Infernal Angel (8 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
Officer Ryan himself didn’t have time to get back into the cruiser—provided he would even
want
to get back into the cruiser when one considered what was also present. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned to see who it was ... ... he was presented with a big problem. It was Cooper. Standing next to him. Hence, the problem. It didn’t matter that Cooper was wild-eyed and buck-naked and grinning deliriously. The problem was much more direct: How could Cooper be standing right next to Ryan when Ryan had, seconds ago, seen Cooper sidled over in the squad car with the giant tick on his neck?
want
to get back into the cruiser when one considered what was also present. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned to see who it was ... ... he was presented with a big problem. It was Cooper. Standing next to him. Hence, the problem. It didn’t matter that Cooper was wild-eyed and buck-naked and grinning deliriously. The problem was much more direct: How could Cooper be standing right next to Ryan when Ryan had, seconds ago, seen Cooper sidled over in the squad car with the giant tick on his neck?
“Hey, buddy!” Cooper cracked, “how about we go grab ourselves some ring-a-ding?”
Ryan stepped back.
Why are there two Coopers?
he plainly asked himself. Then he stepped back some more.
Why are there two Coopers?
he plainly asked himself. Then he stepped back some more.
From nowhere Cooper seemed to produce a meat cleaver of impressive proportions, and he wasted no time in lunging toward his partner, swiping the cleaver back and forth so fast the blade was a blur. “Gotta cut me some pig!”
When Ryan emptied his revolver into Cooper’s chest, Cooper just keep coming. Odd what was coming out of the catastrophic chest wound, though. Not blood as anyone would expect but some bizarre organic puree, like loose ground meat. It didn’t ... smell good. Now Cooper was chasing Ryan around the patrol car, the cleaver swiping madly, but when enough of that puree had emptied from his chest, he began to falter and then he collapsed. The thing that had chased Ryan about the car clearly wasn’t the real Cooper but instead some sack of animated meat that
looked
like Cooper. By now, of course, after all he’d witnessed out here, Ryan was insensible, and he’d never be able to conceive of the explanation anyway: that the evil Cooper look-alike was something known as a Hex-Clone.
looked
like Cooper. By now, of course, after all he’d witnessed out here, Ryan was insensible, and he’d never be able to conceive of the explanation anyway: that the evil Cooper look-alike was something known as a Hex-Clone.
Ryan wasn’t sure what it was that eventually got him, or what it could even have been, but he did know this: One moment he’d been standing there physically intact, the next moment he was paralyzed on the ground, similar to the old man, clutching his abdomen. Squat figures bustled around him. Something had riven his belly open, and now those same figures were greedily hauling his intestines out of the wound, bickering. “Give me the spleen, give me the spleen!” one insisted. “I got dibs on the stomach,” another proclaimed. More evil voices fluttered about as Ryan merely shuddered in place. They evacuated him with glee, mining their human ore, like voracious cotton-pickers. Two were fighting over what must’ve been his small-intestinal tract: “Let go, let go! It’s mine!” and “No, it’s not! Give me it, you Troll bastard!” It was a tug-of-war. “Hey, buddy?” yet another less-than-human voice whispered to him. “We’re gonna sell your guts to an Anthropomancer. They pay
good scratch
for human guts. They use ’em to read the future, then send messengers to report the results to Lucifer. Thanks for your guts, pal ...”
good scratch
for human guts. They use ’em to read the future, then send messengers to report the results to Lucifer. Thanks for your guts, pal ...”
Incomprehension notwithstanding, that was pretty much it for Officer Ryan. Eviscerated now, he lay dying, blood seeping freely from his calamitous wound. Were mites roving in the blood? Everything had happened so fast, his mind couldn’t even attempt to calculate any of it. A clawed hand pulled the wad of cash from his pocket—the crack money he’d gotten from Dutch—but then he heard a guttural sputter. “These ain’t Hellnotes! Fuck! What am I gonna do with this shit? Wipe my ass?” Footsteps plodded off.
Next, Ryan was being dragged away by someone—er, well, someone wasn’t exactly accurate. It was actually a female Ghoul, sleek in her nutmeg-colored skin, lissome and even voluptuous, pert breasts like hard fruit on the slat-ribbed chest. She looked back at him with sparkling, billiard-ball-sized tourmaline eyes, then frowned. “I’d eat you myself but I’ll get more money for your meat at a Pulping Station.”
Ryan still didn’t understand. In the real world and in this hideous nightmare as well, it seemed that nobody cared about anything but money.
Wind gusted off the bay, blowing vast holes in the noxious smoke, and the last visual image to register in Ryan’s mind was a glimpse of downtown Dannelleton: the town square, the city hall, the quaint cafes and bistros and the shell shop and the German bar where he’d slammed down many a stein of Bitburger draft. It was all smoldering now, and behind it stood the grim gray skyscrapers which seemed to lean this way and that at the oddest angles.
This was a big problem.
There
were
no skyscrapers in downtown Dannelleton.
