by Chad Huskins
But it leapt at him, one of its fangs grazing him as it swung by, and slammed into the front doors, blocking his escape. He turned and ran back for the hall, even as the worm was recuperating. He ran past the woman, which was still a connector between the worm’s front and back side. She reached a hand out for him, but he jerked away.
A sudden, agonizing thrill went up his right arm. A pain so searing and hot it took over his human experience, dominating all senses. He looked at his arm—the forearm and hand were tumescent, turning red.
A floating chair landed just beside him, but bounced off the floor and floated off someplace else.
Someone fired at him. The bullet tore through his coat, but missed his flesh. The pain still paramount in his mind, Shcherbakov somehow managed to keep running, moving back to the shattered desk. He fired off several shots in random directions, having no time to think on it, and ran out of bullets as he slid for cover. Shcherbakov reached for another clip, but dropped it because his hand had swollen too large to handle something that small. The fingers peeled off, the flesh split, and black mucus came gushing out.
Shcherbakov’s world had become an acid trip, and of the worst sort.
What is happening? What does all of this mean?
He detected movement on the other side of the desk. Still moving as if in a dream, on sheer instinct, Shcherbakov stood and ran. An instant later, Pelletier came leaping over the top of the desk and tackled him. When they collided, they hit the ground and slid. It was at this point that Shcherbakov’s forearm burst completely, and from it came a long, dark tendril, growing perhaps twelve feet long and dripping with a clear, viscous substance. Flacid at first, it just slapped against the floor. Then, it suddenly jerked to life. The tentacle whipped out at Pelletier reflexively, knocking him to one side while Shcherbakov clambered to his feet.
Behind him, the door to the stairwell burst open, and the many-tentacled creature with the black girl attached to it came crashing through into the lobby. There came a loud scream, like more children dying. The giant worm had spotted the many-tentacled thing, and the two of them darted towards one another, two titans circling and coiling for a few seconds, before they finally leapt at one another. It was a tangled mess of twisting pieces, incomprehensible to follow.
Shcherbakov turned back to Pelletier, who was obviously out of bullets and places to run. So was Shcherbakov. However, the Grey Wolf had something hanging from the stump of his right elbow, fifteen feet long and still growing, and, for the time being, it seemed to obey him.
The part that convinced him he was still in a dream, though, was not the tentacle in place of his arm. Nor was it the feuding monsters just behind Pelletier. No, it was the fact that Spencer Pelletier was smiling at him. No human being on earth could or would be able to smile so casually during something like this. Thus, a dream.
“Lemme guess,” said Pelletier. “Not how you were expectin’ the night to end, right?”
Definitely a dream. So smug, so arrogant, and exactly how Shcherbakov had come to think of his quarry. This infuriatingly elusive man, he now had a place in the Grey Wolf’s dreams. And, like the Grey Wolf of mythology, Shcherbakov had learned to change shape. The tentacle was likely another extension of his subconscious coming to believe that. But even in a dream, he would still try to kill Pelletier. Because even in our dreams, we still have our priorities.
There was a brief pause between them, and then, Shcherbakov launched himself at his greatest adversary.
Spencer grinned as he dashed forward. He had a shard of broken glass from the chandelier, which had fallen next to him after he’d run out of ammo. Spencer clenched it in his fist and was set to jam it in his enemy’s jugular, but he only managed to grab hold of the man’s throat before the tentacle snapped forward and grabbed his wrist, wrenching it free.
“I’m a Wolf!” cried his enemy madly. “The hunter in the forest! I am a Wolf and you are a mutt! Do you think you can kill a Wolf?!”
The tentacle had a crushing grip, and Spencer thought his arm would pop off…
Spencer was laughing. “Ever hear the story of the fox who tricked the wolf?” His enemy grinned insanely back at him.
That’s when Spencer, impossibly, hopped onto his enemy’s back and drove a broken broom handle into his the Wolf’s back.
