by Samit Basu
“Idiot,” he says.
The pistol falls to the ground.
Shaking his head, Shooter throws Mukesh’s head at the front door. It bounces off it and spins for a while on the ground before coming to a halt. He looks around, notices the cameras on the wall, and waves his rifle. Then he steps up to the door and rings the bell.
“Sher, for the love of god, don’t start a fight with this guy,” Andy says. “What are his powers, anyway?”
“No idea,” Sher says. He presses a button. “Zothanpuii, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, sir,” comes a girl’s voice.
On a monitor, Aman sees Zothanpuii for the first time. She’s a slim, pony-tailed Mizo girl dressed in jeans and a sleeveless white vest. Her arms are slender but wiry, her face is resolute. There’s a weapon in her hand: a nunchaku, black-painted wooden sticks connected by a chain. She holds one end and swirls the other, slowly, as she sways and weaves through a series of martial poses, warming up.
“Your sister-in-law, huh? She’s very attractive,” Uzma says.
“She was a student at Delhi University,” Andy says. “Tough life there for Mizo girls — Sher, please. Don’t make her do this.”
“She volunteered,” Sher says. “Now shut up. Attack, Zothanpuii!”
Aman presses a button and the door swings open. Zothanpuii hurtles out, yelling. Shooter Shinde dives to one side, avoiding a high kick.
Zothanpuii lands in the middle of the gangsters, crouches and springs to her feet. Guns chatter around her. She waves her nunchaku in a blurring circle, bullets pinging off it. She doesn’t stop all the bullets, several men manage to shoot her. She’s hurt — she takes a jarring fall and shudders as more bullets pound into her.
But she heals almost instantly, muscles knitting together, skin reforming, blood vanishing, and Uzma cheers out loud. Zothanpuii vaults, lands on top of a car, and suddenly she’s in the middle of a bunch of gunmen, shrugging off bullet-wounds as she goes through her katas. Four short, stabbing strikes, hard wood thrusting into larynxes, groins, eyes, solar plexi. One gunman flies through the air and lies in a tangle of limbs. Two more crumple into a heap, their faces smashed. She swirls and kicks. A fourth gunman screams and falls, his spine broken.
“What did she study?” Aman asks.
“Philosophy,” Andy says.
Zothanpuii soars with savage grace, lands behind another car and repeats the process. The other gangsters mill about, firing and cursing to no avail. Within seconds, Zothanpuii has scythed through twelve men. The rest converge on her, guns chattering, but fall back at a signal from Shooter.
Shooter Shinde hands his rifle to his brother and walks towards Zothanpuii. She sees him coming, and swings her nunchaku in anticipation, poised, teeth on edge. When he’s about ten feet away from her, he stomps his feet into the ground and stands, legs apart, like a goalkeeper. Zothanpuii charges. A nunchaku stick sizzles through the air towards Shooter. He does not move. It thwacks solidly into the side of his head with a horrible squelching noise, everyone in the courtyard flinches.
Shooter Shinde laughs theatrically. The stick does not seem to have hurt him at all, it is stuck to the side of his head. Zothanpuii is moving too fast to notice this. She steps, spins and launches into a perfect roundhouse kick, her foot smashing into the other side of Shooter’s head — and embedding itself six inches in.
Zothanpuii realises something is wrong only when she tries to extract her foot: it does not budge. Shooter laughs again, gurgling through his distorted mouth. He takes a step forward. Her knee buckles, and she loses her balance. Shooter leaps on her, squashing her to the ground face down. His body seems to bulge forward as he falls, squishing and splattering like a snail’s. He stands up, and his men seem too frightened to cheer.
Zothanpuii is attached to his body, her head, neck, shoulder and upper torso sticking out, her limbs either extended at odd angles or swallowed up. She’s screaming. Shinde’s body is rippling like jelly. He wiggles his shoulders, and Zothanpuii slides another inch deeper into him.
In the control room, Andy hits a table so hard it splinters. He clenches his fists, his face scrunched up in effort.
A pillar of earth spears out from the ground beneath Shooter, carrying him and Zothanpuii upwards. Alarmed, Shooter loses focus and Zothanpuii falls from him to the ground. Before Shooter can jump off the pillar, earthen bars spring up like fingers, trapping him in a mud cage. Several gunmen shoot Zothanpuii, but she’s too shocked to even notice.
