Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  “Oh, I don’t know; I like it here.”

  “What are you, the fucking mayor?” Nathaniel asked. “Yeah, well, I told Pete not to come, but he came anyways. Took the bus, all the way from Salisbury. Alternator in his car was busted, I think.”

  “Oh, so you, uh, think he’s coming to rescue you?” the man asked.

  “Rescue? No. If he knew where I was, he’d come, sure,” Nathaniel said. “Even if it was to just hold it over my head that he’d save me. Probably remind me every Christmas, too. ‘Hey Dad, remember that time I saved you from certain death?’ Probably use it as an excuse not to give me a present, know what I mean?

  “But no,” continued Nathaniel. “He ain’t coming. He doesn’t know where I am. No one does. If he did, though, if he did, he’d come. He’d come running. I know he would. A real pisser.” Nathaniel clasped his hands behind his head and smiled in the darkness of his cage. Then he leaned forward for a second, “What’s your name by the way?”

  “Shhhhhh,” the man said suddenly, “someone’s coming.”

  * * * *

  The little girl’s heart thumped like a sparrow’s, quick, short. Peter could hear it.

  “Please, sirs, follow me.” The little girl’s bright blue eyes sparkled in the grimy dungeon. “Boss-lady wants to talk with you. She told me so. No one will bother you, sirs, if you follow me.” She pointed down a tunnel even Sid would have had to duck to walk in.

  “No guards? No locks? Every door just wide open for us?” Peter glanced around. “And then a little girl just pops up out of a tunnel to lead us to the boss-lady? Who the hell is this boss-lady? I thought Lord Brudnoy was the boss.”

  “Lord Brudnoy is the boss, Pete.” Sid gazed at the little girl ducking into the small tunnel. “And he obviously knows we’re down here. Someone probably checked on Granger, and he gave us up. Can’t really blame him, after what we did to his wheelchair.”

  “What you did to his wheelchair,” Peter corrected. “And what about this girl? Hey, what’s your name, little girl?”

  The girl grinned and placed a grimy finger on her bottom lip, but wouldn’t say. She grinned and swayed back and forth. “You gots no hair.”

  “The girl probably works for Jay,” Sid explained.

  “Lady Jay,” corrected the little girl, crouching by patiently, hands folded on her grimy clothes. Her golden hair shone in the dungeon.

  “Yeah, sorry, Lady Jay,” Sid said. “Though if she’s a lady, I’m,” he glanced at the girl, “well, never mind. One of the five family-heads. Runs the sewer-folk on the east side. Shitbums, dirt-bags, trash-thieves, and muck-junkies. Low-lifes mostly. Some are alright. Our little guide, here, must be one of them. Sure smells like one.” Sid smiled at her.

  The little girl smiled back. “You’re just a little fella.”

  Sid growled.

  “So what do we do?” Peter asked.

  “Follow her, I guess.” Sid stepped past Peter and ducked into the tunnel.

  Peter, glancing at the crumbling ceiling, followed.

  Chapter 41.

  “AH, PETER, PETER, it warms my aged heart to see you once more,” Benjamin Salazar said, standing, smiling, rubbing his hands, hunched like an old crow. “I’ve never seen you so bald and horribly burned. Mind the soot on the carpet, if you will. Lord Brudnoy sends you his regards, of course.”

  “Of course.” Peter glanced at the people surrounding the table, though ‘people,’ indicating human beings, was a generous term. Freaks might be more appropriate but would still be weasels to wolverines.

  “And why, you’ve brought an old friend! An old dear friend.” Salazar’s eyes lit up as Sid stepped into the room. “Now tell me, Sid. How’s life up top? Legit? Running a taxicab, I hear. How lucrative. Left the bars, I see? Have you put on an inch? You look so big!” He offered a tray toppling over with chocolate chip cookies and two cups of milk. “Milk and cookies?”

  “Thanks.” Sid took one.

  “Peter?” Salazar asked, holding the tray to him.

  “Not hungry,” Peter said.

  “Oh, where are my manners? Sit … sit, both of you!” Salazar indicated two chairs. Then he turned back to the little blond guide and smiled like the python to the rabbit. “You may go now, my dear Cricket. I trust the gentlemen were gentlemen?”

  “I like the little one,” the girl giggled on tiptoe. “He’s so little.” She waved to Sid. “Bye bye.”

