The Big Dusty Carnivore
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This story is part of the Malton Chronicles. This story is fan-made, and is not officially part of any background history for Urban Dead. |
Dramatis Personae
The Trip (Wray Heights, 2004)
Dan needed to escape. The script and the actors were good, but the director of the comedy was not. But the ac.
The Higdon building was not important, in the grand scheme of things, one of the many Jocecorp subsidies that manufactured speakers and gaudy acoustical equipment for immature college students. It was nothing more than a cube of concrete, bereft of any touch of artifice or art that distinguished it from the thousands of other buildings in downtown Malton. But to Romero, it was special. They never locked up at night, and it offered an unbroken line of sight to Sain Luke's Cathedral, barely 200 feet away.
The rooftop was silent for the better part of an hour, until the bells chimed Ten. Then, as the bats began their nighttime vigil, there was a sound remarkably like a rusted fire escape snapping at the seams, and a string of explatives. The man on the roof lit a cigarette, and waited. After a moment, the shouts became murmurs, which degenerated into grumbling, and the face of a rail-thin factory employee popped up over the edge of the building.
He pulled himself up and walked to the center of the rooftop, and noticed the ember of a cigarette burning against the backdrop of the city.
"You've been here the whole time!" The man said, and walked angrily towards Romero.
There was the soft click of a pistol, one of those noises that rests on the very edge of hearing, but every man worth his salt can hear, even in a crowded room. Tjhe man stopped.
"Nathan Wild?" Romero asked.
"Yes, and..." The man replied, clearly beginning an angry rant.
"Are you sick of working at a factory?"
"uh...Sure." Nathan said, it was more or less correct, but this was not the way he was expecting the conversation to go.
"Are you mad at them for what they did to you in ?"
"For a given value of them, sure" Nathan said...then shook his head, "How the fuck did you know that!"
"Not important..." Romero replied, a stack of tattered twenty pound notes landed at Nathans feet. And Romero walked out of the shadows.
He would be an attractive man, if he took the effort to whipe a perpetual smirk off his face, clearly spanish, with tanned skin and a pencil thin beard. His short, stocky frame was almost in contrast to the tall, gangly, and above all, pasty-white form of Nathan Wild. Who looked a bit like the ghost of Hamlets father in the nighttime fog. "I portend that our ends tonight will find you a more comfortable port of call. Call me Romero..."
"I know who you are, Goddamn it," Nathan said, still fixed on the antique pistol Romero was waving around like a toy. "And why the hell are you always talking that way?"
Romero had picked up an unsavory reputation in Malton. He ran a street gang in the factory town of Rhodenbank. A civil one, as gangs go, their rivals lost only a little blood and occasionally some teeth, rarely, if ever, did they take lives. They were, however, not people that were to be trusted, and not people Nathan ever thought he'd be dealing with. Nathan was American, someone who never could get his life togather. He'd tried the peace corps, and the army, but after Deasert Storm, and some nasty incidents involving a ring of officers distrubuting heroine, he had gotten disgusted with the whole thing. So he'd gone to Malton, and had resigned himself to working in a factory until he died. Until he met Romero, and his goddamned word games.
"I talk the way I want, like a clock, which tocs as well, I have my little tics." Romero said.
"ooooh-kay," Nathan said, and bent over to examine the bills Romero had thrown him.
"Fourty Thousand dollars," Romero said, "Everything I promised and more, and I even trust you enough to pay you in advance."
"Well," Nathan said, unslinging a grubby green backpack from his back "What the hell are we waiting for..."
"Probably me," Said a voice from the fire escape. Another man clambered up over the edge. This man was much bigger than Nathan, and had brougt a fire axe.
"Ah Kyndrid," Romero said, "Nathan, this is my kin, Kyndrid..."
"I know who he is..." Nathan said.
"yep," Kyndrid said, hefting his axe menicingly, "As I recall, Romero sent you into my fire station to jack a truck."
"It was essential for a little urban renewal" Romero said, smiling, "Barring Barrville of it's villainous underbelly, if you will. Rivals revealed, that sort of thing, fighting fire with fire. Don't worry, we cleared out all the pimps and...ahem...hose. The former, and the ladder."
"Very funny," Kyndrid said "Now give me a cigarette."
"Why are you helping this whack job?" Nathan said, still counting his money.
"It's a secret." Kyndrid said kurtly.
There was total silence while Romero and Kyndrid finished smoking, and Nathan counted his money again... then Kyndrid said:
"Don't you think it's wrong, stealing from a priest."
"Oh, I don't know about that." Nathan said, "There are some pretty sketchy priests out there."
"There are pretty sketches," Romero said, "But the one we are stealing from is a glorious work of art. However, the moral charicter of the victim doesn't make the crime more or less wrong...don't you think. The priest has something that I deserve, and I'm taking it," Romero spun the barrel of his antique pistol. "Right or Wrong."
Right Or Wrong: Part 2 (St. Lukes)
"What, you've never ziplined before?" Kyndrid asked, no stranger to danger himself.
