Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  “Uh, maybe.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Uh, maybe.” Carmine turned toward the exit.

  “Hang on.” Doris took a sip of coffee. “Guy came in, had his leg torn up pretty bad, arterial bleed, kid dragged him in. Leg was bandaged, at least. Tourniquet, too.”

  “The midget’s?” Carmine asked.

  “No, homeless guy, off the streets by the look of him. The little person helped.” Doris looked through her notes. “Kid said it was a dog bite.” She smiled. “Looked like a dog with some pretty serious claws, maybe lion or tiger or polar bear? Something strong at any rate. No saliva in the wound, though. Docs gave him the thrice over. Tetanus shot, you know. Probably a series for rabies, too, if he lives. Should be fun.”

  “Can we talk to him?” asked Carmine.

  “No. We got his pressure back up, and he came around, but he’s up in the O.R.,” Doris said.

  “How about when he wakes up?” asked Carmine. “I need to ask him about the kid.”

  “You’ll have to ask the docs, y’know,” Doris said. “I’m just a nurse, Carmine, not one of the anointed.”

  “Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

  “No idea, heck, sometimes they wake up during the surgery,” Doris laughed. “He’ll probably be gorked-out for a while.”

  “Gorked-out, huh?” Carmine said. “Technical term?”

  “Nurse jargon,” Doris said.

  Carmine pulled a notepad from his chest pocket and wrote something on it. He handed it to Doris. “That’s my cell phone,” he said, “call me as soon as he wakes up. Okay?”

  “And, could I call you for something else, perhaps?” she asked.

  “Baby, you could, but I don’t think you could handle me,” Carmine said, in his deepest voice.

  Chapter 30.

  THE SUN WAS SETTING.

  Detective Winters glanced at his watch.

  He grimaced.

  It was late.

  Tommy Johnson’s tenement loomed like a great, many-eyed beast slumbering under light of dying day. Other beasts, eyes aflame in the dusk, huddled close, claustrophobic. These, too, perhaps, harbored horrors. Perhaps one day Detective Winters would lance them, too, like a pustule, spilling the rotten dregs into the light of day where they would be seared pure.

  Today, tonight, though, it was Tommy Johnson’s tenement Detective Winters was interested in. It was Tommy Johnson’s tenement he would lance.

  The car door slammed, and Detective Winters strode through the parking lot, trombone case in hand swaying rhythmically. The sea of children playing parted for him as though he strode from Egypt. They paused in their game, and a ball bounced into the street, unattended. They whispered ‘copman’ as he strode past, his neat steel toe oxford shoes crunching the gravel.

  “Hey! Copman!” a voice called from amidst the myriad. “Naw, that is him. Guy from school. He’s whacked.”

  “Come here, Tommy.” Detective Winter paused, a panther on the prowl, relaxed, coiled. His eyes were fixed on one window in the tenement, but he saw everything.

  “See?” Tommy said to his friends, surrounding Detective Winters. “I ain’t trippin’.”

  “Tommy, I want you and your friends to go inside,” Detective Winters said.

  “Yo, I’m—”

  “Do not argue. You all should be inside before the sun sets. Caution. Your parents lack it. Ignorance. You know, though.”

  Tommy glanced over at one window in the tenement, black, the basement. His gaze lingered there long.

  Then Tommy nodded absently. The others gathered round.

  “You have all known loss,” Detective Winters said. “You have told your parents, your teachers, perhaps even the police. They refuse to believe. Their eyes brand you liar as they pat you on the head and send you out the door. I know better.”

  Tommy nodded again, his gaze fixed on the window.

  “Well, I believe you,” Detective Winters said. “Now go inside, all of you. Cover your ears. Lock your doors.”

  * * * *

  It smelled like a very dead dog.

  Detective Winters picked the lock cleanly and snipped the security chain with his bolt cutter. He opened the door a crack and oiled the hinges with a small squeeze tube of lubricant. He waited for the oil to work, to settle in, and then slowly worried the door back and forth, minutely at first, until it moved smoother, silent. He tucked his tools away.

