Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  “A net?” asked Peter. “What? Like in the circus? You sure?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Screw you, Sid,” Peter said. “We find another way or some rope.”

  “Pete, we’ve been over this,” Sid said. “This is the only way. The cops have my plates and medallion number. They’re scouring the city, and they’re looking for both of us. We’re lucky they haven’t checked down here, yet. They will, though. Give them time. Thorough bastards. So, it’s either we jump down this hole right now, or we pack you in the trunk of the taxi and go on a suicide run across the river.”

  “Sounds like a good idea right now.” Peter gazed down into the abyss.

  “Won’t be when they stop me and search my trunk.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Hah, yeah sure. Illegal.”

  “You’re sure there’s a net?”

  “What are you worried about?” asked Sid. “You were trying to kill yourself a half-hour ago.”

  “Yeah, well, this is different,” Peter said. “The dark…”

  “You know, your face’s clearing up,” Sid said. “The boils and blisters, a bit, maybe. Wish I could’ve done that in high school.”

  “The dark. Don’t think I’d want to die here. Given the choice. I feel better now, but there’s a dirty, a bad feel down here. At least in the sun, I knew. I could see, y’know?”

  “Fear of the unknown.” Sid nodded, arms crossed. “Man’s greatest fear.” Then soberly, he added, “We must face our fears, Pete. That is man’s greatest accomplishment. Confront your fear.”

  Pete just stared down at the black hole. “Fuck you, Sid.”

  “Don’t be a pussy.”

  “Yeah, and what about you?”

  “It’s twice as high to me!”

  “Oh, now you use a handicap defense?”

  “Handicap? Look, you’re a fucking leech. It probably won’t even hurt you.”

  “Ants don’t get hurt when they fall.”

  “Screw you, creature of the night!”

  “I am not a creature of the night!”

  “So then fucking jump!”

  “No!” said Peter, glancing down again, and then he felt a jolt!

  “BAAAASSSSSSSTAAAAAARRRRRD!”

  Peter fell, floating in the darkness, Sid’s screams echoing above like a little girl, and Peter struck bottom. But whatever he struck had give to it, a lot, but it certainly was not a net. For a millisecond, Peter stopped falling, and then he was launched back into the air, bouncing down through the darkness, down a steep spongy slope.

  Above him, then below, he could hear Sid, still screaming as he, too, bounced down the spongy slope. Then Peter thwacked off a solid floor, one with absolutely no give, and rolled onto Sid.

  “Get off me!” Sid grumbled.

  Peter rolled off him.

  Sid scrambled to his feet. “You scream like a little girl.”

  “That was you.”

  “Bite me.”

  “A net?” Peter muttered from the ground, quivering in the fetal position.

  “It was just like a net.”

  “Yeah, like you’re just like Magnum-freaking-P.I.”

  “Don’t you bring Magnum into this!”

  It wasn’t close to a net, and it was far more than a mound, more like a mountain. A mountain of old rotting mattresses piled on top of one another, reaching up far into the darkness. The stench of decades old B.O. was thick in the musty dark.

  “I think my ass is broken,” Sid said.

  “Good. So’re my ribs. So what next?”

  “I think I need to wash.”

  “Great. And after that?”

  “I don’t know, can’t see a damned thing,” Sid said. “It’s pitch-fucking-black.”

  “Too bad, Sid, I can see just fine.” Peter glanced around. He could see.

  “Then you lead,” Sid said. Then he muttered something that sounded like, “God-damned creatures of the night.”

  “Huh?”

  “Uh … I said there should be a door somewhere, Pete, or something. A guard, maybe? What do you see?”

  “Nothing, aside from that mattress mountain, and you,” Peter said. “Oh, wait, it looks like a … yeah, it’s a tunnel. Come on.” Peter grabbed Sid by the back of his collar and pulled him through the darkness.

  “Looks man-made.” Peter looked at the tunnel walls which were crumbling concrete in some spots and plywood in others. Above, a string of dusty old light bulbs hung overhead, cold and dark. “There’s some light bulbs overhead, too.”

  “Look for a light switch.”

  “Did Brudnoy’s people make this?” Peter asked.

