VARIABLE: PART TWO

Genre: Horror/Science Fiction

VARIABLE

By Daniel Skye

PART TWO

A NEW SPECIES

            Dylan Ford stood aghast, his hand clasped over his mouth. He was repulsed by the ghastly sight of Bobby Edward McNamara’s hideous transformation, yet he was transfixed. And so he found himself staring intently, unable to tear his eyes away from the sickening spectacle.

            Bobby Mac’s skin continued to crack and peel away, each discarded layer giving birth to a new mass of scaly green flesh beneath his human coat.

            A phone was ringing, seemingly in the distance. Then Dylan felt the vibration in his pocket and broke free from his trance as he realized the ringing phone was not at all distant.

            It was Harrison Langstrom calling as he pulled the phone from his pocket, answering immediately. “This isn’t a good time,” Dylan whispered, eyes still locked on Bobby Mac.

            “Dylan, the black worm…” Harrison said before trailing off.

“What about the black worm?” Dylan whispered back.

“It’s dividing, separating.”

“Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It’s terrible, Dylan!” Harrison exclaimed. “It’s not a worm anymore. It’s now worms, plural. Not singular. They're multiplying as they split apart, creating new, identical life forms.”

“That’s not the worst part,” Dylan muttered, wishing Harrison could see exactly what he meant.

“You should get over here as soon as possible,” Harrison advised him.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dylan said, making no promises.

By the time he disconnected with Harrison, Bobby Mac had fully undergone his grisly transformation. What stood before him now was not a man. Nothing that even closely resembled a man.

Dry, rigid scales adorned his new body. A spiky green tail curled at his backside. Reptilian eyes stared back at him through deep, hollow sockets. A forked tongue slithered in and out between two rows of jagged teeth.

Dylan bolted for the door and made it to his car before the creature could make its first move. The entire time it seemed to be looking to Dylan, not at him, as if it was asking him for answers. Those confused green eyes asked one simple question: Who am I?

The better question now, Dylan thought, is what is he? And not even he or Harrison held the answers to that one.

He raced back to Harrison’s place, where the worms had in fact multiplied in numbers as Harrison had informed Dylan in a manic state.

“You’re not going to believe what I just saw,” Dylan said when he was able to catch his breath and find the words.

He laid it on thick, sparing no graphic details. He wanted Harrison to comprehend exactly what they were dealing with.

“We’re in way over our heads,” Harrison said, putting it mildly. “We may have to call in the big guns.”

“And who are the big guns?”

“The government. The CDC. NASA scientists. I don’t fucking know. But this is far beyond our control."

“But you said we were looking at an entirely new species here. This is a once in a lifetime discovery. We can’t just hand this over. Think about it; this is what you’ve always wanted, to be one of top scientists in the world. Imagine your name etched in the pages of every science textbook. This is an opportunity to be famous beyond our wildest dreams. Just think of the money.”

Blinded by dollar signs, Harrison was actually considering the option. “What would we have to do?”

“For now, nothing. We don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. We plead ignorance if the cops ask us about Bobby Mac. We let the worms fester in their tank and keep feeding them water just to keep them alive. Then we wait. I have a feeling these worms are still in a larva stage of sorts. They haven’t fully developed yet.”

“For our sakes, I hope you’re wrong with that theory. But while we’re exchanging notes, I have a theory of my own. If these organisms are both parasitic and pelagic, and they do rely on water to survive as pelagic organisms do, then it would make sense they’d choose humans as hosts. Our bodies are mostly comprised of water.”

“Interesting theory. Save it for your big speech to the world when this discovery makes us both rich.”

Harrison sighed. At the end of the day, they agreed to keep their lips sealed on these bizarre events, at least until more sense could be made of them.

* * *

            Harrison couldn’t sleep that night. He stayed up to watch the black worms as they continued to separate and multiply in numbers. By dawn, the bottom of the tank was a black sea of worms, all writhing and pulsing and trying to wriggle their way up the glass.

            He was starting to believe Dylan’s unusual theory about the larva stage, as the worms grew and livened with each drop of water Harrison bestowed upon them. There was no determining where or when the growth would end. They could’ve grown to the size of snakes, for all Harrison knew. But one thing was certain. At this rate, the tank eventually wouldn’t be able to hold them.

            Harrison had theories of his own. But if he was going to prove those theories, he needed a willing–or perhaps not so willing–test subject.

            At dawn, when the sun was still weak, Dylan Ford came knocking at Harrison’s door.

            “Couldn’t sleep either?” Harrison asked as he held the door open for Dylan.

