Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (16 page)

You reap what you sow.

He wasn’t one to believe much in signs, but then to wake up to Victoria’s screaming and the crimson handprint on the wall, he couldn’t help but take it for what it was–some sort of morbid warning.

Victoria proceeded to dress herself in a hurry, slipping into her shoes and pulling her shirt over her head. Without so much as a second glance at the hunter, she unlocked the door and stepped out. He approached the print, placing his hand upon it. The hunter’s was only slightly larger than the slim-fingered bogeyman’s.

“Who are you?” he whispered. The meaning of the print was not lost on him in the least. This apparent bogeyman seemed more than a bit bitter over the deaths of the hybrids, his sign a clear indication of that fact. It explained why he held such a grudge against the hunter, why he’d go as far to threaten him while he slept with Victoria. But it was like he could walk through walls, like he was invisible–both of which beyond impossible.

Another knock on the door, Jackson’s voice again requesting his response.

“Come in, Jackson.”

The large man entered, shutting the door behind him. “What happened, Boss?” he asked. “Victoria looks like she seen a ghost.”

“Perhaps she did.”

“Boss?”

The hunter pointed to the red print, Jackson’s eyes growing huge in turn.

“Did you see anyone come up here last night?”

Jackson shook his head adamantly. “Boss, I’m tellin’ you, this aint the work of anyone here.” He motioned toward the mark of the bogeyman, as well. “This shit doesn’t make any sense.”

“Unless Victoria let someone in last night.”

“That’s exactly what this
thing
wants you to think–wants you to kill someone innocent over this, wants to get inside your head.”

“Well it’s working, Jackson,” he admitted, Rick’s life currently first on the chopping block. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“Good,” the large man nodded. “As much as you’d like to, Boss, this aint somethin’ you can explain with a rational mind.”

“Maybe, but there is something I do know.”

Jackson lifted an eyebrow in question, a portion of his scar rising as well.

“It’s obvious he’s got a soft spot for hybrids.” He lifted his right hand. “What say we leave him … a little something special?”

H
oudini was no longer a fitting comparison for what the bogeyman seemed capable of. He was something far darker, more sinister, reminding Jackson of Great Grandmother’s stories of old Haitian deities–one in particular coming to mind. Usually seen sipping a glass of chilled rum, his face painted like a skull beneath his blackened top hat, Baron Samedi was a feared entity of the Vodou religion. Residing at the crossroads between this world and the next, he was the Lao of the dead.

It was said, if one were on the verge of death, he could either heal them, or come to take them to the world beyond. But one thing was certain; you’d definitely not wish to be at odds with Samedi, nor wish to make the quite devious Baron angry.

However much it made sense to Jackson, the boss would not want to hear those tales; still Baron Samedi had come to them, nonetheless, even to collect that man on Cider. And now the boss wished to taunt him, an entity that had proven more than once its ability to enter and leave as it pleased.

To upset Samedi was a mistake.

“You guys have any more experiences since Lexington?” Jackson asked.

Caleb shook his head. “That shoeless dude never came back after that.”

“So you haven’t seen anything else?”

“No, but that guy was on somethin’ serious.” He lit the cigarette Jackson gave him, reclining in his seat as he placed his boots atop the bar running the length of the first row. “Why? You guys see somethin’?”

Although both men belonged to separate groups, they would meet weekly there to discuss the current topics of interest for each party. Neither acted as a mole for the other, neither disclosed inner-workings or personal politics–they were disconnected ambassadors, leaving any social differences back at the camps from which they came; and the Cineplex stood well outside either group’s territory, the perfect neutral ground for their always civilized exchange.

“We’ve had a few odd things happen since you told me about that guy,” Jackson answered. “Can’t help but think they’re related somehow.”

“What kind of things?”

“Had a body vanish right out from under our noses; and somethin’s been toyin’ with us ever since.”

“A body?” Caleb’s brow furrowed. “Anything I should be concerned about?”

