by Allan Burd
Blood Cold
Silas Hill – Book II
a horror thriller
Allan Burd
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The End…
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
Bangkok. A half moon beats down against a gleaming skyline that towers over a city ripe with life. Unfortunately, I’m heading away from it, a passenger in a cab with a driver who has a gap toothed grin and breath that smells like he just ate a crap sandwich. Not my first choice, not even my eighth. But he’s the only driver that willingly volunteered to take me to the dangerous part of town I need to go. Even then, he refuses to bring me closer than ten blocks away, shaking his head at me so fiercely his dandruff makes the front seat look like a snow globe.
I get out of the way of his flakes, pay him the amount on the meter, and kick in an extra hundred. He taps his chest, telling me in Thai it’s for his courage. I tell him it’s for mouthwash, a new toothbrush, and a gallon of shampoo. His million dollar smile disappears before he angrily tosses my heavy duffel into the street and flashes me the finger as he drives away. I probably should’ve been more polite, but I’m on edge. The unanticipated walk I now have to make carrying the load I have has the potential to stiffen my muscles and dull my reflexes and when I reach the trouble I’m heading for, I’ll need to be at my level best.
I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and start strolling. The concrete under my feet hasn’t been paved in years. The streetlights flicker and dim, as if they’re warning me. The buildings I pass are dilapidated; threatening to collapse under dirty gusts of wind so thick they choke the life out of you. The neighborhood’s a hellhole, but I’ve been down one so it’s not bad by comparison. Apparently, the ugly couple across the street feels the same way because they’re shamelessly groping each other like they’re in a tropical paradise. They spot me and smile. Combined they’re more hideous than some of the monsters I’ve fought… living proof of the theory there’s a cover for every pot, but to each his own. Everyone’s entitled to whatever happiness they can get in this crazy fucked-up world.
I tip my hat to them. They shake their heads, whisper to each other, laugh, and continue their naughty business as if I wasn’t even there. But I overheard them. Their dialect was Hokken, a language I’m somewhat familiar with. They agreed with near certainty that I’m going to die tonight. But that’s because they don’t know what I’m carrying. I pat my duffel, leave them to each other, and continue on.
The closer I get to my destination, the sketchier things get. Drug hustlers, street walkers, and other parasitic forms of life, human and otherwise, strut through the streets as if this is the way life’s supposed to be. Though they don’t bother me so I ignore them. They’re not the reason I’m here. A man named Shahkrit Parnjakam is and he really can’t be described as a man anymore. He used to be a small time thug. Now he runs every illicit trade in this district from human trafficking to illegal narcotics to murder for hire. The locals refer to him Sat Gra Thing. It’s the name of the type of monster he became and he used his horrific power to take over the underworld of half this great city.
I reach the front of his establishment, take in a good eyeful as I memorize the exits from across the street. It’s a nightspot without a name, a one-story rat’s nest with broken windows, rotted wooden boards, and dented metal, saloon-style, swinging doors. It’s a real shithole, even by this neighborhood’s standards. A backwoods outhouse set against a row of port-a-johns. That’s because no matter what changed for Shahkrit physically, mentally he remains a lowlife, a type of vermin with an unrelenting need to feed off the worst of humanity. He wouldn’t know the finer things in life if they fell on his face. As a thug he was unworthy of much attention. But now that he’s become a monster, he’s got mine.
A neon sign in the window flickers the words ‘Come On In’. Underneath, someone graffitied the words ‘and die’. The whole place screams go away. I would, but that’s not my nature. I smirk and push through the doors. The inside is more presentable than the shell, the style in line with the old west style doors. Thick wooden round tables, evenly spaced apart, take up much of the floor. On the far side of the room is the liquor-lined bar. A corner jukebox blasts incomprehensible crap from thirty-year old speakers that seem to please the customers, all of whom appear to have as much class as the two lovebirds I passed on the street. On a one-to-ten scale of beauty, most of them are minus twos. They’d be zeroes but every one of them has bullhorns tattooed to their foreheads, a mark that only worsens their appearance. It’s a mark they wear proudly because it identifies their affiliation with Shahkrit instantly instilling fear in others. And being that they’re all such upstanding citizens, they’re also armed to the teeth with machetes and guns. Only an idiot would come here with the intention of causing trouble. An idiot and me.
A bottle of bourbon slams the table to my left, put there by a fat man who is amused by my presence. As a little person I get that from the ignorant and this guy looks as ignorant as they come. He says something in Thai I don’t understand, but follows it with a condescending laugh that I do. I continue scanning the joint and commit my surroundings to memory, so I can know every detail of this place for the ruckus I’m going to cause over the next few minutes.
The fat man switches to English, “Which one of the dwarves are you… Dopey?” he asks. He leans towards me, towering over me, staring down at me as if I was some sort of curiosity. That always pisses me off, as does the wash of cheap scotch on his breath. I much prefer the expensive kind.
I slide a dagger from my sleeve to my hand then immediately jam it through his, pinning the fat man’s meaty paw to the table with such a precise strike, initially there isn’t even a squirt of blood. He’s so stunned it takes a moment before the scream comes. I show him my pearly whites and reply, “Grumpy,” before it does.
