That was one of the benefits of being wealthy. He could afford the very best in health care and was always first in line for transplants. His heart had gone first. Since then there were two kidney failures, new corneas to fix his cataracts, and half a dozen other operations along the way.
With so many problems, being a top man in the Mob didn’t hurt, either. It meant that he could always find a donor — willing or unwilling — if he needed one.
When the end finally did come, when he was no longer able to keep his body functioning, the Don went without protest. Death was so much a part of his business that he had long ago stopped fearing it, and his own death had come almost as a pleasant surprise. He couldn’t quite remember the transition from the hospital bed to... to wherever he was now. He had simply become aware of being led by a hooded figure across an endless expanse of ankle-deep mud shrouded by endless sheets of mist.
All things considered, the place wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The mist didn’t bother him. He wasn’t curious to know what might be around him. And the mud, if that’s what it was, was cold but not unpleasant. At least there was no fire and brimstone, just the mist, the mud, and of course the hooded figure he had instinctively known he was supposed to follow. It could be a lot worse.
Then he heard the sounds. They were squishy, splashing sounds and they were coming steadily closer. Patches of dark gray soon dotted the mist, and as the squishes became louder, the patches blackened and gradually crystalized into more or less human shapes.
Don Alberto winced when they came out of the mist. They were human but grotesquely mutilated. A dozen of them appeared on all sides, surrounding him and leaving no way of escape. The nearest grinned at him, but it wasn’t a grin. As the creature moved closer, the Don saw that what looked like a grin was actually the effect of muscles contorted around an empty eye socket. Terrified by the sight, he turned to run but was immediately confronted by another, whose emaciated abdomen was split from hip to navel, and one whose chest had ruptured hideously. Others followed and quickly closed around him.
“It’s inevitable,” the hooded figure said calmly, turning to reveal a face whose shrunken skin gave it the appearance of a skull.
“What do they want?” the Don rasped as the creatures reached for him, but he barely heard the answer over the sounds of tearing flesh.
“They’ve come,” the hooded figure said, “to get their organs back.”
The Deep Pocket
by David Linzee
She was in the big lonely building late at night, but she wasn’t alone. There was a killer with her!
It was four in the morning when Susie, crossing the lobby with a fresh cup of coffee, had a fleeting sense that something was out of place.
She paused and looked around with some trepidation. She had been working, here only a month, and it seemed that whenever something was wrong it turned out to be her fault. But right now, she decided, she was imagining it: the law offices of Wentworth, Mosby & Stant looked as punctiliously elegant as usual. On the wall between the elevators, the stainless steel letters which spelled out the firm’s name gleamed even in the faint light. The dark wood furniture and beige carpeting were fresh from the ministrations of the night cleaning crew. The magazines in the waiting area were neatly stacked, the ash trays polished. The vase on the receptionist’s console awaited the morning delivery of fresh flowers.
Susie shrugged. She supposed that she was only missing the familiar background noises — the low continuous hubbub of voices, buzzing telephones, clattering typewriters, and whirring copying machines. Just now, she could hear only the sigh of the ventilating system.
She crossed the lobby to the huge windows. This was the twentieth floor — the firm occupied this entire floor, as well as the one above — and she looked out on a vista of black towers and distant, empty streets. In the daytime, downtown had a population in the tens of thousands; at this hour, she mused, she was one of a couple of hundred.
She turned and walked back to her office. The long corridor was dim as a tunnel, and the doors were thrown open on empty offices. It amused Susie that she — the lowliest paralegal in the firm — had the place to herself. She felt like kicking off her shoes and capering down the hall, or sneaking into one of the partners’ offices and helping herself to a cigar.
But then she noticed that she was not alone: there was a sliver of light showing beneath the door of Harry Stant, the senior litigating partner. The mere proximity of this imposing figure was enough to puncture Susie’s irreverent mood. Last week he had frostily advised her that she must attain the proper legal gravity: her penchant for playing practical jokes on the mail-room boys and sending facetious memos to the associates was most unsuitable. Adopting a sober expression, she hurried back to her office.
The tiny cubicle was stacked with boxes. They contained a client’s financial records, and she had been ordered to get them organized by next morning. As she lugged yet another box onto her desk, she noticed a memo lying on her in-tray. Dated yesterday, it said that since an unnamed associate had reported his keys lost, the office locks would be changed the next day. New keys would be distributed —
Abruptly Susie realized why she had thought something was wrong as she crossed the lobby. She should not have been able to cross the lobby at all. The heavy security doors between the elevators and the reception console should have been closed and locked. But they had been wide open.
She winced as hot coffee sloshed over her fingers. Her hand was shaking. She put the cup down and stood.
What was she going to do now? Make a mad dash for the elevators? She caught sight of her reflection in the dark window — shoulders hunched, hand to her mouth — and made herself relax. She was being foolish. They’d simply forgotten to close the security doors last evening. She’d never known them to forget, but still—
She would go to Mr. Stant. Yes, that would make her feel better. She hoped he would not think it was another of her pranks; if he did, one look at her face ought to convince him otherwise. She left her office and started down the corridor.
But after a few steps she stopped dead. The light in Stant’s office had gone out.
“He’s not there.”
She gasped and swung round. But the dim corridor was empty.
“Stant’s not there. The night typists are gone. And the computer programmers. And the cleaning crew. There’s nobody here but you and me.”
The voice was hushed, hollow, diffuse. It was coming through speakers in the ceiling. The man was talking to her over the office paging system: he could be anywhere.
Instinctively Susie began to back up, toward the elevators.
“Are you that anxious to meet me? You’re heading in my direction.”
Susie froze.
“Yes, I can see you. Shall I prove it? Your hair is long and either light-brown or blonde. You’re wearing a red turtleneck and dark slacks. Rather Bohemian for a law firm, but you’re pretty enough.”
He broke off, and for a moment there was only the sound of his breathing, seeping through the speakers.
“I want a word with you. Go to a phone.”
Susie turned back into her office, shut the door and leaned against it. Her heart was pounding against her ribs and she could hardly breathe. She glanced around for something she could use to block the door. But the document boxes were not heavy enough, and she knew she could not budge her desk.
She lunged for the telephone and stabbed buttons: got an outside line and called the police.