Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (26 page)
The man scrambled with the steering wheel and tried
to find something inside while fending her off. He jerked the cab into a rear
turn and stopped suddenly, slamming the old woman into a brick wall. She landed
with enough force to dislodge chunks of brick and leave an impression in the
wall. She did not fall to the ground, but bounded back, rushing the car with a
fevered speed.
Brian grew weak, watching something he simply could
not believe — it defied his entire perception of reality. Little old
ladies did not appear out of thin air. They didn’t move faster than Bobby Hull,
going to the net; nobody moved that fast. Little old ladies did not get hit
head-on by a two-ton cab, fly ass over teakettle past its back end and slam
against a brick wall, only to rebound, claw and rend. Nobody could do this, let
alone little old ladies.
The car settled for an instant, facing Brian, the
headlights blinding him and keeping him from seeing inside. The lights
retreated as the man slid into reverse, attempting to get away from the
advancing geriatric. He spun the wheel and accelerated, but not quickly enough.
He cleared enough distance between them, stopped and quickly put the car into
drive, slamming into her again.
The cab hit her with enough momentum that the bumper
bent her knees forward, making Brian wince as he watched. It drug and pinned
her against the brick wall, still caved-in from the earlier collision. She
tried to push the Chevy away from her, but was unsuccessful. The cab still spun
its wheels and Brian thought the man was intent on forcing her through the
wall. He stopped only when she ceased to struggle. When he stepped out of the
cab, he was not as immaculate as he had been. The right side of his shirt was
in tatters. Apparently, the old woman had been able to shred it. He had an axe
in one hand, a bottle of clear liquid in the other. He uncorked the liquid and
approached the limp old woman, emptying the bottle on her as she came
screeching back to life. Brian could barely hear her, but the anguished
contortions of her face, indicating a silent agony, made it more incredible.
This did not slow the man. He emptied the first
bottle, threw it at the wounded old woman and uncorked another in the same
manner. He poured this bottle over the axe, and then went for the old woman’s
blurred, clawing arms. He watched her warily for a few seconds before he sprung
forward, swung and lopped off her left hand, which then continued to claw on the
ground. He poured more liquid on her and followed with a second blow, severing
her remaining hand.
He did not stop as the old woman’s stumps flew
around, but swung again, aiming the axe at her grimacing face. He didn’t try to
bury it in the bone, where it could have gotten stuck, but he struck with
enough force to cut, tearing her face open. He aimed again, and in a crossing
blow, lopped off the bleeding, torn head. For a few minutes longer, the rest of
the body continued to writhe.
The man doused the quartered parts and they lay
still. Brian did not stick around to see what happened next. He did not know
why, or how, any of it had happened, but he had just watched someone be killed.
Killed might not be the most apt description — perhaps done in or destroyed
— but Brian was not going to be around to give his opinion. He did not
want to be recognized as a witness; witnesses had a habit of not witnessing
much.
So, Brian left the magazines where they fell and
watched the proceedings from behind the front steps of a brownstone, further up
the street. No one else saw the incredible duel that just took place. There
were no flashing lights, with revving motors, slamming of brakes and squealing
of tires. It all happened while everyone slept. Even if someone had heard, they
would’ve told themselves to continue sleeping. Nobody needed to see this. Brian
wished he had slept, instead of going out to get another copy of his
Time
article. Now, he watched and hoped
the man who just dispatched this unnatural thing, did not try to find him.
The man returned to the front of the cab and put the
severed pieces into a sack. He got back in the car and backed up, enough to let
the remaining pieces of old woman which the Chevy had kept pinned to the wall
drop beside the sack. Brian saw the man get back out of the car, and as he
bagged the remaining body parts glanced at where Brian had been sitting. He
carried the sack around a corner and into the dark alley. As he had the first
time, he emerged a few seconds later, without the sack.
He crossed the street to where Brian left his pile of
magazines. Brian held his breath and watched as he looked around. He was calm,
despite his tattered shirt. To Brian’s surprise, the man spoke, and did so to
Brian.
“I don’t know what you think you saw here. I’m not
trying to convince you to come out, but I’m trying to keep you from being hurt.
Whatever you do, do not tell anyone about this. At best, they will lock you up;
at worst, they will get rid of you.”
The man’s even-tempered tone calmed Brian, though he
stayed hidden.
“You’re dealing with things you do not understand and
I can’t explain. Forget about what you think you saw. Let it remain a
nightmare, which you’ll occasionally have. The reality is far worse than what
you could imagine.”
TIME: FEBRUARY 10TH, 1963. IN FRONT OF WHITTIER MANSION, SAN
FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A.
Kosta sat in his Chevy cab, watching Whittier Mansion
a Victorian monstrosity in Pacific Heights. For the past three hours, no one
went in or out of the building. The tan brownstone was at the top of a hill and
its walls looked like they had been carved from a single colossal stone. A
portico was centered in the façade, framed by Corinthian columns and supporting
a second storey balcony. Spaced on either side, and by the four corners, were
turrets, spanning all three storeys. The roof was red tile and five chimneys
randomly punctuated the roofline.
At the hall of records, Kosta discovered that since
1956 the California Historical Society looked after the Whittier Mansion. As
officer of the same society, a Balzeer McGrath handled the society’s funding
and all correspondence.
Kosta glanced behind him and saw only brown eyes and
hair visible over the backrest of the front seat. Earlier, the boy showed
enough courage to turn on the radio and they spoke above the low strains of
hey-la-day-la my boyfriend’s back.
“So that’s it, huh?” The voice was plain,
questioning. “That’s where these guys live? The guys who have been after us?”
He’s gonna save my reputation, hey-la-day-la
my boyfriend’s back. If I were you, I’d take a permanent vacation.
