Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  "Mamita! Sueltame!" she cried. I paid no heed. I had never before felt such claustrophobia. The entire weight of the building seemed about to crash on my head.

  I made it to the ground level and sprinted out the front door. The moment I was free of it, I realized my selfishness. There were dozens of people trapped in the hotel, many of whom would die if not helped. I set down the child and started to go back in. There was a huge awful groaning and grinding sound in the ground, as though hell itself were opening up. And the building collapsed.

  I watched it fall, slowly because of its size, or perhaps my awareness was heightened. The lower blocks crumbled, and the roof caved in on itself. In a moment a cloud of dust obscured everything, forcing me and the other escapees to retreat, coughing. Meanwhile, the ground was moving in waves; people were swept off their feet, but I kept vertical, thanks to my physical training.

  As the air cleared, we saw that the collapse had been only partial. The main walls still stood. But there was no telling what carnage was inside. Probably the little girl's parents had been killed, and I would have to take care of her until some foster-home could be found. What a burden!

  I looked around, but the child was gone. In this crowd it was impossible to locate her; she might be lost or dead or with friends. So much for my effort to help a stranger. I was disappointed. My burden had been removed before I had time to appreciate it.

  The neighboring buildings were no better off. Rubble littered the street, and water bubbled from broken mains. Electric wires crackled with short-circuits. Now the fires were starting; a thickening pall of smoke showed on the near horizon. Police appeared in long-sleeve blue shirts and high black boots, shaken like the rest of us, ordering us to get out of the city immediately. Christmas decorations crunched under their feet as they moved on.

  There was nothing I wanted more than to get out, but there were two problems. First, I had no transportation; nobody did. I didn't relish hoofing it through an earthquake; a building might fall on me. Second, I hadn't finished my research. I had to locate the demon supply route. Where was Kan-Sen?

  Nothing I could do here except to add to the confusion. I proceeded toward the Chamber of Commerce office building, a few blocks to the east. But progress was slow, because I was not a machine, I was a human being, and there was intolerable misery all around me. I heard the screams of a woman, coming from a caved-in building, and I had to help. But she was crying words in Spanish; I wished I could comprehend it. After some inevitable confusion, I saw that several women were trapped behind a fallen lintel. They were choking on dust, but weren't seriously hurt. I heaved on the beam and managed to clear enough of a passage for them to file out.

  The girls were scantily clad, some in no more than panties and bras, others in torn skirts. They were Indian or part-Indian with black hair, either long or short, and garishly painted faces. I assumed they had been caught asleep, with no time to dress, but why the eyeshadow, heavy rouge, and redpainted mouths?

  One in a slip approached me, saying something. I presumed she was thanking me. "Glad to help," I said.

  Strange that all of these women should be so young and shapely. She tried to kiss me, but I pulled back involuntarily. That was more thanks than I wanted. Then she reached into the top of her slip and took out one breast, putting it in my hand. Novice that I am, I never had that happen to me before, and I was startled. I drew back again.

  Then she made a gesture to her crotch, spreading her legs, and at last I caught on. She was offering me sex, as thanks for saving them. In fact, these were prostitutes.

  Embarrassed, I shook my head. "No thanks, no thanks!" And I backed away so hastily I tripped over a brick. In a moment they were lost in the melee and the night and noise.

  I went on, winding through the carnage, appalled at the mischief a few minutes of earth-vibration could do. The entire face of this beautiful, festive city had changed, instantly, and I knew it would never be restored. I could not even guess at the loss of life. Thousands, surely.

  What had these people done, that such holocaust should be visited upon them in the hour of their merriment? There was so much misery that nothing I could do could make any apparent dent on it. All so pointless...

  I passed a liquor store, the odor of burst bottles strong in the air. There were looters there, searching out the intact bottles. "Hey!" I yelled, knowing that looting was illegal, anywhere. As if there were not enough misery already, without these bastards aggravating it.

  The nearest looter jumped, startled. He was a hulking, mean-looking brute, half drunk. Then, seeing me unarmed, he snatched up a broken bottle and charged me, yelling obscenities: "Gringo! Saramambiche! Yankee!"

