A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Wait just a minute!” I said. I’d heard about deals like this where you make a trade for “something you’ll never miss” and I didn’t want to fall into that trap! “We’re not talking about my soul, are we?”

  She laughed. “No! Only small piece of flesh. Token for gods. Dr. Elliot gave finger.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “You told this squaw last night.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember.”

  “You did. Dr. Holliday must make same sacrifice if he wish bad medicine go away.”

  Something that won’t grow back. That left out hair and fingernail clippings. I certainly didn’t want to lose a part of a finger—I didn’t approve of public deformity.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  She shrugged. “Without sacrifice, Dr. Elliot will not feel curse of Unhindered Hands.”

  “ ‘Unhindered Hands?’ Just what is that?”

  “Like Untethered Tongue. As Dr. Holliday’s lips now speak what he wish kept hidden in heart, Dr. Elliot’s hands will do things he only wish to do.”

  The thought of Dr. Elliot’s hands acting upon whatever physical desires occurred to him, to be no more able to restrain his hands than I had been able to restrain my tongue delighted me.

  Then I thought of something neither I nor anyone else would miss—

  “How about my little toe?”

  “It is good,” she said.

  “How do we do this?”

  Following her directions, I removed the boot and sock from my left food and held it over the steaming liquid.

  “Dip toe.”

  Feeling like a fool for going through this hocus-pocus, yet hating myself for not having the nerve to call the whole thing off and take my chances with my unruly tongue, I dipped my little toe into the cup.

  “Enough,” she said after a moment. She withdrew the cup and handed me a dirty cloth. “Dry toe.”

  I scrutinized my left fifth toe. It looked just like the others, only wet.

  “Something’s wrong!” I said. “I thought I was supposed to ‘sacrifice’ this toe! Nothing happened!”

  “Patience, Dr. Holliday. Patience.”

  I was convinced now that I was being hoodwinked. I quickly rubbed my toe dry and rose to my feet.

  “This is a farce! I’m glad I didn’t give you any real gold!”

  Her head snapped around. She stared at me. “Gold not real?”

  “No. So you can call off this whole charade.”

  “Too late. Medicine is made. Curse begins.”

  “But my toe—”

  I looked down at my left foot. There were only four toes. All that remained of my tenth toe was a small pink bulge of fresh scar tissue.

  “Where—?”

  I opened the cloth and there was my toe. As I watched, it fumed and melted into a pink fluid that was absorbed by the cloth. The odor made me want to gag.

  Squaw Jones was pawing through the bag of fake gold nuggets. “Dr. Holliday trick this squaw?”

  “Why not? You’re probably the one who got me in this fix in the first place. You’re playing both sides of the street.”

  She approached me, menace in her eyes. I kept watch on her hands, making sure both were in sight. They were: clutching the pouch of fake gold. Her face came within inches of mine. She stared at me.

  Then she coughed. Once.

  “Return to your office, Dr. Holliday. Curse of Untethered Tongue is broken; curse of Unhampered Hands begin. Squaw Jones cannot change that now.”

  I glanced down at my four-toed foot again and realized I was rapidly become a believer. With boot and sock in hand, I hurried from Squaw Jones’s tent.

  “But you will pay another way!” she called after me.

  The first patient to show up was Mr. O’Toole. My private name for him was “Mr. O’Stool”—he had a bowel fixation that he blamed on his bad teeth. He spent most office visits describing his movements. He was a bore but he came every two weeks for a new filling.

  But I got through the visit with no problem. I’d had an urge to tell him that I thought he was suffering from a fecal impaction that had backed up to his brain but the remark remained within my mind while my mouth offered bland reassurances.

  I drilled his latest imaginary cavity and fairly danced out of the examining room.

  I’ve done it! I’ve broken the curse!

  I went to the front window in my waiting room and looked across the street at Dr. Elliot’s office. I whispered:

  “I’ve beaten you, Elliot! Beaten you at your own game!”

