Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  “Once, just once…”

  The dark bedroom was musty.

  His gun was cradled like a babe in his shivering, crooked arms. It was an old Colt Single Action Army revolver. A very old one, made of black-charred steel, a classic, really. One of a kind.

  Raymond had won it in a fixed game of Russian roulette a long time ago in the dark hold of a ship named the Starhaven, as it chugged its way across Lake Superior. They had set out from Thunder Bay, Ontario. On board, talk of the dreaded Sisters abounded, though as it would turn out, they were entertaining elsewhere that day. It was a favorite song of his now or had been, once upon a time.

  “Please, please…”

  Even at such a young age, Raymond Gurlek had wanted to die, which made the vote unanimous. Everybody else on board the Starhaven had wanted him to die, too. One, in particular, was Esteban de Chaco, the gun’s former owner. He had fixed the game, like he always did, for he knew the gun’s secret, or thought so, anyways.

  Unfortunately for Esteban, it wasn’t a close contest. Raymond won the game hands down. It was the first thing he had ever won in his life. It was also the last. All of Esteban de Chaco’s possessions, eighty-five cents in nickels and pennies, mismatched shoes, and gun went to Raymond. That was standard. Raymond hadn’t tried to take the man’s clothes. They wouldn’t have fit. Raymond was very thin even then.

  The first thing Raymond did after winning the game was try to kill himself. At this, even, he was a complete failure.

  Click! Click! Click! Click! Click!

  It hadn’t worked then, and it didn’t work now.

  At his temple it didn’t work, Click! Click! Click!

  In his mouth, the same, Click! Click! Click!

  Others had died in the hold of the Starhaven instead that day. That had quelled the feelings awakened within the pit of his soul, for a time. Years later, Raymond had found one other thing that quelled the urges he felt, though he yearned still for the permanent solution. The temporary solution, though, brought Raymond to Colton Falls, where such solutions were cheap.

  Raymond placed the gun down on the arm of the old chair he was enwrapped in. Like an iron claw, stunted, his hand clutched the butt of the gun. He concentrated, but he couldn’t uncramp his mangled fingers from it. It had been a long while since he had tried, once with a hacksaw, another time with a claw hammer. How long had it been? He didn’t know.

  “I’ll fix you…”

  He wrapped the tourniquet around his arm with his free hand, knotted it, twisted it tight.

  His wasted body had built up a resistance to heroin. That was the problem. He had tried speedballs, but the cocaine made it worse. Massacres ensued. Grass never even touched him. Amphetamines were as bad as the coke. Hallucinogens? Well, he wasn’t sure if they worked. So he stuck to the heroin, injected, not smoked or snorted, for what it could do for him.

  The longer he did heroin, the more he required to make it go away, to make it all go away. And he had been shooting heroin for a long time. He shot more heroin than anyone he knew. Not that he knew anyone, but if he did. The amount that would kill him was undisclosed at this time, but he kept trying.

  “Fix you good…”

  That was what he wanted, of course. To die. To squeeze that plunger down and watch everything go fuzzy and warm and tingly, and then nothing, nothing but deathful, blisssssssss.

  Every time he shot more. Every time it was not enough.

  He twisted the tourniquet tight.

  “This time it will work…”

  Heroin had been a godsend to him at first. More than a diversion, it had saved him, saved others, countless others. It had given him hope. How many nights had his craving, his addiction, his killing, been overwhelmed in a torrent of horse? Not enough. He read the papers. Some though, some … and that was something. Wasn’t it?

  His veins were standing now, defined, waiting, begging. Beads of sweat clung to his skin like ticks to some cold, ancient reptile. He took up the syringe.

  Hate boiled in his eyes as he glanced at the gun imprisoned in his grip, or was it? The gun that never missed, never misfired, no matter how poor his treatment of it, no matter how many different ways he tried to break it, smash it, destroy it. He never cleaned it or took any measures to keep it in good working order and:

  when he aimed at a whore, he blew her brains out.

  when he aimed at a pimp, he blew his brains out.

  when he aimed at a child, he blew his brains out.

  when he aimed at his own temple, click! Every time. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb, squeezed, click! Nothing happened. Ever.

