by Kevin Wright
Monster City
By KEVIN WRIGHT
Quantum Muse Books
Copyright 2017
The right of Kevin Wright to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988
Originally published as ‘Revelations’
Cover art provided by Kevin Wright
All rights reserved
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or commerce, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 1.
THE CANVAS BAGS banged against his hip and legs as he clambered up the last flight of stairs. At the top, he paused, huffing, staring down a dark hallway. Behind, red lights spun flashing away the dark. Ahead, the long hallway, rows of doors, and at the end, a window. A crescent moon shown through, casting black bars across the floor and walls. He hustled on as clouds engulfed the moon and was left in the flashing-red dark.
Peter clicked on his flashlight and read the door numbers. 690, 692, 694, 696. Okay, this is it. Chill out, relax. He turned, “Carmine, this is it. Should we—?” He looked around. Shit. His partner wasn’t there. Where the hell? Peter was alone, on his first call.
“Carmine…?” he called out.
Nothing.
“Screw it.”
He pounded the door.
“Hello, ambulance!”
He waited. Nothing.
“Hello! Cavalier Ambulance!” He pounded again. “Did someone call 911?” No answer. He glanced at the address he’d written on his blue nitrile glove. It’s the right number.
Peter tested the doorknob; it turned smoothly. He pushed it ajar, paused, looked back down the hall. Should wait for Carmine. Then he glanced inside, and reason was washed away in a torrent of adrenaline. “Oh, fuck,” he said, and he meant it. Both canvas bags thumped to the floor.
A man lay half-naked, bloated, sallow, face-up across a sofa, emaciated legs and arms lifeless-askew. From the crimson gash that was his mouth, blood trickled. It stained his chest and distended abdomen below.
Shattered syringes and bent needles infected the floor, glistening constellations in the half-glow of the single bulb swaying on its cord. Shadows spun.
Okay, okay, what do I do? He looked at the half-naked guy then back at the stairwell, trying to will his partner to suddenly appear.
“Carmine!” he yelled. “Get up here!”
Carmine did not suddenly appear.
Fumbling to the man’s head, syringes crunched underfoot. “Jesus.” He kicked clear a spot and knelt. “Hey, sir! SIR! You alright!?” Tubes tumbled to the floor when he opened the portable suction kit. “Sir, you okay?”
Stupid fucking question: what do I do? Overdose, okay, relax, deep breath, another deep breath, ABC’s, airway first, then breathing, then something, then, something else.
In the distance, in the back of his mind, Peter might have heard the leaden thwomp of Carmine stomping his way up the stairs. “Hurry up, Carmine!”
Okay, guy’s not breathing.
Peter pried open the man’s mouth. Blood, pooled to the brim of his lips, spilled out. “Jesus.” With crimsoned fingers he felt for a carotid pulse, wondering if he couldn’t feel it because it wasn’t there, or because his skills sucked. Shit. He’s dead. Defib, where? He looked around. Carmine’s got it. Shit. Suction, guy needs suction. Still warm. Fucking reeks.
The suction unit chugged to life when Peter switched it on. It slurped and hissed and gurgled as he dipped the catheter into the guy’s mouth, making all those nasty sounds from dentist’s office just before he says, “Spit!” Red twisted and twirled up the tubing towards the collection container. “Hey, Carmine!”
Feet stomped, somewhere, the stairs?
Peter pushed the catheter deeper, gurgling violently, and the man convulsed. Peter sprung back ninja-quick, saving his uniform and boots from the stream of crimson vomit.
The suction chugged.
Sputtering and coughing, hacking, the man gagged up a mouthful of blood and vomit and other stuff.
“Sir, you okay?” Peter reached out. “Just hang on a second. We’re gonna get you to the hospital.”
The man doubled over, sputtering, hacking.
“Sir? Maybe you should sit down?”
Clambering up, swaying drunk, the man suddenly pounced forward and latched onto Peter’s jacket and throat.
“What the—” Peter staggered back, swinging, missing, as the man bulled forward, squeezing, squeezing. Peter slammed against the wall, and the man leaped onto him, latching onto his shoulder. “Jesus!” With his teeth!
“Goddamn!” Peter tore his shoulder free but not his throat.
The man hurled him to the floor, shattering syringes, and pounced atop him.
Peter gurgled, fought, pinned by the throat, punching, kicking, wriggling.
Growling, the man bore his full weight on Peter’s neck. The twin vises squeezed tight, tighter, and Peter’s vision squeezed dark, darker. His arms flailed spaghetti limp, then his legs, his body. Before darkness consumed him, head lolling back, he saw the man’s horrible pink grimace, his orange teeth bared, the viper’s smile descending.
The suction unit chugged on.
* * * *
Darkness … voices muttering … incomprehensibabble … “Hey, kid” … Mmmm smells like barbecue … Schluck!
“Hey, kid … kid, wake up!” a voice called.
More pain.
“Don’t like that much do ya, kid?” the voice said. “Wake up, kid, and I won’t do it again”
Carmine…? Man, my shoulder hurts.