  As I watched, I saw Bonnie Porter come racing out of Dr. Elliot’s office, trying to cover her bobbing, exposed breasts with one hand while holding up her ripped skirt with the other. In close pursuit, with a piece of Bonnie’s torn bodice clutched in his teeth, was Dr. Elliot. And right behind the two of them was the widow Porter, swinging her handbag. She caught Dr. Elliot full force in the back of the head with a swing and he went down. Then she stood over him and began pounding him with her bag.

  I watched until Wyatt ran up. He pulled his pistol and just stood there, his eyes captured by the pink-tipped whiteness of Bonnie’s breasts. I knew though that as soon as she covered herself, Wyatt would be on Dr. Elliot like a lynch mob. He wasn’t going to take at all kindly to someone going after Bonnie Porter before he’d had firsts.

  Poor Dr. Elliot. Couldn’t control his hands. Such a shame.

  As I turned away I felt a twinge behind my sternum. I began to cough. I’d never coughed like this before in my life. Spasms racked my chest. I pulled out my handkerchief and buried my face in it, trying to muffle the coughs, perhaps suppress them by trapping them inside. Suddenly I felt something tear free in my chest and fill my throat. I gagged it out.

  Blood stained my handkerchief.

  Hemoptysis—a bloody cough. A sure sign of consumption, or what they were now calling tuberculosis.

  But how could I have tuberculosis? I hadn’t been visiting anyone in a sanitarium, and the only people in these parts who had any tuberculosis were . . .

  . . . Indians.

  Squaw Jones had coughed in my face, but only once, and that had been just a few hours ago. I couldn’t have developed tuberculosis in that short of time. It was impossible.

  I glanced out the window again. Wyatt was leading Dr. Elliot off toward the jail, and being none too gentle about it. In the crowd that had gathered, all heads were turned to watch them go. All except one. Squaw Jones was there, staring directly at me.

  I coughed again.

  When the cockroach made a right turn up the wall, Jack flipped another shuriken across the room. The steel points of the throwing star drove into the wallboard just above the bug’s long antennae. It backed up and found itself hemmed in on all sides now by four of the stars.

  “Did it!” Jack said from where he lay across the still made hotel bed.

  He counted the shuriken protruding from the wall. A dozen of them traveled upward in a gentle arc above and behind the barely functioning TV, ending in a tiny square where the roach was trapped.

  Check that. It was free again. Crawled over one of the shuriken and was now continuing on its journey to wherever. Jack let it go and rolled onto his back on the bedspread.

  Bored.

  And hot. He was dressed in jeans and a loose, heavy sweater under an oversized lightweight jacket, both dark blue; a black-and-orange knitted cap was jammed on the top of his head. He’d turned the thermostat all the way down but the room remained an oven. He didn’t want to risk taking anything off because, when the buzzer sounded, he had to hit the ground running.

  He glanced over at the dusty end table where the little Walkman sized box with the antenna sat in silence.

  “Come on, already,” he mumbled to it. “Let’s do it.”

  Reilly and his sleazos were due to make their move tonight. What was taking them so long to get started? Almost one a.m. already—three hours here in this fleabag. He was starting t
o itch. He could handle only so much TV without getting drowsy. Even without the lulling drone of some host interviewing some actor he’d never heard of, the heat was draining him.

  Fresh air. Maybe that would help.

  Jack got up, stretched, and stepped to the window. A clear almost Halloween night out there, with a big moon rising over the city. He gripped the handles and pulled. Nothing. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. He was checking the edges of the sash when he heard the faint crack of a rifle. The bullet came through the glass two inches to the left of his head, peppering his face with tiny sharp fragments as it whistled past his ear.

  Jack collapsed his legs and dropped to the floor. He waited. No more shots. Keeping his head below the level of the windowsill, he rose to a crouch, then leapt for the lamp on the end table at the far side of the bed, grabbed it, and rolled to the floor with it. Another shot spat through the glass and whistled through the room as his back thudded against the floor. He turned off the lamp.

  The other lamp, the one next to the TV, was still on—sixty watts of help for the shooter. And whoever was shooting had to know Jack would be going for it next. He’d be ready.

