I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2)

by Tony Monchinski

  Jay looked up at him defiantly, hatred in his eyes. “You’re goddamn right.”

  “Okay then.”

  Boom!

  Boone left the café, dumping the empties from the Anaconda, fishing the speedloader out of his cargo shorts pocket, reloading on the walk, sirens in the distance. He stuffed the .44 in his shorts, under his t-shirt, the barrel warm against his skin. He turned down an alley and kept walking, not bothering to hurry, not trying to draw attention to himself.

  He looked back regretfully towards Muntplein square. He’d have liked to have seen that tower one more time before he left this town. Maybe later.

  “May I offer you a ride?”

  A late-model sedan had pulled up to him on the street, its tinted window lowered. He recognized her at once, the woman from the bridge.

  “Hey.” Sirens wailed from the direction he’d just left. “Sure, that’d be great.” She slid over on the back seat as Boone got in her car.

  The chauffer wore a suit and didn’t acknowledge Boone. The car pulled away from the curb and into what little traffic there was, slowing for the bikes.

  “I believe there was just a shooting near the Rembrandtplein,” she remarked off-handedly, just making conversation.

  “Oh yeah?” Boone fingered the leather upholstery as he looked out the window. A little police car with flashing lights shot by in the opposite direction. “Ain’t that something.”

  “Tell me,” she smiled at him, “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

  “That’s got to be the oldest line in the book.” Boone turned to her, smiling. Give her an A for effort. “But yeah,” he reached under his t-shirt and drew the revolver. “This is a gun.” He held it up for her to see and she raised an eyebrow, suitably impressed. He liked that she didn’t seem scared. Right now Boone wanted one thing and one thing only: to get his nut, to get laid. “And am I glad to see you.”

  “May I?” She motioned to the revolver.

  He handed it over to her. “It’s still warm.” Boone noted the way she handled it, daintily, like she wasn’t used to firearms. Christ, he hoped she didn’t handle his cock like that. “You Americans,” she briefly puckered her lips, “and your fondness for guns.”

  Boone wasn’t worried about the woman or her chauffer. They were going to take him where he wanted to go. First he wanted to fuck.

  He put his hand out for the .44 and she left him hanging, the Anaconda in her own grip, all business now, the revolver steady on him.

  “What gives?” he asked, thinking maybe she was fucking with him.

  “I believe you knew my son.” She bared her fangs.

  54.

  10:40 P.M.

  As she sat in her kitchen, patiently waiting for the call she knew would come, Olga Coyle stroked Leroi, the feline lying on the table before her. The blinds were closed and the shades drawn, the apartment cool and dark. She had a book in front of her on the table, a hardcover mystery from the shelf in her bedroom. She’d read it before and wasn’t expecting anything new. It helped the time pass. Next to her, on the wall, the phone, its cord hanging down to the floor.

  Leroi purred.

  Strewn around the apartment’s floors were Lincoln Logs, Matchbox cars, wooden blocks with the letters of the alphabet. She’d dug them out of the back of a closet, Billy’s and Eddie’s toys when they were little. Outside on the street a car horn honked.

  Her son stood in place against the wall, in the shadows between the refrigerator and the curio. She’d sewn his head back on again. A mortar and pestel rested in the sink. They were used to grind a herbal paste which was then smeared on Eddie’s wounds. In the hopes that the wounds would heal, that his head would stay in place.

  Warrior brushed against her, Olga’s lower legs exposed under her housedress, above her furry slippers.

  In the shadows, Eddie awaited her bidding.

  The phone rang and Olga let it, brushing her hand against Leroi, his eyes half-lidded, the big cat content.

  She reached up and took the phone from the wall, saying, “I believe you have something of mine.”

  “If you want her back, you’ll…” Olga listened to what they had to say, saying very little herself. Leroi opened his eyes a bit to observe, still purring on the kitchen table. When she hung up the phone, Olga turned in her chair to look over her shoulder in the direction of her refrigerator and curio, to her boy.

  “Mommy’s going to need your help again soon, Eddie,” she told the thing in the gloom. “Very soon.”

