by Brett Savory
“Shit, you’re hurting me, Henry, stop it.”
“We need to get out of this apartment right now. Palermo is coming up the stairs. He does not want pleasant things for us. We need to go.”
“OK, alright,” Faye said, rubbing her eyes. “I just need my shoes.”
Henry looked around the room quickly. “There,” he said and pointed.
Faye moved to the edge of the bed where her shoes were, put them on as quickly as her sleep-deprived mind would allow.
“OK, let’s move,” Henry said, and headed for the front door.
* * *
Marcton parked the conspicuous Hummer four blocks away from Faye’s apartment, got out, told Cleve, Bill, and Melvin to keep quiet. “Not one sound except the crunch of snow under your boots – and even that needs to be next to silent.”
They were all packing one powerful handgun each and, in addition, Bill and Melvin had sawed-off shotguns hidden under their coats.
“The nurse’s apartment is just below the top floor, southwest corner,” Marcton said. “Keep your eyes peeled for any movement as we approach.”
When no one responded, he was impressed: just the crunching of their boots.
* * *
Five minutes before they’d arrived, Palermo had described to Krebosche as best he could what “ascension” meant. Although he neglected to mention that the last time he’d seen Henry Kyllo he was a massive creature being smuggled out of a dumpster and into Faye’s building under a blanket. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d seen sticking out under that blanket, but it certainly looked like Henry’s legs were made of metal.
Just like Adelina.
What he did tell Krebosche – yet more lies – was that Adelina had achieved the highest state she could in their order, and that the gathering at the house was just an ascension ceremony – merely a celebration of her achievement. But then something had gone wrong. As part of the ceremony, words were spoken – what they thought were simply rites of passage passed down in their holy book (they didn’t have a holy book). And when the words were spoken, the very moment they were out of Palermo’s mouth, he’d looked up and she was gone. Vanished.
“So you’re a cult leader,” Krebosche had said.
“I suppose I am, yes.”
“And you brought your daughter up in this voodoo shit?”
“I suppose I did. But it’s not voodoo.”
“Might as well be. Also, I don’t believe for a second that she just vanished. What I think is that this Kyllo guy you’re taking me to – once he sees I’m not fucking around – is going to tell me what really happened.”
Palermo had said nothing to that, just let it sit between them in the car. Palermo felt the shifting winds in his bones, and thought they might both be in for a bit of a surprise once they saw Henry Kyllo.
* * *
Inside Faye’s building, the south elevator moved upward quietly. It dinged softly as it passed each floor.
“Just so you know,” Palermo said, “there will be two people when the door opens – if the nurse isn’t at work, that is. I don’t know her exact schedule.”
“Understood,” Krebosche said.
A few floors passed with neither speaking. Then:
“So you’ll do the talking?” Palermo asked.
“Um, yeah,” Krebosche said, jammed the gun a little harder into the back of Palermo’s neck.
* * *
Just as Milo, Henry, and Faye were readying to leave, Adelina appeared in one corner of Faye’s living room. Everyone was leaving; that was good. They still had a chance. But they’d waited too long.
Nothing she could do now, but watch the door. Wait to see what happened.
Milo spotted her, said her name, but she ignored him. Just continued staring at the door.
A feeling of intense dread enveloped her.
* * *
The elevator doors opened. Palermo and Krebosche stepped out. Krebosche looked up and down the hallway, saw no one. He poked Palermo in the neck to get moving.
“So what are you gonna say?” Palermo said, hoping to unnerve Krebosche, distract him from whatever plan he might have. Depending on what Kyllo had become, distracting him might be a good tactic for helping get the hell out of the way, should things get intense. And, if recent weather was any indicator – and Palermo truly believed it was – an incredibly intense situation was bound to come due sooner or later. His subconscious had felt something building for a while now, but when, precisely, the shit would hit the fan, he didn’t know. This all just felt like he was on a track of some kind, and there was no way off – and, in all likelihood, no brakes.
