Demonworld Book 3: The Floyd Street Massacre

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Virgil looked through the window and saw a Coil Captain shackled to a chair. He looked smug and full of himself, most likely reliving the glory of giving DeSark a hard time.

  “We got him on two counts of murder, about a baker’s dozen counts of extortion, and one count of skipping trial, and a whole lot of nothing for evidence except that he’s wearing a Coil suit,” said DeSark. He shook his head wearily. “Wonder just how fast the Coil is gonna drop bail for him. Fast, you think? Or just real fast?” Virgil gritted his teeth and DeSark patted him on the arm as he walked off. “Keep at it, man. Keep at it.”

  Virgil walked down the hall to a phone, then dialed Wodan’s office.

  “Kirchheimer Insurance,” said Wodan.

  Virgil noted that he sounded very professional. “Father here. If you can’t talk, say I have the wrong number.”

  “Boss is at lunch,” Wodan said quietly. “What’s up?”

  “We picked up Lembs. We still good to go?”

  “Yeah. Remember: Fudge the paperwork to make it look like Lembs told you to call Captain Katsu regarding bail. Katsu is known to despise Lembs. You say Katsu denied bail. When the other Coil find out what happened to Lembs, no one will trust Katsu anymore.” Wodan gave Virgil the phone number for Katsu’s office so that he could put it in his official report. “His secretary’s name is Michael, and the office’s business-signature is eighteen-eighteen-eighteen. Anyone looking at the records will be convinced beyond any doubt that Lembs was denied bail, real official-like and above the boards. If we’re lucky, the other Captains will turn on Katsu for going too far and betraying one of their own.”

  “Real nice,” said Virgil. “Father out.”

  He hung up and filled out his report and decided it was the finest bit of literature he’d ever raked a pen across. He went to Lembs’s holding cell.

  “About goddamn time!” shouted Lembs. “Hurry up and get me a phone, you shit-fuck!”

  Without a word, Virgil unhooked the man’s shackles from the chair and yanked him into the air. Curses tore through the man’s throat as Virgil hauled him along. They entered a hall full of screaming prisoners. As the madmen caught the scent, the Captain’s protests were drowned out in the cacophony. Virgil stopped at a cell full of Ugly kicking at the bars and pounding their chests.

  Virgil stared into the mass of killers. “Get back, or no dinner for you.”

  At once the Ugly prisoners grew quiet, unsure of themselves. Virgil did not move, but they suddenly backed away as if he had drawn his gun.

  “The hell?” said Lembs, much more polite than before. “The hell is going on... sir?”

  Virgil unlocked the door and threw the man inside. He swung it shut quickly and barely had time to lock it before the scarred monsters fell on the Coil Captain. The sound was inhuman, monstrous, an affront to human dignity, but Virgil was at least satisfied to see evil eating evil for once.

  * * *

  Pelethor walked the halls of his mansion. He had icy granite eyes and black hair that was neatly cut. He was not yet middle-aged, but his face was lined prematurely. Few of his employees had ever seen him angry, and fewer still had ever seen him smile. Because he had a waxy complexion and often stared ahead in a disconcerting manner, he often gave the impression that he was a construct or a doppelganger.

  His mansion had been passed down, generation to generation, from one Pelethor mercantile-aristocrat to the next. His house and his line was as old as Pontius itself. As he walked, he passed many servants and many mercenary guards. He owned many businesses, he paid many employees, and on top of that he was a powerful Captain of the Coil.

  He entered the chamber where his baby boy slept. He turned on a small electric bulb, dimmed it by drawing down a brown shade, then stood over his son’s crib. He was tiny, and had a surprisingly furry head as black as his father’s. The babe wiggled in his sleep. His cover lay in a pile at his side; Pelethor picked it up, flicked it so that it straightened, then placed it over the baby. The boy immediately kicked and wiggled and threw the blanket off. Pelethor placed the blanket over him again. The boy jerked and tossed it off, then scrunched up his face.

