Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  The Gurkha wheeled forward on his wheelchair, his knife clenched between his teeth.

  “We’re not finished!” Salazar scuttled out it just in time.

  * * * *

  Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep—

  “My Dio! Would you just fucking die already!?” Shotgun screamed.

  Carmine grunted and chucked him the finger. He lay scowling in bed, gauze around his neck, various wires and electrodes shooting out from under his hospital johnny. Greedily, he took a scoop of the green Jell-O in front of him. Then he said, slowly and gratingly, as though his throat had been crushed by an expert assassin, “Screw you, pansy. You let him get away.”

  Shotgun gritted his teeth and looked down, “He just disappeared! And I was rushed, not to mention the fucking demon!” He adjusted the bandage wrapped around his head. “Besides, I’m not the one he put in the hospital. Imagine, a skinny, little guy like that kicking your fat ass? If Elliot and I … forget it.”

  Carmine looked down at his quivering green Jell-O. It was all he could eat. He was not disappointed. “How’s the kid?”

  “Not too good, man,” Shotgun said. “He’s way along. Tomorrow’s his last sunrise, if today’s wasn’t. Six days. Longer than any I ever heard of. Could barely stand the sun today. Held out tough, but it’s almost over. He knows it.”

  Carmine nodded.

  “Funny thing, though,” Shotgun said, “he doesn’t even care. Can see it in his eyes. He wants it to be over, wants to die. If it weren’t for his dad, he’d have — you can feel it just being around him. Despair. Knows what’ll happen once he changes. What he’ll do.” Shotgun looked Carmine in the eye. “To who.”

  “Yeah, he knows,” Carmine said. “I sure as hell didn’t pull any punches telling him. Asshole.” Carmine shook his head. “I’m sorry how I did it. Harsh. He’s just a kid.”

  “He ain’t a kid, Carmine,” Shotgun said. “He’s been through a lot. More than just about anyone.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Carmine said. “Do me a favor, Eddie, help him, if you can. And tell him I’m sorry. Whatever that’s worth.”

  “Look, I’ll do what I can,” Shotgun said. “But I don’t even know where to start. Tried talking to Winters, but he was pretty banged up. We barely got out. Wasn’t in the mood to talk.”

  “Figures,” Carmine said. “Where’s Pete now?”

  “They’re staying at your place,” Shotgun said.

  “Good.” Carmine raised an eyebrow. “They?”

  “They.” Shotgun nodded. “The kid and Winters.”

  “You left them alone? A vampire and a vampire-fucking-hunter?”

  “Uh, yeah. Bad idea?”

  * * * *

  Peter’s skin was on fire.

  A caustic blaze sizzled blisters into it, which crinkled, dried and sloughed away from his skull. He clutched at his face. He screamed! Neither helped, for now his hands seared, and his flesh and nails turned black, twisting up in smoke. As he cried out in pain, his fingernails fell from the charred pretzels that were his fingers; then he awoke.

  And his face and hands were burning!

  “Jesus!”

  Sunlight blared like atomic death through a window. Peter stumbled from the futon and lurched from the sun’s path, into the corner, into shade.

  “Jesus,” he squinted, rising, blocking the sun with his outstretched hand. His ribs hurt, moved, grated. Grunting, he pulled the shade down. “Thought I pulled it down last night.”

  He rubbed his eyes.

  The cool was momentarily refreshing. Slowly, he breathed, wincing. A fawn testing out its new legs, Peter raised his arms, testing his broken ribs. “Uuuhhhgg…”

  They failed.

  His stomach rumbled, and again because he couldn’t do anything about it, he tried ignoring it.

  He looked around. Carmine’s apartment was silent, empty, except for the beer bottles and scuttling cockroaches.

  “Hello?”

  No one answered.

  Shotgun and Detective Winters were gone. In the kitchen was a note, written in a tight, neat script by a steady hand.

  Peter read it:

  You may wonder that you are not dead.

  Do not.

  Science and magic … ignorance and curiosity.

  My life’s blood. Today, I waste some on you.

