Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  Then, there, halfway between shadow and light, he wept.

  “Uhhh…” He wiped his mouth, his eyes. The nausea returned. A foul stench permeated the air, but Peter could not move away. Barely he had stumbled past it when he had burst through the doors to hide. It was the only place he knew. Smells like a sewer … worse.

  The stench had a physical quality to it, a musk, an oil. Peter could feel it on his skin, clogging every pore, permeating his clothes, his hair. It gummed his eyes and congealed at the back of his throat.

  “Uhhhh…” A wave of nausea struck him like a punch to the gut, bile burbling up the back of his throat and leaving that awful bitter taste.

  He spat. It was the house of God, but he didn’t care. He spat again. Not much came out; there couldn’t possibly be more.

  “No more doughnuts.” He squinted up at the vaulted ceiling.

  Why am I here? Stupid. Smells like shit … the Padre, he’ll be here. Soon. Call Carmine. Peter laid back down on the pew bench, feeling the coolness against his face. It was comfortable, so comfortable, a pillow. Squinting in the dim light, Peter leaned his head over the seat and stared at the floor. Better. Reaching out his pulsing, defiled arm, he grasped the kneeling bench and flipped it up with a bang.

  Snake-wise then, he slithered off the seat and onto the floor. Under the pew and against the wall he wedged his back. Even better, five walls, safe.

  “Hey, kid, wake up.”

  Whack! Peter’s head bounced as he awoke headfirst into the wooden pew.

  “You can’t sleep here. Wake up! Come on. This isn’t a shelter. That’s right. Up. Was that you screaming?”

  “Uhhhhrrg…” Peter rubbed his head. It was barely light outside, inside. “What?” The sewage smell slammed him again; nausea was not long off. “Where the hell am I?”

  “Saint Lucy’s,” the man said.

  Peter rubbed his eyes. “Padre?”

  “You’re going to have to leave unless you want to stay for mass,” the priest said. “I have a four o’clock coming up.”

  “Is the Padre here? This is his church, right?”

  “Father Lonigan is not here, presently. He’s meeting with the Bishop today.”

  “Is he doing the mass?”

  “No, as I said, I’m performing it. Father Lonigan doesn’t do the four o’clock anymore. I do. I do most of everything around here lately. Here, now, get up. Grab your coat.”

  “Look, you mind if I stay for a bit?” Peter covered his mouth. The nausea was returning. “I’m waiting for Father Lonigan. I have nowhere else to go.”

  The priest frowned. “Yeah, okay, come with me. Hurry up.”

  It was his first shower in nearly two days. For the normal man, two days would be rough. Rough for him. Rough for anybody in the vicinity of him. For Peter, running through polluted streams, wading through sewers, fighting zombies, dirty zombies, and performing bullet removal surgeries on comatose werewolves, it was extra rough.

  Forty-five minutes blew by as he scrubbed away at his filthy body, chipping away layer upon layer of grease and dirt and skin. The steaming water felt good, refreshing, even on his diseased arm and chest. He refused to look down. I’m not one of them. His pores opened and the grease and the stink and gravel of his nightmares loosened and oozed out. For the first time in days, Peter felt good.

  Outside the shower, the priest had lain some clothes, an old pair of blue jeans, and a tee-shirt with the symbol of the Green lantern on it. A pair of old black sneakers and a pair of white socks, yellow stripes at the top, lay on the neatly piled clothes.

  Everything was roughly his size, and once dried he put them on.

  It was heaven. Mmmmmmm, clean socks…

  Peter brushed his teeth with his finger and some toothpaste, another godsend from the priest. Smoothing his hair down, he walked out of the bathroom and into the rectory kitchen.

  At the table, hands folded, sat the Padre. A dish of chicken and peas was laid out.

  “Come, Peter. Sit. Eat.”

  Peter sat.

  “You have seen the oracle?”

  “I think so.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “You mean, it,” Peter said. “It, was a fortune cookie, and, it said to follow the path of the samurai, or something.”

  “A fortune cookie?” the Padre muttered. “Hmmm? The path of the samurai, budo, the way of the warrior, interesting, though the samurai is also a servant. Clearly defined duty … what did you do?”

  “I followed a hundred-year-old ex-coma patient down into the sewer. Then I performed surgery on a dog.”

  “I see.”

  “Glad someone does.”

