The Trashman

by William Alan Webb

  It was four steps from the pool apron to a storage area with refrigerators on both sides. Beyond that was the bar, built in an arc with a faux-palm frond roof and a heavy gray stone façade that decorated a concrete wall beneath. The water level was waist-high in the pool outside, which should stop any bullets—or RPG rounds—that might be fired low. Rows of bottles lined the shelves behind me, making for perfect shrapnel, but that couldn’t be helped. It was a near-perfect bunker. Nathan leapt down right after I did and barked to alert me while he settled into a corner of the storage room. I didn’t try to shoo him off, because, let’s face it, if he died that day too, it was probably after the best 24 hours of his life. I mean, how many humans have porterhouse for their last meal, much less dogs?

  I couldn’t stay down like that, not and buy Venus time enough to hustle Dawn to safety, so I swept the counter clean of plastic cups and ashtrays then withdrew my remaining magazines and weapons and arrayed them on a shelf under the counter. The area smelled of chlorine, spilled beer, and the strangely sweet, metallic scent of Slivveron blood. Several of their bloated bodies were floating in the pool, the water around them now a bluish-purple.

  From my position I had a clear field of fire down either pathway coming from the four-story guest buildings or the steps from the central plaza. With an M134D Minigun and enough ammo I could have held the position all day against men with small arms. The retaining wall allowed excellent positions for covering fire, but there was nothing I could do about that. I wasn’t here to stop their assault, merely to delay it. After that…after that…there probably was no “after that.” Which actually seemed okay, somehow. I’d cheated death too many times to worry about dying now. That bill was long past due.

  The first black suit slowly came down the steps toward the pool area, rifle at the ready. He would be the newest member of the team, because TNG always got the shit job, and drawing fire to discern the enemy’s location was about as shitty as jobs got. I couldn’t let him get all the way down since he could then provide a base of fire closer to the bar, but I hesitated, hoping somebody else might follow him down and I could get two of them. No such luck.

  At the bottom he took off running and I dropped him with two EXACTO rounds, and I ducked below the bar. Automatic weapons fire raked the bottle-laden shelves, drenching me with shattered glass and fine liquors. I duck-walked back and forth, reaching up blindly to squeeze off rounds. Within minutes I’d emptied all of my weapons except for half a magazine of 9mm rounds.

  My warning senses hadn’t stopped going off since I got to the beach, and something told me to jump sideways, so I did without hesitating. One of the Black Suits had flanked my position and was now firing down the back steps. Thanks to my internal alarm, he missed, both bullets punching holes in the steel door of a minifridge filled with beer, but I landed awkwardly and couldn’t get my own pistol up in time to shoot back.

  Nathan, a blur of black and tan, pulled his arm down, causing the next shot to hit the concrete floor and ricochet out the roof. Nathan’s teeth ripped into the veins in his wrist. Screaming, the man made a fist with his left hand to smash the dog’s head. From my prone position on the glass-covered floor behind the counter, I put a bullet between his eyes.

  “Drop the gun!” said a heavily accented voice over my head. Looking up I saw a dripping Red Nail soldier holding an MP7 a foot over my head. Others showed up at either end of the bar and more came down the steps. I must have taken a heavy toll among their friends because they weren’t gentle.

  Chapter 21

  My head hurt again, this time in a specific place. I reached up to my left temple and traced a large knot that was sore to the touch.

  “Welcome to my home, Mister Steed,” said a voice that sounded more like crackling waxed paper than human speech. “Rather, one of my homes.”

  I had assumed the stone-hard floor underneath my left cheek was actual stone, but I was wrong, it was poured concrete. Dungeons weren’t what they used to be. I rolled over onto my back, unable to pin down which part of my body hurt the worst. Lighting came from somewhere I couldn’t identify.

  “Love your decorator,” I said, trying to think. Even a re-ordered brain could only absorb so much punishment without shorting out, and some of my synapses were definitely not firing. “Early Dark Ages is always popular. Smells good, too.”

