The Blue Blazes

by Chuck Wendig

  “I want to talk to Mookie.”

  “Mookie’s not available.”

  “I have something for him.”

  Werth stops. Breathes into the phone. Then finally he hurries to the door and shuts it gently. “What kind of something?”

  “I’m not telling you that, Werth.” So she knows who he is, too.

  “You’re pretending what, I’m the asshole here? I trust you about as far as I can drop-kick you. And since these days I’m basically an old gimp, that ain’t very fucking far.”

  “You sent guys to my place to kill us. One of my girls is dead.”

  “Guys sent to your place? I didn’t do that.”

  “Quit lightin’ up the tilt sign. Your pants are on fire, liar.”

  “I’m not–”Again he hears his voice. It’s agitated. Ladled with anger. He tries to calm down but keep the urgency in his voice. “You want the truth? OK. Mookie got busted. He’s here at the Boss’s place chained to a chair and a table because he’s on the hook for Casimir Zoladski’s murder. He probably doesn’t have long before they…” He pictures one of those reaper-cloak shadow-things going to town on him. “He doesn’t have long. So what do you have?”

  Silence on the other line. Once upon a time, you’d hear a dial tone, but now – now he’s got to talk into the void. “Hello? Hey. Did you fuckin’ hang up on–”

  “I’m here. I know who killed the grandson.”

  “Lemme guess. Some handsome prick in a beige suit.”

  A pause. “No.”

  “Then who is it? And how the hell do you know?”

  “We have the ghost of Casimir Zoladski.”

  Jesus.

  “Who killed him?”

  “You can see it for yourself.”

  “I can’t… I can’t get out of here. They’ve got me trapped. Just tell me who did it.”

  It’s then she tells him the story. Of what she saw. Of what she still sees when she closes her eyes. She tells him the whole story: the naked old man. The surprised grandson. The attack. The chanting.

  “The Boss?” That question, blurted out far louder than Werth hoped. He says again, quieter this time: “The… Boss did this? Don’t fuck with me.”

  “He’s not the Boss anymore. Not entirely, at least. It was a ritual. He summoned something. Maybe into him.”

  The eyes. Those new baby blues.

  It fits. Werth can’t help but admit it: it totally fits.

  All this time and the Boss killed his own grandson.

  Skelly keeps talking, asking him what she can do, how she can help to free Mookie, asking him about Nora, asking him all kinds of things.

  But as he stands there, he sees something.

  He moves aside the cleaver – Christ, the thing’s as heavy as Viking battleaxe – and lifts the flap of the satchel. Two things catch his eye: first, a box, and second, a little jeweled metal ball with a latch.

  He opens the latch.

  Red dust lies in a little dune. He sniffs at it. Even just the smell sends a surge of adrenalin through him: neck tendons tighten like the rope around the neck of a pissed-off dog. His heart goes a mile a minute. Jesus.

  It’s the Red Rage. Vermillion. Has to be.

  It’s myth. A legend. All bad news.

  Or is it?

  He swoons with the possibilities.

  He mutters into the phone: “I’ll handle it.”

  Skelly protests: “Wait, wait–”

  He ends the call.

  Then closes the little container of Red and pockets it.

  Deep breaths. In, out. In, out. He wills his heart to calm itself.

  When he’s cooled down, he roots around the satchel. Beef jerky. A flashlight. A pair of brass knuckles. Then he finds Mookie’s little tin of Cerulean. Werth takes a hit. It’s time to scrape the barnacles from his third-eye and start seeing the world as it really is again. The Blue washes over him. Almost sweeps his legs out like the ocean coming up over the side of a boat.

  He shakes it off, then keeps digging.

  He opens the scalloped box. Inside lurks a phial. A cloudy yellow sap oozes within the glass. Crystalline glitter shimmering in the goop.

  Werth isn’t a student of the Pigments, but goddamn if that doesn’t look like Ochre. Could it be that Mookie’s walking around with an old-timey test tube full of what Oakes called “Golden Gate”? That means Mookie’s got three of the Five Occulted Pigments in his bag. Two of which were thought to be relegated to the stuff of legend.

  He shoves them back into the satchel. Nobody’s looking right now; it’s safe here.

  With the Red in his pocket, Werth hobbles back out into the hallway. Haversham’s still out there. Fidgeting.

