Poison City

by Paul Crilley

  Then, just to get my message across, I lift my hand and stick my thumb in its eye, gouging as deep as I can.

  The Matchstick Man snarls in pain and fury and drops me to the sand. I manage to keep my feet beneath me. ‘Do your worst, laughing boy.’

  The Matchstick Man lashes out. A lunging pain in my neck. A sudden wind on my throat. Cool air caressing muscles that are not meant to be exposed.

  Blood bubbles out of my shredded throat, pouring down my chest.

  I smile.

  And collapse back into the ocean.

  The waves pull me out. I’m turned over by the current, staring into the dark nothing of the sea. I taste metal in the water. My blood. It’s cold. Freezing. I can’t see anything. Darkness closes in on my mind. I feel a sudden panic. This is it. I’m dead. But I don’t want to die. I’m pissed off it happened this way. A stupid ambush after a night out drinking. Pissed off I wasn’t prepared. Pissed off at everything, basically.

  Your life doesn’t flash before you when you die. You just realize what a complete prick you’ve been. How small a difference you’ve actually made in the world.

  Then Yemanja is floating before me. She touches me and the pain winks out. Vanishes. She comes closer, her hands caressing my face. I’m drawn into her eyes. Can’t look away as she leans in and her lips brush mine.

  A burst of freezing heat. My body jolts. My skin tingles. Every nerve end on fire. Her tongue darts softly into my mouth, touches mine.

  I try to pull closer but then the touch is gone and she’s floating backwards again.

  You are mine now, Gideon Tau. And my blessing is yours.

  My wand is in my hand. The blackness recedes and once again I’m floating face down in the sea. But I feel refreshed. Like I’ve slept for twenty hours straight. I hesitantly reach up with my free hand and touch my throat. The wound is gone. My arm is healed.

  Yemanja has claimed me. She is my goddess now.

  I smile and push myself to my feet. I’ve floated far enough out that the ocean comes up to my hips. I start wading back to shore. The Matchstick Man and his Smilers are walking away.

  ‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet!’

  They turn. I hear their hisses of fury and the Smilers come for me, loping on all fours.

  I raise the wand like a conductor and the seawater obeys my summons. It rises in a wave behind me, a wall of dark, ancient water.

  Blessed water.

  Holy water.

  I flick my wrist and the water surges past me, parting around my body and engulfing the Smilers in a mini tsunami. Their shrieks of pain and terror echo across the beach as the water coats their skin, gets in their mouths, down their throats.

  The Smilers fall to the sand, rolling, howling. Their skin is sloughing off their bodies, dropping away in huge, peeling chunks. Their fluids pool around them, leaking and soaking into the sand.

  Their cries grow weaker, turn into mewling whines. Foul smelling smoke wafts into the air.

  I peer through it and see the Matchstick Man making a break for it.

  I start running, sprinting across the beach. I flick my hand and the water comes with me, a surging wave that keeps pace to either side.

  The Matchstick Man glances over its shoulder, sees me coming. It trips, falls to its knees.

  I stop and let the water carry on. It smashes into the creature, sending it tumbling across the sand. It pushes itself to its knees and just stares at me as its skin slides off its face. All of it just . . . melting away like it was burning beneath a blowtorch.

  ‘I will see you soon,’ it says, its voice a wet gurgle. ‘The war . . . the war is coming, Mr Tau.’

  A final puff of cloying smoke, and the Matchstick Man’s head falls from its neck, hitting the sand and collapsing to sludge.

  Chapter 8

  New discovery: being stalked and then murdered by a pack of psycho, slit-faced vampires makes a person a bit twitchy and paranoid.

  Who’d have figured?

  Physically, I feel fine. Great even. But psychologically? Not so good. I can feel those claws ripping skin off my back, gouging out my throat. I keep reliving the utter, body-freezing pain of it.

  I died. I felt my presence slip away into the water, the blackness coming to claim me. Not many people come back from that. Which is something, I suppose. A topic for the next dinner party.

