Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  The sickly-seeming young man wanders in, the confusion creating the perfect camouflage to keep him from being halted by any guards. He pauses amidst the people and movement, shouts and other noises, raising his head further, his eyelids still heavy despite his direction of focus, almost as though he absorbs his surroundings. And there, he senses it, coming from below, a great concentration. He moves on.

  Getting to the lowest level may be done via a secure freight elevator, which happens to be on lockdown now with the current situation. One may also access it via other ways – two being more straight forward, one of those a staircase, though it is not generally used by guests, the others more hidden. Once in the basement, one may encounter guards, depending on what may be going on, though it is not entirely unusual to find none. The work that goes on down here is grisly, the main room going down rather deep below the tall ceiling. The small surgery happened upon that one night is naught but a dribble compared to the massive undertaking here. And this room is not just used for harvesting of organs from relatively healthy specimens who may meet an untimely demise, it is now used to dispose of anyone who meets their end, sometimes even causing that end. It has become a concentration of pain, suffering, leaked vitality, and such may charge into its own power, shining like a beacon to those sensitive to such things.

  And now the vigilante is trying to find the way here.

  The trigger of the G36C is squeezed, a few rounds fired off, and the body armor of the guard proves ironic, for the subsonic rounds will not penetrate it, but it makes for a larger target, now allowing for the generally avoided body shots. The guard is stunned by the hits, allowing the figure to rush in, keeping low, sweeping the legs, then moving quickly to an armlock and the zip-ties.

  “Help! Help!” the guard calls out, coughing, struggling, obviously angered, and he is left there.

  The intruder moves more openly now, less cautious, heading toward the calamity, though still preferring to avoid most of that commotion, checking in rooms, hoping to find a staircase leading down. Mostly empty quarters are found, some showing a clutter that may indicate the rapidity with which the chamber was vacated. Peering into one, and though it looks empty, there is an insistent thudding coming from behind a closed door within.

  The figure rushes in, peering around, barrel of the compact assault rifle pointed until the room is cleared. The door is locked, but a quick glance shows a latching mechanism higher up on the portal and once released, it is swung open. Two pairs of wide eyes greet each other, and then the vigilante moves quickly, removing the black rubber gag from the prisoner.

  “Why are you here?” Therese sputters as the leather bonds at her wrists and ankles are cut through, “I didn’t call you this time. It’s a trap.”

  The rescuer is back up, peering outside the closet to be sure no one has shown up, looking around for any signs of said trap, then just looks at the hacker. After a short moment, a small shrug is given, then a point of a gloved hand toward the door, eyes giving an obvious inquiry as to their departure.

  “Shit!” Therese exclaims, and it sums the entire situation as well as provide some motivation, for she gets to her feet, ready to follow her rescuer a second time.

  They are almost to the door when the vigilante tenses, halting their movement, and then the sounds of rapidly moving feet gets to Therese’s ears. Before anything else may be done, a figure appears in the doorway- one of the many workers employed here, not a guard. This does not mean he is unarmed, though, as he brandishes a large cooking knife, one with a dark sheen of blood on the blade to match the stains peppered throughout his person, and with the red glare of anger in his eyes and a yell unleashed from his mouth, he lunges at the pair.

  “Get back!” comes out the forcefully delivered command, and Therese needs no further encouragement as the crusader moves toward the attacker, hands going up to catch the man’s wrist as he strikes downward, the knife in reverse grip.

  He snarls, trying to break free, but the momentum is kept up, the other moving around and behind, keeping a hold of that wrist, turning and moving the arm up. The attacker lunges out with an ineffectual, instinctive slash of his left hand, his body also turning in the direction pulled from his held arm, but the vigilante pushes in, thwarting that direction and providing a counter-force to the continued up-thrust of the weapon-wielding hand. A yelp comes out within the growls of uncontrolled anger, but he doesn’t release the weapon, instead managing some chaotic movement of his wrist, still trying to cut with the blade. The arm is pushed up more, and a louder cry of pain arises as the joint is dislocated, and finally, the knife falls to the carpet.

