9 Tales Told in the Dark 8

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  Marcinko shot him, three times. They were the first shots he had fired all night.

  11. THE DOCTOR

  Aside from the roar of several score of fires, it was quiet. The doctor and Marcinko stood a few meters apart with Captain Karmal’s body sprawled somewhere between.

  Just above them, a light began to shine. A bright and terrible light.

  Aleksandr forced himself to gaze up at it.

  A cruel, cold claw the size of a motorcar cuffed him, almost negligently.

  The doctor flew backwards, perhaps ten meters. He landed badly upon a flat, man-sized rock.

  There was an instant of great pain then total numbness.

  It wanted him to watch and he did.

  Two of the huge claws caught Marcinko. Slowly, methodically they pulled his arms off. Then his legs. And then, with one of the great talons holding him upright and steady, the other slowly peeled away his face.

  The Creature dropped the lifeless husk of Lieutenant Marcinko and D. I. Aleksandr gratefully lost consciousness.

  12. THE SERGEANT

  It was mid-morning when Timoshenko pulled himself from the smoldering ruin of the infirmary. All around him was destruction—total, complete and absolute.

  Not one building had escaped the carnage; not one structure stood—just burned-out shells of twisted metal, mounds of broken concrete.

  And bodies, everywhere: many, many bodies. Some were complete or nearly so.

  Others were mere fragments—bits and pieces of gruesome jigsaw puzzles.

  But even the parts were familiar. If Timoshenko had not learned the name, at least he’d seen the face. And if the face was gone—well then, the uniform gave them away. Or the bloody underwear, since most of the battalion had been asleep when the attack came.

  But all were familiar; no Mujahedin had died here. Because no Mujahedin had been here, to fight or die!

  Timoshenko made his way to Barracks Three. He found a small pile of bodies nearby—most from his new platoon. They’d formed a circle, made a last stand in the open.

  Good bunch of lads, Timoshenko thought.

  Rykov was one of them. One arm was gone and a jagged bit of aluminum protruded from his throat. He had gone fighting—his Kalashnikov, with a half-empty clip, was still clutched in his surviving hand.

  Timoshenko bent down, kissed his dead friend’s bloodied cheek. Then he was quietly, profoundly sick.

  “It let me live,” Aleksandr gulped a bit more water from the canteen then coughed. Timoshenko replaced the stopper, wiped the paralyzed man’s chin. “So I could tell you, correct? And then . . . so you could see for yourself? I’m next?”

  “I . . . can’t be certain.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Piotr Grigorovich.” The Buryat rolled his eyes.

  “Amazing, really. To be struck down by someone else’s ancient legend!”

  “Try to rest,” Timoshenko advised. “I . . . look, you do understand why I can’t move you?”

  “I am a doctor. Piotr Grigorovich. Yes. Besides,” the ghost of Aleksandr’s famed smile appeared, “I’m in no discomfort. Feel nothing at all, from the neck down.”

  Timoshenko had to change the subject. “You say you and Karmal saw something out here, before the attack?”

  “Yes, we went to investigate. In the moonlight, it was a small, white, soft-looking clump of something. You’ll never guess . . . .”

  “A pigeon,” Timoshenko murmured. “Pure-white, like fresh snow.”

  “And dead, yes.” Aleksandr’s nose wrinkled. “Abdullah took it as an omen. A moment later the attack began. There’s a connection, I assume?”

  “Oh, yes.” Timoshenko offered him a grotesque smile. “Pigeons. The

  Beggar-men of Birds—most people hold them in contempt, at best. But they’re like the Malangs, here. Both are holy—regarded as mystical symbols, doctor.

  Representatives of a harsh, cruel God—one far older and more terrible than Allah!”

  “I see.” A brief silence settled. Then: “You say the transport came while I was out?”

  Timoshenko nodded. “Headquarters must have worried when we didn’t make our morning call-in. Along with the MI-8, there were two gunships.”

  “None escaped?”

  Timoshenko’s silence was answer enough.