  I crouch in the shadows of a palm tree, checking both ways to make sure there are no more surprises waiting in store. I keep expecting another attack. I’m checking faces, eyes, worried that the late-night revellers are just waiting for me to step out of cover.

  I can’t stay here all night, though. I force myself to move, jogging across the esplanade and onto the sidewalk bordering the hotels and flats. People swerve to avoid me, staring at me with wide eyes.

  I glance down.

  Then stumble to a stop.

  ‘God-fucking-dammit!’

  A woman squeals in fear and scurries away from the crazy man standing in the street swearing. Screw her. That’s another suit ruined. Ripped to shreds and covered in blood and vampire death-jizz. I need to take out some insurance or something, because this is just getting ridiculous.

  I straighten up and force myself to calm down. I need to get home. Need to reassess and decide on my next move. Whatever it is, it’s going to have consequences. Big ones. Kincaid is – was – a friend of the Division. The vampires have long been supporters of the Covenant, and for his subjects to so easily break it and attack a member of Delphic Division is pure insanity. They’re calling down the wrath of the entire SA supernatural police force onto their heads.

  I mean, there’s a chance he didn’t know about what went down. But if so, that raises a whole shitload of questions about him not controlling his subjects. But if he did know about it, it means he’s involved in Armitage’s death.

  I really hope he’s not. I actually looked on him as a bit of a friend.

  But . . . another thing to think about. The killer. The big guy from the mountains. If Kincaid is involved, does that mean he knows who the man is? Can Kincaid give me a location? The name of the man who killed Cally?

  I make it back to the Windemere building without collapsing, vomiting, or killing anyone in a fit of paranoia, stagger through the glass doors and up to my flat. I stumble inside and slam the door, locking everything. Grab a bottle of Glenmorangie from the top of the fridge and gulp some down.

  I wince as it hits my stomach, lean on the counter, breathing heavily.

  The dog looks up from his chair. ‘Good night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Christ, you’re not still moping about Armitage, are you? You have to move on. The past is in the past.’

  ‘It only happened twelve hours ago!’

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘It feels longer. So what’s bugging you?

  ‘I was just attacked by a pack of Smilers and a Matchstick Man.’

  The dog tilts his head to the side, puzzled. ‘But . . . the Covenant . . .’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Seems a lot of orisha don’t really hold with the Covenant anymore.’

  ‘How did you get away from—?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Swallow. Wince. ‘It ripped my throat out. I died.’

  ‘Oh. You look pretty healthy—’

  ‘Yemanja brought me back. But only after I sacrificed myself to her.’

  ‘And she killed them?’

  ‘No. She blessed the ocean water and I used it to destroy them.’

  The dog turns back to the TV. ‘There you go then. All’s well that ends well.’

  I just stare at him, unsure if he’s being genuine or trying to wind me up.

  ‘You’re supposed to be my guide,’ I say, deciding to just move on. ‘Have you heard anything about the Covenant no longer holding?’

  ‘Nope. Not a thing.’ He doesn’t look away from his movie, but half-glances my way when I don’t reply. ‘It’s worrying,’ he adds.

  ‘Gee, you think?’ It’s a
waste of time. Sarcasm is lost on the dog. Or he simply ignores it. Not sure which.

  My phone is ruined from the seawater. I head into my room and dig out one of my older models (I’m a serial upgrader). I take the sim card out of the ruined phone and wipe it down, making sure there’s no salt left anywhere. Then I insert it into the older phone, hook it up to my laptop, and restore all my contacts from the backup.

  I grab my iPad while it’s doing its thing, log into GHOST, and scroll through the entries for Kincaid’s number. All orisha who have contact with the Division have their details listed. It’s a voluntary thing, so those that give us their numbers are generally friendly. Or at least neutral.

  I find his number and dial it on the landline. The phone rings for a long time before it’s finally answered.

  ‘Talk,’ says a voice.

  ‘Kincaid,’ I say. ‘Long time no speak. It’s Gideon Tau.’

  Silence.

  ‘Kincaid?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. What can I do for you, my man?’

  ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘Might not be a good idea.’

