A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (35 page)

What had he done? He didn’t know the woman had a kid. How could he have known? Yet this was the probable and natural consequence of snatching random people off the street and killing them. Everyone was someone’s kid, and women of that age had small children.

As to the woman, fuck her. She had it coming. But not the child. The child had done nothing. Neither had her mother, for that matter, other than be loud and obnoxious. But that’s not what did her in. He would have killed her anyway. It made him feel better that she was a bitch, but it didn’t take the sting out of the child’s grief. Evil man. But he was not evil. Not by nature, anyway. Hijacked was more like it. He resisted at first. He had seen how evil it was and tried to resist. And yet here he was—doing what he had to do to survive. Fuck her. But the child?

He put his head down and strode rapidly in the opposite direction, pretending not to see. Once around the corner he ran to the next campo and entered a bar.

HE CONSIDERED HIS REFLECTION in the mirror behind the counter, made ghastly by the lights shining up from the glass bar. What a horrible thing you have done. How did you come to this?

The bartender handed him his martini, but even this elixir of happiness didn’t brighten his dark mood. “What an ugly bastard you have become,” he said to his reflection, the old face he didn’t recognize shining back at him, darkened by the shadows created by the hideous light of the bar and the heinous deeds of the night.

“How did you come to this?” he whispered to himself. “How did you come to prowling the streets of Venice, killing for blood, tearing people open? How did you come to be a ghoul, roaming the night like a beast, spreading death and misery into the world? Eternal life? You want to live forever?”

He went into the bathroom where he saw himself in another mirror, close up. His forehead, chin, and shirt were speckled with blood, his hair caked with it. Thankfully, it was still carnevale, and this look didn’t attract attention.

“How did you come to this?” he asked himself again. He splashed water on his face, then shuffled back to the bar and finished his drink. He ordered another. The bottles behind the bar glowed in the cold, white light. You fucking monster.

Now drunk, he staggered through the snowy and flooded streets toward… nowhere. He simply wanted to roam the narrow alleys of Venice in the cold, snow, and high water as a means of self-punishment. Exhausted, he fell into the icy water covering one of the out-of-the-way streets, and in the frigid darkness, with snow accumulating on his face, he called out for God to help him. He didn’t believe in God, though he often invoked His name, usually in vain. He wallowed in the freezing and salty water in a dark street in Venice, heaving his guts into the brine, all the while begging for salvation.

But he didn’t need salvation; he needed resurrection. He had it in his power to do it, and he
would
do it. He pulled himself upright and dragged his carcass, torn, foul, and stinking, to his studio, where he washed and slept.

YELLOW MORNING SUN WARMED his face. He remembered the events of the night, the decision to which he had come, and contemplated what should be done next. He considered going to the apartment to make peace with Rose and have a touching reunion, but decided to first have the witch reverse his condition, clean himself up, and make a grand entrance, thereby making things all better. He washed, changed his clothes, and got a haircut. By the time he called Mauro, he nearly looked human again. The studio, still a disaster, wouldn’t be a good place to meet, so he met him at a café.

He told Mauro about the previous week and that he had decided to reverse his condition. He would need his help. They arranged to meet the witch around midnight. She would be ready.

MAURO STEERED THE SMALL BOAT slowly over the glassy canals. They tied up near the witch’s house and knocked on the large door. The tiny white-haired woman let them in and brought them into a courtyard, which held a table, a few chairs, and a young lamb tied to a post.

“Have you brought the scorpion oil?” the witch asked.

“Yes,” Brigham said. “Right here.” He gave it to her.

“First,” she said, “you will drink the oil. Then, I will cut the lamb’s throat, and you will drink its blood.”

Brigham found the idea revolting, though he himself had committed much more heinous acts than that against the flesh of humans. He nodded.

“We have to wait a few moments after taking the oil before giving you the blood. You will need to drink enough of the oil to kill you, but if you drink the blood within an hour, you will live.”

“Lovely,” Brigham said. “Then let’s synchronize watches.”

The witch poured the liquid into a small glass and handed it to Brigham. “Drink.”

