Dead Jack and the Soul Catcher: (Volume 2)

by James Aquilone

  “I thought you said Oswald saved the world.”

  “It was my plan.” My stupid plan to have Oswald cover a device powered by an indestructible Jupiter Stone. The Duke built it to destroy the barrier between Pandemonium and the Other World, good old, regular Earth. It would have destroyed our shadow dimension in the process, as well, but the Duke wanted out so bad he didn’t mind a little genocide. Like the rest of us, he’d been trapped in Pandemonium ever since the Allies sent us supernaturals here at the end of WWII. We’re all a little stir-crazy.

  I gulped down another three shots. The Devil Boy combined with the dust to wrap me in a warm blanket of oblivion.

  “Feeling good, buddy?” Garry asked.

  “Feeling nothing at all.” I smiled, but I must have looked like a maniac, because Garry averted his eyes and took a long sip of milk, most of which splashed the front of his shirt. “How did you fall in with those Nazi bastards?”

  “I didn’t know they were Nazis at first. They seemed like a nice bunch of humans concerned about Pandemonium. They wanted to make things better. At least, that’s what they said.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t tell me the Nazis lied?”

  “They said they could make me human again. They were doing experiments.”

  “How cliché. Nazis and experiments, really? I bet they have snazzy uniforms too.”

  Garry clicked his big white teeth. “You wouldn’t believe the meetings about the uniforms. They went on and on. Should they have pinstripes or lightning bolts? They fought over buttons. Buttons! It was crazy.”

  “You can’t destroy a world without looking good.”

  “I was desperate, Jack. Things have been rough since I got to Pandemonium. I never had it as good as Dead Jack, zombie detective.”

  “I’ve never had it good. I just don’t let people push me around.”

  “Then you know how I felt. When the Children of Thule brought me in, I fell for it hook, line, and stinker. But all I got was a cage and frequent meetings with a Nazi butcher. I might as well have been back in Room 731.”

  “The good old days.” I lit a Lucky Dragon, the black smoke gathering like a funeral pyre. “Did you ever see Ratzinger?”

  Garry took a gulp of milk.

  “Fortunately no. When I heard they planned to resurrect him, I prayed for them to give me the absolute death, even without a soul.”

  “Why do they call themselves the Children of Thule?”

  “The Thule Society was a secret brotherhood that formed after World War I and eventually supplied the Nazis with all its crazy ideas about the master race, the swastika, and the occult. They’re the source.”

  “And they’re bringing it all back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about this journal?”

  “I heard they had found it and believed it would lead to our souls. That’s when I knew I had to get my hands on it and escape. Once they had fully stripped me, they didn’t bother with me much. I got to roam around the camp a bit, which made it easier to escape.”

  “And what were those complications you were talking about? You still have the journal, don’t you?”

  “I’ve got it, but I can’t read it.”

  “Are you illiterate, Garry? How did a dunzy like you get in the Army?”

  “I can read fine, but it’s written in a magical language. I’ve taken it to a bunch of folks and none of them could read it.”

  “A bunch of folks? How many people know about this book?”

  “Not many. Just the Children of Thule and about a dozen wizards, witches, warlocks, and sorcerers.”

  “How the fook did you get this far, Garry?”

  “I guess I’m just lucky.”

  “Dumb luck. So if you can’t read the book, how do you know the alchemist has the souls?”

  “There are pictures.”

  “I can’t believe I listened to a burnt-out, toupee-wearing skeleton in a zoot suit.”

  “Look, Jack.” Garry pulled out a ratty, leather-bound book from his jacket pocket. Despite the ridiculousness of his get-up, I had to admire the size of the pockets. Good thing my inside pocket was magical or I’d never be able to fit all my junk in it. He thumbed through the book and handed it to me. I didn’t recognize the writing―nothing like the Enochian I saw in the Duke’s palace. This language looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics took inappropriate liberties with Norse runes. The right-hand page had a detailed sketch of several egg-shaped vessels. I was about to dismiss the drawing until I spotted the numbers etched on one of them: 1-1-3-4. The prisoner number Ratzinger had given me.