“Yes, that’s right.” Kosta remained focused on the
structure as he answered the boy’s queries. “Are you scared? What are you
feeling?”
“I feel like they’re calling me,” the boy answered
honestly. Little Ronnie Specter quickly followed the Angels and pleaded,
so won’t you please, be my little baby.
“It’s okay if you feel drawn to them. The choice will
be yours. I can answer your questions, but I can do nothing more. Do you have any
questions?”
“About them, you mean?” Adam nodded his head toward
the mansion.
“Yes, about them. Who they are and why they’ve been
after us?” Though he could not take his eyes off of the house, he hoped Adam
would see that he was earnest about answering his questions.
“Why do they want me so badly? I don’t know them, so
how do they know me?”
“You’re more than family, to them — you’re the
reason they’re alive. They want to serve you.” Kosta was completely honest with
Adam as he listened to the Crystals singing,
Yes I’ll make him mine, da doo ron-ron-ron, da doo ron-ron.
“That doesn’t sound bad to me. Why are we running and
hiding from them?”
“You know, you’re right. It doesn’t sound bad, but it
is. They want you to act according to their prophecies.” Kosta wished that the
da doo ron-ron-ron, da doo ron-ron
would
just end, but he resisted the urge to switch off the radio. Adam always seemed
more comfortable when it was on.
“What’s prophecy?”
“It’s what people, a long time ago, said would
happen.” Mercifully, the song ended and was followed by commercials, prompting
Kosta to lower the volume.
“But it hasn’t happened, right?”
“Right.” Kosta knew that as soon as the music started
again, unconsciously, Adam would turn up the volume, even amidst a deep
conversation.
“So, how do they say it will happen?”
“They have, or their masters, like the Seekers, have
made plans and believe it will happen.” Kosta waited as he listened to both
Adam and the radio.
“Since it hasn’t happened, how do they believe this?”
“They believe without having to see it.” Kosta held
up both hands in front of the boy. “Now, look at this.”
He opened both palms and showed Adam that he held a
box of matches in one hand. Then he balled up each hand and turned his palms
over, showing both fists.
“Now, where are the matches?” he asked.
“What are matches?” Adam asked, confused.
“The blue box that I was holding in my hand.”
“Well, they’re still in your hand,” Adam replied.
“How do you know that? You can’t see it.” The
Exciters came on with
knowing something
about love, got gotta show it and make him see the moon up above, go out and
get him.
“It was just there, so it must still be there.”
“You’re only saying that because you believe that
it’s there, not because you can see that it’s still there.” Kosta watched as
Adam turned up the radio.
“I understand. Ok, fine, so they believe they’re
supposed to serve me, in order to be my family. That still doesn’t sound bad.”
“No, you’re right again. It doesn’t. Those people
want to hurt other people. They want to hurt everybody.” The girls continued to
echo Kosta with
ever since the world
began, it’s been that way for man.
“No! Why do they want to do that again?” Adam was
upset by this answer. He could not understand why someone would want to hurt
another person.
“They like to see the hurt and pain of others. They
enjoy making others hurt.” Kosta tried to simplify the concept as much as
possible.
“Why?” Adam was becoming increasingly alarmed by
Kosta’s answers.
“When the fat businessman said that one day you would
understand, why did you become so angry? Are you really sure that you want to
hear more of this?” Kosta did not want to continue this discussion and hoped
that Adam would agree. “This is making you feel bad inside and I don’t want to
see that. Do you want to stop talking?”
“Yes, but when it doesn’t feel bad, could you tell me
more?”
“Whenever you want to know, I’ll tell you, though I
don’t want you to feel bad.” Kosta reached forward and turned off the radio,
sighing at the quiet he knew would be all too brief.
“Ok, I’ll tell you,” Adam said, relieved. “Thank
you.”
“What are you thanking me for?” Kosta was confused.
“You stopped the bad feelings.” Adam looked downcast.
“Can I get a hug?”
“How do you know what a hug is?” Kosta was surprised
at the question.
“I saw other kids getting them and giving them to
their families. I know what they are.”
“Ok, if you want.” As soon as Kosta acquiesced, the
boy flew at his neck and squeezed with an insistence that took their breath
away. Kosta hugged him back, then pulled him into the front seat and held him
in his lap for as long as he wanted, patting his back reassuringly. Several
minutes passed before Adam let go, though he continued to sit in Kosta’s lap.
He continued to cradle Adam and the boy didn’t mind at all.
TIME: FEBRUARY 17TH, 1963. BIG FOUR RESTAURANT, SAN
FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A
Sam Charon was waiting for his dinner companion who
had failed to show. He took the liberty of ordering for both of them, so now he
was stuck with two specials. He could probably finish both, but he didn’t want
to. The half chicken was enough to satisfy him, but the whole, which would
equal two specials, would be too much. He got the waitress’ attention, pointed
to the empty scotch glass in front of him and held up two fingers, to which she
nodded a yes.
Sam got respect from anyone with whom he spoke or
dealt. He never demanded this respect — it was simply given. He got as
good as he gave.
Once he finished his newly refilled drink, he called
the waitress over and said politely, “Listen, sweetheart, I’m gonna pay for my
order and you can go ahead and give it to somebody who can use it. I could
stand to lose a few. Thanks, doll.”
Sam stood up, straightened his tie and buttoned his
jacket as he walked away from the table. He headed towards the front door, but
before he exited, he approached the hostess. “Pardon me, honey. If I may
trouble you for a second, would I be able to use your phone?” The hostess
smiled and answered with a swift, “Yes, you may, Mr. Charon,” then backed away
from her podium to allow him a measure of privacy.