The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  Then he started on the hall.

  At first Kristen cried, hating herself, but then the anger blossomed outward. She kicked at what was left of the toaster because it was the nearest thing to her. As she listened to Jean-Pierre's sounds of destruction from beyond the suite, she realized that Vistrot's revenge had been a mistake, a grave miscalculation. His act had been irrevocable, and now it was war.

  * * *

  Claude, the four-armed dwarf, had to step over sleeping performers on his way to the door. It had taken three penthouse suites to accommodate all of them, but ever since that initial challenge it had been a non-stop party. Pretty much everyone here was in a fitful, drunken stupor except Claude and several friends, including Max, and that's only because they were snorting the last of an eight-ball. When he finally got to the door and flung it open, he saw a very severe Jean-Pierre with a grim-faced blond girl at his side.

  "You're here to see Max.”

  "That's right," said Jean-Pierre.

  Claude led them through the living room into the oversized den, where Maximillian and a few others—one or two of them groupies—were still carrying on the festivities. The troupe had put on a good show tonight and were hoping to spend another few weeks in New York. That would all change shortly.

  Max glanced up at Jean-Pierre, then, smiling, rose to meet him.

  "So glad you could make it, my dear fellow. And who's this lovely creature?"

  "My name's Kristen," she said coldly.

  Max studied the albino, and Claude saw what Max saw: something about the werewolf had changed. He was more composed, more confident. It looked, to Claude, as if Jean-Pierre had made up his mind about something. And, having done so, he seemed even deadlier than before.

  "So, my friend,” said Max, wary, "are you ready to give a little blood?"

  "No. But if you're willing to do something for me, you'll be able to taste blood far richer than my own—blood that has been building strength since 500 B.C. It will make you immeasurably more powerful than you are. Of course, I'll need the complete cooperation of your troupe."

  Max frowned. "Whose blood would this be?"

  "Vistrot," Jean-Pierre said. “The Titan."

  * * *

  When Sophia finally woke up, she couldn't open her eyes at first because of the soreness and dried blood. She smelled something horrible, some slaughterhouse stench. The bruises and abrasions she'd suffered under the hands of the Balaklava burned. Worse, from the throbbing between her legs she realized that they'd raped her while she'd been unconscious. Fucking bastards. Let them try to do that when I’m awake!

  She forced her eyes open only to find herself inside of a giant belly. Human bones had been fused together to create much larger ones, which arced over the chamber and down both sides like the ribs of an enormous animal. A vertebral column ran along the top and walls of flesh composed the top and sides, in which the ribs were embedded. Though it was surely some illusion, the flesh appeared to be alive, as if it was in fact the abdominal wall of some beast. Perhaps the Balaklava had dribbled some of their blood on their gruesome artistry to give it life, or perhaps the illusion was created by one of their voodoo tricks.

  The belly stretched, cavernous, overhead, with a height of maybe a hundred and fifty feet at its greatest, and tapering off at either end, where brightly-colored black men with dreadlocks carried guns. Apparently Junger and Jagoda had brought along some of their followers from Jamaica and were using the humans as guards for their prisoners. Prisoners there were, perhaps fifty of them—all perilously mortal—engaged in various boredom-induced activities. Sophia noted that each and every one of them, man and woman alike, was beautiful. This is why the Balaklava had let them live, she supposed. Then it was surely the reason that she, too, had been spared so far. Where were her hosts, anyway?

  She sat up, joints aching. The prisoners nearest her, two young men resting their haunches on upside-down buckets and playing a game of checkers, noticed her.

  "Well, will you look at that? She's up."

  "How do you feel, miss?"

  She placed a hand to her pounding head and smiled, going for points. "Fine. How long have you two been down here?"

  "About a week, I guess. To tell you the truth, I've kinda lost track of time. Easy to do in this place.”

  “At least they haven't eaten us yet,” the other put in. “That's just because we give good head, though."

