The Macabre Box

ALFRED THE FORTUITOUS Chicago, Summer, 1927 When Alfred awoke, his right eye struggled to pry itself open, while his left was sealed over in a hardened crust. He had been hit, and hit hard. He at least knew that much. He wasn't certain as to what manner of instrument had struck him, but he assumed it was most likely a billy-club. His head pounded relentlessly, as if a herd of startled elephants were tromping back and forth in his brain. Though his eye was now perceptive and he was fully cognizant, he beheld nothing but pitch darkness. The pain throbbed in gushing currents, beating an atrocious rhythm until he sustained no longer, and he sunk backward into the sanctity of dreams. Several hours later he awoke again, this time to the sound of a strange cry in the distance. He was more alert now and could hold his consciousness, though his head was still governed by the pervasive aching. The sound had been a scream, a man's scream, but perverted in such a way as to sound like a child. It came again, this time longer - shrill, and more desperate. It flew in a muffled path, as if it traveled down several corridors and pierced through walls to reach him. Alfred tried to move, but his body was lost to an odd sense of paralysis. He discovered his hands and feet were bound tightly, and his back was lying flat on a rigid surface. He gathered what little sensibility was left to his avail, and slowly began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. It was prohibition, and he, like other young men of his era, was eager to find a decent living in the scuffles of the big city. Alfred was propositioned by a young gentleman who was sharing a drink with him in a local speakeasy. He had seemed very calm and confident in his effort to recruit him, and had a charming disposition that lured Alfred deeper into conversation. "Every man needs a drink," he remarked simply. "Why not make a little earning at it?" He had started an independent operation of his own, and invited Alfred to assist him in supply transactions. It was a small, but lucrative strain, and the clientele were committed to maintaining the strictest secrecy. Alfred, who was destitute and in dire straits, accepted eagerly. Within weeks, he had established himself as the man's chief business partner. Like clockwork, men strode through the door after a hard day on the assembly line, the shore docks, or from wherever they toiled for a day’s meager wage. Alfred and his associate had a drink and a smile for them, and the profits churned like butter and cream. It was important to keep the business small and discreet, however. There was one man who had the lion's share of this criminality, and he wanted no one else to share in its prosperity. Alfred made it a point to know everything about him - where he frequented, who he contacted, and what he knew. He even learned of the long reach from his past, when he ran in the small street gangs that littered the old Chicago vogue. He was known as Alphonso Componi back then, a name now long forgotten and replaced with a much more dreaded persona. To cross him meant one thing and one thing only, and that was death. As Alfred lay helpless to the twisted knots of his restraints, the last series of events slowly began to work their way back to his mind. He had been standing next to his partner, tossing a silver dollar up and down and discussing the day's events, when no sooner had he put the coin back in his pocket, a sharp blow had met with the side of his head. He slumped to the ground and his vision became hazy. The last sight he recalled was the flash of a lime green suit, and then darkness. It was now painfully clear that their business had been discovered. He clenched his teeth and shivered warily in the blackness. There was nothing he could do but wait. The hours dragged on and on. When he was close to succumbing to the throes of delirium, his mind dove deep to take him somewhere far away from the verity of the horrible circumstance. He slipped into the distant shades of his childhood, and retrieved a memory that became a warm and soothing comfort. His beloved grandfather had taken him one Sunday to the county fair when Alfred was just four. He enjoyed the day as any child would enjoy, but wandered astray when his grandfather wasn't looking. He sauntered across the street to an abandoned building, and being the curious child that he was, he ventured inside to explore. It was a two-story structure, and before long Alfred had made his way to the rooftop to look at his surroundings from a bird's-eye view. It didn't seem unnatural to him, to walk along the ledge of the old building to get a better look. By this time his grandfather and a crowd of townsfolk had been alerted to the dilemma, and they rushed over to lead Alfred to safety. They yelled and screamed for him to go back down from whence he came, but Alfred was quite content and couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. Just then, a forceful gust of wind struck him about the back, and Alfred flew from the ledge at a staggering distance. The crowd hushed in horror, but Alfred fell straight to the spot where his grandfather stood, and he caught him safely in the folds of his strong arms. Overwhelmed with joy, and with tears rolling down his cheeks, his grandfather spun the boy around gleefully and exclaimed: "Alfred the Fortuitous!" In the depths of his isolated cell, he held firmly to the memory. He nursed the silent hope that today would end like that day. Somehow, someway, he would get out of this. He would get out of this and be just fine. The darkness slowly became filled with a dull light when the creak of a door was brought softly to his ears. He could see the proportions of the room now. It was small and bare, like a prison cell with no windows, and he lay bound by leather straps to a wooden table which was approximately six feet in length. To his left was a door that was slightly ajar, and a face was peering in at him with a most hideous expression. He was a tall man and broad-shouldered with black hair that was slicked back with an overabundance of hair grease. His complexion was the pale, sunless color of cadaver flesh. His nose was slender like a blade, while his forehead protruded rudely in a heave of bone. His teeth were small and sharpened to the fine points of a ghastly smile, and his lips were thin and cracked under the milky, yellow hue of remorseless eyes. Terror prevented Alfred from speaking. The man waited a full minute and did nothing but smile, as if simply to please himself. Finally he opened the door a bit wider, and a sudden blur burst into the room. Alfred saw fangs, and savage, glowing eyes of hatred staring wildly upon him. He was looking down at the shape of an enormous, ravenous dog. In the dimness he could not determine the breed, but its bulky measurements suggested some kind of mutation. It stopped abruptly only a few feet from the table and crouched into an attack position, where it curled its black lips into a vicious snarl. There was a heavy stain of blood on its chin, and a red, sticky foam dripped from its jaws to the floor. The man stepped casually into the room, and spoke. "Are you wondering why you haven't been attacked yet?"