Dead Kelly (The Afterblight Chronicles)

by C. B. Harvey

  “Oh, my goodness, sorry about the mess,” said the woman through a fug of smoke. “We do try and keep the place tidy, but you know how it is...”

  “His name is Jack Zircnosk,” said McGuire. “It’s imperative I find him.”

  “Imperative?” parroted the man in the chair, guffawing. “Imperative? What’re you, boyo, some sort of ponce, is it?”

  “No-one here ’cept us, old chum,” said the woman at the gramophone, gesturing around. “But bravo on making your way up the stairs. Those butterflies can be really quite hazardous. Really excellent work. In fact, you’re the second person to breach our defences in as many weeks—we’ll have to review our approach.” She flashed a meaningful glance at the bloke in the armchair, before switching her attention back to McGuire. “The thing is, you’re really no good to us in one piece, dear chap.”

  McGuire’s gaze flicked to the inner door. He could hear muffled noises, sounds of movement.

  He gestured with the gun. “What’s through there?”

  “Nothing you need worry your pretty little bonce about, boyo,” said the man in the armchair, caressing his shotgun, to which he now looked meaningfully. “Now fuck off out of it.”

  “Nice weapon,” acknowledged McGuire. “I reckon something like that could cut through a wall no problem.”

  “Probably, boyo,” acknowledged the man with a snort, “but I’m not shooting you through a wall, am I now?”

  “No, of course not,” said McGuire, licking his lips. “But my colleague is.”

  The wall ripped apart as Baxter opened fire, gunfire exploding across the room and into armchair man’s chest, flipping the seat backward. The man’s shotgun fired involuntarily into the ceiling, dislodging a torrent of plaster. The woman at the gramophone produced a Beretta from a drawer on the underside of the table, and McGuire slammed the butt of his gun into her shoulder; she fell backwards, pulling the gramophone down on her own head. The woman’s limbs spasmed briefly before falling still, a dark pool of blood spreading out rapidly from her cracked skull.

  Baxter entered, grinning, and McGuire put his index finger to his lips and gestured toward the inner door. He reached out and carefully pushed the door open.

  On the far wall hung an enormous canvas, depicting a silhouetted eighteenth-century clipper atop a blood red sea, black seagulls circling it. In the centre of the room, his back to them, stood a stubby, middle-aged man in spectacles and shorts. A pair of orange headphones trailed into a cracked Sony Walkman resting on his thigh. Periodically he would dab a paint brush on the palette in his hand, then dart forward to daub at the crimson sea. Now and again he would tut, reach over to a blue plastic freezer box and pull out a handful of something thick and reddish, which he then massaged into the canvas. The floor was covered in the mess.

  McGuire’s gaze drifted to other canvases of varying sizes dotted around the room, all in the same distinctive red and black, though the subject matter varied from animals to landscapes to portraits, including what looked like the man and woman from the other room.

  He recognised the style from the magpie hanging in Trex’s inner sanctum back at the cathedral. He also recognised the stink, which in here was overwhelming and unmistakable: raw human flesh and blood.

  He heard Baxter retching behind him.

  The painter turned, pulled the headphones from his ears and blinked at them. “Can’t stand their bloody music,” he explained. “They call it camp and ironic, I call it shit. What do you want? I am working, you know. I’m in the moment.”

  “What the fuck is this?” McGuire murmured.

  “This is art, mate,” responded the painter. “What the fuck do you think it is?”

  “You’re using corpses,” McGuire observed. “People’s innards. As paint.”

  He heard Baxter spewing again.

  “Of course,” smiled the painter. “You like it? Well, of course you do—otherwise you wouldn’t be visiting our collective.”

  McGuire viewed him steadily. “You blow ’em up, collect ’em in your bucket device and then make them into...”

  “Art,” interrupted the man. “Yes, of course.”

  “And why the fuck,” said McGuire slowly, “do you do that?”

  The painter blinked in surprise. “Isn’t that obvious? We immortalise them. You’ve obviously not read our manifesto.”

  “You immortalise them,” echoed McGuire blandly.

  “The Cull will wipe us out, you see,” explained the painter. “Humanity, I mean. Eventually. What better way for people to live on than in the work of our collective? I mean, who doesn’t want immortality, eh?” He let out a shrill giggle.

