Demonworld Book 3: The Floyd Street Massacre

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Who sent you?” he said. His voice was strangely high-pitched.

  Wodan examined the automatic handgun he’d found in the Captain’s bedroom. It was made of black metal and pale ivory and encrusted with green jewels in the shape of a Coil serpent. It was incredibly gaudy, an idol that glorified the act of murder. Wodan checked the action and saw that the gun was functional, so he loaded a clip and chambered a round. He stood and watched the fat Coil Captain, unsure of how to continue.

  “You’re a Coil,” said Wodan. “The Ugly are your sworn enemy. You’re about to take part in a ritual that will result in the destruction of your sworn enemy.”

  “What… what the hell?” said the man. “Listen, I don’t know anything about that, alright? You’re talking about Ugly? Listen, I know a few of those guys. Some of those guys have some whore houses way out on the south end of town. Listen... I can get you guys some girls. Is that what you boys want? Hey, I can get you some girls, no problem. They keep most of them drugged up all the time. You know? They’re practically zombies!”

  “This is going to be easier than I thought,” said Wodan. He lifted the handgun and took aim.

  * * *

  The next day at the office, Wodan drowned his worry by catching up on a lot of work. The office hummed with talk of a dead Captain. The details were so muddled that Wodan began to wonder if the Coil in the lounge were even talking about the same event. As the day wore on, Wodan heard the Soldiers swearing oaths, one on top of another, to the effect that they were going to smash the Ugly single-handed.

  It’s happening, thought Wodan. The battle against the Ugly is finally beginning.

  Wodan tidied up his clutter and prepared to leave early. Suddenly he heard a crash in the lounge, men shouting - then gunfire, screams, panic. Before he could react the back door flew open and men rushed in, guns drawn, and Wodan stood frozen, feeling nothing but ice cold terror. Denim-clad Lawmen streamed in barking orders, then a detective with a bulletproof vest over his suit came to the fore, handgun pointed at Wodan’s head, gray eyes shining.

  “Freeze, scumbag,” said Detective Virgil. “You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Precinct Zero

  Lawmen with thick, dead-looking faces pushed Wodan through a dark hall lined with cells packed tight with screaming Ugly, their cries echoing and feeding off one another, scarred faces twisted, fangs bared, eyes full of madness. Their arms twisted through the bars, desperate to get at Wodan and tear him to pieces because he wore the black-and-green suit that they were programmed to hate. Wodan saw every detail of the hatred streaming at him from all sides, but white hot fear drowned out any conscious thought. The imprisoned Ugly were not individuals, but fingers on the hand of an ancient, hateful god hungry for sacrifice, a thing beyond rational comprehension.

  “Hey, Coil,” said one of the denim-clad Lawmen. “How about we put you in one of these cells? You like that? You think these guys would tear you to pieces?”

  “Yeah,” said another Lawman. “Then they’d rape the pieces.”

  Wodan barely heard their comments. His mind was overloaded. The dungeon of Precinct Zero was not like his incarceration in Haven, where death had been an abstract concept waiting over the horizon. Here, death was visceral and immediate.

  They passed through the hall, then they took Wodan to a gray chamber lit with a dim electric bulb. They sat him before a table on a chair screwed in to the floor, then laced his shackles to a hook on top of the chair. As the Lawmen filed out, one of them turned back and said, “I’m going to take a survey and see which of those Ugly cells has the highest ratio of horny, sadistic, blood-thirsty bastards. Then I’m going to put you in that cell.” The Lawmen shut the door behind them as they left.

  Alone, Wodan drew in deep breaths and tried to calm himself. How had the Law found out about the murder so quickly? Everything he’d heard from other Coilmen made it seem as if the Law was continually backlogged with paperwork, minor arrests, and calls from the wealthy that they had to continually check up on. From what he’d heard, if the Law didn’t catch you in the act, then they would likely never catch you. How had they caught up with him so fast? They’d hit the office with so many men that the Soldiers and Lieutenants they’d killed never had a chance. Wodan had seen Jerry among the survivors, and wondered what his fate would be.

