"Smitty wants us back home, so we're going to have to eat breakfast fast," he called to the Master of Sinanju's closed bedroom door. "You want trout?"
"Carp," the old Korean's voice replied.
"I'm still getting trout," Remo warned. "Don't go getting all pissy saying you wanted trout, too, when it comes."
"Carp," Chiun said. "And I'm not talking to you."
"I should be so lucky," Remo grumbled as he reached for the phone.
Chapter 5
The plump, middle-aged woman on the flight from Little Rock thought that it was ghastly, just ghastly, that the old Asian gentleman's son had forced his elderly father to travel to New York in his pajamas. When Chiun explained that the black robes were mourning garments, she grew puzzled. The sad little man had insisted his garments were his murderous son's doing. She asked who died.
"My dreams. My hopes. My eternal, burning desire that a son to whom I have given the world would show me a mere ounce of gratitude for all he has had bestowed upon him."
"Knock it off, Chiun. Those robes are celebration. White is mourning."
The moon-faced woman turned her quivering jowls toward Remo. Green eyeshade rose haughtily on her broad forehead.
"You, sir, are a monster."
"Said Swamp Thing's grandmother," Remo said as he looked out the plane's window. He usually found the clouds pretty. They didn't seem very pretty today.
The woman's face became a mask of jiggling horror.
"You're right," she said to Chiun. "He's a brute. I'm going to report him the instant we land."
"Others have tried," Chiun said pitifully. "But he is as wily as he is cruel. He has escaped punishment for the many crimes he has committed against me and others. Even now he travels in luxury at the expense of your government."
"I know a thing or two about government," the woman insisted. "My cousin is a United States senator." She unclamped her handbag and rummaged inside, producing a small pad and a gold pen. "Give me your name," she demanded of Remo.
"Alfonse D'Amato. I'll let you figure out where you can shove the apostrophe."
The appalled woman immediately summoned a flight attendant, who in turn called the pilot.
The pilot was a pleasant-faced man in his late forties. He was muscular with a shock of black hair that was turning gray at the temples. In his shirtsleeves, shoulders marked with civilian captain's insignia, he picked his way through the cabin to the source of the commotion.
"Is there a problem?" he asked the woman who sat clucking like an angry hen between Remo and Chiun.
"I want police on the ground when we land," the woman insisted. She aimed a sausage-thick finger at Remo. "This man is guilty of elder abuse. I want him arrested and thrown in jail for what he has done to this poor, sweet man."
The pilot glanced from Remo to Chiun. "Sir, is this man mistreating you?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.
"He is wicked in both thought and deed," Chiun responded fearfully. "Just recently he locked me in a cell while he went off gallivanting for days on end."
"I was only gone a couple hours," Remo said.
"He shouldn't be left alone for one minute at his age," the matronly woman snapped.
"He locked you in a cell?" the pilot demanded.
"That cell had cable TV and a door that locked from the inside. He could have escaped a hundred times."
"My hands were too feeble to work the door handles," Chiun said weakly. "He even forced me to eat carp when I wanted trout."
"You poor, poor dear," the woman said. She patted Chiun's hand. The Master of Sinanju nodded morose appreciation at the small kindness.
"Quit it, will you, Chiun?" Remo snapped.
"Leave him alone, you tyrant," the woman barked.
"I've seen enough," the pilot said. "The authorities are going to want to question you when we land, sir."
"Oh, come on," Remo said. "I didn't do anything."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
"Look what you did," Remo groused at Chiun.
"Can't you lock him away somewhere for the rest of the flight?" the plump woman whispered loudly to the pilot. "He seems unbalanced."
"I'll give you unbalanced, Aunt Bee," Remo snapped.
Quick as a flash, two hard fingers shot into the woman's doughy wattle, pressing into her throat. False eyelashes flickered, and the woman suddenly could not refuse the urge to sleep. Her head slumped forward.
"Peace and quiet. All I ever want," Remo complained.