Then he goes nuts. He’s screaming, cursing, threatening, and throwing a bloody fit trying to remove the knife to free his hand from the table. What he doesn’t know is that I clicked a button in the handle releasing serrated talons at the pointy end to lock the knife in place. His hand isn’t going anywhere until I’m good and ready. Blood oozes from beneath his palm.
“That’s just going to make it worse,” I say, as I slip the duffel off my shoulder and place it on a chair.
Everyone has already turned toward me and Fat Man. They just don’t know what to make of it yet. I use that moment to unzip the duffel bag and remove the six-barrel, preloaded Gatling gun I packed inside. The ammunition droops from its side the same way Shahkrit’s gang member’s jaws suddenly droop from their faces. They get the situation now. There’s a flurry of movement. Machetes are drawn. Pistols are raised. Latches click. Out of the corner of my eye, the bartender slides out a sawn-off shotgun he kept hidden behind the bar. It’s a Mexican standoff in a Bangkok bar.
“Sat Gra Thing,” I say, slowly, carefully emphasizing all three syllables.
Their faces go from quizzical to comical, as if I just said the funn
iest thing in the world. One lets out a guffaw and steps forward, his weapon still aimed at my head. I can tell from his eyes he’s no stranger to death and violence. None of these men are. They’re Shahkrit’s inner circle, equally as responsible for the crime rate spike in Bangkok as the big man himself. Word is the bullhorn tattoo they all wear is earned. I can’t even imagine what awful deeds these fucks did to earn theirs, nor what the man did who now approached me. But for him to be the first to address me he must be among the worst.
He lowers his weapon and sneers. “Your Thai horrendous, American. Lucky for you, I understand you final words in your English.”
“Then understand this,” I say. “There are two ways this goes down. We start shooting at each other, leaving a pile of blood and death, yours being the first.” I angle my weapon toward him. “Or you simply tell me where to find Shahkrit and everyone lives,” I add with a friendly smile. I can tell he’s sizing me up, measuring the extent of my threat, assessing the full situation. I assess it for him. “Allow me to point out I am the much smaller target with the much bigger gun.”
I’ve got to give the guy credit. He’s got a poker face. I can’t read him at all. I’m pointing a machine gun at him that could puree him into instant goo and he seems as relaxed about it as if he was sipping a Mai Tai at the beach. He’s a serious dude. He eyes me like a cobra. It’s almost hypnotic. Luckily, I’m not gullible enough that I don’t see the sleazebag on my right tensing his trigger finger ready to put lead in my noggin. I jerk my head back just as he pulls the trigger. The bullets whiz by and as they do I open fire. Cobra goes down first as I spray his body red and blast him back. Then I rotate my body to get the rest of the bastards before one of them gets lucky and gets me.
It’s bullet bingo. Thugs on my left fall under my onslaught like shattered glass as two bullets smack me in my right side. I figured there’d be too many of them for me not to be hit, so I was wise enough to wear my monster-tested, enhanced fiber, polymer body armor which I couldn’t be more grateful for. The thug who fired the shots is not. I quickly spin toward him turning him into the poster child for Swiss cheese. Then I run for cover as I continue my spray and pray. Bullets ricochet everywhere. I feel a few more ‘ping’ off my armor, maybe four, maybe five. With all the action going on I lose count but I’m thankful no one has hit me with a head shot. I drop six more of the bastards before a few inches of lead zips through the fabric of my pants barely missing my balls.
It sharpens my precision to a laser focus, so by the time the burning metal cylinder whines to a halt, there’s no bad guys left standing. Empty shells and body pieces litter the floor like a spilled box of cracker jacks. An ear rolls towards me as the prize. It ain’t pretty but every one of these scumbags had it coming and they can’t say I never offered them a choice. Bangkok will be a lot safer with these guys gone, though I’m no closer to finding the man in charge.
The smell of burning lead caresses my nostrils like my favorite perfume. It clears my head and reminds me of a source I left intact that can give me answers… the fat man I nailed to the table. His head is down. Hopefully he was smart enough to duck once the shooting started. I stand on the chair, push his hand away, lift his head up so I can look him in the eye and get some information. Unfortunately, one of them is missing; in its place the entry wound which ended his life. Would have been better for both of us if he ducked sooner. I click the button and retrieve my knife. I’m about to sheath it, when I hear another click behind me. Immediately, I know a better place to put it. I turn and flick my wrist simultaneously. The knife finds a new home right in the center of the bartender’s forehead. Good thing too, as he was about to give me a shot of something I hadn’t ordered.
Still, I chide myself. I spied him before the shooting starting and forget to check to make sure he was amongst the dead. And now I just killed the only man left who may have a clue. I slowly check out the bar, the only survivor an unscathed bottle of a respectable brand of bourbon. I clean a shot glass with my ruined shirt, noticing the holes in the fabric are big enough to put my fingers through and make a mental note to thank Father Miguel for the special gear. A quick chug later, I grin as the distilled liquor burns my throat.
“You made a mess of my bar,” says a slippery voice that enters through what’s left of the main entrance.