  55.

  10:45 P.M.

  The wall at Kar Dap-Salam had held.

  Its watch towers crumbled to rubble, smoke wafting from its heights to a crimson sky, entire sections demolished under Mazalan’s war catapults and various other siege machines. Fires burned behind its arrow slits and embrasures, the flames casting their eerie glow. The men of the Five Lands lay strewn atop its walk, many with their weapons frozen in hand, fallen in defense of their homelands.

  Before the wall, a carpet of pierced and broken bodies, Mazalan’s minions dispatched in their thousands. Orcs and trolls melted in pools of steaming oil, sable riders and their other-worldly mounts pierced through by arrow and spear. Stepping through their fallen, avoiding the fires that continued to burn, Mazalan’s army crept forward, towards the wall and the Five Lands beyond. For all that had succumbed, many more came, brandishing their swords and spears, clubs crafted from bone human and otherwise. Bloodlust filled their eyes, black thoughts of rapine and slaughter foremost in their minds.

  Only one stood between the hordes and the peoples of the Five Lands.

  A raised doorway in the wall stood open, a lone figure filling it. The wooden staircase connecting the doorway to the ground beneath had been brought down early on, to further stymie the savage hordes. There was no gate. The wall had been constructed to keep things like these out.

  From the relative safety of the doorway, Tamarak watched them advance.

  The barbarian’s flesh blackened from heat and grime, the shafts of arrows projected from his shoulder and thigh where he had broken them off. In his hands, a double bladed battle axe, its face ocher-stained and knicked.

  His own people had sold him out, condemning him to slavery. T’lina, the woman he loved, was married off to another. He had stood and fought while others had fled, stood and fought while the others who had stayed to fight died. The enemy had suffered in numbers incommensurate to his lone self. And now he stood among the dead, facing the encroaching mass, a sea of monsters and evil beings intent on further depravity.

  There was still time to run. True, he had freed his mare days earlier, sending her from the wall. Nevertheless, if he left now, he stood a chance of eluding Mazalan’s armies. Mazalan had suffered heavily to take this wall. His troops would need a day or two at least to lick their wounds and mount their next assault. When they were rested and equipped, they would sweep across the Five Lands like a plague, bringing death and destruction to every corner of the civilized world. If he fled at this moment, without further hesitation, Tamarak stood a chance of escape. If he fled.

  Never.

  Stepping forward, he dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch, absorbing the fall. A collective growl went up among Mazalan’s armies, spying the lone figure. They saw how the raised doorway loomed way above the man’s head, out of reach.

  Tamarak of the Yurek-Ungaar rose from his crouch, battle axe gripped in both hands, a sneer of hatred and defiance writ across his soot-stained face. He’d come down off the wall to face his destiny, one man against the bloodthirsty multitudes, fear absent his person. The barbarian had banished thoughts of his own demise, banished images of his beloved T’Lina from his mind, because when a man went to his death, he went to it with his mind set and his head straight, intent on the task ahead of him. Tamarak raised the axe in both hands and snarled back at the hordes, inviting their attack.

  “Damn.”

  DeAndre’s stomach growling b
rought him back to reality. He put Jablonsky’s book down on his bed and sat there, his back against his bedroom wall.

  “Damn that’s a good book.”

  Goddamn fat-fuck Ronald, eating all his Chinese food out the ‘frigerator the other day. And Luke, taking his food like he did after that. What had that been about anyway? Just thinking about it, DeAndre felt the heat rise in his cheeks, the shame.

  His metronome did its thing, ticking off the beats.

  DeAndre had read this book, read this part before. Knew what Tams was going to, coming down off that wall. Defiant to the end, never once scared. Tams facing all them mugs, while DeAndre was afraid to go out and get something to eat.

  tic...tic…tic

  It was getting late, true. And the Moses houses weren’t the best place to roam around in after dark, true that. But Terrence and his boys did so regularly when their momma was at work, and nothing bad ever seemed to come of it…

  DeAndre’d be damned if he ate another grilled cheese. This time of night, the only thing nearby that was open was the Chinese place.