  Suddenly McGuire remembered. All across the city. The statue outside the museum. All those buildings he passed. Even the storm drain. “The graffiti,” he breathed. “The black and red graffiti.”

  “That’s right,” nodded the painter enthusiastically. “Although to be honest, that’s more Karen’s thing. She’s very into public art. I’m a bit more old-fashioned, as it goes. I prefer galleries.” He looked suddenly worried, as if he’d finally realised something was awry. “Are Karen and Tony there, by the way?” he added, craning around McGuire.

  “No,” said McGuire quietly, his shock subsiding. “My colleague and I immortalised them.”

  “I’m sorry, what—?” began the painter.

  “This,” said McGuire simply, and let rip with the rifle. The painter was thrown backwards against the canvas, his face a mask of surprise as he gradually slid to the floor. His innards left an enormous tidal splash in the middle of the sea, one that threatened to engulf the ship. McGuire cocked his head appreciatively, impressed with his own artistry.

  A low moan dragged his attention to the ensuite bathroom leading off. McGuire made his way across the slippery floor and pushed open the door. An obese, naked man lay on the filthy floor, pudgy hands and ankles secured behind his back with twine, mouth gagged. With some effort McGuire pulled the fat fucker into an upright position and used his Bowie knife to slash the man’s bonds before removing the gag. The bloke looked at him dazedly, his swollen face wobbling with a mixture of gratitude and incredulity.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” said McGuire.

  THEY SAT ZIRCNOSK in an armchair and stood back. Judging by the state of him, he and Baxter had arrived in the nick of time. His body was covered with lurid, bleeding welts, where he’d been repeatedly punched and hit. There was presumably an artistic rationale, but McGuire was fucked if he could think what it might be.

  McGuire’s own tolerance for horror was profound, but he could see how staying in that room of obscenities would not be conducive to questioning. Besides, Baxter’s stomach was clearly not on a par with his own. They didn’t dare move far from the collective’s apartment in the trapped hotel, so McGuire opted to relocate to the nearest room without a locked door, or—it turned out—any door at all.

  Baxter had found a stained duvet from somewhere and wrapped it around the policeman, presumably in an effort to restore to him some sort of dignity. McGuire watched him with a raised eyebrow.

  “What the fuck are you doing now?” he asked, as Baxter rummaged in a dusty linen cupboard.

  “Looking for a pillow,” replied Baxter innocently.

  “For fuck’s sake,” said McGuire. “Enough. He’s a fucking copper, remember that.”

  “Sorry, boss,” said Baxter sheepishly. Traces of heave had dried on his stubbly chin, and he absently began to pick them off.

  McGuire pulled up a tatty pouf and sat on it, facing Zircnosk.

  “You know me?” he growled.

  “You fucker,” croaked Zircnosk, regarding him through puffy, black-rimmed eyes. “How the fuck did you survive?”

  McGuire shrugged. “Easy. I had to die first.”

  “I was looking for you,” gurgled Zircnosk, struggling to sit upright so that he could better see McGuire. He gasped with pain as he shifted position. “Couldn’t get close. Surrounded yourself with a fucking
army, haven’t you?”

  “If you’d knocked on my door I’d have welcomed you with open arms, Zircnosk. Believe me.”

  Zircnosk snorted. “It wouldn’t have been a social visit.”

  “Is that so? What were you gonna do to me if you found me?”

  “What do you think?” smirked Zircnosk, and then winced with the effort. “You’re psychotic. A multiple murderer, a vicious armed robber and fuck knows what else. I’d have put a bullet in your brain, mate. At the very least.”

  McGuire gestured at Zircnosk’s broken body and let out a throaty laugh. “Looks like your plan went a bit fuckin’ awry, mate.”

  Zircnosk grimaced. “The Kendalls sold me out. Incestuous fucking tosspots.”

  “And then fuckin’ Andy Warhol and his mates decided to get all creative on your arse?”

  “Fuckers,” muttered the cop. “They normally let the landmines blow people apart then use that weird fucking contraption to pick up the remains. ’Cept I was better than that—I got as far as this floor, then they ambushed me. Fucking avant garde bastards.”

