by Matt Ruff
He is nothing, Rasferret chuckled to himself. How easy it will be to kill him, and how foolish to think he could be any sort of threat to me. How could he be?
The feel of his own power, ready for use, washed away all cautionary fear Rasferret might have had. The storyteller did not feel dangerous, therefore he wasn’t dangerous. Nor was he moving very quickly—it would be some small time yet before he found his way up to the Quad.
In the meantime, the Grub focused his Sense on downtown Ithaca, searching for any still-wakeful beings in the slumbering city with whom he might amuse himself while he was waiting. It did not take long to find some, or to figure out something to do to them.
III.
“Don’t close your eyes, Doubleday!” Hollister barked, bolt upright behind the wheel of the patrol car. She struggled to keep her own eyes open, fought the fear that wanted to hustle her into the nearest house and put a locked door between her and the Outside.
“Huh! Jesus, I’m tired,” said Doubleday (it was about the fifteenth time he had said it in the past ten minutes). “What the hell is going on in this town?”
Hollister did not reply; she knew no more than he did. They had been out on Route 13, stopped for coffee at Mano’s Diner, when the storm had passed overhead. Thunder rattled the windows and as the sound died away two thoughts struck the patrons simultaneously: first, that it might be very dangerous to go out, and second, that the chairs and booths in which they sat made extremely comfortable resting places. So nice, so safe, to just nestle back and relax . . .
Nattie Hollister had almost let herself go under. What stopped her fall into sleep was a sudden vision of the mannequin, the impossibly alive mannequin that had nearly killed her on New Year’s Eve. And so she was struck by a third thought: It’s out there.
She brought her fists down against her thighs as hard as she could, and used the blossoming pain to fight her way back up, onto her feet. She slapped Doubleday to break his descent, and dragged him toward the exit past others who were already snoring.
Now they drove. And fought the spell. Across his lap Doubleday held a shotgun.
“Check and make sure that’s loaded,” Hollister instructed him.
“I already did. Twice.”
“Check it again.” Groggily, Doubleday did as he was told. Hollister swung the car carefully to the right, turning onto State Street. She kept a light touch on the accelerator; the fog thickened conspiratorially in front of the headlights, throwing back glare and nearly blinding her.
“Loaded,” Doubleday said. He looked out his window and could see no other signs of illumination; the city’s power seemed to be out. “So . . . where are we going, anyway? The station house?”
Hollister considered. The station house seemed a good choice, but they had already tried radioing in and gotten no answer. Besides, headquarters was not where they were needed.
“We’re going up The Hill,” she told him. “Whatever’s wrong, that’s where it’s coming from. I can feel it, can’t you?”
After the briefest pause, Doubleday nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Jesus. Jesus, I’m tired.”
IV.
The building stood dark on East Clinton Street, not far from The Commons: City Police Headquarters, repository of local law and order. Repository, also, of evidence from unsolved murder cases.
The building stood dark, offering no comfort to the passerby—if there had been any passersby—and nothing should have moved in its silence. Nattie Hollister and Sam Doubleday were out driving, and the rest of the force had succumbed to enchantment: they snored at their desks, lay slumped in hallways, nodded over dispatches. Nothing should have moved, save for brows furrowing in nightmare.
Nevertheless, the front door of the station house swung open, and a figure exited into the fog. It was no cop, but it had donned a parody of a uniform: an oversized policeman’s jacket hung from its shoulders, and on its head was a regulation cap set at a rakish angle.
Its eyes glowed blue; it wore a plastic woman’s grin.
V.
George stepped out onto his porch, Spear in one hand, kite in the other. The fog formed a curtain around the house, thick but not impenetrable: he could make out vague shapes. Lightning shot a glow through the mist as if a giant flashbulb were popping at some distance; the thunder was unmuffled.
George took another two steps and the wind sliced through the curtain. A path opened for him as far as the curb, and one shadow-shape resolved itself into the figure of Ragnarok in full black regalia, sitting astride his motorcycle.
“Afternoon, George,” the Black Knight said. “Or whatever this is.” He glanced at the Spear, then nodded at the dragon kite. “Nice.”
