Charlemagne screeched a warning as he raced between my legs—I was developing a lot of respect for the little guy—and then I saw the head … of the monster … twenty feet away.
I’m sure that in daylight the thing would have been the same color as old motor oil. Its head was a spherical mass the size of a car tire, with two snaking tentacles on either side ending in orbs like grapefruit. The head darted forward, stretching as it came towards me and paused for half-a-second as its body slid up behind it, filling the pipe completely. There was no doubt about it. The god damn thing was a slug … an enormous slug with a maw set beneath its horrific head that could swallow me up to the shoulders. The tentacle-born orbs drifted together and seemed to focus on me, and then the fucking thing hissed, a sound like dragging rocks across sheet metal.
What can I say? I freaked.
The MP5—I realized instantly that my model didn’t have a flash suppressor—lit up the inside of the tunnel like it was daytime. My vision washed out to white as I emptied a clip into the thing’s face, and then I went blind as the goggles overloaded. The sound of the burst, compressed into that small area, rattled my brain like dice in a cup.
The screech that came out of the monster was part hiss, part growl, and part … well … I can only describe it as that screeching sound a four banger makes when its pistons seize up doing eight-five on the highway.
I stood there, blind for a heartbeat, stunned and scared out of my mother-loving mind. The goggles finally recycled, and the distinct shape of the monster’s head appeared out of the green haze … only ten feet away. The bullets didn’t appear to have done any damage at all, and its mouth was stretching open as it came towards me. I could see two, scissor-like, curved plates inside that seemed intent on taking a giant chunk out of yours truly.
I did what any sensible, Senior Agent of the FBI would do faced with that scenario, whether it was in a manual or not.
I turned and ran my ass off.
I’m not entirely certain my feet actually touched the concrete as I tore down the sewer line. I didn’t hear my footsteps. I didn’t feel the thudding impacts of my boots on concrete. In the whole universe, there were only two things: the monster behind me and the distance ahead of me. There’s a certain sort of clarity in a moment like that … one not likely to be repeated in an entire lifetime. I’ve talked with people who cherish such moments.
Frankly, I could have done without it.
The end of the sewer line came into view, and I could see Ennio peering down at me.
I screamed, “YOU WERE RIGHT! IT’S PLENTY PISSED OFF!” as sailed out of the sewer line, pulled a Jesus Christ to walk across the top of the water, and hammered into the far wall. In a single motion, I spun, crouched, dropped the clip out of the MP5, and slammed a new one home. I hammered the receiver down, chambering a round, and waited for the monster to burst out of the sewer line.
And waited.
And waited.
“What the fuck?” I asked. I peered down the sewer line, perplexed. “It was right on top of me,” I said, glancing at Francois who stood just beneath the iron rungs of the ladder. Charlemagne was nowhere to be seen, but that’s when I realized the Frenchman was holding a chainsaw in one hand and an open bag of salt in the other. He caught me staring at it and winked. The grin on his face was positively wicked. All I could do was shake my head and roll my eyes.
Yoshiko stepped up beside me, gripping her father’s katana like she’d been holding it since she was born. She eyeballed the entrance. “You didn’t scare it off, did you?” she whispered.
“How the hell do you scare off a slug?” I snapped.
“Well, you did hit it with a machine gun burst,” Francois said sharply.
“I panicked, okay?” I shot back. “And the damn thing was coming at me after that, not going the other direction.”
“Shhhh!” Ennio hissed. He peered around the corner again. Seconds later he turned to us with a befuddled look on his face. “It’s eating, for Christ’s sake …,” Ennio finally said, dumbfounded.
“And taking its own sweet time about it,” Francois added.
So, we waited some more as Yoshiko slid past me and edged closer to Ennio. Finally, we heard it. Slither … squish-crunch … slither … squish-crunch.
There was a final squish-crunch, and then Ennio stepped back from the sewer line and backed up to the one we’d come in through.
“Get ready,” he whispered, aiming the shotgun. “You still have bait duty, Alex.”
