrambled forwards, upright yet partially on all fours as he closed the distance between himself and Victor. A searing bolt of agony shot through Victor’s ankle as he tumbled to the ground. He was now crawling backwards, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Wang Li. He felt his bladder let go, a dark patch spreading out from his crotch as he watched the monster approach. Wang Li sniffed the air, and then pointed to the spreading wetness on Victor’s trousers.
“Such a wonderful smell that is, Victor!”
Victor felt the back of his head touch the wall and he knew that he was out of options. Nowhere else to run, nothing left to fight with. Wang Li came towards him in his half-crouched, gargoyle-like manner, and now Victor could smell the blood on him.
“I’ll make this quick, Victor, out of respect.”
He grinned and Victor tried to push himself into the wall, anything to get away from that mouth, those teeth that were still stained with clumps of shorn flesh.
“And then,” Wang Li added with a smile, “I’ll fuck your dead wife and eat your children while I’m at it.”
Victor sobbed as Wang Li came towards him, opening his mouth wide. Their eyes met and Wang Li had only a split second to register that Victor was smiling. Victor grabbed the back of Wang Li's head with one hand and pulled it towards him, at the same time shoving his free hand into Wang Li’s open mouth. Wang Li tried to bite down, but Victor’s arm was too big. Gritting his teeth, he pushed as hard as he could, his arm sliding past Wang Li’s teeth and down his gullet into his throat. Wang Li’s eyes bulged out as he began to suffocate, his airway completely blocked. Victor lurched forward, and now had Wang Li on his back. He tried to ignore the horrible, leathery feel of the outside skin, and the hot, slick feel of the innards. Instead, he concentrated on pushing his arm deeper, ever deeper into the old Chinaman’s mouth. Eventually Wang Li stopped moving and Victor slumped forwards, now completely exhausted. His arm was buried almost up to the elbow in the old monster’s mouth. For some time, he simply lay there and wept.
Epilogue
Two weeks had passed since that day on the boat. The death toll for Victor’s organisation had been devastating, with over thirty lost including his brother Sal, his wife, and two children. Victor had managed to contain the details of the incident, and put word out that anyone who mentioned it would be dealt with severely.
As with most Friday nights Mallone’s was busy, and as Victor walked into the restaurant, his eyes hidden behind his Armani sunglasses, he smiled. He always loved the sounds and smells of the place when it was running at capacity; there was a certain comfort in it. He strolled towards his table at the back, pausing to say hello to his regular or to take praise for the excellent service.
“Hey, Victor,” came a voice from the table nearest the window.
Victor approached and smiled, shaking hands with the retired police chief and acknowledging his wife with a courteous nod. Former Chief Wigelow had been on Victor’s payroll right up until his retirement, and even though they no longer maintained a professional relationship, the chief and his wife still dined there at least once a month.
“Chief Wigelow, Mrs. Wigelow. I hope you’re enjoying your evening.”
“As always, Victor. Those boys in the kitchen really outdid themselves.”
“I’ll be sure to let them know. Did you try the special?”
“Yes, it was delicious! What was it?”
Victor smiled and rubbed his left arm, still bandaged up the elbow, then leaned close in mock whisper.
“Special imported steak, from China. You won’t find it anywhere else,” he said with a wink.
“I must say, it was really excellent. Maybe the best I’ve ever had.”
Victor simply smiled and nodded.
“Thank you, Chief. I appreciate the compliment.”
Victor excused himself and headed to his private table at the back of the room. He liked to sit there. It offered him an unobstructed view of his customers as they enjoyed their food. He sat in his usual place and let out a deep sigh, thinking that he might well take a holiday. Somewhere warm and quiet where he could heal and unwind. The waiter approached to take his order, and after some consideration, he thought he would try the special too. The Chinese steak, extra rare. After all, it would be a shame to waste it. The waiter scurried away as Victor set his napkin on his knee, took a sip of water, and waited for his meal to arrive.
THE LAST MAN
“Magic is the sole science not accepted by scientists,
because they do not understand it’
~ Harry Houdini
The world was empty. He was now certain of that as he walked down the center of the deserted street. It was the same walk he had made for the last twelve months and during that time he hadn’t seen a single living person, animal, or other living thing. He had always thought it would be a nuclear war or an asteroid impact that would be responsible for wiping out the population of the planet, but in the end it had come down to one man. One man and his greed. One man and his petty desire to one up his rival. That man was him.
Guilt was too weak a word to describe what he felt. He had never intended any of this, none of the hurt, none of the death. He was a simple man at heart, who only wished to entertain by doing what he loved. But as he walked he could hear them, somewhere in the distance and coming closer. Coming for him. He wouldn’t let them take him, that much was certain. He would do things his own way and let God judge him.
