Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “Gus. Can you give us a minute?”

  He frowned. “Opportunity’s knocking. It ain’t gonna last.”

  She stared at him. “I’d like a minute with Lucas, before you send us off to die. Is that okay with you?”

  For a moment they watched each other. Then the huge Myth sighed, the light in his eyes fading. “You two wanna get frisky, fine by me. Just hurry up. I got money on this operation, see?” He moved down the sidewalk, snarling at his men. She felt tears threatening to brim over.

  I trusted you, asshole.

  Lucas gripped her shoulder. “Hey. This isn’t your fault.”

  “The hell it isn’t. That thing… the Host. I made it.”

  He held, for a moment. “Then un-make it.”

  “How?”

  “First tell me what happened.”

  She told him: the tubes, the Humours, the ritual torture. At the end, he nodded slowly.

  “Fools built an idol, to bow to. I’ve seen it before, but this is… different.” He stared at the pillars of smoke, his lips tight.

  “It was like that night at the docks, but more deliberate. They drained him first, and then zapped him. Like me, except I got everything—all the flavors. This thing just got… the bad stuff. Fear, hurt.”

  “There’s no such thing as ‘bad’ emotions. Only uncontrolled ones.” He watched the fires rising, in the center city. “You’ll need to balance them out.”

  “Balance…”

  He laced his fingers together. “Mithras’ Ladder is a metaphor, for reaching heaven. The steps, the Mysteries, teach you how to master yourself—how to master the animal inside you. When your Humours are balanced… you can master the world.” He traced a vein on her hand where light throbbed. “When they’re not…”

  “I get the idea.” Gus was coming back from the trucks, serpentine eyes rolling towards them. “How am I going to get more Humours into that thing, to balance it? I don’t have time, I don’t have the gear—”

  Lucas sighed. “Rose. Humours aren’t the liquid—that’s just a medium. Humours are inside people.”

  “Inside…”

  “We’ve always had them, and Mithras taught us how to conquer them. But now…” He shook his head. “I think they might conquer us.”

  “But how can I fix this? I can’t Twist that thing, it’s too big.”

  He clasped her hand. “I don’t know. But you have to try.”

  Gus loomed over them. “Okay, lovebirds. Break time’s over.” He glimpsed the amulet around her neck, and his eyes glimmered. Plucking it off her, he put it in his pocket. “Pretty little toy. I’ll hang onto that…”

  “Gus, don’t!”

  Frank Wallace came over, tugging a sack over Lucas’s head. She raised a hand to swat at him, and Gus grabbed her. “Easy. We don’t want Harvey placing us at crime scenes—he’s just here for collateral.”

  “Collateral, over me.”

  Gus looked at her, seeming disappointed. “Yeah. That’s the idea.” Then he picked her up by the arm, and lifted her into a truck-bed. It was like being carried by a crane.

  “Look,” he said. “None of this is personal. My boys just gotta know I’m not screwing around.”

  “You made it personal the minute you brought Lucas into this.” She nodded at the machine-guns. “You really think the cops aren’t going to notice this shit?”

  “Oh, they will. It’s your job to make them not notice.”

  “That’s not how it works!”

  A massive explosion boomed from downtown, and she heard the screeching of tires. “Gus, there’s bigger stuff than the two of us, going on here. You being a greedy bastard and shooting up the city, it’s just going to make things worse. I know you wouldn’t do this, if you were sober. The guy I knew didn’t hurt innocent people—he wasn’t a monster.”

  She saw him pause, and the primitive hunger faded, softened. Then it surged back. “The only reason I didn’t roll over the competition back then, was because we were small fries. Now we’re not.”

  “Gus—”

  “We’re not discussing this.” He climbed onto the back of the foremost truck, and Lucas was tossed in next to Rose. She pulled him close, feeling the pulse of his fear. “You see any pigs, you hit ‘em with that Humour voodoo. Tell ‘em to buzz off—or we’ll start filling cemetaries with ‘em.”