            Dylan walked in and flopped on the couch, his eyes strained and bloodshot from lack of sleep. “What are we doing?” Dylan asked, shaking his head. “This whole thing about the money, it’s not us. We’re not the rapacious type. We need to do the right thing here. And it starts with Bobby Mac. I don’t know if it’s too late to save him, but we can still save others.”

            “About that,” Harrison said. “I have a solution that might be best for all parties involved.”

            “Lay it on me.”

* * *

            Bobby Mac–or the creature once known as Bobby Mac–had not left its place of origin. It loomed in the shadows of the living room, presiding over the mound of flesh that had once been its body.

            “Water,” a voice that was anything but human croaked inside this abomination. “Must have water.”

            “It’s worse than you described,” Harrison said, retching and pinching his nose with two fingers to repress the horrific stench.

            “Should we…should we get him some water?”

            “It’s not a him,” Harrison reminded Dylan. “Not anymore.” Harrison approached with caution, one hand held up in front, the other hiding behind his back.

            Glowing green eyes stared back at Harrison as he moved closer. Eyes that were impossible to read. Harrison couldn’t tell if this thing meant harm or if it was still in control of its emotions.

            Wasting no time, he produced the syringe from behind his back and plunged it deep into its neck, hard enough to break the scales.

            A series of disturbing, indescribable noises followed as the creature fell to its side and twitched about the floor. It sounded to Dylan like the creature was trying to breath, but it just couldn’t catch the air. It took less a minute for it to stop flailing around.

            “Is he…I mean, is it–”

            “Yes,” Harrison said before he could even pose the question. “It’s dead. Or at least it should be.”

            “What’d you do?”

            “Injected it with a powerful diuretic. It dried the thing out instantly. Now we’ve got no time for any more questions. Help me pick it up.”

            “Pick it up?”

            “Yes, I have some tests I need to run, and I can’t do it here. We’re bringing it back to my place. Let’s pray nobody sees us. But if they do, we say it’s a movie prop.”

            “It doesn’t smell like a prop to me,” Dylan remarked, waving his hand in front of his nose.

* * *

            Harrison performed a full autopsy on the creature back at his place. The organs–heart, liver, kidneys, lungs–still remained. It was in the lower chest cavity where Harrison found the culprit. A single black worm that had attached itself to Mac’s body.

            He dropped it to the floor and stomped it with his shoe until it was a stain of black pulp against the wood.

            “What does this confirm?” Dylan asked, a clothespin clamped over his nose to block the smell.

            “It confirms that the worms are parasites, as I suspected. And it goes a step further to proving my theory that they target humans because of the water our bodies retain. It also confirms we’re looking at a species that’s likely never been encountered before.”

            “All you found was one worm? Could there be more?”

            “I did a full search. This was the only one. Here’s what I think happened. Two worms found their way into his system. As they were crawling around, looking for a place to attach themselves, one found its way into Bobby’s lower intestines, right around the time he…well, you know.”

            “Oh, that would explain how it wound up in the toilet.”

            “But it sure as hell doesn’t explain where they came from. I’m afraid this can no longer wait. We have to share this with them.”

            “With who? The CDC? The NSA?”

            “The world.”

* * *

            Irvine Walsh was trying his best to console Pat, but the boy was beyond consolation. He sat in the corner of his room, blubbering like a baby as Irvine offered words of sympathy while trying to scoop Goldie up with a tiny net.

            Goldie was Pat’s pet goldfish, whom Pat had found floating lifelessly at the bottom of his fish tank when he woke to feed him that morning.

            Tears streamed down young Patrick’s face; the shock of losing a pet was not a feeling Pat was accustomed to. This was his first.

            Imagine if we had gotten a dog, Irvine thought.

Melanie had come in to lend her husband a hand with Pat, but she just ended up making things worse.

“It’s going to be all right,” Melanie assured young Pat. “We’re going to get a new goldfish, I promise.”

“I don’t want a new fish,” Pat cried. “I want Goldie back.”

“I’m sorry, Pat, but Goldie is gone,” Melanie said, turning to Irvine and shrugging her shoulders as if to say ‘what can I do?’ She observed the condition of the fish tank and balked. “No wonder this happened. Look at this tank, Irvine. Look how filthy it is. When was the last time you cleaned it and changed the water? Look at the algae built around the sides.”

Irvine had cleaned the tank a week before and after giving it a second look, he saw what she was talking about. “That doesn’t look like algae to me,” he said, shaking his head. “Algae is green. This stuff is black. And I think…dear God, I think it’s…moving.”

“Daddy,” his son called. His tears had ceased and he was pointing with one tiny finger at his father’s side. “Your elbow. I think it’s bleeding.”

