They shook hands without another word and parted at the entrance to the park.
Chapter 25
THE KURGAN LIKED modern cities. They were seething with violence, always ready to explode. He liked the fever of the streets, especially in New York. Everything was close to the surface. If you stopped to listen, you could hear the city screaming, in a thousand different ways, through a thousand separate mouths.
You could feel the tension in the air. You could sense it was ready to snap.
There was always a climate of despair hanging over the false gaiety. Drunks had sudden insights to the deeper layers of the city, and tried to warn others, but people took no notice. People thought they had control. Then, occasionally, something happened - like a series of decapitations - which showed them they did not, and the normal quiet panic moved into the hysteria zone.
A salesman was talking to Kenny, in the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel. There were beer cans lying in a crushed heap on the counter between them.
‘I mean, what are the slobs doing about it, huh?’
‘Zactly,’ confirmed Kenny, crushing another beer can as if it were made of inch-thick steel and not paperthin aluminium. Kenny thought he was one of the toughest guys in the neighbourhood. The newscaster was saying: ‘That’s the mood of New York at this moment. An angry city in the grip of fear. So far the police department is continuing a vigorous investigation and following up on a number of promising leads. A Headhunter Hotline has been. . .’
‘A number of promising leads,’ sneered the salesman.
‘Those guys couldn’t find their own dicks.’
‘They have dicks? News to me,’ said Kenny.
The Kurgan had heard most of this conversation from within his room, since the walls in the hotel were about as thick as toilet paper. He came out now, slamming the door behind him. As usual, he was dressed in his old black leathers. His sword was already in his car. Tonight was headhunting night. .. .
The Kurgan tossed the room key to Kenny as he passed the desk.
‘Hey, Rockefeller,’ called Kenny, lazily, ‘hoped you liked Candy again. She said you were kinda - uh – kinky last night.’
The salesman sniggered and took a slurp of his beer.
The Kurgan stopped in the doorway and turned. He stared at the heap of crushed beer cans. There was a steel ashtray next to these and the Kurgan picked it up and with one hand reduced it to the same state as the individual beer cans. He tossed it onto the pile, while the salesman and Kenny stared at him, boggle-eyed. He leaned on the counter and said to Kenny, ‘Don’t you ever speak to me again.’
Kenny babbled, ‘I - Look, I didn’t mean - ‘
The Kurgan reached over the counter and took him by the collar, lifting him off the floor.
‘You’re not listening, Kenny. I said, don’t ever speak to me again.’
Kenny wisely remained silent. He was beginning to choke.
‘Understand?’ whispered the Kurgan.
‘Yeah. . .’
‘Good.’
The Kurgan tossed him onto the floor. By this time the salesman had hurried away and the only other witness was the old wino who sat in the doorway. The Kurgan stepped past him as Kenny glared at the Kurgan’s retreating form. Once he was safely out of earshot, Kenny shouted, ‘I hope you get your head chopped off, arsehole!’ The old wino laughed.
‘Shut it!’ said Kenny.
‘Anything I can do for you, Mr...’
‘Shut it!’ screamed Kenny, slamming his fist down on the counter. The beer cans jumped and scattered, some of them falling on the floor.
‘Tough guy,’ said the old black. ‘Tough guy. . .’
At the time the Kurgan left the hotel, there was a car cruising the streets of New York. In its trunk were three Remington over-and-under pump-action shotguns, four hunting knives, a Colt 1911 automatic pistol with seven spare clips and a Harrington and Richardson .32 hammerless blowback.
On the passenger seat, next to the driver, was a Schmeisser MP40 submachine gun with a full clip of 32 rounds of .303 ammunition, with another clip on the dashboard. The tape recorder was playing a series of Vietnam War songs, which the driver was singing along to in a morose fashion.
