Mark Stone - The Judas Line

“C’mon, scaredy pants!” she laughed. “Get it in gear!”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” came the reply as he followed her into the hallway.

Blood splattered the full length of the hallway, along with bits and pieces of flesh and bone. A golem lay scattered about-a head here, an arm there. Only a leg and torso remained whole, twitching with terrible purpose, still attempting to complete its allotted task.

“Holy shit,” whispered Alan, eyes wide with horrified fascination.

Maggie stared at the blood and flesh, the toe of her black canvas shoe disturbing a shattered tooth. “You got that right.”

Shots rang out and a Dagger Man came running around a corner some fifty feet way, eyes wide with fright, a pistol in one hand, the other hand flopping broken and useless at the wrist.

Before he even reached the halfway point, Maggie’s Tec-9 stuttered twice and he fell, sprawling, spewing blood and gore. He twitched once, then twice and lay still.

Alan stared at the corpse. “What now?’

Dark blue eyes remained resolutely fixed on the blood-soaked hallway. “We follow the noise. The golems will lead the way to the next staircase or the elevators.”

“I hope they handle the rest of the Sicarii.”

She checked the remaining clips to the Tec-9, then reached behind her to the base of her neck, tearing a weapon free from Velcro. It was a hand-axe-a medieval weapon two feet long with a spike on top and one opposite the blade.

“I hate it when y’all use that,” Alan complained.

“It doesn’t use bullets.”

Alan pulled a K-bar from a side sheath. The edge showed keen in the soft lighting. “This is better, faster.”

She snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.” A shot rang out followed by a scream that cut off abruptly.

Alan looked to the statuesque blonde at his side. “Ladies first.”

She rolled her eyes. “Men!”

The two apprentices ran down the hall, leaping over wet red lumps and pieces of golem. They rounded a corner to see a golem finish strangling a Sicarius with its one remaining arm. It turned to look at them with its dead plastic eyes before leaping into an elevator. The doors closed on the two of them before they could arrive. Another golem lay scattered on the floor nearby.

“Damn,” Maggie fumed and pressed the up button. “These must be the elevators to the upper floors.”

A couple of minutes later the elevator gave a chime and opened. The two entered and Alan hit the button for the 53 rdfloor. Muzak started playing as the doors closed.

Alan looked up. “What’s that?”

“ ‘MacArthur Park,’ I think.”

“Not the music, you blonde bimbo, that.”

Maggie’s eyes traveled up Alan’s arm, past his pointing finger to a splotchy red stain on the ceiling tiles of the elevator. “Blood, I think.”

“That’s what I thought. I believe there’s a body up there.”

“Cool.”

“What does it mean?”

“Someone may have already started to do our job for us.”

Alan licked his lips. “Why do this, Maggie? What’s your interest?”

The big blonde grinned. “I owe Morgan. He got me out of Valhalla’s grasp.” Her smile became wistful. “Besides, he’s cute. Why are you doing this?”

His voice seemed to come from a faraway place. “For the magic, Maggie. That’s what’s it’s always been about.” He licked his lips, tasting sweat and blood, his body tensing. A battle was raging across the muscles of his face. It looked like determination versus regret.

Determination won.

His pistol came up.

He fired.

Mike

Boris stood there and smiled at me. Not a nice smile, but the kind reserved for serial killers and politicians. It scared the hell out of me, but he didn’t move, instead he continued to smile, savoring my fear like a fine wine.

A tonfa lay on the floor near my feet, probably dropped there by the Sicarii in their rush to pursue me. The club had been stained dead black and didn’t really look like much, but in the hands of an expert, it was a deadly weapon. I knew just enough about its use to hurt myself.

When I picked it up and held it in one unsteady hand, Boris’ smile grew wider, which frightened me even more. Slowly, sure I couldn’t interfere; he reached under his suit jacket, drew forth a 9 mm pistol and shot me in the leg.

The bullet tore into the outside of my left thigh, through pants, skin, fat, muscle and out again, flinging blood and tissue out the back. It felt like being hit in leg with a baseball bat.

Next thing I knew, I was tasting carpet as screams tore at my throat like shards of glass, the hot pounding of my heart pushing more and more blood through the hole in my thigh.

Oh, Lord, it hurt so much!

My hands became warm, red and slick as I tried to apply pressure, to keep myself from bleeding to death. Not the first time I’d been shot, but on top of my other injuries, the beating I’d taken earlier, it was all too much. I lay there, sobbing.

A voice emerged from the depths of Boris’ chest as he walked toward me, holstering his weapon. “You knock me down and make me much angry. Mr. Julian does not need you anymore, so he give you to me.”

This just kept getting better and better.

“Don’t do this Boris, please,” I moaned, trying not to sob. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You are right. I want to do these things to you.” One of his size twelves lashed out, catching me in the chin, and I saw stars.

Just as he drew his foot back again to give me another taste of shoe leather, the world decided to come apart around us.

A violent lurch had Boris on his butt in an instant. All I could do was curl up in a ball as the floor rippled, tossing me up and down, from side to side. A dull, deep, bone-rattling roar that I could feel in the roots of my teeth bounced around the suite.

A rush of bitterly cold wind bellowed through the room as windows shattered, tempered glass fragmenting into thousands of shards before falling out into the night air. The deep cold ate at me like a cancer, numbing my nose and fingertips. It also reinvigorated me, giving a jump-start to the old circulatory system.

With my leg hollering at me, a multitude of aches and pains plaguing me, and the floor rolling and humping, I still managed a one-legged frog-jump. My chin hit carpet I don’t know how many times; only dogged persistence allowed me to hop and crawl on over to Boris through the snow of powdered plaster that fell from the ceiling while my nails scraped, scraped, scraped across the floor.

Through the surreal nightmare of popping light bulbs and heaving floor, the tonfa was an anchor to the reality of my escape, that and my faith. God had brought me this far, so I reckoned he still had a plan or two left for me.

Boris had his own plans. A white haze obscured my vision for a split second as a scarred fist clipped my cheek, splitting skin and spilling more of my precious blood. His other hand, grasping a 9 mm, swung about, ready to put a round between my eyes.

I swung the tonfa, hitting the gun hand below the thumb and sending the 9 bouncing away across the mat. My bloodied hands fastened on his arm, holding it steady long enough for me to sink my teeth in.

A warm salty flow of blood slid across my tongue as my teeth clamped down hard on the bones of Boris’ wrist, worrying, tearing. Again and again his other fist smashed into my temple until finally he tore loose from my grasp in a gout of crimson.

Before I could roll away, the shaking stopped, leaving nothing but an eerie silence, broken here and there by the occasional pop and groan.

A big patent leather sole found my left hand and stamped down hard . Amid the gut-wrenching agony, I heard the crack of my own bones breaking like matchsticks. When Boris’ clodhopper moved away from my hand, I saw pinkish gray sticks poking through my flesh.