“Fuck you,” I grumbled, but I stepped away from the wall and moved towards the center of the chamber, my feet splashing in the water.
The thing oozed out of the sewer line like black toothpaste, pouring slowly out in pulsating contractions and expansions of its smooth body. Its head swiveled back and forth several times, and then it eyestalks drifted slightly towards Yoshiko and its massive body slid along. Francois was sneaking towards the monster’s flank, inching towards the sewer line where the rest of its body was concealed.
I switched the selector of the MP5 to single and took a deep breath. “Over here, you ugly piece of shit!” I shouted, and fired three quick rounds into the center of its face.
It screeched again, and its eyestalks darted towards me, pulling the body along with it. Its entire mass tightened up, shortening its body to half its original length, and its tail pulling clear of the sewer line. I had no doubt it was getting ready to pounce on me. I crouched, ready to move.
Francois darted forward and scattered the bag across the floor of the sewer line as Yoshiko snuck up towards its head, the katana raised high. She locked eyes with me and flicked her gaze to the MP5. With a quick shake of her head, I got the message.
I lowered the machine gun. Yoshiko swung towards the eyestalk just as the monster lunged at me with a sharp hiss. I dove sideways, tumbling through the water as her blade came down across the side of its body. The shotgun went off, echoing in the chamber with a dull thud, and then another blast went off almost right on top of it.
The monster screeched, erupting into a hurricane of convulsions. The first twist of its massive body sent its head smashing into Yoshiko, who flew behind it to crash into the wall. Water and black chunks of slug-shit few everywhere. When its tail and head whipped back around an instant later, Ennio and I both got clobbered and went flying. The MP5 tumbled from my hands when I landed in the muck and disappeared into the dark water.
The monster never stopped screeching.
Another convulsion of its tail crashed into Francois, who flew backwards into the ladder and dropped to his knees.
I scuttled backwards through the water like a crab. It convulsed again and again, its body lashing around in all directions, but its eyestalks never left me. And it was moving closer and closer as it flailed.
In the blink of an eye, it stopped thrashing, tightened its body, and prepared to lunge in my direction once again. I lurched back as its head darted towards me, and I heard the sick, bone-crunching snap of its mouth plates slamming closed just inches from my feet.
Its body tightened once again as I scrambled backwards and smashed into the concrete wall. The harsh reality that I was about to be eaten wrapped itself around my brain just as my hand fell upon the shotgun.
Without thinking, I grabbed the gun, chambered a round and fired at point-blank range as the head darted forward. The blast ripped through one of the eyestalks, sending the black tentacle sailing off behind the monster. It reared, screeching and convulsing again.
Water flew everywhere as the fucking thing twisted in one massive undulation of its black body and turned back towards the sewer line it had come through.
I chambered another round and fired into its tail. Chunks of black flesh exploded out, and ooze poured from the hole.
It lurched once, headed for the far sewer line … twice. I sent another blast into its tail, tearing another chunk out of its body, but I knew it wasn’t enough to stop the thing.
Its head disappeared in
to the tunnel, and then it made a horrific, agonized hiss as its underside ran over the salt. Its body twisted again, and it turned towards the back of the chamber to where Francois had fallen. For an instant, I thought the thing was going to get him, and then I spotted him ten feet off the ground. He had one arm hooked through a ladder rung and holding the chainsaw. He yanked on the chord once, and the thing came to life. Francois screamed, “VA TE FAIRE FOUTRE MONSTRE IGNOBLE!” He swapped his grip, pulled his arm free of the rung, and leapt. The chainsaw roared as Francois landed with a squishy thud on the neck of the beast and dug his legs in tight.
The monster convulsed, tightening its body in a flash. Francois slashed with the chainsaw. Its remaining eyestalk tumbled away to splash into the water. It hissed in agony, its screeches filling the entire sewer and echoing off in all directions. The thing twisted and undulated in great, furious spasms, sending Francois sailing through the air towards me.
Francois hit the water with a splash and slid into the wall, dazed. The chainsaw lay across his chest, puttering slowly.