  Long minutes passed and his terror degraded into a sharp, grinding sense of anxiety. As he turned the matter over in his mind, he suddenly realized that, during the entire ride to Precinct Zero, the Lawmen had continually made fun of his Coil suit and bragged about how they were going to feed him to the Ugly. They’d called him a lot of names, but they never called him a murderer. Could it be possible that he was only here because of something stupid Jerry had done, or one of the other Coil, or possibly just bad luck?

  The door opened and two detective Lawmen in suits entered. Two other Lawmen, denim-clad enforcers armed with heavy revolvers, took up positions on either side of the door. As if Wodan was invisible, the two detectives leaned against the table and faced one another.

  One with a grim face and a thin black mustache finally said, “Alright. Five to one.”

  The other, a balding man with a thick mustache, said, “Rancis, why would you even push for this.”

  “Tell him five to one on those cornbread fucks!”

  “I thought you were stupid when you were all about double or nothin’.”

  “Listen. I’m gonna explain this one more time. Those farm boys don’t do shit all day except play ball. Play fuckin’ ball. I used to do patrols out there and I know this shit. Every time a team comes into town from the farms, everyone’s like ‘Ha ha, here come the farm boys,’ and then every time those country boys whip ass on the court, everybody tries to ignore it and cut their losses. It’s like a blind spot in the human psyche, it happens over and over and yet nobody... stop shaking your head!”

  “Rancis, your problem is that you can’t handle losing. You don’t understand that you can’t win every bet on every game; you think that everyone’s watchin’ you and talkin’ bad if you lose a game or two. Nobody gives a shit about what happened last week. But shit, man, if we start looking desperate… I mean, it’s going to be humiliating just coming to work every day. You know?”

  A long time passed in silence.

  “Tell him five to one,” said Lieutenant Detective Rancis. “I never led you wrong.”

  The other detective’s shoulders slumped.

  “My man!” said Rancis, smiling and clapping his arm. He suddenly turned to Wodan and said, “Fucking Coil - I got an important question to ask you.”

  Wodan only saw a blur of motion before something slammed into his face. Stars. He fell from the chair, but the manacles around his wrists remained fixed to the hook on his chair so that his arms, stretched out behind him, kept him from hitting the ground. His face hung inches from the floor. The incredible pain washed over him slowly. He blinked as the floor swayed beneath him, shocked that a punch could hurt so badly. Dots of blood gathered on the gray tiles.

  “Fuck!” he heard Rancis shout. “Fu-u-u-uck!”

  “You gotta stop using your hands like that,” said the other. “You okay?”

  “It stings!”

  Wodan remained in his awkward position. His wrists throbbed terribly. He heard the other detective whispering, “… don’t want to fill out the paperwork... if you start going crazy...”

  “You kidding? We’ve got two denims in here that’ll attest to the fact that this Coil spit on me and possibly gave me a communicable disease. These guys’ll do the paperwork if I kill him, they know how to get ahead.” Rancis paused, then said, “You think I got to be Lieutenant ’cause I do my own paperwork? Shit.”

  Wodan felt himself rising. Dizziness, nausea. Rancis threw him back into the chair. He stuck his face right into Wodan’s so that he could see every greasy pore and every line under his black eyes and every fiber of the man’s skinny mustache. “Where the he
ll were you on the night of the first of Julian of last year?”

  Wodan drew a blank. He was convinced that the man was a psychopath. One more punch like the last could sever his spinal cord or, worse, land him in a cell with a bunch of Ugly. Wodan blinked, then said, “I... I have no idea.”

  “You think I made that date up fuckin’ random?!” Rancis screamed. Spittle slapped into Wodan’s face. “You... you fuck! You think I couldn’t slap a thousand crimes onto you right now and have you thrown so deep down in this hellhole you’d never see the light of day again?! You think I don’t have that power?!”

  Now Wodan was sure this was not about the murders from the night before. He had gotten away with those - and was now going to die for no reason at all.