“Illusionist! Now!” Sher roars.
Above the sound of gunfire in the courtyard rises a blood-curdling roar. A monster stomps out from behind the mansion.
Under different circumstances Aman would have burst out laughing on seeing it. It is ten storeys tall, and looks like a giant in a very bad monster costume: a reptile-thing with orange cardboard spikes, round eyes, perfectly triangular teeth and a fixed expression. The sort of creature that enjoys surprising bathing damsels in black lagoons, and fights Johnny Sokko’s Flying Robot at the behest of the evil Guillotine.
“Roar,” the monster says.
“What kind of monster is that?” Aman asks. “Has this illusionist been living under a rock since the seventies?”
Despite the monster’s evident datedness, it has a significant impact on the Shinde gang. Some fire at it and scream in horror when their bullets have no effect; others drop their guns and run for the beach.
“Zothanpuii, get up,” Sher snaps. “Run for it.”
Zothanpuii springs to her feet. No one notices her. The monster has goose-stepped to the courtyard, and the Shinde gang is in full flight, apart from the brothers and Tejas’s fashionable son. Zothanpuii runs for the door. Tejas shoots her with Shooter’s rifle, and she stumbles, but she makes it through the door on sheer momentum. Aman shuts it behind her.
Outside, Shooter breaks through his earthen prison and flops to the ground.
“I’m going to kill you for this, Sher,” Andy says. He’s breathing irregularly, and fat drops of sweat are running down his face.
“Get in line,” Sher says. “Zothanpuii! Up to the fifth floor, and get some rest. Illusionist! More monsters!”
Another low-budget monstrosity emerges from behind the mansion, an image of a giant man in a gorilla costume. Aman groans.
“If we live through this, I’m going to burn the Illusionist some DVDs,” he says. “Is there a back door? Can we leave?”
In the courtyard, Tejas Shinde walks up to the reptile monster, which is currently engaged in waving its short forelimbs about in a completely unthreatening manner. As Shinde walks, he grows taller and wider, his safari suit stretches. Tejas swings his arms; buttons fly, his jacket rips into shreds. His trousers ride up his legs, tears appearing at the seams. He grows further; his belt snaps, his trousers fall off. Underneath his trousers, brightly coloured leopard-print briefs fight gamely for a second or two, but they’re not purple spandex — they snap.
Uzma covers her eyes.
“Giant naked politician versus monster illusion,” Aman says, hand on head. “Bloody fantastic.”
The Napoleon of Nariman Point grows further, finally standing six storeys high, up to the reptile monster’s chest. He takes a swing at it, and stumbles as his fist passes through air. He smirks, then turns and calls his men. They shuffle forwards sheepishly, picking up discarded guns.
“Roar,” say the monsters, but no one’s listening. Disheartened, the monsters vanish.
“So much for your fighters,” Andy says. He shuts his eyes and concentrates again. A wall of earth rises around the mansion, sliding up the walls, completely covering the doors and windows on the ground floor. Andy opens his eyes and falls into a chair, panting.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Sher says. “Seal off all entrances. Use stronger materials. Steel.”
“I can’t,” Andy says. “I don’t create materials, Sher, I move them. And I don’t have much power left.”
“You bui
lt this entire house in a few days,” Sher says. “Come on, you’ve got enough juice left in you to squash this lot. Can’t you just make the ground swallow them up?”
“You have no idea how difficult it is to treat the entire planet as a shape to modify,” Andy says. “This is not what I joined you for, Sher. I build things. I’m a peaceful man.”
“Then we’re done,” Sher says. “I don’t know how to fight that guy, he’ll swallow me. And then he’ll kill Zothanpuii, and all the rest of us.”
Andy struggles to his feet and looks at the monitor. Two men have brought Tejas a bundle of cloth from the car, a bunch of bedsheets tied together. Tejas wraps this around his waist with great dignity. Shooter is addressing the rest of the men. Tejas’s son Jazzy loiters outside the huddle, idly toying with a pen. The discussion ends, and they walk towards the building.
Andy shuts his eyes again, spasms run through his body.