"Not 200 feet into a stained glass window." Nathan said, as he flicked the tiny steel wire extending all the way to St. Lukes.
"I'm the only one who will be taking that leap of faith." Romero interjected. "You two enter by the back door, break it down if you have to. I need that key..."
The Order of St. Luke had kept the box faithfully for almost a century, ever since Richard Curton had obtained it in a still-suspect deal with the prince of Naples. It was a simple beech afair, and inside it was a bead of glass, about the size of a marble...inside that was what Romero wanted. It was a tiny chunk of wood, creamy in color and obviously very important...It was, in fact, a splinter of the true cross, and it would affect Malton in ways no one could possibly imagine.
The Priest kept it in a chest in his room atop the rectory, Nathan had been told this much. What puzzeled Nathan was his role in this enigma. Not that he was going to refuse the very tempting proposition of 40,000 dollars for a few hours of screwing around, but it just seemed strange. According to Romero, The priest kept the key to his box on hand at all time, a security measure even a common criminal with crowbar could defeat. But Romero was a strange bug...Nathan suspected he had devised the zipline entry as a means of making the night more interesting.
Nathan slipped his favorite ski-mask on (yes, he did have a favorite ski mask). He didn’t know the moral implications of pointing a loaded gun at a man of god, but he figured Hell couldn’t be any worse than the run-down flat he currently occupied, and without that 40,000, he’d be there for more than an eternity.
“You better know who your dealing with…” Nathan said, as he ran to keep up with Ryan. “Padre isn’t some two bit drug pusher, the guy’s bad news, and you don’t start owing him favors unless you know what you’ll be expected to do,” He pointed a spindly finger at the firefighter, “He may be offbeat, but he’s not nice…he killed a guy.”
“Yeah, I know” Said Ryan, as they arrived at the back door of the church. “That Cork kid…it was all over the news.” He pulled a newly-sharpened fire hatchet out of his coat, and looked squarely at the door… “Don’t go visiting my intentions, boy…I’m here for the same reason you are. I like to make a mess.” He arched his shoulders, and swung.
CRASH! The Stained glass window didn’t shatter into nothingness like in the movies, the sheet was brittle, and crunched apart like frosted snow. Romero landed in a highly stylized pose, and smiled as the glass rained down around him, almost as if he expected to be on the cover of a comic book.
He had landed in the loft chapel, his boots echoed off the cold stone floor. For a moment, he stood, as if mesmerized by the carved statue of the Virgin Mary which dominated the room. He locked his gaze with hers; challenging the well-hewn stone to a staring contest he could not possibly win. Then he got to work.
The priest came running into the room brandishing a candlestick. He was tall, bone white, and very old. A shock of red hair atop his face belied his Irish heritage. “Drop the stuff, father.” Nathan said, his voice muffled by his ski-mask. He hated to see the old man flinch when he pointed his gun at him, but business was business, and he wasn’t going to prison again. Not with Jimbo waiting for him… “We’re here for a key,” Kyndrid said…he had opted out of wearing a mask, but had his hooded coat pulled so high over his face that it didn’t matter. “Key…Key…I don’t have a key” The priest said…he bobbed a bit when he talked, and was clearly terrified.
“Our employer said, if that were the case, we should yell at you very violently” Nathan said “and then escort you to the rectory.” “Rectory…rectory….ah yes” The old man said, dropping his candlestick and walking towards a heavy oak door at the end of the church. The priest stepped into the cramped, darkly lit hallway, and fumbled with the switch, his hand shaking constantly.
“Switch must be broken” he quavered. Nathan felt terribly guilty about not feeling terribly guilty about this whole affair, and said confidently, “Just move along father, “Okay” the old priest said… What happened then could have only occurred in Malton. Nathan saw nothing, the room was too dark. He heard an awful lot though: The swish of robes on the heavy velvet floor, the sickening crunch of the old mans deft kick to his knee (Priests were NOT supposed to be this strong), and the distinct “SLAM-click” of a door being locked behind them. Then the light was flipped on.
It was no hallway, It was a richly paneled waiting room of some type, with thick carpet and heavy walls…the kind that probably made the room soundproof and definitely made the room inescapable. In one corner was a little screen, from which a soft, confidant voice emanated.
“My name is father Kennedy” The old priest said, sounding much more confidant, “I’m Half Irish, Half Italian, and I grew up in Central Malton during the 40’s…do you really think you can scare me with a gun.”
“I don’t give a rats ass if you’re scared by it, father!” Nathan said, leveling his gun at the wire screen. “If we’re not out of here inside of 1 minute, you’ll be feeling it!”
“If you shoot me,” the priest continued, his voice sounding much, much louder than it actually was, “ You’ll have killed a priest, and you won’t be able to cut your way outta here in time, you’ll go to prison for a very, very long time. If you act reasonable and tell me what in God’s name is going on, I might let you go with no more than a guilty conscience.”