  I was in no mood to play. I had been glad to help the women, for they were in the same fix as the rest of us. I had no brief for liquor or liquor stores. But looters were the scum of the earth, preying on the helpless, the disaster-struck. And I was reminded vividly of the last bottle-attack I had seen, in which Chiyako had been mutilated in the breast. It was as though this stranger were a demon, repeating that act—as well he might, if I gave him the chance.

  I turned sidewise, avoiding his rush, and seized his wrist, pulling him forward. At the same time I gave him an upper-elbow strike—hiji-jodanate—just under the armpit in the upper ribs. Several broke. Then I took his bottle out of his hand and smashed him in the face with it. I didn't even look at the result. I strode into the store. "Get out of here!" I bawled, waving the bloody bottle.

  They needed no translation. They understood me well enough. They got out. I knew they'd be back, like creeping rats, the moment I left, but still there was some passing satisfaction in it. This was a tangible action against a tangible evil. There was a lot of violence in my soul right now, and looters were a legitimate target for it.

  Finally I got to the Chamber of Commerce building, as the bleak dawn was breaking. Now, technically, I was a looter myself, but I wasn't taking anything of possible value to anyone else. All I wanted was information.

  "Kan-Sen," I muttered, over and over. "Kan-Sen, Kan-Sen, Kan-Sen."

  For hours I poked through that abandoned, ruined building, searching for the proper room, the proper file. Everything was changed; I could not be sure exactly which chamber I needed. I was afraid the papers would be burned, but I was in luck: no fire here. Yet. Still, the documents were in Spanish, making it tedious for me to check them out.

  All about me, the disaster of Managua proceeded. The magnificent Central Bank of Nicaragua, a fifteen-story complex, survived the quake intact, a building so well constructed that even this shaking could not bring it down.

  So what happened? Looters set it afire. The firemen, lacking proper equipment, with the water mains broken, had to watch it for three days while the fire crept downward. Story by story, the blaze lit by men destroyed what nature had not. Looters!

  I camped right at the building I was in, raiding the candy machines for food, and the soft drink machines for liquid. When they ran out, I went farther afield. There was a small abandoned restaurant across the street, the Colonial, with plenty of canned food and bottles of "El Colonial." I had to drink it; there was nothing else. It hardly contributed to my equilibrium.

  Several nations seemed to be airlifting in supplies, providing clean water but no food, because the government wanted to force the refugees out of the dangerous city. It made sense, because the people stubbornly refused to vacate. There was no future for them here, but they stayed so long as there was anything at all to eat. I did the same.

  The police were shooting the looters on sight. Martial law had been declared, as well as a dusk-to-dawn curfew. But there were few police and more and more looters. I watched from hiding as the National Guard caught three looters in a nearby furniture store, lined them against the wall, and shot them all. I knew I couldn't remain much longer; one side or the other would get to me.

  I was still at it on Christmas day. The sound of gunshots was constant in the background, as National Gua
rd troops waged war against the small army of looters. Every time the action came near, I had to duck out of sight.

  Now the odor of decaying bodies hung heavy in the air. As the heat of the day approached, the stench of putrefaction became so strong I had to tie a handkerchief soaked in cologne over my face. At times I also smelled the sweetish aroma of burning human flesh. Hordes of black flies appeared, insect looters. I saw a pack of dogs worrying the flesh of a dead man, and vultures almost too gorged to fly. At night the area was lit by the fires of the burning buildings. Then more ominous sounds commenced. Boom! Boom!—blasting! The government was setting charges to demolish the remaining buildings, so that they would not be a menace anymore.

  And another sound: big guns. I recognized them from my military days. Were they also using artillery to speed the process? Bad news. I would hear the demolitions experts at work before they blew up this building, so I could get out in time. But if they dropped a shell on it instead, from a distant gun...

  Feverishly now, I worked on the remaining files. Kan-Sen, Kan-Sen—where was that name? Still it eluded me.

