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  “Holy water sprinklers?” The Rat is impressed.

  “Inconsequential.” The Tzaddik is pacing around the room, hands clasped behind his back. “We won’t be getting in that way again.” He points to the sketch on the table. “The doors are here, here and here. Can they be opened?”

  The Rabbi shakes his head. “They’re never used, and as far as we know they are purely for show. Ceremonial purpose, if you prefer.”

  “How does stuff go in and out then?” says Jimmy.

  “Exactly,” the Rabbi says. He pulls out a different map and lays it gently on the table. “This is an estimate scan of the underground area around the bank. As you can see, there are apparent waste chutes here and here--” he taps the paper “--tunnels here, and possible entry holes here.” He pulls out a third map and points to two back alleys some distance from the bank.

  “So we get in through the tunnels,” says Jimmy the Rat. His cigarette sends curls of grey smoke blowing against the naked bulbs.

  “Not exactly,” the Rabbi says. “But I want you to check them if you can.”

  The Rat smiles, fangs shining. “No problem.” He stalks out, and at a nod from the Rabbi the Tzaddik follows.

  Tunnels

  Jimmy the Rat shape-shifts in the dark alley. Expensive clothes are left in a clatter on the pavement as a long-snout rodent disappears into a crack in the stonework. It moves quickly through the stench of standing water, through a maze of rusting pipes and muddy concrete.

  The Tzaddik is standing, wrapped in shadow, in a corner overlooking the bank. The bank’s doors are shut. And no light shows through its steel façade.

  There is a group of protesters huddled together in the square, holding placards. Free Trade Equals Free Blood, says one. Vampires Are People Too, says another. The Tzaddik silently watches.

  Down the pipes the rat runs. Deeper and deeper into the ground, and cautiously edging its way towards the centre. It can smell trouble.

  It stops and sniffs the air. Engine oil and wax. It feels small vibrations in the pipe, hears a rhythm of motion coming closer, feels tiny puffs of warm air on its fur.

  It moves further down the pipe and emerges into a large, artificially lit tunnel. Unlike the pipes, this tunnel smells clean and efficient, and is hot.

  The rat’s tail twitches as his head moves rapidly from side to side.

  Stop Unfair Trade! screams a sign. Feed The Hungry. The protesters huddle closer as if the silence of the bank were physically hurting them.

  The Tzaddik notices this with interest.

  The Rat’s small mind is confused. Long-buried memories surface uneasily, of other tunnels, dug in the frozen earth, and of the smells of dead people and human refuse intermingled. Sensing something is wrong, it jumps frantically on a loose pipeline and runs away as fast as its feet can take it.

  Behind it, the sound of engines grows louder.

  Blueprints II

  “Ultrasonic whistles.” The Tzaddik is warming his hands by a large fire. Goldie stands motionless by the door.

  “That’s what it was?” The Rat is flushed, his skin glistening in the naked light. “Felt it down in the tunnels.” He looks over the scattered maps and traces a pattern with his finger. His nails are bitten. “This is roughly the security perimeter. From what I saw there is at least one tunnel large enough to provide transportation, probably several.” He draws a vertical line in the air. “I think there’s a large shaft here, right under the tower.”

  “So all the transportation, all personnel going in and out of the bank, do so by means of an underground facility.” The Rabbi paces the room, hands locked behind his back. “Good, good.”

  “Good?” The Rat’s fist hits the table, sending papers falling to the floor. “How do you propose we get inside? Turn to rats and slide down the fucking toilet pipes?” He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his shirt and shakes one out. The Tzaddik is quietly collecting the fallen papers and laying them neatly on the table. “It can’t be done.”

  The Rabbi smiles. “Have faith, Jimmy. A man must have faith.” He turns to the Tzaddik. “Isn’t that right Frankie?”

  The Tzaddik’s solemn nod doesn’t quite hide a sudden smile. “Amen, Rabbi,” he says. “Amen.”

  Interlude II

  Somewhere, a phone rings. A large, hairy hand picks up the receiver. A Chopin concerto is playing loudly in the background.

