Death at Mangix Inn

The midnight rain pelted down on the pavement as it had the entire day and the day before that. The badly lit streets were deserted, only adding to the sense of melancholy that enveloped the streets. The full moon negotiated its way through the cloudy sky even as the rain reached a frenzy. The architecture of the town was nothing unusual, just a row of structures that were built on either side of the interconnected roads. It was an unimaginative copy of nearly every other town in the kingdom.

"When you see one, you’ve seen the rest." mused the stranger to himself as he walked through the empty streets, marvelling at the lack of originality behind these structures. "For all our shortcomings," he chuckled to himself, "atleast we Stygians have some sense of style".

He was in no hurry, he could afford to spend the night in some inn at the end of the village and wait for the rain to stop before making his way to the next. He could even stay here for a few days if it took his fancy. He had money to spend and days to waste. By the time his deeds at the castle were discovered he would have reached the outer cities of the kingdom. He might be in Vendhya, the land of the enemy, but nobody here was aware of his identity. He was safe.

He was broad shouldered and tall, his large frame protected from the rain by his trench coat. His wide brimmed hat covered his black hair and cast a shadow over his eyes, which were even darker. He had a set of twin pistols tucked in at his back. His face had been hardened by years of war, his cynical glint evidence of many battles.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the chilling screams of a woman somewhere behind the curtain of rain. Rape and murder were not rampant in these inner cities as they were in the outer regions, but were still a problem. The woman must have been utterly desperate or incredibly foolish to walk these streets alone at such a time.

He considered going to her rescue, but dismissed the notion immediately. He was not looking for trouble; he would have enough of that when he reached the border. Besides, there was no telling what would happen if he stuck his neck out for the woman. These were hard times and acts of chivalry were not always accepted with gratitude.

He had saved a little boy from a stampede years ago, only to find himself accused of abduction and imprisoned by the villagers. "The Stygian bastard carried the helpless boy away to eat him." said the villagers. "If we had not intervened the poor mother would have lost her only son.” They had him tied in chains and imprisoned in their petty dungeon. That was a long time ago, when the war was at its peak and hatred boiled in most villages. Times had changed, but the episode still lingered in his memory.

He continued walking down the road and came up to a building that had the definite look of a Vendhyan inn. An advantage of identical architecture was that one never missed anything if he has travelled before; there is no confusion about which building serves what purpose. As he came closer, he read the sign 'Mangix Inn' fixed on top of the heavy door. The windows showed no signs of life inside, as did all the windows in the houses and shops in the town, but the stranger knew there were people inside. No inn in any kingdom is ever empty, business was too good these days with refugees from the outer cities and mercenaries in search of jobs.

'Mangix'. The name sounded familiar but the stranger could not put a face to the name. A famous warrior no doubt, a war hero who has proved himself in battle and now capitalizes on his fame to make some money during his old age. Everybody needs food and shelter, even heroes. He knocked twice and waited. The rain would have deprived the owner of some of his regulars and the inn's pub might be quieter than usual. Good, he needed some rest.

The stranger looked back into the empty street, his vision of anything more than ten feet away blurred by the rainfall. He felt something uneasy in the pit of his stomach, a fear that plagued him only when he was followed. But that was not possible; no assassin in this land was stealthy enough to catch him off guard.

The latch from the inside moved and a giant figure revealed himself at the other side of the door.

"Can I help you?" his voice had the authority of a seasoned leader.

The stranger flashed him a smile, hiding his shock at unexpectedly finding himself facing such a massive man. "Yes, I am from Prince Davion's camp in the hills. I need a place to stay for a few nights."

Mangix looked him up and down before grunting and motioning for him to enter. The stranger noticed that the inn was much bigger than it looked from the outside. The pub was almost empty, save for a massive shouldered figure at one of the front tables. His race was hard to determine but it was obvious he was of mixed blood.

Mangix seemed more relaxed with the door shut. "Wanna drink friend?" he turned to the stranger.

"No thank you, I’ve had a tiring day."

"Its some bloody good ale ya know, I made it myself."

"No thank you."

Mangix shrugged. "Your wish ol'boy. I'll show you to your room then. Where are your bags?"

