A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  The Mandarin had sent his reply to Hank’s demand.

  “There’s, um, something else you should know.”

  Cranston’s tone snapped Hank’s head up. The doctor looked uneasy. His gaze wandered to the window.

  “You mean it gets worse?” Cranston’s nod sent a sick, cold spike through Hank’s gut. “Okay. Give it to me.”

  Cranston took a breath. “The millipede may or may not have injected you with venom, but that’s not the problem.” His voice trailed off.

  Hank didn’t know if he wanted to hear this.

  “What is the problem then?”

  “You remember when we did a scraping of the wound?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Well, we did a microscopic examination and found what, um, appear to be eggs.”

  Hank’s gut twisted into a knot.

  “Eggs!”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get them all?”

  “We don’t know. They’re quite tiny. But we’ll go back in and do another scraping, deeper this time. But you should know . . .”

  “Know what?”

  Cranston’s gaze remained fixed on the window.

  “They’re hatching.”

  Next day, one of the green soft heels, a grade-one detective named Brannigan, stopped by to ask about Chinatown. He’d been assigned to look for a missing white girl last seen down there. He was asking about the Mandarin. Hank warned him away, even went so far as to show him the big, weeping ulcer on his shoulder.

  Suddenly he was seized by a coughing fit, one that went on and on until he hacked up a big glob of bright red phlegm. The blood shocked him, but the sight of the little things wriggling in the gooey mass completely unnerved him.

  “Oh, God!” he cried to Brannigan. “Call the doctor! Get the nurse in here! Hurry!”

  The eggs had hatched and they were in his lungs! How had they gotten into his lungs?

  Sick horror pushed a sob to his throat. He tried to hold it back until Brannigan was out the door. He didn’t think he made it.

  Hank stared at the stranger in the bathroom mirror.

  “It’s not unprecedented,” Cranston had said. “Larva of the ascaris round worm, for instance, get into the circulation and migrate through the lung. But we’ve no experience with this species.”

  He saw sunken cheeks; glassy, feverish eyes; sallow, sweaty skin as pale as the sink, and knew he was looking at a dead man.

  Why hadn’t he just played it straight—or at least only a little bent—and taken a payoff here and there from the bigger gambling parlors? Why had he tried to go for the big score?

  He was coughing up baby millipedes every day. That thing must have laid thousands, maybe tens of thousands of eggs in his shoulder. Her babies were sitting in his lungs, sucking off his blood as it passed through, eating him alive from the inside.

  And nobody could do a damn thing about it.

  He started to cry. He’d been doing that a lot lately. He couldn’t help it. He felt so damn helpless.

  The phone started to ring. Probably Hanrahan. The chief had been down to see him once and had never returned. Hank didn’t blame him. Probably couldn’t stand looking at the near-empty shell he’d become.

  Hank shuffled to the bedside and picked up the receiver.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ah, Detective Sorenson,” said a voice he immediately recognized. “So glad you are still with us.”

  A curse leaped to his lips but he bit it back. He didn’t need any more bugs in his bed.

  “No thanks to you.”

  “Ah, so. A most regrettable turn of events, but also most inevitable, given such circumstances.”

  “Did you call to gloat?”

  “Ah, no. I call to offer you your wish.”

  Hank froze as a tremor of hope ran through his ravaged body. He was almost afraid to ask.

  “You can cure me?”

  “Come again to Jade Moon at three o’clock this day and your wish shall be granted.”

  The line went dead.

  The cab stopped in front of the Jade Moon. Hank needed just about every ounce of strength to haul himself out of the rear seat.

  The nurses had wailed, Dr. Cranston had blustered, but they couldn’t keep him if he wanted to go. When they saw how serious he was, the nurses dug up a cane to help him walk.

  He leaned on that cane now and looked around. The sidewalk in front of the restaurant was packed with chinks, and every one of them staring at him. Not just staring—pointing and whispering too.