            Irvine rubbed his fingers over his elbow and felt a scab forming at the tip. When he drew his hand back, he saw not blood, but a thick yellowish puss.

TO BE CONTINUED

VARIABLE: PART ONE

Genre: Horror/Science Fiction

 

VARIABLE

By Daniel Skye

 

PART ONE

THE ANOMALY

 

            Bartending does have its advantages. Just ask Dylan Ford.

            The hours are flexible, it gives you the opportunity to socialize and make new friends, and taking home a handful of tips every night comes in handy when you’re broke and waiting on your paycheck.

            But like any job, bartending has its downsides.

            For Dylan, the most dreadful aspect of his occupation was dealing with the rude, surly customers who didn’t tip or would go crazy when he tried to cut them off if they had too much. That was a judgment call Dylan loathed being the one to make, but it was all part of the job.

            In addition to the cheapskates who refused to tip and the lushes who tried to put up a fight when Dylan cut them off, he also had to contend with a series of oddball customers and elderly drunks who thought of him not as a bartender, but an unlicensed therapist who worked for tips.

            They’d come in and vent their frustrations, bitch about their jobs or their wives, share personal details you could only share in the company of a stranger you’d likely never see again.

            Then there were the regular drunks like Bobby Mac that always gave Dylan a chuckle. Cross-eyed Bobby Mac used to brag about the fact that he hadn’t missed a day of work in twenty years. Never showed up late, never called in sick. Twenty years of perfect attendance.

            He’d tell Dylan this every night he strolled in to Murphy’s Pub for a pint. Then he’d roll up his sleeve and flex his flabby bicep in a sad attempt to show Dylan what, if anything, comes from twenty straight years of hard work and dedication. But it wasn’t like Bobby was working steel mills or construction sites. He was a janitor for the parks department.

            But Dylan still reveled in his drunken yarns. But his favorite customer was his buddy, Rey. Rey was a generous tipper and anytime he stayed ‘til last call, he’d help clean the place up after Dylan sent the bar flies on their way and locked the doors.

            It was a dreary night back in October of 2013 that Rey stopped in ten minutes to three for a quick pint. He stayed behind as usual when Dylan locked the doors and grabbed a broom, helped sweep and then mop the floors while Dylan tended to the bathrooms. That was one job Rey never volunteered for.

            “You’ve gotta see this,” Dylan shouted from the men’s room. The door was wedged open and Rey walked over to see Dylan hunched over the toilet.

            “Is there a reason your face is mere inches away from that disgusting bowl?” Rey asked. “You gonna throw up or something?”

            “Look,” Dylan said, not altering his position. Rey leaned forward and saw the object of Dylan’s interest.

            “Yuck,” Rey remarked. “Somebody left a floater. Stop staring and flush the damn thing.”

            “I don’t think that’s a floater, Rey. It’s…it’s moving. Pulsing like a maggot.”

            Rey moved in for a closer look. The small, nearly microscopic worm was crawling its way up the bowl. But this didn’t resemble any ordinary earthworm. This worm was black, it pulsed with every movement and left a clear trail of smile in its path like a slug.

            “Who was the last person to use the bathroom?” Rey asked.

            “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure it was Bobby Mac.”

            “What the hell is it?”

            “I don’t have the slightest clue. It looks kinda like a worm. But it doesn’t move like a worm. It could be a parasite.”

            “Hey, what’s the name of that science geek you pal around with? Langford?”

            “Langstrom. Harrison Langstrom. Why?”

            “Maybe he’d know what it is.”

            “It’s possible. Tell you what, there’s a mason jar behind the bar with cherries in it. Empty the jar and bring it in here.”

            As Rey went to fetch the jar, Dylan stood up straight and glared at the yellow restroom sign that read: Servers, wash your hands after using the restroom to ensure the health and safety of your patrons. Patrons, wash your hands to ensure your health and the health of your friends and family.

            The sign was laminated, but easy to remove from the wall. He pulled the sign from the wall and used it to gingerly scoop the black worm up from the bowl. It crawled slowly across the yellow sign as Dylan held it straight, waiting for Rey to return.

            When he did, Dylan positioned the jar and gently tilted the sign, watching the worm slide down into the jar. He sealed the lid on the jar and wiped the ooze the worm had left on the sign with a bar rag and hung it back on the wall.

            “You should poke tiny holes in the lid,” Rey suggested. “So it doesn’t suffocate. We don’t even know what this thing really is, how it breathes, what it eats. It could die overnight inside there.”

            “Good point,” Dylan said, taking Rey’s suggestion when he arrived home with the jar in hand. He poked several small holes in the top and let it sit overnight.

