Demonworld Book 3: The Floyd Street Massacre

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Figures!” Jens cried, laughing and slapping his knee.

  * * *

  They stopped in front of a line of heavily-armored Ugly and, with a rifle stuck in the window at his head, the driver explained their business with panicky shouts and wild gesticulations. Eventually the Ugly laughed and waved them on. Thick wooden doors opened and allowed them to enter the massive granite wall surrounding the grounds.

  Another team of Ugly stopped them on the other side with submachine guns pointed at them, laughing and catcalling. When Wodan got out he immediately broke into a cold sweat. In crystal-clear, sharp relief he saw Jens staring ahead, his face white, pulling his legs behind him as though they were weighed down. The driver tried to get out but an Ugly stuck his foot in his gut and pushed him back in. Wodan felt someone push him in the back of his head and he ignored it, grinding his teeth, then another spit on him. Another pulled at Jens’s black-and-greens and Jens explained that he’d bought them in a thrift store.

  “Somebody brought some girls for us!” one of the Ugly called out. “Sexy! So sexy!”

  Another Ugly sat in the driver’s side open window with one foot braced on the sideview mirror and shouted, “Man, I like this car, ya’ll! You guys think it’s a sweet ride, right?” While the driver stared ahead, terrified beyond belief, the others laughed and gathered around. Wodan saw the great granite mansion towering over them, black and impregnable and lined with gunmen on its roof and home to a thousand madmen.

  A small Ugly in a fine suit with an X scraped across his face approached, then waved to Wodan and Jens. They walked through the open courtyard, made of darkly colored granite tiles, and two wings of the mansion towered over them on either side. As they approached a wide set of double doors, Wodan saw a window above them covered in a red shade. Spikes jutted out from under the window and several skulls were fixed to their points. Loose skin hung from the skulls and bits of hair waved in the breeze. A crow tap-danced on one head and jerked its beak from side to side as the thing jiggled underfoot.

  “Open up the goddamn door, please!” shouted the Ugly, and two more gunmen glared at them as they entered.

  “You bring us lunch?” said one as they passed.

  “Hands off,” said the smaller Ugly. “We gotta cook ’em first.”

  They walked down a lonely black hallway and, emboldened by the fact that only one Ugly was with them, and a small one at that, Wodan said, “Sir, will we really be cooked?”

  “Mmmm,” said the Ugly, “I’ll say this for sure. We only need one Coilman to relay a message. One of you will be killed, on the principle of the thing.”

  Wodan turned to Jens, expecting an angry glare. Instead Jens moved his fist near his mouth, back and forth, and pushed his tongue into his cheek repeatedly. Wodan stifled a giggle despite his fear.

  They went up several flights of winding stairs lit by greasy, dripping torches. They crossed another hall and passed several scarred men in simple black or brown robes carrying scrolls and heavy bound books. Wodan stared at them, unused to seeing Ugly who were not cannon fodder.

  They continued down the hall and passed by a wide entrance that led to a balcony overlooking a massive cathedral. Tall, red stained glass windows full of images of monstrous flesh demons eating hideously deformed men and women and children cast light onto a black glassy floor, many rows of granite seats, and a large, dark stone altar with a filthy drain set in the middle. Wodan stopped as the others passed and looked down on a stooping, aged red-robed priest in a conical hat, weighed down by gold chains, speaking with two monks in black robes. One monk’s face was so disfigured that he was no longer recognizably human, while the other had eye sockets sealed over with scar tissue.

  The front of the cathedral was dominated by an immense execution cross carved from dark wood. A carving of a man hung from the cross, his wrists and feet impaled by steel spikes. Wodan noted that in churches all around Pontius, as well as the church attended by his own parents in Haven, the execution cross was always displayed as being empty; it was integral to the story of the Redeemer that he be resurrected after a descent into the underworld. Here, however, the Redeemer was shown to be either dead or dying, his face drawn out in great agony, his body whipped and beaten into a grotesque mockery of the human form. Wodan did not consider himself religious, but he felt that the image was an assault on his sense of human dignity.

