“I know.” Nikolas slid into his serious, sombre voice. “Listen, I’m not new at this, all right? I wouldn’t be doing this if I had another way. A life is at stake.” He softly pounded his chest with his fist. Let Micah interpret that how he wishes.
“How dark?” Micah asked, still staring at the counter. “This thing you need. How dark? From human, I guess? A vital?”
“The most vital.”
Micah was silent for a moment. “After everyone who wants a bit of coin along the way, that’s probably going to be about half a mil.”
Nikolas coughed. “Half a...?” If he cashed in all his chips, he might be able to scrounge that much, but if TV told him anything, he could hire a hitman for about a tenth of that. But it just wouldn’t be the same. It did give him an idea, though.
~~~
“I’ve got a black plastic bag here.” Nikolas said in the seediest alley he could find the next night. Three homeless men sat about. No light from the street could reach them directly, but the diffused ambiance did well enough. His disguise wasn’t great, but he wasn’t known here anyway.
“First, let me just inform you gentlemen that I am packing a gun.” A lie, with his right hand in his pocket as if holding the gun. “And if any of you find the need to jump me, I’ll happily shoot. “In this bag, I have a common, but nasty knife. In another bag I have elsewhere, I have five thousand dollars.”
That got their attention, so Nikolas jerked his imaginary gun forward to get their eyebrows lowered a bit. “I’ll leave the knife bag right here.” He dropped it, and stepped back a little. “I’m going to go away for a few hours. When I get back, I don’t want to see any of you here. I also don’t want to see a drop of blood here.”
The homeless men stared intently. “Knife? Blood?” one asked.
“Yes. When I get back, I want to see no one here, and behind that can,” Nikolas pointed to a trash can in the deepest nook of the alley, “I want to see the bag. I do not want to see the knife. I want to see a human heart. In the bag. No blood on the outside of the bag.”
One of the men spoke up, either unfazed by the idea, or not taking it seriously. “Aren’t ya gonna need ice in that bag, doctor?”
“It’s not for a transplant. I want it intact, but it doesn’t need to be so fresh that it’s any good for transplant. Bag. Clean on the outside. Intact heart. No knife anywhere to be seen, no blood around here. You guys not here. An hour. Got it?”
The men looked at each other, and grumbled a bit. “Yeah, fine.”
Perfect. Now was the tricky part. Staying close enough to know if they’d done the deed, but not so close as to be knifed for the money. He walked down to the nearest corner and crossed the street. He walked closer to a spot across the street from the alley, peering at it from behind a rundown bus shelter. If the homeless men looked his way, they’d see a person’s figure through the frosted glass, but they wouldn’t be able to see who. By contrast, Nikolas could peek through a seam in the panels, across the street, and right at the alley.
So now he waited. Other people came and went to use the bus shelter. Most of them were using it as intended, catching a bus. Some just stopped to rest for a moment before moving on. One fellow used it to take a piss. The growing ochre puddle drove Nikolas to the other end of the shelter, to find a new seam to peek through. Oh! Motion!
From out of the alley’s shadows, the three men shuffled along, one limping behind a little. They all trudged generally together down the sidewalk. Were they talking? Nikolas couldn’t tell, they weren’t facing him anymore. Their body language didn’t give any clues, but the fact that they all vacated the alley at the same time suggested they were going to act on his offer.
It felt like forever, but in reality it was closer to fifteen minutes when a single one of them came back. Perhaps holding something under his ragged coat? Looking around for anyone watching him, the homeless man disappeared into the alley, and came out soon after. Again, he looked around, then wandered down the street the way he came.
So. That easy, huh? Well, the proof is in the pudding, isn’t it? It was suddenly real. If they had done what was requested, a fresh human heart was waiting for him in the depths of that alley. Trying to remain casual, he retraced his path back to the alley, and walked over to the appointed spot. Sure enough, a black bag sat waiting.
Nikolas pulled an empty black bag out of his pocket, and wore it like a glove. With this protection, he didn’t need to touch the bag with the heart. It looked like they did a good job keeping the blood off, but why take a chance to spread any unseen droplets… from hand, to clothing, to police evidence.
