Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (36 page)

I take out a detonator and hold it at both ends.

In the middle, it is slightly thinner, just like a domino.

The fracture line, the primer.

The goal.

A flash reflects off the clouds, the blast arrives a couple of seconds before it. It’s the foam, someone explained to me… I can’t remember who explained it to me. Odd.

Even before the sound of the first phase reaches me, the second stage of the explosion shatters the one-eyed tower, forcing me to shield my eyes from the light. After the foam comes actual beer. A deafening roar makes the car windows rattle, which, so far, are standing up to the onslaught. My ears ring when I come out from behind my elbow.

The sky itself is ripped apart, there’s a huge hole between the stunned clouds. Fragments as big as trucks zip through the sky and rain down on the city like bombs. Explosions are happening all over, collapsing buildings, tongues of fire blister the air. I think I can see humanoid figures waving their arms in panic at a huge piece of the structure heading straight for another elf tower. It bounces off, explodes and causes even more devastation when it collides with the magic shield. While the asses explode in a red cloud. A meteorite lands a dozen metres away from me and forms a gigantic burning crater, dust and debris blanket this infernal spectacle of death.

But it’s the chilling, savage roar of vendetta from the crater which makes me move.

I slam the car into reverse without looking where I’m going and run over something in my haste.

The smaller pieces of debris rain down like granite hail, denting the roof of the car, cracking the windscreen, and ripping the radio aerial off.

Pedal to the metal, the car goes into a tail spin.

I drive from memory in the dust cloud towards the ramps, dodging the rubble from the Lovl tower embedded in the ground. I keep having to slam the brakes on and change direction to avoid holes in the road and collapsed buildings.

And I’m off in a new direction.

Tonight we’re going to settle all unfinished business.

The gods are with
us
.

The city has been plunged into utter chaos. A state of total madness, unusual even for this termite hill stifled by darkness. I drive slowly amongst fires and looting as though they are nothing to do with me, as though they aren’t even there. I watch a team of firefighters being swept away by an enormous elemental coming out of the ground. It looks for all the world like a football fan who missed the world cup because his mother-in-law made a surprise visit. When a living fist of rock smashes a fire engine with the force of a truck, it flies into the air and collides with a building like a bag of rubbish thrown out of a speeding car. No towers higher than one kilometre are still standing because the architect was clever, particularly if it was built at the beginning of the Middle Ages. A certain level of shrewdness is required. Of the magical variety. Like a few hundred elementals anchored to the structure. Obviously, after a few centuries of forced servitude. The Academy would have had its work cut out trying to secure all the elementals I had accidentally freed.

Traffic light.

Red. For some weird reason, it feels right to stop. The collective lunacy has penetrated the cracked windows of my car, it has eaten into my brain which is soaked with a combination of adrenaline, drugs and exhaustion.

Green. But I’m too busy. A bunch of looters has knocked through the window of a white goods store. I stupidly watch a housewife in her nightie and slippers, curlers in her hair, come out of a bombed-out shell of a building clutching a microwave oven to her saggy bosom as though it was her baby. It’s Redemption Day for Mrs Anybody, too. Today she finally gets her longed-for microwave. The shards of glass crunch underneath her pink slippers. Maybe they were red once and they’ve faded.

Yellow. A guy wearing boxer shorts and a vest approaches Mrs Anybody. His pot belly produced by his desk job peeps out from underneath. He too has always dreamed of owning a microwave oven, it seems. There are lots in what remains of Lumo Super-Saver.

Red. But he wants the one Mrs Anybody’s got. If she’s holding onto it so tightly, reasons the office worker, it must be the best one. There’s no time to look for another one. Maybe they’ve all gone, and he’ll be left empty-handed. He’s already got one, but what does that matter? Everybody’s hitting the jackpot tonight, and he’s not going to be the only one to lose out. He goes up to Mrs Anybody and tugs at her baby, but she’s a good mother and doesn’t let go. She tells him to go and find a baby of his own.

Green. He pushes her to the ground, she falls but doesn’t let go of her baby. She tries to crawl away. Mr Office Worker doesn’t have time to waste and spots an iron rod there on the ground. I start laughing. It’s like one of those jokes that always makes you laugh even if you already know the punch line. In fact, he picks up the piece of metal and approaches the woman.

