Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  She blinked, uncertain. She was not prone to hallucinations or fits of imagination. Perhaps there had really been something wrong with her meal. She wondered if it were possible that she’d gotten food poisoning on top of everything else.

  Perhaps fate was trying to tell her something.

  Gomes groaned again, for the twentieth time in as many minutes. His arm hurt like blazes and his partners weren’t being what he’d call considerate. Instead, they were treating him as if it had been his fault things had gone wrong. He looked down at the wound – a scrape, really – and cursed.

  “Jesus, would you knock it off, Gomes? Just for five minutes, huh?” Phipps said from where he sat, playing cards with Jodorowsky. The three of them were holed up in a warehouse near the river. It stank of fish and spilled diesel, but it was quiet. There was no one around, especially this time of night.

  Gomes shot a glare at the other man. “Shut up, Phipps. It hurts.” He sat next to a window overlooking the street. Through the grimy glass, he could see nothing but mist, blotting out the nearby buildings. He rubbed his arm and spat.

  He hated the mist and he hated Arkham. This town had been nothing but trouble for him since he’d arrived. He was a big city sort of guy. Arkham didn’t have enough to keep him occupied. But McTyre disagreed, and so did the O’Bannions. They insisted on holding onto real estate in this crummy little town, even when it made no sense.

  As far as Gomes was concerned, they could have it. He was meant for better things. He groaned again as a quivering throb of pain ran through his arm. Phipps sighed. “It’s a goddamn scratch. Stop complaining.”

  “You’d be complaining too if some bitch shot you.”

  Phipps tossed his cards onto the overturned crate they were using as a table. “Then you should have returned the favor instead of whining about it.”

  “You’re the one who stopped me!” Gomes protested. He hated Phipps almost as much as he hated Arkham. Phipps thought he was in charge because he’d been the one to find the job. But Gomes had been the one who’d arranged everything. It had been Gomes who’d gone and met with the contact. What had Phipps done, really?

  “Because you were wasting time.” Phipps reached over and took Jodorowsky’s cards from him and added them to the pile. He shuffled them. “Pulanski was down and we had to go. I didn’t hear you arguing with me.”

  “When do we get out of here?” Jodorowsky asked nervously. “The cops are probably crawling all over this part of town.”

  “Soon as the doc shows and we get Gomes patched up. You’re the one who called him. When’s he getting here?”

  “He said fifteen minutes, but I could tell he’d been hitting the sauce,” Jodorowsky said apologetically. “Might be more like twenty. Or never.”

  Gomes perked up and turned from the window. “You sent for that goddamn horse-doctor, didn’t you?” he said accusingly. “I need a real doctor, not a veterinarian.”

  “Then go to the hospital,” Phipps said, dealing himself and Jodorowsky new hands of cards. “Be my guest. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Love to see the cops pick me up. More money for you and Jodorowsky.” Gomes laughed, a high, ugly sound. “No chance.”

  “Maybe you’re not as stupid as you look.”

  “Why didn’t you get the guy the O’Bannions use?” Gomes demanded. “He’s pulled slugs out of plenty of men and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  Phipps looked at his cards. “Because what happens when McTyre asks him why he had to patch you up? You think he’s going to hold out on the Wolf?”

  Gomes swallowed. He hadn’t thought of that. He sat back. “And the vet will, huh?”

  “McTyre won’t ask the vet, because he don’t know about him.”

  “Think he’ll ask about Pulanski?” Jodorowsky asked, hesitantly. Phipps paused. Gomes laughed again.

  “Didn’t think about that, did you?” he said, nastily. Phipps looked at him.

  “Did you?”

  Gomes looked away. “Don’t matter anyway. Soon as we get our money, McTyre ain’t our problem no more.” He was looking forward to getting out of Massachusetts. Maybe somewhere out west. Wilma had family out there, or so she claimed.

