He raised his arms slightly, as if in supplication. He still had the knife in his right hand.
“Now let’s not be hasty, ” he said. “There ain’t no need for any unpleasantness with any security men. We were just goin’, weren’t we, Tyler?”
“We were? Oh yes, of course we were.”
Just as the words were leaving Tyler’s mouth, Havoc moved forward with a speed that took both Tyler and Lee by surprise. He made a short slicing movement with the knife, carving an incision down the back of Lee’s left hand. Lee didn’t flinch. He looked at the incision then held the back of his hand up before his eyes and scowled at it. He turned it so that the palm was facing his face.
Havoc and Tyler could both now see the back of Lee’s hand clearly. The incision was a deep one, and the skin was parted at either side of it, so that it looked like a small ravine. A puss-like liquid welled up from the wound.
“Look what you’ve done,” Lee said. “You’ve cut me.”
“I’ve cut you, but there ain’t no blood comin’ out of the cut I made. Now how do you explain that?”
Havoc was now convinced that Lee was either a zombie, or something very much like one. He didn’t wait for Lee’s explanation. Before the chef could answer, he lunged forward with the knife and plunged it into his heart and pulled it out again. Lee just stood where he was, impassive. Havoc glanced at his knife. There was no blood on the blade. Just something that resembled puss. It was bubbling and hissing.
“What the-?” Havoc said.
He left his question unfinished, because Lee bitch-slapped him on the side of the face. The slap was so hard that it catapulted Havoc sideways onto a catering table, and the knife went flying from his hand. His feet were on the floor but his body was sprawled out over the top of the table, face down.
This was something that had never happened to him before. First, he’d never been caught by surprise like that; and secondly, a slap had never — could never — have knocked him off his feet like that. His head was spinning.
Havoc was vaguely aware of Tyler flying through the air. He shook his head to clear it. He’d been a fool, he told himself. He’d been so surprised by the sight of Lee treating a knife through the heart as if it was a flea bite, that he’d lost his concentration, and now he was paying the price.
There was a clattering of pots and pans as Tyler landed in, or on, something catering-related.
Havoc knew that meant that at any second he could expect Lee to hit him again. Or worse. Just in front of him, on top of the table, there was a cast-iron pan. He reached out and grabbed the handle. His head was clearing a little. He pushed the table top with his hands and stood up quickly, spinning around at the same time, whirling the pan in a vicious arc.
If Lee is behind me, he thought, he’s going to get this ol’ pan plumb in the chops.
Lee was indeed behind him, his mouth wide open to reveal a set of yellowing and surprisingly sharp-looking teeth. There were strands of gleaming spittle stretching from the top set to the bottom set, and his plan was obviously to take a bite out of Havoc’s neck.
The pan put paid to the plan.
It caught Lee exactly where Havoc had intended to catch him, and spun his head round removing a number of teeth into the bargain. Just as lee’s head righted itself, Havoc gave him a backhander with the pan that was almost as forceful as the forehand had been. Lee’s head spun to the other side, but he didn’t fall over, and he didn’t look hurt. He looked mad. He reached out and grabbed Havoc’s shoulders, his mouth open wide to deliver a fatal bite.
Havoc raised the pan high and rotated his wrists so that the pan was upside down. He rammed it onto the top of Lee’s head, so that the crazed chef was wearing it like some sort of a bizarre hat. The pan was so deep that that it completely covered Lee’s face; and its handle stuck out in front of him, making him look like a child’s attempt to portray a Dalek. To add to the effect, the handle moved left and right, as lee shook his head, making it seem as if he was using it as an eye to seek out his enemy.
He tried to remove the pan with both his hands, but the diameter was such that it was stuck fast. Try as he might, he couldn’t get it off.
Havoc picked up an American Lodge seasoned cast-iron skillet. It had been made in the legendary ‘Steel City’ of Pittsburgh, and had been forged by proud American craftsmen who cared about their products. It was the heaviest pan in the kitchen. He tested the balance of it. It felt good.
Havoc held the handle of the skillet in both hands and brought it back, as might a tennis-player who intended to play an unconventional shot: a double-handed forehand, the heaviest shot in the history of tennis. He swung it round in a vicious arc, striking the pan covering Skipper Lee’s head with all the force of the clanger striking the bell in the famous Big Ben clock which keeps watch over England’s historic Parliament buildings on the banks of the river Thames.
BONG!
For all of his fearsome zombie strength, even Skipper Lee struggled to keep his feet. He staggered sideways under the impact.
Havoc smiled. It was an evil little smile, a trademark of his.
The kitchen fell silent as all the staff broke off from their work to look at the source of the noise.
BO-O-O-NG!
This time it was a double-handed backhand, as heavy a shot as any tennis professional has played whilst at the very peak of his career. It was little wonder that under the force of it the chef’s knees buckled.
BO-O-O-O-O-NG!!
With this third blow, another forehand, Lee was sent crashing to the floor, where he lay prone and barely moving.
But Havoc was not finished with him yet; indeed, he had barely begun. He struck the stunned chef on the head another ten times, making a most unlucky total of thirteen, by which point Lee was so dazed and confused that Havoc was able to tie his arms behind his back and truss his legs together with the butcher’s string they kept in the kitchen for use when cooking joints of meat.
As Havoc went about his work, he became aware that the sous chefs, dishwashers and other kitchen staff were all staring at him. He raised his head.
“This man is a criminal,” he said. “He attacked an officah of the law. Now I’m taking him in.”
For a moment he stared back at them. A moment was all it took. They quietly filed away and went back to doing their jobs, as best they could without their boss telling them what to do.
Before long, Havoc had Lee trussed up like a Christmas turkey with the butcher’s twine. When he was sure that Skipper Lee wouldn’t be going anywhere, Havoc went over to the corner of the kitchen where Tyler had landed. He was groaning gently.
“I didn’t know you were a police officer,” he said.
“I’m not, son,” Havoc replied. “But don’t say that too loudly. Now follow me. You and me, we got us some work to do.”
With Havoc’s help, Tyler got to his feet.
“What happened?” He asked. “The last thing I remember was seeing you lying on a table as I flew through the air.”
“What happened,” said Havoc, “is that the zombie feller over there made a big mistake and regretted it. The same mistake a lot of other dead people have made before now.”
“What mistake was that?”
“He underestimated Macho Havoc.”
I won’t ever be making that mistake, Tyler thought to himself.
“Follow me,” said Havoc. “We’re going to have us a decapitation party.”
Havoc led Tyler across the kitchen to the spot where Lee was wriggling like a maggot on the floor. Havoc picked him up and slung him over one shoulder. He left the kitchen with his captive.