Strong arms extended, the second attacker flew for Remo's chest.
A primitive urge compelled him to knock his prey down. Ease the kill.
But while these animals that wore the flesh of men attacked on primal instinct, their prey were much more than mere men. They were Sinanju-beings trained to the very peak of mental and physical perfection.
Behind Remo, Chiun's right hand lashed out. A sure stroke behind the ear separated bone from bone. Flesh and muscle split apart before the old Asian's slicing nails.
Chiun did a little pirouette and the creature flew past, wind whistling through the empty space where a moment before his jaw had been. The severed jaw dropped to the floor.
The shocked animal tumbled to the floor, scrambling to right himself near one of the dead police officers. A long tongue flapped in empty air. The creature whimpered in pain and confusion.
Chiun sent a hard heel into the animal's forehead. The creature that was a grotesque mockery of man collapsed onto the gutted corpse that had been his last meal.
In the split second Chiun was removing his attacker, Remo was dealing death to his own.
When the hurtling beast was an inch away from ramming Remo's chest, Remo moved. He fell with the blow, lower spine bending at an impossible angle until his back was parallel to the floor. His startled attacker flew over.
The creature slammed against the nearby wall, snarling confusion.
He was back up in an instant. Twisting with remarkable speed, he launched himself on powerful legs back at Remo.
But this time, the instant before he could make contact with his prey, the creature suddenly stopped. He landed in an alert crouch, sniffing the air suspiciously.
A new scent wafted to his nose, carried on eddies of fetid office air. Fresh blood.
Sharp eyes located the source.
Two yards away, Remo held up one hand. A single drop of crimson glistened on the index fingernail. Remo flicked it off. Slowly lowering his hand, he used the same finger to point at the animal's stomach.
At the same instant, the man-beast felt a strange yawning sensation in his belly.
The creature glanced down just in time to see the meaty sacks of his own internal organs spilling from a razor slit in his abdomen. He was still staring down in utter incomprehension as Remo sunk a loafer toe in his downturned forehead. The beast dropped to the floor.
As dust began to settle on the body, Chiun was swirling to Remo's side.
"Proof again that I don't need to grow all my nails longer," Remo said tightly. He cleaned his index fingernail-trimmed slightly longer than the rest for scoring glass and metal-on the uniform shirt of his dead attacker.
"Human opponents rarely offer themselves up for slaughter," the Master of Sinanju replied, his voice cold and still. "These things were not men."
Remo was studying the bodies. A memory had already begun to stir in his troubled mind, like an old fear awakened from a long hibernation.
"They have to be," he insisted, more to himself than to Chiun.
But the old Korean was adamant. "You saw with your own eyes," he said. "Men have not the strength or speed of these brutes. And witness their intent, the animal glint in their eyes. I have seen things like these only twice before."
Remo shook his head firmly. "I know what you're thinking, Chiun, but that's impossible." His eyes alighted on the empty stomach cavity of one of the cannibalized victims. "Isn't it?"
Chiun wasn't listening. The old man was examining the nearer creature.
"Okay, I didn't think it was possible the second time," Remo admitted. "But she's dead."
"You are positive?"
"You were there," Remo argued. "You saw her die."
"I saw that creature injured. I did not see it dead. Or perhaps another has taken up that one's unholy cause. In either case, we obviously were too quick to lay the evil to rest."
As Remo studied the hollowed-out body on the floor, he felt the certainty draining from him. The scene in the Vaunted Press office was too eerily reminiscent of something they had encountered before. Something horrible. But his logical mind told him it could not possibly be.
"We should contact Smith," Chiun announced abruptly.
Remo tore his eyes from the body. "Maybe," he said reluctantly. "Still, I don't want to send him into cardiac arrest until we're absolutely one hundred percent sure. The cops have some of these locked up. Let's check them out first."
"These constables were infected," Chiun pointed out. "Others might be, as well."
"Maybe a few," Remo said, "but not all. The two they chowed down on here were cops. We'll be okay."