“Good. You alright, kid?”
Carmine?
“Easy now, sit up slow. Yeah, that’s it. Nice, deep breath, Pete. There you go. Another one.”
“What the … huh?”
“Shhhh. Low.”
“What happened?” Peter sat up with someone’s, Carmine’s, help. The room reeked of acrid smoke. “Uhhg.”
“Feel better?” Carmine glanced over his shoulder.
“Hmmm? What?” Peter leaned back against Carmine’s pudgy hand, propping him up.
“Easy.” Carmine’s breath was close and reeked of garlic.
Peter almost gagged.
“You okay?”
“HHHHLLLLLLLAAAH!” Peter
puked, and then he puked some more. “Urrg…” He wiped his chin. “God.” Blaring light from a flashlight glared in his eyes. Peter blocked it with his hand.
Men chattered in the dark.
“What happened?” Peter rubbed his right shoulder.
“You almost bought it, kid,” Carmine said. “If it wasn’t for the cops,” he thumbed over his shoulder, “you’d be toast.” Carmine groaned to his feet and turned towards the glare, “He’s okay, guys, you can take off.”
“He clean?”
Peter couldn’t see a face for the light.
“Yeah, spotless, Sarge,” Carmine said. “Just bumped his head a bit.”
“I’ll need a 69-A on him, anyways, Carmine.” Papers rustled in the dark. The sarge held out a thick sheaf.
“What’s a 69—?” Peter started, but Carmine punched him in the arm.
“Sure thing, Sarge.” Carmine took the papers. “Checked him head to toe, though. Not a scratch. Could save yourself some paperwork. Almost shift change.”
The sergeant lowered the sheaf of papers and glanced at his watch. “You’re absolutely sure?” He nodded to his partner, silent in the doorway. “Okay, Carmine, we’re out. Tell him to watch it next time, though. This ain’t a fucking kid’s game, and he sure as hell ain’t ready for the big-boy league.”
“I’ll talk with him.”
“Building’s clean, squad three’s out,” the sergeant said into the mike at his shoulder. Then he was gone.
“What the hell happened?” Peter glanced round the room. With the flashlight out of his eyes, he could see again. The room, something was different about it. The dead guy, or not-so-dead guy, was gone along with the couch, the ceiling, parts of the floors, the walls, most of them.
It was as though he sat within the vulture-gleaned ribcage of some long-dead giant. Wall studs like bones lay bare, charred, cracked, jutting from floor to ceiling. The skin of drywall and plaster was blasted mostly away. “Jesus.” Soot stained everything. Looking out past the charred bricks, Peter could see the river, buildings, the red lights of his ambulance whirling below.
“Police Line Do Not Cross” tape spiderwebbed from wall to wall.
“Jeeze, who were those guys?” Peter rubbed his shoulder. “Cops? SWAT team?”
“Containment squad.”
“Containment? What happened to the dead guy?” Peter asked. “He grabbed me. He wasn’t dead. Not even close. I thought, I mean he wasn’t breathing, had no pulse, I thought.”
“Well, he’s dead now, kid, don’t you worry. Cops cooked him good.” Carmine held out a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Easy.”
“Cops torched this place pretty good, huh?” Peter steadied himself on Carmine’s shoulder. “For one guy — huh?” Something moved in the next room. What it was he couldn’t see. It was dark in there, too, darker.
“The Padre.” Carmine followed his gaze.
Peter stepped involuntarily in that direction, but Carmine stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Easy, kid. You don’t need to see that.”
“But what—?”
“Last rites, kid,” Carmine whispered.
“On the what? The dead guy?” His shoulder was throbbing. There was something soft and bulky beneath his shirt.
“No, he got his a long time ago,” Carmine said. “Bunch of junkies. Got what was coming to them. Should’ve known better. Stupid bastards.” Carmine frowned. “Let’s go, kid, grab the bags and the stair-chair, I’ll take the suction.”
“Sure, okay.” Peter’s craned his neck. Within the room, a man knelt over something, muttering words, dark words Peter couldn’t make out.
Garbed in black, a wide-brimmed preacher’s hat on his brow, the man rose. He was tall, very tall; the ceiling seemed too low to contain him. In his hand, he bore a cane. With a swift jerk he stabbed down, thunk, skewering something on the floor and in one clean motion whisked free a blade from within the cane, an arc of light in the darkness and swept downward, schluck! Then he doffed his hat and bowed his head.
“Ashes to ashes,” the Padre donned his hat, “they all fall down.”
The Padre, face wreathed in shadow, turned. Through a blown-out section of the wall, ducking, he stepped, boots sloshing with each step. Laying a hand on Peter’s shoulder, the Padre moved past. “Do not go in there, my son,” rumbled a voice from the depths of the shadow of the preacher’s hat. Then he was gone, out the door, glistening footsteps trailing in his wake.
“What’d you—?”
“C’mon Pete.” Carmine pulled him around. “We gotta go. Grab the bags.”