  The church was laid out similarly to any other mainstream church in Pontius; the altar, stained glass windows, execution cross, and even the orientation of the pews seemed to confirm the rumors that Wodan had often heard – that every church in Pontius was run by the Ugly.

  If you teach the people to take delight in their suffering, thought Wodan, and promise reward after death, and to live with an innate sense of guilt, it can only profit the wolves.

  Wodan was struck by a terrible sense of the power of the Ugly. The Coil had more money, but the Ugly had command of something more deeply seated in the depths of the human psyche. By comparison, the Coil looked like bumbling dimwits, ever fearful of losing their wealth. Even the lowliest Ugly was not afraid to mutilate his own body. Was there anything that they feared?

  Just imagine, thought Wodan, the incredible creative power that would be released if the human species was free of these creatures!

  “Come away from there!” said the small Ugly leading the pair. “That’s not for your eyes!”

  “You brought us this way by mistake, Ugly?” said Wodan.

  The Ugly turned away, as if caught.

  They’re still only bullies, thought Wodan. They rely on their victim’s compliance in order to survive.

  Continuing down the hallway, they entered a chamber with red carpet and dark red draperies. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling and, on a pedestal to one side, they saw a terrible sight.

  Atop the pedestal some living thing quivered and jerked. Wodan stopped in alarm. He saw twisted legs, a misshapen head bobbing to and fro, and uneven eyes. Its skin was pink and covered in down. It turned its gaze to him and croaked out a tortured meow full of anguish, and he realized that the thing was a cat, horribly misshapen unlike anything he had ever seen before. Wodan pushed past the others and gripped the sides of the pedestal, looking down on the mangled animal.

  “My God!” said Wodan. “What’s the matter with him?!”

  “The lord’s pet,” said the Ugly. “Was, at least. The lord has a new pet now.”

  The poor animal raised its head feebly, shaking with the effort. One of its little ears was plastered to its head and its jaw stuck out unevenly. Wodan could see no bruises or wounds, other than a few small stitching scars on its soft skin, but the poor animal looked as if it had been mashed slowly and somehow kept alive.

  “My lord controlled its development by keeping it close to his holy person. Today is the first day it has been away from my lord for any length of time. It looks rather sad, I should say.”

  “Controlled its... development?!” Wodan shrieked. One of the slitted eyes bore into Wodan, full of loneliness and abandonment. Wodan cupped the thing’s head in his hands it jerked violently - then relaxed, closed one eye, and slitted the other as best it could. He stroked the little animal’s body.

  “Are you crying?” said Jens.

  “You’ll spoil it,” said the Ugly. “Your kindness will seem like cruelty in the long hours it has ahead. You must compose yourself. My lord... he don’t like to wait.” Wodan backed away and wiped his face on his black-and-greens. The kitty, long silent, now meowed with terrible urgency and poked out a tongue from its flattened, bent head. It now loved Wodan and could not bear to be without him.

  Wodan felt resolve settle into him. “Lets go see the owner of this poor animal.”

  They walked down a black and dreary hallway, then stopped before a single iron door. “Make no sudden movements,” whispered the Ugly. “Speak only with utmost respect. Comport yourself as though a gun were in your mouth or up your ass the entire time.”

  The Ugly
opened the door, and they entered.

  The chamber was pink-veined dark granite and full of macabre tapestries of demons, warfare, mangled human bodies and agonized faces. A thin red drape over the window turned daylight into a sinister blood-glow. Sitting behind a sharp, uneven obsidian desk was Boris the Living Scar, Head of the Ugly. Wodan assumed that the leader of the Ugly would have been mangled to an unimaginable degree; he was, instead, very handsome. His face was smooth and clear, blond hair fell in waves over his shoulders, and he stared ahead with sharp blue eyes. He sat perfectly still, like a statue, with his hands laid on his desk. He wore rich black robes that were bundled up at his torso.

  Wodan had to force his legs to move. The man’s charismatic aura was overpowering, far more so even than his brother Barkus. Wodan fumbled with a chair, then glanced at Jens and saw that he was staring at a corner of the room. Wodan followed his eyes and was startled to see a figure dressed completely in black, face covered, betraying no sign that he was capable of movement. Either the figure was a clothed statue, or it was one of the dreaded Hands, more monster than human.

