THUGLIT Issue Twelve (8 page)

Gunfire woke me up from a great dream. Well, actually it was a nightmare about a giant octopus with chimney red tentacles and the face of Debonaire's secretary, but reality made it look like a puppy and a blowjob.

Through the window bars I saw flashes, heard the pops, men screaming. No celebrations tonight, this was something else. I put my boots on and slipped into a double shoulder holster with another Kimber from the bag. A knife went in one boot, another clipped to my pocket. I put on a flak vest and dangled an automatic shotgun from a sling around my neck.

Rudy was behind the front desk wall. Being paralyzed, the only way I could tell he was s
cared was his twitching finger.

"Rudy, what the fuck's going on?"

"These robed weirdos're shooting up the place. The mercs are killing anything in brown."

I moved over to the desk and pushed Rudy's chair so that he wa
s behind the load-bearing wall.

"Fuck, man. Now I can't see!"

"You'll thank me when you're not dead tomorrow."

"No I won't."

Outside the hotel was an entire chorus of battle percussion. Shadows charged, shadows shook and shadows fell screaming. I kept close to the walls and cradled the shotgun barrel down. Bodies lay in the streets, brown wool and military regalia.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,
" I whispered.

I checked pulses until I hit paydirt in an alley too close to the action for my liking. A monk sitting against a wall groaned and clutched at a belly of exposed meat.

"How you doing, buddy?"

"Water. Please."

"Whiskey." I tipped my flash to his lips. He took a couple swallows and gagged, spat it back up.

"While you're wasting my booze, what the fuck's happening?"

"It is time. It is time. Now. Now is upon us. We are now. We are now and we are then. We are always."

"Doesn't answer my question."

"The tablet…has revealed itself. We must find it. We will burn this town to the foundations, we will raise…"

He died mid-rant, which is really the best way for a zealot to go, like a millionaire dying under his stripper wife. The battle in the streets hadn't lessened any. I figured I had about two hours, maybe less. That was when I remembered the hotel.

Jesus, I'm an asshole sometimes. What had the bartender said? Something about eye shadow?

Fucking archaeologist. I bet that prick's been in the hotel this whole time.

That prick was in the hotel this whole time.

I returned the hotel to find the front guarded by four monks with guns. Couldn't tell what kind in the dark, but their general description was "bigger than mine."

Hello, shit. Meet fan.

I let the shotgun dangle from its sling, drew one of the .45's and put a round through the center of the closest brown robe. He crumpled and the rest sent a few buckets of lead my way, the concrete chipping out in pieces and the ground pocking, dusting at my feet. I ducked back around the building and peeked, saw them s
wiveling to locate the shooter.

Might be easier if you
took the hoods off, you morons.

They retreated into the hotel and I heard Rudy yelling at them so hard he must have ruptured something he couldn't even feel.

"Fuck you motherfuckers, you can't have my chair. I'm taking it and you douche canoes with me!"

The explosion took out part of the first floor and most of the lobby. Guess that grenade was waterproof after all. I crept the corner with my gun up, scanning the pile of rubble and settling dust. Arms and legs stuck out, chunks of red wrapped in brown. I saluted Rudy's chair. It was spattered red where it wasn't black and twisted from the explosion. Of him there was no sign, but I didn't take the time to scrape the walls with a spatula.

I felt like I should say a few words before I headed upstairs, but I didn't have anything better than 'douche canoe.'

No need to search the first floor
—half of it was in the lobby on top of five robed idiots and one badass cripple. Second floor was a bust.

On the third
, two monks stood in front of a door with their hands up, chanting. There was a stealthy way to do this, sense and strategy instead of brute force.

But sense, like signs and being careful, is for pussies.

I brought up the shotgun and turned the hallway air into a Cuisinart. Scratch two hooded weirdos. That was for you, Rudy.

The door was padlocked, so I aimed the shotgun at the hinges and pulled the trigger twice. I stepped inside as the door fell away and had my fucked-up-shit-bar readjusted to the highest level.

Perched on the bed was the egghead I'd been sent to find. Had to be. He was about a month past better days—lap damp and red, right hand busy in what remained of it. In his left was the stone tablet. He'd been writing on the walls in what looked like his blood.

SO G
O
O
D
, SO
WE
T, SO WARM. OH THE TENT

FEEL SO GOOD SO W
ET
SO WARM OH THE

ACL
ES TENTACLES FEEL SO GO
OD
SO W
ET SO
WARM.