  Sophia nodded unsentimentally. "And by ‘they’, you mean ... "

  "Junger and Jagoda, the dark gods. That's what the Rastas call 'em—that or the Balaklava."

  "The Rastafarians are the guards?"

  "Sure, if that's how you wanna say it. Wardens, more like. Executioners when we ‘misbehave’. That's what we call them, anyway. If they were actually Rastafarians, things would be a lot cooler down here."

  She surveyed the scattered prisoners. "There are enough of you to make a break for it when Junger and Jagoda go out for food. What stops you?"

  The second pointed towards the belly's entrance. “Beyond that is the Labyrinth. No one knows the way through ‘cept Junger and Jagoda and their people. And in case any of us were inclined to give it a go …” He gestured. In a corner, about ten feet from a cluster of the Rastas, rose a mound of gnawed corpses and bones. Lying there as if it were a throne, a massive tiger lazily chewed on a fresh human skull.

  "That's Kalanda, the Balaklavas' pet. Pretty, isn't she? They say she's got enough of their blood to make her one of them."

  "Kalanda's a shade?"

  "You got it, miss. Not only that, but smart, too. They say she's got a mind connection to the gods and that they can watch us through her."

  "You know I'm one of them, don't you—an immortal?"

  The young men exchanged glances. "It won't make a difference, miss."

  Chapter 24

  A week earlier …

  Hauswell smiled as the odd flock approached, gesturing for them to take a seat, which they did.

  "Ciara told me you were here," he said. “I was hoping you would find me.”

  Looking at his old friend, Ruegger found himself at a loss for words. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You, too, my friend. And Danielle, you look as sumptuous as always. How did the sled race go?”

  “Sophia won again.”

  Hauswell stirred his drink. “A shame about Ludwig.”

  “Yes. We’ve come a long way to find out why he died.”

  “I’m guessing it had something to do with his army hanging in the balance. Second largest army in the whole Community, you know.”

  Quietly, Ruegger said, “I was under the impression you knew more than that.”

  Hauswell shifted his eyes, indicating the crowd. “Later,” he said.

  They talked about Ludwig, and old times, getting used to each other once again, falling back into the rhythm. For her part, Danielle was largely quiet.

  When the pleasantries had been put behind them, she said, "But why ... why did you fake your own death? If it's the Scouring you're trying to avoid—well, I'm sure the Scourer knows that he hasn't killed you. So the one person—or group of persons—that you're trying to fool isn't fooled."

  Hauswell smiled. "That's true, although I think even the Scourer will be a little confused, because surely he did hire someone to kill me, and there are many death-squads that claim to have done me in. So it's more than likely that the Scourer will be uncertain whether or not I'm in the ground. In any case, my ‘death’ did manage to stir up quite a bit of confusion, and hopefully my trail was lost in it. But ... well, that's not the only reason I led others to believe I was taken out."

  "Why then?"

  "I wanted to see what would happen. Whenever someone like me is Scoured, chaos erupts; I wanted to study this. In the time that I've been ‘dead’, I've researched the phenomenon in great depth. The pattern is largely the same. In most cases, a crime lord is killed and all hell breaks loose in the aftermath. All the lieutenants of the dece
ased clamor for the throne, but it's rare that any of the lieutenants ever get the throne.

  “The only circumstance in which one of them does claim it is through an enormous infusion of money and resources—someone helps them to build a power base large enough to enable them to rule. It's either this or an outside party—in my case, a shade named Karl Barnaby—comes from nowhere to take the crown for himself. Interesting, isn't it?"

  "So you're saying that these ascendants to the throne were given a boost by someone."

  "Exactly. And it would follow that they would then owe loyalty to this person. In my research, I've found out who this person is." He spoke in a coarse, strained whispered. "I know who's behind the Scouring."

  Ruegger and Danielle waited with baited breath.

  Hauswell smiled mischievously. "Ah, but I can't tell you here and now. Someone could be listening. I don't mind if you know because your lives are on the line, too. But I don't want an outsider to benefit from information that I've sacrificed so much—my entire kingdom, for the gods' sakes—to gather. I've really said too much already."