“You’ll see. Got it all worked out. Stay tuned, friend.”
Stay tuned, friend? A shiver went up Palermo’s back at the words. Krebosche’s tone had changed. Something in his voice was different now. Even the choice of words was strange. Not like something Krebosche – what Palermo knew of him, anyway – would say.
Their feet made little to no noise on the gray carpet of the hallway. There was a stillness in the air that Palermo didn’t like. Sounds seemed to be muffled. Palermo’s desire for flight was suddenly incredibly strong. He had to resist the urge to bolt down the hallway.
They were only about ten feet away from the door now. Sweat popped out on Palermo’s forehead. He said, “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Krebosche. I’ve got this very strange feeling. Don’t you feel it? Something’s… off.”
He tried to stop, turn around, but Krebosche jabbed him with the gun, spun him around, said, “Keep walking.”
Palermo’s gut twisted. He felt suddenly ill. Under no circumstances did he want to see what was behind this door.
“Nine-eighteen, you said, yeah?”
Palermo briefly considered lying, giving Krebosche another number. Was just about to when they arrived at nine-eighteen, and Krebosche said, “Yeah, that was it. Nine-eighteen. Here we are, Palermo. Anything else I should know before we knock?”
Palermo could only shake his head. His vision was blurring. He was having trouble breathing. Felt like he was sucking air through a cheesecloth.
“Alright, then, knock on the door. And don’t speak unless spoken to.”
Palermo raised his fist, had a momentary mindflash of whipping around fast enough to punch Krebosche with it, maybe wrestle the gun from him, shoot him, flee. But it was a ridiculous action-film fantasy; he knew he’d never be able to do it. Especially not with his nerves as frayed as they’d become. Besides, he’d tried once already and failed. Knew that as soon as he started to turn, in that split second that his intention became clear to Krebosche, the man would know, react, and bullets would tear his neck apart.
Instead, the knuckles of his fist connected with the fake wood of the apartment door.
* * *
Inside the apartment, the knock sounded. Milo, Henry, and Faye froze where they stood.
Milo looked at Adelina. She shook her head back and forth, eyes wide. “Don’t answer it. Henry’s not ready for this fight. He hasn’t changed. He hasn’t changed.”
Milo said, “He has changed, Adelina. Look at him!”
The knock sounded again. Someone asked very politely if he could please speak with Henry Kyllo.
Adelina continued shaking her head. “Not enough. He hasn’t changed enough. And it’s not these men he needs to worry about. It’s the ones following soon after.”
Milo had no idea what other men she was talking about, and the voice on the other side of the door was getting more insistent. He turned his attention away from Adelina, hissed, “Henry, what do we do?”
Henry considered for a moment. “No other way out besides through that door, so I guess we’re opening it.” He turned to Faye, said, “Stand behind me.”
Faye was about to protest that she could take care of herself, but quickly realized that, should there be gunfire, standing behind a giant metal behemoth was a fairly smart place to be, despite the possibility of ricochet.
Henry then realized that they basically had an invisible man at their disposal. With some effort, Milo could interact with the physical world now, but only Henry could see him. Why the hell hadn’t he – or Milo – thought of this before?
“Milo, you’re invisible!” Henry hissed at him.
“I know,” Milo said back. Henry saw the gears turning, then Milo understood. “Oh!”
“I’ll open the door. You get ready to rush them if anything looks fucked. Attacking right out of the gate will only wake the neighbors and bring unwanted attention, so I doubt they’ll want to do that.”
“Yeah, give me a signal or something.”
“The signal will be that I’ll be attacking them, too.”
“Perfect.” Milo smiled. Henry wanted to return the smile, set Milo at ease for whatever came next. But he didn’t really feel it. He felt instead the same way Palermo felt on the other side of the door. As though things were coming to a head – that if it wasn’t already a seriously deadly business, it was about to become so in very short order.