  He smiled, thinking of her. She was a good dame. A waitress at the Tick-Tock Club, but he didn’t hold that against her. Girl like her had to take what jobs were available. She was almost as eager to leave as Gomes himself, and had been badgering him to take her to California for months.

  Yeah. That was the ticket. Sun and sand and surf. No clammy fog rolling in off a stretch of black river. No Arkham. He touched his arm again and bit back a groan. Thoughts of Wilma vanished, replaced by another woman. The one who’d clipped him, and with his own gun to boot.

  He wished he’d shot her when he’d had the chance. He wondered who she was. A cop, maybe? He’d heard there were lady-cops now, in some places. But he didn’t think so. She’d been dressed too nice–

  The sound of something heavy falling over brought him to his feet. He had his pistol out a moment later. So did the others. “You hear that?” Gomes asked.

  “It came from the back,” Phipps said. “Jodorowsky – check it out.”

  “You check it out,” Jodorowsky said.

  “I’ll check it out,” Gomes snapped. Whatever it was, it would take his mind off his arm. Phipps stopped him.

  “No. You sit and wait for the doc. Jodorowsky – go.”

  When Phipps used that tone, people listened. Jodorowsky went. The sound was coming from where they’d stashed the truck. They’d left the car a block from the job, and traded up for a battered delivery truck that Pulanski had swiped from somewhere on Northside. The truck sat near the delivery doors of the warehouse, covered in a tarp. The box, and its grisly contents, sat in the back. Or they had.

  “What is it?” Phipps called out.

  “The damn box fell off the truck.” Jodorowsky’s voice floated back to them out of the dark canyon of stacked crates.

  Phipps looked at Gomes. “Must have overbalanced when we parked and we just didn’t notice.”

  “I tightened those straps myself,” Gomes protested.

  Phipps didn’t reply. “What about the… you know what?”

  “Top’s open. Looks like it fell out. But I don’t…”

  There was a soft sound, like papers rustling. Then a slightly louder one. An ugly, cracking, ripping sound. Jodorowsky fell silent, and did not respond when Phipps called out again. Gomes picked up a flashlight and turned it on. He looked at Phipps. “You first.”

  Phipps frowned but started towards the truck. They found Jodorowsky soon enough, at the end of a trail of blood spatter. He was sprawled on the floor next to the huddled form of the mummy, staring up into the dark, his mouth – and his throat gone. Something had ripped open his jugular and done it so quickly and forcefully that he hadn’t had a chance to scream. Phipps snatched the light from Gomes’ hand and played it across the mummy.

  “It has blood on its hands,” Gomes said, softly. Then, “It was curled up before.”

  “Yeah,” Phipps said, absently. “The bindings on its arms and legs came loose. He must have… fallen on top of it or something. An accident.” Gomes could tell he didn’t believe a word of it. “Help me get it back in the box.”

  “I ain’t touching that thing. I’ll keep watch.”

  “For what?”

  Gomes didn’t reply, and Phipps didn’t push it. Gomes was glad, because he didn’t really have an answer. He was certain he’d tightened the straps on the back of the truck holding the box in place. It couldn’t have come loose… unless something had caused it to move. He let his light fall on the black mask that enclosed the dead thing’s skull. For a moment, he thought he saw something move within the sockets of its eyes.

  But he told himself it was only a shadow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dreams

  Pepper strolled through the garage, her hands in her pocke
ts. The close air stank of exhaust fumes and stale coffee. For Pepper, it was a homey sort of smell and always had been. It reminded her of her father and better days.

  It was early. The sun was barely up, but the garage was already full of noise. She kept one eye on the dispatch offices as she navigated the crowded confines. She didn’t want the head dispatcher, De Palma, spotting her. He might start asking questions she didn’t feel much like answering.

  The garage housed half a dozen cabs at any one time, plus another handful of alternates that were mostly used for spare parts. There were nearly twice as many drivers as there were hacks, and many of them sat around all day, waiting for a chance at a fare. A lot of the drivers shared cabs – one guy on day shift, one guy on night shift. And some of the guys, well, they were on the special shift, as De Palma liked to call it.