"Said the mouse to the cat," the old man sniffed. Hems of his black robes twirling near his bony ankles, he swept past Remo out into the hall.
Alone in the office, Remo bit his lip thoughtfully as he glanced at the bodies one last time.
"It can't be," he insisted.
But even he could hear the soft strain of doubt in his own whispered voice.
Chapter 8
The PCP craze back in the seventies had been bad. Back then they'd had to peel angel dusters off the ceiling. Bones in hands and wrists were shattered as fists that could not feel pain pounded over and over against cinder-block walls. One junkie had broken all his teeth trying to chew his way through the iron bars of the lockup.
That was bad.
The rest of the time was regular assorted hopheads, winos and psychos. Some of those were real humdingers. The Bellevue Express hummed night and day from the station filled with your general order of whacko. They were bad, too.
But in his more than twenty years on the force, Sergeant Jimmy Simon had never seen anything like this.
The creatures that had been brought in that morning were not human. Whatever they had sniffed, smoked, shot up or swallowed had turned them into ranting, snarling, growling, snapping animals. Cannibals. Honest-to-God New York City cannibals. These fruitcakes hadn't been arrested; they'd been caged. Booking them in the traditional sense proved impossible. Simon already had two men in the hospital with severe chest and neck lacerations. They had made the mistake of trying to fingerprint one of the original Vaunted Press pair.
They'd all been Mirandized through cell bars. There was no way to mug shot them. A Polaroid was brought to the cells with special instructions to the photographer not to get within an arm's length of the cages.
Sergeant Jimmy Simon had been relieved at the main desk of the South Precinct Midtown station more than half an hour before, but had yet to leave. As the day wore on and the crisis worsened, the order came for everyone to stay put until further notice. Men were being called in from home.
Jimmy Simon had always thought the place was a zoo. But now it was...well, a zoo.
"A zoo. A goddamn zoo," Simon muttered to himself.
Simon sat in a wobbly chair behind the on-duty desk sergeant, filling out paperwork. As he spoke, a terrible roar rolled up from the depths of the station.
The new desk sergeant wheeled, startled at the sound.
"What the hell was that?" Sergeant Jeff Malloy asked.
Jimmy didn't look up from his paperwork. "Must be feeding time," he replied. "They been doing that all day."
The noise came again. A tiger's roar.
Sergeant Malloy felt the short hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "Jesus," he swore.
"Tell me about it," Simon grunted.
Simon doubted he'd ever get used to the sounds that had been coming from downstairs all morning. Every time someone went to check on the more than two dozen prisoners, the commotion got worse. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon and Sergeant Simon still got chills from the roars and snarls that had been rolling up from downstairs for the past three hours.
"A freaking goddamn zoo," he muttered to himself.
Another roar. So loud Jimmy Simon jumped, dropping his Bic disposable.
He couldn't take it any longer. Simon spun in his chair. "O'Reilly, go see what the hell's going on down
there," he hollered across the room.
A young officer looked up from where he had been filling out a report. "I told you an hour ago," O'Reilly complained. "They're mostly just sniffing and stretching. They looked at me like I was a T-bone or somethin'."
"Just go," Simon barked. "And watch your Irish ass."
Grumbling, the patrolman got to his feet. O'Reilly was disappearing down the back squad-room staircase when Simon caught sight of a pair of new arrivals coming up the main stairs from the street.
"What now?" he muttered.
One was young, the other ancient.
The Asian looked to be a hundred years old and moved with a gliding shuffle that barely stirred his black robes. The young one wore a black T-shirt and chinos. Wrists as thick as small trees rotated absently as the two of them approached the desk.
The young one was about to speak when the old one bullied his way in front.
"We would see the beasts caged in your menagerie," the Master of Sinanju demanded of Sergeant Malloy.
Jimmy Simon was relieved these two hadn't come in during his desk shift. "Gotta be a full moon tonight," he grumbled.
"Tend your own affairs or invoke the Master's wrath, doughnut gobbler," Chiun spit at the seated man. "Show us the beasts," he ordered Malloy.