  “Peter, no man can predict the future. We walk the path of our own choosing. God gives us this choice. You were lost and without hope. But you must remember, there is always hope, even in the final hour, when all seems darkest.”

  “Well, if no man can predict the future, why the hel-eck did you send me to an oracle?”

  “To start you on a path, whatever path it may be. A deer caught in headlights, is dead, Peter. It matters not whether it chooses left or right, so long as it does, in fact, make a choice,” the Padre said. “Remember, too, that there are others who will help you. Myself. Carmine. Men and women you have yet to meet. But it is up to you to follow your own path, make your own decisions, whatever we may advise. Eat, Peter.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your arm, it is worse.”

  “Yeah. It … it’s spreading across my chest.” Peter shuddered. “Is there anything — I wish I could just tear it out.”

  The Padre whipped something from his coat pocket faster than an adder strikes. Peter stumbled back, knocking over his chair.

  “What the—?” Peter shook his head. “Thought it was a gun.”

  “I’m sorry to startle you, but it was necessary.” The Padre brandished a crucifix. “How does it make you feel?”

  “Not as bad as the doughnut I ate. Puked all the way up Common Street.”

  “It is near night, now. It’s stronger at night. It begins to coalesce. You are still human, though. And it creeps through you, slowly. That is something. No ghoul could stand before me as such. Not here, not now. Perhaps your name is apt, Peter.” He stowed the crucifix away.

  Peter remained standing.

  “Sit, Peter, please. No harm shall come to you from me, now. I’ve spoken to my bishop.”

  “What did he say?” Peter asked.

  “He said that, tonight, we have a task to perform.”

  Chapter 19.

  ASPIRIN. HE NEEDED ASPIRIN. Pathetic. Never had he relied on pain-killers before. He would ask Benjamin, though. In a circle, he moved his arms, stretching out the stiff, old muscles, muscles unused for decades. But they had worked, and they had worked well at that. Dozens he had killed last night. It had been good work. There still was a place for him it seemed.

  The sun fell, and he waited. In an hour it would be night. Elliot squinted. The glare off the river was harsh. Durendal gleamed in the failing light. A breeze wafted its way beneath the bridge, carrying with it the smell of hotdogs and French fries and the dying sounds of laughter and traffic. From the normal scents and sounds below the bridge, it was a welcome relief.

  Grunting, Elliot stood. Every joint in his body was stiff. “Hello, old friend,” Elliot said to the Gurkha as he stepped beneath the bridge.

  “Hello, Elliot!” the Gurkha called, a grin beaming on his little brown face. He made his way over, scuttling like a crab through the refuse.

  “These you have not met.” The Gurkha turned, smiling, holding his hand out as though presenting a prize from a game show. Two men came under the bridge behind him, identical smiles on their faces.

  “My sons,” the Gurkha presented them as they wrestled through the garbage, “Mainlo and Jetho.”

  “Jethro, father,” Jethro said.

  The Gurkha frowned.

  “We are pleased to meet you, sir.” Jethro and his b
rother nodded, grinning like their father. They were younger images of him, though their skin was lighter. At their hips were kukris.

  “How do you do?” Elliot shook each one’s hand in turn.

  “Well, Elliot, we do well,” Jethro said. “It truly is a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. Father has told us many stories about you. About the war, the trials, the city.” Jethro turned to his father. “The sword does suit him.”

  “Suits him better than you your name.” The Gurkha swatted him on the head.

  Jethro ducked.

  “You’ve done well, Bahadur,” Elliot laughed. “They are strong and handsome like their father.”

  “Handsome?” They stood looking at one another, stupid grins on their leathery old faces.

  The Gurkha nodded. “Ah, yes, they are fathers of their own, too. I have seventeen grandchildren. Eight are boys. They will not be coming with us, though they pleaded much. It is a school night.”

  “School. Yes, important,” Elliot said. “Seventeen? You two have been busy.”

  Jethro and Mainlo stopped smiling. “They are not all ours,” Mainlo said. “Two of our brothers are dead.”

  “Forgive me,” Elliot said.

  “Nothing to forgive,” Mainlo said. “They died in battle. They died well.”

  “It will be a war tonight?” Jethro tested the edge of his kukris with his thumb. “Like Kingston, father?”

  “Yes, Jethro, killing for all there will be.” The Gurkha grinned.

  His two sons nodded, smiling again, children on their first trip to Disneyland.