  Couldn’t blame them. He must be quite a sight in his wrinkled, oversize tux. Used to fit like tailor-made, but now it hung on him like a coat on a scarecrow. But he’d had no choice. This had been the only clothing in his hospital room closet.

  He stepped up on the curb and stood swaying. For a few seconds he feared he might fall. The cane saved him.

  He heard the singsong babble increase and noticed that the crowd was growing, with more chinks pouring in from all directions, so many that they blocked the street. All staring, pointing, whispering.

  Obviously Jiang had put out the word to come see the bad joss that befell anyone who went against the Mandarin.

  Well, Hank thought as he began his shuffle toward the restaurant door, enjoy the show, you yellow bastards.

  The crowd parted for him and watched as he struggled to open the door. No one stepped up to help. Someone inside pushed it open and pointed to the rear of the restaurant.

  Hank saw Jiang sitting at the same table where they’d first met. Only this time Jiang’s back was to the wall. He didn’t kowtow, didn’t even rise when Hank reached the table.

  “Sit, Detective Sorenson,” he said, indicating the other chair.

  He looked exactly the same as last time: same black pajamas, same skullcap, same braid, same expressionless face.

  Hank, on the other hand . . .

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Ah so, you not looking well. I must tell you that if you fall this one not help you up.”

  Hank knew if he went down he’d never be able to get up on his own. What then? Would all the chinks outside be paraded past him for another look?

  He dropped into the chair. That was when he noticed something like an ebony cigar box sitting before Jiang.

  “What’s that? Another bug?”

  Jiang pushed it toward Hank.

  “Ah no, very much opposite. This fight your infestation.”

  Hank closed his eyes and bit back a sob. A cure . . . was he really offering a cure? But he knew there had to be a catch.

  “What do I have to do for it?”

  “Must take three time a day.”

  Hank couldn’t believe it.

  “That’s it? No strings?”

  Jiang shook his head. “No, as you say, strings.” He opened the box to reveal dozens of cigarette-size red paper cylinders. “Merely break one open three time a day and breathe fine powder within.”

  As much as Hank wanted to believe, his mind still balked at the possibility that this could be on the level.

  “That’s it? Three times a day and I’ll be cured?”

  “I not promise cure. I say it fight infestation.”

  “What’s the difference? And what is this stuff?”

  “Eggs of tiny parasite.”

  “A parasite!” Hank pushed the box away. “Not on your life!”

  “This is true. Not on my life—on your life.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “There is order to universe, Detective Sorenson: Everything must feed. Something must die so that other may live. And it is so with these powdery parasite eggs. Humans do not interest them. They grow only in larvae that infest your lung. They devour host from inside and leave own eggs in carcass.”

  “Take a parasite to kill a parasite? That’s crazy.”

  “Not crazy. It is poetry.”

  “How do I know it won’t just make me sicker?”

  Jiang smiled, the first
time he’d changed his expression. “Sicker? How much more sick can Detective Sorenson be?”

  “I don’t get it. You half kill me, then you offer to cure me. What’s the deal? Your Mandarin wants a pet cop, is that it?”

  “I know of no Mandarin. And once again, I not promise cure, only chance of cure.”

  Hank’s hopes tripped but didn’t fall.

  “You mean it might not work?”

  “It matter of balance, Detective. Have larvae gone too far for parasite to kill all in time? Or does Detective Sorenson still have strength enough left to survive? That is where fun come in.”

  “Fun? You call this fun?”

  “Fun not for you or for this one. Fun for everyone else because my master decide grant wish you made.”

  “Wish? What wish?”

  “To be part of game—your very words. Remember?”

  Hank remembered, but . . .

  “I’m not following you.”

  “All of Chinatown taking bet on you.”

  “On me?”

  “Yes. Even money on whether live or die. And among those who believe you soon join ancestors, a lottery on when.” Another smile. “You have your wish, Detective Sorenson. You now very much part of game. Ah so, you are game.”

  Hank wanted to scream, wanted to bolt from his chair and wipe the smirk off Jiang’s rotten yellow face. But that was only a dream. The best he could do was sob and let the tears stream down his cheeks as he reached into the box for one of the paper cylinders.