“Are you missin’ anyone?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not your concern; but I would advise you not to come within two hundred yards of the store.” Jackson breathed in through the Marlboro resting between his fingers. “People getting’ a bit antsy over there.”

Caleb grinned. “If your boss can’t handle the establishment any longer, there are others more than willing to step in.”

“I’m going to pretend that didn’t sound like a threat.”

“No threat,” Caleb insisted. “You forget, when I used to hunt demons for you guys, I had a chance to meet the cavalry over there; and between Rick and John, I’d have trouble sleeping at night, too.”

“They’re just a couple pussy cats,” Jackson disagreed. “All bark and no bite, those two.”

“No,” Caleb shook his head. “They’re the kind that makes sure they only have to bite once.” The ember of his cigarette blazed between them again. “And by then, Jackson, you’re already dead.”

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

With arms crossed over his chest, the hunter watched as Coda performed the task appointed to him. Others came to gather, as well, with questioning expressions on their faces, curious as to what message might be added to the outside wall of the store. Victoria emerged soon after, instantly distraught over his current tactic.

“This thing could’ve just as easily slit your throat last night,” she huffed, “and now you want to piss it off some more?”

“Stop calling the thing an
It
. It’s not a creature. It’s a man; and yes, I wanna piss him off real good.”

“And why would you want to do that, James?”

“That’s when he’ll get sloppy; and that’s when we’ll catch him in the act.”

“He didn’t kill you, James. He let you live–just left you a warning. What if it’s over? What if he’s already finished?”

“It’s not over, Victoria. This whole thing is just beginning.” He pointed toward the wall. “This is the only way we’re gonna put an end to it.”

“And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“You weren’t the only one in that bed last night, James! If this thing ever wants to get back at you, guess who he’s gonna think of first.”

“You’ll be safe,” the hunter offered dryly. He wasn’t entirely certain, and he was never a good liar.

“How can you expect me to believe that, when you can’t even keep yourself safe, James?!”

“Quiet down.” He tried to calm her with a hand on her shoulder, a gesture she quickly brushed away.

“You’re putting everyone here at risk.”

“By trying to protect them?”

“You can’t protect them if you’re dead, James.”

Coda approached them just as Victoria was storming off. “Women problems?”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, it’s done,” the boy announced, flipping the spray can in a singular rotation above his palm. “Can’t miss it.”

“Good.” The hunter nodded. “Just … keep your eyes skinned, huh?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He looked again to Victoria, her blonde hair bouncing with the fury of her steps. She’d come around eventually, when the body of the bogeyman was on display, when everyone could finally see he’s just a man, flesh and blood. She wouldn’t have anything to be afraid of anymore. “We’ll see, Coda.” He took the black spray paint, coated the palm of his right hand, and pressed it to the wall. “We’ll see if the bastard takes the bait.”

M
ike awoke to the sensation of Sam’s tongue upon his face, along with the high-pitched whimper of his concern.

“Sam?” Mike lifted his hands. “What happened?” He sat up, resting his face in his palms, the throbbing of his head only accentuated by Sam’s breath, which smelled curiously of kibble. He opened his eyes, letting sunlight fill his skull. Groaning, he closed them again and laid back down.

“What happened, Sam?” he asked again, as if the dog could fill him in on his current state. They both were still safe within Ms. Limawitz’s luxury apartment, only Mike felt as though he was on the tail end of an intense bachelor party. “You found some food, Sammy?” Maybe the dog was able to slip inside a pantry, instantly rewarded for his nosiness.

Mike flipped to his belly and crawled toward the large windows, pulling the curtains closed, enjoying the relief on his eyelids. “That’s better.” He slowly stood, cracking his eyes cautiously. The darkness was far more kind to him, inviting and tender. He found Sam there, mouth ajar, wagging his tail with perceived excitement. Oddly, a bowl had been placed on the floor for the German Shepherd, a bag of dog food beside it, the bowl containing the remnants of a feeding within. “What the hell?” Someone fed Sam for him? “Who fed you?”

Sam cocked his head in question.