  “I’m a man on a mission,” Werth says.

  “What?”

  24

  My guide can… go no further. We were crossing a chamber – a bridge of bones and ratty rope swayed across a small underground river of rusty, blood-colored water. I crossed first, and I could hear the rope creaking, could even hear threads snapping. The bone bridge rattled and dipped, making me dizzy and nauseated. (How long has it been since I’ve eaten? Does it matter? Am I even hungry?) I made it to the other side, but the both of us did not cross at the same time lest we discover too late that the bridge would not support us. As Danny crossed over, I heard the sound – a loud crack like a gunshot – just before a piece of rock from above broke free and smashed through the bridge three feet in front of Danny. The bridge floor was gone – but the bridge itself held together. For a moment, all seemed fine. Danny even laughed, and then I laughed, and he took one step… then the entire bridge fell to pieces. It tumbled into the water and with it, Danny. He hit the river and began screaming. I saw shapes: lean shadows, long fins, silver teeth. First two, then ten, then three times that. Swarming Danny as the waters swept him away and under a shelf of granite. He was gone. Now I move forward without Danny. The cruelest thing I can tell you is that I think I’m glad it happened. Because once he could no longer follow, I began hearing the voices. Whispers crawling in my mind. Urging me forward…

  – from the Journals of John Atticus Oakes, Cartographer of the Great Below

  Nora’s mind is a cacophony of whispers.

  Hillview, Fifth and 78, blood in the streets, Vithra, Morquin, Hyor-Ka, soldier Vollrath, knights to queens, riser shafts, valve tunnel, Candlefly, Woodwine, Bellbook, a man a mile.

  She sees a pattern of dots. An explosion. Water. Stone dust. Bone dust.

  A voice booming in her mind, shoving past the whispers:

  YOU ARE STRONG.

  Go to hell, she thinks.

  WE ARE HELL. WE ARE THE TOLLING OF ITS BELLS. WE ARE THE WHISPERS OF THE WORMS. WE ARE THE FIRST. WE ARE VOLLRATH.

  Again the dots. The blast. A gush of dark water. Blood oozing on marble floors. Casimir’s face smashed – Caz, no, gods, no; she came in the house, found his body upstairs, the blood still wet, run, run, they found him out, run–

  A city empty, howling monsters, massive worms coiled around skyscrapers.

  Please get out of my mind.

  BUT IT IS SO DELICIOUS.

  Nora screams.

  Werth grunts as he hobbles down the steps. He limps, gimp-like, around the corner. But the pain isn’t enough to stop him. He can feel the tides turning – he knows what to do now. Knows where his loyalty belongs.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Sorago. Spine bowed. Hands flat at his sides. He steps forward, blocks the door to the wine cellar.

  “I want to talk to him,” Werth says. “Before he… before whatever it is you’re gonna do to him.”

  “That is not an option.”

  Shit shit shit. He can’t take this guy. He has no chance in the world. The assassin would dismantle him like a baby calf under a carpet of army ants.

  “Listen. I lied. I don’t want to talk to him. I want to–” And here he gives bunny-ear air quotes. “‘Talk’ to him. Know what I mean?”

  Sorago stares.

/>   “I want to beat his monkey ass for doing this to me. To us. To the Boss.”

  Sorago still says nothing.

  The Snakeface’s eyes flit to behind Werth, and it’s an unlikely voice that saves him.

  “Let him do it,” Candlefly says. Then, to Werth, “I’m glad you’re coming around. Besides, if it will make you feel like a valuable asset to punish treachery with a little violence, who am I to stand in the way?” Werth feels embers of victory swirl and bloom with triumphant fire until Candlefly adds, “In fact, I’ll not only not stand in your way, I’d like to come downstairs and watch.”

  That smile. Like oil on a puddle.

  Fuck.

  “Yeah,” Werth says, no longer sure how he’s going to make this work. The plan was always simple and stupid: go downstairs, unchain Mookie, fight their way out of this place and make a break for it. Use the Red stuff if they had to. That’s now a dead-end non-option. He could try to overpower Candlefly, but he’s not sure that’s a winner of an idea, either. Mookie beat the man’s face into ambrosia salad, and one day later the guy looks like he’s even handsomer than before.