  Therese watches with rapt attention as the vigilante releases the attacker, but though one arm has been rendered useless, the man still evinces rage, swiping out with his clawed, left hand, moving in quickly toward his intended prey. This rapid attack is met with an even speedier counter, movement a blur as several strikes lash out and soon the man is on the ground, slumped against the wall, eyes blinking in a daze, all that rage gone.

  A hand is gestured sharply at the hacker, then the figure turns, moving out, and she grabs the knife on the way out of the room.

  “What the hell is going on?” Therese asks, once they have regained the hallway.

  The masked person does not give an answer, but the sounds of general alarm are easily noticed. Therese follows as best she can, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of disorientation. She wonders how her savior knows the area so well, because she feels like she is being carried on the curving and careening track of a roller coaster. She feels a sudden rush of nausea.

  “H-hold on,” she bids, her voice clipped, and she pauses, holding her stomach.

  The vigilante turns, looking her over, noticing the knife. She gently takes it from the hacker’s hand, who does not resist. She then waits, watching, letting the girl have a short breather, keeping her eyes out for any other people. Therese swallows, tension evident in her jaw and neck, then she blinks a few times, deeply, then rises back up to her full height, ready to continue. She certainly has never been in stressful situations exactly like this, but she wonders about the ‘spell’. It seems more frailty than she’d expect of herself. Perhaps she’s dehydrated.

  They prove able to avoid any more encounters, finally locating a window on the expansive front portion of the main building, and peering out, they can see people off to the left, milling about, waiting, wondering what all is going on. The vigilante quickly cranks open the window, then motions Therese through. Once out on that tended grass, the hacker looks back.

  “Aren’t you coming?” she asks.

  The masked head moves in an obvious negative.

  “Then I’m staying with-,” Therese begins, making like she will go back through the window, but the other steps up, blocking the way, holding out a hand, palm forward.

  The head is moved again, this time more emphatically, another ‘no’, then the hand points in a quick jerk toward where the party-goers are waiting to get out.

  “But I …,” the hacker tries, but just exhales a loud sigh, “Fine, and hey,” the black-garbed figure halts in closing the window, eyes on the girl, “Thanks, again. I … uh … I’ll try not to get in trouble again, okay?”

  And now she gets a single nod from her rescuer before the window is closed and relocked.

  Therese turns her eyes to the crowd, noting that most of it looks to be made up of very well-dressed people. She also sees the guards, and though some of them are also done up for the occasion, they do stand out, especially as some of them are openly displaying their firearms. She doesn’t know if heading there is a good idea, though she moves tentatively toward the mass, her heavy boots crunching on the cultivated grass. It’s possible a guard might notice her, especially as she does stand out from this lot. She glances around, seeing the thick, tall brick wall that goes out in both directions. She doesn’t think she can scale that wall. The gate is closed, but surely it will be opened to let these people go. She wonders
if emergency services are on their way. If she could get a hold of a smart phone or tablet …

  She pauses in her musings, still walking slowly toward the group, as she sees a familiar face. There, standing on the outskirts of the crowd, smoking a cigarette, is one Agent Gaspare Duilio of Interpol. He is calmly scanning his surroundings, and the motion of his head indicates his eyes will be on her shortly. She freezes in place, not sure what to do. If she turns and bolts, he will obviously see her. She wonders if the lack of light where she stands is enough to keep him from noticing her, or at least recognizing her. She’ll wait. If he sees her, he’ll react, and there is enough space for her to run, if-

  And then the screams arise, and Duilio turns sharply to look toward the crowd as people rush to get away from something. He flings his cigarette aside and heads toward it, as do some of the guards, and as the flood parts, there is a scene of violence and blood.

