It was after midnight when Frank Castle returned to the subway station safe-house. The plan had gone off perfectly: Gallano and his boys never knew what hit them. Frank’s calloused fingers sought the panel, deactivated the alarm system in the darkness. The stench of burning C-4 clung to him, an eye-watering reminder of the night’s work. Were the criminals getting stupider, or was he just getting better at killing them? The metal staircase rang under his heavy footsteps, echoed off of the high tile ceiling. The chill air of the abandoned platform soothed Frank’s lungs and the five stories’ worth of dust he’d inhaled. He should have been further away when the building came down. He’d been sloppy. Mistakes like that could cost him the War.
They noticed each other at the same time. Frank considered the rat perched on the edge of the table. It was as big as a cat, meaning it was still just a baby in city-rat terms. It seemed unphased by Frank’s sudden appearance, evenly regarding him with beady red eyes. Frank briefly thought about throwing the trunk at the trespasser but held back. No need for two explosions tonight. Without taking his eyes off the rat Frank lowered the trunk to the floor. With a fluid movement honed over decades he drew the gun from its holster, taking aim at the edge of the table. The rat was already gone, a shadow of movement vanishing into a gap in the bricks. Just as well. Frank’d had enough killing for one night.
~*~
There were mushrooms on the pizza. Frank hated mushrooms. The rat was easier to please, and tucked in without a second thought.
“Sonova…”
Hammered by a hail of sudden gunfire, pulverized wood and mozzerela sprayed through the air. Frank emptied the clip, reduced his dinner and the table it sat on to a smear on the floor. The rat scampered up the collapsed wall behind him. For a moment it was tantalizingly within reach, it’s fat body passing within an inch of him. By the time Frank reacted the rat was hauling itself up onto the old suspended walkway. He watched its rope-like tail vanish through the railing.
“You ate my pizza. Now it’s personal.”
~*~
In the following weeks Frank killed more than sixty men, but the rat was never far from his mind. Every time he pulled the trigger he saw its flashing red eyes: every time he crushed a man’s windpipe he envisioned squeezing the bloated rodent until it exploded. Frank couldn’t understand it — he’d been trapped in a sewer with hundreds of the rabid little bastards before and it hadn’t affected him the way this single rat had. Even though he hadn’t been back to the subway safe-house since, he felt the rat’s presence. During the day he imagined seeing it skulking in dim corners; at night when he lay down to sleep he could hear it gnawing inside the walls. It went where he could not follow, thrived in the darkness of his mind.
He was distracted when he could least afford to be. A shipment of scopolamine was coming in at midnight tonight. It was Class One nasty, a powerful South American drug with the power to strip a man of his will. If it fell into the hands of someone like the Kingpin, the city would surely bleed. Frank knew he couldn’t afford to lose that much ground. He stepped from the alleyway shadows, began to cross towards the boarded door.
“Die, Punisher!”
Whip-like appendages slashed the air, came within an inch of blinding him. The Constrictor? Didn’t anyone stay locked up anymore?
The gun was knocked from Frank’s hand. Before he could react he was hurled sideways, striking the wall with a bone-jarring impact. Frank gasped, the breath forced from his lungs. The Constrictor was a chump, but years of practice with his suit made him deadly nonetheless. His gun lost, Frank was forced to improvise. He snatched the lid from a nearby trash can.
“Let’s see if I remember how to do this.”
Frank hurled the circular lid past the Constrictor, striking the wall at an angle. Before his foe could gloat the lid ricocheted forward, clipping the villain in the back of his costumed head. Constrictor dropped face-first into the debris, twitched once and then grew still. Once he was certain his foe was down, Frank staggered forward, his head ringing. He felt the sickeningly-familiar sensation of a concussion begin. On cue his vision began to blur and double. He made for the bike, half-leaping, half-falling into the seat. He kicked the ignition and roared off into the night.
~*~
“Nice digs, Frank.”