  “Come on, come on…”

  A sharp prick from the needle, hardly noticeable, and he was in. He drew back on the plunger a bit, and blood flashed in the heroin like red wine in water.

  “I hate you…”

  He pushed down, down, down, and his thoughts melted away, away, away, along with his desires and his black urges, his needs, everything melting away with the last of his junk.

  They would be back, though. They would always be back, despite the amount. And soon. Too soon. For now, though, Raymond Gurlek collapsed in his easy chair, a limp scarecrow of a man without worries, without hope, without will, for maybe half an hour. As everything went swirling purple and fuzzy-numbing-cool, he passed out, and his cramped fingers loosened their grip on the gun, but it would not last long.

  Chapter 20.

  MATTHEW KARNAK HAD A GOD COMPLEX. People able to exert a tremendous deal of control over the lives of others occasionally develop this complex. It is characterized by a profound belief by an individual that he, or she, is something more than human.

  Psychologists attribute the origin of this psychosis to that person’s profound ability to radically alter the course of another human life. Doctors and paramedics are known to develop this complex because they are able to so radically affect the lives of their patients. In short, they hold others’ lives in their hands, and in the blink of an eye, can create or destroy it. Matthew Karnak was neither doctor nor paramedic.

  “Patience … patience is the key, Johnny-boy. This’s cake. Nam was tough, man. I survived it. I’ll survive this. You just stick with me, man. You got my back. I got yours. Simple equation. We walk out together. Cake.

  “Hell, it’s damn-near pleasant up here. Nice crisp November breeze blowing by, bout eight miles per hour, east to west. Sunset was good, great from up here. Lotsa orange, y’know? And then pink at the last minute. I like that. You nervous?

  “Just relax, man. No unnecessary moves. Don’t waste any energy. Just breathe. This is so cake, Johnny. We wait. We watch. We Wham! Ha! I thought that up. Not too great, but let me tell you, you do just about anything to pass the time on this job. And like I said, this ain’t nothing.

  “Try lying in a drainage ditch in 120-degree heat. In fucking jungle heat. Humid y’know, dripping wet? Fucking leeches the size of knockwursts wiggling around, latching on to your dick and shit. Can’t fucking get them off cause you don’t want to tip your position. Just you and your spotter, if you’re lucky enough to have one, and he’s not a complete fuck-off.”

  “Uh, maybe we shouldn’t talk, Mat,” John said.

  “Naw, wind’s strong enough. No one on street level could hear us up here. What’s this? Nine stories. Anyways. The fucking leeches, man, they’d crawl all the way up your pant leg and — Oops. Hang on. We got one mark coming north on Wilbur,” Matthew Karnak said into the mike at his neck. “Longknife-one’s on him.”

  Someone was walking on Wilbur Street. In one smooth, fluid motion, Karnak’s seemingly ponderous rifle was trained on the moving figure. His breath was even, his body relaxed. Karnak lowered his thermal imaging lenses. The mark was human. The figure walked on down the street, oblivious to the fact that death was a stranger’s finger twitch away. Matthew Karnak’s gun followed each step. Voices over the mike chimed in, “Longknife-two, Marsh, clear east.”

  “Longknife-three, Marsh, clear west.”


  “L-K-three, Wilbur street, clear north.”

  The figure continued walking north on Wilbur, through the intersection at Marsh, and kept on going.

  “Snipers, stand down,” Detective Winters’ voice crackled over the mike. “Again, snipers stand down. The mark is cold. Not our target. I repeat, not our target.” Detective Winters was on the street level with the rest of the assault teams, the Knives. Only the snipers, the Longknives, and their spotters were on the rooftops. Containment was spread out in a standard four-point perimeter formation.

  “Ten-four from Longknife-one,” Matthew Karnak answered, and the other snipers piped in after. He scanned the street below slowly and evenly, making sure it was clear before he retracted his rifle. He scanned the other rooftops, glancing at his competition. “Fucking guys.”

  John, his spotter, said nothing.