“I said, who fed y …” Mike placed his hand upon his neck, discovering something that hadn’t been there previously. He let his fingers glide over it momentarily, before making his way to the bathroom for further inspection. He stepped before the mirror. Jesus, he looked like shit. He’d made it a point to avoid them in the past for that very reason, but this was different.

There was something on his neck, something resembling scar tissue. Mike pulled his shirt lower, finding the mark continuing past his collar and down onto his chest. “What the fuck?” Abruptly angular in its various curves and adjacent shapes, it was something purely alien in execution. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no … ”

Something at the front door, something had been there, something big. The recollection had stirred by sight of the design. Something came and snatched him.

And there, within Mike’s reflection, his eyes were bloodshot, irritated. He leaned closer–something in them, thin and tucked away along the edges. With shaking hands, he pried the lids of his right eye apart, finding a soft, black tissue residing where the inner red of his skin should have been. Once touched, both membranes slid over, engulfing his eyes entirely. Mike stumbled back, colliding with the opened door, overtaken by his black-eyed reflection, his gaping mouth.

Frozen by terror, it took several moments before he finally had breath enough to scream.

S
everal men had already been replicated and reintroduced into the population. Reintroduction tended to be tricky business, however; and it mattered very much how that specific individual met their untimely demise. Not every man or woman caught by the scythe of the reaper could be replicated; and murder turned out to be the devilish sin that could render any of them permanently deceased. Their deaths needed to be a private affair, zero witnesses always preferred.

But the man first replicated, bullet hole in neck, had been a generous distance away from the shooter, according to Gabriel. The Traveler also concluded the killing to be random. Wrong place, wrong time–boom, dead. So fortunate guy got a brand new shot at this hell-hole. Hopefully he’d have better luck this time around.

So Gabriel kept watch on the replicants, hoping they’d eventually have the chance to wine and dine a lady into procreation. But no such luck, as of yet. Still it kept Mohammad busy, which also helped to keep his mind off the hunter. He’d gotten to let off a bit of steam the night before, so now it was time to get back to the work of the Traveler–his sole purpose in life, in fact.

Mohammad had already gathered two more for replication that day, and Gabriel seemed relatively pleased with his efforts thus far. The Fijian couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d have the rest of the night off from his duties. He used to enjoy the simplicities of the empty factory, but now it seemed more like confinement than his home–filled with someone else’s regrets and terrible memories. He hated the boiler room, couldn’t stand even to walk past it. Nothing but death lingered in there, and Mohammad was not the least bit interested in revisiting it.

He’d also found himself growing angry with the young lady whose end still marked its floor. He needed to get out. Mohammad had been a bird living in a cage his whole life, now given the world to explore.

So he’d chosen a door at random, caring not about any lingering population, and began to create a more elaborate system of hyper-walls. He wanted doors on every block, then every building, aspiring to be anywhere in the city in just a matter of seconds.

He wasn’t delusioned enough not to realize his own intoxication with the power, and the slow draining of humanity that went with it, like a sieve in his conscience. He knew it. Hell, he even embraced it. Mohammad, after all, was not the same man he was before; and where did niceties get
him
? To the grave is the answer. In order to avenge that man properly, Mohammad could not fall prey to the same pleasantries. He must be ruthless in all endeavors.

With the world still draped in night, darkness surrounding him from every angle, Mohammad was awoken abruptly. Unless manifested within his active unconscious, a peculiar noise had come to draw him from dreaming. He rolled on the nest and listened further … and heard it again before long–something scratching down one of the many aisles.

He slipped his fingers through the glove and peered down onto the rollroom floor. Its scratching and clattering was still quite audible; still the Fijian had yet to catch a glimpse of it. He fell from the nest and pressed his back against the immense roll of paper. Sounding something like a foot through wet leaves, the thing currently traversed the next aisle. Mohammad weaved through the rolls with the glove leading his stride. If this was a test by the Traveler, he’d be sure to ace it.

But nothing awaited him on the other side, the thing already somewhere else. He cleaved himself between the adjacent row and out again–still nothing. It was playing with him, whatever it was.