  “Your Captain,” Rancis growled. “You know he sold you out? I could barely get in the door before he was on me selling you out for shit you did before you were even born. And he’s gonna walk. You know that? He’s gonna walk out on bail for a trial he’ll never bother to show up for, and you’re gonna get stuck here. You like that? All you goddamn Coil. How’s that for ‘honor among thieves’? And when I throw you in one of those cells, even Coil spies in there with the Ugly are going to help beat the shit out of you in order to keep their cover. There’s some more ‘honor among thieves’ for you, dipshit!”

  Wodan halfway believed him, but he’d also been told by numerous Soldiers that the Law would say anything to make you talk. Then again, what could Wodan possibly say that this psychotic Lawman would be interested in? That he was a gangster? What more did he want?

  “I admit it!” said Wodan. “I confess! I buy my clothes at the same place the Coil do.”

  Wodan flinched, sure that another blow would come. But Rancis ignored him – he turned to the door as it opened and another detective entered.

  “Virgil,” said Rancis.

  “Sir,” said Virgil, nodding slightly.

  Wodan studied the man. He had none of the psychotic charisma of Rancis, who seemed to be his superior. Virgil’s gray eyes were cool, his demeanor steady and intent. Wodan remembered the man’s sense of command when he’d directed the Lawmen in clearing out the Coil office.

  “Come to look at the trash you dragged in?” said Rancis.

  Virgil nodded as he studied Wodan. “Sir,” he said, “may I question the prisoner alone?”

  “I guess,” said Rancis, looking bored as his attention wandered elsewhere. He left with his balding comrade. Virgil nodded to the two denim-clad Lawmen at the door, and they left as well.

  The room fell quiet and still. Virgil sat across from Wodan, then said, “Looks like he really worked you over.”

  Wodan nodded. He smiled slightly and felt pain well up around his swollen mouth.

  “Your friends - they’re all dead.”

  Confused, Wodan blinked, said, “What?”

  “Your friends - the Coilmen in your office - they’re dead.”

  “Oh... they weren’t really my friends.”

  Virgil looked up from his paperwork and stared into Wodan. “You’re a Coil, aren’t you?” Wodan did not respond. Virgil looked at his papers again, then said, “Bail’s already come through for your Captain. Hm... not sure if it will for you. Either way, you’re going to be charged with wearing a Coil suit.”

  Dread crept into him. “Are they going to throw me in a cell with some Ugly?”

  Virgil looked at him again and pushed his paperwork to the side. “Wodan. What are you doing in a gang?”

  For some reason, Wodan felt comfortable around this man. He was sure that the Lawmen were not pulling a “good cop, bad cop” stunt; no one was pressing him for any concrete details. He trusted Virgil because he felt like an old soul who had learned how to survive the evils of Pontius without ever becoming evil himself.

  “And I could ask you, sir,” said Wodan, “why you joined a gang.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” said Virgil, looking away. “Comparisons of the Law to the other gangs, I mean. It doesn’t hold water. I’m trying to help you. I bust my ass to keep this city from falling apart. There’s a war going on out there, and kids like you get eaten up by it every day. I can tell you’re a smart kid, Wodan. I don’t know where you’re from or how you got here, but believe me: You’ve bought into some lie and gotten sucked into something evil and stupid, and it’s going to get you killed before you’ve even started to live. I know what you think. You think you can’t live a decent life if you get a normal job and stay on the right side of the Law, and you see all these guys hanging out on the blocks doing nothing but living it up-”

  “That’s not how it is,” said Wodan. “I joined for the same reasons you did.”

  “You think you’re the first kid who ever thought he had the world figured out?” said Virgil, visibly angered. “You think you’re the first kid who ever thought he had it made, right before he got killed for some stupid reason that could have easily been avoided?”

  “Forgive me, sir, but while I may be inexperienced, I am a better judge of character than you.”