  Candlefly opens the door, gestures for Werth to go first.

  No other choice now.

  Time to improvise.

  For a moment Mookie thinks he’s being wrapped up and choked out by one of the Snakeface assassins: serpent arms snaked all the way around him, squeezing him like an antelope in an anaconda grip. But then he gasps awake and realizes it’s just the chains.

  He tastes blood. Old blood. His blood. A mouthful of iron and salt.

  From somewhere, a scream. A woman’s scream. A girl, maybe. A little flare of hope in the darkness: It’s Nora. She’s alive, my daughter… but like all flares the light streaks and fades and then it’s back to the eternal night of dead hope. Because she’s dead. She has to be. Candlefly told him she was dead to taunt him.

  But taunt him with truth, or a lie?

  How much of this has been a lie? Was her captivity even real?

  A freeing thought blooms in his mind: Davey could be alive, too, and Lulu and Nora and maybe this is all a dream like with the pig farm or maybe this is my Hell – maybe I’m lost in the deep downstairs and this is what I see as I starve and die while wandering the Tangle.

  His head swims.

  Footsteps. The door ahead of him opens.

  His heart hammers. His cheeks flush with a murderous hunger.

  Werth.

  To make matters worse, Candlefly steps in behind. His hands are in his pockets. He takes a slow heel-to-toe step. He is the very picture of nonchalance.

  Werth paces in front of the table.

  Mookie says nothing, just a rheumy, rumbling growl.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Candlefly says. “Take your shot.”

  “I’m psyching myself up,” Werth says.

  Mookie blubbers, “Hey, goat. Your master is tugging your leash.”

  “Shut up, Mook.” Werth’s eyes flash.

  “Don’t be a pussy, Werth. You wanna hit me, here’s your chance.” He thrusts out his chin far as his bonds allow. “I got a big melon. Easy target. You little gimp. Little weak-kneed limp-dick. Glad my daughter dug a bullet into your hip. How’d it feel to get owned by an eighteen-year-old girl in her school uniform, you fucking–”

  Werth comes up on him – a fast hobble, one hand out, grabbing Mookie by the chin. Raspy calluses against Mookie’s stubbled jaw.

  “There we go,” Mookie says through clenched teeth. “Cranky old goat.”

  “How’s it feel to know your daughter’s upstairs, dying on a bed?”

  The flare reignites.

  Dying. As in, not dead. As in–

  Alive.

  Nora.

  He almost faints.

  But Werth shakes his head back and forth.

  “Pay attention, you thick-necked piece of shit. People always said you were stupid but I always figured you were smart. How smart are you, Mook?”

  It’s then that Werth raises a quivering fist.

  Mookie looks up. Sees the old goat open the fist a little. Inside, something glints. Light shining off jewels. A ball. Davey Morgan’s teaball. Werth’s thumb pops the latch.

  A glimpse of bright red powder.

  Vermilion. The Red Rage.

  Werth turns his thumb, tilts the teaball. Red powder coats his palm. As he works his hands, it greases the knuckles.

  Then he hits Mookie hard in the side of the head.

  And again in the face.

  The jabs aren’t hard, but Mookie knows to make it look good. How smart are you, Mook? He rocks his head back, pretending the take the hit hard. Will the powder mingle with his blood? Will it look like part of the damage done?

  With each strike, the thought clear and bright in his mind:

  Nora is alive.

  Candlefly’s hand catches Werth’s arm.

  It’s then he realizes, it’s over. He’s busted.

  The man says, “Good enough. Has to be something left of him for the Vollrath to eat.”

  Werth mumbles something in the affirmative, steps away from Mookie while pocketing the teaball. Mookie’s head lolls on his shoulders, the red powder mingling imperceptibly with the blood already on his face. But nothing happens. Not that Werth knows what should happen, exactly, but the Red Rage is legendary for the anger and strength is places upon those it affects. And yet, Mookie still sits docile as a trussed lamb.

  A shadow passes. Werth jumps, startled.

  One of the reaper-cloaks is here. Appearing out of nowhere. A flutter of black and–

  It moves toward Mookie.

  No, no, no.

  “Come,” Candlefly says.

  “But…”

  “Let the Vollrath have its meal.”

