Dying Is My Business

Five

I forced my arms to lift the gun and take aim at the flying creatures. I was still stunned at the impossibility of what I was seeing, but somehow I managed to pull the trigger four times in rapid succession. The nine-millimeter slugs slammed into the chest and face of the creature at the head of the pack, only to ricochet off its skin. It paused in midair, surprised but not hurt, then continued toward me with the others. The beat of their huge, gray, batlike wings created drafts strong enough to stir the dust and debris on the floor.

Whatever these things were, bullets couldn’t kill them. And bullets were all I had. I was screwed.

I ran for the warehouse door, but one of them dropped down in front of it, blocking my exit. It had a withered yellow eye that looked like an old wound from some long-ago fight. I skidded to a halt, pointing the gun at it out of blind instinct, but Yellow Eye just chittered at me. These things weren’t scared of guns.

While I was distracted, another one rammed me from behind, knocking me to the floor. Its claws felt like razors slashing through the back of my leather coat, through my shirt, and into my skin. I gritted my teeth against the pain and rolled over. The flayed, bleeding skin on my back burned where it touched the hard, filthy warehouse floor.

The creature landed on me with its full weight, pinning me to the floor. It brought its face closer, near enough for me to see the Y-shaped scar on its cheek, and to get a whiff of its earthy, abattoir odor. Scarface sniffed me like it was checking the bouquet of a vintage wine. Then it recoiled, not liking what it smelled.

“You don’t smell so great yourself, you ugly son of a bitch,” I said.

Scarface opened its wide, toothy maw in an angry roar. I swung my gun up, jammed the barrel between its jaws, and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash lit up the cavernous interior of its mouth, illuminating a field of small, nubby teeth that lined the inside of its cheeks. Scarface unfurled its wings and flew back up to the ceiling, coughing and gagging on the gunsmoke but otherwise unharmed. Damn, what did it take to kill these things?

More to the point, what the hell were they?

I wondered for a moment if this might all just be in my head. As an explanation, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. I’d read somewhere that if the human brain went without sleep for ten days it started to hallucinate. Twenty days and it bordered on insanity. I hadn’t slept in a year. Prior to that I couldn’t be sure, but it was possible I’d never slept in my entire life. Maybe it was finally catching up with me. How insane would a man have to be after a lifetime of sleep deprivation?

But the scratches in my back felt real enough. No hallucination could be that excruciating. As impossible as it seemed, this was really happening.

I got back on my feet and tucked my gun into my pants. It was useless against the creatures, but I knew better than to toss it. It was Underwood’s Golden Rule, drilled into my head since day one: Never, ever lose your gun. You never know when you’re going to need it.

Across the room, the short woman was swinging her staff at the creatures. They hung in the air above her, bobbing and feinting just out of reach. She grunted and bit her lip in frustration. Scarface had rejoined the pack, and together the creatures trilled and clucked. The sound was alien but unmistakable. They were laughing at her. Toying with her before moving in for the kill.

I glanced at the open door. Yellow Eye had gone to join in the fun, too, leaving the door unguarded. Just outside, I could see the brick wall that sheltered the warehouse from the surrounding piers. The low, distant hum of West Side Highway traffic floated to me. It would be easy to escape, to leave this insanity while the creatures were distracted and run back to the safety of the world I knew. Getting out while I still could was the smart choice.

The short woman grunted as she swung her staff at the five chittering things flapping in the air above her. I looked at her, then back at the exit. Screw this. I took a quick step toward the door. Then I stopped.

Five. There were only five of those things toying with the woman. Where was the sixth?

I turned around just as the sixth creature came winging out of the shadows in the corner of the ceiling and rammed into the woman from behind. She fell. The staff flew out of her hands, clattering to the floor and rolling until it came to a stop at the base of a stack of crates on the opposite side of the room. All six of the creatures descended toward her like a pack of wild dogs on a wounded animal.

Scarface got to her first, wrapping long talons over the top of her head. Her eyes—a clear, astonishing blue, I noticed for the first time, and as bright as the noontime sky—widened in terror. She scrabbled against the floor, trying to pull away, reaching desperately for the staff that was dozens of feet too far from her fingers. The creatures swarmed around her.

She didn’t look like she could put up much of a fight against the six of them, especially without her staff. They would make short work of her, but it might give me enough time to get away. The open doorway was right behind me.

So why weren’t my stupid feet moving?

Ah shit, I thought, and ran toward the pack. Even with amnesia, I had no doubt this was the dumbest thing I’d ever done in my life.

When I reached them, I grabbed the nearest creature around the neck and tried to pull it away from her. It didn’t even turn to look at me, it just swung its arm into my face. It felt like getting hit with a wrecking ball. I was thrown clear across the room. I landed on my back, sliding across the floor until I slammed into one of the thick wooden support beams. A sudden, searing pain raged in my shoulder.

I struggled to sit up, but I could tell right away my shoulder had been dislocated. Across the warehouse from me, Scarface yanked the woman’s head back, exposing her throat. The others gnashed their teeth in anticipation. The woman’s face was a mask of defiance. She slipped one hand into a pocket of her cargo vest and pulled out a small, round, reflective object. A mirror of some kind, I thought. She held it out toward Scarface, muttered something, and a bright light burst out of the mirror. Scarface shrieked and let go of her, backing up a step and covering its eyes. The woman scrambled to her feet and started to run.

I admired her courage, but she didn’t get far. The other five creatures tackled her, bringing her down to the floor again. They trilled in laughter and drew back their claws to strike. I tried to stand, but the sharp pain in my shoulder was too much and I fell again. Like a fool, I’d gotten involved, stuck around to try to save this woman when I could have gotten away, and now, for my trouble, I would get to watch these creatures tear her to pieces. Lesson learned.

With a loud crash, a window in the wall behind me exploded inward, and what looked very much to my startled eyes like an enormous gray timber wolf came rocketing through in a shower of broken plywood. It landed on the floor, then bounded again, pouncing on Scarface. The two fell in a tangled mess. The other creatures took to the air again. The wolf got its jaws around Scarface’s neck and clamped down, shaking it violently even as the creature scratched and raked at the wolf’s flanks. There was a snap, loud enough that I heard it from the other side of the warehouse, and Scarface went limp in the wolf’s jaws. Its wings twitched and then fell still.

Wincing in pain, I got to my feet. I steadied myself against the support beam, then slammed my shoulder into it, knocking the joint back into its socket. The pain was staggering. Bursts of light flared behind my eyes. A moment later the pain subsided to a dull throb. I looked up. The five remaining creatures were winging toward me. Apparently they had decided I was an easier target than the wolf. Lucky me.

“The staff!” the woman shouted at me. “Use the staff!”

It was on the floor by my feet. I picked it up. The wood felt thick and heavy, as solid as a Louisville Slugger. Then I nearly dropped it again in disgust. Up close, I saw that what I’d originally mistaken for a black ball at the end of the staff was actually a mummified human fist. A real one.

But the winged creatures were streaming toward me and I didn’t have time to think about why there was a dead human hand attached to the staff. I swung the wooden end of the staff at the creatures, trying to bat them away.

“You’re holding it the wrong way!” the woman shouted. “Turn it over! Hit them with the fist!”

Right. Sure. The fist. I tried to turn the staff around again, but one of the creatures grabbed the other end and wouldn’t let go. It sneered at me with a grotesquely scarred mouth. I tug-of-warred with Harelip while the others circled. My injured shoulder throbbed.

“Use the fist!” the woman yelled again. She sounded annoyed.