(II)were
no skyscrapers in downtown Dannelleton.
Walter popped the small almond-brown pills. No, he wasn’t committing suicide—he’d bought the shotgun for that, a beautiful brand-new Remington 870 pump. The pills were ferrous fumarate—a commonplace iron supplement—because Walter, according to the doctor that Colin had made him see, was slightly anemic. You could tell that just by looking at him. His red hair and already fair complexion seemed to drastically accentuate his stereotypical college-geek egghead never-get-out-in-the-sun-even-though-you-live-in-fucking-Florida pallor. Eighteen years old and gaunt as Ichabod Crane. Freckles. And no self-esteem. It didn’t matter that he had the highest I.Q. of anyone—including the senior professors—at the University of Southern Florida. His love was all that mattered, and that’s why he was about to kill himself.
Walter Grey didn’t have to live in the dorm room at Morakis Hall; his brother, Colin, would’ve put him up at a luxury condo right on the water if he’d wanted that, but Walter knew he had to adjust better socially. He wanted to meet people, be part of the “scene,” make friends and hang out. None of that had worked at first; Walter was a geek in every sense of the word and, hence, the object of every practical joke that college kids could conceive of. Dogshit in his sneakers, anole lizards on his cheeseburgers at the dining hall, Sudden Death hot sauce in his gym-class jock strap, water balloons full of molasses dropped on his head from the dorm windows when he was coming back from class. One night some of the guys on his floor had Krazy-Glued his physics books closed, just when Colin had walked in to see how things were going. Colin looked like a geek in the same way that Walter looked like a geek, but Colin didn’t give a shit. When you were a multi-millionaire, you didn’t have to. “Hey, ass-bags,” Colin had said to the perpetrators of Walter’s torment that night. “Anybody who fucks with my brother gets his ass kicked.” One of the students had challenged back at Colin’s frail physique: “Oh, yeah? By who? You?”
“No, not by me,” Colin informed him. “By these guys.” Then Colin’s hand gestured to the other gentlemen who’d just entered the dorm room after him: four very psychotic-looking bikers with a local motorcycle gang called The St. Pete Decapitators. One of them promptly punched a hole in the wall, as if on cue. Then another snapped open a ten-inch angel-blade. Did the knife’s edge have rust on it, or dried blood?
“Walter’s our friend,” he told the wiseacre student in a voice scorched by years of PCP-toking. “If you ever give him a hard time,” the biker grinned through black teeth, “I’ll cut your cock off and make your mama suck it.”
No one ever bothered Walter again. See, Colin merely hired the bikers to make his point—paying them quite well—and he’d hire them again if more severe services were ever needed. They never were.
But by the time that Walter realized he wasn’t likely to be socially accepted by anyone, he met Candice.
The girl of all my time-held dreams,
he thought yearningly now, love in his heart and a 12-gauge pumpkin-ball in his hand.
he thought yearningly now, love in his heart and a 12-gauge pumpkin-ball in his hand.
Yes. Candice.
Adriatic-blue eyes, long blond hair down past her waist, five-foot-ten and a half. Beautiful as one of those bikini models in a hot rod mag. Candice was a general studies major and at age twenty-six could boast of being the oldest sophomore currently enrolled. Her parents were putting her through school—to help her find her true aptitudes, and to keep her shenanigans—and her physical body—out of their North Hampton, New York, beach mansion. In truth, though, her aptitudes were more oral than academic, as just about any male athlete at the school could attest, and damn near every male instructor. She knew, in fact, that if she really made the effort, she could probably fellate her way to a quicker graduation, but her view was:
What’s the hurry?
Even though Candice existed as the embodiment of every sexist cliche, she was quite happy with that lot. She loved it.
What’s the hurry?
Even though Candice existed as the embodiment of every sexist cliche, she was quite happy with that lot. She loved it.
And Walter loved
her.
He truly believed in love at first sight because what else could these feelings be but love? He knew he loved her the instant he’d first seen her at the student lounge watching
Hollywood Squares
reruns instead of doing her homework. Walter had been having a Mountain Dew and whizzing through the day’s chapter on the molecular possession of cesium and its relation to low-ionization energy fields. It was a piece of cake. When he’d looked up, though, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his eighteen-year-old life was sitting at the same table, right across from him. She smiled at him—it was a distressed smile but a smile just the same—and then she pushed some of that shimmering blond hair back off her brow and said: “Hi.”
her.
He truly believed in love at first sight because what else could these feelings be but love? He knew he loved her the instant he’d first seen her at the student lounge watching
Hollywood Squares
reruns instead of doing her homework. Walter had been having a Mountain Dew and whizzing through the day’s chapter on the molecular possession of cesium and its relation to low-ionization energy fields. It was a piece of cake. When he’d looked up, though, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his eighteen-year-old life was sitting at the same table, right across from him. She smiled at him—it was a distressed smile but a smile just the same—and then she pushed some of that shimmering blond hair back off her brow and said: “Hi.”