The driver’s name was Kirk Matunas and he was what is affectionately known as a gun nut. He was an ex-Nam veteran who considered the streets of New York to be every bit as dangerous as the jungles he fought in out there in Asia, and a visit to the liquor store was every bit as hazardous as a long-range patrol into Cong territory. He had seen ‘Rambo’ seventeen times, read ‘Dispatches’ five times and his favourite song was ‘Goodnight Saigon’ by Billy Joel.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ he told his friends, neighbours and relations. ‘You gotta protect yourself in this city. People get killed every day.’ .
Kirk Matunas was as paranoid as a rabbit living on a foxfur farm.
Matunas eyed passers-by with great suspicion as he sped through the slick, wet streets, gleaming after a recent shower of rain. Even the little old woman with a paper shopping bag might be carrying a grenade amongst the cat food. You couldn’t be too careful. He drove past a line of hookers and scowled at them. A hooker had given him a present in Saigon - one he found difficult to get rid of, even with modern penicillin. He passed an alley and glanced down. There was a flash of something in the depths of its darkness.
What the hell was that? Matunas stopped the car and put it in reverse. He edged the car backwards, switching off the tape deck at the same time.
He stared down the alley. A couple of figures were struggling together and when Matunas wound down the window of his car he could hear grunts and the clash of metal on metal.
‘Somethin’ going down here,’ he muttered.
He picked up the Schmeisser and got out of the vehicle. Remembering his training, he zig-zagged across the road and crouched by the corner. There were two men, fighting, with swords, at the back of the alley. A black guy and a huge white man. Matunas could see the blades flashing in the light from a neon sign opposite. Swords? What the hell? These guys were trying to cut each other to pieces. Matunas contemplated on going back to the car to fetch one of the shotguns, but decided against it. The machine pistol would have to do.
‘They better not mess with me,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll cut the bastards in half. I’ll stitch belts across their bellies. I’ll . . .’
He stopped as one of the men kicked the other in the groin and ran his sword through his opponent’s left arm. Though there was no pause in the fighting, Matunas took the opportunity of dashing behind some garbage cans, to get a better view. One of the swordsmen struck a fire escape ladder with his weapon and a shower of sparks lit the scene for a moment.
‘Jesus,’ whispered Matunas to himself. He thought that these two were maybe some crazy martial arts fanatics what was it? Kendo? Maybe they were just practising or something? But he had seen one wound the other, so that was not it. They were serious all right. Should he intervene and march them down to the nearest cop?
Whatever the cause of the fight, it was not an American way of settling a dispute. All these imported fighting styles annoyed Matunas. He preferred the good old home-grown stuff. What was wrong with a good redneck punchout? Or if you wanted to hurt someone permanently, a standup gunfight? All this slapping around, chopping with the edge of the hand, barefoot kicking and battling with sticks and swords - hell, that was for faggots.
‘Okay, Marine,’ he said to himself. ‘This is for real. Let’s go. . .’
But he was mesmerized by the clashing swords and the silent, ferocious way the two combatants strove to cut chunks from one another. Their footwork and swordplay was brilliant - so far as he could make out anyway, having only seen such stuff in the movies. He could hear the whistle of thin steel blades slicing air and caught the lightning flash as they arced through the neon-lighted alley.
Suddenly he found himself shouting. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
No answer. ‘What? One of you guys better ans
wer me.’ Nothing. The fight continued.
‘This is the last time I’m asking.’
He was completely ignored. Just as he was shouting, he sensed a desperation creeping into one of the fighters. The black guy. He saw the man slash wildly at his opponent, three or four times. Then he seemed to stumble. The big white guy gave a yell of triumph and stepped forward, the huge broadsword held above his head.
‘Wait. . .’ cried Matunas.
But even before the shout was free of his tongue, the sword came down. It sliced neatly through the black guy’s neck. The head jumped a little on the stump, then dropped with a clatter amongst the trash cans. It rolled into a puddle of filth, alongside a split parcel of rotten cabbage stalks.
‘Christ Almighty!’ screamed Matunas.
His stomach flapped and he fought down a wave of nausea and fear which both came at the same time. The swordsman who was still standing looked down the alley at him. Matunas stood up and backed off a couple of paces. He cocked the Schmeisser and flipped off the safety catch.
