The Dead Man: Ring of Knives Read online

  Behind the Ojibwe now, Matt drove his heel into the giant's ass, propelling him again into the screaming crowd of watchers.

  Blinded, the giant had no idea whom he'd fallen against. So he dug both blades hilt deep into the chest of a leperous aide and slung him upwards.

  Back in the pit, Matt stepped aside to avoid the falling corpse, which crashed to earth in two pieces that were approximately the same size. He watched as the giant swung blindly, driving his right-arm butcher knife into the stone seating so fiercely that the blade snapped off at the handle.

  The Ojibwe shook his head; his vision seemed to clear. He turned, saw Matt—and barreled forward.

  Feeling almost confidant, Matt fell into a crouch—only to hear an unexpected ripping sound, and feel, in the following instant, a searing pain tear across his shoulder blades.

  He whirled around. An aide with a face crawling with maggots quickly retreated into the audience, his blade red with Matt's blood.

  A roar behind him.

  Matt twisted back—and felt his back scream in pain. Saw that the Ojibwe was upon him; knew that it was too late to fake or dodge or kick. So instead he did the only thing he could remember from his days of high school football: he tucked his head, hunched his shoulders, and threw himself at the Ojibwe's knees.

  The giant swung his arms—and had his right blade still been attached, Matt would have been skewered. But as it was, he received only an agonizing punch in his sliced back as he crashed into the giant's shins.

  Matt's vision exploded in sparks. It was like tackling two fire hydrants. He could have sworn that he broke both shoulders. But somehow his tackle did the trick, and the giant came crashing down with him.

  Matt knew that the next second would determine who walked out of this ring alive, so—ignoring his bruises, his sliced wrist, his cut shoulders—he rolled over, got up, and dove onto the back of the Ojibwe, who was already rising on his knees. With his right arm around the giant's neck, Matt snagged with his left hand the buckle that bound the remaining blade to its cuff and in a single motion slipped it open. When the Ojibwe swung wildly, trying to slice Matt's head off, the remaining butcher knife flew free of the cuff and buried itself in the crotch of an unlucky member of the night shift.

  Then—right when Matt was entertaining the idea of choking the big guy into unconsciousness—the giant let out another high, hollow roar and buried his elbow deep into Matt's gut.

  Matt released him, staggered backward. Gasped for air.

  In a second, the Ojibwe was on his feet, had turned, had reached Matt and slung both arms around his waist in a bear hug.

  He lifted Matt off his feet and began to squeeze.

  Matt gasped. His head was ten feet in the air. He felt paralyzed from the waist down. His hands were free but seemed unable to do anything but brace themselves against the giant's shoulders as the big man's trunk-like arms crushed him like twin anacondas.

  His ribs creaked. Unable to draw a breath, Matt felt his vision dim with black fireworks. Straight ahead, he could see—but not hear—the cheering, fist-pumping night shift, the snarling laugh of Jesse Weston, the blonde's tear-stained cheeks.

  I'm going to die, Matt thought as the blood roared in his ears. And for some reason, he had a sudden image of Janey saying the same thing while staring out the hospital window, and of himself telling her, You'll be with me, Janey . . . What I see, you'll see. What I do, you'll do. I'll never let you go. Never.

  And the thought occurred to him: If I die, Janey—what's left of her—dies with me.

  And that was not an option.

  Breathless, he looked down at the beast that was crushing the life out of him. Looked into the freakish triangular mask, with its single eye slit and long, jagged shark's teeth encrusting its tapered edge.

  Had an idea.

  Grabbed the top of the mask with both hands and pulled it towards himself.

  The elastic band stretched, stretched . . . and snapped.

  Immediately, the top of the mask jerked away from the Ojibwe's face, towards Matt, and the narrow, jagged-toothed end of the triangle tipped over the giant's chin, until the shark's teeth came to rest against his Adam's apple.

  With the last of his strength, Matt drew back his arm as far as it would go, and then slammed the heal of his palm against the top of the mask, driving the triangular tip—with its cluster of shark's teeth—deep into the Ojibwe's neck.