As the woman began snoring, the pilot tried to flee. Remo grabbed him by his dangling tie and reeled him in.
"They need you to land this thing?" The pilot shook his head.
"In that case, nighty-night."
Remo sent the pilot to slumberland. He dumped the pilot's face in the lap of the sleeping woman, then called over a flight attendant.
"Oh, my God!" the woman exclaimed. "What happened?"
"Beats me," Remo said.
"He did it," Chiun said.
"Put a sock in it, will you?" Remo said. "When's the in-flight movie start?" he asked the stewardess. The bodies were quickly cleared away. While the cleanup was going on, there was a lot of whispering Remo didn't like the sound of.
When the plane reached La Guardia twenty minutes later and was immediately cleared for landing, Remo knew he was in trouble. There were police on the ground. Remo saw them out the window.
"This is all your fault," he groused, unbuckling his seat belt.
"Of course," Chiun said. "Blame the innocent, defend the guilty. The very underpinnings of white culture."
"Shake a leg, Johnnie Cochran," Remo insisted. He hurried up the aisle. The Master of Sinanju followed.
They found the flight crew hiding out in the galley. The crew was dismayed at Remo's appearance through the curtain.
"Please return to your seats," a flight attendant commanded.
"Believe me, I'd like to. No rest for the weary." Remo stuffed the man in the rest room. When others protested, he stuffed them in, too.
"You missed one," Chiun pointed out blandly as the navigator tried to flee.
"Thanks a heap," Remo said, collaring the man. There was no room left in the bathroom. He jammed the man in a cupboard.
By the time the plane rolled to a stop, Remo had locked away pretty much everyone but the copilot. "Great thinking for you to start this stuff up again now," Remo complained as he shoved a few loose arms and legs into a particularly cramped closet. "Calling attention to us on a plane flying in to New York. Smitty's gonna love this."
"I did nothing but make a friend," Chiun sniffed. "You introduced violence. That is your way. Violent and hostile. You should enroll in one of those classes that teaches people like you how to manage your anger."
"Take my word for it, I'm managing it."
All potential witnesses were now safely locked away. The passengers were still oblivious.
The plane had reached a dead stop by now. The police would rush inside the instant the door was opened.
In the middle of the galley, Remo banged the floor with the heel of his shoe. When he found the sweet spot, he hopped into the air, landing hard on both heels. The welded steel plate beneath the carpet broke loose, rising like a teeter-totter and tearing up a long strip of rug.
"You coming?" Remo asked as he slipped down into the newly made trapdoor.
Chiun frowned. "Will the indignities never cease?"
The two Masters of Sinanju disappeared through the narrow opening. Through the belly of the plane, they made their way to the aft cargo hold.
As SWAT teams stormed the plane above, Remo was standing on an American Tourister suitcase and kicking open the big cargo door. The two men jumped to the ground.
"Welcome to New York," Remo muttered.
A moment later they had vanished amid the growing confusion.
Chapter 6
By midmorning word of the bizarre murders had spread like prairie fire through lower Manhattan. In a city now
conditioned for particular types of attack, this was something new.
New York was a target of terror and the home of murder, rape, drive-by shootings, gang wars, pimps, whores, drug dealers and all of the seven deadly sins, plus a million more unknown to theologians. But the one fear New Yorkers had never been prepared for was wholesale cannibalism in Manhattan's steel-and-glass canyons.
So far, more than two hundred people had been affected. As many as that and more were dead. Since the killers seemed to not be in control of their own actions, police had been ordered to use guns as a last resort. The NYPD was armed with Tasers and animal tranquilizers.
Bronx Zoo officials had been brought in as advisers on the capture of the most dangerous of prey: animals with the capacity of human thought.
Although civilian authorities were doing their best to deal with the situation, there was no clue yet as to the cause. By late morning the number of attacks continued to increase with no explanation in sight.