  Elliot raised an eyebrow.

  “Word has reached us of a meeting tonight,” the Gurkha said. “It is the killer of your Emily. The killer of many. He carries much danger. Others will be there. Ghouls. Dangerous ones. Much power. He is hunted by many, even as he hunts. It is an opium deal.”

  “Heroin, father.”

  Elliot nodded.

  “The leeches possess guns, as well,” the Gurkha said. “We will have guns. It is good to have you back, Elliot. You have been missed.”

  “Tonight, then.”

  “Sundown.”

  “One hour.”

  “Tell me of our adversaries,” Elliot said.

  The three Gurkhas gathered around, and all crouched on the ground. In turn, they each told of what they knew or surmised. It did not take long.

  Elliot, as he always did, listened, formulating a plan in his mind. As Mainlo, the younger brother, finished talking, the ground began to shake.

  Doom! Doom! Doom!

  It came from the tunnel.

  Eclipsing the darkness of the tunnel lumbered the form of Lord Brudnoy. His huge, shaggy bulk shook with each ponderous step; his chain clinked and clanked. Thick nails scraped deep into the concrete. A glazed look sloshed in his eye. He blinked, looking at the sword in Elliot’s hands.

  “The task is complete?” Lord Brudnoy addressed the Gurkha. “Good. You recall the bargain, Sir Knight? The price?”

  “Yes, the task is complete,” the Gurkha said, “and I remember the price. You are well?”

  “My wounds heal fast, old boy,” Lord Brudnoy said, his voice deep, a growl. He lowered his haunches to the ground. “The moon grows stronger. By sunset, I shall be whole once more. When they come, I will take them.” The growl grew slowly from deep within his chest, shivering his fur, vibrating the ground. Patches of hair were missing all over his body, but the exposed wounds were healed, only scars and staples visible.

  “Benjamin tells me you stood guard until dawn, Sir Elliot,” Lord Brudnoy said. “Again, I and my subjects are in your debt. They thank you. I am tired. It has been years, decades without sleep…” His voice trailed off. He glanced at the Gurkha. “You remember the price?”

  The Gurkha nodded again.

  Lord Brudnoy nodded absently, rising. “Good. Soon.” He turned back towards the tunnel.

  “You should thank the boy, as well, my lord,” Elliot said. “He saved your life last night.”

  “No,” Lord Brudnoy lumbered away into shadow, his voice an echo, “he just prolonged it.”

  * * * *

  “Do I hafta wear it?” Beefrick pouted, his chubby hands on his hips. “It makes me itchy.” His voice echoed slowly and stupidly in the huge garage.

  “YES! YES! Put the damned thing on,” Billy Rubin yelled. His voice was shrill and gurgled, a drowning munchkin on crack.

  “Why?” Beefrick asked, stooping his head.

  “Look, Beefrick, for the last time, we do this every week,” Billy Rubin explained. What little patience resided in his voice was cracking fast. “This is my special client. Remember? The special client we see every week. Okay? You remember that gun he has? Yes, the one he always points at us? The one he always threatens to shoot us with? Well, we don’t want to be shot with that gun, right?”

  After a long pause, Beefrick answered, “Yes?”

  “No,” Billy Rubin said. “It’s a bad gun, very bad. Not like the guns the meat use. I don’t want to be shot by this gun. This one is dangerous. I’ve seen it work. It doesn’t miss.”

  “Oh,” Beefrick said. “But why do I have to wear the shirt?”

  “Well, you see, Beefy, that’s where you come in.” Billy Rubin raised a little finger. “You’re special, and you have to wear the shirt because you’re a titanic blob, and we’re going to use you as a shield if and when there is a gunfight. Just like last week. Just like every week.” Billy Rubin let his tactical plan sink into Beefrick’s thick head. “But not to worry, Beef, you’re so disgusting that even bullets probably won’t want to touch you. And the shirt’s more to protect us than you. Besides, Mary made it especially for you. She says your special.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah, and that if you didn’t wear it, you’d make her sad.” Billy Rubin nodded. “And you know what happens if you make her sad, don’t you?”

  “She eats babies?”

  “Yes, but she also cries.”

  “Oh, I don’t want that. Did she really say I’m special?” Beefrick grinned boyishly. If there had been blood in his body, he would have blushed. He glanced left and right, and whispered, “I think Mary’s special, too.”