Frank struggled to open his eyes, but the lids were heavy and leaden. He forced his bone-dry throat to swallow, tried to remember what had happened. He’d fought, was hurt. He’d taken the bike back to the subway safe-house — and he’d been followed.
“I’m impressed. And I mean that. I thought you were exclusively a gun guy. Anyone can use a gun. But the way you used that trash-can lid back there — tschhh, Constrictor will never live that down.”
Frank knew that high, reedy voice. He didn’t need to see to recognize…
“Bullseye.”
Frank attempted to lean forward in the chair but his wrists were bound behind his back. Some sort of synthetic: the more he strained against it the tighter it grew. He wriggled his fingers in an attempt to get sensation back into his hands. As if beckoned, something slick and insistent brushed against them. Frank stiffened while Bullseye continued to talk.
“I like this place. I really do. Once you’re dead I’m gonna set up shop here.”
“I don’t know that you’d like it.”
Bullseye drew close and Frank could finally see his eyes. They were wide, wild: he’d already killed tonight.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Frank grimaced.
“There are rats.”
The minute change in Bullseye’s facial expression told Frank he’d hit a nerve. Men of violence could be laughably predictable when it came to fear. Frank fought the same fear as the wire-like whiskers blushed his fingertips, as leather-punch teeth begin to gnaw at the cord that bound him.
“Rats? Great. I could use the practice.”
With a snap of his wrist Bullseye sprayed a fan of playing cards through the air. Somewhere glass shattered. He winced beneath his mask
“Damn. That sounded old. Are those hard to come by?”
Frank sighed.
“Know of any other abandoned subway station platforms?”
Bullseye laughed, but Frank knew at any moment he might grow bored. That’s when Frank would die. He tried to keep his face neutral as the rat’s teeth repeatedly grazed the inner skin of his wrists.The pressure of the bonds caused the taut skin to split and hot blood suddenly ran between Frank’s fingers. He shifted so it dripped down the back of the chair-leg without splashing.
“Let me be frank, Frank. (chuckle, snort!) The Kingpin told me to kill you tonight. Now, as much as I appreciate the big guy employing me, I just can’t do what he said. Y’see, too many people want a piece of you. I want a piece of you. So I put the word out — your heads on the block, Castle. Tomorrow night, anyone with ten g’s can stop by and do what they want to you.”
Leather gloves grabbed Frank’s jaw and wrenched his head upwards.
“You’re pretty tough so I’m guessing I stand to make at least seventy-five grand.”
Frank shook his head.
“Your math skills are impressive. I can see how you got this far.”
Bullseye stopped and thought for a moment: Frank could hear the wheels turning.
“Speaking of math, I’m going to need the code to your security system. It looked complicated, and I wouldn’t want to walk into any deathtraps.”
Frank looked at him icily.
“Bullseye… you already have.”
Now it was his captors turn to laugh.
“Says the guy with his hands tied.’
“Yeah, about that…”
Frank pulled his hands free, snapping the rat like he was throwing a game-winning pass. The sleek brown missile found Bullseye’s throat as if it were guided. its wicked, spade-like teeth cleaved the thin leather of the hood, finding all-too-soft flesh beneath.
“GAAAHHH!!!”
Bullseye grabbed the rat by it’s lower body and pulled, which was a mistake. It’s razored claws dug angry furrows in the skin, drew a torrent of blood to the surface. It hung on as long as it could, but Bullseye was determined, tearing his flesh away with the rat. He threw it aside angrily, his eyes darting about for a weapon.
“How about a gun?”
Frank leveled the Colt 9mm smg and let it roar. Bullseye danced backwards, twisted impossibly, a party of bullets going on inside his shirt. He spun, staggered, skidded backwards in his own innards. He was empty when the clip was. The body hit the concrete with a satisfying thwack. After a moment Frank turned and gazed at the rat.
“You still owe me a pizza.”
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