There was silence for a moment, and then the priest continued. “There is, traditionally, only one way to escape a confessional, so why don’t you boys play along, you might actually enjoy it…tell me…” The priest said, the sarcastic levity in his voice was maddening, “How long has it been since your last confession…
Romero was still scrabbling at the tiny box with his spidery fingers when Father Kennedy walked into the rectory. At the first sound of the priests footsteps on the floor, Romero spun around, pistol pointed at the old man’s face.
“Romero,” The old man said, “You grew up three blocks from my house, I made you lemonade at the neighborhood World Cup party…you know I’m a harmless old man, and you won’t shoot me.” Father Kennedy then raised Nathan’s shotgun to eye level and grinned evilly. “I however, know you are a vindictive young man who spent his childhood days under the picnic table, tormenting bugs with toothpicks. I also know you can’t miss with that pistol, so I won’t hesitate to take your legs out from under you if you don’t put the gun away right now.” “I’m aware that your God is fine with you defending yourself…” Romero said, unloading his pistol and slipping it into his pocket, “But I don’t think it’s moral to be enjoying this quite so much”. “Nobody’s perfect,” Father Kennedy chided. “For instance, if you’d planned this thing at all, you’d know we keep the key to that box well hidden…why don’t you toss it over here, and tell me what motivated you to do this.”
Nathan and Kindred shuffled, embarrassed, out into the chill night air. “You had to give him your gun, didn’t you?” Ryan asked, exasperated.
“I ain’t going back to prison,” Nathan shuddered, “And the damn priest has a way with words, besides…if are so hell-bent on squaring yourself with Romero, why didn’t you go at the old man with your fire-axe…surely that things good for something.”
“Well I could play the hero and say that I wasn’t about to take out a priest,” Kyndrid said, stamping his feet to resist to the cold. “But mostly, I was concerned about the 12 gauge shotgun he had acquired from a party that will not be named.”
“You gotta admit though, he was a fairly nice old man” Nathan said, taking the wad of bills out of his pocket and counting it again. “Romero will come looking for this, won’t he?”
“Bet on it.” Kyndrid assured him.
“Well, I sure as hell ain’t going back in there for him,” Nathan said, and looked at his watch. “Hey…it’s happy hour at the Novell Arms…wanna get a drink?”
“Why not?” Kyndrid said, and they walked off, praying like mad that Romero got what he wanted in the end.
“Don’t talk to me about motivation,” Romero sighed, “Psychology…most of it’s sexual, the rest is territorial, all of it’s trivial, and none of its vital.”
“On the contrary,” Kennedy said, “It’s precisely your disdain for human nature that’s got you into this pickle.”
“Well, I’m going to have to agree with you. I’m steeped in failure, and my drive for self-preservation takes precedence over any stubbornness I might have. I just want to assure you that I’m always going to be brewing up a plan to get that box,”
“Don’t pun” Kennedy said, “You’ve done that since you were little, no one likes it….now…I’m only going to say this once…” The priest dropped the shotgun to his side. “Right and wrong can get confusing sometimes, your mind can fool you, especially if that mind is as sideways as yours, Romero.” The priest took a step closer. “You can’t stand alone, you need faith in something.” Romero scoffed, and the priest tilted his head to the side, concerned. “It doesn’t have to be God…just…believe in something, look for guidance outside of yourself…it’s the only way you’ll ever be certain you’re right.” “Perhaps,” Romero said, dejected. “Now, what motivated you to steal this?” The priest said, waving the box in the air. “I suppose I had a trace of longing for what you described…a sign that something was right with the world. Why do you mark it as your own? It’s just a symbol…” “Symbols are powerful things, Romero” The Priest said, tucking the box into his robe. “They provide guidance to many millions of people, it would be sinful and selfish to keep it all for yourself.” “I need it more than them.” Romero replied, staring at the ground. “That may be the case” The priest said, “But you’ll need to find your symbol elsewhere I’m afraid. I can see already that I can’t convert you, so why don’t you get out of here before I call the cops.” Romero bolted from St. Lukes, not stopping until he reached the fountain at Appelby Park. When he got there, he sat, and watched the man-made rain glide upward, and plunge down, until the sun broke over the horizon.
Years later, Romero understood what the priest meant. Even as the crises of the century plagued the city of Malton, he devoted himself to fixing the larger crisis within the souls trapped there. Everyone needed a symbol, a sign, something to check their moral bearings by, a way to tell right from wrong. Romero had one; it was a splinter of the true cross he kept around his neck. A little shard of heaven he had taken from the rectory box just seconds before Father Kennedy walked into the room. The Priest was right, of course. Nobody was perfect, not even Father Kennedy, who had forgotten what an excellent liar Romero was. And while Romero was far from perfect, he ALWAYS planned ahead, and he had known from the start that the key was kept beneath the feet of a statue of the Virgin Mary, tucked quietly away in the Choir Loft. It was Romero’s little moral compass, one he always checked before making the hard decisions a man like him had to make. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him going….Romero had a symbol, and someday, he hoped he could be a symbol to the people of Malton.