  “It’s LORD Brudnoy, Pete,” Sid said. “Especially down here. Some people won’t care what you call him. Others will, and if he hears you, he’ll rip your lungs out your back. And no one knows how long that chain of his really is. So, better safe than sorry.”

  Peter nodded, throttling the gun in his hand.

  “No,” Sid said, after a minute or two of walking.

  “No, what?”

  “This tunnel,” Sid said. “Lord Brudnoy’s people didn’t build it. They built others, but this one’s older. The twenties and thirties, at least, I think. The parking garage we hid in used to be Mel’s, way back when. It was one of those, uh, what the hell do you call them?”

  “A bar?”

  “No. Well, yeah, it was a bar, but they called it something else,” Sid said. “The tunnel was an escape route for customers. Prohibition. Heard about it before, the tunnel. Don’t know where it comes out, though. What direction we going?”

  “Gee, Sid, I left my compass back in the car,” Peter said. “Besides, you’re the one with the map.”

  “Yeah, and good thing it’s in fucking Braille, too,” Sid said. “Not to mention it’s a street map, not a secret-fucking-sewer-tunnel map.” He snapped his fingers. “Speakeasy!”

  “What?”

  They walked along, bickering, past old clapboard walls and corrugated iron slats covered in decades of dust and ruin, following the winding tunnel and long string of dead light bulbs dangling overhead.

  “Hey, Sid,” Peter ducked under a low doorway, “what’s prohibition?”

  * * * *

  “Got any kids?” the man asked.

  Nathaniel glanced through the bars and let out a harsh gust of air from his lungs. “Yeah, two, I’ve got two,” Nathaniel said, trying to end the conversation purely through tone. The thought of asking the man whether he had children, just to be polite, crossed Nathaniel’s mind, but just kept on going. Silence, Nathaniel wanted silence, and he would get it soon enough, he was sure. Either the devil-woman would come take one of them away, or this newbie’d eat the drugged food and turn zombie like the rest of them.

  “Boys or girls?” asked the man, breaking the silence again.

  “Both, one of each, okay?” Nathaniel said.

  “Hey, sorry if I’m bothering you,” the man said, “but I’m scared. Jeeze.”

  Nathaniel rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “No, no, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole,” said Nathaniel. “Haven’t been around people much, lately. Conscious anyways. I’m not used to it. Know what I mean?”

  The man just grunted in his dark cage.

  “How about you. Any kids?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I always wanted a son.”

  “Oh, daughters, huh?”

  “No, lazy sperm,” said the man. “That’s what my doc said I got. Says they sort of just swim around in circles, bump into stuff, and stuff like that. No kids. We have a dog, though, a … a Pomeranian.”

  “Oh, nice dog?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I hate it.”

  * * * *

  “God-damn, it’s good to see again,” Sid said as they entered the cavern.

  “Ooooh, yeah, that’s bright.” Peter cupped his hand before his eyes, blocking out the light of the dozens of candles set in front of the door. Nausea suddenly blew through him as he glanced a
round the hall. Painted on all of the walls were symbols, great and small. Crucifixes, giant red ones and small black ones, pentacles going from one wall to another, silver ankhs and other arcane symbols covered every available surface.

  A slow deep breath and thoughts of Carmen Electra settled his rising nausea. It rose no further. The hall was old, in disrepair, in shambles. The crucifixes were faded, weak … lies. No conviction lay behind them anymore, no belief, no faith. They held little power now, except to shock.

  “You alright, Pete?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s try the door.”

  A wooden door was set in the far wall of the hall, surrounded by tall, white candles set in small alcoves all about, some even upon the floor. Wax pseudopods spread out in all directions from each candle.

  “Must be the place.” Sid’s voice echoed. “Probably a guard, so let me do the talking.”

  “Cause you’re so good with people.”

  Sid stepped up and knocked on the door, a muffled thump which didn’t seem to carry. A long, wide panel on the door slid back, revealing darkness. “What do you be wanting?” a voice asked from inside.

  “We want to—“

  “SID? By the hound! That you?”

  Sid squinted into the panel. “Yeah … yeah, it’s me,” he said. “Granger? That you, man?”