  Is it my imagination, or is he sounding nervous? Not sure, really. I’ve never talked to a nervous vampire before. He doesn’t sound right, though. I’ll say that.

  ‘Unavoidable,’ I say. ‘Things have been going down the past couple of days that have got Division worried. Remember our deal?’

  As well as helping Kincaid out with that attempted coup, he’s also friendly to us because he’s on probation. He’s allowed freedom as long as he doesn’t try to enslave the government of the country. Again.

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Good. We need to meet.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You still at that old warehouse in the city?’

  ‘No. I mean, yeah, but I can’t meet you there. Look, can’t we do this over the phone?’

  ‘Sorry. This is face to face only. Some of your subjects have been a bit naughty.’

  ‘Christ, fine. Look, you know the BAT centre?’

  I shudder. A cafe/cocktail bar for hipsters and folk music. ‘I know of it.’

  ‘A boat will be waiting for you there.’

  ‘A boat? I don’t like the ocean, Kincaid.’ I look around guiltily as I say this, hoping Yemanja isn’t somehow able to hear me.

  ‘That’s the deal, London. I’m taking a risk meeting you. This has to be done on the down-low.’

  I chew on my lip for a moment. That doesn’t sound good. ‘Fine. But I need a guarantee of safe passage.’

  Silence on the line.

  ‘Kincaid?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Another pause. ‘Fine. You have safe passage. But only you. No one else from Division.’

  ‘Guaranteed? In the name of Ekimmu?’ Ekimmu was a Sumerian vampire, the first of their kind. It’s sort of like swearing on the bible. But a lot more serious.

  ‘Guaranteed. On the name of Ekimmu.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  I hang up. The dog is watching me with that look on his face.

  ‘You . . . ah . . . heard all that?’

  ‘I heard it. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’ I say defensively.

  ‘Are you really going to a meeting, alone, with a vampire, at night, out in the middle of the ocean, when a vampire pack just tried to kill you?’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  ‘Don’t be a smartarse.’

  ‘Sorry. But yeah, I am.’

  ‘Then enlighten me. You have Division backup hiding somewhere?’

  ‘Nope. But you’re coming with me, so it will be fine. Actually, you’re not leaving my side till this is over, OK?’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘Speaking of which, where were you tonight? Couldn’t you . . . I don’t know . . . sense a disturbance in the Force or something when those vampires came after me?’

  ‘Doesn’t work that way. Besides I was watching my soaps. You know I don’t notice anything when I’m watching my soaps.’

  ‘It’s really great you have your priorities in order, dog. Come on. We’re going for a boat ride. And I really hope you get seasick.’

  The BAT centre is only a couple of kays away along the beachfront so I grab my semi-charged phone and walk, hoping the exercise will clear my head. When we arrive we wait around the side of the building, standing next to an old graffiti piece spelling out the initials of the centre by someone called Lyken.

  I got the dog to cast the protective ward on me before we left the house. I feel hyped up, filled with energy. Buzzing.

  ‘Keep still,’ mutters the dog. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

  I ignore him, bouncing on the soles of my feet, listening to someone attempting to play Cat Stevens up in the cafe. I still can’t figure out what’s going on here. I’m supposed to be a detective, but don’t let that fool you. It’s nothing like it is on TV. No grand leaps of logic or anything like that. It usually comes down to joining the dots, following one aspect of the case to its eventual dead end, then following another, and another, until one of them connects to something interesting. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. But right now all I have is a dead ramanga, a dead friend, the fact that the murderer was involved in my daughter’s death, and that it looks like the vampires are somehow involved.

  But then . . . Jengo was a ramanga. A vampire. Why would they kill one of their own?

  ‘Hey,’ says the dog. ‘Time to get into character.’

  He’s staring out into the ocean. I follow his gaze and see a small speed boat bouncing over the waves towards us. It doesn’t have any lights on, but whoever’s driving seems to be handling it just fine. Not that it can be that difficult. Point it in the direction of the shitty music and put foot down.

