The Words of Their Roaring

by Matthew Smith

  The Alley's boulevards were stained red from the spluttering neon on the buildings lining each side, advertising their contents. The majority of them were spit n' sawdust live shows: deadfuck baiting, shooting galleries or strip joints. Naked, mostly female, zombs writhed in windows, chained to poles, muzzles strapped over their mouths, advertising the entertainment within. Their dull eyes stared out at the crowds pausing to watch. Supposedly their frantic straining against their bonds was meant to be erotic, but to Gabe's eyes it looked desperate and so far removed from what he found attractive that he struggled to imagine how any of these slack-jawed fun-seekers were willing to pay to go into some back room and make out with a hosed-down and tethered ghoul, all its teeth and nails removed, its veins pumped full of formaldehyde and its skin slathered in that shit that undertakers used to make sure nothing came off mid-coitus. It amazed him how people would so quickly turn to something that in any other circumstances they would find utterly abhorrent. Social codes abandoned, they embraced a regression to animalistic urges.

  Slipping through the throng, he was continuously accosted by enthusiastic barkers, championing each establishment's delights - hunting parties, with prizes for the most undead bagged; wrestling matches, the combatants armed with nothing but their bare fists against a trio of stiffs; bars with dissections performed every hour. It was stimulation overload, a descent into a De Sadeian hell. For the enterprising pornographer or club owner, the rise of the dead had given them an underclass they could exploit without fear of recrimination; that could be broken and abused until they fell apart and were replaced. Anyone looking to unwind or let off a little steam could, for a fee, get themselves a Returner to beat on for an hour or so, safe in the knowledge that they weren't battering anything that experienced pain, or was even breathing. As long as it wasn't a recognisable family member that was up on stage being fed into a mincer before a baying audience - and it could happen; once a victim resurrected it was fair game for the Alley's entertainment, no matter what they once were in their previous existence - visitors were happy to use the pusbags for whatever dark designs they saw fit.

  Gabe knew that Vassily would be keeping this smart zombie of his out of public view, and that he would have to arrange a meet with the settlement's leader, if he was going to get close to it at all. He recalled that one of Andrei's lieutenants ran the security on a cage-fighting dive on the central strip; perhaps he could get word through that way. He headed off in search of it, determinedly doing his best to ignore the brightly lit windows, and the horrors that they displayed for sale.

  "That him?"

  "No question. Always knew that fucker had nine lives."

  "What's he doing here?"

  "Hiding out, maybe. More likely he's looking to get in with Vassily's mob."

  "Shit, this could be awkward. Harry's not going to want to bring a war to the Alley."

  "Fuck it, get on the phone, tell Flowers we found him. We'll let him call the shots."

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was the noise that hit him as soon as he entered. Upon stepping through the door, Gabe had to squint against the club's gloom, its sole illumination the spotlights beaming their paltry glow upon the cage set up in the middle of the interior. Everything beyond their reach was a mass of heaving shadow; but once his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could judge by the silhouettes of the crowd that the venue was packed. The blue smoke that drifted ethereally beneath the rafters added to the slow, thick air that made the room feel stagnant and claustrophobic. He could discern little of the clientele that were pressing forward to get a better view of the action that was taking place inside the steel ring at the centre, but the roar of cheers, shouts and curses was deafening. From this distance, with the neglected bar just to his right, he could see little of what the mob was baying for but he could discern, between the cries, the crunch of bone splintering and the rattle of the cage as bodies were thrown against it. Each punch was punctuated by another eruption from the audience.

  Gabe sidled over to the barman leaning on the counter. He raised his eyebrows at the thief's approach, and Gabe nodded a greeting, ordering a beer. The barman withdrew one from a wheezing cooler cabinet powered, Gabe noted, by a small rumbling generator tucked away in a corner; cables snaked away from it up the walls and across the beams, providing the electricity for what seemed the whole building. It lent the bar the faintest stench of kerosene, and when he took a swig from the bottle it tasted like the lager had been brewed from something similar. He swilled it around his mouth, summoning the courage to swallow, but threw some coins onto the counter top instead, waiting until the barman's concentration was fixed on retrieving the money before spitting the beer onto the floor. His tongue felt as if someone had scoured it with a wire brush. He chanced a look at the bottle, but there was no label on it. No wonder the crowd was so rowdy, he thought; they've probably been sent half-mad through alcohol poisoning.

  He leaned forward as the man was counting up the pennies. "Does Jackson still work here? Bryan Jackson? I heard he was chief of security." Gabe had to shout at the top of his voice even though there was barely a foot between them. Evidently, whomever the audience was rooting for had pulled off something pretty spectacular because the applause went through the roof.

  The barman glanced up at him then down again, not catching his eye for more than a second. "You a friend of Bryan's?"

  Gabe nodded. "Know him from way back. Used to run with his crew when I was younger." He played with the bottle to give the impression he hadn't forgotten about it while at the same time deliberately not putting it anywhere near his lips. "Been travelling down from the north, trying to find friends that I've lost contact with. Last time I spoke to him I thought he'd said he was working at the Alley."

  "What did you say your name was?"

  "I didn't. It's O'Connell."