He shouldered his way into the building, walking down the empty hallway and bypassing the elevators. There had been no power for weeks now, but it didn’t matter. The stairs would serve well enough. He ascended, ignoring the feeling that he was being watched. Seven floors, eight, nine. Still he climbed, breathing heavily, enjoying the exertion. He reached his destination, the twentieth floor penthouse, and opened the door. The magnetic locks were no longer functional so he simply pushed his way inside. The room was large and priced way above anything that he would ordinarily be able to afford—but money was useless now, and luxury was just a word from a world that didn’t exist anymore. He paused to catch his breath, looking around the huge apartment. Deep red carpets, marble walls with gold trim. Someone rich lived here at some point, but for now, it was his. He went to the bathroom, striding past a huge marble tub big enough for five people and looked at himself in the mirror.
Gaunt face, long, unwashed hair, heavy beard, haunted eyes. Always a man to pride himself on his appearance, at least before the incident, he had certainly let himself go. Such trivial things didn’t matter— not anymore. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small Dictaphone and held it to his lips, pressing the record button.
“My name is Rick Jones, and I am the last man on earth.”
He hesitated for a moment, licking his lips, and then went on.
“
It’s my fault. Everything that happened is down to me. I interfered with something that I didn’t understand and couldn’t control and…”
He pressed the stop button, overcome with emotion, tears welling. He often got like this. Some days were better than others, but often the guilt became too much to bear. Composing himself, he depressed the record button again.
“I tried to put it right, and if anyone should happen to find this, if anyone is out there, then please know that I’m sorry.”
He switched off the recorder, and walked to the main room to the huge glass fronted wall which leads out onto the balcony. He slid it aside and stepped out, the cold air biting at his body. He looked down at the streets below and for a second imagined he saw a thriving hive of activity, of cars honking and jostling for position, people scurrying to and from their places of work. But the illusion lasted only a split second; the cars were still and silent, husks of dead steel, and of course there were no people. The wind died down briefly and he thought he could hear them again, that horrible high pitched sound— the sound of his coming death. He hurried back inside, closing the sound out and sitting on the large white sofa. He set the recorder on the table and pressed the record button.
“I don’t have much time. I want to tell it, to tell it my way, how it happened. You might wonder what I am— am I a terrorist, or some kind of crazed world leader with a demented vision? The answer would be no. But I am a murderer. And the scale of my crime goes far beyond terrorism or genocide. Before all of that, before the death and the guilt, I was just like anybody else. A normal man with a gift to entertain. But I lost sight of it, I lost sight of what was important; and because of that, we are here now… I was an illusionist—a magician, an entertainer, and I was good. Really good. I say it not with arrogance or ego, but with honesty… You need to understand, you need to know what happened. This is the story of how the world came to an end.”
II
The stage was hot and the lights shone into his eyes too brightly for him to see the audience that waited with bated breath. He flicked his eyes to his rival, then to the show presenter who stood poised with his microphone, indulging in the long overused extended pause. The show was another brainchild of some too wealthy executive who didn’t think the public had seen enough reality shows. It was much the same format as others of its kind, only this wasn’t for singers, or variety acts. This one was for illusionists. For the last twelve weeks, Rick and fourteen other hopefuls from the thousands who applied had been whittled down week by week, and now in front of a global audience of millions it had come to this moment, the announcement of the winner. He was quietly confident, his trick, a variation on the great Harry Houdini’s famous Chinese Water torture cell, had been met with rapturous applause and glowing praise from the judges. He was sure it should be enough to win, but as he cast his eyes to his rival, a young, gangly Yorkshire man called Andy Levine, he felt shiver of uncertainty. Andy’s trick had also been impressive, his own version of the famous Penn & Teller bullet catch trick. It was good, but Rick was certain that his was better. At last the show presenter was ready to put one of them out of their misery.
Rick lost.
The crowd booed and the judges shook their heads, but the result stayed the same. Andy Levine won, and it catapulted his career to the stratosphere. Rick slipped off the radar. He still worked, he made a decent living playing clubs and pubs, but whenever he saw his gangly rival on the television, he felt a stab of rage and jealousy spike within him. It should have been him. He knew it, and he was sure Andy Levine knew it too. For the next year their lives grew further apart. Andy became one of those celebrity faces that seem to be on every television program under the sun. Rick on the other hand struggled to make ends meet and was close to losing his one bedroom apartment, which was far from luxurious as it was. Just when he was about to hit bottom, Rick was commissioned to write a serialized newspaper article about the history of magic from its inception to its modern day status. He didn’t want to do it, but he was offered enough money to pay his rent for another month and reluctantly agreed. Although he knew the common history of the business, he was determined to give a full and in depth report, so one warm Saturday morning in June of 2011 he made his way to the public library and set about his research. For the next week he read and researched and was beginning to form the basis of an excellent article, when he stumbled upon an old, leather bound book.