  “What would the Coil like to discuss?” said Boris.

  Wodan composed himself and said, “The Coil would like to discuss terms for... the exchange of the child for the... leader of the Right Arm of the Ugly, sir.” He nodded slightly.

  “Then we shall do just that,” said Boris.

  Wodan remembered his interrogation by Barkus. Everyone had been animated, laughing, snarling like dogs. Barkus had played to the crowd. Here, there was no movement. Wodan felt afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

  Boris continued. “I know that the Coil are an unfaithful lot. I have asked for no proof that our man is still alive. None can be given with any real assurance. Tell your masters that we will come in force during the exchange. I’ve been told that the Law will be present. So be it. Tell your masters that we will not start violence, but we will end things violently if we have to.”

  Wodan nodded slightly, then said, “I will tell them, sir.”

  “And now you will be wanting proof that the child lives.”

  Wodan nodded dumbly. There was no way he could effectively negotiate anything, but only listen. He tried to swallow in a dry throat.

  Keeping his eyes locked on Wodan’s, Boris slowly opened a button at his collar, then continued down his chest, then his gut. He smiled like a mask stretching. His mouth parted as he opened his robes. Wodan jumped and stifled a scream and Jens covered his eyes, for the child Scorpio was stitched to Boris’s torso, his little limbs wrapped around awkwardly, the side of one face near the nipple of the right breast. Alarmed by the light, Scorpio wailed and struggled against the thick leather stitches that held him down. Wodan knew that Boris must have had the cat stitched to his body since it was a small kitten, so that as it grew its body had conformed to the unnatural binding.

  “Why so startled?” said Boris. “This little soul is no different from any other. You see men bound and forced to grow to accommodate their environment every day. You should, instead, relish the honesty of this little one’s plight.”

  “We prefer to take relish in your brother’s plight!” said Wodan, instantly regretting the remark.

  “Such willingness towards self-destruction,” said Boris. His smile changed slightly, as if he was glad to be surprised. “But if you were an Ugly, you would know that self-destruction can be a perversion of the need to destroy others, if the will is too weak to affect the world outside itself. That is why I have no scars, little one,” said Boris, raising his hand, slowly, to the child, “save the ones I gain in scarring others.” With that, his hand clamped over the baby’s mouth and nose. Its body jerked on Boris’s chest, and a little hand clenched open and shut, unable to push away the abuser. “You see - I am the Head of those who hurt themselves. I am the culmination. I am the one who cannot be hurt, because I have no self to hurt. I... scar... the Other.”

  “Please stop!” said Wodan. He leaned forward and placed his hands together, horrified by the idea that the only thing he could do to stop this unthinkable crime was to pray to a monster without mercy. “P-please, please, stop hurting him! I’m begging you!”

  Boris made no move. “Why,” he said flatly.

  Wodan saw the little baby’s face turning blue, but he felt as if he was the one choking to death. “I - I’m sorry for m-my thoughtless words!” he said. “I’ll beg if you want, sir, lord, just... please let him breathe!” Wodan lowered himself from his chair and put his knees to the ground, then rested his clasped hands on the obsidian desk. He felt tears welling up in his face, the death pains of his pride and the knowledge of how utterly naïve he must have been to believe that he could possibly ever destroy a force like the Ugly.

  Boris lifted his fingers slightly and the child belted out a screeching wail. Its cries filled the room and Boris smiled even wider. Wodan laid his face against the desk and knew that his brother Barkus had had to mangle his face in order to imitate that smile - but for Boris, such delight in wickedness came naturally. “That is why you Coil will never rule the wasteland,” said Boris.

  Sniffling on his tears, Wodan crawled back onto his chair. He stared into the face of the little wailing baby. I’ll get you out of here! Wodan thought. I swear I’ll get you away from him, somehow!

  “This is all very well and good,” said Boris, resting a hand on the baby’s head and thrumming his fingers along the scalp. “You, Coil, go and tell your masters that the child is alive and in good hands.”