"I have none."

"No bags? Oh well, light traveller eh? Follow me." the bar owner made his way past the bar and climbed up a set of groaning stairs, the stranger right at his heels. “Bloody old steps you know. This was one of the first buildings that were ever built in this town. It goes back to before the war."

The second floor had rooms on either side of the passage and Mangix opened the first one to the right. "This is your room friend. Don’t mind the noises outside, just young hooligans trying to have a nice, drunk time. Be careful of them bugs too."

"How much do you charge for a night?"

"We can talk about that in the morning friend, when I'm sober." he laughed and disappeared downstairs.

The stranger surveyed the room with satisfaction, it would do for a few nights. He looked out the window and was glad to see the rain finally showing signs of relenting. Lightning struck something far away as the full moon reached its zenith. For a split second he thought he saw a woman stagger across the road in the rain, but it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. The town would come back to life in the day, and if the rain stopped he could no doubt look forward to some fun in the pub downstairs.

Far away, a wolf howled. The stranger removed his clothes and retired to bed. He kept his pistols tucked under the pillows, he would never know when he would need them.

Vendhya and Stygia. The two kingdoms had been at war with each other for so many generations that the reason for the war was not known to anybody. To the people of both kingdoms, it was just a part of their lives, a part of their history that had no beginning and would have no end. The man had completed the task given to him and had been in enemy territory for many months. He would miss Vendhya, for even by his standards this had been good fun. The warlords back in Stygia would find his accounts amusing.

The figure in the shadows watched him with a growing sense of anticipation. There had been a single instruction from the castle - kill the pistol-wielding Stygian. It had taken immense patience to wait till the right moment arrived, tracking him for weeks, constantly watching and monitoring his moves.

“Kill him.”

The stranger took less than a heartbeat to realise the impossible had happened – he had been tracked down and was not alone in the room. In a blur of movements he grabbed the pistols under his pillow and whipped them out. He was fast, but a twin set of daggers flew from the shadows and sliced through his trigger fingers, cutting into his shoulders. The pistols plopped on the bed.

“****!”

He fell to the floor and felt the pain flow through his arms, the venom was spreading with alarming speed. “How could this have happened?” he wanted to scream but fear had paralysed his throat. There was no way anybody could have sneaked into the room without him sensing it. Nobody could be that good. He could not believe what was happening. His actions at the castle could not have been discovered this fast.

“You should have gone to the rescue of that screaming woman. She was trying to warn you.”

He reached for a pistol from the bed, his heart racing as he used both hands to lift it. Blood continued to spurt out of his hands, his vision was becoming blurry. Another dagger zipped from the darkness and cut through the fingers holding the weapon.

“Call for help! Call for help!” his body was refusing to respond to his brain’s pleas.

He looked into the shadows where the daggers came from. Using the last of his strength he hurled a chair at it. It went through the shadows and crashed into the wall. There was nothing there. The pain spread to his neck. He felt tears of agony flow - his body’s vain attempt to flush the venom out.

“You were being watched as you walked through the rain. You were being watched as you knocked on the door. You were being watched the entire time.” The stranger finally managed to scream, but it was too late.

He lost all control as his body writhed on the floor. His last thought was that he was alone in the room again.

Dr. Voodoo

"Watch out for this one, he's full of tricks." The light from the screen beamed on Wilbur's face in the breifing room as he puffed his cigar and threw the photo at me. "We've been keeping a tab on him for a long time now, with little to no success. Typical intellectual-gone-mad story, only this one has a body count of someone too meticulous to be a total psycho. The bosses upstairs want him either working for us or dead; they figure a man with his 'talents' could be a huge asset or a threat based on which side he roots for." I looked at the picture that had been tossed in my direction. The face looked neither menacing nor unique, it was a normal man with a moustache. His smile seemed warm and genuine.

"Are you sure you want me on this Wilbur? I need a vacation and I'm not going on a hunt unless it's an absolute emergency, we had that clear." Wilbur exhaled a thick jet of smoke and smiled. "Oh, you can call this an emergency E.B; you can definitely call this Dr. Voodoo situation one migraine of an emergency." I smiled back and looked at the photo. The face looked neither warm nor genuine this time. It was just a tad creepy.

