Afterworlds: The Book of Doom

“What... what’ve you done to me?” he slurred as he folded down on to the rooftop.

“Don’t worry, the paralysis is only temporary,” the figure in black said. “But I’d consider a safer line of work in future. Tell your boss thanks for the cross.”

The fallen gunman blinked. There was a rustle of fabric, and he was suddenly alone on the roof.

Five minutes later and several streets away, the shadowy figure clambered down a drainpipe into a narrow alleyway. Just beyond the alley mouth he could hear the hustle and bustle of the city. It was midnight, but the city, like him, rarely slept.

He took off the mask. The night air was cool against his skin. He let himself enjoy it for a moment, taking it in through his nose in big gulps, refilling his aching lungs.

“Zac Corgan?”

The voice came from behind him. The accent was New York – Brooklyn, maybe – but Zac didn’t recognise the voice. He spun, already crouching into a fighting stance.

An overweight man in a brown robe stood in the alleyway. Moonlight gleamed off his balding head. Despite the hour, he wore a pair of designer sunglasses. Zac’s reflection stared back from both lenses.

“Zac Corgan?” the man asked again.

“Sorry,” said Zac, backing away. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Don’t jerk me around, kid. You’re Zac Corgan.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re Zac Corgan, fifteen years old. Parents disappeared when you was eighteen months, so you live with your grandfather.”

Zac hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man in the robe gave an impatient sigh. “You wear size nine shoes. You eat mostly eggs and pasta, for the protein and carbohydrate. You’re home educated. You got no friends. And you have a birthmark the shape of a smiley face on the back of your hand.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” the Monk insisted.

“I haven’t got a birthmark. You’ve got the wrong person.”

“See for yourself, kid.”

Hesitantly, Zac pulled off his gloves. A brown splodge he’d never seen before grinned up at him. He tried to rub it away, but the smiley-faced mark wasn’t going anywhere.

“All right,” Zac said, pulling his gloves back on. “You’ve got my attention. Who are you?”

“They call me the Monk.”

Zac glanced from the man’s bald head to his long brown cloak. He could just see a pair of sandalled feet poking out at the bottom.

“Why do they call you that, then?”

“Funny, kid. Real funny.” The Monk took a step forward. Zac took a step back. “My... employer wants to talk to you. He’s impressed with your work, see? Thinks maybe you can help us with a little problem we got.”

“I don’t do requests,” Zac said.

The Monk’s voice became cold. “We wasn’t making one.”

“I’d advise against threatening me,” Zac warned. “Tell your employer I’m not interested.”

The Monk smiled thinly. “I don’t think that’s so good an idea. You don’t know it, kid, but you’re in a whole heap of trouble. And that trouble’s gonna come find you real soon.”

“I can handle myself.”

“What, you think just because you can sneak around all dressed in black that you’re going to be able to avoid it? You think being stealthy is going to keep you safe? I got news for you – we can all do stealthy. Stealthy ain’t nothin’ special. Check this out: now you see me –” he stepped sideways into the shadows – “now you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” said Zac. He pointed to a shape in the darkness. “There you are.”

There was a soft scuffing of sandals on concrete.

“OK. Well, how about now, Mr Smart Guy? Bet you can’t see me now.”

“You haven’t moved.”

There was more scuffing, louder this time.

“All right, big shot... how about now?”

Silence.

“Ha! I knew it. You ain’t got the first damn clue where I am, do ya? C’mon, take a guess.”

More silence. From the shadows, there came a sigh.

“You’re gone, ain’t ya, kid?” the Monk said.

And he was right.

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“

OME IN, CHUCK.”

Zac edged open the door and stepped into a cluttered office. It looked like the back store at a pawnshop, with clocks and books and ornaments and other clutter stacked crookedly on shelves, on tables, or just piled up on the floor.

And in the middle of it all, like a spider in her web, sat Geneva Jones. She lounged behind a desk, her grey hair scraped back, a hand-rolled cigarette stuck to her bottom lip. It was two in the morning, but there she was, wide awake. Of course, Zac only ever visited at night, but the rumour was Geneva never slept.

“Zac.” She smiled, revealing a smudge of red lipstick across her teeth. “Knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Without a word, Zac reached into his pocket and pulled out the cross. It landed with a thud on her desk. Geneva’s eyes gleamed as she picked it up.

“The Cross of Saint Alberic,” she said in a half-whisper. “Isn’t it flippin’ gorgeous?”