  “Yes, yes, well, run along now, Cricket. NO, no, no, those cookies are for our guests. No, you may not. You’ll spoil your supper. Wait outside a moment, my dear.”

  Cricket, eyes dead, head down, slouched out the door.

  “Now, where was I?” Salazar asked.

  “You were crushing the spirit of little girls,” Peter said.

  Salazar bit into a cookie and grinned. Crumbs crumbled.

  “Look, we just want to get through here and be on our way,” Peter said. “That’s it.”

  “Well, well, Peter,” Salazar said. “Get right down to business. I don’t admire that.”

  “I don’t have much time,” Peter said, one hand stuffed deep in his pocket. “So if you’ll just point us in the right direction, we’ll leave. I know you don’t want us here.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting.” Salazar indicated the door and then raised one finger. “There is, of course, the question of tariffs.”

  Peter paused, poised above his chair; he met Salazar’s eye.

  “Ahem, yes, tariffs, taxes, you know.” Salazar glanced sidewise at the assembly. “Myself and my esteemed, ahem, colleagues here will require some monetary compensation for passage, and then would be glad to show you out of here. Hasta la pronto. Now gentlemen, would you prefer cash or charge?”

  “How much?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, not much, really, more of a formality, or a ritual you could call it. Like throwing a penny into a fountain, and such.” Salazar took a large calculator out from his briefcase. He started punching numbers, and mumbling to himself as the roll of paper spun, its tail growing longer and longer until Salazar shouted, “Eureka!”

  He tore the receipt off and adjusted his glasses. “Six-thousand dollars,” he announced, grinning like an extra evil tax attorney.

  Peter calmly pulled his gun out and aimed it at Salazar who promptly turned to jelly and slid into his seat. “Uh, how about … three thousand?” Salazar peeped.

  Peter cocked the pistol.

  “One thousand?”

  Four at the table ducked under it; the woman remained standing.

  Peter grimaced, squeezed his eyes shut, and his hand quivered as he glared at the gun in it. Slowly, painfully, he lowered it, and stuffed it, grimacing, back into his pocket. His arm went rigid as though trying to keep it there. “I figure zero.”

  “Zero?” Salazar said. “No, no, I’m quite sure it was two thousand, in fact. Yes, two thousand. Lord Brudnoy sets the rates, I’m afraid. I am but a humble messenger, whom we are most aptly instructed not to shoot.”

  “That’s funny, though,” Peter said, “because that’s the exact amount I charge for surgical procedures, particularly bullet removal operations and werewolf resuscitation. And I haven’t been reimbursed for the work I performed last Saturday.”

  “I was under the impression that was pro-bono work,” Salazar said.

  “You were mistaken,” Peter said.

  “Highway robbery!” Salazar slapped the table. “It’s worse than the HMO’s! We get a second-rate-EMT and get charged for a doctor! You aren’t even a properly unregistered snake-head! Where’d you go to school? Was it Harvard or community college? I can’t tell.” He whipped off his glasses and pointed. “I won’t have it. Congress shall hear of this!”

  “Salazar,” Peter said, “I don’t want to be here. You don’t want me to be here. If I stay here too long, you really won’t want me here.” Peter glanced around at the faces peeking over the table. “You all know what I mean. I can taste your fear. I only have a fe
w hours. You know it. Don’t keep me. For your own sakes, don’t keep me.”

  No one said anything for a moment. Peter glanced at those around the table, their glares folding under his.

  “Let me speak to Lord Brudnoy, then,” Peter said.

  “I’m afraid Lord Brudnoy is—”

  “Shut your mouth, Salazar!” the woman screamed. “He’s not one of us!” She slammed a shotgun, with bayonet attached, onto the table. “Are you insane?”

  “Nine out of ten dentists agree,” Salazar admitted to the woman. He turned to Peter. “The Lady Jay, here, doesn’t trust you. You see, she’s quite prejudiced against … oh, how should we put it? The living impaired? Her best friend is one, now. Tragic story, Peter, really. You’ve heard of her, I trust? She doesn’t trust you. Wants you dead. And she doesn’t want you to know that Lord Brudnoy has—”

  “Salazar!” Lady Jay warned.