“Finish it,” he moaned and held out the chainsaw.
Double or nothing, I thought.
I grabbed the chainsaw, hit the throttle, and turned. The chainsaw roared in my hands, and the slug turned towards me, its body tightening up. It knew where the threat was and opened its mouth like a black chasm as it lunged, ready to end me with a squelch of flesh and bone.
I’m old, but not that old. I darted to the side and raised the chainsaw high, bringing it down just behind the beast’s ugly head. There was a sickening squelch as metal teeth chewed into black flesh like a hot blade into pig fat. A thick spray flew in all directions, coating me with a vile mixture of black meat and blood. It convulsed, sucking its head backward and tearing even more flesh away as the chainsaw ground through its neck.
The monster screamed.
I screamed back and lunged forward, slashing again with the chainsaw. The blade chewed deeper and deeper into its neck until the head fell free, splashing into the dark water.
Its decapitated body erupted into even more violent thrashing, sending black ichor flying everywhere like some crazed fountain from hell. I leapt backwards to keep from getting pounded as it slithered and slashed through the water, unwilling to give up what life remained in the thing.
Finally, after several noisy and very messy minutes, the body settled into the water, motionless.
That’s when I heard the sirens above.
I looked at Francois, coated in black ooze and slug meat, and then spotted Yoshiko helping Ennio out of the water. Both of them were covered, and I realized I was too. I dropped the chainsaw with a splash and stepped over to where Francois was still sitting.
I smiled at him and reached out my hand. He took it, and I yanked him to his feet.
“A slug, hunh?” I asked, grinning.
“Oui. A most tasty morsel, n’est ce pas?”
“Oui,” I replied.
We heard the manhole cover sliding above us, and then two flashlight beams split the darkness. I flipped the goggles up and stared at the ceiling.
“What the fuck is going on down there?” a man’s voice shouted.
Ahh … New York’s finest, I thought with a smile. A day late and a dollar short. I had no doubt I was going to get my job back, but it was going to be one hell of a report. I couldn’t wait to slap it down in front of Dickerson. I figured I’d invite him over to Effeté for a lunch of grilled slug and see if he could choke down the New York City Cannibal.
“Agent Pierce,” I shouted back. “FBI!”
The St. Elmo Dämonjünger
The Weber upright piano sounded like an entire carnival. The player had his back to the room and, as usual, didn’t seem to care if there was anybody listening or not. He called himself Jet, no last name, which Earl thought was peculiar. Jet plinked away at Ragtime Cowboy Joe like he had four hands. It was one of Earl’s favorites, because it always brought people in off the street. Even though the sun was just sneaking its way down behind Mount Princeton, people were already starting to trickle in. Now if only they’d buy something, Earl thought.
Maggie-Mae, in her dark-green corset, matching dress, and a big bustle, was lighting the oil-lamps of the chandeliers around the saloon. A thin layer of cigar smoke hazed the air between Earl and the Weber, and with more customers walking in, the smoke was getting thicker by the minute. Earl smiled. Cigar smokers played cards; card players drank beer and whisky. Earl had plenty of both for sale behind the bar. Jet kept hammering away at the Weber, and folks kept coming in.
At the end of summer, Earl had picked the Weber up for a song from the salooner who had cut tail out of Buckeye Crossing twenty miles away. The salooner had come through St. Elmo on his way to parts unknown. Earl could still see the man’s face. Jack had been his name, Earl thought, or Jake, something with a J for certain. There had been dark circles under the fella’s eyes like he’d never slept a day in his life. And he had a haunted look that Earl figured would last a while, if half of what the man said was true. It made Earl shiver just thinking about it.
“You okay, Earl?” Sheriff Tate had just turned away from Jet’s playing and motioned for Earl to refill the three empty shot glasses on the bar. Tate quickly turned back to the piano player.