  What’d he have to be afraid of anyway? He was hungry.

  tic…tic…tic

  His mind made up, DeAndre pulled on his hoodie and jeans, tying his sneakers. He’d keep his eyes open, avoid Luke and Yuri, any other shady characters. He’d go out and be quick about it, be back in his room with his food in a half hour tops.

  Goddamn if he wasn’t hungry.

  56.

  10:52 P.M.

  “I’m telling you,” Declan, the one with the Franz-Josef mustache, was saying to Gritz, “you don’t have to worry about us.”

  Gritz pulled against the handcuffs securing his wrist to the railing, anchoring him to the bench on one side of the bread truck.

  No luck.

  Declan sat across from him, decked out in black tactical gear and body armor, a mess of pouches, belts and holsters, black helmet with NVG goggles. The goggles were flipped up, only his mustachioed face showing. An assault rifle with a vertical grip rested in the man’s lap, his gloved hands resting on the buttstock and barrel, his legs stretched out in front of him, booted feet crossed.

  “That thing right there, that’s the thing you should be worried about.”

  A boar sat in the cage that took up most of the rear of the bread truck, eyeing the men warily.

  Gritz exhaled. What had he gotten himself into?

  He’d gotten into the bread truck on his own, which he was now thinking was a pretty stupid thing to do. Brian, Levon and Dec had been suited up in SWAT gear, looked like they were about to go out on a raid. Gritz was about to ask about the pig in the cage when Brian had slapped the cuffs on him, Levon relieving him of his S&W Model 36 he wore under his jacket.

  “Don’t take it personally, mate,” Brian had told him. “But we don’t make you stay here, ain’t bleeding likely you’ll stick around. And if you don’t stay here,” Brian had looked at the pig when he’d said it, “you won’t see what you need to see. Leave here thinking the lot of us barmy.”

  Brian was up front with Levon now, the sliding door separating them from the rear of the truck.

  “Try not to take it personally,” Declan reminded Gritz, echoing Brian, drumming his gloved fingers against the rifle.

  “That’s a little tough,” Gritz admitted. The bread truck bounced beneath them. According to Gritz’s watch, they’d been driving for a half hour. Because they hadn’t taken his watch or his wallet, not even his flask, nothing but his revolver. It didn’t make much sense to Gritz.

  “It’ll all make sense,” Declan promised him. “Won’t it?” He raised his voice, asking the boar. The caged animal raised its head and turned it inquisitively.

  “I didn’t know NYPD was into animal control these days.”

  “We’re not. We’re the Monster Squad.” The way Declan said it, without a hint of a smile under his mustache, the way he said it concerned Gritz.

  These guys were barmy.

  Crazy.

  “True Gritz.” Declan shook his helmeted head, amused or pleased, Gritz couldn’t tell which. “Who’d of thought?”

  “Yeah. Imagine how I feel. Brian’s a Brit. But you’re not.”

  “No I am not.”

  The truck came to an abrupt stop. The boar continued to sit where it was in its cage, ears back, alert.

  “How ya feeling then, detective?” Brian and Levon stepped into the rear of the truck, sliding the door to the front closed after them, Gritz getting a momentary look out the windshield but not seeing anything he recognized.

  He answered them honestly. “Bewildered.”

  “I know.” Brian retrieved an assault rifle identical to Declan’s from a storage locker. Gritz noted both weapons were outfitted with suppressors and shell catchers. “And I apologize for that, really I do.”

  “What’s with the pig?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” The way Brian referred not to Declan but to the boar itself.

  Gritz didn’t know what to say to that. Instead he asked, “Where are we?”

  “Sometimes,” Brian had taken a seat across from Gritz, unholstering a 9mm pistol he wore in a chest rig, “When you want to catch the cat,” Brian pulled back the slide on the pistol, peering into the breech, “…you have to go where you know you’re going to find the bleedin’ mouse.” He holstered the pistol.

  “He thinks we’re nuts,” Declan announced.

  “Can you blame him?” In addition to his own rifle and gear that matched the other’s, Levon hefted a battering ram by its handles.