  One of the guests lies on the ground, in a growing pool of the red liquid, another guest atop him. The larger man above is savagely stabbing into the prone body of the other, holding a torn piece of metal, having been drafted as an improvised weapon. Each stab into the left side of the victim’s torso produces more spurts of fresh fluid, the attacker painted with it, giving him even more of a horrific, demented look than his own expressions and actions already convey.

  “He’s killing my husband!” a nearby woman screams, her own shrieks part of those making up the cacophony, though if the lack of resistance on the part of her spouse indicates anything, he may already be dead.

  The guards point their weapons, nearing the terrible happening.

  “Get out of the way!” Duilio commands, and the other party-goers and workers do just that, clearing more area around the attack.

  “Do something! Do something!” the woman, rushes over to Duilio, her heels clicking on the pavement.

  The guards look to the inspector, and Duilio spares a short moment of assessment, then, “Stop him.”

  Gunshots blast out, causing more screams and dispersal of the crowd. The attacker is quickly removed from atop his victim, crumbling away and to the ground, flopping to his back as the firing ceases, his breath coming out ragged and wet.

  The inspector walks over, looking over the two forms, one quite dead, the other mortally wounded. The woman scuttles over then, going down to her bloody husband, wrapping her arms about his head, raising him up a bit as she cradles him, sobbing, still bidding for help. Just then, sirens are heard in the distance. Duilio glances at the guards.

  “Get that gate open,” he orders.

  “But we were told-,” one of them begins.

  “I don’t care what you were told,” the Interpol man calmly says, turning to more fully face the sentry, “The authorities are on their way, hmm?” He perks his eyebrows, holding up a hand to indicate the inevitable arrival, “It will look very bad for that gate to be closed. It will keep them out, and it will seem you were preventing the guests from leaving.

  “And,” he continues, stepping closer, speaking with more menace, though he still holds on to the cultured, smooth tone, “I cannot be found here. Do you understand? Do you want to end this evening in a holding cell … or worse, hmm?”

  Another brief moment passes before the guard turns to his colleagues, “Let’s get that gate open.”

  Back inside the main building, some sounds still emerging in the distance of people in the throes of stress, he stands still, looking at the eviscerated corpse. He is in the kitchen, and some items had been left on, such is there a lingering haze of smoke in the decently-sized space. Is that a sound of bubbling, breathing? Is it his own respiration?

  He stands so still that one might think him devoid of animation, save he is standing, and his eyes are open, fixed on that body. Is it male, female? One might find it difficult to tell, as it has been lain open so viciously, the innards gleaming out in an abstract wetness, a dark mess. Clearly, though, the blood was not drained from this one, as that vitae shows itself splattered about, only adding to the gruesome display.

  He just stares, wondering if he can still see life there, wondering if he might glimpse something meaningful within the mess, the torn organs, shredded muscle. Can he see the future there? He can certainly feel something, and he slowly, slowly moves his head, craning it about on his thin neck. And there, almost like iridescent tracks, he senses a trail. Then, as if once noticed, it grows in power, pulling to him, compelling him. Forgetting the fresh corpse, he turns and plods off in that direction.

  The masked intruder, though, is finding the trail less obvious, still working to find a way to the lower level. And then a loud report booms through the area, though still muffled. Another explosion, one that has come from a depth. This charge had not been set by the intruder, and it proves as good a lead as any, so the figure turns and sets off in that direction.

  And finally, there it is, a doorway opened to reveal a staircase winding up … and down. A general peer is given, one hand still on the doorknob. It seems quiet, clear. A shout booms out, a horripilating scream, obviously a woman, and the vigilante pauses in heading down, moving back to the hallway, peering off in the direction from which the sound emerges. The alarming noises continue, someone obviously being attacked, harmed. The vigilante takes to a jog, deciding to investigate, even as the cries are cut-off, but the jika-tabi do not stop moving until the large figure walks in view from around the bend, turning to face the infiltrator.

