by Crimefactory
Lung blocked a series of lightning-fast strikes with his pistols, every blow spinning the cylinders and causing the weapons to snarl. Van Helsing held off a spinning dervish, jabbing at it if it got too close, but unable to pin it in place. The other four dead men bounded among the dacoits like cats among mice, not killing, but playing.
The warning bell in Brass’ cranium jangled, and he bent backwards, avoiding a swipe that sent sparks dancing from him and tore ribbons from his suit coat. Shrugging out of the tattered garment, he backed away as the dead man hopped forward.
Silent, it lunged gracefully, arms extended. Brass locked his forearms and brought them down on the creature’s wrists, snapping them. A head lunged, teeth skittering across the coils and cables that made up his throat. Brass twisted, grabbing handfuls of silk and drove the creature into the stage, face-first.
It rose, shaking off broken wood. Brass was on it, then, wrapping an arm around its throat and fixing his fingers between its uppermost fangs. The golden mask fell away as it grabbed at his wrists. Pistons chuffed as Brass yanked sharply upwards and wrenched the top of the creature’s head off, decapitating it at the jawline.
The body staggered forward as he released it, falling onto all fours. He looked at the rotting skull in his hand. Dead eyes followed his movements. Brass crushed the ruined scalp with both hands, reducing the ancient mind within to pulp. The body abruptly stiffened and then collapsed like a stringless puppet.
The remaining six creatures froze as one, and turned, their eyes boring into Brass’ own. Brass gestured.
“Come on then. No more playing.”
Three of them darted forward in a shrieking hurricane. The other three turned on the others, attacking relentlessly, all pretense of playfulness gone. One fell upon the dacoits like a tiger, killing two of the men instantly, dashing their brains across the seats with backhanded blows. The other nine hatchet-men circled the creature like hyenas around a lion. In moments, there were only eight, as another man spun away, his jaw and neck crushed by a looping kick.
Lung ignored the plight of his men, and spun his pistols and holstered them as the second of the beasts swung towards him. Fists clenched, he slid between its arms and drove a punch into its belly, denting the ancient armor and hurling it backwards. “Ha!” he snarled, leaping to follow it, his knuckles cutting the air as he moved.
They traded blows on the stage, Lung grunting and bruising every time his mortal flesh met the dead meat of the jiang-shi. He stopped kicks and blocked swooping punches, bending double to avoid a swipe, and driving his fists, hammer-like, up into the small of the creature’s back. It bent backwards, folding up, its arms reaching for him upside down as he rolled out of reach. As he came to his feet, he drew his pistols and fired, catching the creature in the eye-slits of its mask. The bullets burned through its mossy skull and carried its foul brain across the ragged curtain beyond.
Van Helsing fared less well as his pike was caught between two cold palms and shattered. As it fell into pieces, he released it and staggered back, desperately clawing for something in his coat. The jiang-shi reached for him, leech mouth working eagerly. The Dutchman hauled a small bag from his coat with a cry of triumph, and flung it full in the monster’s face.
Grains of rice scattered everywhere, and the creature stiffened in something that might have been shock. It sank to its haunches, compelled, long nails flicking at the rice.
“Count them, my friend. Just for a moment-” Van Helsing grunted, scrambling for the point of his broken pike. He scooped it up and whirled, driving it through the back of the distracted creature’s skull. It jerked forward, scattering the rice it had collected as it flopped down. Van Helsing backed away, looking for another weapon to remove its head.
Brass, meanwhile, punched through the skull of the first of the creatures to reach him and swung it around, using it to knock the others off their feet. Wrenching his arm free with a sucking pop, he shoved the thrashing body aside and smashed his elbow into the throat of the next one to its feet. It stepped back and caught his second blow on its palm. Brass drove his foot into its belly and a it bowed, he dug his fingers into its back, shredding silk and armor to grasp the serpentine spinal column that writhed at his touch. With a savage jerk, he pulled the length of bone free and slashed out with it like a cutlass, cutting open the throat of the third of the beasts. It staggered, clutching the bloodless wound. The spineless one coiled around Brass’ legs, trying to topple him, biting at his joints. He fell, punching at it. It squirmed around him, boneless and enveloping, its dark strength crumpling his false flesh and putting pressure on the mechanisms within. A kick from the other shattered one of his mirror-eyes and he rolled, carrying the spineless one with him.
Momentarily on top of it, he slammed its head into the floor until it cracked like an egg. It thrashed blindly as he got to his feet just in time to meet the charge of the third. Catching its wrists, he was driven back into the seats, knocking aside corpses. It snapped at him mindlessly, driven by an ancient need.
Beyond it, he could see Lung and Van Helsing trying to defeat the only other of the seven devils still standing. Only three of the dacoits still stood. Van Helsing had picked up a hatchet, and as Brass watched, he drove it into the creature’s back like a man chopping wood. It slapped him aside as Lung struck it in the face and chest with a flurry of punches and kicks. It fell backwards, flailing like an overturned insect, as the remaining dacoits pinned it to the floor with makeshift spears gathered from the tangles of broken timber laying everywhere.