  She shook her head. He’d find out how wrong he was, soon. This crew was powerful, and well-armed, but sloppy. Sooner or later, they’d make a mistake, and then she and Lucas would have the chance to split.

  She just hoped Gus didn’t shoot them in the back, when they did.

  CHAPTER 13

  THEY DROVE through streets full of frightened people. It looked like everyone in town was fleeing from the Charles. The subway was closed this early in the morning, so people used sidewalks, service roads, even the middle of the street to escape. Shutters were drawn and curtains lowered, as locals barricaded themselves in brownstone buildings.

  Rose saw cops riding on horseback riding towards the fray; none of them paid any attention to the gang’s trucks, assuming they were speeding towards the fires. Gangsters laid low in the truck-bed along with Rose and Lucas. Movement was slow: the civilians forced them to drive at a crawl. But once the crowds thinned out, the trucks picked up speed. The shouting grew quieter. Everyone, it seemed, had vacated the area.

  They hit Springfield Safety first, on the corner of State and Main. She remembered the name from last year’s papers; bad luck seemed to follow the place. No guards stood watch, not with the fire so close. From here she smelled the river, the whiff of decay… and something else. Something worse.

  Gus walked straight up to the doors, clearing his throat. As the rest of them watched, he heaved his head back, gargled deep in his throat and spat a gob of fire onto the lock.

  The metal crisped and melted, and Gus kicked the door open. No alarms went off. It wasn’t until the gang stepped into the foyer, that clanging bells began to bray from every corner.

  “Shut those things up,” said Gus to his men, and beckoned at Rose. “Come on down. We might need you.” She reached for Lucas, but Malloney raised his pistol.

  “The lad stays here.”

  “You’re that cop,” she said. “The one from Revere.”

  “Not anymore,” he said, face haunted. “Go on, before the boss gets his dander up.”

  She left Lucas at the trucks, passing under the big stone arch. She and Gus had always dreamed of a job like this; they’d talked about making it big, over cards and beer. She wished they could’ve tried this in another life, under better circumstances. Any other day, it would have thrilled her to be a part of such a huge job.

  Gus ignored the bankers’ tills, instead moving to the huge vault door. Security had been beefed up here: there was a metal grille over the vault, which Gus pulled apart with his claws. Wires led from the vault up into the ceiling, running to more alarms. Gus waved Frank forward.

  “Door’s too thick. Bring the dynamite.”

  Frank nodded. Before he could go, Gus’ hand flew out, gripping his collar. “By the way, Frankie. Rose said some things, back in the church.” He licked his chops. “You and me got a problem?”

  Rose’s eyes darted to the door. The rest of the gang was still in the foyer—the three of them were alone.

  With those huge, reptilian eyes drilling into him, Frank shook his head. “No, boss. No problem. I’m behind you all the way.” He swallowed. “We shook on it, remember?”

  “Right.” Gus nodded. “Of course we did, now I remember. Shame on you, Rose, tryin’ to stir trouble among my boys like that.”

  Rose shrugged. “I was working an angle. You know how it is.”

  He grunted. “Sure I do.”

  The men returned from the trucks, bringing so much dynamite Rose thought it would be a miracle if the building didn’t collapse. One of the men, clearly not the brightest, just carried twin grenades.

  They began setting explosives, under Gu
s’ direction. “Away from the supports, you shits-for-brains!” He stalked out of the bank as they worked, and Rose followed.

  She glanced up State and Main; they were within firing distance of the waterfront, but no cops were coming their way—everyone was dealing with the panic, the fires, or some combination of the two. That luck’s not going to hold. Sooner or later, someone will notice us. Afraid to get too close to Gus, she lingered at the door while he wandered down to the trucks. He seemed anxious, distracted, but she didn’t dare Twist him. One try had been enough.

  Gus stared up the avenue, frowning, trying not to look at Rose. He wasn’t enjoying this, either—she’d forced his hand. Or, at least, that was what he told himself. And something was making him jumpy, clouding his ambition. Rose hadn’t lied: there was something out here, something that smelled rank and foul. His paranoia whispered maybe today wasn’t the best day for his heist.

