I watched the King. He stared, fascinated, and then swam in for a closer look. Perturbed amusement writhed over his crosshatched features. 'Wildclown?' The clown's face had become feral, apish. The King frowned. 'Oh God! Willieboy would you look at…'
But Tommy was already moving. He leapt up the remaining steps and landed on top of the King-pushing the dead monarch beneath the surface. His hand moved lightning fast onto the gun by the console. It whipped up, pointed at Willieboy. Willieboy had his half out of his holster. He froze-a queer smile on his lips.
'Now, just a minute…hang on Wildclown. We're both bit players here. This is perfect!'
I watched as the King's hands climbed spider-like, up and down Tommy's legs. Tommy looked down. He murmured. 'Spiders…' Then he looked up. Willieboy had used the split second to get his own gun clear, but he hadn't moved fast enough. Tommy fired six shots into Willieboy's chest. The. 44 slugs tore his rib cage to pieces. The gun almost kicked itself free of Tommy's damp grip in the process. Willieboy staggered back, vomiting blood until the volley ended. He stood in place a moment looking down at the ruin that his chest had become, befuddled. He looked up-anger gripped his brow, then he grinned. Willieboy sat down with his legs crossed. His head fell forward. Blood spilled from his mouth.
Tommy threw the gun onto the stairs, then looked down at the King's scrabbling hands. 'What have we, what have we? Demons from the pit?' He reached down and grabbed both arms by the wrists. He yanked the King up and out of the formaldehyde. The corpse hung there looking grotesque and fragile. Fluid poured from its orifices. His face was an inch from Tommy's.
'You can have anything. Anything.' Formaldehyde spattered from the dead King's lips. Tommy held him higher. The King's legs had withered and atrophied in the constant bath. They were bowed and twisted like driftwood. I realized in a moment, how ridiculous his notion of a new life was.
'Please,' the King's said, voice was soft. 'Please, I will pay you any sum. I will give you anything.'
'You stink…' Tommy sniffled.
The King smiled, chuckled even. 'Oh, yes, oh yes, I do. That's right I do. Just tell me what you'd like. I'll do whatever you want. Just let me go, that's all I ask.'
'I killed your friend.' The clown roughly twisted the King's head toward Willieboy's body. The cadaver's neck clicked audibly.
'Oh, that's all right. He and I weren't close. I didn't even like him. That's okay, what you did. I'm not angry, Mr. Wildclown.' The King forced a ghastly smile.
'He was your friend,' Tommy said, then with righteous fervor rising. 'You're disgusting!'
Tommy pulled the King's left arm off. The body was fragile, and the shoulder tore like boiled cabbage. The King shrieked. Tommy took the arm by the wrist and mashed it against the console. The King cried aloud. Tommy tossed the severed arm, wrapped his own around the King's torso, and then with a loud twisting wrench pulled off the King's right. He nonchalantly dropped that member into the bath-it bobbed, fingers twitching. Tommy sat on the edge of the tub panting, bewilderment on his features. His right hand held the King's body by its neck. He bent the King's rubbery legs and sat him on his right knee. The phone started ringing. Tommy looked at it, sneered.
The King was sobbing. 'Oh God. I'll do anything. I'll do anything. There's still time. Don't do this. Don't do this. There's nothing after this. Nothing. Please, I beg of you. I have riches, I'll give you anything.' His weeping face twisted into a mask of grief.
'Anything?' Tommy asked. He smiled. I noticed now that the formaldehyde had dissolved much of his make- up. Tommy's face was blotted with black and white. The features streamed away distorted-skull-like. 'Anything at all?' He shook the dead king's corpse.
'Yes, Mr. Wildclown. I will give you riches.'
'So Satan said to Christ.'
The King frowned. 'Not riches then. I will give you what you want.'
'Give me death-the death I deserve.' Tommy's face was close to the King's now. He slapped behind him, grabbed the gun. They sat poised like lovers. The phone continued to ring. The clown held the gun out to the King, then realized the dead man had nothing to hold it with. 'An end to the noise.'