  Kneeling to the side, he opened the door, silent. Silence is not enough, however. A gun was in one hand, loaded, trained on the darkness. Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew three little plastic spheres. Squeezing them, he felt an inaudible pop! He shook them a bit and bowled them in. An eerie green, they glowed as they rolled across the cracked cement.

  It was a very dead dog.

  On the floor, its putrefying fur melting, lay a St. Bernard, maybe, months dead by the looks of it, by the smell of it. Great brown stains encircled it like the rings of Saturn. Hunks had been gouged from its side, though it was not just in these spots that maggots feasted.

  Detective Winters hefted the trombone case and slid inside. Pupils dilated in the green glow; he could see. No light came from the window. It was spiked over in plywood, painted black.

  The faucet dripped, slowly, methodically.

  The dog-reek was staggering, but Detective Winters focused on the fumes in the next room. It sent the hairs on the back of his neck tingling, like it always did, the scent of darkness, of hate, of evil, of whatever you want to call it. It smelled bad.

  He closed the hall door behind him. There was a door straight ahead and one open to the right. The stench came from the room in the back. The St. Bernard, a tag on his neck said his name was Rufus, lay in the middle of the kitchen floor. One of the green globes was lodged in Rufus, and his fur glowed an ominous green.

  Maggots wriggled in the valleys of the grooved linoleum.

  Detective Winters flicked the green globe rolling into the open door on the right. He slid inside. A bathroom and it was empty. Reddish-brown stains covered everything. He squeezed four more light globes, green light popping forth, and held them in his fist.

  Into the kitchen and to the door from whence the stench emanated he walked, silent. He stood the trombone case up on end behind him and turned to the door.

  His steel toe oxford shoe blew the door off its hinges and four green globes soared into the room, igniting it green.

  Shadows reeled.

  Twin guns leveled before the door slammed on the ground. His eyes blazed.

  A man and a woman lay together embraced on an old oak Victorian bed. The door slammed to the ground in the green light. Both glared up.

  “Vinters…” the man said. His pallid skin was green in the light. A prim tuxedo lay draped over the foot of the bed. An enormous widow’s peak whipped down nearly to his eyebrows. Idly, he gnawed on a femur. Human. He frowned and put it down.

  The woman was street trash, a junky suck. Rearing up on the bed, she snarled like a feral cat, hissing and spitting.

  “Charming,” Detective Winters said.

  “It has been a long vile,” the man said in a very thick, very poor, quasi-Transylvanian accent.

  “Drop the bone and the accent, Bob,” Detective Winters said, his two guns deadlocked on their respective targets. “Show me what passes for your hands.”

  “They call me ‘the Count.’” Bob held his hands up and grinned.

  “Tell your date to show me her hands.”

  She snarled but otherwise did not move.

  “These are fifty caliber Leech-rounds, Bob. Three seconds…”

  “He vill shoot you, my dear.”

  “Two seconds, one.”

  She sprang.

  Detective Winters unloaded.

  Blam! Blam! Blam!

  She was blown back into the wall. On the ground, writhing and grunting like an animal, she lay.

  “I was gonna use her as my hostage,” Bob said, his accent gone.

 
“Ghouls do not make good hostages, Bob,” Detective Winters said.

  The woman stopped screaming and just lay there limp now, whimpering, hissing.

  “Silence her, Bob.”

  “You shot her!”

  “Yes.”

  “Leave her alone. No one’s going to hear anything, detective,” Bob said. “I ate everyone in the adjacent apartments.”

  Detective Winters glanced at the walls and ceilings. “Low income sound proofing.”

  Detective Winters stepped to the bureau, feet sticking as he went. Scattered across the top of the bureau were dozens of framed pictures, all of the same woman. “Scarlett…” Detective Winters picked up one of the frames.

  Bob lurched up, as though Detective Winters had reached into his stomach and taken a fistful of his entrails and squeezed. “Please, detective, be very careful with that. It’s one of a kind,” Bob said, eyes out of focus, his accent back. Out reached his hands as though cradling the picture. “That one, it is my favorite.”

  “Pathetic, Bob.” Detective Winters studied the garden of photos. “A tragedy, really. What does she go by now?”

  “She, ha-ha, she calls herself, uh … hmmm … No!”

