Maohden Vol. 1 (12 page)

“Care if I ride shotgun?”

“Don’t do anything embarrassing in front of the patients. Unpleasantries are liable to break out in any case. Put operating theater number two on standby.”

The nurse bowed and left. Mephisto got to his feet. The sweep of his white cape stirred the golden chains around his neck.

The patients had crowded into a corner of the waiting room. They looked more tired than frightened, being plagued by internal diseases that were no less terrifying than these ruffians.

This being Demon City, that meant the face of one had half-turned into a gooey throbbing mass.

From between the bandages wrapped around the hands of another peeked out bristly appendages that could not possibly be human, probably a side effect from a low-grade shape-shifting drug.

A woman with what looked like vines or tentacles descending from her nose all the way to the floor.

The first impulse of those suffering from diseases rarely found anywhere outside this city was not to seek care at the National Hospital in Shin-Okubo, or the privately-funded Multidisciplinary Medical Center in West Shinjuku, but to put their fates in the hands of Doctor Mephisto.

The Demon Physician.

He glided through the waiting room towards the yakuza like a ghostly will-o’-the-wisp. Nobody knew the real name of the beautiful man in white. He’d appeared in Shinjuku fifteen years before and purchased this building—the former ward government building infested by gremlins and demonic spirits—and founded the hospital that bore his name.

A flourishing success from the start, the facilities had been packed to capacity ever since.

But what really secured his reputation in the public imagination was successfully treating the mayor and prime minister after their helicopter made an emergency landing in the center of Shinjuku’s Chuo Park during an aerial inspection tour.

They’d gone missing for two days in Demon City’s DMZ, as Chuo Park was known, before being rescued by a suicide corps made up of three hundred SDF commandos and Shinjuku police and mercenaries supplied by private security firms. Only one hundred twenty-four made it back out alive, and half of those had already mutated into life forms barely recognizable as human.

When the most advanced surgical techniques outside the ward couldn’t do anything for them, Mephisto restored them to normal in a week. In gratitude, the national and ward governments offered to issue him a special medical license, but he refused.

Not only medicine, but Doctor Mephisto was said to be equally versed in physics, metaphysics, electrical and chemical engineering, and theology. But he started his private practice with no more credentials than a lowly country doctor.

All wisdom and knowledge in the world alone were not likely to have much of an effect on the average gangbanger. Though as soon as they saw the doctor, easily mistaken for the ghost of some long-dead beauty risen from the grave, they all flushed in surprise.

They soon came to themselves. An even more menacing air filled the waiting room. The capo, identified by his pinstriped suit, walked up to Mephisto. They stopped and faced each other, six feet apart.

The yakuza capo averted his eyes from the young doctor. Blood rushed to his cheeks. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“What seems to be the problem?” Mephisto asked, his voice clear as a bell.

The yakuza hesitated, then found his voice. But there were limits to the power of beauty. The yakuza’s snake-like eyes prowled about the lobby.

“You’ve made quite the name for yourself around here,” he growled in tones that would make a normal man shake in his boots, as if he’d been tempering that instrument since the day he was born. “You must see a nice return on a place like this. Living the good life, eh? It’d be a shame if some punk monsters cut loose in her. It’d drain the kitty awful fast.”

He left the implications hanging in the air. Mephisto didn’t react in the slightest.

“But if we showed up at times like that, it’d set your mind at ease, you know? We may not look like it, but
integrity
is our watchword. Nobody works for us that we don’t already know. There’s even cops around moonlighting as common thieves.”

In fact, in the last two weeks, over a hundred cops had been caught taking shape-shifting drugs off the clock and looting local establishments. Anybody willing to put up with shoddy manufacturing and endure the numerous side-effects could shed every speck of the human and transform themselves into a beast.

The CSI units were designing detectors that could reproduce hard evidence from mutated fingerprints and fluids, but hadn’t yet produced a working model.

“You seem to be offering this hospital your security services. How much do you charge?”

The yakuza grinned at Mephisto’s question, not one to complain when the negotiations went this easy. “Well, there’s what you owe in arrears to start with. How about two hundred a month?”

The yakuza flashed toothy grins, like a pack of hungry wolves. The patients exchanged worried glances. Two hundred in ten-thousand yen bills came to two million yen.

“Agreed,” Mephisto said without hesitation. Perhaps the yakuza had begun to take note of shadows lurking in his smile. “However, protection is one thing I do not need. There is something else I would like instead.”

“Hoh. And that would be?”

Mephisto reached out with his left hand and traced a graceful circle in the air around the yakuza’s brutalized nose. That gracefulness was perhaps why the man in the pinstriped suit didn’t back away.

An audible
snap
as Mephisto flicked his forefinger at the man’s nose. But even before they could start dreading the expected response, what happened next made both the patients and the yakuza gape.

Mephisto opened his hand. The yakuza didn’t back away. His eyes opened wide in blank surprise. It shouldn’t have taken more than a moment for true outrage at such an unexpected gesture of disrespect to reveal itself, but they opened wider still. Wider than was physically possible.

His eyes literally bugged out of his face. And plopped from their sockets onto the perfectly manicured palm, trailing the optic nerves behind them. He reared back and screamed. The kind of scream that made a brave man’s hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

The yakuza looked across the waiting room from the palm of Mephisto’s hand. A dark curtain fell across his field of vision as Mephisto yanked them out. A nurse was waiting there with a stainless steel tray, obviously prepared for what the hospital director was going to do.

Mephisto deposited the eyeballs on the tray. The look on his face might be mistaken for that of an angel of mercy. That expression did not change in the slightest when he turned to face the apoplectic gang members.

