Free Midnight Special by Phoef Sutton Page B

basic decor. Swords and knives and maces and lances and guns, all souvenirs from various movies, all mounted on the walls in various pleasing arrangements. It lends the place a kind of a whimsical ferocity. Like KAOS headquarters or something.
    “So when the paramedic went all—let’s just say it—berserk, he didn’t have to look far for a weapon. He grabbed the butcher’s knife from Psycho off the wall and just stuck it in my back.
    “It skidded against my ribs, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. I turned around with the sword in my hand, more surprised than injured. I was totally confused since I’d saved this asshole’s life and now he was stabbing me, for Christ’s sake.
    “Then I saw his face. Rotting, decaying.
    “He had it too.
    “I thought there must be some kind of 28 Days Later -type virus on the loose and it was spreading like wildfire.
    “He still had the knife in his hand. He raised it, so what could I do?
    “I killed him.
    “I saw the light go out of his eyes.
    “I felt a swelling hardness growing in my cock. And I thought, ‘You are one sick motherfucker, Barnabas Yancey.’
    “Now there were three dead men in the room, two of whom I’d killed myself.
    “The fixer couldn’t get there soon enough.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    “While I was waiting for the fixer, I thought I’d check my back and see how bad my wound was. I went into the bathroom and took my shirt off, expecting to see a mess.
    “There wasn’t a scratch on me.
    “But my shirt was torn and bloody. WTF? , as they say. I mean it could be that the blood was from somebody else (take your pick) and it could have been that the paramedic had just torn my shirt with the knife and missed me altogether. And the stabbing pain I’d felt? That could have just been my imagination.
    “Or it could be that I was superhuman.
    “It could be that I’d died and come back as some sort of Zombie Killing Machine.
    “How cool is that?
    “The buzzer rang. I let the fixer in.
    “He was dressed just like I’d imagined he would be. Trench coat and fedora. Half-burnt cigarette dangling from his lips. He didn’t speak—he just walked to the scene of the carnage and nodded.
    “‘Anybody else?’ he asked.
    “‘No. Isn’t that enough?’
    “He shrugged. I started to tell him what happened. He stopped me with a wave of his hand. ‘I really don’t care what happened. That’s not a part of my job. My job is to clean up messes.’
    “‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
    “He stubbed out the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, took out a lollipop, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth. ‘Mr. Karanlik.’
    “‘Do I need an alibi for tonight?’
    “Karanlik shrugged. ‘No one will ever find these bodies. And even if they do, they won’t be able to trace them back here. You’re clean. Now get out. I have work to do.’
    “I moved toward the door.
    “‘Hey, Mr. Yancey,’ he asked. ‘One thing…Did you like it?’
    “I turned back to see Karanlik smiling a broad clown-like smile that seemed to swallow his whole face.
    “‘A little bit,’ I said.
    “‘That’s good. ’Cause I’m thinking you’re gonna keep me very busy.’”

CHAPTER TWENTY
    Barnabas threw back another shot of tequila.
    Matt sipped his. He wasn’t quite keeping up with Barnabas, but the bottle was growing rapidly empty.
    “Karanlik didn’t lie. I tried to run from it. But everywhere I went, from Cabo San Lucas to Osaka, Japan, it kept following me. The rotting flesh and the killing. And everywhere I went, no matter what exotic corner of the world I tried to hide in, the fixer always found me and cleaned up after me.”
    He set the shot glass down with a sharp clink on the table.
    “End of story.”
    Matt took it in.
    “He’s a clown to me,” Matt said. “Or a doctor. Or a lot of things.”
    Barnabas barked his laugh. “Same difference.”
    “Karanlik,” Matt said.
    “It’s Turkish. For ‘black.’ Or ‘darkness.’ Or