One of his selves, hiding behind the pillar to his left, had been watching the whole thing. It was strange, having these multiple perspectives, not knowing which of these versions he was, or if he was any of them. But hey, he/they thought, when life hands you lemons…
His Second Version wrapped an arm around his enemy’s throat, even as his First Version fought to get his hand free. Then, Spencer brought his Third Version out of hiding. From the other side of the desk, the Third Version appeared and dove for his enemy’s legs. He tackled the Wolf, and the four of them spilled onto the floor. The Wolf thrashed with hand and tentacle, wrapping Third Version Spencer in his grip and squeezing, even as the Second Version Spencer smashed his face repeatedly until his hand was swollen.
The Wolf flung the Third Version around, slapping the other two away. He rose to his full height and flung the Third Version to the ground repeatedly. Spencer felt his bones breaking, and finally his head was smashed enough that his brains came leaking out. Spencer felt himself receding, dying—It’s very peaceful, he thought—and now it was only the First and Second Versions left.
It was a maelstrom of perspective-shifting for Spencer, exactly like entering into a dream where nothing needed to make sense and the world was replete with known impossibilities. The walls are melting? Of course they are. Walls do that. The floor is shifting? Of course it is. Floors do that. Furniture was immune to gravity? Well, naturally it is. On and on the impossibilities went, completely and utterly accepted by Spencer, by everyone. They were all temporal and spatial rogues now, standing on the borders of fixed and unfixed. All was in flux, including their perception of that flux.
The lobby, the entire building, had become a womb of madness, where every strange thought was entertained and incubated, where every truth was malleable. Spencer couldn’t understand the next events, he wasn’t even sure he was living them, but he never let that wipe the grin from his face(s).
The Wolf flung the corpse of Spencer’s Third Version at him/them, and only First Version got out of the way. The Wolf reached out with his whip-hand and snatched him by his arm, pulled him close, and head-butted him before whipping his long tentacle, sending First Version flying through the air and onto the floor. A floating couch came down out of nowhere, and he rolled clear of it before it smashed him.
Second Version Spencer felt something slap against the back of his head. A random tentacle from the Shannon Monster, now in mortal combat with…Whatever the fuck that is, he thought as both versions turned his/their attention back to his/their enemy. The whip slashed out at Second Version, and he ducked. The end of the tentacle slashed the side of the Great Worm, and First Version ducked behind the other side of the large circular desk, half of which was now pulverized.
The walls had collapsed on one side of the lobby, and gale-force winds trespassed from outside. The blizzard now lived in here. Indeed, it seemed grateful to have been let in, like it had been waiting all night for this.
The Wolf came at the Spencers, using his tentacle to reach behind and pull the broom handle out of his back, where Third Version had left it. He stabbed down and plunged the shard of wood straight through First Version’s chest with no problem, killing him. For the second time tonight, Spencer felt himself die. Now there was only Second Version. The final version of him.
Spencer stood alone against the Wolf, and moved around the remains of the front desk. Behind them, the Great Worm and the Shannon Monster were ruining the other side of the lobby. The two titans coiled around one another and made one large, undulating mass with random limbs slapping out against the rest of the lobby, searching for purchase. Amid the insanity, Spencer found it interesting that the two creat
ures were fighting. This meant something. The Prisoner had made a deal with him to kill Shannon Dupré, and now the two things were fighting. He got what he wanted, now it’s time to discard her. It’s what Spencer would have done. Now she’s a liability. She gives Kaley strength. She has to die, so Kaley can die.
A massive black member smashed into the desk, shattering his thoughts. The wood was hewn in half, as if by an axe, and Spencer dove away. The Wolf leapt over the desk and coiled his whip-hand around himself. Spencer was running for cover behind one of the pillars when he heard gunshots. He ducked reflexively. Off to his right, he spotted Leon Hulsey, emerging from the hall with the elevators, clutching a hand to his bleeding eye and firing at something following him.
The gunfire got the attention of the Wolf, too, who spun and whipped his limb at Hulsey. The detective saw it coming, ducked, and the tentacle smashed pictures off the wall behind him. Hulsey fired two shots at the Wolf before the tentacle returned. Hulsey took it across the face and landed hard on the floor, smacking his head on the marble, either dead or unconscious.