  “It’s a fact,” said Granger. “Been a long while, me lad, since before you gone legit. How long’s it been?”

  “Few years, anyways.”

  “Still working the bars?”

  “Naw, got a taxi cab now. I’m my own boss.”

  “Aye. And good for you, good for you. Knew you’d be getting out of this rotten hole sooner than later. A taxi, that’s grand. And who be this lad by your side?”

  “This is Peter Reynolds.” Sid held up his hand as though he were a game-show model revealing a prize.

  “Hoy, the famed doctor and all, that’s a fact, eh?” Granger said.

  “I’m not really a—”

  “Pleased to meet you, Doc. Heard the stories. Like to thank you, lad, for what you done for me Lord Brudnoy. Spoke to some was there and seen you working. You’ve the healing graces of an angel, you do. Thought you’d be a wee-smack taller, though.”

  “Wee-smack? Uh, thanks, and you’re welcome, I guess,” Peter said.

  “And so what can I do you gents for?” Granger asked. “Anything your heart desires, anything.”

  “We need safe passage through Tara and to the north side of the river,” Sid said.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” said Granger. “Anything else?”

  “Well, how about just into Tara?” Peter hunkered forward.

  “Ah, no.”

  “Why not?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t have the authority,” Granger said. “With you being a leech and all, begging your pardon, Doc, but everybody knows. And, even were you not, these be dark times. I need authorization from Lord Brudnoy, or Mister Salazar, or the families. Still, much obliged for what you done, Doc.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Can we talk to Lord Brudnoy?” asked Sid.

  “He’s disposed of, at the moment,” Granger said.

  “What does that mean?” Peter asked.

  “Usually means he’s eating someone,” whispered Sid behind his hand, “or humping a couch.”

  “Great.” Peter threw up his hand.

  “How about Salazar?” asked Sid.

  “He’s busy, too,” Granger said.

  “He humping a couch, too?” Peter muttered.

  “What’d you say?” asked Granger.

  “He didn’t say nothing,” Sid said. “Look, we need to get through here. It’s a matter of life and death, Granger. Can you just go get someone … anyone to let us through?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “Because why?” asked Peter.

  “Because they’re all at a meeting, and … and because I got me no legs.” Granger burst into a sob.

  “Here we go.” Sid rolled his eyes.

  “And me wheelchair is rusted!” Granger wailed. “Oy! The world showers no love upon me. Why, when I was a boy, sweet Dorothy Jones left me for another lad. A golden wee-chap by the name of Pip. One of those pretty lads the dames all swoon for. Hair of gold, eyes of emerald. Could dance like a leprechaun.”

  “Pip?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye, Pip. Pip the rat-bastard. Even when I had me legs they failed me! Oh, how me knees would buckle and shake.”

  Peter dropped his hands to his side in disgust, seriously considering raining a shower of bullets through the wooden door. “Sid … I’m going to kill him.”

  “Good,” Sid said, and then after a moment. “Look, he didn’t used to be like this. Well, actually, he was. He had legs, though.”

  “—and so now me days begin and end spelunking in the whiskey bottle,” Granger said, “because of sweet Dorothy Jones and Pip, who danced a jig on me poor lonely heart. Why when I was a wee-frog of a boy…” He continued babbling on.

  Peter gauged the size of the panel hole, made a quick calculation, grabbed Sid, and stuffed him head first through.

  “OY!” Granger screamed.

  So did Sid.

  “Unlock it!” Peter shoved Sid through the hole. It was a tight fit, too tight, but Peter valiantly shoved and shoved and shoved.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Sid cried.

  “Unlock it!”

  Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

  “Have at thee!” Granger cried, muffled behind the door.

  “He’s got a shotgun!” Sid yelled.

  “Shit!” Peter wrenched on Sid’s kicking legs, but he was wedged in like a Pooh-Bear in a honey-hole.

  “Arrrrrr! Rascals!”

  Peter yanked. The door burst open, Sid in tow; Peter dove aside, and it slammed against the wall and spewed Sid out like vomit.