  On his belly, Jack slid along the industrial grade carpet toward the end of the bed until he had an angle where the bulb was visible under the shade. He pulled out his next to last shuriken and spun it toward the bulb. With an electric pop it flared blue white and left the room dark except for the flickering glow from the TV.

  Immediately Jack popped his head above the bed and looked out the window. Through the spider webbed glass he caught sight of a bundled figure turning and darting away across the neighboring rooftop. Moonlight glinted off the long barrel of a high powered rifle, flashed off the lens of a telescopic sight, then he was gone.

  A high pitched beep made him jump. The red light on the signal box was blinking like mad. Kuropolis wanted help. Which meant Reilly had struck.

  “Swell.”

  Not a bad night,” George Kuropolis thought, wiping down the counter in front of the slim young brunette as she seated herself. Not a great night, but still to have half a dozen customers at this hour was good. And better yet, Reilly and his creeps hadn’t shown up.

  Maybe they’d bother somebody else tonight.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked the brunette.

  “Tea, please,” she said with a smile. A nice smile. She was dressed nice and had decent jewelry on. Not exactly overdressed for the neighborhood, but better than the usual.

  George wished he had more customers of her caliber. And he should have them. Why the hell not? Didn’t the chrome inside and out sparkle? Couldn’t you eat off the floor? Wasn’t everything he served made right here on the premises?

  “Sure. Want some pie?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s good. Blueberry. Made it myself.”

  The smile again. “No, thanks. I’m on a diet.”

  “Sure,” he mumbled as he turned away to get her some hot water. “Everyone’s on a goddamn diet. Diets are gettin’ hazardous to my health.”

  Just then the front door burst open and a white haired man in his mid-twenties leaped in with a sawed off shotgun in his hands. He pointed it at the ceiling and let loose a round at the fixture over the cash register. The boom of the blast was deafening as glass showered everything.

  Matt Reilly was here.

  Four more of his gang crowded in behind him. George recognized them: Reece was the black with the white fringe leather jacket; Rafe had the blue Mohican, Tony had the white; and Cheeks was the baby faced skinhead.

  “Awwwwwriiight! Reilly said, grinning fiercely under his bent nose, mean little eyes, dark brows, and bleached crewcut. “It’s ass kickin’ time!”

  George reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the beeper there, then raised his hands and backed up against the wall.

  “Hey, Matt!” he called. “C’mon! What’s the problem?”

  “You know the problem, George!” Reilly said.

  He tossed the shotgun to Reece and stepped around the counter. Smiling, he closed with George. The smile only heightened the sick knot of fear coiling in George’s belly. He was so fixed on that empty smile that he didn’t see the sucker punch coming. It caught him in the gut. He doubled over in agony. His last cup of coffee heaved but stayed down.

  He groaned. “Christ!”

  “You’re late again, George!” Reilly said through his teeth. “I told you last time what would happen if you didn’t stick to the schedule!”

  George struggled to remember his lines.

  “I can’t pay two protections! I can’t afford it!”

  “You can’t afford not to afford it! And you don’t have to pay two. Just pay me!”

  “Sure! That’s what the other guy says when he wants his! And where are you then?”

  “Don’t worry about the other guy! I’m taking care of him tonight! But you!” Reilly rammed George back against the wall. “I’m gonna hafta make a example outta you, George! People saw what happened to Wolansky when he turned pigeon. Now they’re gonna see what happens to a shit who don’t pay!”

  Just then came a scream from off to George’s right. He looked and saw Reece covering the five male customers in booths two and four, making them empty their pockets onto one of the tables. Further down the counter, Cheeks was waving a big knife with a mean looking curved blade at the girl who’d wanted the tea.

  “The ring, babe,” he was saying. “Let’s have it.”

  “It’s my engagement ring!” she said.

  “You wanna look nice at your wedding, you better give it quick.”

  He reached for it and she slapped his hand away.

  “No!”

  Cheeks straightened up and slipped the knife into a sheath tucked into the small of his back.

  “Ooooh, you shouldna done that, bitch,” said Reece in oily tones.