By the time Remo and Chiun arrived by taxi at the Second Avenue home of Vaunted Press they could sense the fear hanging heavy in the air.
The streets were virtually empty. A dozen cruisers had converged on the building six hours earlier. Only two remained. Since early that morning, the isolated incident at Vaunted Press had become epidemic.
The two Masters of Sinanju met not a living soul as they crossed the sidewalk and entered the lobby. They took the elevator to the fourth floor.
"I guess we should have seen this coming," Remo said as the car rose. "Cannibal chic. Probably started in the Village."
Chiun was watching the floor lights. "Do not drag Sinanju into this perversity," he sniffed.
"Different village, Little Father," Remo explained. "And from where I stand, tongue studs and navel piercings are a hop, skip and a jump to rampant workday cannibalism."
"The lesser races have a history of playing at the edge of anarchy," Chiun agreed. "It has always been the yellow man's burden to keep the savages in line. Still, when I pass from this life and join my ancestors in the Great Void, I will now owe my grandfather a gold coin. He always said you Americans would be the first to start eating one another."
"You bet against us?" Remo asked, surprised.
"Of course. There are still French in the world." The elevator doors opened on the lobby of Vaunted Press.
The police officers whose patrol cars were parked downstairs were nowhere to be seen. Sensing a cluster of heartbeats far down the hall, Remo and Chiun struck off in that direction.
They found a group of eight men and women hiding out in a small office. Tense, black-rimmed eyes looked up fearfully when Remo and Chiun entered the room.
"Who are you?" one trembling man asked.
"FBI," Remo said, flashing false ID. "Why are you people still here?"
The man exhaled. "We were witnesses. Most everyone went home, but we had to stay. Then it got worse out there and they advised us to stay put."
Remo stabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "You know where it happened?" he asked.
The man nodded. "I was there," he said sickly.
"How about giving us the nickel tour?" Reluctantly the man pushed himself out of his chair. The rest remained behind as he followed Remo and Chiun out into the hallway.
"So what exactly happened here?" Remo asked as they walked down the long hall. The lights were on in all the silent offices they passed.
"I don't really know," the man said. "Four people went crazy this morning. They were like animals. I was lucky to get out alive. Then the police arrived, and we found out it was going on all over town."
"Where are the police now?" Remo asked. "We saw the cruisers downstairs."
"They're around here somewhere. Some of them had to leave on other calls. It's crazy." They had reached a short hall. "Down there," the office worker said, pointing.
Yellow police tape hung at the dead end of the corridor. A few rooms opened onto the hall. Remo and Chiun smelled the heavy scent of human blood in the recirculated air.
Remo lifted the tape for Chiun and the office worker to pass. The man waited outside the first door, averting his eyes. "In there." He pointed.
Remo thought he'd be prepared. After all, he had seen much in his life. But the gruesome scene inside the Vaunted Press break room was far worse than he had expected.
The floor was painted in sticky, drying blood. There were only a few clear spots here and there. Police and morgue attendants had barely been able to navigate across the mess. Dried blood clung to the walls, splattering the refrigerator, coffee area and watercooler.
"Where are the bodies?" Remo called out the door.
"They took them," a voice replied from outside.
"We'll have to take a trip to the morgue, Little Father. The victims might be able to give us a clue." The Master of Sinanju nodded. He was standing in a clear patch, examining the floor with an experimental toe of his sandal. When Remo looked, he saw that Chiun was tracing deep furrows in the linoleum. They looked almost like claw marks.
"What are those?"
"It appears to be the work of an animal," Chiun said. "See the depth of scarring. There was strength behind this blow. You are certain the things that did this were human?"
"People did this, right?" Remo shouted out the door.
"Yes," the Vaunted employee said. "Well, they were people. I don't know what came over them."
"You know if they were hepped up on goofballs? Snorting Liquid Plumr? Anything like that?"
"I don't think so. You could ask them." Frowning, Remo stepped back into the hallway. "I thought they were dead."