  Fuck it. He took a swig of Greed from the embossed flask in his coat—it was good shit, nearly pure. Immediately his concerns vanished in a haze of desires. There might be thousands of dollars in Springfield Savings, not to mention gold. Bullion, or bars, maybe coins.... His next flask, he promised himself, would be solid gold. He was already the head of what people were calling the Golden Hand Gang—he needed to act the part.

  “Malloney,” he said, leaning on a truck as his men glanced nervously at the smoke, “take the bag off that fella’s head.”

  “What about leaving no witnesses?”

  “You tobacco-munching clown. There’s not gonna be any crime scene, after this. Look at that shit.” He gestured at the rising flames. “Boston’s finest will have their hands full a long, long time. Get that hood off—I wanna talk to Preacher Boy.”

  Malloney did as he was told, shoving Lucas against the rail. The man’s eyes were hard with spite.

  “Hey, buddy.” Gus sharpened his claws on a whetstone. “Why did Rose settle for you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t play stupid. She’s a smart girl, good with a gun—though she won’t admit it. She could have any jackass in town. Why go for you, specifically?”

  Lucas was sweating in the heat, but he still had the dignity to look amused. “Are you jealous, big man?”

  “Oh, please. I don’t want to fuck her, you idiot. I want her respect. Much more important.” The Myth inspected his claws. He’d never disemboweled anyone with them… but there was a first time for everything, and Lucas was getting on his nerves. “She’s the last person in town who doesn’t respect me. Even the fucking Mayor jumps when I say jump. What makes her different? Why won’t she get in line?”

  Lucas shrugged. “Rose has principles, and you don’t. Maybe she doesn’t like your… methods.”

  “Oh, God dammit!” He stamped his foot hard enough to make the trucks wobble on their wheels. “I’m civilizing this place. Used to be, you couldn’t work for anyone without another crew trying to blow you away. I’ve organized these rats, run out anyone who doesn’t behave! There’s less shootouts now than in the last ten years!” He sulked, cleaning fallen ash off his coat. “It’s just… You’d think she’d be grateful. That’s all.”

  A whimpering howl rolled down the street, accompanied by sprinting shapes. Several people ran past them; one woman’s dress was on fire, making her a bright torch in the night. Gus looked on the source of their fear with mild surprise: it was a tall, broad-shouldered man with sideburns, wearing a bathrobe. His skin was gray, and his eye sockets were a burned-out black.

  “Ah, shit. Malloney, take care of that thing. I ain’t got time for shenanigans.”

  Malloney aimed his Colt at the thing. The gun barked, and the figure jerked as live-fire clipped chunks from its body. But the Drained man didn’t go down. Charging, the creature tackled Malloney, and gray tentacles burst from its slack mouth, burrowing into the man’s throat and eyes. The ex-cop screamed in terror as the Drained person burrowed into his face, sucking his life’s anger and pain out of him—deflating him like a balloon.

  Gus frowned, annoyed. “Frankie. Give me a chopper.”

  Frankie passed him a Thompson. Gus hefted the rifle, his hands gripping the stock and the space just above the drum magazine. There was a time, once, when he would’ve barely been able to carry a beast like this—now it felt as light as a feather. The only issue was squeezing his finger inside the trigger guard, which took some doing. “Goddamn thing.”

  He unloaded at the monster. Resilient as it might be, full-auto fire shredded it to pieces, just as he’d suspected. It bled pure Humours into the gutter.

  Nearby, Malloney jerked and writhed, gray tentacles rising from his mouth.

  Gus held out his claws. Frank placed a fresh mag there. Gus reloaded, and sprayed Malloney’s warping body with bullets. The gun’s thunder, sustained until the drum was empty, made even hardened veterans of the gang plug their ears to avoid going deaf.

  Finally, two Drained corpses lay on the sidewalk, destroyed. Irritated by the interruption, Gus rounded on his men.

  “Would you clowns blow that goddamn door, already?”

  Rose descended the steps as the gunfire stopped, frightened for Lucas. She saw him staring at the carnage, and rushed to him.