I mashed someone to baby food through my freakshow-gigantic fingers, he thought. I think I can handle a couple of guys with knives and guns, or whatever other weapons they have. Unless they’ve got close air support, this should pan out in our favor.
Henry wanted desperately to believe in this voice, but he was still so unsure of his size, the way he moved. Pulping something (or someone) – no matter how vile and repulsive an act – in a state of relative calm was not the same as fighting angry people in close quarters. And although a lot of Henry was metal, there were a lot of undeveloped parts on his body still in the process of changing, hardening. Some that weren’t even hardening to metal, but some other substance. Some kind of rock, he thought. But these many spots were still not even close to impervious.
My Achilles heels. Plural.
The knocking was so insistent now that it would certainly wake the neighbors if they didn’t open up soon.
Henry stepped forward, head scraping the ceiling. Unlocked the door, turned the knob, pulled it open.
Krebosche’s face was level with Henry’s stomach. He stepped back from Palermo, and his eyes traveled upward, met Henry’s gaze.
Henry’s rocks-in-a-grinder voice said, “Who are you?”
Krebosche took a moment to gather himself – or, rather, what he thought constituted gathering himself. He was so astonished that he wasn’t entirely sure what was coming out of his mouth. “Are… are you Kyllo?” he said.
If I’m gonna make a real break for it, now is certainly the time, Palermo thought. But he didn’t. He just stood there with a gun at his back, terrified. And ashamed of that fact. But in all truth, he had never imagined that Henry would have turned into what stood before him now. He was nearly as dumbstruck as Krebosche.
Henry didn’t answer the question. Instead said, “Tell me who you are.”
“William Krebosche. I… need to know what happened to… my girlfriend.” His mind spun. He felt nausea threatening. He didn’t know how to make sense of the figure before him. It was as though his brain was trying to plug in what it thought it should be seeing rather than what it actually saw. He felt control of the situation already slipping.
“Who was your girlfriend?”
“Adelina Palermo,” Krebosche said, running on autopilot.
Everyone just stared. Milo turned his head toward Adelina, who was expressionless.
“She’s… gone, William,” Henry said. “She has moved on. She will not be returning.”
“I know – I guess I’ve always known – it’s just that I…” Krebosche stared at the floor. He was beginning to come apart. Felt his insides burning up, like someone had touched a hot flame to them. Like his guts were being stirred with a hot poker.
Henry saw the hurt in Krebosche’s eyes, and understood it. He also understood that he had a knife or a gun – something – pointing at Palermo’s head.
“Palermo said that… that you’d know where she was. And I thought maybe if I could just see her again, let her know that… See, I just want her to know how much…” Krebosche felt his mind unravelling like a spool. His face had gone pale. He staggered back farther.
* * *
Palermo just stood for a moment, uncertain what to do.
At precisely the same time, Henry was suddenly gripped with ferocious pain. It ripped up one side of his body and down the other. He doubled over in agony, went down to his knees, clutching his stomach with one hand, his head with the other. He let out a roar that not only woke the neighbors, but probably everyone on every floor of the building.
Palermo reeled back against the hallway wall, open-mouthed.
Krebosche pointed the gun at Henry. He knew it would be next to useless against him, but on some instinctual level he still ridiculously believed in its stopping power. When Henry had doubled over, he’d revealed Faye standing behind him. Krebosche saw her, trained his weapon on her instead, said in a sleepy voice, as though waking from a dream, “Hey, who’s that?”
Henry roared again. Krebosche panicked and fired.
Faye went down.
People started poking their heads out of their apartments. Once they saw Krebosche with his gun out, however, they vanished again just as quickly. Doors slammed, deadbolts locked.
Milo rushed forward and tried to knock the gun from Krebosche’s hand, but he was holding on to it too tightly. Krebosche felt something brush by him, nearly knock the gun from his hand. He frowned in the direction of the attack, didn’t understand where it had come from, but understood that someone was after his weapon, and that was enough to focus him – it was the only thing standing between death and this roaring monster in front of him.
