The Best New Horror 2 (43 page)

The prisoner appeared to be a member of his own unit.

“See?” Stanton shouted deliriously as a pair of medics rushed him and pulled away his prisoner. A group of officers, including Lieutenant Brophy, swarmed around him. His eyes were wild, rolling back to show white. “It’s the
boogeyman
!” He fell to his knees and started to sob. “Oh, God! It’s not even
human
!”

Too quickly for anyone to stop him, Stanton raised his handgun and placed it in his mouth.

“No!” Brophy shouted, charging at Stanton, hands stretching for the pistol.

I squeezed my eyes shut a split-second before the crack of the gun discharging racketed into the night, echoing through the cold streets.

Beside me, Zaluta moaned.

Complete pandemonium ensued. The crowd behind the lines went berserk, shrieking and throwing empty bottles and other debris as the policemen fought to hold them back. In our own camp, professional decorum evaporated. Angry demands for full disclosure raced through our ranks. Two of us were known dead, twelve more lives were probably lost inside the building.

A tenured officer named Detrick clambered atop a squad car with a bull horn and blared, “
Assault teams three and four report to command post at once
!”

“That’s us,” Zaluta said.

Following behind Zaluta, I was struck by the surreal quality of my perceptions. Even the shiny black heels of Zaluta’s boots flashing and ebbing as he walked ahead of me looked strange somehow. Brighter . . . more textured. Sounds lost their sharp edges and became rounded, hollow.

When we arrived at the Command Post, a jerry-rigged open-air office on the far side of the police lines, Lieutenant Brophy and his Team Three counterpart were busy talking with the Chief and his people. Amidst the chattering department personnel was an odd little man dressed in a long black tunic covering tightly fitted black trousers. He stood solemnly, clutching a battered leather portfolio case to his narrow chest. As I stared at him, he swiveled his head and looked directly at me, pegging me to the spot with his luminous dark eyes.

We surveyed each other for a long moment, until the spell was broken by the strident voice of Mel Anderson, a flashy, balding department spokesman whose job it was to deal with the media.

“All right, people,” Anderson called out, waving his arms and making
his storm jacket bunch up around his neck. “Let’s have some
quiet
! I have some information to pass along to you assault personnel, so listen up.”

Lieutenant Brophy, standing behind Anderson, rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly, affirming his widely known dislike of the man we privately called “Captain Video”.

“Now what we’ve got is this,” Anderson continued, referring to a yellow legal pad in his left hand. “Two officers confirmed casualties, twelve officers missing in action and an unknown number of tenants inside the building, condition unknown. Identity of suspect or suspects unconfirmed. Causative factors, unconfirmed.” He paused, delivering his patented Concerned Countenance, which I’d often seen him wear on the evening news. “We don’t know exactly what’s going on, so what we’ve done is bring in an expert on paranormal occurrences.”

Putting his hands up to quell the rising buzz of indignant murmurs, he added, “Now, you all know that Homicide Division occasionally employs the services of psychics when they’ve hit a wall with their inquiries—”

“Oh, come on, man!” someone shouted.

“We ain’t no Ghostbusters!” someone else yelled.

“Look!” Anderson said angrily, pointing a finger at us. “If any of you hotshots have the answer to what’s going on in that goddamned building, step right up!”

Silence.

“Fine,” he said, adjusting his tie. “Now shut up and listen.” He extended an arm toward the little man in the black tunic, who walked over and stood next to Anderson. “Mr Chase has graciously consented to lend his expertise to the department and to work with us on this case. And it is therefore expected that all personnel will treat Mr Chase with the utmost dignity and respect.” Turning a baleful eye toward us, he growled, “Is that
understood
?”

This is getting too weird, I thought, thanking Channing as he handed me a styrofoam cup of bitter-smelling coffee.

“I would like to speak to the young lady,” Chase said in a thin voice tinged with an rolling accent.

Like everyone else, I started looking around for the alleged “young lady”, but when my eyes returned to the strange little man the department had brought in, I was surprised to find that he was pointing at
me
.

I touched my chest and Mr Chase nodded. “Oh, Christ,” I said under my breath, gulping my coffee down in three swallows.