  McGuire puffed out his cheeks. “I’m impressed—we had a hard time getting up here. Had to balance on the fucking handrail.”

  “Ah well, I thought laterally about it. There were some kids hiding out in the lobby. A blonde bogan and some tart with a pink Mohican.”

  McGuire snorted. “So you sent them up ahead of you—how fuckin’ nice of you. I reckon we probably trod in them on the way.”

  Zircnosk grimaced. “Yeah, well, they were vermin. Like the way you and him are vermin.”

  McGuire looked to Baxter. “Fuck me. And this bloke’s meant to be the good guy.”

  “Boss?”

  “Never mind.” He returned his attention to Zircnosk. “Listen to me. I need something from you.”

  Zircnosk gave a low, rasping chuckle. “Why the fuck would I help you?”

  “I can make your pain a lot worse, Jackie Boy. I really can.”

  Zircnosk shook his head fractionally, opening a sore on his neck as he did so. “Look at me, mate. There’s fuck-all you can do to me.”

  “You’d be surprised. Trust me.”

  “You’d have to kill me. And then where would you be?” He stared at McGuire, his chins rippling.

  McGuire’s features darkened. “Don’t fuck with me, mate.”

  But Zircnosk continued thoughtfully. “Now, let’s see. It’s obviously something very, very important for you to come looking for me. Let me guess...” He blinked. “Of course. The heist. It’s gotta be.”

  “Bingo.”

  “You wanna know who dobbed you in?” Zircnosk asked. “You wanna know who was it, out of your gang, who came to me one fine summer’s day and fucked you over?” Zircnosk’s eyes flitted to Baxter. “Am I right? Is that what this is all about?”

  “Tell the boss,” said Baxter firmly. “Otherwise things will go badly for you.”

  “Things will go fuckin’ badly for me?” Zircnosk shook with laughter, blood trickling from one eye. “You don’t know, do you?” he said gleefully. “You’ve got no fuckin’ idea.”

  McGuire towered over him, grabbing the arms of the chair. “Who was it?” he hissed, leaning toward him. “Tell me now and I’ll make the pain go away.”

  “Pain?” responded Zircnosk, suddenly thoughtful, a dreamy, idiotic grin playing on his flaccid features. “Yeah, pain.”

  “I’ll make it all go away,” repeated McGuire.

  Zircnosk nodded eagerly, as far as he was able. “You’ll take it from me? My pain?”

  “I promise,” whispered McGuire.

  “Okay,” said Zircnosk quietly. “Come closer.”

  McGuire leaned into Zircnosk’s wrecked visage.

  Zircnosk closed his eyes. “I’m trying. I just can’t remember her name.”

  McGuire gripped the arms of the chair still harder. “Her name?”

  “Just that she had red hair.” Zircnosk’s eyes snapped open again, and glittered.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Auburn, really,” said Zircnosk, with the faintest hint of a smile.

  “You’re fuckin’ with me.” McGuire stepped back from the former cop and glared. “It wasn’t her.”

  Zircnosk, though, had closed his eyes, a dreamy grin playing on his face. “What was it now? Began with an L.”

  “He’s fuckin’ with you,” said Baxter, eyes fixed on Zircnosk. “Don’t listen to him.”

  “Lorraine? Laura? I forget.”

  McGuire turned on Zircnosk, face twisted with rage. “You fucker.”

  “You know, you’re right.” Zircnosk smiled. “You’ve done it. You have actually taken my pain from me. I do hope you enjoy it.”

  “You’re lying,” said McGuire.

  “Am I?” said Zircnosk, sounding almost surprised. “Do you really think that? Did it never occur to you why you were really killing all your old chums? Trex, Ritzo, Spider? I’ll tell you why. It’s not that you want to know the truth. Quite the contrary, mate. It’s so you don’t have to hear what you’ve already guessed.”

  Through gritted teeth McGuire said, “Why the fuck would she do that to me?”

  “Perhaps because she was going to have your child. Perhaps because you’re a fuckin’ psychopath.” His stubby fingers had clenched hold of the duvet in his excitement. “We protected her. At least, until the fuckin’ Cull hit. Then she had to fend for herself like the rest of us. She ended up with Spider, by all accounts.”