He held on to the gun even tighter, held it lower, down at his side, to protect it.
That’s when Palermo finally got up the nerve to make a break for it. He took off down the hall as fast as his legs would carry him. Which, given his injury, wasn’t that fast.
Krebosche watched him go for a second, then shot at him. The bullet hit him in the back of the thigh. Palermo staggered forward once, crumpled to the floor. Got back up, kept running, now with a limp. Burst through the door to the stairwell. Gone.
Krebosche then emptied the rest of his gun’s clip into Kyllo, who felt not a single one of the bullets – even those that happened to hit what he’d thought might be his Achilles heels.
All he felt was fire as he found his feet once more.
The fire burned along his synapses, rippled up his spine, crawled over his scalp, tore at his insides.
The only clear thought he had before he started growing – visibly expanding – in height and width was: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS THIS?
And then there were no more clear thoughts for quite a while.
Like a snake shedding its skin, big chunks of metal began dropping off, clunking to the floor, tendrils of smoke rising from them as though they were meteors falling to the earth. He staggered, nearly fell, crashed against a wall, righted himself, roared again. It was just blind luck that none of his pieces crushed Faye to death where she lay unconscious. The bullet had hit her upper chest, close to the armpit, and just below the collar bone. Not immediately life-threatening, but she was losing blood.
More pieces of Henry came loose and fell off. His body beneath was smoother, sleeker than the previous incarnation. Every inch looked like brushed metal, much more uniform than before. If he were able to stand upright, he would have been close to ten feet tall, and would have measured about four feet wide across the chest. He had to go down on all fours to keep from crashing through the ceiling; hunching and ducking would no longer cut it.
In the hallway, Krebosche just stood there for a moment longer, staring. Then he dropped his empty gun and walked toward Henry. Tears glistened on his eyelids. His mouth hung open. All pretense of attack or defense was gone.
This new Henry breathed heavily and with difficulty, his esophagus pushing air along pathways still being forged. But h
is eyes worked well. They saw Krebosche approaching, narrowed, then Henry determined the threat – if any one man could be seen as any kind of threat to him now. He sprung forward on legs like pistons, forearms stacked on top of one another, thrust out ahead of him: two massive columns of steel that crashed through both sides of the doorframe.
Right before Henry’s arms connected with Krebosche’s upper half, Krebosche’s eyes went even wider than before, and he said, “Adelina?” Whether he could actually see her, or whether he just said her name because it was the last thing he wanted to come out of his mouth before his death, Adelina would never know.
She put a hand over her mouth as Henry slammed into Krebosche with his doublestacked arms, against the wall where he’d stood to shoot Palermo as he ran away. Krebosche’s legs were lifted and dragged under him, his legs nearly horizontal with the speed of the attack. There was a sickening crunch when his top half hit the wall. His torso crumpled under the pressure. Blood splashed upward in a gout, covering his neck and most of his face.
Part of the wall caved in, dust and plaster sprinkled down from overhead. The lights in the hallway flickered but stayed on.
Henry pulled his arms back, surveyed the corpse. Another spike of pain galvanized him and he lashed out again, ripping Krebosche’s corpse in two at the waist, throwing the top half over his shoulder, back into the apartment, flinging the bottom half down the hall.
Henry stomped back into Faye’s apartment, leaving craters in the floor with every step. The floor shuddered, threatened to cave in, but held.
Throughout it all, Milo just stood to the side out in the hallway and wondered what he could do to stop it.
When Henry went back into the apartment, Milo followed him, shouted, “Henry! Henry, stop!”
Henry did not stop. He reached the mangled top portion of Krebosche’s body, picked it up, let loose a strangled cry, and threw it toward the living room window, where it shattered the glass, sailed over the balcony, out into the night.