By morning, the black worm had ceased movement. It looked all shriveled and dried out. He shook the jar lightly and saw there were still signs of life in this enigmatic creature.

            Without so much as a phone call, he rushed straight to Harrison Langstrom’s place and pounded on the door until it opened.

            “Dylan, what the hell?” Harrison muttered. “It’s eight in the morning. Some people like to sleep more than six or seven hours, you know?”

            “I’m sorry, but I have something that might interest you. And it couldn’t wait.”

            “Come in, I guess,” Harrison said, holding the door open. He didn’t notice the jar until Dylan was inside his house. “What in God’s name is that thing?”

            “I was hoping you could tell me. Rey and I found this in the pub last night. It was snaking its way up the toilet of the men’s room. I took it home last night and it seemed to get sick overnight. It was moving like crazy last night. Now it hardly moves at all.”

            “I’ll run some tests,” Harrison assured him. “As soon as I’ve had my coffee.”

* * *

            It took Harrison a day to reach any kind of verdict before he summoned Dylan to his house for a conference.

            “What’d you find out?” Dylan asked as he entered. Harrison closed the door and didn’t speak above a whisper.

            “I confirmed a number of things,” he began as Dylan took a seat on the couch. “The worm is definitely an organism, a life force of some kind. Just unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. I did some research, consulted a few textbooks, and couldn’t find anything useful. I’ve also discovered our little friend is a pelagic organism, a sea dweller. I conducted some tests and water seems to garner a positive reaction. It increased its movement and seems to be doing everything in its power to escape from its new habitat. I put it in a small tank I used for my snake before he died. Don’t worry, it can’t escape. There’s a mesh lid at the top. It’s way too big to squeeze through.”

            “What else?” Dylan asked.

            “Nothing. The thing is an anomaly. No one’s ever seen or heard of anything like it before. We might be looking at a new species here. But there’s a variable I can’t detect. I’m working on the theory that this organism might be a parasite. If I’m right, it would eventually need a host in order to continue to survive. You said you found it in the toilet?”

            “Yeah,” Dylan confirmed.

            “Who was the last person to use the bathroom?”

            “One of our regular customers. A guy named Bobby Mac.”

            “Then you need to find this man. If this thing somehow came from him, he could be in danger. Parasites can be very damaging to the body.”

            “I don’t know his address. But I know he works for the parks department.”

            “Well, that’s an excellent place to start.”

* * *

            Dylan Ford consulted the parks department. But they informed him Bobby hadn’t shown up for work that day. In fact, Bobby never even called in to let them know he wouldn’t be there. And Dylan knew that didn’t sound like Bobby Mac to him.

He inquired about Bobby’s address, but the manager stonewalled him, refusing to release an employee’s private information over the phone. So Dylan had to get creative.

He called Alex, the owner of Murphy’s Pub, and told him the cops turned up at his doorstep asking questions about Bobby Mac. Said they were looking for him and they needed his address. Alex hit the panic button immediately. He hadn’t renewed his liquor license in almost two years, and he couldn’t have the cops poking their nose around his business. He coughed up Mac’s address right away and told him to forward the information to the police for him.

Alex said he didn’t want anything to do with the cops, just as Dylan had suspected. His plan worked like a charm. Now armed with Bobby’s address, he set out to warn him of any impending dangers to his health.

But Bobby refused to answer the front door when Dylan arrived. He could hear movement from inside the house, feet shuffling past the foyer. But the door never budged.

“Come on, Bobby,” Dylan shouted, pounding his fist against the door. “I know you’re in there. I can hear you moving around. It’s an emergency.”

“I missed a day of work,” Bobby muttered from behind the door. “First time in twenty years.” He sounded gloomy, saddened. The sound of a broken man.

“Bobby, please open the door,” Dylan persisted. “I need to talk to you.”

Dylan heard the snap of the lock and the door creaked open a few inches. Dylan nudged it forward and saw Bobby shuffling past the foyer with his back turned to him, a robe draped over his body.

As Dylan passed the threshold, the soles of his sneakers met a sticky, unpleasant substance that nearly glued his feet to the floor. Dylan gasped as he laid eyes on the trail of slime that Bobby had left in his path.

“Bobby where’d you go?”

“In the living room. I’m not so sure you wanna see this, kid.”

Dylan took a deep breath and steeled himself for any horrors that waited. Walking across the sticky floor, he kept telling himself to pretend he was just inside a movie theater. That’s what the gummy floors reminded him of anyway. And it was easier to just write this off as imagination.

But nothing could prepare him for what he was about to see.

Dylan averted his eyes the second he moved to the living room and saw that Bobby Mac had discarded his robe.