  Detective Winters dropped the frame on the floor and then accidentally crunched on it with his well-polished steel toe oxford shoe, twice. “Oops,” he deadpanned. Another picture was in Detective Winters’s hand as Bob tore forward to the end of the bed and froze, bloodshot eyes twitching in the green gloom.

  A sneaky-mad look wriggled in his eyes. “She calls herself Pussywillow. Now. She has since she turned.”

  “Yes, Pussywillow. Were these taken before or after she turned?”

  Bob started to quiver, from his toes to his head, and he giggled like a little girl. “He, he, he. After.”

  “Still attractive, Bob. Nice white teeth, for a ghoul. What is her secret? You were a dentist.”

  “I … I love her,” Bob said.

  “I think not,” Detective Winters said. “Legend has it you ‘loved’ her as only a psychotic, ex-dentist/stalker, turned, vampire-stalker could. That you gave up your practice, your wife and offspring, for her. Though even when she was human, still she would not have you. And then she turned. What was that? Three years ago? She turned and you tried to give up your humanity. To be with her. Touching. But, and there is a big but, Bob, she would not turn you. She refused to have anything to do with you even from a predator-prey relationship. Is it true you laid outside her lair for two weeks, covered in pig’s blood, to try and tempt her?”

  Bob said nothing. He looked away, impotent madness festering in his eyes.

  “And she still would not touch you,” said Detective Winters. “Bob, I have to ask, where did you procure that much pig’s blood? Cannot have been easy to come by.”

  “You’ve pig’s blood running through—”

  Blam!

  Detective Winters shot him.

  Bob jerked back, and he lay splayed out, his eyes unfocused on the ceiling. Stalactites of dried blood hung down.

  “I know what you are wondering, Bob,” Detective Winters said. “New bullets. Hollow-points, larger caliber, silver rods inserted, designed to spread, cut. Tough to find, remove, not to mention the chemicals. Can you imagine, Bob, only eighty years ago your typical vampire-hunter used a smooth bore musket and homemade bullets. Silver is too soft. Imagine them running around with muskets? Ramrods and wadding? One round a minute? You were spawned in the wrong era.”

  Bob said nothing but sat back up, stiff like a corpse. A large hole was in his shoulder but no blood. Reaching into the wound with his fingers, Bob grunted as he searched.

  “You have spirit, Bob, good,” Detective Winters said. “Who turned her? I never found out, and I made it a point to. Someone big. Not the street trash that turned you, eh, Bob? Slackjaw Mary was it? The Gurkhas took her head. Nice. So who turned Pussywillow?”

  “GRRRRRRRraaaaaaaaaaawwwww!” Bob tore the slick silver shards from his shoulder. Limp fingers dropped them on the bed, steaming. “I don’t know who turned her. She won’t talk to me. Won’t see me. Won’t accept my gifts. My mementos. Letters. Tapes. Photos. Collages, even the diorama.”

  “I believe you, Bob.” Detective Winters nodded. “Do you know why?”

  Bob shook his head.

  “Because you are a loser.” Detective Winters’ eyes lit upon the tuxedo. “Going out tonight, Bob? A Social?”

  “No.”

  “You have a tuxedo.”

  “I, rrrrrg, always wear a tuxedo.”

  “But not always so nicely pressed, Bob,” Detective Winters countered. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I need to be there, Bob.”

  “I von’t tell you!”

  “So there is one.”

  Cursing, Bob smacked himself in the face and pulled down, giggling, laughing. As his hand reached his mouth, he stuck his fingers in and whistled.

  Claws clomped on linoleum.

  Rufus the rotting St. Bernard dove.

  Detective Winters ducked and spun and leapt as maggots sprayed through the air like wedding rice.

  Rufus pounded down, turned, skidded, and charged.

  The street-trash scrambled to her feet, arched, hissing like a cat.

  Twin FoeHammers.50 discharged rapid fire and tore the two to pieces. It did not take long.

  Then it was knife work.

  Detective Winters adjusted his hat and turned. “Bob?”

  Bob was gone, so was the tuxedo. He had not escaped past him. Detective Winters reloaded his guns and then unloaded on the bed, tearing it to shreds of satin, timber, and brass.

  Then he flipped it over.

  “Marduk’s balls.”