  Danielle ordered another drink, this time a margarita. "But what's happening here in Lereba? We know that the Balaklava killed Testopha, but we don't know why. Is it part of the Scouring?"

  "Very much. See, there are two patterns to the Scouring. One is the killing of a criminal boss—this is the most prevalent pattern—and the second is the exploitation of a tense situation, such as that one here between the karula and the abunka. The interesting thing to this pattern is that the tension that the Scouring exploits is inevitably caused by religious differences. That's what I've come to study.”

  “The karula and the abunka have been at each other's throats since the death of their leaders, and I believe it will all come to a head tonight. You have impeccable timing, I must say. But, if you want to observe the phenomenon yourselves, stay here awhile. Mark my words, after a few days of fighting, when everything is in ruins, out of nowhere there will come a leader with a powerful gathering and a new fortune that will seize control of the city. If Testopha was really Scoured, and if the Balaklava work for the Scourer, that’s what will happen."

  "So the Scouring either kills a crime lord or a powerful religious figure,” Danielle said. “Chaos breaks out, a lot of people die, and then an agent of the Scouring steps in and takes over."

  "Precisely."

  "Ludwig doesn't fit the profile."

  "Therefore he wasn't Scoured. I think it's significant in more ways than one that the targets of the Scouring represent crime and religion. Ruegger, doesn't this strike you as interesting?"

  "What are you implying?" Ruegger said.

  "Well, the fact that you despise religion is well known. You put up with some elements of crime as long as they suit your purposes, but ..."

  "You think I have something to do with the Scouring? You've already said that you know who it is, and if that's true, then you know I've nothing to do with it."

  Hauswell looked doubtful. "Maybe. Ruegger, back when I saved you in Germany all those years ago, did you think I did it simply out of the goodness of my heart?"

  "Of course. If not, why?"

  "It's true that my goodwill was partly the reason—in fact, I was actually selected because of my goodwill."

  "Hauswell, what the hell are you saying?"

  Hauswell stared at Ruegger silently, then shook his head. "You really don't know, do you? Well, now is not the time or place to tell you. Here, why don't you two accompany me upstairs so that we can watch the city burn?"

  "You certainly know how to show a girl a good time,” Danielle said.

  They returned upstairs to the mansion, where the odd flock trailed Hauswell to his suite. The German retrieved a bottle of fine bubbly from the mini-refrigerator and three glasses from a cabinet, and they moved to the balcony. The city below lay in darkness cut by a smattering of fires, which seemed to be spreading. Tendrils of smoke blotted out the stars. Far away, the rattle of gunfire drifted from a tangle of narrow streets. A cool breeze gusted up from the city, carrying with it occasional warm spots.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Hauswell said, pouring the drinks. "Ruegger, you look upset. What's wrong, my dear boy?"

  "Thank you for sharing your information with us. We've ... been through a lot ... to see you and to hear what you have to say. But before I listen any further, I want to know why you let Laslo live. You must've known how far gone he was. And if you lie to me, I will kill you."

  Hauswell nodded slowly. His face was suddenly weary.

  "I’d heard about his death, and I’ve mourned him. Before he passed, what did he do?"

  "He crucified us. And many others."

  "Damn. I knew he was far gone, but I never knew just how much. When he locked me out of the hangar, I didn't put up a fight. I guess I didn't want to know."

  "He killed hundreds, maybe thousands."

  Hauswell's hands shook as he sipped his champagne. "I swear to you, I didn't know. But, Ruegger, you were pretty far gone yourself once, and I helped you out. Eventually you came around. I had hoped that, in time, Laslo would come around, as well, although he refused all my offers at getting him help and counseling. What else could I have done? Kill him? What if I'd killed you all those years ago? If I had, you would never have had a chance to redeem yourself. Redeem yourself you did, admirably, and the world is a better place for it. I just couldn't kill him before he had that same opportunity. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, but I don't know if I can forgive."