His skin was dry and cracked, oozing puss from every slit. And his eyes…green as the skin of a lizard. In fact, his entire body was starting to resemble the appearance of a reptile. When Dylan dared look again, he realized the skin wasn’t just cracking. It was slowly peeling away to reveal a new layer of skin hiding beneath. And this new skin was riddled with green and yellow scales.

“I think I’m sick,” Bobby mumbled, his voice changing along with his skin.

“I think it’s more complicated than that,” Dylan said, cupping his hand over his mouth to stifle an imminent scream. Bobby turned away in despair, and Dylan gulped at the sight of the newest horrific discovery. Something green, long, and scabby was protruding from his backside.

He was sprouting a tail.

TO BE CONTINUED

CEREBRAL

Genre: Crime Fiction

 

CEREBRAL

By Daniel Skye

 

            Avery Morrison made a killing in the killing business.

            Proving the old adage that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, Avery followed in his father’s footsteps and became a heavy hitter for the Westfield, Long Island crew. This was after the Westfield crew recognized his potential when Avery killed his first man at the age of twenty-four.

            His first murder wasn’t just business for Avery. It was a personal matter. He wasn’t paid to do the job. He did the job on his volition. Slit the throat of a petty drug dealer/pimp named Floyd who was selling drugs to school children and pimping out a few underage girls he had in his stable.

            Avery did it right. He left no trace behind. No hair, no fibers, no DNA. Not even a single footprint. He gained access to Floyd’s apartment from the fire escape and waited in the shadows for hours before Floyd returned.

            A minute later, Floyd was writhing on the floor, the heels of his shoes scrapping the linoleum tiles as blood spurted from his neck in quick jets. He waited until the blood stopped flowing and Floyd’s body activity came to a screeching halt. Then he left the same way he come in, sneaking down the fire escape and running off into the darkness.

            No one had seen his face, no cloud of suspicion loomed over his head. He killed Floyd and got off scot-free.

            The Westfield crew paired Avery with a budding psychopath named Todd Reynolds and the rest was history.

            Their first target: Bucky Wallace. The man who once employed Avery’s father.

            Todd wanted to bust in guns blazing, really make their mark. But Avery anticipated the backlash from Bucky’s crew and suggested they make it look like an accident.

            Cyanide was employed by Avery to make it look like a heart attack. Given Bucky’s weight and deteriorating health, a heart attack was a more than believable scenario. Bucky’s crew had their suspicions, but they could never prove the Westfield crew had a hand in their leader’s death.

            His second job was the infamous fisherman hit that branded Avery a legend in the business. Avery Morrison was the loving handle his parents gave him, but his associates and employers knew him under a different alias: Swordfish.

            Avery earned the moniker of Swordfish when the Westfield crew paid him to put a lonely fisherman named Bobby White on ice. It was a solo assignment, as Todd had prior engagements to attend to for the boss.

            Bobby White was the solitary witness of a heinous crime committed by the Westfield crew. And they never wanted Bobby’s story reaching the inside of a courtroom.

            The job should’ve been short and simple, but Bobby White was a scrapper. And he wasn’t going down without a fight. A struggle ensued and it culminated with Avery impaling him on the long, flat bill of an eight-foot taxidermy swordfish that was mounted to White’s wall.

            It didn’t go as smooth as it should have. Avery got sloppy, overzealous. He never even had a chance to deploy the garrote wire Todd had supplied him for the job. But this incident proved to be a happy accident–well, not-so-happy for Bobby White–as the stunt made Avery the talk of every organized crime syndicate within a hundred thousand miles.

            He got hundreds of offers, considering the notion of becoming an independent contractor. But in the end, Avery remained loyal of Leo Locascio and his Westfield crew.

            Like his father, Avery had retained that old-school mentality. You stay loyal, always keep your mouth shut, and never rat on your friends. Nowadays, these so-called gangsters will squeal on their comrades for a pack of smokes and two year sentence reduction. But not Avery.

            And as it turned out, Bobby White was a cakewalk compared to Miles Dexter.

* * *

            Seven months after the Bobby White affair, the Westfield crew handed Todd and Avery thick envelopes and informed them of their latest assignment. A drug dealer named Miles Dexter was cutting into their territory and the big boss man, Leo Locascio, didn’t want Dexter swaying his loyal customers away.

            Locascio couldn’t afford the risk of a little healthy competition. So he decided to “buy up” his competition, rather than contend with them.

            Dexter’s penthouse suite was on the top floor of a fifty-story apartment complex. They arrived before dark to scope the place out. Parked across the street from the building in a black Lincoln Continental, Avery could see a doorman, and a deskman. He knew they weren’t going to get in without ID, but Avery had it all worked out.