  The man is tall, well-fleshed, close to two meters, likely around six foot four or five, upwards of ninety kilos, and the blood on him implies he has just ended the life, or at least done some serious damage to whomsoever had been lately screaming. His eyes bore into the much smaller form of the other person in the hallway, his breath coming in great waves, audible through his nostrils, even as his top lip is curled up, revealing his teeth. His tense hands show blood on them, traveling up to forearms, more across his broad chest and shoulders, some even on his face, about his mouth. His eyes gleam with a red of rage, but that must surely be the light. He also looks not at all concerned as the vigilante brings up the H&K, pointing the barrel at the sizeable target.

  The breathing becomes more intense, more rapid and noisy, as whatever anger that fuels the large man has apparently not been satiated. The other begins to take slow, careful steps backwards, assault rifle held unerringly on the threat, laser sight wavering only slightly over the man’s mass as the retreat is begun. The large man emits what may only be described as a snarl which peels into a scream as he takes to his own feet, sprinting with a sudden burst of speed toward the dark-suited person, hands showing clawed fingers as the burly arms pump with motion.

  The gun fires, the suppressor coughing out three bullets, all hitting the man’s powerful legs. He falters but does not fall, emitting a louder yell, and the vigilante turns, also sprinting for the doorway that leads to the stairs. Quickly through, the portal slammed shut, a short inspection given, time dwindling before the enraged man will cover the distance outside, and the lock is a simple one, the mechanism turned, engaging the bolt.

  The stairs leading down are now taken, ground covered rapidly as the loud noises are heard from the man as he bangs against the door, trying to break through, his frustration evident in his shouts and grunts. The door ought to hold, but then, those bullets should have taken the man down. Something is not right. Why did the young girl attack? Why the man with the butcher’s knife? Surely some anxiety is expected in this sort of situation, but most people would be rushing to get out, not searching about for victims due to some uncontrollable bloodlust. Something is most definitely not right.

  The noises from above have stopped by the time the fleeing figure reaches the door at the bottom of the stairwell. It seems the man is not so lost to his passion that he has failed to discern he is incapable of just bashing his way through the door. Maybe he has gone looking for a tool to aid him. Maybe he’s just given up and is off in search of other potential victims.

 
The door to the basement is unlocked, even possessed of a small, vertical window offset from center, more toward the knob. A peek inside shows nothing but a small room, empty of people, and the vigilante heads in.

  There is a credenza against one wall, two small, potted plants atop it. There is a set of double doors, and a wide stair case leading even further down, lasting for a short time before coming to a landing and disappearing with a ninety degree turn left.

  The room needs checking first, and a slow entry, gun barrel pointing the way, reveals what looks like a place for information of both physical and digital types. There are filing cabinets, computers, some chairs, the cabinets showing drawers for paper files as well as others holding what are obviously storage devices for electronic records. This room is likely a treasure trove, but time is not a luxury right now. Some thought is given to nabbing some of the smaller items, but a glance through a window here halts that train.

  The masked figure looks out, noting how large and expansive this lowest level is, marveling at the architectural acumen displayed in the design and layout of this main building. The basement is no small area for storage and possible hiding from bad weather, but it appears almost as broad-reaching as the entire building itself, going further down, making the ceiling very tall, a walkway going around a portion of the room further away, giving passage to the central region via other, less obvious methods.

  Off in the distance, further down, seems the site of the explosion heard earlier, as equipment of what looks a medical nature is strewn about, metal torn, bent, less stalwart materials and items obliterated, and a hole shows in the ground, the force erupting from beneath. It is difficult to tell from this distance, but there even shows a sheen, a liquid of some kind collected there, perhaps a burst water line mingling with oils.

  Then movement is spied, off across the expanse, up on the walkway. The vigilante crouches, offering less visibility upon their form, peering, but the distance makes it difficult to determine details. There is obvious motion, and then a flash is seen as though from a firearm, accompanied by a telltale pop.