‘You!’ growled the killer, pointing at him. ‘Come.’
‘Fuck you,’ squealed Matunas, and pulled the trigger of the machine gun. Bullets sprayed into the alley at the rate of 500 per minute. Matunas emptied the whole clip of 32 in less than four seconds. Practically all of them struck the big guy somewhere on his body. The swordsman jerked as the lead missiles tore through him.
‘Ha!’ yelled Matunas, high on adrenalin. People began to appear at the end of the alley. Witnesses do not always see what is actually there, before their eyes. When something extraordinary happens, the brain sometimes refuses to accept what the eyes are transmitting to it and substitutes what it believes is the correct, accurate picture. The brain is an organ that has been conditioned into accepting only what it expects. High on feverish excitement, what Matunas saw was what he expected to see. The big white guy had been holed by twenty-five rounds of .303 ammunition and therefore he fell to the ground, beside the headless corpse of his previous adversary, and lay still. That was what Matunas saw, as he walked forward to inspect the body. Then he found someone blocking his way.
It was a huge man in leathers wielding a broadsword. Matunas looked at the ground. There was only one corpse lying there. He shook his head. Something weird was happening.
‘You should be dead,’ he said, hollowly, to the giant in front of him.
‘I know,’ smiled the man. ‘Disappointing isn’t it?’
‘What the hell’s going on? You’re full of lead.’
‘And you’re full of shit,’ smiled the man.
Matunas walked over to the black guy’s corpse. ‘Who’s this?’
‘That was Kastagir - that was.’
Yet he still could not figure it out. He turned to say something else and he felt the strangest sensation in his gut. Looking down, he saw that the wide blade of the big guy’s sword was buried in his belly. The other man was still smiling at him. He dropped the Schmeisser as the pain finally reached his brain and jangled there.
‘Hey. . .’ he said. He gripped the swordblade and tried to wrench it from his gut, but the other man was pushing it in deeper. Matunas found the edges of the steel slicing into his fingers. There were screams and shouts coming from the crowd at the entrance of the alley, but no one moved to help Matunas. It was almost as if they were watching some gory revenge drama and could not interfere with the actors.
‘Here you go,’ cried the swordsman.
Matunas felt himself being lifted off his feet and high above the giant’s head, still stuck on the end of the sword, like a skewered fish. The pain was incredible. He tried to stop himself sliding further down onto the blade, but kept blacking-out and coming-to in rapid waves. There were fresh screams from the end of the alley. Someone shouted,
‘Let him down, you bastard!’
The giant looked up into Matunas’s eyes.
‘They want me to let you down. Isn’t that thoughtful of them ?’
Matunas grunted. All his limbs were on fire. Lights were passing before his eyes. His brain was splitting down the middle. Then he felt himself flying through the air. He landed with a solid thump amongst some rubbish-filled cardboard boxes at the side of the alley. He felt his stomach and found something poking through his shirt. He poked it back again, in case it was one of his intestines.
At that moment, all around the alley, neon signs began to explode, showering passers-by with clouds of glass. Windows, behind the signs, shattered, sending their fragments flying into the streets below. In the alley itself, a manhole cover launched itself upwards, like a rocket, and went spinning, end-over-end, like a coin being tossed. The giant swordsman screamed.
‘Die you bastard,’ groaned Matunas, thinking he was getting his at last.
Lightning snaked along the walls of the alley, sizzling through the damp brickwork. More neon signs blew up. Nearby a generator whined into action, began to race, and finally blew a gasket.
‘YES!’ screamed the swordsman.
The engine of a dumped car sent bolts ripping through the hood that covered it, like bullets thrown into a fire. Then the swordsman seemed to recover. He lowered his arms and began striding towards the entrance to the alley. People scuttled out of his way, yelling and shouting, as others held them back.
Chapter 26
THE KURGAN FELT revitalised by Kastagir’s death. Now there was only one left. MacLeod. The prize was within reach. Just another step, another quick beheading, and the prize would be his.