He pulled at the edge of the bundled bag below, and pulled back plastic until he could see it. There it was — a human heart. The heart was in perfect shape, and a lot less bloody than he expected. They must have rinsed it off under a spigot. Life in this neighborhood was evidently brutal, and he had just pushed it further. Nikolas put his other hand to his chest, unconsciously perhaps, to check on his own heart. To make sure no great hole was there. To make sure he was still warm.
Until now, he hadn’t considered the act of actually removing the heart. Stabbing and ripping the flesh away, prying open the rib cage, then groping around for it, and cutting it loose. Had they slit the victim’s throat to kill him?
Did they cover his face as they carved, or did dead eyes stare at them as they took him apart?
Who said it was a ‘he’? The heart was a tiny bit smaller than Nikolas had imagined; maybe it was a petite woman. A burnt-out old hag? A strung-out prostitute?
No one that would be missed, he thought, trying to harden his resolve. Maybe it was the heart of the limping man? Maybe he was horribly sick. A good reason not to get too cozy with the tissue. This thing he re-wrapped with his protected hand, was a tool. A product. A salvaged thing from a useless husk. It didn’t matter what variety of husk.
He used his bare hand to pull his bag-glove down around the heart bag, and now held the heart in two layers of plastic.
The heart was already cold. Washing it off probably took most of its warmth. But he had it.
~~~
He held the bag of money and debated not leaving it. What would they do? They didn’t know him. They didn’t know how to find him. Maybe it was a bit of fear of the desperate man willing to carve out someone’s heart, but he reluctantly planted the money bag as agreed.
There. It was done. The rest of his plan would be easy. As easy as walking around with someone’s heart in your coat. Easy.
With the heart safely in his fridge, if for no other reason than to avoid stench, Nikolas tried to get in a little bit of sleep before Monday demanded that he go to work.
Sleep didn’t come.
He chalked it up to adrenaline.
When his alarm went off, he got up and went to the kitchenette for breakfast. Tossing a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, he opened the fridge to hunt yogurt and jam.
And there it was. The smell was unpleasant, but still likely better than if he’d left it on the counter or something. Some of the remaining blood had managed to seep out of both bags, and ooze its way into the vegetable crisper. There wasn’t time to deal with this properly now. Let the veggies have whatever blood they may.
Pop. Toast. He spread the raspberry jam on the toast, and smirked at the jam’s redness. When he lifted the toast to his mouth, he paused, staring at the lumpy jam. No. Never mind. He didn’t feel like toast anyway. He tossed it in the compost bucket, and picked up the little yogurt tub, ready to peel off the top.
Strawberry. He shook his head, and chided himself for pausing. Ridiculous. It wasn’t even red. He grabbed a spoon and jabbed it into the yogurt spitefully. The yogurt sat angrily in his gut as he got dressed and drove to work.
He greeted people as he normally did, but he was tired and felt sick, and a few people picked up on it. “Not lookin’ so hot, Nikolas, are you feeling okay?” “You okay?” “Wild weekend?”
He smiled off concern
s, and passed into the common area to his office. It was enclosed, like a ‘proper’ office except for the lack of a door in the frame. He sat at his desk, coffee in hand, and heard Lyndon’s voice down the hall. Only a matter of time now, Lyndon. You’ll get yours, and you’ll know why.
Before the incantation could be performed, he needed an item belonging to Lyndon. There was no mention in the book of it having to be overly personal, or cherished. This would be easy. But it could wait for later in the day.
Nikolas tried to get his mind tuned into work, but being excited, tired and nauseous were more conducive to throwing up than work. He made it to the bathroom in time, and found that yogurt made for the most enjoyable upchucking he’d ever done. Smooth, but stinks a bit like curdled milk. Which only made sense.
Gerry, a co-worker asked him again if he was all right.
“Just some bad yogurt. Hey, do you have a mint?”
“Lyndon might.”
Oh, great. Wait, wait, perfect! Great! Nikolas’s plan was originally to ask for his stapler, but this is far less suspicious! He headed over to Lyndon’s desk, and forcing a smile for the smug waste of flesh, he asked for a mint.