  “I saw what it did to Marcinko, Sergeant. It . . . enjoyed doing it. And I…am not a courageous man.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Timoshenko muttered.

  “Please, Piotr Grigorovich? I still have my sidearm strapped on, don’t I?”

  “Yes.” Timoshenko bent forward. He carefully removed the doctor’s Makarov from its holster. “You’re sure?”

  “Quite.” Aleksandr’s voice was tiny, yet firm.

  The Creature would not be happy, but this might be the last independent, truly human act he could perform. It would also be a kindness of the highest order.

  Timoshenko nodded, readied the weapon and put it to the doctor’s head.

  13. THE CONVERT

  At dawn the next day, a lone figure marched past the bearded vultures as they feasted. Without pausing, he left Kantiwar Pass behind. He turned to the south and west, following rough trails toward the war-torn center of Afghanistan. In the lower regions, it was a land where many pigeons—a few of them pure-white—still lived.

  For a Malang, he was young and strong. And a bit too light-skinned. His hair was also wrong; his features plainly European. Instead of the expected rags, he wore a battered—but not yet threadbare—army uniform.

  Yet one thing about him was absolutely typical: his Eyes.

  They were blank and hopeless and uncaring. And, of course, huge. They were Eyes that had seen too much; Eyes that had looked upon the ultimate, the unending, and perhaps even universal evil.

  They were the Big Eyes of a Malang.

  THE END

  ON THE WATERFRONT by Shawn P. Madison

  Eddie Perdido tried to look calm as he opened the front door to Lucente’s Bar and waltzed in like everything was just fine. As soon as he passed through the door though, he took off across the narrow aisle cluttered with standing bodies and lingering conversation and crashed through the swing doors to the kitchen area in back.

  Profanity followed him in Spanish throughout the bar and more than one hand gesture had been pointed his way before he disappeared among the cooks in off-white aprons wearing mostly the grease from their fries and wings. The smells of the rear area assaulted his nostrils and he felt more than an urgent need to get the hell out of there.

  “Hey, asshole! What are you doing back here?” a voice demanded and Eddie made haste toward the back door that led to the alley behind the bar. Just before he slammed open that door, his hand found purchase on a thin white coat, the kind used mostly by butchers, that was hanging on a pin. He pulled the threadbare thing over his shoulders and walked stiffly out into the dark cold Hoboken night.

  His sneakers made loud clapping noises on the worn asphalt beneath his feet and, at 3:00am, it seemed that he was the only other person outside in the whole world. The drugs were still racing in his system, heightening his senses, making his vision swirl in and out of focus.

  What in the hell did those two thugs want with him anyway? He thought and snuck a nervous look over his shoulder toward the bar. At least they hadn’t caught on to his escape route yet.

  Eddie rounded the corner on to First Street and made his way toward the waterfront area instead of the more heavily crowded Washington Street. Even at this hour on a Friday night, Eddie knew there would be crowds of people rushing to and from the multitude of bars that littered this popular section of Hoboken. Those two mysteries behind him would automatically believe that he would want to get lost in the crowds once they realized that he was no longer in the bar and would choose to go, he hoped, in the opposite direction.

  His breath was frosting thickly in front of him as he made his way deeper into the darkness toward the Hudson River. He could see New York City sparkling ac
ross the Hudson. The river was still several blocks ahead of him but even this late at night, the lights reflected beautifully off the serene waters of the river. He continued passed several empty cross streets and finally crossed River Street, aptly named since it ran along the Hoboken waterfront. Looking both ways, he could see along the entire length of the road. There wasn’t a car in sight.

  The Hudson lapped noisily up against the concrete buffer on the edge of River Street. There was a long pier, one of the few still functional but barely used, jutting out into the murky water directly ahead. Eddie looked behind him, up the length of First Street and saw nothing. Thank God, he thought and breathed a sigh of relief. This quickly faded when he suddenly noticed two shadows lumbering toward the river from several blocks up. Shit!

