The Pulptress Read online

  The bathroom's pebbled glass window faced away from the Cape. She slithered out on to a three inch ledge that circled the building. She climbed slowly to the upper frame of the window. It held… barely. Now she could carefully reach the inset of the safety wall around the top deck.

  Once there she reached into her purse for a folded packet. With the special cloth inside she wiped the dirt and grime from one of the upper deck's framing members. Done, she pressed a pliable square of material against the freshly cleaned area. A chemical reaction began. In less than five seconds all paint over the wood dissolved to begin a chemical bonding far stronger than Super-Glue. Now a patch of “hooks” Velcro attached a swivel carrying a thin line to the “loops” on the clinging square.

  Finally she could raise an eye above the railing. And see exactly what she was afraid of.

  Two men pretended to work on the phony I-Max camera while actually keeping an eye on the crowd below. Three more kept attaching new pieces to an electronic nightmare worthy of Rube Goldberg. A sixth man stood aloof from the others. She could just make out a satisfied look on his face. She lowered her head as she pulled out her cell phone.

  The phone did not glow when she activated it. The buttons carried markings in Braille. She punched one combination and hit send. That turned off the explosive charges at the Alhambra and the power station. Now she set off a macro that would call 911 and play a recorded message about Space Palms. As she hit send she felt tiny vibrations through every cord in her hand. She looked up just in time to see the snout of a large silencer appear over the top of the railing.

  The Pulptress unwound like a released spring. She held the line about two inches from the swivel. She pushed off from the tiny inset while throwing her legs almost into the splits.

  Her feet looped around the hand holding the gun. The weapon discharged into the night as the gunman's hand slammed into the railing. She released one hand from the line to grab the gun and hand holding it. Now she released her feet, and slammed them against the top of the railing. Then kicked outward. Gun, and man, sailed out into the night.

  Before the remaining five could react the Pulptress vaulted over the railing and into their midst. She leaned to the left to unleash a devastating kick to one man's jaw. She used the force of the impact to slam her fist into another's private parts. Then she tucked everything in to roll forward. She came to her feet in a crouch. One hand snatched the wind-up alarm off the table. She hurled the device straight at the infernal machine. As one man tried to catch it she unleashed a flying side kick to the temple of the other. He fell hard against the phony I-Max camera.

  While the one man dropped the clock and moved forward she saw the apparent leader go for a gun. The Pulptress snatched the folded purse strap from its mount and snapped it open. She dodged the charging clock catcher to unleash the weighted end of the strap at the leader. He took three inches of flying brass across his center three fingers. As his automatic fell to the floor the last man leaped into a side kick aimed at her throat.

  She pulled back with barely an inch to spare. The man landed with a neat pivot to come at her again. She dodged a series of front kicks as the leader worked his way to the stairs down to the main observation deck. Then her opponent tried to catch her with a knife-hand strike as she dodged. She crouched as he planted his foot forward as part of the strike. That's when the Pulptress' heal slammed forward to destroy his kneecap. She snatched up the fallen gun to send a volley of silenced shots into the machine.

  She sprang to her feet just as the leader's head disappeared down the stairs. She realized catching the mug might make her exit difficult. If not impossible. But he had to be taken.

  Time seemed to slow down for her, somewhat. She vaulted off the upper deck. To the left she barely saw a man's arm let something fly. But dim light and peoples' heads kept her from seeing what.

  Below the fleeing terrorist took another long step. Then something seemed to float in from the side to impact his temple. The man began to fold up. He rolled bonelessly into the framing of the steps down to the beach. “Anus over appetite,” her friend Dillon called the maneuver.

  The Pulptress managed to land on a table without collapsing it. Just barely. She sprang into a half-gainer with a twist. Her shoes absorbed the impact as she landed three steps from the terrorist. Then, as she hurried over, her eyes focused on the object that took down her target. A custom throwing knife still in its sheath lay on the deck. Instantly she realized she had seen knives like this before. Dillon kept one in an office drawer. Li Suan and Dunklin each had one.

  Barely had she paused beside the fallen man when there came an incredible voice. “Time to exit, little lady. Trouble's over here. And please lose the knife for me.” The words came from a small disk on the floor, not too far from the knife.

  She took three seconds to verify the situation. As she finished the disk began to smoke.

  But, before the smoke, she had barely heard a female voice wryly say, “I thought you left all that stuff at home.”

  “Something told me I'd need it...” Then came the smoke. She snatched up the knife.

  The Pulptress vaulted over the railing and down the ten feet to the beach. She began sprinting up the shoreline. Once out of sight of Space Palms she yanked off her wig and her outer clothing. She wadded them in one hand. Clad only in a bikini she angled into the waters separating Space Coast from Space Center. She hooked the clip on the knife's sheath between the cups of her bikini.

  When she dove into the salt water she felt the dyes begin to leave her skin and hair. She spat out cheek pads and over-dentures. In deeper water she dropped her wad of clothing. As she swam she wondered just how the legend known as the Voice had recognized her after ten years and all of her training.

  A quarter of a mile later she climbed up the ladder of her boat. The noise of the engine kicking over disappeared under a blast of sound. She turned with a smile to watch Discovery safely lift off.