            They just needed to wait until Dexter left the building to make their move.

            Hours passed as they sat in silence; Todd munching on candy and chocolate to appease his incurable sweet tooth. Todd had learned over the months that Avery wasn’t the loquacious type. If he was going to get Avery talking, he’d have to be the one to initiate the conversation.

            Todd was wild, energetic, uninhibited. Avery was cold, devious, cerebral.

            “So I heard this story,” Todd began. “This guy living in a penthouse suite in Brooklyn was bragging to his guests that the windows of his apartment were unbreakable. He claimed the glass was five inches thick. It was bulletproof. You couldn’t smash it with a hammer or a baseball bat.”

            “Continue,” Avery said, not sure where the story was going.

            “But his guests weren’t convinced. So he decided to prove it by performing a small test of durability. He ran full speed into the glass and rammed it with his shoulder. Well, the guy was right. The glass was unbreakable. But he hit it with such force, the glass popped out of the window frame, and the guy fell forward, plunged sixty stories to his death.”

            “That’s a true story?”

            “As far as I know,” Todd said, helping himself to another Snickers bar.

            “I don’t know, man, sounds like an urban legend to me,” Avery said. Notice how he said man instead of Todd.

            Avery spoke seven languages. It helped in his line of work. Tod is the German word for death, a fact Avery was more than aware of. And so superstition dictated that he never speak the name aloud.

            He’d always call him man or bud or guy, but never Todd. To speak the name aloud would be like shattering a mirror and gaining seven years of bad luck…if you believe in that sort of thing.

            “Nah,” Todd dared to defy him. “You can’t just make up a story like that.”

            “Never underestimate what the human mind is capable of.” Todd hated it when Avery got all philosophical on him.

            “Speaking of that, that big brain of yours better have a good plan to get us in there without raising any red flags”

            “I’ve got it covered,” Avery said, motioning with his head to the backseat. There was a thick black case, two uniforms, and two fake ID cards. “We’re going in dressed as exterminators. We’ll use the service elevator to get up to the penthouse suite. Once we’re up there, Miles usually has one man guarding the door. I’ll distract him and you’ll dispatch him. Then we’ll do our thing and go.”

            “We’re going in as bug killers?”

            “You have a better plan?”

            Todd sighed. “That uniform better fit me.” Todd dug deep into his bag of candy. “Want a Butterfinger?”

            “I don’t care for sweets.”

            “What do you care for?”

            “At this very moment, I care about the money we’re getting paid, and getting this job done right.”

* * *

            They waited until eight o’clock, when Miles Dexter left the building with two hulking security guards at his sides.

            Donning their new wardrobes, Avery and Todd approached the building and flashed their faux ID cards at the doorman and explained to the deskman they were there to spray the penthouse suite for bedbugs. The deskman, sickened just by the word bedbugs, dismissed them to go about their business.

            Just as Avery planned, they walked inconspicuously to the service elevator and took it straight up the fifth floor. And just as Avery had pointed out, a guard was waiting at the door of the suite when they stepped out from the elevator.

            The guard was a bulky man with a crew-cut and goatee. “Purpose of visit?” the guard asked.

            “We’re here to spray for bedbugs,” Avery said, flashing his faux ID card once more.

            “Mr. Dexter didn’t say anything to me about any exterminators coming by.”

            “It was an emergency call,” Avery said, thinking on his feet. “That’s why we’re here so late.”

            “Uh huh,” the guard muttered, unconvinced. His eyes were deadlocked on Avery, so he didn’t even notice Todd slinking around his side. “And where are those canisters you use to spray for bugs?”

            “They’re in here,” Avery said, pointing to the thick black case in his hand.

            The garrote wire found its way around the guard’s stout neck, and Todd pulled the wire until it was taut. The guard dropped to his knees, but he was still putting up a fight. Todd tightened his grip, wearing gloves to make sure the wire didn’t slice into his hands.

            Blood spurted across the hall as the wire carved its way into the guard’s neck and severed the carotid artery. This was a trademark of Reynolds. Avery wasn’t a fan. He found it to be too messy, too tactless.

            Once Todd released the wire from around the guard’s neck, Avery relieved him of his magnetic key card and slid it in the door. They stepped past the threshold of the door, and Avery searched for the fuse box. Meanwhile, Todd dragged the guard’s body into the closet and set about cleaning the blood in the hallway with some ammonia he found under the sink. They couldn’t have the guard’s body in plain sight when Miles returned. It would ruin the big surprise they had in store for him.