Spencer had almost made it to the pillar when his enemy spun back around, and flung his whip-hand at him. The slithering blackness wrapped around Spencer’s neck and squeezed. Virtually all blood flow to his brain ceased. It was the squeeze of a python. He kicked and flailed, grinning, his eyes wide with hate and the audacity of it all. Very soon, his head would pop off. The intense anger filled him—he hadn’t gotten to Dmitry’s family, he hadn’t gotten to make good on his promise to kill Kaley Dupré, and, worst of all, this Russian fucker had won! He had won!
With his last bit of consciousness, Spencer had an inkling of inspiration. One last rebellious notion. A last ditch effort. He focused the thought, and aimed it at the Shannon Monster. Your sister is lost and alone in that other world. She can’t survive without me. She won’t. You know it. Only I could save you that night, and only I can save your sister now.
The tentacle squeezed tighter. Spencer felt the world fade away. Stars filled his vision. Just as his eyes closed, though, he suddenly felt the tentacle loosen, then rip away from his throat. He fell face down, and took in a gulp of air. At first, he choked, and passed out. For a moment, he was back on the couch as a kid, eating Fruit Loops and watching Saturday morning cartoons (“Sufferin’ succotash,” said Sylvester the Cat).
Still unconscious, he blinked, dreaming of another time. His older brother Collin, and his oldest brother Brian, were standing over him. Collin held Spencer down while Brian sat on his face and farted. Then, Brian held him down while Collin did the same. When it was over, Brian said, “Just remember, we did this to you. Don’t go tell Mom or Dad, or we’ll do it again.” Weeks later, they would know Spencer could do things, too. “Remember,” Spencer would tell them. “I did this to you! I did! Bet me I won’t fucking do it again! Bet me!” Brian, with a tooth missing, wouldn’t be able to admit to his parents that their little angel Spencer had beaten him to a bloody pulp with a led pipe. A story would emerge of three boys jumping him after school. Brian and Collin would leave him alone after that, and would go off to become a lawyer and a nightclub owner, respectively.
Gasping for breath on the lobby floor of Tsarskiy Penthouses, Spencer saw other things. An image of Collin, giving him a wary look the next time they passed in the hallway, obviously having heard from Brian what really happened.
Presently, Spencer smiled. Those were the good ol’ days. Good times, good times.
Another breath, and he choked and gagged, then went into a coughing fit. Spencer rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Colorful stars still filled his world. He blinked a few times, and forced himself to his feet. On the ground not far away, his enemy stood up slowly. His whip-hand was cut in half and gushing blood. Spencer was aware of the war going on behind him between the Great Worm and the Shannon Monster. He looked there, and saw the other half of his enemy’s whip-hand coiled in one of her tentacles. The Shannon Monster had heard his thoughts, and had come to his aid.
Having lost so much blood, and now dizzy from injury and lack of air, Spencer had trouble focusing for a moment. However, his eyes happened to land on a corpse being ripped apart by a hundred little meaty things with teeth. The body was only recognizable by its clothing. Zverev. Beside him, a pistol lay on the ground.
Spencer staggered over, and kicked a couple of the meat-things away and bent to pick up the gun. The bleeding stump of his enemy’s whip-hand snatched at his ankle, and lifted him into the air. In perfect English, his enemy screamed madly, “From hell’s heart…I stabbeth thee!” He both laughed and wept, a face contorted with despair and insanity.
Hanging upside-down, Spencer aimed the pistol and fired at his enemy. He fired until he was empty, which meant only three shots, but each one hit somewhere around the sternum. The tentacle released Spencer almost at once, and he landed hard on the marble floor. His enemy went staggering backwards, landing beside another pillar and spitting up blood. “Points deducted,” Spencer panted, rolling onto his side, “for quoting…Moby Dick. Overrated…fucking…book. An’ Ricardo Montalban…said it better in…in The Wrath of Khan.”
His enemy opened his mouth, like he was trying to speak. He was still half laughing, half crying. The eyes had gone wild at the unfairness and the bizarre climax to his life.