"We know nothing about who he was before his Dr.Voodoo gimmick other than that he was a professor of some sort in an island near the Indian coast. There are rumours that he was once the leader of some circle which monitored and instructed paramilitary groups on dealing with insurgencies." I shifted in my chair and lit a cigarette. "So was he just a just a strategist or was he in on the 'action' as well?" Wilbur shrugged. "He was a highly regarded combat instructor. The boys are still working the files, we're hoping some fresh facts come up, but I doubt it. This guy covered his tracks and covered them well. Judging from what I've seen, he doesn't seem a stranger to violent encounters. But his forte is definitely his mind." Wilbur tapped his head as I finished the cigarette in silence. I got up and slipped the photo into my pocket. "Alright Wilbur, I'll do it. Let's head to the park for a walk, I feel like plucking some apples. I need all the dirt we have on this fellow."

"That's my boy. I knew you'd pull through for me E.B." As we put on our coats and headed out of the smoky briefing room, I felt a shiver run through my spine.

"You mentioned something about a body count." The park was buzzing with employees enjoying a quick snack in the sun or just catching a few minutes away from the seriousness of the headquarters building. Wilbur handed me a file that had a list of identities on it. I went through them and they were all familiar names. For good reason too, they were all 'crime fighters'. I let out a low whistle. This was certainly not what I was expecting when told about a 'body count'. "Wilbur, are you sure this isn't some garbage one of our rookies came up with? All these deaths have already been investigated by folks just as smart as us and none of them found a single lead. What makes you think our guy was behind this?" We walked past my favourite apple tree. Plucking the best looking one was easy after my third jump. "I know it sounds a little dodgy, but I promise you E.B, they were all killed by Dr. Voodoo. The bosses wouldn't have made me fly you in if we weren't a hundred percent."

The apple was juicy and tender, just like how an apple should be. "I'm not questioning the research, I'm really not. I'm just asking you to share that research with me. What is your theory based on? Why are you convinced that it was this guy who killed over a dozen of your best hunters?" Wilbur sighed. "Because they were all on the hunt for him when they died. They had all tracked him down and been given the green signal to go ahead with their 'capture' when they were found dead the next day. None of the other big cats are aware of the pattern because only we know all the dead guys were on the same mission." I almost choked on a piece of delicous apple.

"The first guy on the list, Larry Lynch. Did you know him E.B?" Wilbur had made me pluck an apple for him too and now had bits of it flying out of his mouth as he spoke. "Yeah, Lynch and I worked on that Serpent case when we were both rookies. Tough mofo, even tougher when he had his shotgun and his pitbull with him. You couldn't beat him unless you outsmarted him." Wilbur bit a tiny bit of the apple and swallowed it without chewing. "Well, he was outsmarted big time. He was ready to spring one of his famous ambushes on Dr Voodoo and bring him in alive. The poor sod was even bragging about it to me on the phone, minutes before he went out of contact. The follow-up hunter who investigated the case was convinced that not only did Voodoo know Lynch was following him, he knew exactly what he had to do to take him out. He had been attacked while walking through an alley where his shotgun was useless and his dog's death was due to 'reasons unknown'." I let Wilbur finish and looked at the list again.

"I see Octagon was the follow-up hunter after Lynch died. But he wasn't murdered, he commited suicide in a public square, in plain sight." Wilbur took another file from inside his coat and passed it to me. "Octagon was blackmailed into commiting suicide, the details are in here. It's the same with all the guys we sent after this guy E.B. He seldom takes anybody on in a head-on collision. Every expert we've brought in to analyse these murders draw the same conclusion - he knew exactly where and how to strike. It hasn't mattered who we sent after him, he always finds a way to negate every one of their 'gifts'. Brain over brawn, every single time."