  DO NOT KILL.

  DO NOT USE THE GUN.

  REMAIN HERE.

  Flesh is stronger than steel if the will behind it is. The gun is evil if such a thing exists.

  Your soul may be saved, though you must travel through hell to get it. It is a path known to me. When next we meet, it shall end.

  J.W.

  “Great.” Peter crumpled the not then tossed it in the garbage.

  Throwing on his coat and shouldering his backpack, Peter said, “Ignorance? Yeah, I’m fucking ignorant, but not stupid. And I sure as hell ain’t staying here.”

  He dialed the phone.

  * * * *

  The smell of old books was infused in the air.

  “I require access to the tomes.” Detective Winters stepped up to the desk. He rubbed his bruised chin.

  The typing stopped; dust settled.

  The air grew dense.

  The Archivist pursed her lips in annoyance and looked up at the monitor. “You look like hell.” She squinted and adjusted her thick glasses. She clicked the mouse in her right hand many times then squinted again at the screen. “Which ones?”

  “You know which ones.”

  She took a deep breath, nodded. “Occult histories anthology, 1969 to 70, and town politics guide, same year.” She pointed towards a spiral staircase behind her. “Top shelve, towards the back, occult section, number five.”

  She clicked again with her mouse.

  “And the other?” Detective Winters asked.

  “That’s kept here for safe keeping. The Baron Ludwig Von Nettesheim owns it, officially. It’s his property; I can’t grant you access.” Her hands, anxious eagle claws poised above the keyboard, ready to delve in, froze again. Her face was a mask of annoyance. She glared at Detective Winters. “I compiled the politics and occult together that year. For you.” She continued typing.

  “I require access to The Black Book,” Detective Winters said. “Without it, the rest is as good as forfeit.”

  She pursed her lips. “Best not to—”

  “I need it,” Detective Winters said.

  “You’re not ready for it.”

  “I have delved in such secrets before.”

  “I know. It’s too soon,” she said. “Besides, without an Elder Sign or similar protection, it’d be suicide.”

  He stepped past her. “I have the Sign,” Detective Winters said.

  “Wait.” The Archivist looked down, shaking her head slowly in the soft glow of the monitor. “Come, let’s get it over with.” She stood and walked off.

  Detective Winters did not thank her because she didn’t want to be thanked. Not for this. Never this.

  The Archivist guided him down deep into the cellar. Through a maze of shelves stocked with dusty brown tomes, she led him to a reinforced steel gate set in a concrete wall. There was a small keypad set into the wall, and behind the gate on a small table there lay a locked book.

  The air was dead.

  “Weapons,” she said.

  Detective Winters placed them all on a small desk.

  “That’s all of them?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Detective Winters nodded.

  “Here.” She took a set of goggles out of the desk drawer. She held them out and then just stood there, looking away.

  “Unlock it.” Detective Winters snatched them.

  “Turn away.”

  Detective Winters turned.

  She punched in the code.

  Clang! The gate screeched open, protesting.

  “You’re sure?” She looked over her shoulder. “There’s no other way?”

  In answer, Detective Winters stepped silently thro
ugh the gate. Clang! It closed behind him.

  “It’s locked,” she said. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Detective Winters took a deep breath.

  “Fine, here, catch.” She withdrew a key chain. “You have the sign? Present it in a bold fashion.” She tossed the keychain through the gate.

  Detective Winters caught it and nodded.

  He pulled down the goggles and turned toward the book. It was thick, and it was ancient, bound in cracked leathered blackness. Its cover bowled out convex, and Detective Winters imagined it to be breathing, slowly. He always imagined it thus.

  “I’m leaving,” droned the Archivist, all life sucked from her voice. “I’ll be down in an hour, to unlock it. I can’t remain.”

  Detective Winters waited for her footsteps to subside; then he opened the book.

  * * * *

  Lien opened the door and recoiled involuntarily as though Peter carried some terrible disease, which he did. And though she backed off a step, she recovered and did not shrink. “Sorry.” She rubbed her temples.

  “I’m used to it.”