  “—broken his chain,” Salazar finished. “He has left this humble abode we call Tara, and is, at this very minute, no doubt, cavorting about the city in an orgy of death and destruction. Sit down, Lady. Don’t give me that look. Please? Put the gun down. Thank you. Peter has not turned yet, and he has passed all the tests we set for him. The girl … well, not the cookies … but he passed the cripple test.” Salazar adjusted his glasses and regarded Peter with disgust. “Though might I say that bending poor Granger’s wheels was just plain sick.” Salazar nodded slowly. “In a way, though, Peter, I’m … I’m proud of you. You’re becoming a man.”

  “It was Sid,” said Peter.

  “Oh?” Salazar raised a glass of milk to Sid. “Cheers!”

  Across the table, Lady Jay stood, pumping her shotgun loaded with one hand. Around the table she marched, bayonet in the lead, now hovering by Peter’s ear. “Stand up,” she said. “And if you move…”

  Peter rose, gripping his gun. His arm trembled.

  “Against the wall. Under the light! Now don’t move,” she ordered. Lady Jay snapped on a chain-mail glove, reached forward, and pulled Peter’s bottom lip down. Closely, she peered and began examining his lower teeth, then his upper ones. The bayonet tickled his throat.

  “Ut da uck?” Peter said. “Ahhh, da urts!”

  “Sorry, Peter,” Salazar said. “Standard procedure. Lady Jay, here, is our resident leech expert. The good news is, she’ll give an objective estimation of how far along you are. Bad news, though, is she may decide she has to kill you. I know. It’s tragic, but we voted, and were all willing to take that risk.”

  “Hmmm? These burns all over your body?” Lady Jay grasped Peter by the head and looked in his ear. “Sunscorch, right? How long was the exposure?”

  “No idea…” Peter said.

  “Four or five minutes tops,” Sid piped in.

  “Hmmm, minutes, eh? Direct sunlight?”

  “Yeah,” said Sid.

  “What time?”

  “Sunrise.”

  “Hmmm? Eight hours ago. And you were bitten, when? Two … three days ago?”

  “It’ll be seven. Tonight, around midnight.” Peter pulled his head away.

  “Seven, eh?” Lady Jay looked at her pocket watch. “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I can personally vouch for Peter on this,” Salazar said. “Lord Brudnoy told me he was infected the night before I valiantly saved him in court.”

  Peter growled.

  “How many have you killed?” Lady Jay pressed the bayonet closer.

  “I…” Peter started, but then he grabbed the bayonet. “Get that away from me!”

  “You’re lying.” Lady Jay stepped back, keeping the bayonet aimed at Peter’s neck. “We know about your visit to the Aces and Eights. We know you killed Carlo Manfredo. Deny it.”

  “I shot one, but he was going to shoot me. He might be dead. I don’t know. But his name was Vinks. I didn’t kill Carlo. Sklar did.”

  “You bite him?”

  “No, I … I shot him. He was trying to kill me, though.”

  “He’s lying.” Lady Jay sneered. “I want him out, Salazar. I want him out now. Necrotic psychosis. Probably believes his killing is just, necessary. He’s lying about that, and he’s lying about the seven days. No one lasts that long. And even if he did, somehow, that’s even more reason to get him out. Out or dead. One of the other. Preferably both. Now.”

  “Now wait, Lady Jay,” Salazar said, “is he, or isn’t he a vampire?”

  “He’s close enough that it doesn’t matter,” Lady Jay said. “Lord Brudnoy could tell you if he were here, but he’s not. You’ve seen your last sunrise, kid, sure as shit. Midnight at the latest, and you’re done. We ought to help you along.”

  “I call for a vote!” Salazar banged his gavel stick on the table. “Oh, Lady? Be a doll and grab my head, my gavel head, please.

  “Now, all in favor of killing Peter? Thank you, Lady Jay—”

  “Hey! What the hell?” Peter yelled.

  “Say, Aye!”

  “AYE!”

  “All those opposed?”

  “You can’t do this!” Peter said.

  “Say, oh my, you’re right, Peter. Quite right.” Salazar raised his hands, quieting the assembly. “Quiet, hush, shut the hell up! Peter, you and Sid wait outside. It should be a secret ballot.” He ushered Peter and Sid to the door. “We have much to discuss in here. I don’t want you swaying any of the council! Out! Get out!”

  “Salazar!” Lady Jay screamed, gavel head in hand.

  “Gods, it’s like we’re married,” muttered Salazar as he herded Peter and Sid out the door.