  “See. I told you, Jack. Those are our souls.”

  “Don’t get all cocky now, Garry. We’re still far from getting our hands on the souls. All we have is a drawing in a book we can’t read.”

  “Those are the souls! He’s got them! The Nazis thought the book was important.”

  “Why didn’t they get it translated?”

  “They couldn’t figure out the language either. Besides, they had it for only a few days before I took it.”

  “And you think I can find a translator?”

  “Can’t you?”

  “You really are one lucky son-of-a-corpse. I know just the person.”

  “Who?”

  “There are some complications. Finish your milk. You’re going to need strong bones.” I downed my three remaining shots of Devil Boy. My body felt electrified and the bad thoughts and feelings buggered off. I jumped up and shouted, “I’m ready to get this adventure started!” then fell flat on my face.

  “Buddy, I don’t think you’re in any shape to drive.”

  I looked up at the skeleton. “I’ve never felt better.”

  CHAPTER 5: Fairies in the Forgotten City

  “Have you ever broken someone out of prison?” Garry asked after we boarded the ferry to the Red Garden.

  My dust and Devil Boy high had already started to wear off. The brightness in the world faded, my body cooled. Still, I felt a ton better than Garry. I had no idea if a skeleton could vomit, but he sure seemed to be doing his best. Garry bent over the railing, convulsing and shaking as if trying to dislodge something from this throat.

  “You shouldn’t have drank all that milk, Garry.”

  “You could have let me know we were taking a cruise.”

  The ship, if it could be called that, perched upon the back of a giant orange sea turtle named the Spirit of Pandemonium. At least it beat a ghost ship. As water travel went, the ferry wasn’t too bad. A forecastle where passengers could sit and eat had been built atop the middle of the turtle’s back. It even had a snack bar that served stale mead and ancient hot dogs.

  We stood on the outside deck as the turtle navigated the choppy waters. Downtown ShadowShade drifted away behind us, a shining jewel surrounded by darkness.

  I stared out at the black water leading to the Red Garden. My last cruise didn’t go so well. I ended up nearly drowning and getting molested by a shark woman. But that’s what you get when you sail with pirate ghosts, or ghost pirates. I still haven’t figured that one out.

  Garry stopped retching and I led him back into the sitting area. Fairies filled the room, along with a few goblins and gremlins. War propaganda posters covered the walls. “Loose Lips Sink Ships.” “Stay Vigilant.” “The Big Bad Wolf Is Out to Get You.”

  Fairies and werewolves don’t get along. The two groups have been at war since they both set foot in The Red Garden, which gets its name from all the blood spilled there. I had no idea why they bothered to fight over a godforsaken island of swamps and grasslands. It’s pretty much the same back in the Other World, where it’s called Staten Island.

  “Are you going to be okay, Garry? I’m not a big fan of the sea either.”

  “It’ll pass. I just need to sit down.”

  We sat in the middle, away from the other passengers, who all clustered around the windows and watched the waves slam against the turtle’s side.

  “You didn’t answer my que
stion,” Garry said. “Have you ever busted anyone out of prison?”

  “I’ve busted people out of lots of places. It’s second nature to me.”

  “This is Purgatory Island we’re talking about. People don’t just go waltzing in and out. You can’t even use magic inside.”

  Garry had a point. We weren’t going to have an easy time of it. Dark elves guarded the maximum-security prison and a magic inhibitor made any funny business impossible there.

  “You said no one can translate the alchemist’s journal,” I said. “But I know a guy who can.”

  “Waldo?”

  “Wallflower, but everyone calls him Wally. He’s an expert on magical languages as well as Pandemonium’s greatest sorcerer.”

  “If he’s such a good sorcerer, why is he in prison?”

  “He’s a great sorcerer, but he’s not such a great person. Wally got pinched for selling fake philosopher stones. The judge sentenced him to one year to infinity. Frankly, I think it was a bum rap.”

  “If you say so, buddy. I trust you.” Realization finally hit the skeleton. His eyes bulged. “Hey, but aren’t we going in the opposite direction of Purgatory Island?”