The ground beneath Shooter suddenly implodes. A pit appears below him. He falls into it, landing with a splat. The ground closes. Andy groans, and sinks to the floor.
The gangsters go berserk. Some run to the ground where Shooter stood a second ago and fall to their knees scrabbling frantically with their hands; others shoot at the house, breaking windows, riddling walls with bullet-holes. Tejas stares impassively for a while, and then shakes his head and advances towards the mansion.
“What now?” Aman asks.
“We have a little time to make plans,” Sher says. “They’re not going anywhere, and they’re not getting in.”
Jazzy flicks his hair off his face and walks towards the earthen wall around the house. A lazy smile arcs slowly across his face. He throws his pen up in the air and catches it with a flourish. He draws on the wall: three broad strokes, two vertical, one horizontal, connecting the tips of the other lines. The lines sparkle as he connects them. He draws a little circle near one vertical line, around waist-high.
A door appears in the mud wall, and the circle pops out into a doorknob. He turns it and throws the door open. Brandishing their guns, the gangsters run into the mansion.
“You have a plan?” Aman asks.
“Don’t worry,” Sher says. “I have two.”
As the gunmen run in, they see a vast hall full of statues and pillars and large potted plants. The pillars are by Andy, the decor stolen from a local Russian land shark. In the centre of the hall is that essential element of any Bollywood arch-fiend’s home: a wide spiral staircase for the hero’s pregnant sister to roll down.
On top of this staircase sits a plump, anxious-looking middle-aged woman in a sari. Next to her is a tall one-eyed man. In his hands is a sniper rifle with a long, slender barrel covered by a silencer. The gun sneezes politely several times in quick succession. Ten men fall with little red dots in their heads; the rest manage to dash back out of the door.
“Sniper and Singer,” Sher says. He lowers the volume on his mouthpiece and attempts gentleness as he speaks.
“Aunty?”
The woman cowers.
“Beta,” she says, “I can’t do this. Such young boys. If my husband were alive, he would say, ‘Premalata,’ he would say, ‘don’t do this.’”
“Aunty.” Sher’s voice rumbles through the house, never has this word sounded more ominous. “Do what you do, or children will die.”
Premalata begins to sing. Her voice is sweet, sad, incredibly high-pitched and melodious. She sings an old Hindi song, the song of a mother sending her sons to war.
Near the door, ten corpses rise and heft their guns. Premalata’s voice wavers but she keeps singing, her mournful, brave song filling every corner of the hall. The dead men turn as one, their heads rolling. Aman is reminded sharply of Sundar. The dead men rush out of the door and fire in every direction.
Bullets sting Tejas’s leg. He howls in pain and stomps on the charging gunmen, squashing four. The others run out past him towards the gang’s cars. Their former crewmates shoot them, but they are well past killing.
Jazzy is hit in the shoulder. He falls to the ground, bleeding, shifts the pen to his left hand and starts to draw. Tejas crushes two more.
Inside the hall, Premalata’s song falters and she bursts into tears, covering her face. The two remaining corpses jerk, slump and fall.
“What would my husband say?” Premalata wails. “I won’t do this!”
“Get out of there, then,” Sher growls. “Fifth floor. Sniper, you all right?”
“My name is Mohsin, Sher. Not Sniper,” the sniper says. “And I’m fine.”
Uzma clutches Aman as three giant bees emerge from Jazzy’s drawings and zip into the hall. Their speed is unbelievable, wings the size of a man’s arm propelling them towards the stairs, but Mohsin fires thrice and three furry bodies crash onto the marble floor, hairy legs twitching in death. Mohsin adjusts his position and bends forward, barrel pointed at the door, face calm.
The house shudders. There’s a huge crashing noise and the sound of shattering glass. It’s Tejas. He pounds on the walls with his bare fists. His giant hands bleed, but he is relentless. A gaping hole appears on the third floor, and Aman, switching monitors, sees the politician’s face peering in through the hole. Not finding anyone to kill, Tejas picks a spot on a different floor and punches another hole through the wall.
“All right, that’s it,” Sher says. “Playtime’s over.” He stands, tall and sinewy over Andy’s prostrate form.
“Yay!” Anima squeals. “Super-Omega Throat-Snapping Trident time!”