  “There is nothing more inviting than the scent of old bones and mold,” the voice said.

  “Since you like it so much let’s trade bedrooms.”

  “I would not hear of depriving you of your luxury accommodations.”

  A figure swam in my vision. It looked more like one of the gargoyles of Notre Dame than a human being, except with a European accent. Italian, if I had to guess, and more probably female than male. I took a wild guess and replied.

  “Dona Salvatorelli, I assume?”

  “Presume, Mr. Steed,” he/she/it said. “The correct word is ‘presume.’ English is not my native language, and yet I know the difference. Perhaps your reputation is inflated?”

  “No doubt about that,” I said, shielding my eyes with my forearm. The wan illumination felt like ice picks shoved into my eyes. “My reputation is vastly inflated…you should throw me out immediately. I wouldn’t waste another second.”

  “Bravado in the face of danger. Yes, your…debolezza, your…what is the word in English? Weakness. Your weakness for this sort of pointless banter has been made clear to me. I don’t know why you Americans love it so. I find it most unbecoming in a man.”

  “You nailed it, ma’am. All the more reason to throw me out.”

  “I do not throw people out, Mr. Steed, they either walk out as one of my family or they are carried out. And now, if we are finished with this foolishness, let us see which alternative you prefer. Uncover your eyes, stand up, and face me!”

  Up to that point her voice had a subdued tone of authority, like the voice of the grandmother that raised you and doted on you and wasn’t afraid to whack your butt if it needed whacking, the one you adored but still feared when osteoporosis made her bones as brittle as a newborn robin’s. But her last sentence hammered home why people obeyed the shrunken gnome of a woman; power seemed to emanate from her. When I moved my arm as she commanded, I expected her aura to be red. Instead, she had no aura.

  I didn’t know what that meant, but she did, and that scared the hell out of me. Who was this woman, really?

  “You’re admittedly impressive natural abilities will not help you here, Mr. Steed.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Now you’re insulting me.”

  “That wasn’t my intent,” I said, meaning it.

  Behind her, the six stone-faced giants glaring at me with crossed arms reminded me of a pack of starving wolves that were only held in check because the Alpha hadn’t eaten yet.

  “If you’re saying that you have no innate magical talents, then I have erred in having you brought here, and we can end this now. Shoot him.”

  Two of her Black Suits had their guns out before I could shout, “Wait a minute!”

  “If you wish to speak your last words, Mr. Steed,” she said, “save them for someone who cares.”

  “No—yes! Yes, I have some kind of magical talents. But how did you know?”

  “Please tell me that you are not so naïve as to think that your rudimentary abilities could be hidden from me.”

  “Truthfully, lady, until yesterday I had never heard about any of this.”

  Arthur Rackham drew gnomes with fewer lumps under their skin than Dona S. The only other hands I’d seen more gnarled than hers were Keith Richards’s. I assumed it was arthritis of some kind. She tottered when she moved and liver spots dotted her arms, yet her bodyguards, any one of whose left thigh weighed more than she did, obeyed her with an intensity you can’t buy. I could see in their eyes they would die for her, and probably go out smiling.

  That was power.

  I concentrated on trying to see her aura,
although I’d never had to do that before, it always just happened without me doing anything. I put on my poker face, confident nobody would know what I was doing, with the only giveaway that I was summoning kaval being a slight narrowing of the eyes; it was a tell, and I knew it, I just didn’t think anybody in the cell would notice. I had a lot to learn, both about kaval and poker.

  Nathan’s head snapped around; I had missed him in a far corner of the cell, and I could have sworn that he shook it, like a warning: Don’t do that! Maybe dogs could sense kaval the way they could sense a coming storm. As for Dona S., she gave two short, dry laughs.

  “Again, you seek to use kaval against me? Did I not just warn you against doing that? Yet I will hold my anger in check because while you are a fool, Mr. Steed, you are an honest fool, and perhaps a useful one. The question we have at hand is whether you are a smart enough fool to live?”