  “Yes?” The man is watching the sun setting over the city, painting the skyline in hues of burgundy and crimson as if the fading light were slowly congealing blood.

  “They’ve put the plan into motion.”

  The man watches an aeroplane flying sedately across the skies, twin jet plumes dispersing in the distance. “Good.”

  The plane disappears from his field of vision. In the dying skies the smoke remains.

  “Jiminy?”

  “Yes?” The voice on the other side of the line is strained.

  “I hope they don’t fuck up.”

  Implementation

  The queues are long and orderly.

  In the semi-darkness of dusk the town hall looks obscene, a gothic offence squatting like a bulging toad in a pool of murky light. Security personnel walk up and down the files of people. The guns they hold are unremarkable, meant for efficiency rather than show, the light from street lamps glancing off dull bullet-proof vests.

  The queues move slowly, men and women shuffling up the stone stairs and through the great doors. A vast man-like statue stands unobtrusively to one side.

  “Next!” A man in a bland, white uniform paces the entrance, clutching a large clipboard. His small moustache is neat. He helps an old woman climb the last step and walks her into the hall, holding her by the arm.

  The queues move sluggishly in and out of the building’s mouth. On the far side of the plaza, a rat turns into a man in a pool of darkness.

  “Did you find it?” The Rabbi is sitting on a wooden bench, his legs stretched.

  “Yeah.” The Rat is putting on clothes rapidly. “The pipes expand quickly past the back of the hall.” He finishes a last button on his shirt, digs in the pocket for a packet of cigarettes. “I think we found your entrance point.”

  “Good.”

  The Rat sits down on the bench and draws on his cigarette, cupping the small flame in his hand.

  “Now we wait.”

  On the stone steps the man with the clipboard looks tired. A deep darkness has fallen, and the plaza in front of the town hall is nearly deserted. He helps an old man - the last in the queue - with the remaining few steps, steadies him as the man seems to overbalance. They walk into the hall together.

  Inside, a row of cheap desks lines the spacious room. Behind the desks, men and women in uniforms are helping the last few customers. The guards are all inside, having abandoned the quiet square for the warmer interior. They sit companionably at a large table by the wall, drinking coffee and chatting.

  The old man makes his way on his own to the end of the row. A woman, her once-crisp shirt now wrinkled and spotting ugly red smudges, motions for him to sit down.

  “Uncuff your shirt please, sir,” she says. The old man hesitates, then pulls back his sleeve, revealing a hairless, wiry arm.

  “Won’t take a moment, sir,” the woman says. She dabs a cotton ball on his arm, then reaches for a syringe.

  “Will it hurt?” the man asks hesitantly. He scratches a faint scar on his arm.

  “A little.”

  The old man smiles. “Good.”

  “I’m sorry?” The woman stops, uncertain, the needle raised in the air like a spear.

  “Don’t be.” The old man grabs her and pulls her roughly to the floor, covering her body with his. As he does so, the west wall disappears in a cloud of smoke, knocking down the sitting security guards. In the explosion, giant shards of ancient masonry come flying across the room like a nest of angry wasps, making buzzing sounds in their flight.

  Goldie steps through the hole. His feet make no sound as
he locates the remaining guards. His movements are slow and precise, and he disposes of the soft human bodies as if conserving both energy and waste, smashing titanium fists on heads that explode silently, leaving crop-circles of blood on the stone floors.

  The old man is watching without expression over the prone body of his nurse. He follows the running figures of escaping white uniforms with his eyes as they run through the massive doors and are swallowed by the darkness outside.

  Soon there is only silence.

  Hijacking

  The Rat steps into the hall, the Rabbi behind him. His face is flushed, the lines bloated and red. Dark sweat glistens on his skin.

  “The perimeter,” the Rabbi announces, “is clear.”

  The Tzaddik stands up, pulling the nurse up with him. “Where’s the entry point?”

  “At the back. Goldie!” At the Rabbi’s command the giant golem lumbers to the back of the hall. His fist knocks a hole in the wall, revealing a smooth, metallic pathway sloping downwards.