  “Best not to touch a scorpion,” said Pelethor, for he had named his son Scorpio. This horrified his wife, but it seemed to him that all things horrified her. As well they should; her great beauty and noble birth combined to form a great ring around her that warded off experience. Not so with Pelethor. He had survived many horrible things, partly through intellect and daring and partly by becoming horrible himself. It had been the same with his father, and his father’s father, who had the strength to leave a small empire for his son. It would be the same with his son Scorpio Pelethor.

  Pelethor heard men shouting, rushing footsteps, and the chattering of radios. Gunfire in the distance. He rose and entered the hallway and found several guards standing there.

  “Sir, we’re under attack,” said one, holding a radio. “It’s berserkers, Ugly berserkers!”

  “Take position in the hall outside Scorpio’s room,” said Pelethor. “You, man - come with me.”

  The guards were sweating and glancing at one another. It seemed to them that Pelethor was as cold now as ever. Pelethor took one guard’s radio and they jogged through the halls of the mansion. The radio shrieked with tales of berserkers driving through the main gate and scaling the fence around the inner yard. Many guards were failing to report in. A great explosion shook the mansion. Pelethor stopped and stood still.

  “Sir!” said the guard following him.

  Pelethor lifted the radio, said, “Anyone - what was that?”

  “... blasted! Armory blasted!” said someone, nearly inaudible through static. “Someone inside... they’re…”

  Pelethor had been headed toward the armory. He gripped the small handgun nestled in the holster beside his heart; it would have to do. The guard fidgeted while Pelethor considered his options. He could hear that at least one guard commander was present; because Pelethor could make little sense of the attack by listening to the radio chatter, he reasoned that it would be foolish to step in and try to micro-manage. He turned toward the main dining hall, which was the shortest route back to Scorpio’s room.

  The guard followed him into the dining hall, which was appointed with real varnished wood and paintings of Pelethor ancestors. Suddenly the radio sputtered, “Front door… guards down or running… now inside!” The radio went quiet.

  A thick layer of gunshots echoed in some hallway nearby, followed by the cries of men and whooping battle cries of the berserkers. The guard cursed and drew his gun. Pelethor felt nothing, except for a pain in his chest and wetness along his brow.

  The main doors flew open and scarred men charged in a staggered group, slipping in blood from the hallway. Pelethor saw tattoos, mohawks, motley armor and guns and curved battleaxes, faces wild and intoxicated, some with their tongues hanging out like dogs. Pelethor knew that the sight must be terrifying because the guard beside him immediately turned and fled, but Pelethor felt little as he raised his gun and fired. In a rush of smoke he thought he saw one of them stumble, but the adrenaline fanatics rushed in a blur and crashed into him, then he felt powerful arms around his neck, choking him from behind.

  The Ugly whooped and kicked over the long dining table, a part of his family for generations, and chopped at the wooden walls with their axes. He felt the rumbling laughter of the thickheaded lout holding him, forcing the air out of him, then felt a gun mashing into the side of his head and realized it was his own.

  A group of shotgun-wielding Ugly strode in, and one of them wore a white cloak splotched with blood. His hair was in long white dreads, and he wore goggles full of water. The commanding Ugly turned and saw Pelethor, and his eyes were wide, impossibly wide, because he had cut off his top and bottom eyelids. Pelethor recognized him as Paul “the Seer”, a commander under Utrecht Sera, who was leader of the Right Leg of the Ugly. It was said that years ago Paul was a faithful Lawman until, one day and all of a sudd
en, he had been struck by an epiphany. He was an Ugly by the end of that day and became a devout student of the Book of the Red.

  Paul stood before Pelethor, ringed by his guards, while the other Ugly went about tearing up the dining room. The Ugly holding him kicked out his legs and he fell to his knees. Pelethor tried to speak but the Ugly gripped his neck fiercely.

  Pelethor heard a woman screaming in the distance, then realized it was his wife. Paul knelt down before him, then said, “Are you Pelethor? Captain Pelethor of the Coil?”

  Pelethor saw black spots, but nodded.

  “I hope you’re telling the truth,” said Paul the Seer. “You Coil bitches aren’t the only gang with spies, you know, but I’ll admit that ours aren’t as good. Hard for people like us to go undercover, you know?” Paul tapped his goggles. “I don’t want to waste time giving you a speech if you aren’t who I think you might be. Are you Pelethor? Really?”