A horrendous roar. The Great Worm had now smashed down on top of the Shannon Monster, pinning her. The massive worm’s head bit down at the tangle of tentacles, and ripped two or three of them off.
Meanwhile, Spencer crawled over to his enemy, and sat on his chest, straddling him, much as Brian and Collin had done to him when pinning him down. He bent over and looked at him. “Dmitry Ankundinov’s family. Where are they? Tell me where I can find them, and maybe I’ll call an ambulance.” No answer. The eyes were still glazed and lost. “How about At-ta Biral? Where do I find them?” Any tiny bit of information would help. With Vitaly Zverev dead, here was perhaps Spencer’s last chance to find someone who knew where the Ankundinovs had moved Dmitry’s family to.
But his enemy choked out more blood, mixed with the same kind of black bile that was leaking from his whip-hand’s stump.
Spencer took a moment to watch death spread over his enemy. He savored it. Finally he leaned in close, whispered into the Wolf’s ear. “I did this to you. Understand? Know that before you go on to wherever you’re goin’. I did this!” He put his eyes in front of the dying man’s gaze. “Look at me. I did this. I’m the one.” Slowly, his enemy’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.
While the two monsters continued to clash at the far end of the lobby, Spencer quickly ran his hands through each of his enemy’s pockets. He came up with a wallet, a packet of Sobranie cigarettes, a silver lighter with a bear’s head on it, and a hotel keycard. He rummaged through the wallet, found some rubles, a Visa card, IDs (probably fake) and a scrap of paper with two sets of initials and addresses on them: V.Z.R. and A.R.R.
The dream element hadn’t lifted. Spencer looked around, still feeling as though he was stumbling through someone else’s hallucination. He stumbled over to his other two Versions, gave each body a brief inspection, wondering if he had landed in the right body, or if he was now existing in a copy, and figured it was all the same before staggering off.
There was a loud, cracking sound. Spencer looked up, saw the Shannon Monster reaching out the remainder of her tentacles and digging them into the walls, then pulling them forward. Great chunks of marble and stone came crashing down, smashing the Great Worm’s head. Yet it still fought, gushing blood onto the floor even as some of the Shannon Monster’s tentacles found their way into the opening. They burrowed down, into the midsection, and some of them tore into the woman still connecting the two sections of worm. After much jerking and pulling, the Shannon Monster tore this woman apart, separating the two halves. The Great Worm spilled its guts, and yet still fought on.
Spencer leapt for the same couch still floating in the air. It held his weight, and bel
ow him a sea of gore flowed over the bodies of the Wolf and Zverev. The ceiling began to collapse, and from it, came classroom desks, and hall lockers, and a banner saying CES PROMOTES EXCELLENCE. Spencer waited for the gore to finish washing out the door, and then dropped down, splashing in ankle-deep viscera.
The door was only ten feet away. He turned and ran for it, but something snatched at each of his limbs and lifted him off the ground. The Shannon Monster. It had him, and held him suspended in the air for a few seconds while he listened to the lobby collapse. A fire had started somewhere, he could smell it.
More tentacles curled around him. He watched as Shannon herself slowly descended, hanging lifelessly in front of him, the tentacles pouring out of her elongated mouth still controlling her. Yet, there seemed to be some kind of brain to this massive organism, so he imagined little Shannon Dupré was in there somewhere.
Spencer hung his head, laughing. “What a motherfuckin’ day, huh?” Another wall collapsed behind him somewhere, but he couldn’t turn to see which one. Titanic forces were at work inside this building, just as they had been at the Ruffa Docks, and look how that turned out. “Listen, I know you’re…well, a little upset. But let’s be reasonable. This place is set to fall apart, an’ if we don’t wanna be buried under the rubble, we need to get outta here, ASAP. Savvy?” The Shannon Monster didn’t move, and remained silent. “Be smart now. Be like your big sister, and listen to ol’ Uncle Spencer, even if you don’t like what he has to say.”
More crumbling behind him. Spencer could feel heat, and heard flames snapping and popping.
“Whattaya say? We have a deal?”
The Shannon Monster seemed to consider what to do with him. Then, after a moment, it began to move.