  "Try."

  Suddenly Ruegger remembered how he'd felt when he believed Hauswell to be dead. Of things unsaid, unresolved.

  "Hauswell, no matter what your reasons were for doing it, I want to thank you for saving me all those years ago,” he said.

  The German looked surprised. He smiled. "You're most welcome."

  "And I ... I forgive you for not killing Laslo. I know you were only trying to do what you thought right. It couldn't have been an easy decision."

  "It wasn't. Now it's my turn to thank you. It means a great deal to me to hear you say such things. Now, I’ll tell you all I know about the Scouring."

  Ruegger sipped his drink, strangely at peace. The fires of the city were reflected in Hauswell’s eyes, curiously a little moist. Ruegger held Danielle's hand, and together the trio watched the city burn.

  Hauswell began to speak.

  * * *

  "Remember when I met you in Liberty and told you that someone was investigating my total resources? Well, I continued my search for the person behind it and at last was successful. However, in the process, I alerted this person, and now she wants me dead before I can spread the news of her identity."

  "She?" said Ruegger.

  "That's right. Before the Scouring began, she wanted to determine how powerful I was. I believe she’d planned to start the Scouring soon and was looking for a partner—someone that could provide her with what contacts she lacked. She investigated me to see if I fit the bill and, for whatever reason, decided not to go with me."

  "Would you have gone along with it?"

  "Of course not, which is perhaps the reason she went with someone else. Or perhaps it was that I wasn't powerful enough."

  "Who'd she decide to go with?" asked Danielle.

  "My former greatest competitor—Vistrot."

  Danielle exchanged a glance with Ruegger. "So this woman and Vistrot are the forces behind the Scouring."

  "Yes. This I've learned through weeks of hellish research. In the early days of the Scouring, Vistrot used Junger and Jagoda to perform several of the killings, including that of Testopha. I presume he did this to cloud the issue, because people have recently tended to associate the Balaklava with Roche Sarnova. Don't misunderstand me; I'm not saying Vistrot intentionally framed Sarnova—not in that instance—but he surely did it to create general confusion in the event that the identities of the murderers became known to the public.

  “After the first few kill
ings, Vistrot and his accomplice decided to play it safe by hiring local death-squads to perform the wet work. They hired the teams through a series of front companies, and it took me a long time to sort through them until I found out the truth of the matter."

  "What's the purpose of the Scouring?"

  "To rid the immortal world of crime and religion, I suppose."

  "Then why did this woman seek help from the greatest criminal alive? It takes a thief to catch one?"

  "Who knows? I still think she sought out Vistrot because of his contacts and his power base. Perhaps it appealed to her sense of irony. Besides, who else could she have turned to but a major crime lord? But we'll get to that in a minute. It all makes perfect sense."

  "So once they've cleansed—excuse me, scoured—the world of crime and religion, then what? Vistrot gets to be the head honcho from then on and the woman disappears into the nether from whence she came?"

  "I don't know. As we’ve discussed, after every Scouring's resultant chaos, a lone figure emerges to take over the area, like Karl Barnaby of Las Vegas. A great deal of my investigations have dealt with finding a commonality among these doomsday princes, as I call them, and the only thing I've come up with is Vistrot. That's where his contacts come into play; he has to be able to control these folk, so they have to be people that have worked well for him before. After he Scours, he sets someone up in each area that's loyal to him. These doomsday princes are one of the main things the woman needed him for."

  "What about Ludwig?" Ruegger asked. "Where does he fit into the picture?"

  "Think of it this way: Roche Sarnova could be a serious impediment to the Scouring. So if you wanted Sarnova out of the way, how would you go about killing him if you didn't want to use your own soldiers?—and it would take an army."

  Ruegger nodded. "So you're saying that Vistrot and the woman had Ludwig killed—using the Balaklava, who are thought to work for Sarnova—to incite the wrath of his widow and the Libertarians so that they would attack the Dark Lord in retaliation."