  Eddie didn’t think long about his options, his brain had been temporarily re-wired by all of the various illegal substances now coursing through his bloodstream. Almost instantly, he leapt out on to the pier and struggled over the uneven terrain to try and disappear into the darkness and the shadows of the clapboard shacks and machinery that dotted the wooden structure.

  “Where is that little shit, Berto?” Manny Blanco rasped, a toothpick sticking out of the right side of his mouth and the taste of stale beer coating his throat. The cold, this fucking cold, he thought to himself and swore that that son-of-a-bitch Perdido would be dead once he caught up with the bastard.

  “Keep walking, Manny,” Humberto Conde said evenly and didn’t break his rapid stride.

  “Are you sure about him coming this way, man?” Manny asked and Berto held up one hand for silence. Blanco shook his head and tried to thrust his hands deeper into the thin pockets of his leather jacket. The gun felt very cold up against his waist, even through two layers of sweatshirts. He dared not grab hold of the automatic’s metal handle, knowing very well that his frozen hands couldn’t take anymore cold.

  “He came through here,” Conde said and kept on walking.

  “Shit, man, I hope you’re right,” Blanco said. “Cause, if you aren’t, Emilio’s gonna have our asses.”

  “Don’t sweat Emilio,” Conde said. “I have that covered.”

  “Right,” Blanco said and squinted into the lights reflecting off the Hudson River directly ahead of them. “Shit, dude, I think I just saw something on that pier.”

  “Yeah,” Conde said and kept on walking.

  The air was much colder out here on the pier, Eddie thought as he moved out farther along the rotted wood planking. In several places he could see straight through some ancient timbers to the water lapping harshly below. There was a good strong wind over the river tonight, the cold seemed to move cleanly through both his sweater and the thin white coat he had nabbed from the bar a few blocks up. He couldn’t control his shivering as the sweat caused by his nervous anxiety quickly froze along his body. What in the fuck do they want?

  His two pursuers had stopped at the point where the pier met the street, about fifty yards away from his position crouched behind an old rickety dumpster. He had not gotten a good look at them when he first noticed he’d had some company back on Washington and Third Street. All he knew was that these two were after him and were following along with a definite purpose. What that purpose was remained a mystery. With everything Eddie had done wrong over the past week, these two could be working for any number of the scumbags that were lining the Hoboken streets these days.

  He watched them both intently, trying to hide the cloud of frost that erupted from his mouth with each and every breath. There was little light besides the full moon to illuminate this part of the dock. But his two pursuers were standing half-in and half-out of the light from a streetlamp positioned to the left of the pier. Two more steps, pendejos, Eddie thought, just two more steps and at least I’ll be able to see your frigging faces…

  Something stirred in the water directly below him then, a sound that made him jump and swear before he could think of maintaining his silence. It sounded big, whatever it was, big and close. Hay dios mio! What the fuck was that?

  “There!” Manny called and pointed toward the far end of the pier. “There’s that mari’con!”

  “Let’s go, Manny,” Berto said and his automatic instantly filled his right hand. “It’s time we send this fucker to a place far colder than this.”

  “Whatever you say, jefe,” Manny said and grabbed his .45 from his waistband. How he wished he had thought to bring gloves with him tonight. The figure of the man they were following had jumped out from behind a dumpster for only a second, curses splitting the night from about one-hundred-and-fifty feet away. Just as quickly, he was back behind cover but it had been a big mistake on his part.

  Now, they would make an example of this little shit Eddie Perdido and leave his bloody corpse spread eagle on the street for the newspapers to photograph and the local news shows to report on. Nobody in Hoboken stole from Emilio Juarez and lived to brag about it. Everybody in Hudson and Bergen Counties knew better than that.