  Matthew Karnak went on. “Check out two, three, and four, over there,” he said. “Fucking guys. Laser range finders for a fucking road job. Forty-five yards to the kill zone tops, and they pack that tec-bullshit. I could plug this with a forty-five. Fucking amateurs. And fucking Winters, don’t use the codes. Weird mother—”

  “Snipers,” Detective Winters’ voice crackled, “one mark moving west on Marsh, three marks moving east on Marsh pushing a baby carriage. They will meet in two minutes.” His voice went silent for thirty seconds then he spoke again. “The three are ghouls. The one is our primary target. Men know your jobs. Targets are hot in fifteen seconds. Snipers receive?”

  “Aces.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m on.”

  “Received.”

  Matthew Karnak’s rifle was up, pointed down below at the ghoul pushing the carriage. “Huge bastard, practically rolling down the street.” Thermal imaging showed it was a vampire. No heat signature, they only had one right after feeding, and it faded fast. He switched to night vision. “What the hell’s he wearing?”

  John had no answer.

  * * * *

  “Remain here, Peter. I know the owner.” The Padre gazed out the storefront window and into the dark. He loosened his blade in its cane scabbard. “Snipers.” He frowned.

  “Snipers?” Peter said. “For what? Who?”

  “I don’t know,” the Padre said. “Tactical SWAT, though. Assault’s probably honeycombed all over this area. Surprised we didn’t run into them. Probably going to hit this Billy Rubin. I’ll see what I can do. Stay in here, Peter. Keep your head down.”

  “You got a gun?”

  “No.” The Padre vanished out the alley-side door.

  * * * *

  A crumpled newspaper whipped past, caught up in the November gale. Leaves rustled, whipping, from what trees, who knew? Light from the blocks north and south mingled with the twinkle of the awakened stars, all reflected off the slick wet ground.

  Raymond Gurlek moved like sewage in the gutter and slid along through the darkness towards the three figures looming in the distance. With stick arms tucked deep down within pockets and long legs pumping, he strode along towards his rendezvous. He moved unnaturally, strangely angular, seemingly inefficient, off-rhythm, but was, nonetheless, swift.

  One of the three figures ahead was enormous, nearly eclipsing the other two, whose heads were just visible around the fat one’s shoulders. The fat one pushed the baby carriage. They stopped across the street. It was them. He didn’t know their names, didn’t want to know their names.

  The heroin was in the baby carriage.

  “My heroin…” Raymond groaned out loud. His mouth watered; his stomach growled; he could feel the urge. His veins cried. He needed more, fast. He felt the urge to pull the gun, gripped tightly in his right hand, deep inside his pocket. He stifled the urge, fighting it down. It wanted to come out, to kill. “I am just a vessel,” he said, looking up at the dented, rusted street signs. “Marsh and Wilbur.” In his head, whispers, voices of men, all around.

  “Something? Something? Knives?” Raymond drawled. He continued ambling forward towards the trio. His eyes focused on the buildings.

  The trio had guns. They always had guns. The big one had two, one in each hand now, machine guns. Big machine guns.

  Across the street from the trio, Raymond stopped. A slight drizzle began to fall.

  “My heroin.” Raymond wiped a long strand of drool from his chin. He stared down the trio of leeches, glanced at the roof, the sewer grate, back at the trio. Raymond’s eyes flitted from object to object, taking in all his surroundings. “Wrong, something…”

  “Yeah, we got it.” A ghoul wearing a leather jacket stepped around the huge one. “You got it?”

  “Something’s wrong,” Raymond muttered to himself.

  “I said, have you got it?”

  “Yes, yesyesyes. I have it,” Raymond giggled as he strode forward, his face contorting into a mask of hate and green madness, whipped his gun out, and started blazing.

  * * * *

  Matthew Karnak took aim. He had his target. The drizzle and wind were slight, but it was going to change fast. The targets were hot in five seconds.

  His eye stared unblinkingly relaxed through the scope. His body, like a caliper, adjusted minutely, four seconds.

  He held the crosshairs on his prey, watching. Supple, relaxed, his body was, three seconds.

  He moved the crosshairs across his prey, his prey’s right eye to be exact, two seconds. Then Matthew Karnak took a deep, relaxed breath, and he squeezed the trigger, and his brains were promptly blown out the back of his head.