Yellow. Mrs Anybody raises an arm to protect herself when Mr Office Worker in his vest brings the rod down. There’s a dull sound as her bones break. I can’t hear it with my ears but I can hear it in my brain. She screams. Oh I bet she wished she’d had an abortion now. Too late for that, fat cow. Mr Office Worker doesn’t do things by halves. He’s determined to win the case for custody. His lawyer strikes again, this time there’s no resistance from her arm. Mrs Anybody tries to drag herself away, and, like a slug leaving a trail of slime, she paints a sticky vermillion trail in her wake.

Red. Something has exploded on the other side of the street. An annoying cacophony of car alarms starts squealing, but I can’t afford any distractions. Not now, not during the key moment of the programme. This extraordinary reality show which is being broadcast onto my window. The man is looking at the housewife, his face is deadpan, engrossed. He can’t understand. He really can’t understand why this overweight woman won’t let go of her prize. I’m still laughing, and I laugh harder. Because he has to aim very carefully if he doesn’t want to hit the microwave. The bleeding fat woman is lying on her back, like a stranded whale on the beach, and she is protecting herself with the electrical appliance.

He takes aim.

Splat!

Her arm, the one that is still intact, continues to tremble, even if Mrs Anybody’s skull is completely smashed in. Like Inla: in actual fact, it wasn’t the blows to her head that killed her, it was the unborn child. Ring composition.

Green. I can go now. I deserve my baby too. It’s right there, on the passenger seat, inside the briefcase. I look at it lovingly.

The windscreen abruptly explodes, the force of the collision makes my head bang against the steering wheel. I find myself thinking that seatbelts save lives, while my body doesn’t appear to be responding to orders. The car horn joins the car alarms. Out of the corner of my eye I can just see the dance of flames devouring the umpteenth store for third-rate customers. I would like to lift my head and put an end to this infernal racket abusing my sensitive soul. I’m still in the mood for cracking jokes.

I have to move, otherwise some stinking worm will mistake me for a corpse and enjoy the fruits of my labours. I’ve killed a load of people to get my hands on this, and nothing, and no one, least of all Mrs Anybody and the corpulent office worker is going to take it away from me. I lift my head and wipe the fragments of glass off my face with my hand. A fuckwit went through a red light. A fucking bastard didn’t follow the fucking
rules
. I get the briefcase. Put Cohl’s gun, wrapped up like a condom, in my pocket and get out of the car. Slowly. I approach the puke-coloured car that ran into me without any warning. However, the driver isn’t there. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, further proof that he’s a fuckwit. In fact, I find him hanging off my bonnet, whimpering.

“You went through a red light and drove right into me.”

His wheezing is incomprehensible.

“You went through a
fucking red light
and ran into me.”

“He… hel…”

I lift his head up by his hair, which is hanging off my fucking bonnet on the tarmac, dripping blood. Bet he isn’t insured.

“Are you insured?”

Sometimes you try hard to be polite just to run into a wall of indifference. He gurgles and dribbles blood right onto my shirt. I don’t remember taking it out but the Altra is already in my hand. Lucky coincidence. I shoot him in the temple, spraying his useless brains all over the tarmac.

I light a cigarette. The wispy plume of smoke coming out of the engines provides irrefutable proof that both vehicles are out of action. The dog track, however, is only five blocks away, a half-hour walk, tops. Hop to it.

It’s interesting how people manage to follow the most basic rules of survival even when they’re caught up in the euphoria of looting. One of these is undoubtedly “don’t get in the way of a blood-covered man carrying a briefcase and a gun”. It is also proof of the inconsistency of certain liberal theories, which sustain that the concept of private property is ingrained in man. Man wants stuff, this is clear to everyone, but only fear is innate.

I put the Altra back in its intra-dimensional holster and quicken my step.

A horde of gremlins is frantically pillaging a discount clothing store, sale after sale, the stuff is so cheap it’s practically free. The creatures emerge so loaded up they look like a spontaneous migration of self-loathing clothes. If only they were worth a bullet.

