The Chaos of Chung-Fu. Edmund Glasby
dread.
“Right,” Maxwell stood before the warehouse door. “I want ‘Two-Bellies’ alive. I ain’t too bothered about the others, although if you can take ’em alive, do so.” He gave the door a push.
The four of them crept inside.
It was dark and gloomy. Reaching for a light switch, Maxwell flicked it on.
The building was huge. It was filled with crates, boxes, and all manner of containers, some bearing stencilled lettering regarding either their provenance or their destination, all lit up by rows of overhead light bulbs.
There was movement up ahead. Shadowy figures crouched behind some of the containers, clearly surprised at this intrusion.
“Spread out,” Maxwell ordered.
No sooner had his order been given than a gunshot shattered the silence, a bullet ricocheting off a nearby wall. They all immediately took cover, ducking behind crates. Two more shots rang out.
“Seems Chung-Fu’s here and he means business,” said Maxwell, turning to Murphy. Gun in hand, he crept forward, taking cover behind a row of crates.
Stealthily, Murphy edged his way to one side. His nerves were tingling, although this was with a fear that he was able to cope with. He had been in numerous situations like this—bullets whizzing over his head and fighting thugs more than willing to end his life. This was normality, as far as he was concerned. Creeping forward, using crates for cover, his index finger clammy on the trigger of his .38 revolver, he moved almost silently, sneaking around the side, hoping to gain the advantage by getting behind the shooters.
There were two of them, Chinese in appearance, although Murphy would have bet a month’s wages that they were more of those firework-stuffed mannequins he had encountered before. They were crouched low, their guns at the ready. He doubted whether he could take out both of them before they were to return fire. Then he saw ‘Muscles’ creeping from one side, his Tommy gun in his hands. He signalled for him to hold his ground. This would have to be handled carefully.
Ducking low, Murphy edged a little closer.
And then the Chinese men were shooting. Whether at Maxwell or ‘Weasel’, Murphy wasn’t sure. They were standing, making good targets and he knew now was the time to open fire. Aiming for a second, he squeezed the trigger, the recoil hammered at his wrist. Bullets flew.
One of the men went down, exploding against a chest-high heap of crates with a loud bang. ‘Muscles’ opened fire on the other, a storm of bullets blasting forth in a fiery burst, tearing the remaining man apart. He too exploded.
And then a crate over to one side burst open and Chung-Fu burst on to the scene. Only this was not the virile, powerful Chinese sorcerer Murphy had last seen at the weird theatre, but rather the ancient, wrinkled, cadaverous old man who had introduced the acts. In fact, his appearance was many times worse than that. His skin was grey and corpse-like, almost mummified. His face was ghastly: red eyes glaring, crooked lips drawn back over protruding fangs. His hands were extended claws, the nails long and talon-like. There was a supernatural horror about him that filled all of them with fear.
“What the hell?” exclaimed Maxwell, rushing up and discharging a round of bullets at the hideous thing.
The bullets had no effect whatsoever.
‘Muscles’ opened fire, emptying a drum of submachine gun bullets. And then ‘Weasel’ was shooting. Crates were splintered and blown asunder. In the resulting chaos, Maxwell fell forward, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He had been shot three times in the back.
Murphy turned to look. Crawling forward, a smoking revolver in its hand, came ‘Two-Bellies’—the deformed, dummy-imp in the convict costume. What manner of perverse sorcery Chung-Fu had used to transform the fat gangster into this foul abomination, he had no idea, nor had he any desire to stay around in order to find out. He pulled back, eyes staring as Chung-Fu rose into the air. A dark cloud began to form around him. His eyes became lambent, red fires of pure evil.
The terror-shadows began to grow, snuffing out the light.
This was an enemy Murphy knew could not be beaten. This was an ancient, demonic thing, no doubt an entity that had existed for centuries, its power derived from the horror it instilled in others; a vampire of sorts. He turned and ran for the exit. ‘Weasel’ was already there, his face chalk-white, his body trembling.
There came a scream as something terrible befell ‘Muscles’.
The thing that had been Harry ‘Two-Bellies’ Lafayette fired, bullets whining past Murphy’s head.
“There’s some dynamite in the car,” shouted ‘Weasel’. Together he and Murphy dashed outside into the natural dark of evening and ran to the parked vehicle. Several curious dockhands, alerted by the gunshots, watched from a safe distance.
Heart pounding fiercely, Murphy stood trying to gain his breath, waiting as ‘Weasel’ flung open the boot and removed several sticks of dynamite. He handed them to Murphy before taking out some more.
Murphy glanced back at the warehouse. Hideous, unnatural things were happening in there within its shadow-filled interior. For an instant, his vision blurred, veiled by the falling rain. He blinked his eyes clear. Then horror burst out anew as he saw the demonic thing that stood in the doorway of the warehouse, grinning at him with a leering smile. The features were indistinct, half-visible through the black, suffocating shadows that billowed out around it.
Then ‘Weasel’ was lighting fuses and throwing his sticks of dynamite.
An almighty explosion destroyed the doorway of the warehouse. A second and then a third blast went off, the powerful detonations throwing fire and wood skywards. A wall of fiery heat struck Murphy as he hesitated before hurling his explosives. The two men then pulled back, waiting, hoping that nothing would emerge from the conflagration that now raged before their eyes. Thankfully, nothing did.
They then got in the car and sped off, leaving behind the madness of Chung-Fu and the bodies of Maxwell and ‘Muscles’.
* * * * * * *
Hang-Lee, the government appointed investigator, examined the poster that had appeared overnight on the wall of the rundown cinema. There had been a rash of disappearances in the Poor Quarter of Beijing.…
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