Brigham put the cup to his lips, hesitated for a moment, glanced at Mauro and the witch, then downed its contents, coughing and gagging. The witch stared at him, blinking with small wet eyes.

“How is it?” Mauro asked.

“Fucking horrible.”

“Now we wait,” the witch said.

“Let’s not lose track of time,” Brigham choked out.

The witch tied the back legs of the lamb together and pulled it up, using a rig attached to a pole, positioning the animal above Brigham.

As the witch brought out a large knife, her head exploded into a pink mist, sending blood and brain in a wide swath through the garden. She crumpled to a pile under the lamb.

Brigham and Mauro, stunned, saw Charles standing at the entrance to the courtyard with his two goons, one of whom held a large handgun with a silencer, a fine thread of smoke rising from its barrel.

The last time Brigham saw Charles he was lying on the floor of the hospital with an arrow sticking out of him, ready to be put into a body bag. He now stood before them looking healthy and fit, dressed in a dark suit with a large orange silk handkerchief flapping from his breast pocket.

“I must have lost my invitation to your little party,” Charles said.

Brigham and Mauro stood silently, staring at Charles.

“Oh, that is a nice touch,” Charles said, his eyes moving to the lamb. “Now, why were you and this old hag torturing that poor little sheep?”

Brigham gazed at Charles, unable to speak but thinking that the clock was running on the scorpion oil. He needed to drink the lamb’s blood or he would die. Finally, he was able to croak out, “Charles.”

“In the flesh. You weren’t expecting me?”

“Not really,” Brigham said. “The last time I saw you, you were pretty much dead.”

Charles smiled. “You forget, lad, I’m immortal.”

“But I thought—”

“You thought that the arrows would kill me? Well, we are told a lot of bullshit in this world.”

“Indeed,” Brigham said, looking at his watch. He had fifty minutes.

Charles motioned to his men, who gagged Brigham and Mauro, tied their hands behind their backs, blindfolded them, and led them to a large speedboat. They pulled away from the poles along the canal and moved slowly through the narrow waterway. The boat sped up and the water became rougher. Must be entering the Grand Canal. By the tilting of the boat as they turned, he could tell they were headed toward Saint Mark’s Basin. He couldn’t see, but he knew that Charles’s henchmen guarded them. They turned right, then sped up, now in the Giudecca Canal. Where were they going? He had to act. The goons had exchanged words, so he knew where they were positioned in the boat in relation to him. He couldn’t allow Charles to get to wherever he was taking them. He had to act. Now.

He moved closer to the men guarding them and through the gag made loud retching sounds. He moved toward the front of the boat and continued pretending to be throwing up. The guards expressed disgust and moved aside. Mauro, apparently understanding what was going on, moved toward the back, followed by one of the men. He, too, began to make the sound of vomiting. The man moved away from him to the edge of the boat. The guards yelled at each other over the noise of the engine. Brigham and Mauro fell against the men, attempting to knock them over the side. Brigham succeeded, but Mauro went over with his guard into the water.

Brigham used the edge of the door to free his blindfold. Charles was steering the boat, apparently unaware of what had happened. Brigham crawled slowly toward the front. The boat lurched on a wave, sending him to the floor and crashing him against the bulkhead. Charles turned and, upon seeing Brigham, jerked the wheel, causing the boat to veer sharply right, then left. Brigham brought himself within reach of Charles and kicked him hard in the knee. Charles let go of the wheel, and the boat spun to the right and came crashing to a stop against the pier at the Dogana Point.

The force of the impact sent them both to the floor. Brigham’s hands were still tied behind his back. Charles kicked him vigorously, landing several healthy blows to Brigham’s face and ribs, striking the old stab wound in his side several times. In spite of searing and agonizing pain, Brigham managed to kick Charles backward, giving himself time to sit through his arms and bring his hands in front of him. With both hands put together like one big fist, he struck Charles on the side of his head, sending him into the water.

Brigham jumped to the street and ran. The immortal and apparently indestructible Charles climbed out of the canal and ran after him.