  “Here comes the pitch.”

  She stood, faster than I would have imagined such a withered old woman could, and beneath the folds of wrinkles shielding her eyes blazed something dangerous and terrible. A sense of warning should have flashed through my mind then, but it didn’t. An icy fog descended over me, so cold I couldn’t move, couldn’t see anything save a pale mist, like a dense cloud of fog. No sound came to my ears and I felt nothing. I felt…empty.

  “Death fits you well, Mister Steed, wouldn’t you agree? You may have all of eternity to enjoy it if you wish. You need only continue treating me with disrespect to make this your reality. Do so, and your body will be interred in a nameless grave, while your mind, Mr. Steed, will not die. No, death of both body and mind would be too easy for someone who does not show me due deference. Therefore, your mind will live forever, trapped in your moldering corpse deep in the dirt until the end of time. You will literally have forever to regret your insolence.”

  I’d like to say that I know what she did, but that would be a lie. My mind worked, but nothing else. I spoke without words and realized I had no breath to form the words. I had only thoughts.

  I’d like to say that my bravado held, and I told her to fuck off. That’s what fictional heroes would do, or Gurkhas. But I’m not a hero of any kind, fictional or real, and I sure as hell don’t have any Gurkha blood that I’m aware of, so I groveled like a lab puppy who just chewed up a new pair of shoes.

  “Dona Salvatorelli, my words disgrace me and I am ashamed. I am a fool, as you have said. I beg your forgiveness and mercy.”

  “That is better. Molto bene allora, I will restore you to yourself, Mr. Steed, and allow you ten seconds to properly address me. Otherwise…” She let it hang but I didn’t need further clarification. Otherwise, I’d be playing mental solitaire for the next however long forever turned out to be.

  My vision cleared, and I inhaled deeply of the stale, moldy, sweet air that rushed into my lungs and back out as I gasped out words of apology. I didn’t bow my head or anything, though. While I took her threat seriously, I strongly doubted anybody had the power to keep the brain alive once the body died. Not for any length of time, anyway. Nor were empty threats necessary. The very real threat of being buried alive was plenty to shut me up. Nathan licked my hand in seeming approval of my obsequiousness.

  “Henceforth, you will speak only when spoken to, is this understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, the same way I responded to my mom during pre-adolescence.

  “Bene.” She hobbled to the far end of the cell, rubbing her pointed chin. She reminded me of a character actress in some old movie I’d seen, maybe The Wolfman with Lon Chaney. “We have wasted much time. I do not intend to waste more. I am the Matriarch of an old and respected family business, Mister Steed, and I wish you to join my organization.” I started to interrupt her but had the good sense not to. “Few people in the world combine your God-given magical talents with your experiences and training. This makes you valuable as an asset and potentially quite dangerous as an adversary. Too dangerous to be allowed to live. That is my proposal, then, work for me or die. You may speak now.”

  My initial answer went something like Shove a fist up your ass and quack like a duck. Fortunately for me, I bit that one back, along with two other similar responses. She noticed, too. I could see her eyebrows rise, which deepened several wrinkles on her forehead. I got the sense she could read my mind. What I said, though, was less volatile.

  “Your interest in employing my unworthy self astounds me, Dona Salvatorelli. I am aware of the success of your enterprise; you are known worldwide for your business acumen. That one so powerful as you would have interest in one as humble as me, is flattering beyond what I deserve.”

  She pursed her lips and waved downward. “Please keep your dignity about you, Mr. Steed, lest you become the fish that has spoiled and must be thrown out. Groveling will make me wonder if I have misjudged your value to the Red Nail. So while you must speak freely with me, I demand it, simply show the proper respect and I will respond in kind.”

  “Yes, Dona.”

  “Now, answer my proposal.”

  It was an order.

  Sweat beaded on my forehead. So many people exhaling in such a small, enclosed space spiked the humidity level. I thought about taking off my jacket but was afraid of making a wrong move.