“Sorry, I’m all out. Seems like when you flash around a box of mints, word gets around, huh?”
“Oh. Hey, as long as I’m here, can I borrow your stapler? Mine jammed. Badly. But I need to staple. I’ll struggle with fixing mine later.”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
Ha. Ha ha ha. Cunning plot, plotted and achieved. The red smooth instrument of paper bondage was warm in his hand, the Swingline logo… wait. Lyndon owned a stapler like the one from the movie Office Space? Awesome! Uh, that is, smug asshole. “It’s my stapler now, Lyndon,” Nikolas thought, “and no, I won’t give it back. Burn the place down, see if I care. Just do it before midnight, or you’ll miss your chance.”
Nicholas sat at his desk, enjoying the quasi-privacy of his door-less office. He beamed down at the Swingline trophy he’d placed in the middle of his desk, smiling at it. Leering at it. Forcing back chuckles. Oh my, he’d have to get a handle on that. Nothing’s quite as suspicious as bursting into maniacal laughter for no apparent reason.
Ah. His own stapler sat nearby, fully functional. It needed to disappear. Into the garbage pail, covered by a chip bag. No one will ever find the body. Except perhaps the janitor, but who’s going to listen to the janitor? Nobody, that’s who!
Ugh, the giggles were creeping back up on him. He needed sleep. He put the valuable stapler in his front drawer, closed it, and rested his head upon his folded arms. He fell asleep almost immediately, undisturbed by the beating of the telltale stapler.
Half an hour later he was woken by his supervisor. “Nikolas. If you’re unable to work, you should take a sick day and get yourself back up to speed.”
Nikolas couldn’t find a reason to argue, aside from his dubious ability to drive while half asleep. Readying himself to go, he put his old stapler back on his desk. If Lyndon came looking for his shiny red Streamline, he could just cope with the old ‘repaired’ one until his death.
In the parking lot, Nikolas made one last long, deep gash down the side of Lyndon’s red car, this time using the corner of Lyndon’s red stapler.
He drove with the stapler under his seat, as if it were contraband that he wouldn’t want a cop to see, should he get pulled over. His driving suffered a bit due to his fatigue, despite best efforts. Once home, he grabbed the stapler, and... oh, he didn’t notice before. There was a label on the bottom of the stapler. “Lyndon Bourke’s, not company’s.” What an ass.
Nikolas got inside, and ran to look in the fridge. There it was. The bottom of the vegetable crisper was coated with red. He carefully lifted the openings of the bags to check on the heart. It still had a nice red colour to it. He closed the bag back up, and for fun, rested the stapler on top.
Sleep. Food. His body demanded both. Losing the illusion of thought, he grabbed what was easiest, a plain piece of bread. He stuffed it into his mouth with all the delight of stuffing laundry in a washing machine. Satisfied that he would not starve, he went to bed, fully clothed.
Sleep wouldn’t find him again. Thoughts ran through his insomniac head, slow as molasses, and faster than fire, all at the same time.
The man who got him the heart. The monstrosity of it. To think there are people like that. The stapler. The stapler. That was a fun movie. The monstrosity of the printer. To think that he’s going to go ahead and ask you to monstrosity stapler heart blood zebra on my carrots. What? Can’t think, there’s blood on the carrots. The oranges wouldn’t complain, they’re related to blood oranges. Unless they’re racist. The heart. The heart. Someone is dead because he asked for it. He paid for it. Someone is dead who might not have deserved it. Not like Lyndon. Die, die, die, Lyndon. Do it quietly, do it screaming, but do it tonight. Tonight. The heart. The heart.
~~~
Nikolas awoke, not remembering actually falling asleep.
It was dark. Damn. What time was it? Eleven twenty. Crap, that was close, Lyndon almost got to live another day.
Time to get to work. “I am become death, destroyer of Lyndon.” Nikolas whispered as he sat up. There was vomit on his shoulder and the bed. He didn’t remember that happening, but his stomach seemed to still have a gripe. There wasn’t time for this.
