Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition (21 page)

The zombies could sense Kyoya's regenerated life as well. They formed a circle around him at a distance but didn't come any closer. Kyoya threw Sayaka back over his shoulder and held Asura vertically in front of his chest and closed his eyes to slits.

This was the “white light stance.” As the name suggested, it wrapped him in a brilliant white blaze of light.

Taking his alignment straight through the forest, it would emerge at the outskirts of the park. If memory served, the boundary of the DMZ. But Kyoya's feet were aimed at the “place of repose.”

Many of the zombies were swept up in the blaze. Even those who simply touched the wall of light saw their arms disintegrate before they disappeared. In the center of the forest filled with the souls of the dead, a young man acted with a singular resolve, moving inexorably forward. A mere dash of the white
nen
of father and son overwhelmed legions of vengeful ghosts.

“Hold on, all of you,” Kyoya murmured to himself.
True happiness is waiting for you
.

Having retrieved Asura and replenished his psychic reservoirs, he could ascertain the zombies' energy source, the location of the ringleader binding them to this physical realm.

The breathing sound from before wavered through the clearing. He proceeded to the fountain. Surrounding them at a distance, the zombies screamed. “Stop! That boy is cursed!”

With Sayaka on his back, Kyoya stepped up to the edge of the fountain and looked down into the water.
There it was!

Like a one-eyed maestro conducting a concert of all the malice and vengefulness in this world—a big eyeball a good three feet in diameter. The eye seemed to be floating by itself in the water. And yet Kyoya's five senses keenly informed him that attached to it was an enormous entity.

A spirit of the earth born in the magical miasmas of Demon City and possessing the ability to manipulate the spirits of the dead. Lurking beneath Chuo Park—the entire tract of land underlying the center of Shinjuku—it controlled the accursed DMZ. That “music” was the sound of it breathing.

The bloodshot eye glared up at Kyoya. Although only the eye presented itself, its look clearly asked:
What did you come here for?

Kyoya glared back, uncowed. He raised Asura with a backhand grip and brought it slashing down.

The eye wavered. “
Stop
,” cried the zombies. “
Stop. Stop. Stop
.”

He was about to deliver another blow when a plainly foreign thought stole across his mind:
Wound me and you will never know what you came here to learn
.

“And what would that be, monster?” Kyoya answered in his head.

The hiding place of he who transformed this city into what it is today
.

“And how would you know about him?”

I am god of the DMZ. Take one step within its borders and I know everything about you, from your genetic code to the finest details of your memories. Kyoya Izayoi-kun
.

His thoughts gradually settled back to normal.

If you promise not to swing that sword, I will tell you where you can find him
.

“You know?” Kyoya blurted out loud.

Wake the girl. I will show her the evidence. I will keep the souls of the dead at bay. Though faced by an opponent such as yourself, they could not lay a finger on you. My hypnotic waves are already slackening
.

He had no other recourse but to try and see. He had retrieved Asura but still had no idea where the Sorcerer had hidden himself.

Kyoya sat Sayaka down next to the fountain and revived her. She took a deep breath, looked around, gasped, and clung to Kyoya's knees. They were surrounded by zombies. That she didn't faint again was a credit to her fortitude.

The thought stole into their heads:
Miss, you surely haven't forgotten this man?

The crowd of zombies parted in front of them to the right and left, leaving but one standing there. Sayaka narrowed her eyes, and opened them wide with recognition. “The man who tried to help me in the subway station!”

That is correct. One of those gang members who was going to sell you into the sex trade
.

If thoughts could snicker, that was what this one just did. “How would he know where the Sorcerer is hiding?” Kyoya asked suspiciously.

The zombie's mouth abruptly opened and he spoke in a gloomy voice like a mumbling mist. “I—followed—the monster—that took her—to their—hideout—and was devoured—”

In the moment before he died, this man ran into the DMZ, became entranced by my call, and joined our little band
. The thoughts welled up from the earth, spelling out the terms of the dead.
If you promise to leave without another word, I will impart the information you need
.