“Ragnarok?”
“Nice,” Ragnarok repeated. There was something different about him, and after a moment’s thought George realized that it was the absence of sunglasses. He had been too preoccupied to notice last night at the hospital, but Ragnarok’s eyes were intense and surprisingly humane after their long time in hiding. “So George, you need a lift somewhere?”
“This is going to sound like a stupid question,” George responded, “but what are you doing here, Ragnarok?”
“Doing?” The Bohemian seemed perplexed by the question. “Doing . . . well . . .” He rubbed one eye with a dark-gloved fist. “Unfinished business, I guess. Tell you the truth, I’m still trying to figure out who put my motorcycle back together.”
He looked so lost that George asked no further questions of him. Careful of the Spear, he climbed on the back of the bike, saying: “OK, let’s go.” Ragnarok gunned the throttle and they drove off, up The Hill, up to the Quad.
For once in his life, the Black Knight did not break any speed limits.
VI.
Up ahead, Luther told himself. Just up ahead.
Almost home, almost back in Heaven now. Except that he came alone it was just like the first time, fog shrouding everything, the town quiet around him. Luther longed to climb up, pass through the arched gate and stand again on the top of The Hill, but did not rate his chances on making it even so far as the foot; for this wasn’t the first time, and now death waited in ambush for him. As he padded along State Street not a block and a half from the beginning of The Commons, the mongrel’s nose came alive with the scent of his adversary.
Just ahead, he’s waiting, any second and you’ll be face to face. And then, even if you were a fighting dog, it would be death for you. Your only chance is to run, run away now, hope you’re faster and he loses the trail. . . .
Luther let his mind waver and wheedle, but his legs carried him forward without faltering. For he was, finally, a good dog, and not without courage; he would not back out so near to the end.
A few more steps, a few more and the fog will clear, and you’ll see—
“Mange . . .”
The fog did not clear; but it thinned, enough at least to see the now-dark digital clock at the west end of The Commons, and the animal that crouched at the foot of it. Luther had become rib cage–thin during his long walk and expected to find Dragon in similar condition, yet the first sight of him was still a shock.
“You look like Raaq,” Luther exclaimed, resolve draining away to terror, and he was abruptly very sorry that he had not run when he could.
“No,” the Wolfhound replied, baring his teeth. “Not Raaq. Not a devil. I’m an executioner, mange. Yours.”
“An executioner. And look what killing’s done to you. Your soul belongs to Raaq, now.”
“He may have my soul, but I have my life. And my revenge. I’m going to tear you limb from limb, mange. Slowly. Will you actually just stand there and let me do it, without resisting?”
The Wolfhound studied him for a moment.
“You’re worried about the cat, aren’t you?”
“Where is Blackjack?” asked Luther, fearful of the answer. “Did you—”
“I wanted to have him here,” Dragon replied. “His body, I mean. To show you. But you�
�ll never see him again, mange. Even if you’ve convinced yourself that you’re going to get past me somehow, have no doubt about that. He fell. He fell a long way.”
“Cats are good at taking falls.”
“Not this fall. And they aren’t much for swimming. He’s dead.”
“But you don’t have his body.” Luther felt a sudden, irrational hope. “You didn’t actually see him dead, did you?”
“He’s dead,” Dragon repeated.
“You aren’t sure, are you? You don’t have proof.”
“He’s dead, I know he’s dead, and I don’t need to prove anything.” Rage kindled in him. The cat was certainly done for—nothing could have survived that drop—but damn this mange for planting the slightest seed of doubt. “He’s dead. Now it’s your turn.”
Dragon got off his haunches and came on, moving swiftly but not running. “I think you might fight,” he said, when he had closed half the distance between them. “I think the pain might make you frightened enough to fight me.”
In that moment Luther was not sure whether he would fight, or try to run, or simply stand his ground and be slaughtered. What he finally did do, without knowing why, was ask one last question.
“How did you get away from the ‘catchers, Dragon?” he asked.
And Dragon stopped, seizing on a sudden inspiration.