"Why do they call him Dr. Voodoo? It sounds a little cartoonish." Wilbur shrugged again. "You'll have to ask him that when you track him down. Our theory is that he is called Voodoo because of how he takes people out by manipulating them to do what he wants. The "Dr" must have been added on by someone who was in awe of how dangerously smart he was. He first appeared under that alias as a theorist for The Syndicate, which was when he came under our radar. After a disagreement with them over financial matters, he engineered a coup in an East African country, took the bounty and dissapeared. From our reports, he seems to have been the architect of atleast seven successful military campaigns in three continents. Why a person with such a formidable reputation would live in the shadows like a petty thug is beyond me, but we won't have any answers until you bring him in."

I took the photo of the man out of my pocket and stared at it again. "These military campaigns this fellow has been part of all over the world, were they all under the Dr. Voodoo identity?" Wilbur nodded. "Yeah. Like I said, we know very little about who he was or what he did before he became Voodoo. Larry Lynch was sent to capture him and bring him in for us to get some answers. Then Lynch was dead and when we sent Octagon, so was he. It's been like a domino since then. Every follow-up officer we send to the previous murder meets the same fate."

We walked in silence for a few minutes before Wilbur resumed, "He was a combat instructor like you and a pretty formidable one at that. We interviewed some mercenaries who had worked with him on a mission in Peru and they all testify that he is no slouch. They even said his childhood dream was to win a gold medal in the Olympics as a wrestler, but I dont think someone so secretive would have shared something like that with routine fighters. The only thing we know for certain is that he was, and probably still is, a pretty tough customer even without his freaky brain." We came to a turning at the park that only top-level employees usually took walks in. It was deserted.

"So that is why we've summoned you E.B. The bosses want you on this guy's tail. Of course, your reward would be very generous when this mess is done with." Wilbur continued to work down the empty pathway in the park. I took out a poisoned dart from my coat. "How is Shelly?" Wilbur asked when he turned around and saw that I was a couple of paces behind him. His face went pale when he realised I had taken a dart out. "Shelly has been missing since last night, Wilbur. I got a note before I flew in here telling me to do the right thing if I wanted to see her alive again." Wilbur was shaking his head, muttering "No, no, no, no...", I didn't let him finish whatever it was he was trying to finish.

"I didn't know what the note meant then but I do now. This Dr. Voodoo guy is obviously a step ahead of you. I'm sorry I have to do this, but I want Shelly back." Wilbur turned around and tried to run screaming. He was put out of his misery before a single note escaped his throat. It only took a flick of my fingers to send the dart crashing through his skull. "Whoever you are Dr. Voodoo, you're pretty good."

Hector's Bwabu

"Bwabu."

Hector tried deep breaths, he remembered reading somewhere that they helped with stress. The laptop beamed at him, almost mockingly, like it was challenging him to write something and exocise his frustration. It was about a year. About three hundred and sixty five days. About twelve months since he last saw her. About eleven months since she dumped him as abruptly as abrupt can be. About ten months since she told him she was seeing someone else.

The laptop was still beaming at him. He had only managed "Bwabu" so far, a name that had morphed from "Baby", a name that had stuck since both seemed to like it. Hector cracked his knuckles. His writing was limited to short stories and opinionated essays. He was a complete stranger to the art of expressing emotional scars. He had always dismissed it as "unmanly".

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had no idea what to start with. His recent attempts to normalise things between the two of them had been grand failures. She was too busy. She said things probably meant to soothe him, but made no attempt to sound genuine. She had moved on. Hector thought he had too.

"I can't begin to describe how angry and hurt I was (and still am) at what you did." Hector knew he had to write something, anything. "But what bothers me the most is not knowing why you ended things the way you did. I don't believe any of the reasons you fed me. There was something else that made you leave. Something you didn't tell me. We had a normal conversation the previous night and you called the next day telling me you didn't want to be a part of this anymore."

Hector hoped he was not doing her an injustice, he was only recounting events as he remembered them. "There were plenty of things that happened when you said you were returning home that I knew you were hiding from me. I don't even know if it really was home that you were going back to. I remember hugging you and wondering how terrible it would be if it was the last time I hugged you. I also remember telling myself not to be paranoid. I don't tell myself stuff like that anymore."

The words stopped again. For the second time in as long as he could remember, his ability to generate words died on him. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another one. Hector was not an alcoholic. He just liked to sleep with a bottle of water next to his bed.