  THE END

  THE BONE QUEEN

  by Andrea Judy

  The tires screamed across the wet Paris asphalt as the knife ripped into the driver’s chest. His head slammed into the window and glass fell like stars across the night sky. I pulled the car to the side of the narrow roundabout and shoved him out the door, letting his body roll onto the pavement.

  He was still breathing. For now.

  I pulled the car into gear and sped off into the night. No one tried to kill the Pulptress and got away with it that easily.

  Paris was different than I remembered. I hadn’t been back since finishing my training with Amaury almost 15 years ago, and now I was only here because my old mentor had called for help.

  But then he hadn’t been at the airport to pick me up. Instead this strange man in a tacky old suit had claimed to be my chauffeur, lured me into this piece of crap car and then pulled a knife on me. Instinct had taken over at that point. The gears groaned under my hand and I pressed the clutch, smiling as I remembered Amaury teaching me how to drive a stick.

  I had trouble navigating the roundabouts and narrow roads of the city, but it was nearly 2 am and the city of lights was quiet. The street was quiet; that was one of the main reason my mentor, Amaury, had decided to live here. Rue Valette was everything he wanted. Near the major attractions, but on a street that few, if any, tourists would ever wander down.

  I parked the old car and hurried up the rickety staircase to the back entrance of the apartment. It took a few moments for me to dig through my keys to find the spare he had mailed me. It slipped in the lock and the door swung open.

  Even with all of the lights off, I could tell that something was wrong. Amaury kept an immaculate place; he was even tidier than I was. His antique armoire was broken, sagging against the wall, doors open, entrails gutted and spread across the living room. The couch cushions had been ripped open, stuffing coating the ground like the first heavy snowfall of the year.

  I stepped over the piles of broken wood and discarded paper. Each
step was carefully measured to be silent as I slipped into the narrow galley kitchen. The block of knives had been tipped over and several of the blades were out on the counter. Cabinet doors hung open, half off their hinges. A loaf of fresh bread, uncut, was sitting on the table, and a splash of red glimmered in the low light of the apartment.

  I had to kick in the bedroom door, shoving past the knocked over dresser that had been blocking it. Nothing was intact, the linens, the furniture, even clothes, were strewn wildly about. Splintered wood shards creaked under my movement, breaking and cracking with each step. I tensed my body; I kept expecting something to be summoned by the noise I made as I moved towards the broken bedroom window. It was a long drop down, but not impossible to survive. Amaury had shown me how to survive falls like that before.

  Something harder than wood crunched under my foot, I found a long thin piece of bone under my sole. I ran it over in my hands; the ends were broken and jagged, and the sides were rough like sandpaper against my fingers. It smelled like rot, dirt and dust.

  There was a thudding sound back from the living room and I put the bone fragment into my pocket as I slipped down the hallway to peer out into the open area. Two strange men in old, ratty grey suits were standing in the kitchen arguing in some form of French.

  Even with my years of studying French, I could only understand every few words, not enough to know what the topic of conversation was, but the way one of the men was pointing a gun gave me more than enough information to act on.

  Another step forward and a wood sliver cracked under my foot. Both men looked up, guns pointing my way. One called out in French but the other one opened fire without waiting for a response. I dove forward, rolling over shards of wood; plaster, and glass to duck behind the old couch resting on its side in the center of the room. Another bullet ricocheted across it and wood pieces shattered across the room.

  The men advanced towards me as I calculated my options. The couch wouldn’t be able to stop many more shots before it gave out, but the small layout of the apartment gave me few options for retreat. I took a deep breath and prepared to move. I knew I was far too well trained and practiced to panic, but my heart still felt like some wild creature had gotten loose in my chest and was going to rip out of me at any moment.

  The men opened fire again. This time the shots shredded through the fabric and remaining cushions. One of the bullets screamed through the back of the couch, grazing across my shoulder, singeing the fabric of my uniform and drawing a slow steady stream of blood.

  I cursed under my breath as I dove into the kitchen, bullets pounded into the plaster overhead. I grabbed a steak knife and hurled it towards the closest charging man. The blade sank into the palm of his hand but there was no blood.

  As he tried to pull it out the second blade hit his throat and he fell to the ground, still.

  The other man lurched forward, finger curling around the trigger. The scent of burning hair filled the air as the bullet whizzed past my ear. I rushed past him and back down the hallway. I could hear him yelling as he barreled after me, but nothing was going to stop me.

  I leapt through the busted bedroom window, bracing my knees and landing with a roll as I darted into the dark of the city streets.

  Three blocks later a car pulled up near me. I kept my back against the wall, holding my breath and trying to blend in with the grey walls. Two people stepped out of the car. One of them was a woman, a little larger and older than me. Her pale hair was streaked with grey and white, but the way she moved told me that she had several years to go before age would even think of slowing her down. The other was a man who had to be around the same age; he pulled a beret over his baldhead as he climbed out of the car.

  “You look ridiculous,” the woman spoke in short French, “Where is your baguette and cigarette then? Make yourself look like a real Frenchmen for the tourists?”