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to his wife screaming, then Paul nodded as an Ugly entered and tossed him a bundle. Paul snatched the thing and bounced it in his arms, and Pelethor was overcome with horror when he realized it was his son. He fought against the Ugly brute, then nearly went unconscious as the arms tightened around him.

  “That got him riled up!” said Paul, bouncing Scorpio lightly. “You must be the father, then. Listen up, Coil. You must have thought it was pretty clever to steal our Right Arm, didn’t you? I want you to understand that my Lord Sera does not abide such craven behavior, and so tonight is your reward. You Coil know all about the balance of business, so I’m sure you’ll see the justice in this trade: a Right Arm for a bouncing baby boy.” With that, Paul tossed the boy into the air and caught him, then tucked the screaming baby back under his arm. “We’ll make the exchange whenever you’re ready, Coil. Peaceful and businesslike. Understand? Just send word when you’re ready. Until then, the babe stays with us.”

  Paul kissed Scorpio lightly, then smiled at Pelethor. Scorpio’s cries were long and horrid. Pelethor’s wife had grown silent.

  Paul clapped his hands, then said, “Let’s go! We’re done here!” Paul gestured for another Ugly to approach while the others ran screaming, scraping their axes along the walls and through paintings as they ran.

  A brute with lines carved into his head popped his knuckles while the Ugly behind Pelethor lifted him to his feet. The newcomer drove his fists into Pelethor’s gut and face. Pelethor felt nothing besides impotent rage and nausea as his head swung about. In between punches he noticed Paul standing near, staring into his face, looking for something.

  Paul must have been disappointed, for he barked at the Ugly and they dropped him to the floor. Pelethor laid, limp and broken, and listened to their receding footfalls. He thought of his boy in their hands. The great irony of it struck him, then he drifted into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Church and the Child

  The atmosphere was tense at Wodan’s office, as if some great tension was reaching a breaking point. Jerry walked around with a distant, haggard expression, and the goons in the lounge continually whispered about the eight dead Captains and the recent attack on another very powerful Captain. The general sense was that if their mysterious, untouchable leaders were not safe, then no Coil was.

  One day Wodan received a phone call from a very grim Captain. Wodan forwarded it to Jerry, who shut his door and remained locked inside for over an hour. When the door finally opened, Jerry called out to Wodan in a strained voice.

  “Wodan, I suppose you’ve heard about the child kidnapped from one of our own. As you know, one of the focuses of our office is to keep tabs on the Head of the Ugly.”

  Wodan nodded, but he actually did not know or remember this point. The point of the office was to increase Coil funds and make Jerry wealthy. If they had ever been charged to keep tabs on the Head of the Ugly, they had done nothing to that end since Wodan’s employment.

  Jerry continued. “It seems they want to exchange the child for Barkus. It’s the only way we’re going to avoid outright war. It’s up to us to send a representative to discuss the terms of the exchange.”

  Wodan was taken aback. He gathered his thoughts quickly, then said, “A representative... to the Ugly? But they’d just kill whoever we sent to-”

  “Now that’s not true at all!”

  “We could send some Cognati. They’re the only ones the Ugly fear enough to not kill, and it’d be a nice way to make them earn some of that pay we gave them.”

  “Wodan, you’re not understanding me. Try to understand me. We can’t send someone dangerous like that. The Ugly would never let the Cognati get that close to them. We have to send someone gentle, someone approachable, someone apt enough to be able to discuss terms of peace...”

  “Doesn’t really sound like any of our Lieutenants. We should contact another office with some brains in it. I can call-”

  “Wodan, you’re just not getting me. You have to understand… this is incredibly difficult for me to say…”

  “Oh no,” said Wodan, eyes widening. “Jerry, you’re going to go to them, aren’t you?!”

  “Wodan, dammit - I’m sending you!”