  Peter wasted no time, was on his feet, pouncing on Granger, who, startled, fumbled his shotgun, dropping it to the floor. Landing on the man’s lap, Peter overbalanced the wheelchair, and both flipped over backwards sprawling onto the floor.

  “ARRRR! Scallywag!”

  Midway to his feet, Peter was wrenched suddenly back down. Peter shoved a palm in Granger’s face, pushing his head back. Granger was strong, though, and wrestled Peter down.

  “RRrrrrrg, get off!” Peter croaked.

  Sid suddenly appeared over Granger’s shoulder, wound up, and, thwack, Granger went all flaccid flesh-sack of bones and fell.

  Peter just lay there, huffing.

  “You okay, Pete?” asked Sid.

  “Yeah, Sid, I’m fine.” Peter rolled Granger off him. “Tried to kill myself today, and then, after that, I get into a fistfight with a guy in a wheelchair.”

  “And lost.”

  “He was strong,” Peter muttered, “and my ribs…”

  “Lucky I was here.”

  “Very strong.”

  “To protect you.”

  “Put it on your resume!”

  “Hey, screw off, Pete!” Sid said. “And if you ever stuff me in another hole—”

  “I thought if you can fit your head through, the rest could make it.”

  “That’s with rats.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Jerk.”

  Sid glanced down at Granger, unconscious on the floor. “He going to be alright?”

  “How hard you hit him?” Peter pulled the lids up on Granger’s eyes. He blinked and rolled his head. His breath was even, deep, regular, and his heart was beating normally. Peter could hear it thumping, pushing vital, fresh blood. “What do we do with him? He’ll talk.”

  “Oh, he can’t leave his post,” Sid said.

  “What?” Peter rolled Granger onto his side. “He knows we’re here. He’ll contact someone. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Cause I’m bending the wheels on his wheelchair.” Sid used Granger’s shotgun as a lever to do just that.

  “I don’t believe th
is,” said Peter to himself as Sid wailed away at the chair like a psychotic gremlin. “You are one miserable little man.”

  * * * *

  The note was brief, written in a sloppy, almost illegible hand, but was none-the-less a welcome relief from the doldrums of the meeting. Benjamin Salazar mumbled a word of thanks to the retreating message-bearer and greedily reread the letter. The heads of the five families just sat in silence, mouths agape, wondering, staring, waiting.

  “Ahem…” Lady Jay folded her arms.

  Salazar loved it. He read the three little sentences again … and then again.

  “Ahem!”

  Salazar giggled.

  “Salazar!” Lady Jay screamed. “What’s it say?” Her sawed-off shotgun was in hand. On its end was a long bayonet.

  Salazar fumbled his glasses onto his face. “It says we may have just found our Rambo, or a reasonable facsimile, at least. Lady of the Jay, I need you to get me one of your broads, a good looking one,” he glanced around the table, “if you’ve got any, which is doubtful, considering.”

  “A, broad?” Lady Jay fingered the political end of her spear.

  “Am I deaf? Do you stutter? A broad. A dame. A chick! A Tomato!” Salazar smiled inwardly; it was just too easy sometimes. “And don’t give me any of that crap that they’re all beautiful inside.” Salazar stood and pointed a finger. “No dogs!”

  * * * *

  “So, Nate, your boy’s a real firecracker, huh?” the man said.

  “Yeah, he’s a wicked pisser sometimes.” Nathaniel leaned against the back wall of his cage. “Never gives up, never admits he’s wrong, never apologizes, always asking for money. He’s a good kid, though, a man, now, really. Just started a new job, too, driving an ambulance. Haven’t seen too much of him lately, though, with my accident and all.”

  “He visit you in the hospital?” asked the man.

  “Yeah, he came down a couple times, I think,” Nathaniel said. “Don’t remember exactly. I know he came to the hospital at least once … no, twice. And the nursing home, a couple times maybe. My wife, my ex-wife, even called after I broke my legs. Said she didn’t want Pete coming to visit me, bad town and all. Let me know it. Let him, too.” He sat there in silence.

  “Women,” the man said.

  “Well, knowing this city, she’s right,” Nathaniel said. “It’s just not right. I’ve seen it. Some of the stuff that happens…” He gripped the bars.