He looked at it on the shelf, pushed back into the corner and covered in a thick layer of dust. Something within him, a quiver of uneasiness, made him reluctant to touch it; but he found himself reaching out anyway, taking the huge book and laying it on the table. The binding was a deep maroon color with faded gold edging. The cover read simply one word, embossed in gold.
Heka.
Suddenly hot and uncomfortable with his heart racing in his chest, he opened the book. That ancient, secret aged paper smell filled his nostrils as he began to look at the words, or more accurately the symbols that filled the page from edge to edge, margin to margin. Some looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs, others like ancient Greek or Latin. The words seemed to be a jumble of the three. Part of him realized that any attempt to translate it would take even an expert on languages a lifetime, never mind an ordinary man of average intelligence. But a voice deep within him compelled him to at least try. He looked at the book again, and noticed it had no library binding, nor did it have the paper index stuck to the inside front page. Rick glanced around the cavernous library, filled with paranoia and a giddy cocktail of fear and excitement, and quietly slipped the book into his knapsack.
III
The deadline for his article passed, and even though he had written half of a very articulate piece, he barely noticed. Much in the same way that he barely noticed when his telephone line was disconnected and when the final reminders and notice of legal action letters began to fall through his letterbox. He was lost.
The main room of his apartment now resembled a huge and impressive research space. Charts of hieroglyphs and ancient symbols were pinned to almost every wall, and the large corner desk, which until he had discovered the red book had housed only his telephone, was now buried under papers. Here was where he spent his days, hunched over the desk, ignoring the unwashed smell of his own sweaty body, and doing his best to ignore the dull headache from the efforts of his research. The first days had seemed like an impossible task, translating the symbols one at a time, trying to put them into some kind of coherent order. Six weeks passed, then twelve, and still he worked, sometimes spending twenty or more hours hunched over the desk. During that time Andy Levine performed what was called the world’s greatest illusion when he made the White House vanish. It was televised to a global audience and after it was done (and the presidential property restored) Andy received a handshake and thanks from the President himself. Rick barely noticed, however. He was lost.
Five months had passed, and Rick’s apartment was more like a hovel. Papers and books filled every surface, and flies buzzed and dived around the overfilled waste bins and plates of moldering, half eaten food. But still, Rick barely noticed, because finally he was beginning to understand. Certain symbols and phrases were beginning to make sense to him. Some passages he could read without referring to his myriad of textbooks and research material. It was only when he began to put the words together that he started to understand their meaning. Exhausted after a ten hour stretch of translating, Rick stood and stretched, rubbing his tired eyes. He had become gaunt from weight loss, and his face now sported an itchy, patchy beard. Moving aside a pile of papers and notes from the arm chair, he sat and closed his eyes, trying to will away a headache looming in back of his head. He wasn’t getting enough sleep, and despite barely leaving the house for months he felt exhausted. As he stared at the wall, trying to digest the stream of information from his work he saw a mouse. It was small and brown, and was walking gingerly across the back of the room, keeping close to the skirting board as it sniffed at the fleshy remains
of a brown, discarded apple core. He smiled to himself for the first time in what felt like an age and watched as the mouse continued to examine the core. As he watched his eyes begin to feel heavy, his exhaustion catching up to him. He closed his eyes but still imagined the mouse, standing in the endless space of his mind’s eye, whiskers twitching as it sniffed at the vast empty void.
The symbols came quickly. They swirled and skittered, ducking and diving and exploding into glorious colors, forming new words and symbols which then interlocked, and pointed to other symbols and shapes and phrases. They danced around the mouse, which continued its oblivious sniffing. He began to read, snatches of the phrases he understood, others he found he could read even though he didn’t consciously know them. Euphoria overcame him, being pulled along by some great, prima force of nature. The words swirled around the mouse, enveloping it and then like switching off a television. His mind’s eye went blank, symbols and mouse gone. He woke with a start, heart thundering in his chest.
The apple core was still exactly where it had been when he closed his eyes, but the mouse was gone. Leaping out of the chair, he flicked his gaze from corner to corner, looking for any possible escape route, but couldn’t see one the mouse could have taken so quickly. He contemplated the enormity of what he may have done, but immediately stamped it out. He couldn’t be certain. He realized he could be getting over excited about nothing. Still, he knew a way to be certain. With an enthusiasm that had been absent for some time, he grabbed his coat and headed out the door.
IV
The second mouse was larger than the one that had (or had not) vanished from his room, but he thought it would do the job just fine. Housed in a large plastic enclosure, he was satisfied that the mouse would remain suitably contained for the duration of his experiment. He set the enclosure on the table, sat in his chair and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. This time the symbols came almost immediately—just as quickly and with the same intensity as before. He concentrated on keeping the mouse in the blank space of his mind’s eye, holding it in place as the words ducked, dived, and swirled. Then as before, it went blank.
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 25