  “Lemme tell you, Jack,” Loretta said, blotting perspiration from her fudgcicle skin, “these changes gots me in a baaaad mood.

  They’d just finished playing some real-life Frogger jaywalking 57th and were now chugging west.

  “Real bad. My feets killin me too. Nobody better hassle me afore I’m home and on the outside of a big ol glass of Jimmy.”

  Jack nodded, paying just enough attention to be polite. He was more interested in the passersby and was thinking how a day without your carry was like a day without clothes.

  He felt naked. Had to leave his trusty Glock and backup home today because of his annual trip to the Empire State Building. He’d designated April 19th King Kong Day. Every year he made a pilgrimage to the observation deck to leave a little wreath in memory of the Big Guy. The major drawback to the outing was the metal detector everyone had to pass through before heading upstairs. That meant no heat.

  He didn’t think he was being paranoid. Okay, maybe a little, but he’d pissed off his share of people in this city and didn’t care to run into them naked.

  After the wreath-laying ceremony, he ran into Loretta and walked her back toward Hell’s Kitchen. Oh, wait. It was Clinton now.

  They went back a dozen or so years to when both waited tables at a now-extinct trattoria on West Fourth. She’d been fresh up from Mississippi then, and he only a few years out of Jersey. Agewise, Loretta had a good decade on Jack, maybe more—might even be knocking on the door to fifty. Had a good hundred pounds on him too.

  Her Rubenesque days were just a fond, slim memory, but she was solid—no jiggle. She’d dyed her Chia Pet hair orange and sheathed herself in some shapeless, green-and-yellow thing that made her look like a brown manatee in a muumuu.

  She stopped and stared at a black cocktail dress in a boutique window.

  “Ain’t that pretty. Course I’ll have to wait till I’m cremated afore I fits into it.”

  They continued to Seventh Avenue. As they stopped on the corner and waited for the walking green, two Asian women came up to her.

  The taller one said, “You know where Saks Fifth Avenue?”

  Loretta scowled. “On Fifth Avenue, fool.” Then she took a breath and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “That way.”

  Jack looked at her. “You weren’t kidding about the bad mood.”

  “You ever know me to kid, Jack?” She glanced around. “Sweet Jesus, I need me some comfort food. Like some chocolate-peanut-butter-swirl ice cream.” She pointed to the Duane Reade on the opposite corner. “There.”

  “That’s a drugstore.”

  “Honey, you know better’n that. Duane’s got everything. Shoot, if mine had a butcher section I wouldn’t have to shop nowheres else. Come on.”

  Before he could opt out, she grabbed his arm and started hauling him across the street.

  “I specially like their makeup. Some places just carry Cover Girl, y’know, which is fine if you a Wonder Bread blonde. Don’t know if you noticed, but white ain’t zackly a big color in these parts. Everybody darker. Cept you, a course. I know you don’t like attention, Jack, but if you had a smidge of coffee in your cream you’d be really invisible.”

  Jack expended a lot of effort on being invisible. He’d inherited a good start with his average height, average build, average brown hair, and nondescript face. Today he’d accessorized with a Mets cap, flannel shirt, worn Levi’s, and battered work boots. Just another guy, maybe a construction worker, ambling along the streets of Zoo York.

  Jack slowed as they approached the door.

  “Think I’ll take a raincheck, Lo.”

  She tightened her grip on his arm. “Hell you will. I need some company. I’ll even buy you a Dew. Caffeine still your drug of choice?”

  “Guess . . . till it’s time for a beer.” He eased his arm free. “Okay, I’ll spring for five minutes, but after that, I’m gone. Things to do.”

  “Five minutes ain’t nuthin, but okay.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be right with you.”

  He slowed in her wake so he could check out the entrance. He spotted a camera just inside the door, trained on the comers and goers.

  He tugged down the brim of his hat and lowered his head. He was catching up to Loretta when he heard a loud, heavily accented voice.

  “Mira! Mira! Mira! Look at the fine ass on you!”