  The huge arms released him, and Matt collapsed into the sand. Gulping air, he watched as the giant doubled over and grabbed the mask. The Ojibwe gave a high, panicky whine and ripped the mask out of his neck, flinging it over the heads of the night shift.

  A huge jet of black blood sprayed from his open throat, and then another. He staggered in a circle, gagging, clutching his neck, tripped over his own feet, and came crashing down into the sand of the pit.

  The giant gave a last, pitiful croak; his limbs trembled as a black pool spread beneath him. His crossed eyes rolled in confusion and pain, and his piranha's jaw worked soundlessly.

  Watching him expire, Matt felt certain that the giant had had no idea what he was doing, that he was nothing more than a puppet. And Matt had no doubt who had been pulling the strings.

  He got to his feet. Looked deep into the furious eyes of Jesse Weston.

  Said, "Next."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The night shift hissed like a snake pit. Four or five had been butchered by the Ojibwe, but that still left about a dozen, and they had spaced themselves around him in a perfect ring again, knives extended.

  Weston seemed too enraged to speak.

  Oh, what the hell, Matt thought. "You said you wanted blood, Jesse?" He gestured towards the fallen giant, to the dismembered pieces of the night shift that darkened the sands. "Why don't you come down into the ring with me? We got all you want, right here."

  "I think not," Weston said in a quaking, oily voice. "I think I'll let my subjects pin you, skin you, and spread salt on what's left. But not until I've quenched my thirst with the blood of your little friend."

  Weston grabbed the kneeling girl by her blond hair and jerked her head backward so that she was looking at Matt, upside down. Her kohl-smudged eyes were blank with trauma yet seemed to reach out to him across the distance.

  "No!" Matt took a step towards her, but the night shift clustered in front of him, knives glinting in the moonlight.

  The man in the black robe knelt next to the girl. "See these bandages, Matt? Dindren's work. He bit me twice. But once I gave myself over to Rotting Jack? I was able to revenge myself on the doc many, many times over. He showed you my bite marks, right? He was proud of them, in the end. It's an honor, after all, to quench the thirst of a god."

  Matt couldn't believe his ears. "Did you say 'god'?"

  "Of course." Weston's bandages crackled as he grinned at Matt. "That's what happens when you give in to them. I gave in to mine. Just like you—if you hadn't come here—would have eventually given in to yours."

  Mine? Yours? Matt's mind raced. Was Weston saying that Rotting Jack was different from Mr. Dark? How could he possibly know that?

  Weston lowered his bandaged face to within inches of Annica's upraised chest. His eyes flicked outwards to Matt.

  "You really don't know what you're missing," he said, casually putting his hand on her pink sports bra. "Because, to tell the truth, the act of biting another human being is surprisingly habit-forming. Especially"—and here he ripped the bra off, exposing her small white breasts—"the tits."

  And he bit her.

  As the first streak of blood ran from his mouth, Matt charged the wall of knives arrayed before him. But the instant before they would have run him through, two things happened.

  First, the girl's pupils rolled back into her skull, so that only the whites showed.

  Second, the four halogen lights simultaneously dimmed, then exploded in a fountain of white sparks.

  Chaos: the night shift cried out and bolted every which way, try
ing to escape the fiery rain that poured out of the halogens in burst after burst.

  Matt didn't waste a second. He crashed into the scattering group, flattened a fleeing aide, and ripped a ten-inch carving knife out of his hand. Then he bounded up the stone seats towards the girl.

  Weston was crouched above her, his mouth red with her blood, grinning.

  "Now you see the power of—"

  "Oh, shut up," Matt said, and slung the blade with such force that it cut through Weston's entire neck and most of his vertebrae. Weston's bandaged head flipped off like the top of a Pez container and remained connected to his torso by only a small strip of flesh. He collapsed backward, jetting gore.