Walter nearly had a
grand mal
seizure when she’d said that single, simple word to him. Instantly he was sweating, shaking even, and when he opened his mouth to respond to her greeting, what came out sounded like, “Huh-huh-huh-huh—”
grand mal
seizure when she’d said that single, simple word to him. Instantly he was sweating, shaking even, and when he opened his mouth to respond to her greeting, what came out sounded like, “Huh-huh-huh-huh—”
“My name’s Candice,” she told him next. “What’s yours?”
“Wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh—” Then he finally got it out. “Walter.”
She scratched her head, and pulled out a spiral notebook. “Damn, I got this take-home quiz, it’s due next period, and I just can’t remember! Isn’t math a bitch?”
“It‘s-it’s-it’s the only quantitative philosophy,” Walter spewed. “Math is the meaning of life.”
She giggled. It was the cutest giggle he’d ever heard. “Do you know a lot about math, Walter?”
“Yuh-yuh-yuh—”
“I just can never remember, damn it. The difference between Number Theory and Set Theory.”
Here was Walter’s chance to prove to this blond goddess that he was something more than a babbling putz. He could help her, couldn’t he? Her query grounded him; something snapped in his head like a switch. “Number Theory is the science of integers and how natural numbers relate to one another. Set Theory is the science of the interrelation of collections of numbers as basic number-systems.”
Another smile that made Walter want to melt. “You’re so smart! Could you say that a little slower so I can write it down?”
Instant confidence. They were relating to each other, via a common interest! Walter reached over and took her pad, and began to write down the needed definitions, and
that
was just the beginning.
that
was just the beginning.
The beginning, that is, of an all-too-typical form of exploitation: the age-old Case of the Buxom Blond Using the Egghead. For the rest of the next semester, Candice exploited poor Walter for what he had far more of than she: brains. Walter did her math homework and coached her for exams he’d already aced. In return, Candice would go out with him—to places where she likely wouldn’t be seen by anyone she knew—and hold his hand. She loved County & Western; Walter would take her to concerts in one of Colin’s limos, and she loved big thick bloody steaks, so he’d take her to the best steak houses in Tampa. Afterwards, she’s always whisper sweet nothings to him. She had him hooked at once, and poor Walter was too naive to even suspect that he was being used. No, it couldn’t be that! Candice loved him! She’d told him so!
Even Colin warned him: “Buddy-bro, she’s a hosebag, she’s a ditz. The only reason she’s in college at all is because her parents told her unless she got a degree she’d lose the trust fund. She’s using you to do her fuckin’ class assignments.”
“She is not! She loves me!” Walter exploded back, outraged at such a cynical insulation. “You’re just jealous because it’s not
you
she’s going out with.”
you
she’s going out with.”
Colin lit a cigarette and dismissively waved a hand. “I could shit care less about that floozy air-head. She’s a jock-girl, Walter. She’s not into eggheads like you. She goes out with the football team—the
entire fucking football team.
”
entire fucking football team.
”
“She does not! Shut up!”
“Walter, don’t be a dickhead. Don’t let her pull the wool over your eyes. She’s not the kind of girl to fall in love with. I mean, if you’re getting it on with her, great. Be realistic and look at it that way—she’s fucking you in exchange for you doing her math.”
By now Walter’s face nearly matched the vibrant red of his hair. “That is NOT what’s going on! She’s my GIRLFRIEND! Or, at least, she will be soon. We’re kind of... casual now, but that’ll change any day.” Now Walter grinned, which looked ludicrous with his beet-red face. “She said she loves me.”
Colin just rolled his eyes, astounded by his brother’s ineptitude. “She’s duping you, Brother-bro. Girls like her do this to guys like you all the time. She knows that without you she’ll flunk her math class. She’s jacking you around.” Colin sputtered frustrated smoke into the air. “Well, she is a brick shit-house, I can’t deny that, and at least you’re getting it on with her. I mean ... right? Please don’t tell me you’re doing all that work for her and you’re not even getting laid.”
“Of
course,
I’m getting laid,” Walter lied. “What do you think I am, a moron?” In truth, there’d been a few times when Candice had plowed a few too many Bud Lights and had actually taken Walter back to her dorm for some whoopie. A charity fuck; Walter
had
done a lot for her, and what was another roll in the hay, especially after the entire football, basketball, lacrosse, and soccer teams, plus the wrestling squad—all weight classes? Candice could be
v
ery
charitable
when she was drunk enough. But wouldn’t you know it?
course,
I’m getting laid,” Walter lied. “What do you think I am, a moron?” In truth, there’d been a few times when Candice had plowed a few too many Bud Lights and had actually taken Walter back to her dorm for some whoopie. A charity fuck; Walter
had
done a lot for her, and what was another roll in the hay, especially after the entire football, basketball, lacrosse, and soccer teams, plus the wrestling squad—all weight classes? Candice could be
v
ery
charitable
when she was drunk enough. But wouldn’t you know it?
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