  “It’s 3 in the morning, what tourists?” he snapped as he tugged at the beret.

  “Oh, just be quiet and help me find her before these men come back,” she tittered, “We can’t go about town asking for The Pulptress can we? Why did Amaury not give us better directions to find her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, because he was kidnapped?” the man snorted, “That tends to cut directions short.”

  “Your mouth stinks, shut it!”

  I hesitated but finally stepped forward, keeping one hand ready to throw a punch if I needed to, “You know Amaury?”

  The man jumped and the woman took a step backwards, “We do. You are who we are looking for?” the man finally asked.

  I nodded, “I'm The Pulptress. Where’s Amaury? You said he’s been kidnapped?”

  The woman began a rant in French, speaking far too quickly for me to understand her.

  “English you Connard!” he growled, “I am sorry for my sister, she excites easily.”

  She hissed at him, slapping his arm before turning to me, “I am sorry for my brother, he is an idiot.”

  I only had the chance to take a breath before he began speaking, “Oh, we are being so rude! My name is Pascal and this is my sister Paulette. We are friends of Amaury. He told us you were coming and to find you, but then there was a noise great on the phone and then there was no more Amaury.”

  “When was that?” I asked, my head was spinning with worry.

  “It was only a few hours ago. Just before dark.” Paulette was looking up at the sky, “The Chiffonnier have taken him.”

  “The what?”

  Paulette shook her head, and wrapped her arms around herself. “The rag and bone men.”

  “Shush Paulette, it is a silly old tale, Chiffonniers are furniture now, not men,” Pascal tutted at her, “Come, let us off the streets.” He moved to open the car door for me.

  I glanced at Paulette as I reluctantly climbed into the car, keeping tight hold on the spare kitchen knife still in my hand, “What is going on? When Amaury called me he said something about strange people were showing up all over the city.”

  Pascal nodded as he climbed into the driver’s seat and locked the door. The car rumbled, a deep throaty sound, as it lurched forward. “There are many strange things happening here in Paris.”

  “Like what?” I leaned forward, resting in the space between Pascal and Paulette; I could feel the uneasiness between them against my cheeks.

  “Just like Amaury told you.” Pascal glanced around, “Strange people appearing.”

  “Strange? Look, that’s not much help, you two are strange, but I know that’s not what Amaury meant.” I was getting testy; these two were dancing around the problem, afraid to say it.

  “The Chiffonnier,” Paulette said again, “They are men not of this world, summoned out of bone and rag as servants. They appear over all the city, and then they disappear. There are many now.”

  “How can you know that?” Pascal asked, “You don’t know that’s what those people are. That is an old maid’s tale, not truth.”

  I saw Paulette’s lip twitch with annoyance, flashing teeth at her brother, “Because when you kill a man there is a body, when you kill Chiffonnier there is just bone and rag, not man!”

  “But where do they come from? Someone would notice graves being robbed in the city right?” The thin bone I had found at Amaury's apartment made my heart race with sudden dread.

  “I do not know. They come from everywhere. There are many very old graveyards in Paris, many bones to find.”

  “But someone couldn’t just go in and steal bones without anyone noticing?” I pressed, “And why would they?”

  “Why does a bird lay eggs?” Paulette sneered, “Because it is what it does.”

  “That is enough!” Pascal's grip on the steering wheel was white knuckled and I decided to not push for any more information. There would be time for that later. After some sleep and breakfast.

  The two siblings began bickering in rapid French and I just closed my eyes, sleeping anywhere was one of my favorite talents, and now, not even the twins
screaming could keep my eyes open. I dozed off with the flow of French in my ears.

  “Ma Cherie, it is time to wake now.” Paulette was softly shaking me, “It is time for the breakfast.”

  “What time is it?” My mind was still foggy. Apparently I was not immune to jet lag.

  “It is after 9 in the morning,” Pascal spoke up. He was still in the driver’s seat though the car was pulled over parked half on a sidewalk. He had the window cracked and was blowing smoke from his cigarette towards the window.

  “Where are we?” I rolled my shoulders and Paulette jumped as my neck popped.

  “We are at the Gare du Nord. The North Train Station.” Pascal let out one last puff of smoke before stubbing his cigarette out, “I will get breakfast and bring it to you. Stay here.” he glanced at his sister, then to me before stepping out of the car.

  “He is protective you know.” Paulette smoothed the ends of her sleeves, the fabric was obviously faded from years of use, “Amaury was like our brother. Pascal is sick with worry.”

  “Where do you think he was taken?” I asked.

  Paulette sighed, “I do not know where the bone men come from. There are many graveyards in Paris, and many more places to hide. The bone men appear in the night time and are gone before the sun rises.”

  “Maybe a mausoleum or an underground graveyard?” I couldn't stop the growing sense of dread in my chest. There was something very wrong going on in Paris, something bad enough that one of the men who had helped train me knew he needed help. It was not like Amaury to call for help, he was as stubborn and independent as I was.

  “Countless. There are countless places to hide. Paris has much blood and bone in her.” Paulette's gaze was out the window, looking across the city as locals and tourists intermingled on the streets.