  Mostly, the special shift smuggled booze from the docks or the railyard into town. De Palma, greedy little troll that he was, had worked out a deal with the O’Bannions to carry their bootleg liquor wherever it needed to go, safely hidden in his cabs. It worked out well for both parties. While the other syndicates brewed their booze local, the O’Bannions preferred a bit of distance between supply and demand. And De Palma was only too happy to play smuggler – it wasn’t him taking the risks, after all.

  If any driver got caught by the cops, well, he was on his own. The guys knew better than to complain. De Palma owned their cabs, and could make sure they lost their licenses if anyone gave him any guff.

  Pepper had made late runs herself, once or twice. It was good money, if you weren’t averse to a bit of risk. De Palma kept most of it for himself, but even he knew better than to skimp when it came to booze.

  But it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to do long term. At least Pepper didn’t. She had other ambitions. She wasn’t sure what they were just yet, but driving a cab for the rest of her life wasn’t one of them. She thought maybe the countess – Alessandra – might be her ticket out of Arkham. But only if she played it smart. That meant helping Alessandra, even though she was a criminal.

  Then, to Pepper’s way of thinking, there were criminals – and then there were criminals. De Palma might be the former, but Alessandra was definitely the latter. She went places, did things, had money… the whole racket. There were worse things to aspire to.

  She spotted the face she was looking for bent beneath the open hood of one of the cabs. Iggy Azaria was the garage’s mechanic. He wasn’t particularly good at fixing automobiles, but he was cheap.

  She picked up a wrench from off a nearby workbench and gave the side of the cab a swat. Iggy straightened with a yelp, nearly banging his head. “Jesus Christ, Pepper, what’d you go and do that for?” he demanded.

  “Just trying to get your attention,” Pepper said, roughening her voice.

  “Well, you got it, knucklehead. What do you want?” Iggy paused and looked around. “De Palma hasn’t seen you, has he? He was looking for you.”

  “No, and he won’t see me either, if you give me a hand.”

  “With what?”

  “I need a line on a guy.”

  “A guy?” Iggy frowned. “Any guy in particular?”

  “Vigil.”

  Iggy grunted. “Why?”

  “Mind your business, that’s why. He still hangs his shingle at the Roadhouse, right?”

  “Yeah.” Iggy stood, wiping his hands with a greasy rag. He looked around, scouting for De Palma. “Seriously though, why do you want to talk to a guy like that?”

  “I got someone who wants to buy some information off him.”

  “And you came to me?”

  Pepper smirked and leaned against the cab, hands still in her pockets. “Don’t be that way, Iggy. I know you know him. I want to set up a meeting.”

  Iggy’s expression turned mulish. “Maybe I know him. Maybe I don’t. You still haven’t said why I ought to do you this favor.”

  “You owe me.”

  “Since when?”

  Pepper studied him. “Since I took that fare De Palma gave you last week. You know the one I mean.” She mimed taking a drink. Iggy blanched.

  “I couldn’t, Pepper. If the cops had caught me – with my record…”

  Pepper waved the excuses aside. “Yeah, yeah. You owe me. So do this little thing for me and we’ll be even.”

  Iggy was silent for a moment. Then, “You just want me to set it up?”

  “I’ll do the rest,” Pepper said.

  Iggy’s frown deepened. “I hope you know what you’re doing, kid.”

  “That means you’ll do it?”

  “Doesn’t seem like I got a choice,” Iggy said. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “I’ll make a call. If he’s willing to talk to you…” He paused and looked her up and down. “You got money, I hope.”

  “I don’t, but the person who wants the meeting does.”

  “So long as one of you does,” Iggy said. He peered at Pepper. “Tonight then. At Hibb’s place. But don’t tell no one I’m involved, kid.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Iggy. And hey – thanks.”