“'Catchers aren’t so terrible,” the ‘Wolfhound replied. “They have soft throats, mange.”
Luther understood, and was horrified, as Dragon had wanted him to be.
“You killed a Master? You killed a human being?”
“Two of them, mange. One ‘catcher, and another on the road, a woman. I was hungry, so very hungry . . .”
“You’re damned,” Luther told him. “You’re damned for this.”
“Funny, being damned doesn’t frighten me. It makes me feel stronger. But if it disgusts you so much, why not fight me? I’d like that. Take out your revulsion on me. Try.”
“No,” Luther said, with no hesitation. “I won’t kill another dog, not even you. Never. Raaq will not have my soul.”
“Coward. Simple little pup—”
“You lie” the mongrel pronounced firmly. “You’re so much bigger than I am, I refuse to fight you, and yet still you’ll kill me, even though I’ve done you no wrong. Who’s the coward, Dragon?”
“Coward or not, you’re a dead dog,” the Wolfhound told him, but before he could spring, they were both distracted by a sound.
Boots against concrete. Footsteps.
Something was walking toward them along Cayuga Street, hazy in the fog.
“Would you like to see how I kill a human being, mange?”
“No.” Luther begged. “No, Dragon, you can’t.”
“It’s easy,” The Wolfhound assured him. “But you can always try and stop me.”
“Dragon, NO!”
Too late. The Purebred was already in motion, teeth bared. Luther barked a warning to the approaching Master but the human seemed not to hear and came right on. In that moment Luther was caught on the horns of a greater dilemma than he had ever known before.
Then Dragon reached the Master and leaped up, and in a flash the mongrel’s decision was made. “Damn you,” he said. “Damn you, then.” He rushed forward himself, intending a suicidal attack on the Wolfhound’s flank. What he did not know was that the Wolfhound’s decision to attack had been just as suicidal.
Dragon’s front paws slammed into the Master’s bosom—it was a woman—and he put his full momentum behind knocking her over. But the Master did not oblige. She did not fall; she did not even stagger. Instead she raised her arms, and as the Wolfhound angled his jaws in for her throat, locked strong hands around his neck.
Cold hands.
Plastic hands.
“Whuh—?” Halted just as surely as if an iron leash had been pulled taut, Dragon’s head jerked back, and he found himself staring into the glowing blue eyes of the Rubbermaid. Luther saw the eyes too and stopped short, terrified.
“Raaq . . .” he whispered.
“No,” the Purebred insisted. Dragon struggled to free himself, but he could not bring his jaws close enough to bite, and it would have been useless anyway. The Rubbermaid’s body was hard, unyielding; only its hands flexed, and those only to tighten around the Wolfhound’s neck.
“What are you?” Dragon demanded, trying to bark but finding no air to do it with. “What are you?” He tore at the ‘Maid with his paws but it felt no pain, just kept on smiling a synthetic smile as it wrung the life out of him. Darkness closed in around his mind, and near the end it seemed that the Rubbermaid changed. Its eyes remained the same, but the face swelled, expanding, became that of a dog, an impossibly huge dog composed of light and shadow. Welcome home, ‘Bred, it greeted him.
“NO!” Dragon roared in his mind. Luther could not see what he was seeing, but felt the torment. The Wolfhound’s back paws scrabbled desperately against the pavement, scraped themselves bloody as he made a last attempt to escape. “I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’M—”
The crack of his neck breaking was a small sound compared to the thunder. The Rubbermaid tossed his carcass aside like a toy in which it had lost all interest. It turned its eyes to Luther.
“You stay away, Devil,” the mongrel told it, backing up. The mannequin cocked its head—the police officer’s hat was still firmly in place—and walked toward him, not hurrying, moving in slow and easy strides.
That was when the patrol car came barreling out of the fog.
VII.
Hollister sensed the Rubbermaid up ahead even before the headlights picked out its shape in the fog. She stomped on the gas, giving Doubleday just enough time to cry “Wh—” before the mannequin whipped into view and was struck by the front fender. Hollister had thought to either run the ‘Maid down and under or knock it out and away, broken, but neither of these things happened. Instead the Rubbermaid fell deliberately forward across the hood, reaching out for them as if that were exactly what it had intended to do.
