The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril

by Paul Malmont

  The floorboards began to crack in a centerline rift, falling to the left or right, wherever their attachments were strongest. Gibson could see the backdrop of a small rural village being devoured in flames. His killer staggered back as the building shook, then raced to the other side of the room as if he had heard or sighted Gibson there. He struck several times but only succeeded in impaling a weary old wicker mannequin.

  Total clarity came to Gibson. The building would be devoured within minutes: no infant spark could ask for better tinder than what it could find here. The exit lay ahead. With his killer distracted, he ran. The floorboards were shifting, losing solidity, but weirdly seemed more alive and true to their natural origin. As they rattled and clattered against one another, they became strange leaves rustling together on a flat tree, or a windswept field of long grass. He sprinted through a simple family hut, all the furnishings still set around the feasting table through intricate, patient layers of bas-relief paint. He heard a shout behind him and the rattle of chain. He leaped over a train track and knocked a hollow bookcase filled with hollow books out of his way. A cinder fell on his shoulder and he slapped a hand back against the pain. He felt the metal sliding away and realized that the fire he felt wasn’t from the flame. The spike had only glanced off him but had flayed his shoulder blade open.

  The impact made him stumble. He fell with his back against the wall and slid to his knees.

  The whip chain spun again. He held up his forearm to shield his face and the spike drove into it with a stunning impact. The warrior grinned savagely. Gibson returned the grin. The killer gave the chain a tremendous pull with both hands, attempting to rip Gibson’s arm out or fling him halfway to him. Gibson’s sleeve burst open as if it had exploded. And the metal band which held the fireball device that he hadn’t been able to release earlier released because of the spike embedded in the locking mechanism, and it flew back toward his killer, striking his forehead. Blood foamed forth immediately. Blackstone had always told him a secret to an old carny geek trick, “Lot of blood vessels up there. Small cut—lots of blood.” Gibson could remember to tell him now, “Big cut—much more blood.”

  Gibson slid back up the wall. He checked out his wrist. It would be bruised, but the tip of the spike hadn’t broken through the armband. He heard his killer scream at him and saw the spike flying toward him again. He slid to the left and it struck the brick to the right of his head, showering brick dust into his face. The floorboards began to collapse down the center of the room, a blazing chasm opening up between his killer and him. The spike came again and slid back again. And then again. He couldn’t even see his killer now; he could only sense the angry dart seeking him out. A plaster of paris golden mountain blocked his progress finally. He fell back against the wall and something snagged the back of his jacket, pinning him.

  A gulf of fire opened between the two men; it opened like a seam tearing to reveal a blasted vision. His killer launched his dart up into a beam, where it bit deeply; then he swung across the flaming chasm, landing ten feet away from Walter. He yanked on the chain, unable to free it. He smirked: his next tug would.

  Gibson, struggling to free himself from the object that had hooked him from behind, found his hand upon a doorknob. He uttered a silent prayer to his goddess and gave it a twist. It opened out and he flung himself backward against it. Bright light fell upon his face and he hit the sidewalk. He instantly raised his head to prepare for the final attack.

  His killer screamed and jumped into the air, grabbing the chain with two hands, hoping to let his falling weight drag it free. At the same moment the opening of the door allowed a huge rush of oxygen-rich air to sweep in to replenish the rapidly dwindling supply. Gibson actually felt the rush of the wind. The flames leaping through the gap behind his killer suddenly roared with renewed, violent vigor. In midair as this happened, the man’s spike pulled free and he dropped into the center of a swirling whirlwind of fire. This horror lasted but a moment as the impact of his landing sent him crashing, with a shriek, through the crumbling boards into the roasting inferno below.

  Gibson pushed himself quickly to his knees. “Holy Christ!” Suddenly from below, he saw a glint of an object flying up. The spike was driven deeply into the balcony rafter. Gibson didn’t want to, but he looked down into the canyon of hell. He saw the man engulfed in flame climb his chain. One hand after another, while he screamed until his vocal cords burned away. Gibson rose to his feet. And still his killer tried, a trembling hand reaching for the wood plank, fingertips gripping. With a snap, the burning links of the chain fell apart and the man disappeared forever from view.

  Gibson began to cough and it was several moments before he successfully spat, belched, vomited, and expectorated the smoke out of his lungs. He produced another silk, a clean one, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “Walter?” He was still too close to the dark smoke and shadows of the building to see the figure in the alley. He took a step forward, into the light.

  “How’d you find me?” he gasped.

  “What did I warn you about falling for a psychic?” Her lips found his and she whispered, “I will always be able to find you.”

  When he opened his eyes finally and finished drinking her in, they ran from the alley and the burning theater and the opium den. Across the street he recognized the smug smiling face of Lafayette Ron Hubbard. Already he could hear the distant wail of the approaching fire engine. They reached the street and turned and walked casually away from the fire, which was beginning to attract onlookers from the nearby parade.

  “I guess you couldn’t find Smith?” he asked Hubbard.

  “Oh, no,” Hubbard said, and pointed out a stout man examining a window full of roasted duck. “He’s already thinking about lunch.” Smith heard Hubbard’s sharp whistle and dashed over.