  “We need to make a pit stop. Like you said, we can’t just waltz in. We need backup.”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he said before scurrying to the railing. No, a skeleton cannot vomit. It was all in his head. Garry had lost his mind. He’d be no help on the mission. I just hoped my old pal had forgiven me.

  The turtle thumped to a stop at the northern end of the Red Garden a half hour later. We disembarked, wading through the sea of fairies and sticking out like sore thumbs. Garry was still a little shaky from his pretend puking fit, so I had to practically carry him off the turtle.

  “Who’s the guy that’s going to back you up?”

  “It’s not a guy, you sexist pile of calcium. Her name is Zara Moonbeam.”

  “A woman?” The skeleton laughed, a chattering teeth kind of laugh.

  “Garry, you impressed me with that watch bit, but you’re a glorified Halloween costume. And you’ve got that not-so-good brain. You’re going to be as much help as Oswald here.” I patted my satchel.

  “What did you do back in the office, except get knocked down by a shadow? I saved your desiccated arse.”

  I took out a Lucky Dragon and lit it. “Garry, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “I still don’t see how a teeny, tiny pixie is going to be of much help.”

  “Zara’s a six-foot pixie-slash-witch who swings an enchanted sledgehammer like she’s Thor himself. I wouldn’t laugh around her unless you want to be pulverized into dust.”

  We stood at the taxi stand, trying to wave down a ride, but all the fairy cabbies passed us by.

  “No one likes to pick up a zombie,” Garry said, “especially in Fairy Land.”

  “You’re not helping matters with that wig. They’re probably afraid you’ll infest their cab.”

  A big yellow taxi slowed down as it approached―but the driver hit the gas when he saw us, and left us choking on fumes. A few minutes later, another cab pulled up.

  The driver, a rough-looking gnome with a thick cigar dangling from his mouth, rolled down his window. “Where to, ghouls?”

  “I’m trying to find an old friend, Zara Moonbeam,” I said. “Do you know where I can find her?”

  His eyes bugged out, all the color drained from his cheeks, and he zoomed off without uttering a word.

  “Maybe we should walk?” Garry said.

  “Great idea. Except I have no idea where I’m going.”

  I managed to flag down another cab. “Can you take us to Zara Moonbeam? I don’t have an address.”

  “Why would I do that?” The cabbie asked.

  “Because I’ll pay you. That’s how it usually works.”

  “All the money in Pandemonium couldn’t get me to go there.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The front lines, ya idjit. General Moonbeam leads the fairy army. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “General, huh? How about I give you a bag of dust?”

  “Fairy dust?” He burst into laughter, a sound like bubbles bursting.

  I dangled dust in front of people so often I forgot where I was.

  “This is Fairy Land, idjit. We’re swimming in dust here. Find yourself another ride.” The cab vanished amid a squeal of tires.

  We walked down a narrow dirt road leading away from the ferry terminal. It wasn’t much more than a rut. Like I said, the Red Garden is the sticks. I could smell the swamp from here. Like rotten eggs covered in damp towels. Only a few buildings dotted the landscape, mostly of the mushroom variety.

  A procession of fairies trooped up beside us. They wore green armor that sparkled in the light and carried tiny swords that resembled those cocktail picks they put olives on. They were also drunk out of their minds.

  The fairies staggered down the road, banging on drums and making merry. They tumbled, swayed, and hopped, shouting, “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf?”

  One of the fairies yelled, “Out of the way, brain lickers! We are the Fifth Regiment of the Fighting Pixies. Undefeated in battle. Undeterred and determined. We’re to be feared and respected.” He belched. It smelled like grass and whiskey.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked.

  “Morning dew and Dewars,” the fairy said. His helmet, two sizes too big, jangled and shook on his head as he wobbled down the path.

  “I am a friend of your General Zara Moonbeam and I have very important information to convey to her.”

  “A friend of General Moonbeam’s, you say? A ghoul? Not likely.” The fairy looked me up and down. He seemed sober for a moment and the look in his eyes frightened me. “I remember one of your kind a while back who ate two dozen fairies. Do you remember the affair?”