SO W
A
RM SO WE
T
OH THE TENT

It took a few more moments to get the sequence.

OH THE TENTACLES TENTACLES FEEL SO GOOD, SO WET, SO WARM.

For. Fuck's. Sake. I shook him.

"Hey, man. Pull up your pants. We gotta go."

He rocked back and forth, hand busy and mumbling, hacking and chattering his teeth. Lips cracked, face gaunt. I wonder when he'd last had anything to eat or drink. I reached for the tablet and he lunged, sank his teeth into my shoulder. I shoved him back and slapped him, but he darted in again, this time going for my face, teeth snapping at the air where my nose had been. I grabbed him by the throat and shoved him back. He bounced off the bed and jumped to his feet. Before he could get any closer, I emptied a clip into his chest while the world screamed, turned red. After the gun was empty I realized I was the one screaming.

"Jesus Christ, why'd you make me do that, you crazy fuck?"

I picked up the tablet, looking at it like it might know the answer to that question. Writhing lines were carved in the stone, so lifelike, so real. There were depictions of women and men among the swirling lines…tentacles, the tentacles. The tentacles went in and out, in and out, in and…

Stirring, bel
ow my waist, heat and stirring.

The tentacles go in.

Where do they go in? So many lines, you could get lost trying to follow...each led to a warm place I was sure, so warm, so wet...

A burst of gunfire from outside the hotel brought me back to reality. Skin crawling
, I dropped the tablet into the egghead's shoulder bag and reloaded the pistols and the shotgun.

I took a deep breath.

It was definitely time to get the fuck outta Cinco Putas y Medio.

The fuck's up with that name, anyway? Not one whore in the place, not even half a whore. And which half? A double amputee or a midget? That's some weird Zen shit right there. What is the sound of half a whore…

Jesus, I had to get out of here.

The gunfire was less frequent and I hoped that meant the mercs were winning. I pulled the bike up in front of the bar, figuring I'd grab a bottle for the road. I couldn't handle an
y more of this adventure sober.

The bar was empty.

"Yo, Rico. You around? Need a to-go order."

I grabbed a bottle of rum and tossed a few dollars onto the bar.
When I turned, a huge fist picked me up by my clothes and guns and threw over a table into the wall. Pain knifed through parts of me that I didn't even know the names of. I was almost up when a fist put me down again. I caught a dim glance during my trajectory of a massive form in brown.

Jesus Christ, it's Frankenmonk.

He kicked me in the back and I gagged, covered, and tried to get at some of the air that seemed to be running away from my mouth. I rolled away when he lifted a foot to stomp. He stomped again, but this time I kicked his leg past, drew a knife and drove it into his thigh. He roared, pulled out the blade and tossed it. His hood came off, a network of tattoos and scars the shape of nickels decorating his face.

"The fuck happened? You lose a fight with a melon baller?" I pulled and emptied a clip into his chest. He just kept coming, blood leaking from his lips. He swung and I ducked, grabbed his robes and yanked him past me. I kicked behind his knee, but it was like kicking the goalpost instead of the ball. I shoved him again, stepped on the end of his robe and he tripped. It didn't buy me much, I was hoping he'd fall and brain himself on the edge of a table. I gave him a pair of hooks to the kidneys and shoved again.

He turned and grabbed me, arm around my neck in a playground headlock, which—I gotta tell you—is embarrassing as fuck to get caught in when you're a grown man. His other hand came down on top of my head so hard, air shot out both my nostrils.

I held onto his arm, thanking god he was too stupid to move or choke me, and pulled out the folding knife I'd clipped to my pocket.
I thumbed open the blade and held it close. There was funky monk robe in my mouth and I couldn't breathe. One shot—that was all I was going to have—one little knife. His arm was too strong to move, curled around me like a branch that had been there for years. But his fingers, well, nobody thinks much about their fingers. I pried his fingers out, but because I didn't move his arm, he figured he was safe. He hadn't seen the knife, and I sawed hard to the bone across his palm, the base of his fingers. He screamed.

I exploded loose and backed away, looking around for my gun, but instead tripped over the bag with the tablet and fell on my ass.

"Fucking hell. The fuck is it with this place." I gasped, watching the six leaking holes in his chest, the hand dripping blood everywhere. He stumbled but didn't drop. I'd hurt him a little, but not enough.

Tiny knife, no more g
un and no more fucking options.