  Walter shook Smith’s hand. “Elmer, good to see you.”

  “I whipped up a little something for you,” he said.

  He pulled a mason jar of clear liquid from the brown paper bag he carried. “It’s a decoction of deadly nightshade,” he said, handing the jar to Gibson.

  “Bottoms up!” Hubbard said proudly.

  “Deadly nightshade?”

  “Atropa belladona,” Smith said. “Atropine. I think I made atropine. At least I hope I did. Or something like it. It’s a nerve agent counter-agent. You’re supposed to inject it into your thigh, but I think this solution will have an effect if you drink it. I think. I mean, I don’t know. I’m not a medical doctor; I’m just a chemist. My father wanted me to be a doctor, but I don’t like the sight of blood.”

  Gibson fumbled with the clasp. His fingers were trembling. He handed it to Litzka. “I need help.”

  She opened it and held it up to his mouth. He took a deep swallow. “Tastes like vanilla,” he said, “and rum.” The doc puffed visibly. “Best doughnut I ever drank, Smith. How long should it take this stuff to work?”

  “If it works?” Smith looked worried. “It should be pretty quick. If it doesn’t, well, from the looks of you that could be pretty quick too.”

  They reached the top of the block. The exuberance of the parade would have shamed any self-respecting Irishman’s Saint Patrick’s Day spectacle. The parade was pouring through the street like a raging river with the Hip Sing building as its terminus. One after another, the bands, dragons, dancers, dogs, marchers, drummers, and fighters would reach the building and put on their finest performances for the dignitaries who watched from its great windows, open to the mild morning to keep the crowded room from growing too hot. Then they would melt into the crowd or be invited in as the men on the top floor indicated.

  “Is that the ugliest goddamn float you’ve ever seen?” Hubbard asked them.

  The platform was borne by six men, three on a side, shouldering two poles which ran through rings along its side. The men wore black hooded robes which hid their faces. A seventh man, dressed the same but free from the burden of carrying the statue, led the small processio
n. The cheering crowds shrank back from it as it approached, growing quiet as if in fear.

  Gibson recognized the fearsome statue instantly. He had seen its grotesque visage when it sat upon the stage of the theater and glowered at him. He knew with certainty that the draped platform upon which its throne was perched was big enough to conceal a fifty-gallon drum.

  The crowd silently parted as the seven men and their deadly burden entered the doors of the Hip Sing building.

  “Stay here!” Gibson ordered the others. Then he began to run, pushing his way through the crowds which were beginning to congregate at the entrance to the building. The whole tenor of the crowd had changed from one of celebration to one of agitation. Gibson burst into the lobby, breathless. It was filled with revelers partaking of the vast feast. Several men, Hip Sing guards, came toward him, trying to wave him out. He barked Zhang Mei’s name at them. They didn’t seem to know it, but the forceful repetition of a Chinese name seemed to give them pause, as if the strange white man did have some claim to be here. He heard sounds from the staircase and bounded up them as quickly as he could.

  He flew up the stairs, feeling revitalized. Smith was right. The antidote seemed to be working quickly. A large dragon costume—there must have been fifteen men inside—was swirling down the stairs toward him. He came face-to-face with the dragon. It snorted in his face and shook its whiskers. He could see the eyes of a young man peering at him through the dark opening of the beast’s mouth. He put his face into the gaping maw and snorted back. The head of the dragon took a side step to the wall and the rest of the body flowed along, following its lead.

  He reached the top floor, where large double doors stood open onto another world. As he walked through the opening, he felt as if he were entering an ancient court in Imperial China. The traditional costumes, the creaking tables loaded with food, the rich smells of incense, the regal decorations all combined to transport him away from New York. He revised his first impression: he felt as if he were entering a temple, a shrine, inhabited by living Chinese gods.

  The crowd in the room applauded the entrance of the statue. Most of the men in the room were standing in a wide circle at the windows, which gave a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. This left a clearing in the center of the room for the performers to make their obeisance. At the far end of the room, opposite the doors through which Gibson was entering, was a raised dais upon which sat a number of distinguished elderly men. They all wore formal Chinese garb except for one man, who sat in the middle seat of honor. He wore a Brooks Brothers suit and a bored expression on his sour face.

  The hooded men drew past the center of the room, proceeding directly to the raised platform. Expectant eyes fell upon it as the assembly waited to see what its performance tribute could possibly be. The room grew silent as the sense of expectation grew, as well as a growing sense of dread perhaps inspired by the appearance of the statue or the suspenseful, stately pace of its bearers.

  The hooded leader drew to a stop before the dais. He raised his hand and the other robed figures slowly lowered their heavy burden to the floor. The leader bowed low before the man in the suit. The man replied with an indifferent wave.

  “Zhang Mei!” Gibson shouted across the quieting room. “Wait.”

  The hood of the leader turned to look at him. From the shadows beneath its folds, Gibson thought he could see Zhang Mei’s eyes, gleaming with triumph.

  Zhang Mei revealed himself. There were soft murmurs from the crowd, but the strongest reaction came from the dais as the man in the American suit suddenly attempted to stand. His face had turned as white as the silk clothes the other men wore. He stumbled to his knees, begging, pleading, groveling for mercy.