  George wished he were a twenty five year old with a Schwartzenegger build instead of a wheezy fifty with pencil arms. He’d wipe the floor with these creeps.

  “Stop him,” he said to Reilly. “Please. I’ll pay you.”

  “Couldn’t stop him now if I wanted to,” Reilly said, grinning. “Cheeks likes it when they play rough.”

  In a single smooth motion, the skinhead’s hand snaked out, grabbed the front of the woman’s blouse, and ripped. The whole front came away. Her breasts were visible through a semitransparent bra. She screamed and swatted at him. Cheeks shrugged off the blow and grappled with her, dragging her to the floor.

  One of the men in the booth near Reece leapt to his feet and started toward the pair, yelling, “Hey! Whatta y’think you’re doin’?”

  Reece slammed the shotgun barrel across his face. Blood spurted from the guy’s forehead as he dropped back into his seat.

  “Tony!” Reilly said to the Mohican standing by the cash register. “Where’s Rafe?”

  “Inna back.”

  George suddenly felt his scalp turn to fire as Reilly grabbed him by the hair and shoved him toward Tony.

  “Take George in the back. You and Rafe give him some memory lessons so he won’t be late again.”

  George felt his sphincters loosening. Where was Jack?

  “I’ll pay! I told you I’ll pay!”

  “It’s not the same, George,” Reilly said with a slow shake of his head. “If I gotta come here and kick ass every month just to get what’s mine, well, I got better things to do, y’know?”

  As George watched, Reilly hit the “NO SALE” button on the cash register and started digging into the bills.

  Thick, pincer like fingers closed on the back of George’s neck as he was propelled into the rear of the diner. He saw Rafe off to the side, playing with the electric meat grinder where George mixed his homemade sausage.

  “Rafe!” said Tony. “Matt wants us to teach Mr. Greasyspoon some manners!”

  Rafe didn’t look up. He had a raw chicken leg in his hand. He shoved it into the top of the meat grinder. The sicke
ning crunch of bone and cartilage being pulverized rose over the whir of the motor, then ground chicken leg began to extrude through the grate at the bottom.

  “Hey, Tone!” Rafe said, looking up and grinning. “I got a great idea!”

  Jack pounded along the second floor hallway. He double timed down the flight of stairs to the lobby, sprinted across the carpet tiles that spelled out “The Lucky Hotel” in bright yellow on dark blue, and pushed through the smudged glass doors of the entrance. One of the letters on the neon sign above the door was out. The ucky Hotel flashed fitfully in hot red.

  Jack leaped down the three front steps and hit the pavement running. Half a block to the left, then another left down an alley, leaping puddles and dodging garbage cans until he came to the rear of the Highwater Diner. He had his key ready and shoved it into the deadbolt on the delivery door. He paused there long enough to draw his .45 automatic, a Colt Mark IV, and to stretch the knitted cap down over his face. It then became a Halloween decorated ski mask, and he was looking out through a bright orange jack o lantern. He pulled the door open and slipped into the storage area at the rear of the kitchen.

  Up ahead he heard the sound of a scuffle, and George’s terrified voice crying, “No, don’t! Please don’t!”

  He rounded the corner of the meat locker and found Tony and Rafe—he’d know those Mohicans anywhere—from Reilly’s gang forcing George’s hand into a meat grinder and George struggling like all hell to keep it out. But he was losing the battle. His fingers would soon be sausage meat.

  Jack was just reaching for the slide on his automatic when he spotted a meat-tenderizing hammer on a nearby counter. He picked it up and hefted it. Heavy—a good three pounds, most of it in the steel head. Pocketing the pistol, he stepped over to the trio and began a sidearm swing toward Tony’s skull.

  “Tony! Trick or treat!”

  Tony looked up just in time to stop the full weight of the waffle-faced hammer head with the center of his face. It made a noise like smoonch! as it buried itself in his nose. He was half way to the floor before Rafe even noticed.

  “Tone?”

  Jack didn’t wait for him to look up. He used the hammer to crunch a wide part in the center of Rafe’s blue Mohican. Rafe joined Tony on the floor.