Earl shivered again. “Just thinkin’ bout that salooner who come through here a-ways back. Can’t shake the look on his face.” Earl poured three watered-down whiskies for Sheriff Tate, Tinker Flaherty, and Bob Wilson, the St. Elmo telegraph operator. They didn’t know the whisky was watered down, of course, but Earl wasn’t about to use straight whisky for locals who had open tabs. In the case of the Tinker, barn-door open. Business was business, after all, and business had been bad—real bad since all the trouble started up in Buckeye at the beginning of summer. The aspens up on Mount Princeton were already turning rusty now, and it was starting to look like a mighty hard winter for everyone in St. Elmo, what with the demon trouble and all.
Earl had it on good authority that there were only three families left up at the Crossing, down from twenty-two at the start of it. And you had to add to that the twenty diggers who’d cut out early when they’d found the second, gnawed body. There was one digger who had stopped into Earl’s saloon on his way to catch a zeppelin in Buena Vista headed for British Columbia.
“There weren’t much god damn gold left in that stink-hole Buckeye anyway,” the digger had told Earl, “and certainly not enough worth risking getting ate over.” Earl had thought the man was a dirty little cuss, but he’d paid in gold, so Earl was inclined to forgive just about anything and even wished him luck in British Columbia, wherever that was.
As to the remaining families in Buckeye, there was Tinker Flaherty’s younger brother Jebediah—also a tinker—and his sister-in-law, who was supposed to be a witch of some skill from back east. Tinker’s and witches often hooked up, as they were a perfect match for each other. The tinkers made the gear and the witches tweaked stuff to make it achieve all manner of useful purpose. Folks figured Jebediah and his wife could probably take care of themselves when push came to shove, which it usually did when demons were around. There was old-man Wilson and his wife who’d help settle the Crossing, and everyone figured they were just too mean and dried up for demons to bother with, just a couple dusty old sour-pusses. That left Mad Jack Jones, the town grave-digger, not that you could really call him a family, of course. He’d actually stopped into Earl’s saloon a month back to pick up a case of Kentucky bourbon. Earl had asked him why he hadn’t cut out, figuring grave-digging was the same no matter where the dirt was.
Mad Jack had looked him straight in the eye, like Earl had insulted him or something. “I’m a grave-digger,” Jack had said, all serious-like. “Like my daddy was … and his daddy. I’m gonna stick round till there’s no one left to bury or I’m too dead to pick up a shovel—whichever come first. To hell with them demons.” Mad Jack had taken his Kentucky with a scowl aimed at Earl’s head, like it was
a pistol, and marched back to the Crossing. And now it was September.
Earl stared at the backs of the three men in front of him and tried to look casual by wiping down the bar as he gingerly probed at whether he was going to get paid for the thinned whisky or not. “Which one uh you all’s tab is this goin’ on, fellers?” That was about as gingerly as Earl could get. When none of the three men turned, Earl corked the whisky bottle and set it down with a loud THUNK on the bar to get somebody’s attention. Sheriff Tate, the more responsible of the three, slowly turned his head away from the piano player again.
“Payroll come in this morning.” Tate slipped a crisp, five-dollar note from his paisley vest and dropped it on the bar. It barely had time to soak up any watery spirits before it disappeared into Earl’s vest behind his pocket-watch.
Earl lifted his dented, brown bowler and ran a rough finger under the leather strap of his copper goggles. He peered at Tate through the normal lenses, the magnifying oculars swung out of the way to both sides. He only used those to inspect gold-dust and nuggets that people paid their bills with.
“You think yer … what’d you call it? … deemunyunger? … you think he’s gon’ be able to fix us up? It’s lookin’ like a mighty hard winter, Sheriff,” Earl predicted.
Tate turned and gave Earl a blank stare. “Hell, Earl. How the hell do I know?” The blank stare turned to one of frustration. “I ain’t never dealt with no demons, never mind no dämonjünger,” he said, pronouncing it correctly. “Hell, I had to ask Schmidt over at the smithy what the hell it meant. Means demon hunter. You know any demon hunters?” Tate was tired, dead tired. “Me either.” He answered his own question before Earl could say a word. He pushed thick glasses up onto his forehead and peered down at Earl.
Paranormal Short Stories Page 5