“You’re staying here,” Sher says gently. “No killing for you today.”
“But I like killing people, Sher Uncle!”
“I know,” Sher says, shaking his head, and then he leaps out of the room.
Jazzy finishes another drawing. Two men run forward and pull a rocket launcher out of the wall. Steering clear of Mohsin’s view, they carry the rocket launcher to the middle of the courtyard, aim at Jazzy’s door in the mud and fire. The rocket sizzles into the hall and explodes on a pillar. Jazzy draws another rocket launcher, and his men run to reload.
Tejas walks around the house, punching holes in walls. After a few more empty rooms, he finds what he seeks — he smashes through the outer wall of the residence area. Jai’s followers and captives alike squeal in terror as the giant suddenly appears through a cloud of brick dust. Tejas jams his torso into their hall, picks up a running woman, carries her screaming out of the building, tears her in half and then comes back for more.
The monitors are full of people running, scrambling for shelter, falling. Utter chaos sets in. Tejas scoops up a few of his gunmen and dumps them in the middle of the untrained powers.
In the control room, Aman and Uzma can only watch as they shoot at random and bodies fall to the floor. Some of Jai’s followers attempt to fight back, but their powers are wild and unrestrained — a young boy shoots lightning from his hand but cannot control it, and kills a housemate instead.
Zothanpuii leaps out of a third-floor window and lands on Tejas’s chest. Not bothering to fight the giant, she turns, jumps and runs up his arm as he tries to shake her off, diving and landing in the midst of his gunmen inside the building. She’s left her nunchaku behind, but her fists and feet are enough. She cracks one gangster’s spine, snatches his gun and simply shoots the rest. She turns the gun on Tejas, aiming for his eyes, but he thrusts an arm in, catches her neatly, pulls her outside and squashes her against a wall. The gun in her hand breaks. As she slides down five storeys, her mangled limbs snapping back into shape, her housemates pick up the other guns and advance on the giant. Confronted by a hail of bullets, Tejas retreats and storms off to attack another part of the building.
As rockets fly across the hall, shattering statues and pillars and setting drapes on fire, Mohsin holds his ground. He calls nervously for Sher on his headset, but Sher is gone. At the far end of the hall, there’s a sudden burst of light, and then another, as more doors open and more rockets sizzle into the hall. He shoots two men b
efore a rocket explodes right below him, and he is buried as the stairs collapse.
In the control room, Aman, Uzma and Anima are all too caught up in watching the monitors to notice a knife slide into the room, along the floor. Their attention is drawn only when they hear a gurgling noise right next to them, and turn to see the knife buried in Andy’s chest. The blade comes out, spraying blood. At the same time, Anima is jerked violently off her perch on a table. Shooter Shinde’s invisible son holds Anima in mid-air, knife to her throat.
“Tell your men to give up,” he says. “Or you all die here.”
Outside, there’s a shower of glass. Jazzy looks up to see, silhouetted against the sky, the awe-inspiring figure of Sher in mid-leap, fangs and claws glittering. The tiger-man does not stop to introduce himself. He lands on Jazzy, snapping his neck, roars at the eight remaining gunmen, leaps high in the air to avoid a rocket, lands and strikes, one life per blow. One of Shinde’s men manages to kick a motorcycle to life. He speeds off, and makes the mistake of looking back a few seconds later to see the rocket Sher has fired zipping towards him for a second before it sends his bike cartwheeling into the sky in an orange fireball.
“Don’t even think about fighting me,” the invisible man says. “I slit her throat, drop the knife, and you’ll never sleep again. In a few days you’ll be begging me to kill you.”
“I don’t like him. Can I kill him, please?” Anima asks.
“Sure,” Uzma says.
Anima’s eyes sparkle. The knife turns bright green. The invisible man lets it go with a startled yell. It flies away from Anima and buries itself, quivering, in the ceiling. Anima flies up, her face changing, and sends a shower of charged shuriken skimming across the room. A human shape emerges, dozens of shuriken suspended in a lurching, tottering man-shape that crumples to the floor. As the invisible man dies, his body appears, bones, nerves, muscles, skin, hair. Once again Uzma averts her eyes.
“Never seen so many naked men in such quick succession before,” she murmurs.