  Steadily the explosions came nearer, as the heart of the city was razed. Surely they wouldn't blast this building without rescuing these files.

  I was still at work when the government troops, sweeping methodically through the downtown section to clean out all remaining survivors, discovered me. I was too exhausted to fight or run, which may have been just as well, for they were well-armed and tense. No doubt they had been attacked from ambush several times already. "I'm American," I said as they surrounded me.

  "American!" their officer said in English. "What are you doing here? Spying for military secrets? You work with the CIA?"

  "I was in a hotel," I said. Then, in a wild flash of inspiration: "I am looking for a friend. A woman."

  He frowned, not sympathetic to the appetites of Americans.

  "If she is in this building, she must be dead now."

  "No, no! She is in another country. At the house of—of Kan-Sen."

  "Kansan?" he asked, perplexed.

  "Kan-Sen. His address is in the records, but I can't read them. I was inquiring the day before the quake."

  He looked at me as if I were crazy, and that was a reasonable suspicion, in the circumstance. Who but an addled Yankee would spend three days poking in the ruins looking for a forgotten address, while the city was destroyed around him? "You do not know where your friend lives?"

  "He's not my—" But I stopped. "No. I need his address."

  He shrugged, deciding I was harmless. "If I give you that address, will you depart the city quietly?"

  "Quietly as a moth," I promised.

  So he humored the crazy American, not wanting international trouble on top of the natural disaster. He checked a master card file, drew out a card, and gave it to me. "I hope he can help you get resettled," he said. "So many are ruined now, homeless—"

  "Yes, yes, thank you!" I cried with broken gratitude as I saw the name Kan-Sen on the card, and an address. "Now I have no problem!"

  He looked as if he doubted that statement, but he kept silent, merely shaking his head.

  And in that manner I left the desolate city of Managua, accepting a ride out in a Mercedes-Benz police car, and resumed my quest. It was a marvelous Christmas.

  CHAPTER 14

  KAN-SEN

  I had anticipated a country estate, complete with guards at the gate. There was, as I had seen, a lot of money in the hands of the more powerful demons, and they liked nice living. But Kan-Sen's address turned out to be in the industrial heart of a great city. Giant storehouses loomed over the narrow streets, and railroad tracks ran past interminable loading platforms.

  I looked again at the file card obtained from ruined Managua. There was no mistake: the spot indicated was a monstrous, block-long, deserted warehouse. The few small windows were painted over; obscene graffiti covered the bricks. Fu yo! said the chipped wall I was facing at the moment, reminding me of the hieroglyphs of the Mayan pyramid. "Fu yo too," I told it. And smiled: suppose, once the scholars finally deciphered the Mayan script, a similar message would be revealed? An ancient obscenity inscribed for posterity?

  I walked entirely around the block, finding no obvious entrance. All the doors were closed, blocked, and padlocked. There was a decrepit iron fire escape up one side, but I didn't trust it. Either it was unsafe, or boobytrapped, or led to no entrance. Had I come all this way for nothing? Or was someone trying to fake me out? There could be something hidden inside this grim building.

  But if there were, it was surely demon-guarded. I had to find a discreet private entrance. If they caught me and recognized me as the destroyer of their source-plantation, I would disappear forever. And so would Chiyako.

  I might even now be under observation. I walked away, emulating an indifferent sightseer, and retired to a diner for a snack. Night was the time to pursue my quest further.

  My meal was bleak, and not just because of the cheap food. I knew in my heart that my search was futile, that the demons had planted false records all along their supply route: an elementary precaution. This could be a decoy, or merely a waystation, not the delivery point. The Kill-13 packages could continue on the train to the real depot, where they would be surreptitiously unloaded. That might be anywhere in the city, or in another city.

  But this was my only lead, and I had to follow it through. At night I surveyed the manhole covers in the streets near the building, judging their patterns. The sewer serving this block should run this way, so, and pass under the building somewhere along here.