  Gus stopped her with a hand. “Preacher. What are these things?”

  Lucas shook his head. “Lost children. The beginning of the end.”

  Gus pointed the barrel of the Thompson, still smoking, at his face. “I don’t need your cryptic shit. Be straight with me.”

  Lucas held up his hands. “I’ve never seen them. But they’re in the old texts. The result of heresy, with Mithras’ gifts… Unliving mistakes.”

  Frank swallowed. “How, uh, how many do you suppose there are?”

  “If everyone they drain seeks out emotions, as well? Quite a few.”

  Gus sighed. “One night. One night of fun was all I asked for.”

  The crew blew out the vault doors. The windows of Springfield Savings, disintegrated, walls cracking with the force of the blast. Dust billowed out the door.

  The destruction cheered up Gus considerably. “That’s better. Sack the vault–we’re moving out.” He glared at Rose. “No more distractions. If anyone yells for the cops,” he told Frank, “shoot ‘em.”

  CHAPTER 14

  BACK AT the waterfront, chaos reigned. The crowd outside the jail was broken, fleeing in panicked herds. Streams of human beings poured over thoroughfares, into open buildings, and splashed into the Charles River. Across it all, the Host-God moved with thundering strides. Those it Drained dry came back empty, and staggered up to seek the same feelings they’d lost.

  Aleksandra watched the madness from alongside her truck. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—better than a symphony. She wished she’d brought a camera.

  She’d spent time after her nap handing out guns to angry workers, whose fury was close to the boiling point. When the Host-god showed up, many draw their weapons and fired—either at the many-legged horror, or at the cops, whose shocked retreat made them vulnerable. Firefights broke out, and blood ran in the gutters. Crossfire chewed up innocents and bit pieces from the surrounding buildings.

  One of the Drained approached her, and she pulled against the side of the ice truck. The creature’s feelers quivered and slathered, as it turned toward her. She knew what this thing was—she had read Fischer’s notes, and knew just enough to fear it. But she forced herself to stay calm, no hate and no fear.

  The thing cocked its head curiously. It was wearing the shape of a pretty young socialite, who’d come out of her loft to see all the fuss. She’d never see anything again, her eyes now pits of blackness. The cold gray feelers of its mouth played over Aleksandra’s face, and she smiled.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “There’s nothing left.”

  One tentacle touched the horns on her forehead, and retreated. These Drained weren’t looking for secondhand Humours—they wanted the real thing, genuine em
otions, and inside Aleksandra there was only recycled hate. The Drained girl moved away, and Aleksandra steeled herself.

  Stay focused. The Cause doesn’t care about what you want—it only demands chaos. Think too much of yourself, and everything is lost. Just think of the Cause. If she let her guard down, if she felt anything too strongly… they would have her.

  She wandered through the insanity, detaching herself from it. She stepped over trampled bodies, past crashed automobiles with their radiators still hissing. And then, in a furrow of filth beside the jailhouse, she found what she was looking for.

  Ponzi was crawling along a gutter lined with trash, desperately trying to hide from the creatures. Her prison clothes were torn to tatters, and Aleksandra noted she had a fine figure for a middle-aged woman. She pulled Carla up by the hair.

  “No—get off me, get off!”

  “Hush.” Aleksandra pressed a finger to the woman’s lips. Ponzi, shocked to see her tormentor after so long, was stunned into silence.

  She felt like she’d been thrown down from Heaven: her celebrity escape had dissolved into horror, and several people had stepped on her, actually stepped on her! This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. She was meant to live a glamorous life as an outlaw, having conned the Soldiers into releasing her, and the law into thinking she was in cahoots with the Reds. She’d played both sides, and she had won, dammit. She had won.

  Except she hadn’t. Because this horrible, insane woman had found her, and now it was all over. Aleksandra pulled her close. The Soldier reeked of booze, and Carla saw affliction in her wild eyes. Pupils tinged with a red glow sized up her condition. “Ah, Mithras loves you so much. Once again he’s saved you. You must be his favorite.”

  Carla shook her head as people rushed past them. “I’m not—”