“But, I want to see.”
“Grab the bags.”
“Fine, whatever.” Peter grabbed the first-in bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Ahhh! What the hell?” He collapsed to a knee. “Jeeze.” He pulled his collar down a bit and peered inside.
“Not here, Pete.” Carmine yanked Peter’s collar back up.
Peter jerked away and examined his shoulder; it was bandaged.
“You got bit, Pete.” His dark glance lingered on Peter’s shoulder.
“Huh?”
“I said,” Carmine snatched a glance into the hallway then back at Peter, his voice a constricting to a whisper, “you got bit, by the dead guy.”
Chapter 2.
“SO, KID, YOU HUNGRY?” Carmine turned the steering wheel.
“I’m fine,” Peter grunted.
Carmine hadn’t uttered a word since they’d left the emergency room. It was past midnight. Peter hadn’t uttered a word, either. He’d just fumed in the passenger seat as they cruised back to base. There, a pair of crusty couches with springs poking through eagerly awaited their arrival. Peter scowled sidelong at his partner. Like you need to eat.
“Well, I’m hungry,” Carmine said.
That’s shocking.
Carmine turned the steering wheel with the heel of his palm, disregarded all the well-marked, empty spaces, and parked in the fire lane in front of a restaurant. A huge neon sign read, Cha Chi’s. “How’s the shoulder, kid?”
“Which one? The one the psycho-guy bit, or the one the ER doc jabbed fifty needles in?”
“I’m gonna grab a bite before we head back to base.” Carmine pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
“You do that,” Peter said. Their trip to the emergency room and his blood tests had not brightened his spirits. The results were pending.
Carmine raised an eyebrow. “Still pissed, huh?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t even know why you’re pissed.”
Peter just scowled.
“Sure you don’t want anything?” Carmine grabbed the portable radio, clicked it on, and hooked it on his belt. “They’re good. Ever have a chimichanga? Hmm? Deep-fried burrito covered in cheese, lotsa vitamins.”
“I know why I’m pissed.” Peter folded his arms and glared at the dashboard, studying its intricate vinyl patterns.
“Look, kid—”
“No, you look,” Peter said. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-one. You’re my partner. You could’ve backed me up back there.”
“You ran off, kid.”
“You were taking your damned time.”
“I’m fat.”
“Yeah, well, um,” Peter said. “What about that cop? He insults me, and you agree with him? And then the emergency doc. What the hell’s a 69-A, anyways?”
“Forget about it,” Carmine said.
“Well, what if I get in trouble, or something?” Peter asked.
“You don’t understand.”
“Why, cause I’m a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Screw you.”
“Kid, what’s the first rule on any call?”
“Don’t throw your partner under the bus.”
Carmine just stared at him for a moment. “I’m going to get chimichangas. Think about it.”
* * * *
The worn spine of the hardbound book creaked shut on Emily Tine’s lap. Taking a deep breath a
nd removing her glasses, she marked the page with an old Chinese food menu.
Some would say it was a rousing book. It was a compilation of stories chronicling the deeds of knights in days of yore, the Knights of the Round Table. They were stories about the destinies of men, great men.
Emily read it every night after her shift. She would curl up with it upon her lap, by the light of the small lamp next to his bed. Tonight was a little later than usual.
Emily had worked at the Benson Manor nursing home almost twenty years now and knew every story by heart. She could tell you that on page one hundred and twenty-one, halfway down, there was a tear. The bottom half of the page was missing. Emily knew what happened there, though. She knew that Sir Tristram had defeated Sir Marhaus while receiving a grievous wound of his own, but had survived. Emily knew because she’d gone to the library years ago, when her hair was not so gray, and her glasses not so thick. She had taken out the book and memorized the parts missing so she would know what happened. Yes, Emily knew that book as well as she knew her prayers. She never skipped a night, even coming in on her off days.
Emily Tine hated that book. It was far too gory. Everyone always fought. Moreover, there was never a happy ending. Never. Even the good people, the nice people, fought, and they usually got it the worst.
It might seem like a happy ending, but if you read just a little further on, you always found you were wrong. After Arthur becomes king and marries Guinevere, she cheats on him with his best friend. Merlin gets locked away. Tristram gets murdered. Galahad, after finding the Grail, just disappears.
It was not a nice book.
She read it, though, every night because one of her patients loved it. His name was Elliot Spears, and he was a vegetable. Emily never ever referred to him as such, but the rest of the staff did.
Elliot stared out the window all day long. He never spoke, never moved, never blinked, never complained, never lied, never cheated, never disappointed, and he never hit her. Except when he had one of his seizures. Emily knew they hurt him, and so they hurt her, too.
Elliot loved that book, though; she just knew it. A sense of calm suffused him as she read aloud, when Lancelot lay next to Guinevere. A tremor ran through his body whenever Gawain took up the challenge of the Green Knight and when Arthur fell. Subtle maybe, but it was there. Emily prayed that someday Elliot might awaken, might just blink and wake up.