I arrive at the entrance to the dog track. It didn’t take me long at all, or perhaps I don’t remember what happened along the way. Who gives a shit. There are two gorillas at the door with submachine guns slung over their shoulders, I don’t recognise either of them. Tonight is not the night for discretion. They take up arms when they spot me approaching and, given my general appearance, I don’t blame them.

“U’t closed. Pu’ss off.”

I go a couple of steps closer, I can’t understand a word. This cretin’s way of speaking is even worse than average. He sticks his gun in my face. I smile, arrogantly. Stalemate.

“Arkham. I need to see your boss.”

The pig is uneasy.

“No see Khan, now.”

“I see Khan, now.”

“Fuck you!”

“Tell him…”

“Go or I shoot!”

“You can tell that lardball Ugube that I’ve got his fucking
money
. It’s now or never.”

They look at each other doubtfully.

“Call your boss, fuckwit. Call him. It’s a massive amount of money. Ugube will gouge your eyes out if he loses his money simply because you’re too stupid to call him. Call him. Do yourself a favour.”

I’m as calm and collected as the surface of a frozen lake. If ten thousand elves popped out from around the corner and begged to suck me off, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. This has quite an effect on the feeble minds of this pair of guard pigs. The one in front of me keeps his submachine gun aimed right at my nose, as though it could spit fire at any moment, while his friend starts burping his revolting native language into his mobile phone. A drop of stinking sweat drips down his orange forehead. What is this crazy human up to? Why isn’t he at all scared of the elementary equation rifle plus ogre equals dead?

“If you only knew how many people I’ve buried tonight alone, people who are far superior to you… never mind, I bet you can’t count any higher than the fingers on your hand, anyway.”

“Khan says take hùm up,” intervenes the comrade. The other one visibly relaxes and hesitantly lowers his weapon. I spit a combination of blood and saliva onto his boots, but he doesn’t react. I do it unhurriedly, methodically filling my mouth with spit, let him watch me in amazement, he’s certain that I won’t actually do it in the end, that I won’t dare. But I do. And how. I’m invincible now, because Khan wants to see me.

What fun.

We go upstairs to his office. I savour the steps, staggering every now and then. One way or another I will never go up these steps again. It all ends here, you bastard.

They open the door and go in with me. Ugube is in his usual position, glued to the only part of this foul world able to support the two hundred kilos of shit he is composed of. The revolting stench of his disgusting secretions fills the room, like the tomb of a pharaoh gone wrong. His armpits are sweaty, his tits are sweaty, his belly is sweaty and, I’d rather not check, but I met his arse is moist. He’s watching the news on one of the numerous screens next to him. He is incredulous. All the inhabitants on the planet are incredulous, except for me. Then he turns towards me.

“Lieutenant…” He looks me up and down, appreciating the shift in style. From casual to bloodbath. “ … Arkham.”

“Good evening, Ugube.” I smile, hoping I am unnerving. After all, according to his plans I was already supposed to be worm food by now. I lift up the briefcase, his pupils dilate when he sees it. The two gorillas are in position either side of him. How stupid, he’s left the entrance unguarded. Where are all your men, you flabby bastard? All over town checking your investments, aren’t they? Not forgetting those I sent to early retirement. It’s just us here now.

“Your money.”

“All of it?” He’s sceptical.

“There’s a little extra in there too. Lest someone says I never pay my debts.” I toss the briefcase onto the desk and it slides until it comes to a halt against those deformed fatty breasts belonging to the ogre. He looks at me diffidently. I don’t say a word.

He opens it up. Looks inside. Raises his eyebrows.

“Do I have to count it?”

“I’d count it anyway.”

So he counts it, and the thugs can’t help taking a peek at all that cash. Dickheads, they’re so predictable. I squeeze my eyelids, two words and a Hu gesture, the palm of my hand facing the three ogres. I can feel the energy brimming up inside me. A blinding flash of light explodes in the room. When I open my eyes, the two henchmen look worried, and vainly try to point their weapons in my direction, spraying bullets at random.

The Altra faithfully jumps into my hand and won’t allow anyone to escape. It dispenses death in silence. Two monitors stop working when the bullets go right through the bodies of the swines, the office wall becomes a collage of cartilage and guts. A post-modern work of fucking art. A shrink could have asked me: ‘What do you see in this pattern?’