  “Not one bit.”

  “What’d you think of the talk then the other night, detective?” Brian asked him like he knew he’d been there. And Gritz knew they knew he’d been there. Whoever these men were, whatever their game was, they’d been keeping tabs on him.

  “It was interesting.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Levon agreed.

  “Oh yeah,” Brian unsnapped one of the many pouches of his tactical vest. “I got you this.” He leaned forward with a plastic jewel case. Gritz took it with his free hand, studied the cover.

  A compact disk.

  Phantom Redemption.

  “Thanks.”

  “Enough fannying around then. We ready?”

  “I’ve been ready.” Now Declan smiled, uncrossing his legs and standing.

  “I’m good,” seconded Levon.

  “Look, Bill—you know what, mate, I don’t feel right calling you Bill.” Brian had drawn back the cover over a slit window in the rear door of the truck and stood there, peering out. “Gritz.” He said it approvingly, then quieted for a moment, intent on whatever was outside the truck. “We’ll be back in a New York minute I believe is how you might say it. In the interim, you sit tight, Gritz. Time we get back,” Brian cast one more glance at the boar in its cage, “I’d say you’ll be au fait with this bugger.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What he’s saying,” Levon looked warily at the boar, “is it’ll all make sense by the time we’re back.”

  The three armed men jumped down out of the truck.

  “Yeah,” Gritz said to the doors, “see you later.”

  He sat alone with his thoughts and the pig, tapping the CD absently against the bench he sat on.

  “Well,” Gritz set the CD down, taking his flask out of his inside jacket pocket, unscrewing the cap. “Looks like it’s you and me, boy.” He took a swallow of what was inside and gestured with the flask. “Salud.”

  The boar curled up into a ball in the back of its cage, watching Gritz.

  Transcript of 9-1-1 call

  94th precinct.

  There’s been a shooting. I’m calling to report a shooting.

  Okay, ma’am. May I ask who this is calling and where you’re calling from?

  My name is and I live at .

  And you say there’s been gunfire, Ms. ?

  Hell, yes. Right down the block from my neighbor’s house. I saw three men run out of the ho
use and get in a car.

  Who’s your neighbor, Ms. ?

  The car drove away from me. I didn’t get the license plate, I couldn’t see it. I think one of them was hurt, he was holding his arm. My neighbor’s outside his house now in his robe, standing there…Holy—he’s got a gun!

  Is your neighbor injured, ma’am?

  What? No. No, it doesn’t look like it. I’m calling you from inside my house—the hell if I’m going out there. No, he looks alright. He looks angry, but he doesn’t look injured if that’s what you mean.

  What’s your neighbor’s name and address, sir?

  He lives in the house up the street from mine, that would be . He’s got these globe things at the end of his drive way, I don’t know what they’re called, but you can’t miss them. Can’t miss it.

  What’s your neighbor’s name, ma’am?

  He’s on his phone, probably calling it in to you right now. Yeah, he looks mad. Oh, he’s mad. Real mad.

  Your neighbor’s name, sir?

  Heinlein. His name is Morgan Heinlein.

  57.

  10:55 P.M.

  Cassidy had another Scotch in front of him. He’d taken a sip and left it alone. Doules was behind his bar, polishing shot glasses.

  Tony Katonah shuffled in place at the other end of the bar, knocking them back, the kid feeling good. Lip-synching the Talking Head’s Psycho Killer, standing there dancing with one hand on his stomach, the other out at his side, really only moving his feet.

  “This guy comes with his own soundtrack,” Cassidy remarked to Johnny Spasso. Spasso drinking a soda next to Cassidy, a bendie straw in the bottle.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Anthony Vella and Bum Aulisi stood with Katonah, egging him on. “Psycho Killer, Qu’est Que C’est,” Katonah’s one hand out at his side pointed at Cassidy now. “Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa better.” Index and pinkie fingers pointing, almost the devil’s horns but he had his thumb out too. “Run run run run run run run away,” Katonah spinning around in place, Sausage and the Bum grinning, Vella slapping him on his back. Nunz watching them all like they were assholes.