Behind the Master of Sinanju, Remo could see the color rise in Simon's flabby cheeks. Before the sergeant could say something he would have plenty of time to regret as a team of surgeons worked to unplug his badge from his sinuses, Remo hastily interceded.
"FBI," he said, waving his phony ID. "We want to see the people you brought in today."
"They are not people," Chiun corrected.
"Yeah? Well, you got that right," Jimmy Simon said from his chair. "But no dice."
"We're just going to take a quick look," Remo said.
"No, you're not," Sergeant Simon replied, standing. He hitched up his belt under his sagging gut. "I've got a city-wide panic going on out there, and those nutcases downstairs are in on it. They're already wired up from missing breakfast. Listen to the roaring down there. You get your ass too close to a cage, and they'll have both of you for lunch. And I'm not mopping up the mess."
He tugged at his belt again. It felt good to throw his weight around. Especially after a day like today. He waited for this FBI agent to argue.
But the Fed didn't argue. He just got a funny look on his face. So did the old coot in the black pajamas. "What roaring?" Remo said.
Sergeant Simon's broad face grew confused. "Huh?"
"That's funny," Sergeant Malloy said. "They stopped." He glanced beyond Simon to the stairs at the rear of the squad room. Silence rose up from below.
Jimmy Simon listened. He heard only the normal bustle of the busy station house.
"That's weird," Simon said.
Remo and Chiun were no longer listening to the police officers. Hearing more acute than any other human ears on the face of the planet was trained on the building's lower floors, filtering out the noise, absorbing the soft sounds. All at once, both men snapped alert.
"They are attacking," the Master of Sinanju snapped.
A sudden blur of movement, faster than the naked eye could perceive.
One moment they were standing in place; the next, both Remo and Chiun had vaulted over the desk. Sergeants Simon and Malloy spun a stunned dance around them as they flew past. Before Sergeant Simon could voice a protest, a fresh sound erupted from beneath his feet.
Gunfire.
"Oh, God," Simon said.
Remo and Chiun were moving swiftly across the squad room toward the rear stairs. Belly jiggling madly, Sergeant Simon sprinted to catch up. His gun was out of its holster.
"I just sent a man down to check on them," he huffed.
All objections to Remo and Chiun's presence were gone. Other officers were running for the narrow stairway.
"How many are there?" Remo demanded.
"Twenty-seven," Simon replied.
More muffled gunshots. Firing wildly. The kind of crazed shooting that indicated panic.
When they reached the basement level, they followed a short, gloomy corridor to a closed steel door. Remo, Chiun and the crush of officers massed outside the door. One man was already there when they arrived. His face was ashen.
The gunfire had stopped.
"What's the situation?" Simon demanded, panting.
"Two men inside," the uniformed officer at the door volunteered breathlessly. "The shooting started once they were locked inside. I don't know what's going on."
A small Plexiglas window sat at eye level in the door. The young officer jumped when a hand abruptly slapped against the glass.
"It's O'Reilly," Sergeant Simon said, exhaling relief. "That's his high-school football ring. Let him out."
"No," Remo snapped, snatching the keys that had been heading for the lock.
"What?" Jimmy Simon growled angrily. "What the hell-" He stopped dead. "Oh, my God," he breathed.
Sick eyes were trained on the door. The red flush of his cheeks paled.
O'Reilly's hand continued to tap against the window. But on closer scrutiny Simon saw now that the fingers were pale and lifeless. And then he saw the other hand holding it aloft, and saw the ragged flesh where O'Reilly's hand had been severed from his forearm. And then Sergeant Jimmy Simon-eighteen years on the force, immune to everything this crummy job could throw at him-was vomiting up his lunch onto the Midtown station cell-block floor.
The face of the man who had been pressing O'Reilly's hand to the window appeared briefly. Eyes wild, fangs bared, the creature took a vicious bite out the patrolman's severed hand before disappearing from view.