“Thank you,” he said, and the words came straight from the heart. “But for two million yen, that isn’t quite enough. Your internal organs, your skeleton, your brain—we are always a little short around here.”

It took about two seconds for the rest of the gangsters to realize the horrifying implications of what he was saying. Any sensible man witnessing what had just happened would have pulled up stakes and hightailed it out of there. But yakuza weren’t known for their reasonable sensibilities.

“Son of a bitch!” screamed one, slashing at Mephisto with a Japanese sword.

The sheer stupidity of such a move was made manifest a moment later. As he swung the sword with all his might, Mephisto lightly grasped the wrist with his left hand, and with the index finger of his right hand traced a line from his head down to his waist.

The line was stained red.

With a ghastly tearing sound, the line opened up to the left and right. Had the wound been made with the sharp edge of a blade, the skin would have simply separated. This was no normal incision.

As the rest watched in stunned disbelief, the pink flesh peeled back like the skin of an orange and rolled up like a sardine can, exposing the bones and organs of the yakuza’s insides.

This appalling vivisection would have been amazing in a medical laboratory. But this was hardly the time or the place to do an autopsy. Whatever secret technique Mephisto had employed, all of the yakuza’s internal organs remained in place and continued to function as a healthy body demanded they should. The dark red heart throbbed, sending the blood coursing through the arteries and veins.

Like the world’s most realistic anatomical model.

“Hmm,” Mephisto said, with a studious expression. “I see a touch of gastroptosis. Hold on for another ten minutes and we’ll take you into the back and do something about it.” Such dreadful words spoken in such a beautiful manner. “But it still doesn’t add up to two million yen.”

He stepped forward. The two yakuzas in front of him scowled and jumped back. Anywhere else even they would be beating a retreat by now. But this was Demon City. However horrifying the scene unfolding before them, nobody would be surprised at whatever happened next.

On one side of Mephisto, a man with a cyborg-like hydraulic piston poking out of his right arm roared like an animal and charged forward. Opposite him, another flashed a bare blade and set off at a sprint.

Caught between death by the sword or by the fist, Mephisto’s cape danced. Flashing white and dark like a magical bird, it swooped between the naked steel and the clenched fists. The elegant gust of sweep of wind picked up the two gangsters and sent them crashing head-first into the concrete floor.

With a dull crack, their skulls gave way. Gray matter spouted from their ears and noses. Confronted with such a gruesome spectacle, nobody moved, nobody fainted.

“Other than chopping them up, I do not see much use for a yakuza’s brain. What will you offer next? The patients and I are most grateful.”

“Thank you!” Bolstering his pronouncement, the heartfelt voices of the patients rose up in the waiting room.

“I’ll take a right hand!”

“An eye for me!”

“I need a pancreas!”

“Bone marrow for my child!”

“Please! You two!”

Pale fingers pointed at the two still-healthy yakuza. The raiders retreated. The patients advanced. Unable to withstand the surge of disconsolate emotions pressing on him from all sides, the gangster in the white kung-fu shirt yelled and yanked the machine pistol out of his waistband.

The hand holding the gun separated from his wrist, splattering blood into the air as it fell to the floor.

Standing next to the door to the examination rooms, Setsura stared at the ceiling with a look of feigned innocence, like a schoolboy who’d just shot a spitball at the teacher.

The yakuza were beginning to grasp the terrible mistake they’d made. This was not a place where they came to take. This was a place where they came to get taken. This hospital was prepared to profit from them in ways they never imagined.

The people pressed around them like a small tidal wave. They froze in place. There was no escape.

The door flung open behind them. A completely different atmosphere filled the room. Following a phalanx of bodyguards in black suits, a fat man in his sixties pushed them aside and stopped in front of Mephisto.

“The Haniwa Syndicate boss!”

The exclamation didn’t come from the doctor, but from the yakuza. In Shinjuku’s organized crime hierarchy, the Killer Light Society answered to the Haniwa Syndicate and its godfather, Kakuzo Asaka.

The old lion roared, shaking his silver mane, “What, you punks can’t tell the difference between doing the right thing wrong and doing the wrong thing right? You gonna put me and mine on the line next, huh?”

Casting the stunned yakuza a belittling look, he turned to Mephisto. This man, with five hundred heavily-armed men at his command, with a finger in every pie in East Shinjuku, a godfather wielding the power behind the throne at will—he went down on his knees right then and there and spoke like a dying patient on his deathbed, his voice crawling across the floor.

“Believe me when I say I knew nothing about this. They must have taken leave of their senses. As of today—as of this instant—their organization is dissolved. We will deal with them. Spare us, doctor! You too!” he shouted at his subordinates.

The men in black followed suit. The Killer Light Society yakuza were still standing there like fence poles.

“Idiots!” the godfather thundered. “This is all your fault!” He swept the protection racket thugs off their feet and pressed their faces against the cold stone floor.

“What—what are you doing? We were just making a deal with the doctor! Same as always!”

“Button it, you fools!” the godfather’s consigliore hissed, his voice like that of a zombie. “Do you know who this doctor is? He took out the Freaks single-handed!”

The cries and complaints died in an instant. Everybody in Shinjuku knew what that meant. Immediately following the Devil Quake, gangs had multiplied like bacteria in a Petri dish. The most violent, the least merciful, and the most feared were the Freaks.

Fielding a hundred combat bikes equipped with missile launchers and multipurpose machine guns, the mayhem and slaughter that followed suggested no actual mercenary motives at all.