  “Why me?” I said, avoiding her demand, well aware those might be the last words I ever spoke. I guess she thought it was a fair question because I kept breathing.

  “You held off a score of my best men long enough to allow your friends their escape—which failed by the way. Regrettably, your compatriot, the one named Venus, died defending her charge, but Miss Delvin is now in our custody.”

  “At the risk of bragging, I helped take out every one of the lizards.”

  “Lizards? Ah, you mean the Slivverons. No matter. They are useful tools, but there are many more where those came from. But the skill you showed on the beach and in that—it was a swim-up bar, yes? Incredible heroics, Mr. Steed, and that is why you are not yet dead. That proves you are the type of man I want working for me. Combined with the kaval you command simply as a natural talent, having had no training in its use, this makes you even more valuable to my organization.”

  “The Red Nail.”

  “Yes, that is correct, l’unghia rosa. We trace our history back to the Knights Templar. When the faithless Philip, King of France, could not pay those righteous men what he owed them, he declared them heretics and ordered their arrest and execution. It is a maxim of business that you are no longer in debt if there is no one alive to collect what is due. But while Philip’s reach was long, it was not long enough to track down all of them. A few of the Knights escaped, and the surviving members of the order hid their sacred treasures. Some they buried in Britain, some on an island off the coast of Nova Scotia, and another they brought to my grandfather on Sicily. They bade him keep it safe forever and he accepted their charge. It was a nail from the True Cross of Christ, stained dark red with our Savior’s blood. My grandfather vowed to protect it with his life and the lives of his sons, forever. He founded the Order of the Red Nail to accomplish that.”

  I started to point out that she wasn’t a son, or that the odds of that nail being authentic were longer than me digging my way out of her dungeon using my fingernails but didn’t. I again got the feeling she read my mind and approved of me not saying those things. I knew, somehow, that it was a test and that I’d passed, and I felt proud. I wanted to please her, although I couldn’t understand why.

  “It is my honor that you would think of me so, Dona Salvatorelli. Just so that I am clear about what we’re discussing, what duties would I perform for you?”

  “The same as you do for Special Activities Division.”

  “I—” I started to deny knowledge of SAD, then thought better of it. I wanted to tell her the truth, which I knew was her using kaval to compel my cooperation. I fought back. It felt like she was reaching inside my brain to pull out thoughts, prompting a tug of war. “You want me to kill people?” I f
inally asked.

  “At need, yes. That will probably be necessary. But had Keel not recklessly sent you on your first mission less than a half day after you successfully discovered the Balance, you would understand that. Unlike being a Shooter with LifeEnders, at SAD you would spend more of your time investigating rather than killing. I run a business, Mr. Steed, not a quasi-governmental agency, and killing people is typically a net revenue loss. Threats of death are usually sufficient for the business purpose at hand.”

  “But if need be, I’m good at it.”

  “Correct. And we do not yet know the extent of your latent magical talents. That will require time working with a skilled gatandi to determine. As your resistance to my will makes very clear, I think it’s safe to say they are considerable. Unlike Keel, I value my employees; we are family. I would train you in the ways of your talents before asking you to perform a service for me that might involve danger.”

  I tried to mention all of her family members littering the resort in Jamaica but couldn’t. My brain was at war with itself. Part of it sent instructions for my lips to form words, the other part shut down those orders.

  “I’m sorry,” is what came out, and that was not what I had in mind.

  “Oh? For what?” she said, seeming genuinely curious.

  I decided to roll with it. “I regret hurting your family.”

  “Regret nothing, Mr. Steed. They knew the risks and were well paid to accept them. You performed your duty as you saw it, and you were loyal to the organization that employed you. That is perhaps your most attractive quality.”

  I had a question I’d always wanted to ask, and now was the perfect opportunity, except it might yet get my throat cut. Then, as my brain formed the words, Dona S. answered the question for me. That was all the evidence I needed that she really did know my thoughts.