  “Yeah, don’t thank me yet.” Iggy laughed and punched Pepper in the arm. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”

  Rubbing her arm, Pepper turned away, grinning in satisfaction. “I’m the best, Iggy, and don’t you forget it.”

  Shapes moved in the mist. They staggered ever closer as she tried desperately to throw the ambulance into gear. Fear thrummed through her like electricity, and the smell of smoke and death was thick on the air. She could hear the thunder of distant guns, or perhaps the tread of some unseen colossus. The ground shook as the ambulance’s engine whined beneath her frantic attempts to get it moving.

  The shapes lurched into view. At first, she thought they were Germans, their faces hidden behind insectile gas masks. But they moved like broken things, whirling and twitching as they drew near. She reached for her pistol, but found that she could not move. Something pinned her in place. Something – no. Someone.

  “I will grind your bones to… powder,” Zamacona hissed in her ear. It was his hand that held her. His strength was greater than she’d imagined. His grip tightened, and she felt the bones of her wrist crack and splinter. She screamed – or tried to. The guns thundered, only now they didn’t sound like guns at all but drums.

  The canvas top of the ambulance rolled back as if caught in a great wind, and she felt something clawing at her. She could not see Zamacona, but she knew he was there somewhere. Holding her. Trapping her. She tried to struggle, but could not free herself. The sound of drums grew louder and the sky overhead was black and full of cold stars. There was light behind her now, but it was wrong somehow. The wrong color, the wrong smell. It was all wrong. This was not Flanders, but somewhere else.

  The twitching shapes drew closer. The gas masks were gone now, replaced by chiropteran masks of onyx and gold. Before she could fully process this, the shapes began to stretch towards one another and blend, becoming one.

  She thrashed in Zamacona’s grip as it inexorably tightened about her. Bones cracked and skin tore. She felt something give in her chest. She could hear a new sound, like rushing water – only it wasn’t flowing down, but up.

  The darkness rippled like a curtain. Shadows swam before her eyes and there were sounds in her head. Images like words, but no words she could possibly understand. And yet… understand them she did.

  Tsathoggua en y’n an ya phtaggn N’kai.

  The darkness unfurled and something emerged.

  Something hungry.

  Alessandra awoke with a start, breath rasping, heart thudding. She felt as if she’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded on her face and had turned her hair into ratty tangles. She threw back the duvet, suddenly conscious of a queasy pressure in her gut.

  She stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. Her gorge rose and thrashed like a wild animal as she fumbled on the lights. She leaned over the sink, coughing. Something moved in her stomach
– last night’s dinner, perhaps.

  She coughed and spat as whatever it was wriggled in her throat, almost as if it were trying to escape. She remembered her dream, the darkness pouring into her, filling her, and it only added to her queasiness.

  Something slipped from between her lips. It had the slimy consistency of phlegm, but it was the color of pitch. It splattered around the basin drain, like oil on snow. She stared at it, panting slightly. Her throat burned. As she watched, it seemed to writhe towards the drain, every droplet seeking the exit. Quickly, she turned on the faucet and washed it away. She splashed water on her face and gargled, trying to clear the taste of it from her mouth.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. For a moment, her eyes looked black. Not dark, but black. The color of the shadows in her dreams. She blinked, and they were back to normal. Not that they had changed.

  “Ridiculous,” she muttered. She stumbled out into her room, feeling exhausted. It was early. Far too early to be awake, she thought. But something told her she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

  Alessandra ran her hands through her hair. She felt sweaty – grimy. Unclean. She wanted a bath, but settled for a shower. The silver nozzle over the bathtub gave forth a shuddering spray of lukewarm water. It poured over her, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. She thought of the black stuff squirming towards the drain. Thought of it coming out of her, and then, finally, the mummy. Staring at her with empty eyes. Black eyes. She scrubbed at her face.

  Had it actually had eyes at all? Sometimes they did, she knew. Things dried to hard, tiny marbles, lingering beneath leathery lids. But these hadn’t been like that. These had shone like black opals, shiny and wet. And then something…