  “My grandfather wishes to speak to you,” Lien said, her gaze strong, even. She seemed on the verge of saying something more but didn’t.

  “Thanks.” Peter stepped in, avoiding Lien’s predatory gaze and meeting the eye of the jade dragon guarding the doorway instead.

  Exotic scents wafted through the air, poultry and fish, meats and spices. The scent of Lien, however, was what grasped Peter, shook him, awoke desires within him, human, and otherwise.

  She is so beautiful, so, so smooth. He found himself stepping involuntarily towards her, his tongue within his mouth caressing his sharp canine teeth. His stomach groaned audibly, and he stopped, blinking.

  “I-I’ll wait in here.” Peter stepped into the restaurant and took a seat at one of the booths set far back. He pulled down the brim of his baseball hat.

  “Would you like something?” Lien asked.

  Peter grinned and laughed to himself, shaking his head at the thoughts racing through it. “No … no thanks,” Peter muttered. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on, I can hear your stomach growling,” Lien said, “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Can I get you some breakfast? Something? Anything?”

  “No, I’m fine, really.”

  “It’s not all just Chinese food.”

  Peter’s chest filled with air as he sucked in through his mouth, “No, I’m fine, really,” Peter lied. “You should go. Just tell your granddad I’m here. I have to go soon.”

  Lien nodded abruptly, turned, and left.

  “Thank you, though,” Peter said as she left, though she made no indication that she had heard him. A flash of long black hair and she was gone. Her scent lingered, though, young, fresh, warm.

  Peter waited, the hollowness within his stomach, within his body, within his soul, rising within him. Fidgeting, he pulled a plastic straw from a box and started twisting it around and around from either end. The air pocket caught in the middle grew terser and terser until it popped. He threw down the ends and stood to leave, but noticed a pair of lens-less glasses on the table next to him, “Salazar,” he murmured to himself. He looked up. The Gurkha had arrived.

  Sitting within his wheelchair and flanked by his two sons, the Gurkha wheeled forward, his casted leg protruding ahead like a lance. His kukri, shining, lay across his lap. One of his sons carried a shotgun across his arm while the other one had a suspicious handle protruding from his arm sling and a pistol at his belt. The Gurkha wheeled himself to the booth, locked the wheelchair, and lifted himself into the opposite booth using only his arms. He smiled. “Enjoy your legs, young man.”

  “I will, thanks,” said Peter. “How’s the leg?”

  “Better,” the Gurkha answered. “Why have you come?”

  “To tell you some bad news about Elliot,” Peter swallowed, “and for some advice.”

  “The lawyer Salazar was here earlier,” the Gurkha said. “He spoke of Elliot and what has happened. I nearly was able to kill him.” He shook his head in disappointment.

  “Maybe next time.” Peter glanced at the kukri then at the door. His fingers caressed the butt of his pistol. “You know about Elliot, then? I just figured the guy has no family, except, well, you two were friends. I just wanted to tell you, to let you know.”

  “I knew Elliot was dead before Salazar told me,” the Gurkha said. “He missed breakfast.”

  “Huh? He missed breakfast? That’s it?”

  The Gurkha nodded.

  “So you knew a demon killed Elliot because he never showed up for breakfast?”

  “Men today break their word more often than they break their fast,” the Gurkha said. “Men of old did not do so. To men of old, their word was their bond. Elliot was a man of old.”

  “It was just breakfast,” Peter said. “What if he was running late?”

  “Elliot was not the type of man to make commitments and then break them,” the Gurkha said, “no matter how trivial they may have seemed. Would you trust a man with important commitments, if he broke trivial ones?”

  “What if his car broke down?”

  “What advice is it that you seek?” The Gurkha frowned. “You have already spoken to the oracle. You remember what she said, yes?”