He took off his shirt, and used a clean part of it to wipe his skin. He still reeked of bile. He threw the shirt into the hamper, and found himself thinking of what to wear. Screw it. He’d just get the new shirt dirty. He’d go topless until he could get a shower, and that would have to wait.
He carried the book to the kitchen counter, still open to the correct page. He put a cutting board nearby, and tossed a handful of salt into the air. A few other spices, incense, and the stapler were put in a coffee cup, which was put on a stove burner on high.
He grabbed the biggest knife in his butcher’s block. The first time he read the incantation back in high school, he imagined an ornate, jeweled, golden dagger. This would have to do. He had also pictured this all to happen in some grand underground temple, with hanging candle dishes, and slaves, or worshipers, or groupies.
But that’s not what this was. This was utility, not fashion.
He went into the fridge, and put the stapler beside the stove top. The scented mug was warming up nicely already.
The bag containing the heart was last. He dumped the heart out into the cutting board. Nikolas’s own heart grew noticeably faster as he stared as it. He went back to the fridge, and took out the vegetable drawer that had been collecting the stray blood. Why let it go to waste? Picking out the produce and throwing it in the sink, he realized that this was the first time he had touched the heart or its blood with his bare skin. It was going to happen eventually. He poured the blood from the drawer right onto the heart.
Outside, not far from his window, an owl screeched. Nikolas had never known to hear or see an owl around here before. This owl was a sure sign that the spirits were listening, and they knew it meant death. The Romani have always known this.
Nikolas looked to the book, confirming the next step. With his finger, he took blood from the heart, and coated his closed eyes. He held still, feeling the blood begin to seep down onto his cheeks. It was cold. He was also topless, with the fridge still open nearby. Sightlessly, he reached out a foot to close it.
Small but intense trembles wracked his body. The last thing he needed now was to throw up again.
The cup on the stove shattered, startling Nikolas into opening his eyes. The contents of the cup burnt slowly on the stove element, and a fine, sweet smoke rose up. “Let it burn,” he thought, “it’s not enough to trigger the alarm.”
Damn, he was cold. He held himself for a bit, staring at the clock. 11:55 already. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, unaware that he’d smeared the blood across his arms, and that tears of blood had fallen from his chin, onto his chest.
He took the
knife in one hand and began to softly chant “By life I claimed, with blade I wield, hunt the one whose fate is sealed.” in Romani from the Favoruri, Mari și Mici;
De viață am susținut,
Cu lama eu mânui,
Vânătoare cel a cărui soartă este pecetluită.
Over and over, it seemed to memorize itself into his mind. Soon he didn’t need to look at the book any more. The chant felt as natural as breathing.
As the words spilled from his mouth on and on, he focused on a little digital clock, blade quivering in his hand.
11:56, chanting.
11:57, chanting some more.
11:58, chanting without thought.
11:59, chanting with song.
Midnight.
The blade came down onto the heart with all of Nikolas’s hatred for Lyndon. The single stab was not enough. Another. Another. His other hand held it still as he slashed and hacked. Bits of blood and flesh came back up at Nikolas, as he grinned and trembled with rage. He envisioned the throes of agony that Lyndon would be in, his heart coming apart, shredding itself even after he had died.
Dance, you meat puppet, wherever you are. May your corpse jerk and spasm, coughing up blood for your loved ones to see and scream for. May they call 9-1-1 for him! Call and cry and plead! Perform well enough and get on the news! May the local headlines tomorrow be blessed with sycophantic tears for that waste of flesh! If only they could all know Lyndon as he did, they would rejoice!
Rage slowly ebbed, and Nikolas saw that he was still stabbing. He stopped, and stepped back with the knife, giggling. The heart was utterly destroyed. The largest piece was about two tablespoons in size.
Was a spirit with him just then? Holding the knife with him? Did it supply him with rage, or did it come because of it? Either way, it was done. He took a moment to sit on the floor, in the scattering of salt and bloody debris, to catch his breath and steady his nerves. Oh look, the cutting board. He didn’t even remember it slipping off the counter.
13 Bites Volume I (13 Bites Anthology Series) Page 2