Amid much hooting and laughter from the guys, I followed Mr Chase, Lieutenant Brophy and Mel Anderson to one of the squad cars and climbed into the back seat with Mr Chase.

“This is Corporal Larkin,” Brophy said, twisting around in the front seat to face me. I noted the silent apology in his eyes. “What do you want with her?”

“She is the only person I saw with the aptitude to remedy this unfortunate occurrence,” Mr Chase responded measuredly.

“What do you mean, ‘aptitude’?” Anderson asked. “We’ve got plenty of men out there.”

“My point exactly,” Chase said. “Corporal Larkin’s obvious aptitude, in this case, is her gender.”

“Now, wait just a minute—” Brophy started, but was interrupted by Anderson.

“Mr Chase,” Anderson said, “We need some answers here. We’re laying the department’s credibility on the line by inviting you into this matter, so if you can tell us something, please be clear.”

The little man nodded his head politely and cleared his throat. “It is my firm belief that this disturbance is being caused by a drude,” he announced. “‘Drude’ is an Old English expression for a nightmare fiend. According to most authorities, a young witch becomes a drude when she reaches the age of forty and then assumes the power to haunt any victim she chooses with terrible visions. Sometimes, this new power drives them mad, which is precisely what I believe has occurred here. And in order to put an end to her malicious activity, she must be destroyed. That is your answer, gentlemen.”

He inclined his lips slightly, apparently amused by our dumbstruck expressions. He patted my forearm and added, “Males are powerless against drudes. You are therefore chosen, Corporal.”

“Oh, this is
nuts
!” Brophy shouted. “Do you think I’m going to allow Larkin to go in there after two heavily armed squads have failed?”

Anderson had just opened his mouth to respond when every single window in the barricaded building exploded outward with a terrible shattering sound and sprayed a hundred foot perimeter with glittering shards of broken glass.

“Maybe we ought to hear Mr Chase out,” Anderson said.

After we’d listened to Chase’s incredible plan, Brophy looked at me with tired eyes and said, “It’s up to you Larkin. It’s your ass—you call it. I’m telling you right now that I think it stinks, but like Anderson says, the Chief will overrule me on this one for sure.” He sneered at Anderson. “You guys will try anything to protect your public image, won’t you?”

Anderson ignored him. “Our next best alternative is to send the two remaining squads anyway, Larkin. What if Mr Chase is right? All those lives . . .?”

“Hey!” Brophy said, his face red with rage. He grabbed Anderson roughly by the collar.

“You better cool off, Brophy,” Anderson said. “It’s out of your hands.”

“We’ll see about that!” Brophy shouted, releasing Anderson’s collar before slamming out of the squad car.

I appreciated Brophy’s gesture, but I knew even then that it wouldn’t make any difference. I was going into the building alone. It was simply a fact. I knew it in my heart. I saw it in Chase’s ebony eyes. Some things are inevitable. So I said, “All right.”

After a few more careful instructions from Mr Chase, I went over to the equipment truck to check out my radio and pick up some extra gear. If I refused the assignment and more people died as a result, it wouldn’t be worth the effort to live. I had to do it.

But I was scared. Good Christ, I was scared.

Once I had made up my mind, Brophy and the rest of the guys quit trying to talk me out of it, but I thought I saw tears in Zaluta’s eyes as I came down the ramp leading out of the truck. That’s when I nearly backed out; I came so close to backing out . . .

But then Mr Chase was affixing something to the collar of my shirt. “This is the only thing that will work,” he whispered.

I lifted my collar and saw an old fashioned hat pin inserted through the fabric. It was silver, about seven inches long and was topped with what looked like an enormous black pearl.

I looked down at Mr Chase. “The heart,” he said. “Remember the heart.”

I nodded, wondering who was crazier, him or me.

“Keep your focus,” Chase continued. “None of it is real. Only the drude. But she cannot alter her own appearance before another formidable woman. Ignore everything else. Remember the signs I told you to look for and you’ll find her.”

Fastening a string of small explosive charges to my vest and snapping a clip into a 9mm Baretta semiautomatic handgun equipped with a flashlight attachment, I figured that I would be carrying nearly seventy pounds. My antiballistic armor weighed forty eight pounds alone. The additional weight of the handgun, clips and my A-2 was finally the limit I could bear and still move.