            Avery killed the power to the top floor and grabbed a chair from the kitchen table, using it for leverage as he unscrewed a light bulb from the ceiling fixture. Todd returned once the job in the hallway was complete and popped open the black case.

            He removed a wireless drill with a small drill bit attached and took the light bulb from Avery.

            “You know what you’re doing?” Avery asked.

            “I’ve done this a million times,” Todd assured him.

            “Then pay attention because you’re about to drill the wrong side. You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. Let me do it.”

            Avery snatched the drill and light bulb from his hands and drilled a small hole in the center of the metal ring at the bottom of the bulb. Removing a syringe from the case, he filled the bulb with an amber colored liquid, and using the chair again, screwed the bulb back into the fixture. He activated the lights again from the fuse box and they exited just as they had entered. It was sometime after midnight that Miles Dexter returned with his two Incredible Hulk-sized bodyguards at his sides. Noticing the absence of the door guard, he had his men enter first. As soon as they reached out and hit the light switches...BOOM.

* * *

            The next day, the explosion was all over the front page of every major NY newspaper. Leo Locascio called the boys in for a quick chat. They expected praise and admiration. Instead, they were met with disapproval.

            “You two really let me down on this one,” Leo chided.

            “What are you talking about?” Todd was the first to speak. Avery knew better than to question the boss. “Have you read the newspapers? We used the old gasoline inside a light bulb trick the mafia used to use. No trace was left behind. The cops will probably think it was a gas leak or bad wiring.”

            “Yes, and that’s not why I’m disappointed. I thought the light bulb method was a nice touch. My only gripe is that you failed to kill Miles Dexter. You killed three of his security guards, blew his penthouse suite to bits, but he’s still alive. In the hospital with first degree burns. He’ll pull through just fine.”

            “You gotta be shitting me,” Todd muttered.

            “I don’t shit anyone,” Leo said. “I’m going to give you boys one more chance to do this right.”

            “We’ll take care of it tonight,” Todd assured Leo.

            “No you won’t. Not while he’s in the hospital. It’ll look too suspicious after the explosion if anything happens to him while he’s in recovery. We wait until he’s out. Then we take care of it. Can you handle that?”

            “We won’t let you down,” Todd promised.

* * *

            Two weeks later, Miles Dexter was out of the hospital and already back in the dope game. Truth be told, he never left the dope game. His dealers were still operating in his absence. And there was profit to claim when he returned and more profit to be made.

            And this was something Leo Locascio couldn’t have. After the attempt on his life–which as Todd suspected, the cops wrote off as faulty wiring–Miles had beefed up his security. He moved his operation to a compound on the outskirts of Westfield. A compound that was protected twenty-four-seven by cameras and armed security guards.

            In addition to Swordfish, Avery had been referred to by associates as the cerebral assassin for his cold, calculating moves. And if there was ever a situation where this term applied, it applied here.

            Avery and Todd would have to infiltrate Dexter’s compound and do the deed without being seen by cameras or by security. Easier said than done.

            But if anyone could formulate a plan, it was Avery “Swordfish” Morrison. So he strapped on his thinking cap, plotting and scheming away. Locascio had supplied them blueprints of Dexter’s compound, and Avery studied them, looking for a weak spot, a point of entry. And he couldn’t find one.

So he set a new plan into motion. A plan that couldn’t backfire. And it was a plan that Todd was in favor for. They were going in guns blazing.

* * *

The compound was comprised of several adjoining buildings, and was fenced off as Avery knew from the blueprints. But as Avery also knew, the fence was steel mesh and could easily be cut through with a pair of bolt cutters. So they swung by the hardware store on Leo’s dime and picked up a pair guaranteed to do the job.

Avery also had several other surprises in store, but he saved those for when they arrived to the compound.

They arrived after dark, sometime before midnight. On this night, the moon had returned to the beginning of its cycle and was barely visible to the naked eye. But the ominous glow of the spotlights was enough to light up the whole inside of the compound.

The perimeter of the compound was surrounded by several guards armed with AK-47s. Todd and Avery had parked the black Lincoln a quarter mile down the road. If things got ugly, they’d be retreating on foot. And chances were they’d probably never make it. So they had to do this fast and do this right.

Lurking in the shadows beyond the compound, Todd watched as Avery pulled the pin of a flash grenade and tossed it a good twenty feet through the air towards the fence of the compound, where the armed guards were stationed.

Todd and Avery turned their backs quickly, squeezed their eyes shut, and covered their ears. A loud boom was accompanied by a blinding flash of light.

Avery and Todd rushed towards the fence, Todd going to work with the bolt cutters as Avery removed the loaded magazines from the AK-47s. The guards, temporarily blinded and deaf, weren’t going to need them. And Avery didn’t want the guards using them if they recovered before the job was done. Besides, Avery and Todd didn’t need the AKs. They came prepared.