  "Bryan's kinda busy right now," the barman replied, gesturing to the crowd. "As you can see, we get a full house on fight nights and there's always a chance that some bozo is going to get a temper on him. The sec team usually have their hands full when the match is over. But his office is over there, on the far side." He pointed across the room towards the impenetrable murk beyond the cage. "Perhaps you can catch him there, when he's taking a break."

  Gabe thanked him, picked up his bottle and started to ease his way through the throng. He didn't think it was possible but the cacophony substantially increased the closer he got to the epicentre of the club and the nearer he drew to the fence-encircled pit. The slap of flesh meeting flesh on the other side of the steel mesh reverberated in his head, and the watching mob pressing in against him moved as one body, pogoing with excitement, raising their fists in the air, yelling with triumph or anger. It was unquestionably mostly men in the audience, and they appeared to feed off each other's energy, vicariously channelling the violence from the act they were watching into bellowing approval. It was impossible to distinguish any actual words amongst the chants and jeers; it melded into a wall of sound that each added to with every full-throated roar. Gabe moved through the undulating, gesticulating mass carefully, picking his route with caution, knowing that if he upset just one component of this seething organism, it would turn its aggressive focus inwards and spill into a ruck. It wasn't difficult to detect the barely suppressed savagery in the spectators; its stink hung in the air mixed with the cigarette smoke, a bouquet of terrifying primal brutality, sweat and the ever-present undercurrent of rotting meat.

  A space cleared before him and Gabe could at last view the cage-fight unobstructed. The human grappler was bare-chested and sheathed in perspiration, dark blood splattered across his torso and arms, though Gabe guessed that it wasn't his own. The man was wearing a Mexican wrestler-style hooded mask that completely shielded his features, but the weight of his frame put his age at somewhere in his mid-forties. Gabe wondered how long he had been taking part in bouts like this; he reminded the thief of a circus strongman or fairground boxer, long gone to seed, and per
forming humiliating acts of strength and endurance for a paying public.

  He was without weapons, but he had long metal cuffs around each wrist, both with a hooked blade on the underside. From the look of the four Returners he was locked in the cage with, it seemed that was all the arsenal he needed: they were falling apart before him, one of their arms was already lying on the crimson-flecked straw that covered the floor of the pit. Their gullets were open black wounds, from which their moans echoed through their severed vocal cords, and it looked as if their grey-green skulls were only staying atop their spinal columns by the flimsiest thread. Jagged cuts criss-crossed their faces and limbs, laying them open to yellow bone; and yet still they came for him, hungry and relentless. They weren't chained to anything, which surprised Gabe; he had seen fights like this before where the ghouls were on a leash, which only extended so far, giving the living opponent a sliver of an advantage should the maggotbrain be particularly feisty. Here, no such help was required. The moment a zombie came within grasping distance, the wrestler easily sidestepped its approach and brought down his forearm, the blade slicing through the tissue-thin skin in an instant.

  It became apparent that he was playing with them to a certain degree. He could've finished them off within moments with a handful of judicious swipes to the brain, but he was dragging out their demise for the maximum entertainment, trimming pieces off them with the skill of a butcher. He used the ghouls for comedy value, pushing one in front into its fellows and watching them tumble like a troupe of clowns; then, as another would try to right itself, he would stamp on its gnarled hand, the dry, sharp snapping of brittle digits accompanied by another bellow of admiration from the crowd.

  Eventually, Gabe detected the show beginning to wrap up; the wavering cadavers looked like they'd stumbled through a jet engine - chunks of their bodies were missing in a jigsaw-style effect - and were barely offering any resistance. The audience was growing restless, demanding a spectacular climax, and the wrestler whetted their bloodlust with a denouement worthy of one experienced at performing before the public: he spun, hooking his right leg around the nearest Returner's waist so that it was pulled nearer, then lashed out with both arms beneath the zomb's chin, severing its head completely. There was little blood, and the remains collapsed to the floor like a felled tree, the skull following after with an eggshell crack as it hit the ground.

  The crowd approved, starting a chant that the fighter attempted to execute his finishing moves to, slashing open the last three ghouls to every beat of the rhythm. They each followed the fate of the first, necks split asunder, until the man stood in the middle of the cage, blood-slicked and victorious, viscera curled at his feet, his arms held above his head, pumping his fists to the throng's adoration. Those at the front of the mass surged forward and grabbed hold of the bars, rattling them with angry exultation. Their desire to see violence meted out was satisfied, and now it was exploding outwards, directionless. Gabe could understand now why the barman said the security team had their hands full; it would take all their efforts to quell such a riled mob. Minor scuffles began to break out in the thick of the crowd, and he took the opportunity to remove himself from the danger zone. He edged well away from the trouble, backing up against the far wall where he'd been told Jackson's office was situated, just as the bouncers moved in armed with short black saps, seemingly ungluing themselves from the shadows.