'I-I don't know what you mean? Death? That's a trick. You can't want death!' The King's face distorted. He glared at the gun offered him. 'You don't want death. You want to trap me.'
Tommy pulled the King's face closer now. His dead legs thrashed. He screamed incomprehensibly. Tommy set the gun down and said: 'Oh, but I can want it. Death is the sleep I am denied. Nothing follows us there. Not money, not love, not guilt.' He stared momentarily into the King's dead eyes. 'I want the old death. The old death that will lead me to Hell. You're lucky. See, I betray you with a kiss.' And Wildclown pressed his lips against the dead king's. As he did so, both hands gripped the corpse's wormy neck. The King's legs thrashed. I heard a muted scream. As Tommy kissed him, his hands began to tighten on the neck, then pull. The King screamed long and hard. The head twisted. There was a sickening ripping and tearing of cartilage and bone. The body fell away, leaving Tommy standing-lips still intimate with those of the gruesome head in his hands. He pulled the head back then, and smiled at it. 'I knew him well…' The King's hideous head sat in Tommy's outstretched hand. Its features worked horribly. The eyes rolled; the jaw worked. The tongue lashed. Tommy cocked his arm back, kicked a leg up out of the formaldehyde and muttered to himself. 'You've gotta watch that Wildclown, Bill. He's got a hell of a fastball!' Tommy pitched the head at the wall about fifteen feet from him. It struck the stone with a sickening smack, and then fell in a sliding pile of gore and gray matter.
Transition.
The smell of formaldehyde hit me squarely in the face again. I was back in Tommy. I could taste formaldehyde, and the source of that made my guts twist. I gagged-spat. The King's body thrashed against my leg. I climbed out of the pool. A chill shook me. Why were there no guards? I picked up the gun on the steps. Four shots left in it. I looked over at Willieboy's body. He would be up soon. I resisted the urge to dismember him. I turned back to the King's console, reached out over the kicking corpse and flicked on a video screen. Buttons were well marked. 'Main Gate.' I turned that on.
The screen showed the main gate under siege. A large Authority Tank was positioning itself on the street outside the wall. Its long barrel was pointed at one of the towers. There were a number of Authority transports parked across the ironwork on the inside. Others were taking up position along the perimeter. I looked at the phone. Its ringing had become a part of the panic that gripped me. I picked up the receiver.
'Yes,' I tried to make my voice old and bitter and worn out. It was easy.
'King, sir. This is the main gate. We're going to lose it. There's a strong force out here. We've already lost twelve of our men. The others want to run for it.'
'Hold the gate!' I realized how ridiculous that sounded. 'Is there transport for the girl?'
There was silence for a moment. 'Your private vehicle, sir. In the underground garage. Only way out.'
I hung up. Then flicked a button marked, Laboratory. There, in black in white, was the usual machine and test tube-filled lab. There were tables and utensils-Bunsen burners and things for measuring other things. What interested me most sat at the back of the room on a cot in an eight by eight cage. It looked just like Julie Hawksbridge.
Chapter 62
I picked up Willieboy's gun. Half way through the action I had a sudden creeping fit. His corpse rested in an incredibly lifelike position, legs crossed, head hanging into his bloody lap. I waved a hand in front of his face- nothing-so I knotted his shoes together. I had lost my hat when the Galaxy Tower exploded so I searched the King's room for something to hide my face-nothing. I pulled the collar of my tattered overcoat up under my nose. My hair was scorched and turned to powder when touched, but enough of it remained to push forward over my brow. I had a gun in each pocket. A quick check put four bullets in the King's clip and two in Willieboy's. That left me six between life and death. The way the front gate looked, I would need a bazooka or a tank to get out alive. I yanked the door open, ran past the wooden knights and out into the hall letting my instincts work for me. The King was really into the medieval thing, so where would an evil King keep a captive princess? In a tower or a dungeon. I'd seen Enforcers in the towers affixed to the north and south ends of the mansion, so I wrote them off as part of the King's elaborate security measures. They probably had sniper rifles and rocket launchers-no princesses. I had a