He looks exactly like he does in his photograph, a skinny greaseball with a yellow, pock-marked complexion, barely looking like he could harm a fly. But both of us know that underneath his harmless looking facade lies a monster.
“Change,” I bark.
His calm is as much a veneer as he is. His eyes tell me he’s bubbling beneath the surface, like a volcano about to blow its top. He tilts his head, looks at me sideways. “You come into my establishment, kill my men, and now you take a tone with me,” he snaps back, as if my tone is the excuse he needs.
But I’m not in the mood. “Don’t waste my time, assfuck. Change into your monster self so I can kill you in a fairer fight.”
He approaches me fast, stopping inches from me, staring down like he’s superior. “You—”
I don’t let him finish his sentence. I sidekick his knee, bringing his chin down to my level and smash my palm across his face. Blood drips from his lip. Hatred pours from his eyes.
“Don’t waste my time,” I say, emphasizing every word.
He spits. The wound on his lip heals instantly then vanishes into a face that flips inside out, reshaped into that of a bull. His upper body mass pulsates and doubles, rippling with muscles that burst out of his shirt. His lower body follows suit, his thighs growing to the size of tree trunks. Two sharp horns emerge from the top of his head. Dark smoke puffs from his nostrils. Sat Gra Thing means bull monster in Thai.
“Your time is up,” he says. “You will die horribly, ripped to shreds and gored by the horns of Shahkrit, the Minotaur.”
This is the monster I came to kill.
Chapter 2
“I am Sat Gra Thing, the Minotaur,” Shahkrit brags. “Slayer of men. Ruler of the streets of Thailand.” He thumps his chest and more inky smoke blows from his nose.
“Shit from the bull,” I say. My Gatling’s out of bullets. My dagger’s in the bartender’s forehead. So I smile at him and put up my dukes. “Ole, motherfucker.”
He grins for less than a second. Then he sweeps his hoofed foot back, lowers his head, and charges—predictably—horns first. If the situation weren’t so monstrous, I’d think I’m in a cartoon. But this is what I came for. This is where the fun begins. I shoulder roll out of the way as he collides with the bar. Then I slide beneath one of the few upright tables, hoping to put distance between us. Unfortunately he’s quicker than he looks.
He swats the table out of the way, the blow powerful enough to make the tabletop zip across the club like a Frisbee. I get moving. I shouldn’t be playing with him this way—he’s too strong—but I feel the need to test my skills and I don’t feel like reversing course now. He’s flailing everywhere, throwing wild punch after punch, trying to do to my head what he did to the tabletop. Fortunately, I’m an agile little bastard. I duck, dodge, weave, and skitter over every available table and chair, tossing them and kicking them in his path, frustrating his attacks. I have him seeing red, so I up the ante and start tossing the body parts of his men in his general direction. An arm hits him in the head and sticks onto one of his horns. He rips it off and goes full rage, completely destroying whatever furniture remains in the path between me and him. Yet, he still can’t lay a fist on me. I’m annoying that way and it pisses him off.
He picks one of the more intact fresh bodies off the ground, gores his horn through the neck, and furiously shakes until the guy’s head fall off. Then he snatches the head, blood pouring from its neck, its vacant eyes bulging out and threatens, “This is what I will do to you, once I catch you. This is your fate.”
It’s an impressive display. I whip out my cell phone and snap a picture of it, something to send to Pa and Cooper aft
er this is done. This way they’ll know what I’ve been doing since I left home. “Could you hold the head a little higher, maybe turn it a smidgen to the right so I can capture the horror of it all in the best possible light?” I snap another photo using the auto flash. “Maybe you could do it again and this time I can get a video.” The head comes at me like an inside fastball. I dodge it and watch it explode apart in multiple gross pieces as it shatters against the wall. The gray brain matter sticks and hangs there like spaghetti. “You have anger issues. I thought you’d be calmer considering I didn’t wear my red shirt.”
He growls and goes into pure bull mode. No technique at all, just brute strength. A massive fist comes towards me. I avoid it but too narrowly for comfort. I can’t risk him getting lucky. I’ve played around enough. I race back toward the bar, use a stool as a springboard, and dive straight over. Shahkrit smashes his horns deep into the thick wood, the tips coming all the way through the other side. While he’s stuck, I snatch my dagger from the bartender’s forehead and pick up the recently deceased’s shotgun. I wait until Shahkrit pulls himself free. When he does, I wait again until he sees me and smile as I pull the trigger. The double shot catches Shahkrit full in his midsection.
In a spurt of blood, he stumbles back. But then he stands his ground, staring at the wound, admiring as his injury rapidly repairs right before my eyes. Just as I thought. He’s happy as a pig in shit, his rage gone supplanted in his mind by the confidence of his inevitable victory. He lets out a triumphant roar.
“This is why I am unstoppable. This is why I am all powerful. No harm can come to me. Nothing can hurt me. No one can hurt me. I cannot be beaten. Most definitely not by you.” He roars so loud the building shakes. “That is the sound of fear. That is the noise that tells everyone around here the Minotaur is in control. That is my victory cry that announces I am about to claim another victim. It is the last sound you will ever hear.”