He pushed aside the crowd at the entrance to the alley. ‘Get out of my way,’ he growled.
They did their best. The sight of his sword was enough to get them clawing at each other’s clothes in order to clear his path for him. In the roadway beyond the alley, an old couple had stopped their car and were trying to peer over the heads of the crowd to see what was happening. Sirens were going, in the distance, now. The Kurgan decided to quit the scene, immediately. He walked to the car, took a grip on the canvas roof and ripped it off. Two frightened faces looked up at him.
‘What’s going on, young man?’ said the woman in a tremulous tone.
‘What’s going on? I’ve just cut someone’s head off, that’s what’s going on.’ He poked down at them with the sword.
‘Oh dear,’ said the old man, still gripping the wheel. ‘I suppose you want a ride?’
‘You could say that, but I want to drive,’ said the Kurgan.
He reached inside the car and took the old man by the back of his collar and lifted him out of his seat. Then he whirled him round his head and threw him into the crowd. People went down like bowling skittles. The Kurgan leapt over the top of the car and into the driver’s seat. The engine was still running. He turned to the little old woman, who shrank from him.
‘Momma!’ he cried, delightedly, then roared away from the kerb. She screamed.
By this time the old man was on his feet and running after the car.
‘Where are you going with my wife?’ he shrieked. The old woman was standing up on the front seat now, gripping the edge of the windshield.
‘Help me, Daddy!’ she screamed to her husband. ‘Daddy, help me!’
In her terror she began to climb over the edge of the windshield onto the hood of the car. The Kurgan laughed and began weaving the vehicle. The old woman’s feet went from under her and she had both hands on the corner of the windscreen and was slipping from side to side like a wiper. She was screaming all the while. When they had gone about half a mile the Kurgan stopped the car, peeled the hysterical woman from the bonnet, then continued his journey.
He dumped the vehicle before he got back to his hotel. The sword was dismantled and placed in its various pockets within the leather jacket. Then he went into a bar and ordered a drink, while he watched the mop-up operations on the television. The camera had just zoomed in on the headless corpse of Kastagir. The barman was cleaning one of his glasses and he stopped in mid-wipe.
‘God, look at that mess,’ h
e said. ‘Makes you want to puke, don’t it?’
‘You puke,’ said the Kurgan. ‘I’ll just have another drink. ‘
‘But no head! Have they found his head yet?’
‘Vodka. A double. No ice.’ The barman served him without taking his eyes from the screen above the bar.
‘They can’t find his head.’
The Kurgan growled, ‘It’s in the puddle, at the far end.
You can’t see it, because it’s black and there’s oil in the water .’
‘Ah,’ cried the barman. ‘They’ve found it - in a pool of water, by the look...’ He turned away from the screen.
‘Uggh. That’s enough of that for one night. I think I’ll have a strong one myself for once.’
‘You can pay for it yourself,’ said the Kurgan.
The barman was affronted. ‘No one asked you to buy anything.’
‘That’s good, because I’m a very poor man.’
‘When are they gonna catch that guy - that’s what I want to know.’
‘Never,’ said the Kurgan.
The newscaster’s face came on the screen then. His coat collar was turned up, to show that he was out in all weathers, just to get the news to his viewers. He hugged the microphone close to his chest.
‘... last the police have a description of the assailant. He appears to be a man in his early thirties, tall Caucasian, about seven feet so witnesses say - dark hair and dark eyes. Apparently there is a large white scar on his throat. . .’
The Kurgan fingered the place where Ramirez had sliced through a third of his neck. The barman was staring at the Kurgan now, narrowing his eyes in an effort to improve his vision in the dim light.
The Kurgan pointed to his own head.
‘Black hair,’ he said. Then he pointed to his throat.‘
Nasty scar.’
The barman glanced at the doorway as if he expected, or hoped, someone was on their way in. Apart from the Kurgan, the rest of the bar was empty.
‘Must be lots a people look like that,’ gulped the barman. ‘You been to Nam? I knew a guy once - he had a scar like that from Nam. Some gook . . .’
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