  Matt stuck the knife in his belt and turned his attention to the blonde. Her pupils had reappeared, but they were blank, disconnected. Matt slid one arm beneath the damp flesh of her bare back and another beneath her knees. He lifted her up. She weighed almost nothing.

  Matt looked down into the small stone amphitheater. A cloud had covered the moon, and the only light came from the pulsing bursts of sparks from the halogens, which were getting smaller and farther apart with every passing second. When the sparks died out, the entire scene became pitch-dark. When they spurted again, like a slowing heartbeat, he could see the empty ring of seats, the bloodied pit, the bodies and limbs strewn within it. And shapes between the trees, moving, shifting, reassembling. He looked at his feet and saw Weston's beheaded body. The black robe had fallen open, revealing the huge circular scars around his nipples and the jagged, jack-o'-lantern mouth cut below the navel. Then the sparks faded again, and darkness fell.

  When the halogens showered fire into the arena a final time, the upper ring was empty, and Matt was gone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The moon stayed hidden, and Matt traveled in darkness. He moved as quickly as he could, following what he hoped was a broad curve that would skirt the Carthage grounds but lead eventually to the highway. Annica was in his arms, her bony chest covered with the flannel shirt he'd had wrapped around his waist. Her head rested against his collarbone.

  "I told you."

  He almost missed the words. They were whispered. It was the first time in ten minutes that the girl had spoken.

  "I told you what I could do."

  Matt swallowed, thinking back to their first conversation in Module One. Wild talents and all that. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, you did."

  A pause.

  "I'm such a freak." Annica's voice was strained, miserable.

  "Not compared to me." That was the God's truth.

  Another pause. Longer. Then:

  "My boob hurts."

  "I'm not surprised." Matt decided not to mention that his wrist, back, ribs—and pretty much everything else—was killing him. "Listen, I need your help." He wanted to get her mind off of what had just happened. "I'm trying to find the highway, okay? But my hearing's not so great. Too many rock concerts when I was a kid. Total silence, for other people? Sounds like cicada season to me." Now he was rambling. "Anyway, can you help me listen for the highway?"

  "Yeah, I guess." She put her head against his shoulder. In a small voice, she said, "Thank you."

  Matt didn't respond.

  "Thank you," she said again. "For not letting him . . . eat me."

  A lump in his throat. "The road," he said. "Listen for the road." And then, after a long pause, "You're welcome."

  # # # # # #

  Matt walked on. The only sound he could hear was the soft whisper of pine boughs as they passed through the old-growth forest.

  "Anything?" he asked.

  "Mmm . . . Maybe to the right, a little? I'm hearing a sound like . . ." She stiffened in his arms.

  "What is it?" he said.

  "Matt," she whispered. "Someone's following us."

  He stopped.

  They stood dead still.

  "There," she hissed.

  She was right. He'd heard it. A crackle behind them.

  Matt stepped behind a large pine trunk and gently set her on her feet. He drew the long carving knife from his belt. He put his hand on her bare shoulder and pressed her back against the tree. They stood in silence like that, neither one moving a muscle.

  Another soft rustle in the undergrowth. Closer this time

  And closer still.

  The tree they were standing against had a split trunk. As the rustling came nearer, the blonde soundlessly turned her face towards the gap, to see what was coming.

  Matt did the same.

  They saw branches moving. Heard the crackle of twigs. They could half glimpse a shape in the fog, but it was darkness on darkness and meant nothing to them.

  Just then, the moon slid free of the clouds, and a few slants of pale light filtered through the branches nearest them.

  When she saw what it was, the girl sucked in a harsh breath.

  Matt's hand snapped around her mouth the second before she could scream. To spare her the sight, he pressed her face into his chest. He could feel her hot breath against his palm, could feel her screaming silently into it.

  He wanted to do the same, but he was frozen in place, watching the thing materialize out of the fog. She had understood what it was before he had. He hadn't recognized it without its black robe. Or its head.

  But then, as the fog parted, he had seen the wide eyes carved into the torso, above the jagged, jack-o'-lantern mouth, and he knew it for what it was . . .

  Rotting Jack.