  * * * *

  “Goddamnit! They’re dead!” screamed a voice over the mike. “They’re ALL fucking dead.”

  “Hold back.” Detective Winters keyed the mike. “Keep your heads and cover. Maintain the crossfire. Captain! Hold your men!”

  Across the street, Captain Bianca charged.

  “Stand down!” Detective Winters ducked back against the wall as a spray of bullets exploded by his head, shattering the window.

  “Containment, hold your position!” Detective Winters roared. It was no use. He flung the radio. Containment was rushing in. “Amateurs.”

  He had lost control.

  Chaos.

  Tonight, many would die.

  Panic was death. The ninja-black SWAT team exploded into the street from all directions and converged on the foursome in a firefight. They had the angles. They had the cover. That, at least, should have mattered.

  Detective Winters held a broken piece of glass up, using it like a periscope, even though he knew what was happening. “Marduk’s balls.” He shook his head in disgust and, from within his coat, drew one FoeHammer.50 then a second. Their weight was reassuring.

  He dove out the window, then, guns blazing.

  * * * *

  A mass of SWAT officers exploded like a swarm of ants from the buildings all around. Their guns blazed, and they shouted like madmen as they charged like Pickett and his men at Gettysburg. It was just as brave, just as glorious, and just as successful.

  * * * *

  Raymond Gurlek didn’t aim; he didn’t think; he didn’t blink; he just squeezed the trigger and the backs of men’s heads exploded. He didn’t need to reload. Through the cacophony of guns blazing all around, Gurlek’s gun boomed. It boomed!

  To Raymond, they were in slow motion, boom, boom, boom!

  It wasn’t, though. It was fast, a shatterstorm of lightning strikes echoing thunderclaps. Bullets shanked, careening off his gun, his shoulder; one blew out his knee. Still, though, he stood like some horrid, twisted scarecrow nailed upright; then he turned, and then he ran.

  Through the mass of men that rushed him, he mowed down a path paved in corpses, and that is the path he took.

  * * * *

  Double-fisting blazing machine guns, Beefrick never took his fingers off the triggers. It was just too much fun. It was loud, and it was messy, two of his most favoritest things. The vibration of the two guns jibbled his whole body, and the bullets ricocheting off his arm
or went ping and plink in a way that made him giggle. It tickled. It seemed everyone was shooting at him! He was so lucky. Billy was the best. Mary was the best, too. He stood in front of her now, shielding her.

  With a huge claw, he flipped a car and wedged himself between it and the building to his right. Slazenger and Mary huddled behind, covering his back. Beefrick grabbed the carriage and whipped it behind him. He unloaded everything he had, churning a great deal of meat into hamburger on the corner of Marsh and Wilbur. He was so focused that he didn’t notice the headlights approaching.

  * * * *

  The Gurkha crouched behind the wheel of his gray Dodge Ram pick-up, wicked glee riveted to his face, flying east down Marsh through the firestorm. Elliot, Jethro, and Mainlo crouched in the speeding truck’s bed.

  They had guns.

  They had blades.

  None could use them, however, for they were currently occupied, clutching on for sweet-ever-shortening life.

  The Gurkha’s driving was fast and finesseless as he fishtailed, dodging SWAT guys, slammed curbs, sideswiped mailboxes, and roared on faster and faster.

  * * * *

  Elliot’s hands were white-knuckled vises clamped onto the truck’s sidewall as the wind whipped through his fast receding hair.

  Through the confusion, the insanity of the SWAT team fighting, and shooting, and bleeding, and dying, and vampires doing the same, Elliot spied his prey as he dodged the screaming truck and hurtled past, gun blazing.

  “Emily…” Elliot growled, standing.

  Then he vaulted out of the truck.

  * * * *

  Beefrick, the huge, bloated death machine, was not fleet of foot or of mind.

  Dimly, he noticed something approaching through the torrent of bullets aimed at and hitting him. He leaned forward, squinting at a small silver billy goat head rapidly approaching his face. He cocked his head. “Hmmmm, billy goat…?”