  Jens shot up from his seat and Wodan braced himself, then rose unsteadily.

  “Oops,” said Boris. “I meant Coil in the singular. Are the Coil so incompetent that it takes more than one of them to relay a message? Or so full of liars that every man has to have another to back up his story?” Wodan and Jens stared at him, mouths hanging open. “Of course, one of you will have to be killed. On the principle of the thing.”

  The room darkened. Wodan felt as if his heart was gripped by a demonic hand. He knew that he was in the presence of someone utterly in the possession of evil.

  “And you want us to decide,” said Wodan. “You want to ruin the last moments of our friendship by turning us against one another.”

  “Of course not!” said Boris, as if shocked. “You think I’m some sort of brute? No, we’ll decide the thing using a charming little rhyme that Mother taught me. I make many decisions based on this rhyme. It’s been my experience that its works far better than reason.” He raised a finger and, while pointing first to one, then to another, he said, “Ketty, check me, benny, cho… catch a weakling by the toe...” He tapped out the rhyme on the baby’s head and with each word pointed to either Wodan or Jens.

  Wodan felt rage return to him, his old hatred of the Ugly redoubled, hotter than ever before. He could not believe the sheer ridiculousness of evil. If I had his power, he thought, I could change this world! I wouldn’t torture two messengers and an innocent child!

  “Gevvy, tiffy, net sea, hay… if he hollers, make him pay…”

  It’s going to fall on Jens, Wodan thought. He’s going to kill Jens, and it’ll be partly my fault for bringing him here! I can’t let that happen! I threw dignity out the window to save the baby… I’ll go as far as I have to, to save Jens!

  “Yessy and then Malky say… that… I… choose…”

  Wodan glanced at the Hand, wondering how fast he could move.

  “… you!”

  His finger rested on Wodan.

  Boris turned to Jens, then said, “Get out of my office, Coil.”

  Wodan and Jens looked at one another for a long time, then Boris tossed a leather bag across his desk. Jens fumbled with it, opened it, then closed it quickly and looked away.

  “That’s the head of a Captain,” said Boris. “Just a little something to seal the deal. We went to a lot of trouble to find that man. Tell your masters that no one is safe when they make the mistake of trying to scar the masters of scarring.”

  Wodan was
struck by the idea that the Ugly had to put in a great deal of effort to find a single Captain when their backs were up against the wall. They most likely had no idea that Wodan had been killing Captains and framing the Ugly just to put them against that very same wall.

  I’ll always go farther than they can guess, he thought. They simply don’t understand that people who are horrified by their kind are capable of going farther than they ever could.

  He had an idea.

  “Ready to die?” said Boris, turning to him.

  “Yes,” said Wodan. He rose and removed his jacket. “Lord, may I borrow a knife?”

  Before Boris could respond, a knife clattered onto the desk. Wodan saw that the Hand’s fingers were outstretched slightly. The inhuman guard obviously had no fear that Wodan was any threat to Boris. Wodan removed his shirt and tied it to his waist. He and Boris locked eyes, then Wodan took the knife.

  Wodan gripped the edge of the desk with his left hand, then leaned forward. The black-handled knife was cold and heavy in his hand.

  “I will be reborn,” said Wodan.

  He turned away from Boris, then laid the knife against his arm. He flexed the muscles to make the canvas firm, then laid the edge of the blade against his skin and pulled hard. The bite was cold, but it did not hurt. Wodan raked the blade across the same spot and saw the skin part, but only slightly.

  Wodan was frustrated that a river of blood did not immediately pour out and shock the leader of the Ugly into submission, so he raked the blade across again, harder, then again further down his arm. Again and again, down to his elbow, across his shoulder. His vision sharpened and his mind sped up in a rush of images. He felt himself trudging through sand with Ugly raiders calling out, he felt the cool spray of the river while surrounded by yapping ghouls, saw the black and white images of the false Guardians killing his friends in the dead of night, then felt a flood of frustration as he remembered walking the streets of Pontius while people stared out of covered windows, afraid to live, afraid to die.