  The engine cuts out about twenty feet out and the boat coasts the rest of the way and slides part way onto the sand. There are two figures inside. I hop over the low wall onto the beach and approach them. They’re both vampires – male and female, but I can’t tell what caste.

  ‘You London?’ the girl asks.

  ‘Yeah. Kincaid told you I had guaranteed safe passage, right?’

  ‘You think we’re going to eat you? Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.’

  ‘What’s your type?’

  ‘O negative.’

  ‘Har-de-fucking-har,’ I say. Just what I need. A vampire who thinks she’s a standup comedian.

  I climb in the boat. The dude looks at the dog doubtfully. ‘Kincaid said only you.’

  ‘Come on, man. He’s my dog. He goes everywhere with me. He gets upset if I leave him in the flat. Don’t you, boy?’

  -I’m going to piss in your bed- says the dog in my mind.

  ‘Let’s just go,’ says the chick. She leans against the front of the boat (what is that? The prow? I’ve never been big on nautical terms), and effortlessly shoves the boat back along the sand until it’s bobbing in the water. She pushes it around so it’s pointing back out to sea and hops in to start the engine.

  A couple of seconds later we’re heading out into the open waters, the cold sea spray soaking my face and doubts collecting in my mind.

  After about twenty minutes, the boat shifts direction slightly and I realize we’re heading towards a cargo freighter, one of those flat container ships that carries goods in truck-sized metal boxes.

  The freighter is huge, easily 150 metres long. Arc lights surrounded by haloes of mist light the deck, illuminating the red, yellow, and green containers, hundreds of them stacked one atop the other like massive Lego blocks.

  ‘Who owns that? Kincaid?’ I ask.

  ‘Kincaid has many business interests,’ says the girl. ‘What – you think we’re just bloodthirsty animals who wander round the streets looking for our next meal? This is the twenty-first century, man. We have corporations, business deals. You name it, we’ve got our finger in it.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Huntley,’ says the dude.

  ‘Christ, Jarvis. I’m just saying
. The prick thinks we’re simple.’

  ‘Insecure much?’ I ask.

  Huntley whirls around and bares her teeth at me. The moon glints rather dramatically on her fangs.

  ‘Diplomatic immunity,’ I say. ‘I don’t think Kincaid is going to be happy if you disobey his orders.’

  ‘Kincaid can suck my—’

  ‘Huntley!’ barks the other vampire. ‘Enough.’

  She glares at him, but turns back to focus on the steering.

  The sheer scale of the container ship becomes apparent as we draw closer. It dominates the ocean, rising high above us, a giant metal monstrosity. Huntley guides the tiny speedboat around to the rear, jouncing and skimming over the crosscurrents thrown up by the huge hull.

  There’s a massive open space at the back, a black mouth that looks like it’s spitting out seawater as the container ship moves slowly forward. Huntley takes us inside, the light of the moon winking off as if a switch has been thrown. Orange lights bolted into the metal hull illuminate the interior. The speed boat slows, the engine dropping to a throaty growl as it bumps up against the side of the ship.

  Huntley and Jarvis hop out onto a narrow deck. I start to pull myself up after them, am yanked the rest of the way by the inhuman strength of Huntley. She tosses me to the side and I stumble against the hull. Jarvis opens a rusted metal door. White light spills out, revealing a narrow corridor beyond.

  ‘Move,’ says Huntley.

  ‘Where to?’

  Huntley growls and shoves me aside, taking the lead. The dog and I go next and Jarvis takes the rear. Bulbs bolted behind thick safety glass illuminate the way. The metal grating in the floor rings with our footsteps.

  After a few turns we arrive in a wider corridor. A set of stairs leads up to what I assume is the bridge. Huntley ignores it, heads through another door into a brightly lit hold.

  Our footsteps echo as we step inside. The hold is easily the size of a school gymnasium, the curved metal walls painted white. There are more metal containers in here, towering high above us to either side.

  Thirty metres in and we arrive at a separator wall. We duck through the door into a second, identical hold.

  ‘What’s in the containers?’ I ask.