Brass forced his hands up and pierced the flesh behind the creature’s golden mask. The mask fell onto his chest. Ignoring its struggles, Brass tightened his grip, digging for the bone. When he caught it, he pulled hard. The jiang-shi’s skull popped in twain and the corruption within was revealed. Brass swatted the brain away from the body and it skidded across the floor.
He pushed the body off and stood. The last remaining creatures struggled weakly as Lung and Van Helsing stood over it. The tromp of heavy feet filled the air. Brass turned as men marched in through the opening he had made.
The men were large and on their shoulders, a palanquin. It swayed as they marched, abominable flags undulating even as they came to a halt. Beneath the sandaled foot of one, the brain of the jiang-shi was crushed into pulp.
“We must kill this one,” Van Helsing said, raising his hatchet. A hand extended from between the palanquin’s curtains, long nails tipping the fingers. It gestured, and Lung pointed a pistol at the Dutchman.
“No,” Lung said.
Brass stared at the palanquin, as if he could pierce the folds of its curtains with his one remaining eye. More men filled the auditorium, these carrying rifles and pistols. The Devil Doctor was not one to trust in others.
“Our bargain is done,” Brass said, stepping between Lung and Van Helsing. Lung sighed.
“No. No, no,” he said. “Now you must-”
The hand gestured again. Lung glanced at it. “But-” The hand did not move. Lung lowered his pistol. “Fine. As my father commands.” He extended his arm. “Go. Take your old man with you.”
Brass looked at the still moving jiang-shi. Then at the palanquin. He thought of the satanic features of the being within only half-glimpsed in his memories, and knew they were twisted in a smile.
They had been used. Van Helsing and himself. Poisoned bait for wild beasts. Now the trap was sprung and the devil had his due. Brass wondered what a man like that would do with a demon like the jiang-shi. And whether it was worth trying to stop him, here and now. He glanced at Van Helsing, shaken but unbowed.
“Come, Professor,” Brass said. “We’re being allowed to go.” Van Helsing looked at him.
“But we can’t simply leave that thing-”
“We must.”
Brass grabbed the Dutchman by the arm and pulled him through the lines of hatchet-men and dacoits, ignoring the burning gaze of Lung, as the Devil’s Son watched them go.
On th
e street, as they moved away from the bloody theater, Van Helsing said, “Thank you, my friend. For coming to get me.”
Brass didn’t reply. Past the rooftops of Chinatown, San Francisco still burned. Behind them, something began to shriek like all the damned in hell as the corpses that hung above them fell silent at last.
red Donkey
by matthew j. mcbride
Wade Monroe felt the cold hard steel of the gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck. It startled him at first, but he was quick to subdue his reaction.
“What do you want?” he asked nervously.
“Don't fuckin’ move,” came the voice from behind.
“Okay, okay, just don't shoot me,” Wade begged. “Please don't shoot me.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the stranger said, and smacked him hard to the back of the skull.
“Okay fella, calm down.”
The gunman smacked him again. Harder this time. “I said shut the fuck up!”
Wade Monroe tried to keep his cool, but he didn't like being robbed. He liked being pistol-whipped from behind even less. Wade struggled to play the role of helpless victim and resisted the urge to launch a violent counter-offensive.
The gunman took a step closer. Wade felt warm breath across the back of his neck.
The muscles flexed in his forearms and his jaw clenched tight as Wade gritted his teeth in frustration. This is what you get for stepping out the back door of the Red Donkey to take a piss.
“I want ya money, cocksucker,” the gunman demanded.
Bam.
There was that gun to the back of the head again. Wade was getting real tired of this bullshit. Slowly, and with calculated precision, he slid his hand into his back pocket as the music continued to play from inside the bar.
“Easy motherfucker, don't be a Got-dammed hero.”
“No man, the money's all yours, just don't hurt me,” Wade said. He nodded his head in compliance and decided it was time to set in motion the plan formulating in his head.
STEP ONE: APPEAR WEAK.
Make Your Opponent Underestimate Your Skills.
“Just give me ya wallet motherfucker, I ain't goin axe you again. I'm jus goin blow the back of ya muh fuckin' head off.”
Wade Monroe waited for the sound of the piece to click as the gunman rounded the chamber, but the sound never came. Now would have been a good time for his assailant to do this in order to effectively demonstrate his point. This lack of action got Monroe thinking.
“Okay,” Wade said. “Okay.”
STEP TWO: BUY TIME.
Lie.
“I've got kids,” Wade said. “A family.”
“I don't give a fuck about your kids or your motherfuckin family.” The gunman was growing restless, fidgeting around. Wade picked up on this as he watched the thug's shadow cast down the alley.