  “PUT THE FUCKING THING ON!” Billy Rubin screeched, a window shattering.

  Beefrick nodded, wrestled the shirt over his head and promptly became entangled. The shirt consisted of a Kevlar tent, with a head and arm holes punched in it and forty-five-pound barbell weights strapped on it, all overlapping, like some insane type of scale mail armor. It was very heavy. Beefrick was very heavy, too, though, so it didn’t bother him as much as one would think.

  “Is the carriage full?” Billy Rubin asked.

  Beefrick mumbled an answer from beneath the massive folds of Kevlar and steel; Billy Rubin ignored him.

  “Yeah, boss,” Slazenger answered, wrench in hand. He was lying sprawled beneath the baby carriage. His face was grease smeared. “Changed the oil and gassed her up. Gear’s loaded. The usual, right?”

  Billy Rubin just nodded. Then he scratched his chin, thinking.

  “You’re real cute, you know that boss?” Beefrick’s smiling head emerged from the hole in the top of his shirt. “You sick, though, boss? You look a little blue.”

  “I feel fine, Beefrick,” Billy Rubin said through gritted gums. “This is my normal color.”

  “You look like a cute little smur—”

  “IF YOU SAY I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING SMURF AGAIN I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! AND IF YOU EVER COME NEAR ME WITH ONE OF THOSE LITTLE WHITE HATS, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU AGAIN!” Billy Rubin screeched, his gums bared. “SMURFS! ALL DAY IT’S FUCKING SMURFS!”

  Beefrick shrank, though not much.

  “Now where the hell’s Slack-jaw Mary? Oh,” Billy Rubin said, as Mary slid into the garage. The door slammed behind her as she limped slowly in. “Over here, you stupid bitch.”

  “Thure thing bothhh,” Mary lisped. Her jaw was slack and hung open constantly. Her ski
n was the color and texture of boiled squid, and despite her emaciated body, she possessed multiple chins.

  “Gimme a lift, Mary.” Billy Rubin held out his arms. Mary picked him up. “Bob should be here soon.”

  “BOB!?” Slazenger and Beefrick said simultaneously. Slack-jaw Mary just hung like rotten lettuce.

  “No way, Boss, you’re joking, right?” Slazenger wiped his face with a rag. “He ain’t really coming. Is he? Shit man, he’s a freak. He ain’t doing the job with us?”

  “Me no like Bob,” Beefrick said slowly.

  “Me too,” Mary said.

  “Slap a monocle and cane on him and he’s Mister-fucking-Peanut,” Slazenger laughed, “and that spray-on-hair-shit. Looks like Eddie-fucking-Munster! Remember him? And that accent?!”

  Beefrick grinned stupidly, and even Mary was giggling shyly.

  “Well, we all know not to mention the spray-hair,” Billy Rubin said thoughtfully. “Remember that night at Harker's? Fred’s still picking pieces of that guy out of the radiator.”

  “And do you know vy dey call me dee Count?” Slazenger said, doing a poor Transylvanian accent. He paused, for effect. “BECAUSE I LOVE TO COUNT THINGS! AH, AH, AH!”

  Lightning crashed in the background.

  Slazenger crippled over with laughter. The others laughed, too, except Billy Rubin.

  He glanced around nervously. As he opened his mouth to speak, the door at the far end of the garage opened. “Shhhh, that’s Bob!” Billy Rubin whispered. “No, he ain’t doing the job. We got some quick biz. Then he’s smoke. Don’t mention nothing.”

  Slazenger’s laughter died immediately and echoed in the garage. Footsteps approached from the darkness. Slow measured footsteps. The ghouls all went pale, even paler than usual.

  Billy Rubin withdrew a key and cleared his throat, “Hello, Bob, nice to see you.”

  “Good Eeeevening,” said the Count.

  * * * *

  “Why?” Raymond Gurlek couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it. And it wasn’t through a lack of trying or a deficiency of willpower or character. He had sawed off half of his fingers trying. He simply could not do it. Others did it every day. Without effort. With less destructive means at their disposal. Just a quick click, a sixty-degree revolution and all was forgiven. All the fighting and thinking and straining and starving and sweating, freezing, puking, killing, and eating, and watching and crying and dying and done for good. All of it, in one single shot. One little shot. It was never for good, though, not with Raymond. Not with the shots he could take.