  It came even with their tree, moving slowly, the feet taking measured steps, a hand rising mechanically to push a dead limb aside. With it came the stench of a shallow grave, of a slaughterhouse in July.

  It moved two steps past their tree and paused.

  Matt stared into the upside-down eyes of Jesse Weston. They, like the rest of his bandaged head, hung from the truncated neck by a strip of skin no thicker than a Fruit Roll-Up.

  Matt saw the frozen madness in those eyes. It's an honor, after all, to quench the thirst of a god. Jesse had given in to the beast, and it had eaten him alive. It would do the same to Matt if he let it. Looking into Weston's eyes was like looking into a mirror—a mirror of what could happen to him.

  Those dead eyes drew Matt's gaze hypnotically, like a cobra transfixing its prey. Staring into them, Matt could almost imagine Weston's oily voice pressing through those upside-down gray lips, saying, To tell the truth, the act of biting another human being is surprisingly habit-forming . . .

  The remembered words had a weird effect on Matt: he was suddenly aware of how much bigger he was than Annica, of how he held her face effortlessly in his hands. He swallowed, feeling the peach fuzz along her delicate jaw. Something in Weston's twisted death gaze seemed to advise him that no one would ever, ever know if Matt chose to lay the blonde down among the pine needles, climb on top of her, and bite and screw her to his heart's content, like a mantis devouring its mate.

  But Matt knew that he was who he chose to be. And who he chose to be was not that.

  A light breeze blew through the fog, dispersing it for a moment and making the boughs lift and fall.

  Rotting Jack took a step forward, away from the split pine, and Weston's head swayed like the lifeless appendage it was. The spell, if that's what it had been, was broken.

  Matt blinked, his eyes watering at the stench.

  Rotting Jack took another step, and another, pausing only to turn its torso this way and that, as if the carved face were capable of sight.

  Then the moon began to slide back behind its cloud, and the headless corpse shambled into a darkness made of equal parts fog and shadow. But long after it vanished, Matt could hear the rustle of its relentless, dead feet softly crushing the ivy, needles, and pine cones that covered the forest floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was the flashing blue and red lights that finally led them to the highway. Annica saw them first and pointed them out to Matt. Even then he had trouble focusing; his entire body ached, and his mind was going gray with fatigu
e. He stumbled twice, trying to hurry. In the end she took him by the arm to support him as they climbed over tree stumps and underbrush and finally came to the road.

  The car had state trooper markings, and a trooper—wearing the Smokey the Bear hat—was on the other side of the highway, with a flashlight in hand, talking into a mobile phone. He was looking at a car that was upside down in a ditch, surrounded by smashed ferns. The macadam was littered with pieces of glass and red plastic. It was unclear what had caused the wreck.

  "Wait here," Matt said. Halfway across the highway he started to get a tight feeling in his stomach. He saw that the flipped car was a red Toyota Corolla.

  "Maloria? Maloria!" He ran painfully to the edge of the road, fell into a crouch. But it was too dark: he couldn't see if there was anyone trapped in the driver's seat. "The driver—is she still in there?"

  "Sir," the trooper said, "I'm afraid she's gone to her reward."

  "Oh my God," Matt said. "What happened?"

  "Eyewitness testimony has it that she was leaving Carthage MHC at top speed with a flat tire in shreds, sparks flying off the rim. Apparently she was followed by an unidentified vehicle that drove her off the road."

  Kneeling in the grass, Matt put a hand over his eyes. He couldn't believe it. After everything else: this. And he was the one who had sent her back to the parking lot, alone . . .

  "Where was she taken?"

  "Well, I don't rightly know, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was to that big Kanye West concert in the sky where all good little South Siders go."

  Matt turned.

  The trooper tipped his flashlight up, gruesomely highlighting his pointed chin, hook nose, emaciated cheeks, and deep-set eyes.

  Mr. Dark grinned at him. "How's tricks, Matt?"

  Matt rose quickly. Without even thinking, he whipped the carving knife from his belt and flung it.