  “Oracle? The fortune cookie you mean?” Peter asked. “Yeah, it told me to—”

  “Then do it,” the Gurkha said, “or do not do it. The choice is yours. It is always yours. You may not ask for her wisdom again. It sickens her, weakens her. I will not have it. You let the world blow you around as the wind takes a leaf. Be a rock Peter and stand your ground. Do as you will, while you still can. Find your father, or leave, or die. Your time grows short in that skin.” He laid his kukri on the table. “Do not come back here. Were you not as you are, you would be welcome. But, you are as you are.”

  “One last thing.” Peter rose. He glanced over and saw Lien standing in the kitchen doorway. She’s beautiful. He looked away, ashamed. “You guys know about the gangs in this town, right?”

  “Which one?”

  “The Aces and Eights,” Peter said.

  Within his coat pocket he clutched his pistol, quivering.

  * * * *

  The Black book slammed shut and the screaming voices stopped defiling. The one voice stopped. It stopped tearing at him. The others pulled, stopped pulling, twisting, calling, commanding. His soul, it was still, even after all the wailing and bleeding and banshee keening, his.

  Detective Winters staggered into the steel gate and ripped the shattered goggles from his head. He threw them and rubbed his eyes with his palms. It was still there. It closed even. He could see it, slammed shut, locked, chattering, shivering. He spat crimson, slumped, clutching onto the gate.

  “Winters! Is it locked? Are you okay? Did you lock it?”

  Detective Winters nodded, disoriented, searching for the source of the voice.

  “You’re sure?” It was the voice of the Archivist.

  “Yes. I am sure,” Detective Winters gasped.

  She punched the keypad.

  Clang! The gate opened.

  “Come on. Hurry.”

  He stumbled out and splayed out onto the floor.

  Clang! The gate slammed shut behind him, reverberating long and loud.

  “Did you find it? What you were looking for? My God, I hope you did. I hope it was worth it.”

  “I need … I need the journal,” Detective Winters groaned. “Where is it?”

  “Why don’t you rest?”

  “Now…” He leaned against the wall, swallowed, then wiped his chin with his sleeve. He looked up at the Archivist, “Goggles were a good idea.”

  * * * *

  “Pete, I don’t like this. These guys put a contract on your head last week.” Sid looked into the rear-view mirror. “You still want to go in ther
e?”

  “Is this it?” Peter asked.

  “Yeah, this is Camden Street. Wait, Pete, I’ll do a couple laps around this shithole,” Sid said, eyes wide with concern. “You need me, just run out screaming or something.”

  “Sure.” Peter opened the door and stepped out. “How much I owe you?”

  “How much you got?” Sid asked. “Seriously, though, Pete. What good is money to a dead man?”

  Peter scowled, but handed him the envelope with the last of Carmine’s stash in it. “I want that back later, Sid.”

  “Sure thing, Pete,” Sid said, eyes aglow, thumbing through the cash, “if you’re alive.”

  * * * *

  Journal of Occult Histories 1969-70 January 12, 1969

  …after 108 died today in the largest gang battle to date. Warring factions were grouped under the two premier gangs of the area, the Aces and Eights and the Improper Gents Incorporated. The Improper Gents Incorporated, or IGI, as they are known on the street, previously the largest and most powerful gang in the town, was crippled in a surprise attack at dusk by the Aces and Eights.

  The Aces and Eights, run by the infamous death dodging, Azban Sklar, took the Gent’s stronghold, the Camden Street projects, crawling through the sewer, and thus past the fortifications, and surging forth guns ablaze.

  Unlike most of the directed gang battles, civilians (mostly wives, girlfriends and children of the IGI), were considered targets. Forty-nine of the deaths were civilians. Fifty-one killed were gangsters within the Gents’ organization or those affiliated with them through ancillary gangs. Seven killed were affiliates of the Aces and Eights. Only one killed was a confirmed member of the Aces and Eights.

  At the behest of the mayor, police took no action but stood by mainly to contain the fighting within the southeast side and the Camden Street projects.

  This battle consolidates the heroin trading rights, north of the Merrimack River, into the hands of the Aces and Eights and their many affiliates, most prominent among them being a Mister Billy Rubin, who is purported by some to have directed the battle, and thus may have large interest in the Aces and Eights gang. His name is synonymous already with…