  Jack hoped that wasn’t meant for him. He raised his head far enough to see a grinning, mustachioed Latino leaning against the wall next to the doorway. A maroon gym bag sat at his feet. He had glossy, slicked-back hair and prison tats on the backs of his hands.

  Loretta stopped and stared at him. “You better not be talkin a me!”

  His grin widened. “But señorita, in my country it is a privilege for a woman to be praised by someone like me.”

  “And just where is this country of yours?”

  “Ecuador.”

  “Well, you in New York now, honey, and I’m a bitch from the Bronx. Talk to me like that again and I’m gonna Bruce Lee yo ass.”

  “But I know you would like to sit on my face.”

  “Why? Yo nose bigger’n yo dick?”

  This cracked up a couple of teenage girls leaving the store. Mr. Ecuador’s face darkened. He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

  Head down, Jack crowded close behind Loretta as she entered the store.

  She said, “Told you I was in a bad mood.”

  “That you did, that you did. Five minutes, Loretta, okay?”

  “I hear you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Ecuador pick up his gym bag and follow them inside.

  Jack paused as Loretta veered off toward one of the cosmetic aisles. He watched to see if Ecuador was going to hassle her, but he kept on going, heading toward the rear.

  Duane Reade drugstores are a staple of New York life. The city has hundreds of them. Only the hoity-toitiest Upper East Siders hadn’t visited one. Their most consistent feature was their lack of consistency. No two were the same size or laid out alike. Okay, they all kept the cosmetics near the front, but after that it became anyone’s guess where something might be hiding. Jack could see the method to that madness: The more time people had to spend looking for what they had come for, the greater their chances of picking up things they hadn’t.

  This one seemed fairly empty and Jack assigned himself the task of finding the ice cream to speed their departure. He set off through the aisles and quickly became disoriented. The overall space wa
s L-shaped, but instead of running in parallel paths to the rear, the aisles zigged and zagged. Whoever laid out this place was either a devotee of chaos theory or a crop circle designer.

  He was wandering among the six-foot-high shelves and passing the hemorrhoid treatments when he heard a harsh voice behind him.

  “Keep movin, yo. Alla way to the back.”

  Jack looked and saw a big, steroidal black guy in a red tank top. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off his shaven scalp. He had a fat scar running through his left eyebrow, glassy eyes, and held a snub-nose .38 caliber revolver—the classic Saturday night special.

  Jack kept his cool and held his ground. “What’s up?”

  The guy raised the gun, holding it sideways like in movies, the way no one who knew squat about pistols would be caught dead holding one.

  “Ay yo, get yo ass in gear fore I bust one in yo face.”

  Jack waited a couple more seconds to see if the guy would move closer and put the pistol within reach. But he didn’t.

  Not good. On the way to the rear, the big question was whether this was personal or not. When he saw the gaggle of frightened-looking people—the white-coated ones obviously pharmacists—kneeling before the rear counter with their hands behind their necks, he figured it wasn’t.

  A relief . . . sort of.

  He spotted Mr. Ecuador standing over them with a gleaming nickel-plated .357 revolver.

  Robbery.

  The black guy pushed him from behind.

  “Assume the position, asshole.”

  Jack spotted two cameras trained on the pharmacy area. He knelt at the end of the line, intertwined his fingers behind his neck, and kept his eyes on the floor.

  Okay, just keep your head down to stay off the cameras and off these bozos’ radar, and you’ll walk away with the rest of them.

  He glanced up when he heard a commotion to his left. A scrawny little Sammy Davis-size Rasta man with his hair packed into a red, yellow, and green striped knit cap appeared. He was packing a sawed-off pump-action twelve and driving another half dozen people before him. A frightened-looking Loretta was among them.

  And then a fourth—Christ, how many were there? This one had dirty, sloppy, light-brown dreads, piercings up the wazoo, and was humping the whole hip-hop catalog: peak-askew trucker cap, wide, baggy, ass-crack-riding jeans, huge New York Giants jersey.