STEP THREE: BE QUICK.
Speed and Fluidity Are Essential.
As Wade's head spun to the left, he threw his left arm back and grabbed the son-of-a-bitch's wrist, ducking out of the way and pulling him off balance. Wade continued to use the momentum of the spin and drove his right fist into the piece of shit's throat with all the force he was able to create within the limited space provided, planting his middle knuckle deep into the bastard's voice box.
Wade felt the gunman's larynx break but he didn't let up. Experience took over and he followed with a quick, powerful knee to the nut bag and dropped the gunman like a bad habit. All the while, Wade was still holding the guy by the wrist. He looked down to find the douche bag had only been using a lead pipe. Wade knew it hadn't been a gun. Knew it. The diameter felt too big for a gun barrel.
“You fucking junkie piece of shit,” Wade said, pulling the pipe from wounded man's weak grasp and stomping on his face with the business end of his steel-toed Carolina's.
Lights out.
Voices suddenly filled the alley. Wade stepped over his assailant and made a move back toward the door of the Red Donkey.
It was locked.
“Hey motherfucker.”
Wade felt the wind rush by his face as some other asshole came from the shadows and swung a baseball bat in his direction. Wade's reactions were lightning – he ducked out of the way and got a quick look at the new guy.
The new guy had friends.
“You gonna die,” one of them said.
Wade squeezed the lead pipe that was still in his grip and improvised a fourth step.
STEP FOUR: DESTROY ALL MOTHERFUCKERS.
The Term “Justifiable Homicide” Was Invented For A Reason.
Wade threw the pipe in the guy's face, hitting him square in the teeth.
Wade dropped to his knees and dived into the shadows as the man dropped his bat and held both hands over his mouth and screamed. Monroe reached down and whipped off his belt, just as the next guy caught him in the back with a two by four. There was a powerful snap that echoed in the still night air like a gunshot from a .22 and Wade felt the wind driven from his lungs in an instant.
“Breathe,” he told himself, spinning around, slipping the buckle from his belt.
The asshole with the two by four came again, but this time Wade was ready. He slid the custom belt buckle over his fingers with an evil grin – it was a set of homemade brass knuckles.
Wade drilled the junkie with a violent, earth-shattering punch straight to the chin. He could tell by the way the fucker took the hit that his jaw was destroyed and Wade watched him fold like a five-dollar lawn chair.
Not wasting a second, Wade sprang through the air and turned his body in mid-flight, roundhouse kicking the fuckhead with the broken teeth. Wade's boot caught the guy's ear so hard it took him to the ground and his body went limp.
Within minutes, the three gangbangers were immobilized. Wade stood there, catching his breath and looking around. His ears were ringing and he could feel his pulse beating in his neck as blood ran from his brass knuckles and dripped onto the dirty pavement behind the bar.
That's the last thing he remembered.
He awoke to the sound of men in pain, and he felt himself being manhandled, the heels of his Carolina's dragging across the parking lot. All at once he realized there must have been another man, and he cracked an eye open just far enough to see the guy with the shattered grill limping along behind them, his dirty T-shirt now stained crimson red. Wade kept his eyes closed as best he could, his only real view was the sight of his own boots, his feet bouncing in and out of potholes.
“What we goin do wit 'em, Mang?”
Whoever had done the dragging then dropped him, and Wade tried to stay relaxed as his head made hard contact with the asphalt.
“Bes hurry,” one of them said. “Les do this.”
Wade knew he was bleeding from the back of the head and he struggled to maintain consciousness. If he was gonna die, here and now, he was gonna take as many of these assholes with him as he could.
His mind was slowly beginning to pick up speed and the gears inside his head once again began to find their rhythm. He thought of the boot knife in his Carolina. Ultra sharp and ready to slice through flesh like a razor blade across whip cream. Wade could see one of them standing over him, eyes too close together, crooked nose, swollen lips. Wade wanted to carve his face up like a pumpkin.
“Roll this motherfucker over,” one of 'em said.
The other one mumbled something, but he was hard to understand through that mouthful of missing teeth. “Les kill this motherfucker,” was all Wade could make out, which was enough. Slowly, and using the darkness to his advantage, Wade slipped his right hand down to his boot and found the handle of his pig-sticker.
“I'ma take this fool's chain,” and when he bent down close enough, just within biting distance, Wade found the end of his nose with the back of his teeth, and he sank his second and third molars just as far into the cartilage as he possibly could.
Wade threw his left arm up around the cocksucker's neck and held him in place, securing the position of h
is teeth. His mouth filled up with blood and snot. He kept right on biting with everything he had, jerking his head from side to side until a chunk of the nose came free. Wade spat it across the parking lot.
The other guy came for him, the one with the busted grill. Wade caught one of his feet with his own, then kicked him in the knee so hard with his other foot that the knee buckled, and once again, Wade was back up on his feet and ready to dance.