  Zhang Mei spoke something, savagely, to him in Chinese. Then, in a fluid movement that surprised everyone with its speed, he snatched the great sword from the hand of the Judge of the Dead, swung it through the air in a great arc of golden light, and struck the head from the man who had killed his Lu Zhi and little Shaozu.

  Episode Forty-Six

  LITZKA SHRIEKED.

  Mi-Ying’s head fell at the base of the statue. Gibson saw its mouth open in surprise and its eyes blink in astonishment as its body took a step forward. Its hands clawed at its neck, from which a great streaming jet of blood spattered the men rushing to exit the stage. The body staggered limply off the stage and collapsed, still, at Zhang Mei’s feet.

  Gibson had heard the clatter on the steps behind him and he knew without looking that Litzka and Hubbard and Smith had followed him after all. He grimaced to himself, wishing that for once, just once, she had listened to him.

  Outside Gibson could hear the roar of the oblivious throng as the revels in the street picked up frenzy. It was just past midday; in Chinese terms this meant the festivities had only just begun. Another parade was wending its way down the street full of entirely new participants.

  With surprise he noted Lester Dent emerging into the doorway of a recessed alcove in the room. Dent’s shirt was torn and soaked with large blossoms of blood; his face seemed drained of emotion. It was gray, claylike, expressionless. So, we’re all here at the last, Gibson thought sadly. He nodded his head at Dent. Dent looked at him with dead eyes, as if the emotional nerves behind them had been severed, and slowly shook his head.

  Zhang Mei took a step upon the platform and turned to face the assemblage. Mi-Ying’s blood streamed down his face. The men who had sat upon the dais leapt away from the stricken diplomat and the sword-wielding madman. Zhang swung the sword toward the base of the statue, slicing away the curtains to reveal the old military-issue drum under the squatting statue. He cried out, harshly, in Chinese and what he said stilled the panicked room. His men moved quickly to bring the drum out from under the platform.

  He spoke to his men again and they fell upon the baskets of money which had been placed at the feet of Mi-Ying. These they bore back and placed under the statue where the gas drum had been.

  “A thief!” Gibson heard his own voice. He stepped into the room. “After all this, you’re a common thief?” Gibson asked Zhang Mei, approaching slowly.

  “If Mi-Ying were to take this money, none of it would ever reach China. With me, it will.”

  Gibson took a few more steps. “Last night you were the champion of China. Now you’re stealing from her weakest people. Is this where the dream ends? Is this the destiny of your father?”

  “I have no father,” Zhang replied. “I am the Judge of the Dead.”

  “What about your dreams for peace?” Gibson was close enough now to see the man’s mad eyes glittering. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Dent was taking a few steps.

  “This will bring peace to all who suffer upon the Golden Mountain.”

  An old Chinese man, a scarred veteran who had been sitting next to Mi-Ying, barked at Zhang Mei, who turned around. The old man was someone of obvious status in the community. Zhang Mei heeded his voice with a respectful stare.

  Gibson took a few more steps. Dent did too.

  The conversation rapidly grew heated. The old man’s tone turned scolding and the younger man’s turned sarcastic. The old man made a surprising move; with a graceful jump he flew onto the stage and attempted to strike Zhang Mei with a flurry of blows unlike anything Gibson had seen before. His fists were deftly parried and the old man was quickly knocked aside. Dent rushed to help him. When Dent looked up, the point of the great golden sword was level with his eyes. Blood dripped down the blade and fell upon the old man’s wispy beard.

  “Who are you?” Zhang Mei asked Dent.

  “I am the husband of the wife you murdered today at the old theater.” Dent’s voice was as dead as his eyes.

  Zhang Mei nodded. His eyes filled with something close to remorse. “I am sorry. She was unexpected. My men were defending me.”

  Gibson spoke. “So in the end, you are no different from Mi-Ying. A killer of children.” He pointed to a pair of frightened children clinging to a man near the alcov
e Dent had emerged from. “And wives.”

  “In the end we are different because I am alive while he is dead.” Zhang coughed.

  Dent helped the old man to his feet. Gibson stepped before the drum. Zhang Mei stood on the riser on the other side of it. The tip of the sword suddenly flicked in Gibson’s direction. He looked up the shaft to the man holding it.

  Gibson swallowed hard. The edge was level with his throat. “You should have asked me to figure out this ending for you. As it is, I don’t think your ending is going to work.”

  “What ending would you write?”

  “Well, let’s see. You’ve taken a room full of people hostage with a drum of deadly gas. You and your men have come in contact with the gas. Coughing is a sign of gas exposure.” He had Zhang’s full attention. Zhang lowered the sword, resting its tip on the lid of the drum. “Your ship is out of commission. Your patron is missing in action. Every person in this room wants you dead. The only plan that really matters to you, revenge, has gone off spectacularly well. Escape seems nearly impossible.

  “But there is an ending and it coincides with the ending of your life’s work. You wanted to bring peace. Well, you have. You have brought peace to the souls of your wife and your child. There is little more for you to do.