Kyoya thought about it for a minute before answering. “And when we are no longer here, what will you do? Continue to construct this kingdom of yours?”

The answer was laden with cruel laughter:
And why not? When souls wander into these precincts, I ask them if they want a true and certain death, or to live forever tormenting the living. They all say they wish to remain and turn the living into their comrades and curse others like themselves. I lend them that power. Isn't this simply a reflection of human desires? Both the DMZ and this idyllic place of repose?

“I see,” said Kyoya under his breath. “In that case, we have nothing to talk about.”

Stark surprise stirred the thoughts:
Are you mad? You only have so many hours left
.

“And we'll do it relying on our own strength and resources. This world belongs to the living. It is not for zombies and bastards like you to do with as they please.”

Stop!

But faster than the thoughts and the zombies could race at him, Kyoya stabbed Asura into the big eye in the middle of the fountain.

Time and space convulsed. The web of that thing's nerves reached not only into the earth below, but the air above. The sky twisted in pain, spasmed like living flesh. They were eclipsed by a darkness that flashed with electric light and echoed with the thunder of its screams and the cries of the undead.

A violent burst of wind roared against Kyoya as he resolutely stood there, threatening to topple him over.

And was gone a moment later, sweeping it all away. Blessed quiet returned. The mist blanketing Chuo Park evaporated. The autumn sun shone down peacefully on the desolate forest, now illuminating its true form. Not even a shadow of a zombie remained.

Kyoya jumped down next to Sayaka, who stood there stock still in amazement. “They're all gone,” she said in a heartfelt voice.

“Damn,” Kyoya said, scratching his head. “Maybe I should have waited until after that thing spilled the beans.”

“No,” said Sayaka, looking at him and shaking her head. “You are not a patient man.”

This young man's anger and courage in response to the outrageous and the absurd—that took no calculated account of the consequences—could not be any more appealing to her at that moment.

Kyoya averted his eyes and swung Asura, feeling momentarily out of his element. “We found this, at least. Let's go. This forest is at the outskirts of the DMZ. We can get out through the back. I can't be certain I dealt that thing a fatal blow. But we should be okay for now.”

They started off at a brisk walk. A few feet later they came across a stout and withered tree, half leaning over. Sayaka stopped.

“What?”

“That man was over there.”

“That man? You mean, the undead one from before?”

“Yes. He was pointing at that trunk.”

Without hearing the rest, Kyoya ran up to the tree and examined the trunk. The vengeful ghosts had left there the feelings of their hearts, carved with their fingernails. The hard bark was covered with words and sentences.

I want to live
.

I'll make them pay
.

The more of us, the better
.

“Why did he point at this?” Sayaka asked.

Kyoya didn't have an answer. He knelt down and continued his exacting examination. “Got it!” he exclaimed. He tore off a strip of bark. “That zombie really came through. Look!”

“At what?”

“See? There's only one name of a place here.”

Sayaka peered over his shoulder and saw. Among all the curses and lamentations:
Shinjuku station
.

For several moments, the two of them gazed thoughtfully at the signpost and its clearly-stated message.

“He told us before going on his way,” Sayaka said, clearly moved.

“He alone was your ally to the end,” said Kyoya, with a great sense of relief.

They at last knew the location of the enemy. Now they had to scout it out without being noticed by those demon sprites, find a way in, and fight the long-awaited battle. There were two days left. The deadline was three in the morning, the day after tomorrow.

They couldn't be certain whether the Sorcerer was dead or alive, but probably the latter, along with his two remaining demons. The two of them together—not to mention the Sorcerer himself—were formidable opponents. But Kyoya had wounded them once, and more importantly, they didn't know their location had been betrayed.

If they could take the time to draw up a battle plan, victory was assured.