  “What!” Wodan realized in a flash that Jerry was being punished for his arrest and the money spent to bail him out. Jerry plainly understood that any Coilman sent to negotiate with the Ugly would most likely be killed, then the terms of the negotiation would be delivered carved into his corpse. Wodan guessed that the past hour on the phone had been spent weaseling his way out of the negotiations and, being denied the option of sending one of his meathead Lieutenants, he’d finally been able to throw his gentle, approachable, and apt secretary to the wolves. Wodan slouched into a chair.

  “Now, it’s not going to be a big deal,” said Jerry, clapping his hands together loudly and leaning forward. “In fact, it will look great on your resume.”

  “On my tombstone, you mean.”

  “Wodan, be reasonable. Listen, you’re going to get to meet the Head of the Ugly. Boris is his name… he’s quite a personality! And you’re going to get to see his mansion… it’s the biggest structure in all of Pontius! Isn’t that something? And basically you’re just going to listen to him ramble on for a while and just, uh, bang out the details of the exchange of the child for Barkus, which we’ve already pretty much worked out, but I need you there to just be nice to him and let him think, uh, let him know that we mean no harm, and everything’s going to be fine and right, and...”

  “And?”

  “And then you’re going to leave and tell me everything went fine and that you didn’t sass off to him like you do to me. And that’s it.”

  “Do the Coil pay for member funerals?”

  “Wodan! You’re going, and that’s final. Besides, it’s not like you’re going in there alone.”

  “You’re going to send the crew in with me?” said Wodan, nodding his head to the lounge. “The Ugly have a lounge in that mansion of theirs?”

  “Uh... none of those boys, I don’t think... you know, they’re, well, their nature isn’t exactly…” Wodan realized that Jerry’s superiors were probably angry that he’d lost an entire crew during his arrest. Jerry was not keen on losing another. While Jerry rambled on about how safe the mission would be, but also how he needed to “step up his game” and show a little team spirit, Wodan gazed out the window and let his mind drift. He knew that he’d had his neck on the line before, and he’d always made it out. This was not the first time he’d confronted evil and been terrified. He’d always made it out – always. Perhaps meeting the leader of the organization he’d sworn to destroy would even strengthen his conviction.

  A thought struck him.

  “Sir,” said Wodan, interrupting Jerry. “Can I request a certain Soldier to go with me? One not in our office?”

  “Sure,” said Jerry, nodding slowly. “A Soldier? I can swing that, of course.”

  “Well, it’s a Soldier in for Lieutenant training - but he�
�s new and his Captain probably won’t mind if he gets killed.”

  “Okay. What’s his name?”

  “Pete Zentl.”

  * * *

  Jens crawled into the back of the car with Wodan and said, “Why the hell did you get me dragged into this shit?”

  “I didn’t!” said Wodan.

  “My ass!”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be your ass - I requested Pete!”

  “Dammit, Wodan, Pete is the master of weaseling out of shit he doesn’t want to be involved in. Don’t you know he’s probably got his head in his Captain’s lap right now?”

  “Woah! I wish I’d thought of that!” said Wodan, laughing uncontrollably.

  “This shit isn’t funny!” said Jens. “I didn’t wake up today knowing I was gonna die!”

  “We’re not going to die,” said Wodan. “We’re going to survive. Like we always do.” Wodan stared ahead and smiled slightly. He was already used to the idea of meeting the Head of the Ugly, his sworn enemy, the bane of everything good.

  Jens fumed in silence for a moment but, finding that silence did not suit him, said, “And why’d you pick Pete over me?”

  “Because I felt Pete needed an experience like this. He needs to see the enemy up close and personal.”

  Jens shook his head for a moment, glared out the window, then turned to Wodan and said, “You and your ridiculous “mentor” psychosis. Wodan, you need to realize that sometimes people just are the way they are. It’s not your place to listen to someone’s bullshit and then try to make them live up to that bullshit.”

  They rode in silence for a while, then Wodan leaned forward and said to their young driver, “Hey man, are you a Lieutenant, or what?”

  “Naw, man,” said the young Coil, jerking his head around. “Just a Soldier.”

  “I can’t believe they’re sending a bunch of kids into this mess,” said Jens.

  “Thing is,” said the driver, “I got caught stealing some paper from my office the other day. It’s, uh, the second time I got caught. So I think they’re sending me on this thing so the Ugly will do away with me.”