A large crane stood at the edge of the water, next to the church of Santa Maria della Salute. Surely, the old man wouldn’t follow him up the crane. The erroneousness of this analysis became evident when Charles climbed rapidly behind him. Brigham felt a burning pain in his right foot and then the whiz of bullets going past his head. The son of a bitch had shot him in the foot. He slipped on the blood and found himself hanging from a bar by his tied-together hands, about two hundred feet above the pavement, with Charles approaching fast and shooting.

Brigham got a leg over the bar and regained his footing, in spite of the excruciating pain from the gunshot. It was all he could do to remain conscious. Only adrenaline kept him going, dulling the pain and giving him strength.

Charles closed in behind him but stopped firing.

“Get down, old man,” Brigham shouted. “You’re going to fall.”

“Your concern for me is touching.”

Brigham continued to the top of the crane. Looking down, he became dizzy. He clung to the ladder, knuckles white, eyes closed, until he regained his composure. Charles grew nearer. The bastard must be Superman. Brigham crawled out on the arm of the crane, which stretched out over the dome of one of the church’s bell towers. Charles followed. He cut the ropes on his wrists on a protruding bolt, and clung to metal bars as the crane swayed and vibrated in the breeze. His arms and legs ached from exertion and fear.

Charles grew nearer. What did this old man eat?

At the end of the boom, Brigham had no place to go but down. He stopped to catch his breath and think. His wounds burned and tore at his flesh as if he were being flayed alive. He was out of options, time was running out on the elixir, and Charles was only a few feet behind him.

“Jump, lad,” Charles shouted. “You’d be better off than with what I have planned for you.”

In an instant, Charles was within arm’s reach. He grabbed hold of the foot he had shot and gave it a violent tug. Brigham felt as though his entire leg had been torn off, and nearly passed out from the pain. The force of the pull sent Brigham over the side, but he was able to hang on with one hand. Charles released the foot, leaving Brigham swinging in the wind that buffeted the crane. Wet with perspiration, his hand began to slip. He managed to get the other hand over the bar, then a leg. He pulled himself up.

“You’re tougher than you look,” Charles said.

Brigham lay there, trying to catch his breath.

Charles reached out again toward the wounded foot. Brigham kicked him in the face. Charles slipped off the crane but caught himself and dangled above the towers of the church. As Charles’s hands slipped, he roared in frustration and attempted to throw his leg over a bar, but he lost his grip. He floated down, as if in slow motion, slamming to a stop when impaled by the cross atop the bell tower. After a moment, his body fell in two pieces to the ground.

“So much for being immortal, my friend,” Brigham said.

He clung by his legs and aching arms to the metal of the crane far above Venice. The canals glimmered below like rivers of stars, the boats like planets, moving silently through the darkness. The wind chilled him and shook the boom. Now, to get down and find a way back to the lamb. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes.

Inching backward to the central part of the crane, Brigham was able to put a foot down on a rung, bring himself vertical again, and begin the descent. He thought about how to get to the witch’s house once he reached the bottom. The boat had crashed, but maybe it would still run. He looked down but couldn’t see it. Blood made his hands slippery and ran down his legs to his feet. As he made this discovery, he lost his footing, and his hands slipped off the rung. In free fall, the wind rushed past his ears until he crashed to a stop on a small platform.

Pain tore through him like a ten-pound hammer. He had broken a leg. Afraid to look, for fear there was bone sticking out, he rested for a second, then started down again. He nearly fainted from the agony, but the leg held him up. Probably not a compound fracture. He continued down, with every cubic inch of his body searing, and blood oozing from several breaches of his hide. He was thirsty for water and blood, and had only minutes before the scorpion oil would kill him.

Reaching the bottom, he crawled over to the boat. Water covered the bow, and the boat hung in the canal, ass-end up. He collapsed on the pavement, unable to go any farther. He lay there, barely conscious, the cold, salty water on his face. The tide had rolled over the pavement and continued to rise.

IF HE LAY THERE MUCH LONGER, he would die. He managed to get to the wall of the Dogana, pull himself upright, and take a step on his broken leg. Pain pounded up his leg, causing him to fall back to the pavement. “You’ve got to get going, son,” he said to himself. “Find something to use as a crutch.”