  A tunnel had been bored through the concrete foundation, straight down.

  Grabbing his trombone case, then fixing his tie, he took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and jumped down.

  Chapter 31.

  “THIS DRINK HAS GREAT SHAKTI,” Tim said, in a mock-Hindi accent. He nodded and smiled, brandishing the martini.

  The other three laughed.

  Tim set his cocktail glass down and adjusted his tie. All four wore expensive suits their parents had given them, their fraternity letters tie-tacked on.

  “Dude, what the fuck does that mean?” Eric giggled when he spoke for he was a little drunk.

  “How the fuck should I know?” Tim downed the rest of his martini. “That’s what the dude said when I ordered it. Thought you might know, Jay. You’re half-fucking towel-head, right?”

  They guffawed, high-fiving each other, except Jay, who took a swig of his beer and grumbled.

  The patrons at the nearby tables cast glares. The young men of Alpha Kappa Kappa paid no heed.

  “I’m half-Italian, man,” Jay said.

  “Whatever, dude, chill out,” Tim said, feeling good about himself. Putting others down often made him feel that way. “Here.” He raised his cocktail glass unsteadily. “Hey, let’s have a toast or something.”

  “Dude, that glass is so fucking gay,” Jay said. “What’s that floating in it? A fucking nut?”

  Three of them laughed.

  “Yeah, yours, you fucking cocksucker,” Tim said, “that’s why it’s green!”

  Blank stares…

  “Dude, what the fuck does that mean?” Eric asked.

  “Shut up,” Tim said. “When’s the waiter coming?” He looked at his Rolex watch. “We’ve been here for ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s, like, about nine minutes longer than you last with your old lady,” Alex said.

  “Shut the fuck up, dude,” Tim said. “Never see you winning any awards in the circle.”

  “Dude, I was just kidding.”

  “Whatever,” Tim said.

  “So what’s in it?” Alex asked.

  “Dude, it’s a martini,” Tim said.

  “Yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious,” Alex said, “but what’s in it? Just cause I’m not
an alcoholic like you motherfuckers—”

  “Gin. Tanqueray gin, the finest.” The waiter suddenly materialized. “Imported directly from England, dry vermouth, and a green olive with the pit. Are you gentlemen ready to order?” His Hindi accent was thick. A black silk scarf graced the shoulders of his burgundy double-breasted suit, and his hair was perfect.

  Tim silenced Alex with a look then said, “We’ve been ready, dude.”

  “And what would you gentlemen be preferring this evening?” the waiter asked. He carried no pen or paper.

  They ordered meals, and the waiter whisked off after reciting their orders back to them verbatim.

  “Dude, wasn’t that the same dude from the front?” Jay asked.

  “Yeah, the — what the hell do you call it?” Eric said.

  “The fucking dumbwaiter,” Alex laughed.

  “Shut the fuck up, dude,” Tim said. “It’s called a maître d’, you fucking morons. Reason the fucking waiter looks like the maître d’ is they all fucking look alike. Thought he was Jay for a second. Just hope they’re as good at fucking remembering food orders as they are at math.”

  They all laughed.

  “Yeah, no shit,” Eric said. “I got one sitting next to me in stats and pre-cal. Without him, I’ll never fucking graduate.”

  They laughed.

  “When do you want to go downstairs?” Alex asked. “Think they’ll let us in?”

  “They’ll fucking let me in.” Tim downed the last of his second martini. “And we’ll go after we eat, dip-shit.”

  “Pardon me, sir,” the waiter said. “Would you be so good as to accompany me?”

  Tim put his glass down, “Huh?”

  “You ordered the short rib, sir,” the waiter said. “It is customary at my establishment that one who orders such a meal should choose for himself from the meat locker that which he believes to be most delectable. I think you will be most pleased with our selection. You all will be. Come.”

  Tim pushed his chair back and stood. “Excellent.” He tossed his napkin and followed the waiter.

  The other three followed suit; it was their way.

  * * * *

  The trail was unmistakable, its signature clear even through the dank reek of the misty black sewer. Like the viper tracking the heat signature of the rat, Detective Winters slid along at an even pace, never wavering, never stopping, never blinking. His breath was even, slow, and for now, the walls were not closing in.