“Oh fuck!” Hollister spat, for the beginning of The Commons was just ahead and she was out of driving room. She switched from the gas to the brakes and swung a hard left; the car spun onto Cayuga Street and slammed sideways into a parked van, stalling. Doubleday’s head racked up against the passenger window hard enough to star the glass.
Hollister couldn’t believe her eyes. The Rubbermaid had lost its hat but continued to cling effortlessly to the hood, like an unwanted ornament. With the patrol car at rest it reached forward again, smiling. A plastic knuckle rapped at the windshield and cracks spiraled out from the touch.
“Doubleday,” Hollister said, but her partner was out cold, blood running down the side of his head. She snatched the shotgun off his lap just as the Rubbermaid thrust a fist through the windshield. The hand grabbed eagerly at the front of Hollister’s jacket.
“Wrong,” Hollister told it, and as she brought the weapon up she could hear a dog barking outside somewhere. The sound of the gun going off was the loudest thing she had ever heard; the windshield erupted outwards and the right side of the Rubbermaid’s head evaporated. The mannequin reeled back all of two feet . . . and then leaned forward again, fingers questing.
Hollister had her seatbelt off before she knew she was doing it. She yanked at the door handle, which stuck; threw herself at it, and spilled out onto the street when it abruptly gave way. She landed hard but held onto the gun, pumping another shell into the chamber as she rolled away from the car.
The Rubbermaid came down off the hood, the cruel grace of its movement unchanged. Its head was a cracked ruin but one eye still glared blue, and whatever remained of its mouth might well be curled up in a grin, though that was hard to see. Hollister raised the shotgun and fired a second time, taking off the other half of its head, eye winking out like a shattered beacon.
Decapitated and blind, the mannequin kept right on coming. The stolen police jacket it wore swayed loose on its shoulders.
“Anne Boleyn on a cross.” Hollister was sitting on the asphalt and did not waste time trying to get up. She pistoned her legs and slid backwards on her ass, pumping the shotgun. She fired again, hitting the ‘Maid in the left shoulder; its arm sagged, then dropped whole out of the sleeve, fingers still clenching and unclenching as it landed on the pavement.
Hollister pumped the gun, and fired again; the blast struck the mannequin in the thigh, and at last its stride altered, its leg dragging. Hollister fired again—last shot—and the entire leg fell away. The Rubbermaid twisted and dropped, its upper torso striking Hollister's boot as it toppled. She scampered back, kicking at it.
“Goddamn you stop moving!” she shouted, as the Rubbermaid’s still-attached arm stretched for her. Its fingers stroked the asphalt searchingly; as they crawled closer Hollister raised the butt of the shotgun and prepared to use it as a club. But at last the mannequin seemed to give up the ghost. Its fingers froze all of a sudden; its mutilated body grew rigid. Still Hollister did not relax, expecting some trick. But the Rubbermaid did not move again.
A little black-and-white dog—no doubt the one that had been doing the barking—padded into view now. It went over to the remains of the ‘Maid, cautious at first, and sniffed at them. Then, as if to make a final statement on the matter, the dog raised a leg to the mannequin and urinated briskly on it. Lightning flashed to give a better view of the action.
“Jesus . . .” Hollister let out her breath in a gush and nearly passed out. In the aftermath of fear exhaustion swept over her, fighting to drag her down. And it would be good, good to just lie down here on the pavement and sleep . . .
In a moment, the dog came over and began to lick her face.
VIII.
The motorcycle drove north past the law school, past the great courtyard between Myron and Anabel Taylor Halls. George thought of Richard Fariña, who had written of this place in his Cornell novel, calling it a perfect place for duels. So it was; but Stephen George knew of one place even better.
North, north up Central Avenue. In the fog George could not see the Tower, but he knew it was there. And just beyond, the Quad. As they drew near his hands were damp, and not merely from the moisture in the air.