  “Listen carefully.” The Tzaddik’s eyes hold the frightened nurse motionless, like a snake, or a snake-charmer. His tone is surprisingly gentle. “We need to get to the bank, and we need your help in doing that. Yes?” He waits until she nods, then continues. “Where we go from here is up to you. Help us, and you’ll be home safe in a few hours. Yes?” Again, a nod. “Good. If you choose not to assist my colleagues and myself, or, God forbid, you try to trick us – well, you’ve seen what Goldie does to people he doesn’t like. Yes?”

  The nurse nods. Her pupils are enormous dark circles drowning in a milky ocean. The Tzaddik pats her hand. “Good,” he says. “Show us how to get to the tower.”

  The Tzaddik and the nurse walk down the metal passageway. The Rabbi and Jimmy follow. Goldie brings up the rear. There are no lights.

  They reach a cul-de-sac, and the Tzaddik propels the nurse forward. Her fingers dance on a small keypad buried in the wall, and a door opens silently, admitting them into a lit tunnel. They stand on a large platform, along which giant vats stand placidly, filled with a ruby-coloured liquid. There is no sound in the tunnel.

  Beside the platform a bullet-shaped train stands idle. At the Tzaddik’s direction the nurse punches another code into another keypad, this time embedded in the dull casing of the train, and its doors open quietly.

  “Jimmy, Goldie, check the train.” The Rabbi’s voice echoes, distorted, in the soundless tunnel.

  “Empty.”

  “Tzaddik?”

  His voice is barely more than a hiss. “Be quiet.” The Tzaddik is standing by the entrance, his face blanked. In the silence, the cause of his concern becomes evident.

  There are shuffling sounds emanating from the narrow tunnel they have just vacated.

  Criminal Offence

  The door to the tunnel comes crashing down, nearly burying the Tzaddik under its weight.

  “What the...”

  A progression of bodies appears in the doorway, moving slowly forward. At the head of the line is a body in a once-white smock, its head a pulp of gristle. It reaches scarred hands to the Tzaddik and pulls him forward, engulfing him in a hug of iron that threatens to snap his spine. Behind him, other mutilated bodies enter and spread across the platform, walking blindly toward the living.

  The nurse is swallowed up by a horde of bodies. Her head tumbles to the floor and lies still, eyes staring vacantly into space.

  “God damn the bank.” The Rabbi’s voice is taut, angry. “Raising the dead is a criminal offence!”

  He pulls a long strip of cloth out of his pocket, unfolding it to reveal various wood- and metal-etched symbols.

  “Help Frankie while I do this!” he shouts to the Rat, who is already moving, jumping on the mutilated zombie from behind. He sinks his teeth into the zombie’s neck and takes a savage bite that leaves the head hanging. The zombie drops the Tzaddik and turns around to face the Rat, who is moving again, running at the ruined bodies of their attackers like a rabid dog.

  Goldie disposes of two of the attackers, hugging them tightly before biting their heads off with his metallic teeth. The bodies hiss when his teeth touch skin, and he throws the remains onto the tracks before progressing to more advancing zombies.

  The Rabbi’s hands are dancing across the cloth, picking and throwing objects. More zombies drop to the floor, truly dead, as a cascade of crosses, stars of David, mandalas and swastikas cut through their skin with their jagged edges. Smoke hisses each time a particular symbol corresponds to a zombie’s weakness.

  Soon the platform is filled with bodies.

  “They keep coming!” The Rat’s teeth are bloody, their colouring unhealthy. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Into the train.Quickly.” The Rabbi throws his last weapon, a silver cross that penetrates to the heart of an approaching zombie, and walks quickly towards the train. “Hold them, Goldie.”

  The Rat joins him, the Tzaddik staggering alongside. “Can you drive this thing?”

  “I can.” The Tzaddik enters the driver’s side, kicking a lumbering zombie viciously in the face, crunching its nose bone. “Ready?”

  The Rabbi calls Goldie, who is standing almost motionless on the platform, dispatching approaching bodies with the minimum of movement. His sleek body is covered in red hues as if illegible graffiti had been sprayed on him for too long.