Todd cut a perfect circle in the fence and discarded the bolt cutters as they climbed through. Avery took out two rotating cameras with a silenced 9mm semiautomatic as they stormed the grounds of the compound. As they approached the first building, two guards rushed out. One was short and stocky, the other built like a tank. The tank was armed with a double-barreled shotgun but he was a clumsy shot and missed horribly.

It took two well-aimed shots for Avery to reduce the tank’s kneecaps to splinters. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud as the short guard fumbled for his pistol. Todd slid a straight razor from his sleeve and with one swipe of the blade, severed the short guard’s carotid artery.

The tank was still breathing when Avery applied a little pressure to his shattered kneecap with the heel of his boot. The tank yelped in pain as Avery applied more pressure. “Which building is Miles Dexter holed up in?”

“Fuck you,” the tank muttered.

“Very original,” Avery said, rolling his eyes. He kicked the shotgun out of the tank’s reach and wrapped his finger around the trigger of his silenced 9mm, aiming the barrel steady at the tank’s head. “I hate repeating myself, but I’m going to give you one more chance to save your pathetic life. Where the fuck is Miles Dexter?”

“The middle building, second floor office.”

“That wasn’t so fucking hard, was it?” Avery asked rhetorically.

The center of the compound was watched over by several more cameras that Avery took out with a few well-placed shots. The door was locked, but again, Avery prepared for this deterrent. He removed two objects from his jacket. One was a flash grenade. The other resembled a staple gun, but with a small metal rod protruding from the front.

“The fuck is that?” Todd asked.

“Snap gun. You can use it to pick locks.” And Avery did just that. Once the door was unlocked, he yanked the pin of the flash grenade, opened the door, rolled it inside, and quickly slammed the door shut. He didn’t open it again until he heard the bang.

They entered the building and stepped over six more fallen guards. As they reached the stairs, more company arrived behind them as several more soldiers approached, these ones armed with baseball bats and crowbars.

“You take care of Dexter,” Todd said, garrote wire in one hand, straight razor in the other. “I’ve got these clowns.”

Avery ascended the staircase, leaving Todd to fend for himself against the advancing guards.

He used the snap gun to gain access to Dexter’s locked office. As soon as the door swung open, Dexter fired a deafening blast from behind his desk. The shot from the rifle narrowly missed Avery. He slammed the door shut just as Dexter fired another missed shot that tore a hole through the wood of the door.

“This can go one of two ways,” Dexter shouted behind the door. “You can walk away and tell Leo Locascio to kiss my hairy ass. Or you can stay and die.”

“What about the third option?” Avery asked, peeking through the hole of the door to confirm that Dexter was still aiming the rifle towards the door.

He stepped back, away from the door, and fished through his jacket again. Producing a small round pellet no bigger than a marble, he moved forward again and tossed it through the hole Dexter had blasted through the door.

The pellet exploded upon impact when it struck the corner of Dexter’s desk, releasing a strange, odorless gas that left Dexter gasping for breath. Blood rained from his ears and nostrils, and he tasted copper in the back of his throat as he heaved and struggled to find the air. Collapsing behind the desk, Miles writhed uncontrollably about the floor. His legs twitched, his body going into convulsions.

As the gas cleared, his legs stopped kicking as he sucked in one last weak breath. Avery heard footsteps approaching and drew his 9mm, but lowered the weapon as he saw Todd coming up the stairs, his clothes stained red.

“Don’t worry,” Todd said. “It’s not my blood.”

Avery pulled the door open and they stepped inside the office, Todd getting his first glimpse of Avery’s handiwork.

“What’d you do to him?”

“Cyanide bomb. A little home project I’ve been working on.”

“You scare me sometimes.”

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”

* * *

            “You really are the cerebral assassin,” Todd remarked as they walked back to the car.

            “I like to think of myself as more of a modern day samurai,” Avery said. He had gained interest in the subject of samurais ever since Todd had introduced to a series of old Kung Fu and samurai flicks.

            “Call yourself whatever the fuck you want, but your methods are effective. That’s all that counts.”

            Avery never said it, but he knew Todd was right. As different as they were, they made one hell of a team. And their journey together was only just beginning.

 

Disclaimer: The “gasoline inside a light bulb” trick is an old mafia urban legend. I have not, nor will I ever attempt to test this out. And I do not encourage anyone else to do the same. Kids, please don’t try this at home. Disgruntled spouses, please don’t try this on your significant other. And if any Mafioso’s are reading this story, please don’t try this on me. I mean no disrespect.