  I pulled up a cover and climbed down the grimy ladder into the stinking hole. Once I had the lid back on, I turned on my water-proof flashlight. It had a red filter to mute the glare, coincidentally ideal for use against demons. I would have liked knee-high wading boots and rubberized coveralls too, but had had no opportunity to get such things. Might as well wish for a gas mask while I was at it.

  I sloshed along the huge pipe, glad that the weather in this region happened to be dry right now, so that there was minimum sewer flow. Still, the liquid was ankle-deep to knee-deep, and the odor was nauseous. Floating and submerged things brushed softly by my legs—fecal matter, sanitary pads and other sodden refuse. One larger object got hung up on my shin; when I disengaged it with my hand it turned out to be a dead cat. Huge roaches walked the walls, and rats scurried. At least it wasn't so cold down here; it was January above, but the sewer had its own climate.

  I have a fair directional sense, and the right-angle joints of the sewer system made it easy. Even so, I began to feel claustrophobic, afraid I'd get lost. What a fate, to wander forever in this nether network, eating garbage!

  The pipe narrowed, forcing me to hunch over, and now the sides were covered with slimy black fungus. The dim light of occasional manholes was a blessing, as was the slightly fresher air in their vicinity.

  Then I stepped into a hidden hole in the bottom of the crumbling pipe, and took a bellyflop into the gook. I swallowed some before I recovered my feet, and now the miasma was on me and in me. Yuch!

  I counted paces as I hunched along, until I was sure I was under the building. Somewhere there should be a kitchen or machine washing area, and there would be an access there. I found it, mounted a series of slippery iron rungs, and squeezed through. I was inside the cavernous cellar. I found a dirty sponge and mopped off as much of the stench as I could. My clothes were unsalvageable; if I wore them I would signal my presence as far as anyone's nose would reach. So I stripped and left them just inside the sewer. The demons had weak eyes, strong ears, and I just did not know about smell. Anyway, this was no occasion for personal modesty.

  I left my flash with the clothing. Naked, I set about my explorations. I already knew one thing, from the flow of fluids through the sewer and the heat of the room: this building was occupied. I stole up the stairs and cracked open the cellar door. And paused in amazement.

  I faced a lush garden. The moon s
hone brightly down, and stars twinkled overhead. Palm fronds waved in the gentle breeze, and semi-tropical vegetation grew thickly.

  But surely this huge central courtyard was not open to the sky! The city smog made most of the lesser stars invisible, and tonight was overcast, while here the Milky Way itself was evident. And this was midwinter; there was snow on the roofs. No place for palms!

  It had to be internal. A closed-in garden, a greenhouse, supplemented by daylight sunlamps. Probably the night sky was a projection on the ceiling. A veritable planetarium.

  The demons had excellent taste. But why? This was expensive and artistic. Why build it and maintain it, and hide it away in a bleak facade of a building?

  I remembered how lovely Ilunga's apartment was, in the center of a slum, and how handsome the inner furnishings of Miko's ship-depot were. This followed a certain pattern.

  Then I saw the huge black statue of the goddess Kali, and I understood. This was Demon Heaven, paid for by all those twenty-dollar-a-sniff habits. Good demons would be rewarded by visitation rights, and perhaps honorably wounded ones came here to die in comfort. Bad demons would go to the pyramid, to the arms of Kali for punishment.

  So my search was almost complete. This was the prime nexus of the worldwide demon network, hidden so cleverly. There must be a private entrance tunnel, leading from some other building. Perhaps there was a secret panel in a railroad bathroom. This, surely, was where Chiyako would be held. But it was also fraught with peril for me. There would probably be a small army of demons here.

  I stepped through the door and ran quietly for the cover of the tall plants. But I was careless; I had forgotten the most obvious estate defense. For this was an estate, hidden inside a building. Two dogs appeared, black Doberman Pinschers, their noses lifted to catch my scent. Silently they charged me, jaws gaping. I timed my attack, and delivered a downward blow with the side of my hand to the bridge of the first dog's nose, probably killing it. But the second was upon me, rearing on its hind legs to bite me. I stiffened the fingers of both hands and stabbed them into the sides of its throat. This dog was no demon; the pain put him away.