  “You can’t vote on—” Peter said as Salazar shoved him out the door.

  The Council members stood as one.

  Salazar pushed the door shut behind him and wedged his gavel stick under it. He set his shoulder against the door and then yiped out as someone started banging on it. “My dear, Lady Jay, wait but one moment!”

  Inside, the council screamed and pounded on the door.

  Cricket stood by waiting, twirling her finger through her hair.

  The door jumped, but Salazar held firm.

  “Ah, Cricket, my dear little sewer-urchin.” Salazar buttressed the door. He stooped down as much as he could and suddenly brandished a cookie between his fingers.

  Cricket’s face lit up, and she clapped.

  “Cricket, my dear, be a dear and take these two fine gentlemen to the squirrel hole. You know it, yes? Through VeilHaven?”

  Thud! The door jumped.

  “Yes, of course you do.” Salazar adjusted his glasses. “You’re such a big girl! Oh, good, good, splendid. Thank you, little one.”

  Thud!

  “Go go go,” Salazar gasped. “Just watch out for the Chicken Bone man. Quick now, quick as a mouse.” Salazar’s voice echoed in the dark, “Find Brudnoy if you can.”

  Thud!

  The door jumped, but Salazar held firm.

  * * * *

  Detective Winters’s hands were filthy; that bothered him. Reddish grime was packed tight beneath each fingernail, ten crimson half-moons, dull in the darkness: sewage, blood, sweat, and grime. The skin on his palms and fingers was wrinkled white from his almost constant immersion in the bilge of the filthy town. Black water roiled back and forth across the brim of his gray, Oxford-quality hat, dripping off with each step as he slogged through the dank tunnel. Through darkness he trod, starlight shining in as he passed underneath rusted sewer grates. Detective Winters glanced at his watch, scraping oily sludge from its dead face. He grimaced.

  The walls were closing in; he took a long breath to stave them off.

  His trench coat tugged at his knees and hips with each step he took, and that distracted him. Time was short, the water deep, progress slow. On his shoulders he left his coat; for now it offered some protection from the cold, and later, from the chipped and splintered corpse claws of the prey he chose to hunt. The prey that lay ahead. The prey that lay behind.


  Stifling black surrounded him, reaching inside him, sucking at the air within.

  Detective Winters paused in his march, inhaling deep, not flinching at the putrid stench: sensing, searching, sifting, seething. The air moved little under the walkways and pot-holed streets of Colton Falls, but it moved, and it moved enough. His pursuers were close, closer to him than he was to those he hunted.

  Leeches ahead and behind, concrete and cold steel everywhere else.

  Detective Winters sheathed one pistol. Best to conserve ammo. He slogged on, drawing his brass-knuckled, trench knife and sliding it onto his fist. It fit like a dream. In the tightness of the twisting sewer pipes, there would be knife work, and Detective Winters was outnumbered. He knew he was being followed, hunted; that bothered him, too.

  * * * *

  A thin trickle of bilge dribble dripped from its dark, rusted maw. Halitosis. The Squirrel Tunnel was big enough to fit Pete’s head and shoulders, but only barely. Once inside, he would not be able to turn around. He peered inside … darkness and filth as far as he could see.

  “Hope you’re not claustrophobic, Sid.” Peter turned. “Exactly why do they call it the squirrel tunnel?”

  “Cause they gots lotsa squirrels in em,” Cricket smiled. She stood on her tiptoes and peered into the darkness of the pipe. She snapped her fingers a few times. “Here chippers! Here, chip-chip-chippers!”

  Peter raised an eyebrow.

  Sid took a step forward and covered the little girl’s ears. “If you’re gonna go through, you got to have nuts, or be nuts,” Sid said. “Only six people have made this crawl and all for damn good reasons. All coming from the other end, though. More motivation coming than going.”

  “Yeah.” Peter stuck his head in the hole. “How far is it?”

  “Here chippers!” whispered Cricket.

  “About half a mile, or so. Goes under the river. Like that prison movie, you know? Where the guy has to crawl through the sewage pipe to get out. Only he was crawling to freedom, and we’ll be crawling towards certain doom.”

  “Sid, shut the fu—” Peter stopped. Arms out, Cricket danced around in a slow circle. “You just don’t help.” Peter glared at Sid. “This is the only way?”