And even if the Sorcerer wasn't dead, Kyoya could tell that he'd hurt him pretty bad in the Big Box department store. Though Sayaka had said something about him dying, a simple death was the last thing he could count on in this city. Still, his soul alone shouldn't be able to wield as much power as when it had been combined with his body. Kyoya was pretty sure that once the demons were disposed of, he shouldn't prove that insurmountable a problem.

Kyoya readily dismissed the thought that he might be getting a bit too overconfident.

The sun rose high in the sky. “What time is it?” Kyoya said, glancing at his watch. Two o'clock in the afternoon. “That late. I would have thought it more around noon. We'd better go stake out Shinjuku station.”

“Yes.”

“And find someplace where you can wait.”

“No.”

“Hey.”

“We promised.”

Kyoya grumbled to himself but didn't disagree. The two of them proceeded through the heart of the forest, sliced through the loops of razor wire with Asura, and exited the DMZ.

Kabuki-cho once covered a quarter-mile square area in downtown Shinjuku. It had been home to more than eight hundred bars, restaurants, game rooms, massage parlors, love hotels and nightclubs. Tokyo's red light district and pleasure quarters.

Morning, noon and night, and straight through till dawn, 24/7, Kabuki-cho never slept, and the flow of the young and the restless never ceased. That hadn't changed, though these sleepless nights were of a far more abominable nature.

Taking the Shinjuku station JR Chuo exit, continuing straight down the hill and crossing Yasukuni Avenue, brought them to the one-block main drag known as “Center Street” — the unofficial entrance-way to Kabuki-cho.

Center Street was still there. The buildings weren't. The gaudy, garish soaring structures that once lined the boulevards, and Kabuki-cho's “gateway road” that once impressed so many visitors, were now piles of rubble.

Las Vegas-style neon signs of the Kabuki-cho Stardust Casino—the cooks at the beef bowl emporiums shouting out orders and specials—the kids staring wistfully through the show window of the Shinjuku Gun Shop at the latest weapons on display—it had all disappeared, along with the buildings.

But the Koma Theater—that closed in the end of the Center Street block—was still intact. The walls were cracked. Big holes in the plaster revealed the skeleton of the framework beneath. For some inexplicable reason, the whimsical Devil Quake had not bared its fangs at this temple to the performing arts.

Turning left in front of the Koma Theater and then right revealed a public square. It was once said that “Water Fountain Square” never slept. People gathered there waiting for the theaters to open—The Milano, Odeon, Shinjuku Academy, Shinjuku Joy Cinema.

Joined by drunken frat boys singing at the top of their lungs, annoying the body builder types cruising for a bruising with the pretty boys. Out of the blue, an up and coming pop star would stage an impromptu concert.

A place where anything could happen, and not only in front of the movie theaters. Years later, for anyone who'd ever been there, the Joypack Building—stuffed with every form of entertainment from game rooms to cabarets—lived on in their memories.

In their place, curious prefab units — “Foundation to Finish in Thirty Minutes,” the manufacturer's slogan was—stood crowded together. The “Disco,” like a stack of soup bowls, every story a dance floor. The “Willow,” so-named as the slightest wind made it sway like a reed. Customers came for the thrill, and on occasion fell to their deaths through the unglazed windows. On the site of the Milano was a dome called the “Battlefield,” where full-body contact fights were staged with blunted weapons.

And everywhere neon signs and billboards advertising their wares and services using the latest projection and holographic technology, so garish as to give anyone a migraine who looked at them for more than ten seconds.

Of course, these buildings weren't simply not constructed to code. They barely followed the physical laws of the universe. Those who took one step inside Kabuki-cho never noticed. The sheer magic of the place, the enrapturing thrills, washed those fears away.

But they should take a good look around.

Hard to tell if he was a tourist, traveler, or passerby, but a man with a head of hair down to his waist was loitering around Water Fountain Square. The hair wafted up and several strands dropped to the ground. It wasn't hair, but thousands of insects growing out of his head. They wriggled across the ground to a sleeping vagrant with a liquor bottle in one hand, and slithered into his body through his ears and nose.