I had never really considered the utter strangeness of what I do for a living until I walked across that cold lot toward the building, the arsenal I carried swaying in time to my steps. I’m sure I must have looked like a erstwhile Valkyrie, except there was no Valhalla waiting for me—I was going in after a deranged
witch
who had taken up residence in a Detroit project building.

The radio buzzed and cracked in my ears. I adjusted the earpieces one last time before I stepped across the lines and crossed the lot toward the building. Hustling as fast as I was able, I crossed the open area of the
courtyard until I hugged the icy bricks forming the base of the building. I got a quick glimpse of Zaluta crouched beside a nearby trash dumpster, his face was turned up, his mouth open wide.

Across the street, the crowd convulsed.

I tilted my head back just in time to see a plastic trash can teetering on the ledge of a third floor window being turned over. Before I could move, I was struck full in the face with a splattering gush of hot, clotting blood. When I could get my eyes open, I saw my nemesis, Ralph Esposito, leaning over the windowsill, leering at me past the edge of the dripping can.

I turned away, revolted and terrified. I tensed my body, trying not to retch, ignoring the shouting voice on the radio.
Concentrate
! I told myself.
It’s not real
!

My breathing slowed and I looked down at myself. Clean and dry. Not a speck of blood. Chase had been right. It was going to be a battle of wills, not weapons. I looked up at the window. Nothing.

“It’s all right,” I whispered into the radio mouthpiece. “I’m going in.”

Having thus committed myself, I trotted up to the fire-blasted front entryway and slipped into the building. It was similar to other project apartment houses I’d been in, except for one thing: a naked overhead bulb glared across the writhing floor of the entry hall. I found myself standing up to my ankles in snakes.

Something darted near my eyes and I instinctively batted it away with one hand. Panting, I watched my radio headset tumble into a thrashing reptilian mass at my feet.
Stupid
! I thought. I’d let myself be fooled into losing my communications. There were no snakes. Clamping down on my terror, I tried to concentrate,
concentrate
. . .

I blinked my eyes and the snakes vanished.

Not wanting to waste the time it would take to rehook my headset, I left it lying on the filthy grey linoleum. The building was still as a tomb. There wasn’t a sign of a single living soul. Remembering Chase’s instructions, I strained to hear a high-pitched keening sound, and I thought I could hear something fading in and out like a remote radio signal, a fluttering wail hovering on the far edge of my audial range. It was coming from above. I headed for the stairs.

When I reached the second floor, I edged around the corner and stood against the wall at the end of the corridor. Nothing moved. A coppery tang hung in the air, a salty odor I recognized instantly. Above it rode the sharp smell of cordite. Most of the lightbulbs lining the ceiling had been long since smashed or stolen, so the corridor lay in an eerie half-light. Hugging the wall, I inched down the corridor to find that all of the apartment doors had been left standing ajar.

Toeing open the first door, I discovered the bodies of several people strewn like smashed mannequins across the dimly lit living room. One of the dead, a large man with a rough beard, lay sprawled on his back, his hand still clutching a plastic handled steak knife with which he’d apparently slashed his own throat.

Feeling sick and lightheaded, I turned away from the carnage, taking deep draughts of air into my lungs. Back in the corridor, I leaned against the wall for a moment trying to regain my bearings and wondered what my odds of escape might be if I made a dash for the stairs.

I was thinking,
shit on this
—
I’m bailing out
, when I heard something behind me move.

I couldn’t help screaming when I turned and faced the dark, bloodied figures that shambled toward me from the interior of the apartment. They jerked and hobbled as if drawn along by some mad puppeteer, eyes glazed and fixed on nothing.

Flashes of fire began strobing in front of me and there was thunder in my ears. A bitter cloud of blue smoke rose near my face, through which I could see the advancing corpses exploding and flying apart. It wasn’t until after I’d expended my entire 30-round clip that I realized I had been firing my A-2 through the apartment doorway.

And they were still coming.

I turned and made a panicky run for it, breaking for the stairs. Honor and duty be damned. I couldn’t think of anything but getting the hell out. I didn’t care what happened as long as I got away.