Afterworlds: The Book of Doom

“Bit bling for my liking,” Zac told her. “But if you pay me, I’ll leave you two alone together.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Geneva said, setting the cross back down. “What did we say again? Two hundred, wasn’t it?”

Outwardly, Zac didn’t react. He’d been here too many times before.

“Two thousand.”

Geneva’s eyes widened in surprise. She took the cigarette from her mouth and stubbed it into an overflowing ashtray. “Two thousand? I don’t remember offering that. That’s a lot of money.”

“The cross is worth ten times that, easy,” Zac said.

Geneva held the artefact out to him. “Then maybe you should try selling it yourself. If you’re so up on the market rates.”

Zac didn’t move to take the cross.

“Two hundred,” Geneva said.

“Eight hundred.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

“Deal!” the woman said. She spat on her hand, then held it out. Zac shook it, then covertly wiped his palm on his jacket.

Geneva slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a rolled-up bundle of notes. She unfolded the pile, counted five notes from the top, then put the rest back in the drawer.

“A pleasure doing business with you, as always,” she said, grinning as she handed Zac the money. Her face took on a wounded expression as Zac held each note up to the light and checked it. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me? After all these years?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Zac said, folding the money into his wallet.

“Very wise. That’ll keep you alive, that will,” Geneva told him. “Ta-ra then, chuck. For now.”

Zac nodded, then reached for the door handle.

“Oh, I almost clean forgot,” said Geneva. “There was someone in ’ere asking about you earlier.”

“Asking about me? Who?”

“A monk, would you believe? Robe and everything. Proper Friar Tuck, he was.”

“What? When?”

Geneva lit another cigarette, then drew deeply on it. “Not long. Few minutes before you got here.”

Zac tensed. “Did you tell him anything?”

“No, no, of course not. What do you take me for?”

Relaxing a little, Zac pulled open the door.

“I told him he could ask you hisself.”

A bald man in a brown robe stood in the hallway, blocking the exit. He stared out at Zac from behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“Hey, kid,” said the Monk. “Surprise!”

“I told you, I’m not interested.”

“Figured you might say that,” the Monk said with a shrug. His hand rose at his side, until it was level with his waist. An old-fashioned revolver, like something from a Western, pointed at Zac’s chest. “So you ain’t leaving me no choice.”

Zac swung his leg with the speed of a striking cobra. His foot caught the Monk’s wrist and slammed it against the wall. There was a bang, deafening in the narrow space, and an antique clock in Geneva’s office exploded into matchsticks.

“Hell’s teeth! Watch what you’re doing, chuck!”

Zac stepped in close to the Monk, using his body weight to keep the gun arm against the wall. The heel of his hand crunched against the bald man’s chin, snapping his head back. Folding his fingers into the shape of a blade, Zac struck the Monk just above his right armpit. He stayed in close as he waited for the Monk to fall.

But the Monk had other ideas.

“Nice try, kid,” he said. “My turn.”

Zac could move fast, but the Monk could move faster. There was a blur of hands. Zac caught a glimpse of his reflection in the Monk’s sunglasses, and then there was a strange sensation of weightlessness and motion, and Zac realised what was going to happen next.

The door shattered beneath his weight and Zac found himself outside, lying on his back on the road, pain stabbing the whole length of his spine. A moonlit shadow passed across him. He rolled left just as a sandalled foot slammed down.

The Monk stamped again and again, forcing Zac to keep rolling. At last, he managed to scramble to his feet and threw himself forward into a sprint. His sudden dash had given him a head start, but the Monk was already right at his heels.

Zac dug deep and forced his legs to move faster. There was no way the Monk should be able to keep up with him. He had to be three or four times heavier than Zac, at least, and yet his footsteps were drawing closer.

A hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. Zac ducked and pulled free, stumbling as he made it to the junction.

A horn blared as a taxi swooshed narrowly by him, its headlights dazzling in the darkness. From behind Zac there came a screeching of brakes. Another cab bore down on him, the driver’s face a mask of terror as she stomped the brake pedal down to the floor.

Before Zac could move, the Monk was in front of him. The man in the robe raised a fist above his head, then brought it down sharply on the bonnet of the car. There was a scream from inside the vehicle as the back end flipped up into the air.

Zac watched, frozen, as the car somersaulted above his head. It landed, right way up, with an almighty crash behind him. He watched, dumbstruck, as all four wheels rolled off in different directions.

When he turned back, the Monk was looking at him, arms folded, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“What the Hell are you?”

“Trust me, Hell ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” the Monk replied.

“What you did... the car... it’s not possible.”

“Not possible for you, maybe,” the Monk said, shrugging. They began to circle each other, Zac tense, the Monk a picture of tranquillity. “Me? I can do lots of things.”

“Oh, really?” Zac said. “Well, you’re not the only one.”