  Goodbye, Eddie, Manny Blanco thought and smiled. He loved this part of his job. It felt good to get rid of the fucking stupidos who thought they could move into Juarez country or slight Emilio in some way and not pay the consequences. It also felt very good just to kill…yeah, Manny Blanco especially loved that part of his job…

  Shit, I know those two! Eddie screamed at himself in rage and finally realized why they were chasing him. He had come across one of Emilio’s pushers at an Italian restaurant on Fourth and Washington last Tuesday. The ass was stupid enough to be getting drunk at the bar while in possession of several bags full of some high-priced pleasure pills. Eddie had pretended to get drunk with the bastard, making sure the man had gotten more than his fill of vodka and tequila before leading him into the alley behind the eatery and smacking him across the skull with a small wrench he kept around for just that purpose.

  He had been able to score a pretty good deal on the stolen drugs that very same night with Martinez in Jersey City. Of course, there had been a lot less of it in the bags after he had taken some for himself. Eddie had been pretty happy with himself after pulling off that particular scam a few nights ago. Now, he wasn’t so sure if that had been the smartest move he’d ever made.

  Both men had their guns out. The quick glances he had caught of their faces in the streetlights before they approached the pier had confirmed their identity and just who they were working for. Various options raced through his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bargain or plead with these two—they had their orders and would carry them out. He didn’t have a gun on him tonight, only a knife, but that meant that he would have to get very close to the both of them if he were to confront them. The pier was large and had many hiding places, if he could get them turned around toward the far side, he might be able to double-back and make it back into the streets. As for right now, he was cornered. The bullets would start flying at any second and he doubted highly that the dumpster would be able to stand up against that kind of punishment.

  What to do? What to do? Eddie’s mind was scrambling for the right answers. Too many drugs tonight was slowing that process down considerably. He could try to slip into the water silently and make his way quickly to the street underneath the pier before they realized what he had done. He would come out of the water freezing but at least he would still be alive. If he could get his frozen legs to start running once he gained River Street, he would be well on his way to escape.

  That seemed like the best idea and he was about to slip one leg over the edge when he heard that sound again. A loud screeching sound, like a nail across a chalkboard. Amazing that he remembered that from those few days he had spent in school as a youth. And once again, the sound of something big in the water, something larger than an averaged sized fish, that was for sure.

  Eddie panicked then and made a run for it to some better cover across the other side of the pier. The men ahead of him saw this and began to raise their guns. A large hole in the wood lay directly ahead of h
im, several yards away, the moonlight shining clear and blue on the dark water below. Forgetting about the sounds he had heard just seconds ago as the first gunshots sounded, Eddie made his way to the hole and prepared to dive in.

  Manny Blanco let loose two shots at the fleeing figure of Eddie Perdido, one clanked off the dumpster and one disappeared wildly into the air over the Hudson River. The cold air felt scratchy in his throat as he gasped for breath while running over the uneven wood of the old pier. Berto had fired three times and Manny could hear his cursing as all three of his bullets missed as well.

  Whatever strange sounds he had heard in the water were now forgotten as all that he could focus on was that little shit Eddie and how they would get their asses handed to them by Emilio if he were to get away.

  No way, not tonight you little shit! Manny thought and pressed off two more shots. Both of them hit something, unfortunately neither struck Eddie Perdido. The little man was sprinting across the large pier, from one piece of cover to the next. Never in one place for more than a second. He seemed to be heading toward a specific place in the center of an exposed area in the wood. Why, Manny couldn’t be sure, but once he was out there in the open he would be dead, dead, dead…

  Almost there! Eddie knew, as he jumped over a rusted old barrel lying on its side and saw the huge hole in the timbers less than eight feet away. Another bullet shattered the silence of the night, whining past his ear, much too close for comfort. Then another, thunking into something solid just a few feet away. Keep moving, almost there!

  These two weren’t playing games, they were out to erase him tonight in this cold winter air and on this ancient fucking pier. But not tonight, no, not tonight, Eddie laughed. He wasn’t planning on breaking stride when he made his head first dive through the hole and into the murky waters of the Hudson River. At least, that was what he had planned on doing. Unfortunately for Eddie Perdido, the thing he saw in the water through the hole in the pier just before he left his feet made him think twice. A terrified scream escaped his throat as Eddie tried to change direction in mid-air.