  They handled the situation with efficient brutality, ushering those that didn't want their own heads broken to vacate the premises. Most of the clientele were on their way out the door without having to be asked, eager to find the next live show, or have a go at something similar themselves, their appetites for destruction piqued. That was the chief attraction of Resurrection Alley: the fun never stopped. You could move from club to bar to gambling den to whorehouse to Grand Guignol theatre and find some new atrocity to keep you amused and occupied while the industrial-strength booze and pills, purchased from the tiny but dedicated band of dealers, went to work on your nervous system. It was amazing how quickly such a state of insobriety and tolerance towards the most inhuman acts imaginable could become the norm. Those that defended their actions perpetrated whilst holidaying in the Alley would more often than not merely claim they were letting off steam; but what that didn't account for was the rage that such relaxation unleashed. It was like seeing mankind sloughing off its daily face in a bid to enjoy itself, and in the process unveiling the hideous dark heart of what it actually was.

  Those scrappers that were too enthused by the bout they'd just witnessed and who were continuing to tussle with their neighbours were given short shrift; the security guards struck the ringleaders across their temples, rendering them instantly unconscious. Once more than half a dozen were lying prone on the bar's floor, then the fight went out of the rest, and they held up their hands in surrender, retreating towards the exit. The last to leave were instructed to pick up those that were out cold and to carry them outside; what happened to them after that was not the venue's concern. It was a disclaimer of the Alley that anyone partying within its walls did so at their own risk; while it was prepared to put on the entertainment, it wasn't going to sweep up the mess afterwards, and Andrei Vassily had given his men carte blanche to act with extreme prejudice whenever they saw fit. While anything was possible here, that didn't necessarily assign the punter any consumer rights.

  As the dazed and contrite spectators staggered into the street, Gabe noted the wrestler unlock the cage door and step out. Shorn of his audience, he looked smaller somehow, almost deflated. He was taking deep breaths, stretching his muscles, rolling his head and massaging the back of his neck as he trudged with the gait of the deeply weary towards the security office. He was about to lift his mask free - he had unpeeled it as far as just below his nose revealing a stubbly chin and jowls - when he spotted the younger man leaning against the wall in the gloom. He paused, pulling the disguise back in place, studying Gabe with watery eyes, then nodded. Gabe returned the greeting, and the man passed through into the room beyond, shoulders slouched like someone who was slowly dying inside.

  "Place is closed, pal, in case you hadn't noticed," a voice said close to Gabe's ear. He turned and saw one of the bouncers twirling his sap next to him. "Next show is in a couple of hours. Suggest y'hop it."

  "I wanted a word with Jackson. He around?"

  "Bryan?" The man looked surprised, then swivelled and called out across the room. "Bryan! Guy here looking for you."

  "Yeah? I know you?" The broad-shouldered, bearded figure that approached hadn't changed since Gabe had last seen him. His dark eyes set deep in a fleshy face were as impossible to gauge as ever, and it looked like he'd added to the enormous tattoo that spread across his torso, a snake's head emerging from his shirt collar to nestle at his throat.

  "Gabriel O'Connell."

  He squinted as he rolled the name around his head, pupils disappearing in the pronounced skin folds like black buttons in dough. "Rings a bell..." He pointed a stubby finger. "You one of Flowers' men?"

  "Was. Me and the boss man had something of a falling out."

  "Yeah, I recognise you now. You were one of his triggers last time he paid a visit. Thought you were supposed to be his capo?"

  "Like I said, situation's changed," Gabe replied, shrugging, wondering how Harry truly saw their relationship. There was no denying that the old geezer was grateful for what Gabe had done for him the night they lost Anna; but at the same time Harry held him personally responsible for the events that had unfolded, using his guilt as a means to manipulate his loyalty. He could've had Gabe killed back then too, for what he did, but kept him on, knowing he could use him. So Flowers probably hadn't given it a second thought when he at last signed Gabe's death warrant; as far as he was concerned it was another traitorous ex-employee who was going to get what he deserved.

  Jackson stepped closer, uncomfortably so; there was only a foot or so between them. Gabe had to look up to maintain eye contact, the security man
being a head taller. "So, what, you decided to do a runner? Or you thought Andrei might offer you a better deal?" He smiled crookedly. "Or did Flowers throw you out like a discarded bitch when you'd served your purpose?"

  "If you think I might be a threat to your position as Andrei's number one benchwarmer, then don't worry," Gabe answered, unwavering. "I'm not about to fly in and boot you out of the nest. Truth is, I've got a proposition for your boss that I'd like to take to him personally, if you're amenable."

  Jackson laughed, loud and abrupt. "I bet you have. Y'know, I seem to remember you being this polite when we were pointing guns at one another. Trouble is, O'Connell, what makes you think I'm going to let you see him? All I've got is your word that you've severed links with Harry. Maybe you're out to demonstrate your loyalty to him by getting close to his biggest rival."

  "You think I'd come here on an assassination run and announce myself to all and sundry? Do you think I'd make a fucking appointment? Credit me with a little intelligence. Fact is, I've come here showing Andrei and yourself nothing but respect, and it would be nice if it was reciprocated. From what I remember of Andrei, he's a stickler for manners." That shut the fat bastard up, Gabe thought, watching Jackson chew his lower lip. "I'd like to speak to him because I have a plan that could be advantageous to him and his whole organisation, that could challenge Harry's power base."