  I broke out in a sweat. It was actually only one dozen. These things get so blown out of proportion. And I wouldn’t have called them the nicest fairies in Fairy Land. As I recall, they were zombie-hating jerks. Still, the incident was one of my low points, and I’ve made a habit of having low points. Oswald made me vow to give up flesh after the incident, a vow I intend to keep unless I have no other choice or the creature deserves it.

  “It doesn’t ring a bell,” I said. “I don’t get around to these parts much. I’m more of a city boy.”

  “I think the ghoul’s name was Dick. Dick Jack?” He looked me up and down again, but the bloodshot eyes glistened and worked hard to focus. If the fairy hadn’t been drunk out of his mind, I might have been in trouble.

  “Hey, don’t they call you the Dead D―!” I jabbed Garry in the ribs before he could finish his sentence.

  “Dick Jack,” I said. “I think I heard someone ate him not too long ago.”

  “Serves him right,” the fairy said. He hiccupped as if he had a squeak toy lodged in his throat. “And what’s your name?”

  “John. John Colombo.”

  “I am Oren Nero, commander of the Fifth Regiment of the Fighting Pixies.”

  “So how about taking us to the general?”

  “I don’t traffic with ghouls.”

  “I’ll let General Moonbeam know you failed in your duty to protect Fairy Land.”

  “I’m not falling for that one. You have to wake up pretty early to fool the likes of me.”

  “This man here.” I pointed at Garry. “Is a casualty of war. All his flesh was eaten by weres.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do say. Garry here killed three of those shifty animals in the commission of a battle, but not before the damage was done.”

  The fairy studied Garry. “A war hero.” He nodded. “And a mighty fine dresser to boot and hair like an elf.” He seemed impressed. “Follow us. We’re heading to the Bone Yard.”

  We went marching south, singing, “Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf? Big, bad wolf, big, bad wolf?”

  South of the Bog
of Doom, we came upon the remains of a battle. Bodies of fairies and werewolves mingled with each other on the bloody ground.

  “Lucky for you, ghoul,” Oren Nero said. “Looks like we just missed a heck of a row.”

  The air stunk of blood and wet dog.

  A few of the victorious fairies dug ditches to bury their dead.

  We marched through the field and got a closer look at the carnage. Most of the dead shifters lay in human form, their naked bodies cut in half at the torso or decapitated. The fairies looked like old chew toys. I didn’t know how Zara got mixed up with all this. The pixie/witch had told me she was heading to the Red Garden to reconnect with her estranged mother.

  As we approached the Bone Yard, the stench of rotten flesh grew more intense.

  Oren Nero said the fairies were winning the war after many years stuck at a stalemate. Ms. Moonbeam, according to him, had tipped the scales in their favor. She had tallied victory after victory against the wolves and recently pushed them back to the edge of the Bone Yard, which got its name for all the bones buried there, fairy and werewolf alike.

  We entered an encampment, which sat a few miles from the edge of the Bone Yard. Tiny tents dotted the area. Fires burned. Fairy soldiers scuttled about. The hills of the yard lay beyond the camp like the back of a giant white kraken. Carrion birds circled overheard. The place stunk worse than the Zombie Islands.

  The commander took us to the largest tent. He signaled for us to wait a few paces away and approached the two fairies who stood guard. He whispered in one’s ear. The guard looked me up and down before nodding. The commander walked back over to us.

  “General Moonbeam will give you an audience.”

  “Thank you, Oren Nero.” I bowed.

  When the trooping fairies left, I said to Garry, “Don’t say a word about Zara not looking like a pixie. She’s pretty sensitive about it.”

  “Why would she want to look like a pixie?”

  “On second thought, don’t say anything about anything. Let me do the talking.”

  The fairy guard pulled aside the tent flap and waved us inside, smirking. “Stay vigilant.”

  A deafening roar caught me off guard as I entered the tent. I turned to my left. Blazing eyes and wet teeth emerged from the darkness. Hair and claws. I jumped back, but apparently not far enough―clawed hands seized my throat.