  Werth realizes he’s not sure how you gain the effects of the Red Rage. Cerulean, that goes on your temples but who’s to say the Red Rage shouldn’t be eaten? Or cooked and injected like heroin, or smoked like a couple sugar cubes of crack? These are esoteric occult drugs, maybe you burn it in a pyre with three dead rats and inhale the fumes – could be anything. Could even be that the drug is fake. Why wouldn’t someone sell Mookie a measure of fake Vermilion? Good money. Easy money.

  It’s over. Done. His one chance, lost.

  Candlefly gives Werth a nudge up the steps.

  The shadow rises behind Mookie. Shiny eyes gleaming.

  Its fingers drive into the man’s bald scalp as if his skull is as insubstantial as fog.

  Werth heads upstairs, tasting defeat and pondering the future.

  He sees nothing but the strange refraction of light and the watery shimmer in the air. Then Werth and Candlefly head toward the steps as something cold drives down deep through his head – no, his mind. Then another set drives into his heart, into his soul, and every synapse lights up, a switchboard of sadness and sorrow and death. Images flit by like fast hands flipping photos: Mookie bouncing Nora on his knee, Jess throwing a plate at Mookie’s head and Mookie breaking a chair on the kitchen counter, Mookie hiding in the back at one of his daughter’s school plays and leaving just before it ends, flip, flip, flit, flit. And then it all burns up: an image like spilled blood, a sheen of oil, a strike of a match and a crackle-whoosh of flame–

  Red bleeds in at the edges. Blood and rust and magma.

  His heart kicks into high gear. From zero to tachycardia with the flip of a switch.

  A buzz and a howl in the hollow of his head–

  The knives exit heart and brain, soul and mind–

  An empty vacuum. Fire fills it. Anger blooms like a plume of acrid smoke.

  A sound: bink, tink, tunk – chain links bending, bowing, snapping. His body swells. Everything cramps. Pain, sweet pain, delicious misery. He feels sharp like a broken tooth, raw like a scalded tongue. He stands. Chain links drop to the floor. The shadow-thing thrashes on the ground behind him like a bug under a magnifying glass. Screech, wail, spasm. Its pain is his pain. Mookie’s breath comes
in shallow gasps. Fingernails in palm-flesh. Teeth gritting. He stoops by the thing, and tears off its eyes. It thrashes.

  Everything hurts. The hurt is pleasure.

  Saliva pools in his mouth. His dick is hard as rebar.

  He begins to climb the wine racks.

  Upstairs, Werth thinks, it’s time to go. Just make a break for it. There’s the door. Run, you asshole, run. He almost laughs. Like he can run! Best he could do is limp-stagger-stumble toward the door and the moment he tried Sorago would be on him like a fast cat on a sick rabbit.

  He feels Candlefly watching him.

  “That was curious,” Candlefly says.

  “Was it?” Werth tries to play cool.

  From upstairs, Haversham wanders down.

  “You seem to have a lot of anger toward your old friend.”

  “Guess I do.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Werth freezes. Sorago tilts a head toward him. Eyeing up the kill. Candlefly steps closer. Werth’s mouth goes dry.

  Candlefly says, “I’m beginning to think our trust in you is misplaced.”

  Sorago smiles. Hisses. Squirms closer.

  That’s when a fist punches up through the marble floor.

  It grabs Sorago by the ankle.

  It drags him back through the hole, the Snakeface’s writhing body collapsing as it’s sucked down into the cellar.

  An eerie silence follows.

  Candlefly gapes.

  Werth almost laughs. Because he knows that fist – fat knuckles, pink scars, each finger thick like a goddamn bratwurst. And the look on Candlefly’s face, one registering genuine holy-shit surprise, is a prize without value.

  Mookie. The Red Rage took. The transformation is a thing of fear and horror, but also victory.

  Candlefly gives Werth a look. “You.”

  Werth gives him the finger.

  The floor suddenly shudders. The marble begins to crack. Another tremor, this one rougher than the last. The ground quakes, then–

  Mookie crashes up through the floor. Bloody. Beaten. Covered in marble fragments like shards of eggshell.

  He’s huge.

  Bigger than normal. Neck thick as a tree trunk. Biceps rippling as though snakes swarmed beneath the skin. His eyes are black dots in red seas. His wrecking ball skull pivots, leers toward Candlefly.