The office worker shook his head. "Two of them are. The police had to shoot them. They were like animals. But they captured the others."
"Beats questioning a corpse. I guess our next stop is the police lockup, Chiun."
The Master of Sinanju had just padded out into the hall, a troubled look on his leathery face.
The three men were heading back to the police tape when a low sound caught Remo's attention.
He stopped dead, listening. The Master of Sinanju paused at his side.
"What is it?" the old Korean asked.
After a silent moment, Remo shook his head. "I thought I heard something."
Shrugging, he started up the hall when the soft noise floated to him once more. This time the Master of Sinanju heard it, too. They shared a tight glance.
"What's wrong?" the nervous office worker asked when the two men turned abruptly away from the yellow tape.
"Don't know," Remo said, pitching his voice low.
"But, hey, I've got a fun idea. Why don't you run back as fast as you can and hide with the others?"
The man blinked. "Um..."
"Lock the door," the Master of Sinanju added darkly, his button nose upturned and sniffing the air. The office worker did not need to be told again. He turned and ran, snapping into two neat halves the thin plastic police tape. He was out of sight before the yellow ends had fluttered to the floor.
Remo and Chiun headed in the opposite direction. Senses tuned to the soft vibrations of the building around them, they swept stealthily down toward the end of the hall.
They felt it now. It had been far and weak. So weak that even their highly tuned senses had failed to detect it.
A dying heartbeat.
No matter what Chiun thought about the marks in the break-room floor, the sound was distinctly human. The thready thump came from the last office.
Like sharks honing in on a single droplet of blood in an ocean of water, they tracked the noise.
The door was slightly ajar; the room beyond was dark. Dusty blinds had been twisted shut on the latemorning light.
Gently Remo nudged the door open. Eyes trained to see in darkness drew in enough ambient light to illuminate the room.
The body was sprawled on the floor, head propped at a painful angle against the wall. The stomach was ripped open, exposing curved bones of a broken rib cage. The man wore the tattered uniform
of a New York City police officer.
As Remo and Chiun watched, the exposed heart of the dying cop offered a feeble beat.
Wincing, Remo began to step toward the dying man. A strong hand held him fast.
"Look," Chiun whispered. With a long nail, the Master of Sinanju pointed at the shadows.
A second uniformed policeman had been dragged behind a desk. Craning his neck, Remo saw the other man had suffered the same fate as the first. He was luckier than his companion. The second man was dead.
Remo shook his head, confused.
"I thought they rounded them all up," he whispered. "What the hell is loose in here?"
Chiun's face was a troubled mask. "Whatever it is, my son, walk with care."
Stepping across the room, Remo knelt next to the living man. To his right beside the desk, a door was open to an adjacent room.
The police officer was too far gone. There was no way to revive him even for a moment of questioning. Cruel face darkening in disgust, Remo used a sharp temple blow to kill the officer swiftly and mercifully.
When he turned, he found the Master of Sinanju standing at the second body. Chiun was examining the man's injuries.
Remo was surprised to see a strange look on his teacher's parchment features. If Remo didn't know better, he would almost say it was fear.
"Chiun?" he asked, taking a step toward the old Korean. And in the fraction of slivered time it took him to speak his teacher's name, there came a soft growl at Remo's back.
It shouldn't have been there. It was too close. His senses should have detected anything living. Yet there was something alive. Breathing warm down his neck. Shocked, Remo had barely time to twist around.
The creatures sprang. Like shadowy lightning they launched from the murky recesses of the adjacent office.
With fangs bared and a jungle roar, the two remaining New York police officers flew at the exposed throats of the two Masters of Sinanju.
Chapter 7
Though they had the outward appearance of men, the two leaping creatures seemed possessed with the strength and speed of wild beasts. They moved on instinct and rage. Animals, not humans.
At the last moment, one soared past Remo in a blur, head tipped to one side. Sharp teeth sought the scrawny neck of the Master of Sinanju.
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