  “Ready.”

  “Then let’s get the fuck out of here!” The Tzaddik hits buttons rapidly with one hand. As the doors close, he throws a small bundle out of the window and onto the platform.

  As the train disappears into the dark tunnel, the platform behind them erupts in flame and once-human bodies topple and burn silently until they are lost from view.

  Up

  The heart of the tower is a cold darkness. Frost clumps the walls like persistent moss.

  The train pulls silently to a stop in a dimly-lit terminal. Its passengers dislodge carefully.

  “So nu?” the Tzaddik says. “Where do we go from here?”

  The Rat is scanning the walls. “An elevator shaft,” he announces. He looks hungrily around him. On the terminal, rows of neatly lined barrels shine wetly.

  “Leave the blood,” the Rabbi orders, “I want the whole thing, not just a batch.” He walks to the elevator and punches the call button. The doors open without a sound.

  They pile in, standing side by side, and the Rabbi presses the top button.

  “We’re in.”

  “Let’s not hang around too long, okay?”

  “One thing at a time,” the Rabbi says. “One thing at a time.”

  The doors open onto an empty corridor. To their left is a small window and when they glance through it they can see the city sprawled underneath, a maze of lights far below.

  “This must be how the previous burglar got in,” the Tzaddik comments.

  “Which means we can probably expect some rain soon.” The Rat smiles, sharp teeth gleaming.

  They walk down the corridor, reach an unmarked door. The Tzaddik tries the handle, then bends down to the lock with a couple of narrow metal bars.

  “Very old fashioned.” He opens the door and they go through.

  “A werehouse.”

  “Stands to reason.”

  They are in a vast room, a werehouse filled from floor to ceiling with giant vats in which a red liquid swirls and spins.

  “Jackpot,” The Rat breathes.

  “Indeed.” The Rabbi surveys the room. “Where is the control room?”

  The Tzaddik and the golem walk to the other end of the room, where another unmarked door is set.

  “Goldie?” The Tzaddik motions with his hand. The golem, almost gently, pushes the door until it comes off the hinges and falls to the floor with a loud bang.

  Then, almost as gently, he disintegrates.

  Denouement

  A heap of fine powder lies on the floor where Goldie has been. Light emanates through the doorway, illuminating the large werehouse as if by bouts of li
ghtning.

  “What can kill a golem?” the Tzaddik’s voice is low in the silence.

  “The question is who.”

  A figure materialises in the doorway, a glowing, human-shaped apparition, casting light around it in a concentrated halo.

  “Tzaddik.” The figure’s voice echoes through their heads, the silent sound of distant thunder.

  “Fallen One.” The Tzaddik’s face is impassive.

  “It’s been a while, Angel Killer.”

  “Not long enough.”

  “In that I agree.”

  The Rat and the Rabbi stand back, their bodies and faces frozen.

  “What are you doing here, Angel?”

  “Dealing...” The angel’s laugh is like a bass beat. “Wheeling... and dealing.”

  “In blood?”

  “Such a common commodity.And yet, so useful.” Youthful lips curl into a tight smile. “I like my job.”

  The Tzaddik smiles as well, and his smile is unpleasant. “That’s a shame,” he says. “Because you’re fired.” He utters a short sentence, half-bark and half-song, and the silence snaps.

  The blood vats explode.

  “Down down down!” The Tzaddik shouts, and the Rabbi and Jimmy duck as the spell is broken, lying flat on the floor as blood comes pouring over the werehouse like a red storm, flowing and raging in great sheets of crimson rain.

  The werehouse is a raging ocean of blood

  The angel rages, but shrinks in fear as the blood comes pouring towards him, his light diminishing as the red liquid touches his feet.

  “Never send an angel to do a man’s job.” The Tzaddik voice is raw.

  “You’ll die one day, angel killer. Even Eternal Wanderings must come to an end.” The angel’s face is a mask of hatred. “And I will be there when it happens.”

  As the blood pushes into the room, the light is dimming fast. Soon, the room is once more in semi-darkness as the angel fades away, a broken vessel brimming with an endless supply of spilled blood.