  Virgil shook his head, laughed, and rubbed his eyes. He sat back and said, “A-a-alright, Wodan, I’ll humor you. Why don’t you tell me what you know about me?” While Virgil appeared to be relaxing, Wodan could tell that he was sharpening up inside, waiting for Wodan to make a mistake so that he could pounce.

  “I know that you think you’re better than others,” said Wodan. “You’re not like a Coil, who thinks he’s entitled to anything he wants, or an Ugly, who thinks that enduring pain gives him the right to hurt others, or a Smith, who thinks he’s been chosen to safeguard some secret that would destroy a lesser man. No, with you, ever since you were a child you were filled with a sense of virtue, an understanding of right and wrong. You knew that you were good. As you grew up, you were surprised that few others, or maybe no one at all in this city, felt the same as you. But you didn’t become cynical. You’re too good for that. No, you thought that the forces of evil had hoodwinked everyone. So, being good, you set out to save the world. You used your superior mind and your superior strength to actively fight evil, one battle at a time. You joined this gang because you thought they were the best of the worst and you thought you could use them to get things done. But what’s happened now, I think, is that you’re beginning to forget some of those things. You’re beginning to forget your original reasons because they were mostly chosen unconsciously. You’re starting to think that busting your ass for this job is your reason for existence - rather than using this gang as your means to fight evil and turn this city into a good place fit for humanity.”

  Wodan had the man locked into his eyes. The room disappeared. He continued.

  “The Law is a gang like any other. Even those things called Laws - what are they, Virgil? Do they safeguard decent people who are too weak to protect themselves from these… these demons in the shape of men? You risk your life to bring in gangsters so that they can be ransomed back to their masters or, worse, you bring in civilians who buy drugs from gangsters, or who buy guns from gangsters so they can protect themselves from other gangsters. You lock up those poor saps and throw away the key because they don’t have enough money or power to buy back their freedom. You probably make more civilians disappear than all the other gangs put together. You know that, and you hate it. The Law is a mockery, Virgil, a jumbled mess of bureaucratic nonsense worth far less than the paper it is written on. You know the Law is unjust, Virgil, but you think that you can use your force of will to overcome it and do some good for this city. That’s a lie, Virgil. In a land like Pontius, anyone who wants justice has to make it for himself.

  “Argue with me all you like,” Wodan concluded. “Ultimate proof lies in the fact that every day you call Rancis ‘sir’ because your gang needs him more than it needs you.”

  Wodan fell back, exhausted. Virgil’s face was pale and his mouth hung open, slack. “God’s death,” he said quietly. “You killed a Coil Captain last night.”

  The door opened
and another detective leaned in and said, “Bail came in - he’s out.”

  Virgil checked himself, said, “Bail for this one?”

  The detective nodded. “His boss made a phone call... I heard him beggin’. Seems he needs this little guy.” The detective leaned in further, said, “Kid, what is it you do for those creeps?”

  “Secretary.”

  “Must be a damn good secretary,” he said, closing the door as he left.

  Virgil got up and unhooked Wodan’s shackles from the chair. He waited for Wodan to stand, then took his arm lightly and led him through a dim hallway far from the Ugly captives. Lawmen marched about and either glared at Wodan or ignored him. They came to a large room full of desks with lines of criminals being processed by Lawmen. Without a word Virgil led him to a set of double doors leading outside and stopped to unlock his shackles. Wodan knelt and untied his shoes, then stripped off his Coil jacket and shirt and pants and tossed them into a garbage can.

  Dressed only in his underwear and pair of shoes, Wodan smiled and said, “Maybe someday you’ll strip off your gang uniform, too.” He nodded, then turned to go.

  Wodan looked back as he pushed open the door. Virgil stood staring at him, his face unreadable.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Balls of the Ugly

  Wodan spent the next few days exercising, writing, and lounging around in the Party Room. He made plans and watched as the bruise on his face settled into a purple and black tan with yellow tracers. He played chess with Pete, lost continually, then watched the stars alone while Jens tossed and turned and cursed because he could not stand the sound of Pete and Anne next door. Eventually Pete brought Wodan news of his Captain’s new office, and he was able to return to work.