  McGuire lunged forward in a fury, smashing his rifle into Zircnosk’s skull, knocking him and the chair over. The cop lay on the floor, panting curiously. It took McGuire a moment to realise he was laughing.

  “I forgot her name,” Zircnosk laughed, greasy blood pouring off his face. “But I’ll never forget the stud.”

  “What did you say?” McGuire’s voice was slow, stunned.

  Zircnosk looked up to him, still panting. “The golden stud, mate. You know what I mean.” He stopped laughing for a moment, and a thick tongue emerged to lick his swollen lips.

  McGuire stood over him, struggling for control. “It was a good idea,” he said suddenly, grabbing Zircnosk and heaving him to his feet, so that the duvet fell away. He powered the enormous, naked man out of the hotel room and down the corridor. McGuire could hear Baxter struggling to keep up.

  As they reached the stairwell, McGuire gripping him by the folds of fat around his neck, Zircnosk tried to turn his head and look at McGuire. “What was a good idea?” he said, still grinning manically.

  “Letting someone else deal with the landmines,” replied McGuire, heaving Zircnosk forwards. McGuire and Baxter watched as the cop fell, grabbing desperately for the yellow claw. He seized it, and for an incredulous moment it looked like the claw might prevent him pitching forward, but his weight betrayed him. The guide rope wrenched through the pulley, ripping the banister from its moorings, and Zircnosk fell, still clutching the claw.

  The former cop’s enormous bulk tumbled hectically down the stairs, bones loudly cracking at each impact, until eventually he smashed into the midst of the landmines at the bottom of the next flight. The resulting explosions bowled McGuire and Baxter backwards, lumps of human blubber and plaster cascading down on them. A few moments later there was another flurry of explosions, as the remainder of Zircnosk landed on the next set of landmines; and again, and again. The hallway around them vibrated, until eventually the noises subsided.

  “Ought to make leaving the hotel a little easier,” observed McGuire, as he hauled himself to his feet.

  A dazed Baxter nodded as he struggled upright. “Y’know he could have been lying, boss.”

  McGuire paused momentarily from wiping the human detritus and dust from his clothes. “No,” he said simply.

  Baxter averted his eyes, and they headed down.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WHERE IS SHE?” The words resounded in the great hall, sending ripples across the dank, still water in the stone font. He saw a couple of f
aces look up from their prayers, terrified eyes peeking over the backs of the walnut pews.

  Reverend Sarah returned his gaze calmly, drying her hands on a mouldy towel. Already an imposing woman, here in the depths of the cathedral she seemed indomitable. She smiled beneficently at him, her eyes flitting between McGuire and Baxter. McGuire saw his shifting reflection in the font’s water. He noticed a trickle running down the font’s fluted side, where it collected in a growing puddle at its base.

  “I don’t know,” she said patiently. “Perhaps she’s at Parliament House? Or perhaps you’d prefer if we called it your palace.”

  McGuire rubbed his scarred hand. “Don’t fuck with me, Sarah,” he hissed. “I know she came here.”

  “Yes,” conceded the Reverend, cocking her head and nodding thoughtfully. “She brought the baby here.”

  “Why, though? Why did she come here?” McGuire glared at Baxter, who started from his reverie, his thick, veiny neck flushing.

  The Reverend laughed. “Why do you think?”

  McGuire shook his head. “To pray?” He remembered the graceful high school girl with the porcelain complexion and auburn hair he’d seen heading for St Magdalene’s all those years ago. For fuck’s sake. That other life was meant to have been wiped away, to have never existed.

  Sarah rubbed the palm of her own hand, either unconsciously mirroring him, or mocking him; it was hard to say. She said, “You can’t control this world, McGuire, any more than Trex could, or any of those other hoodlums. This world is bigger and more complex than you think. Only one person can see it fully, and He isn’t you.”

  McGuire snapped, “I see all I need to see.”

  Again the loving smile that made his stomach boil. “Is everything about revenge, McGuire? Everything?”

  McGuire grabbed Sarah by the wrist and shook her. “Everything,” he whispered into her ear. “Tell me where she’s gone.” He wondered where her shotgun had got to. It was unusual for her not to have some means of defending herself and her parishioners.