"Shit," Simon said, wiping puke on his sleeve. "Sweet Jesus, they're out of their cells." He slumped against the cold wall.
"Can they escape this?" Chiun demanded, waving at the door.
"I don't know. Maybe. There's this door and one way on the other side. They were built pretty tough."
Chiun turned to Remo. "Even now they look for weaknesses in this dungeon's fortifications," the old Korean said. "They must be contained."
"Why is it always us?" Remo sighed. He turned to Simon. "Okay, stand back, Pop 'n Fresh. We're going in."
"Are you nuts?" Jimmy Simon asked. "Did you see what they did? They'll eat you alive."
"Fine with me," Remo grumbled. "Dead is the only way I'm ever gonna get a rest in this life. All the time it's work, work, work."
The police could see by the look of angry resolve on the strange FBI man's face that there would be no arguing.
"At least take my gun," Sergeant Simon pleaded. Chiun swatted gun and sergeant away. The police fell back from the door, weapons leveled should anything try to escape when it opened.
"There's no way you two guys are going to get them back in their cells," Simon called, perspiring on the far end of his Smith And if they charge out of there, you're getting mowed down, too."
"Go deep throat a cruller and let me work in peace," Remo suggested, jamming the key in the lock.
Before he could give it a turn, Chiun touched Remo's wrist. "My son," the Master of Sinanju whispered, "there is something I did not mention to you when last we encountered these creatures." His parchment face was drawn tight.
"I don't think now's a good time, Little Father."
"Listen," the old Korean snapped. "It is important." There was a gleam of furious concern in his hazel eyes.
Remo felt the shudder of urgency pass from the frail little man who had taught him all he knew. He grew still.
"When we encountered the first of these beasts, I told you of the Sinanju legend. Do you remember?"
"That was over twenty years ago. And that time is still kind of fuzzy to me," Remo admitted. "I had the wind knocked out of my sails."
Chiun pitched his voice low. "You are avatar of Shiva-" He paused, waiting for the argument that always came after making this assertion.
But this time-for the first time-Remo remained silent. A shadow
of acceptance crossed his brow. The wizened Asian could not take joy in the fact that his pupil had finally accepted destiny.
"While now is not the time to discuss what it is the gods have in store for you, there is more than mere glory with which you must contend. The legend that speaks of Shiva also speaks a warning. You who have been through death before can only be sent to death by your kind or my kind."
"I think I remember that," said Remo, who had been sentenced to die in an electric chair that did not work as part of the elaborate frame-up that had brought him into CURE. He scrunched up his face. "I didn't know what it meant then, and crap if I know what it means now."
"What's going on?" Sergeant Simon called nervously.
"Silence, gaspot!" Chiun shot back.
He spun to Remo. "You are the dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju," he said urgently. "Your kind are other night tigers. My kind-now our kind-are Masters of Sinanju. Since you need not fear death from me, if the legend speaks truth, it can come from but one other source."
"Night tigers," Remo supplied.
"Precisely. The legend states that even Shiva must walk with care when he passes the jungle where lurk other night tigers."
Remo considered his words for a long moment. Finally he looked down into the intent hazel eyes of the Master of Sinanju.
"Lucky for me this isn't a jungle," Remo said. And before the old Korean could stop him, he opened the door and passed like a shadow inside.
For an instant, Chiun remained.
Still young. Still arrogant. There had been times in the past when the most hazardous time for a newly invested Reigning Master were those first years as head of the village. The world was never more dangerous than when it seemed to no longer pose a threat.
All this and more did pass through the troubled mind of the Master of Sinanju in an instant. Praying to his gods that his words had had their desired impact, Chiun twirled through the gap in the door and was gone.
Behind, the police who had been tensed for an attack were jarred by the sudden disappearance of the two FBI men, as well as by the sudden sharp slamming of the metal door.
Somehow the keys came to a sliding stop at the feet of Sergeant Jimmy Simon. His eyes strayed from the keys back to the closed door. He shook his head. "When they get through with you, we're gonna need sponges for the remains," he announced.
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