Nomad: A Story from The Reels

by Brian Ewing

  Sisto remembered Phil’s name, writing a mental note to fuck that guy up after they found the sadistic murderer that brought him to the event in the first place. Sisto thought one of those uppercuts to the armpits would be a good start for Phil. Making him literally shit his pants in front of everyone, before prosecuting him for tit-tickling the comatose, would be a small slice of justice served. Fitz could see the dismay on Sisto’s face after they moved past that first group to go mingle with others.

  “You see something?” Fitz asked, perceptive to Sisto lost in thought.

  “I was just thinking, if I have to do this nonstop the next few days, it’s going to be rough. What if this guy isn’t even here?”

  “You told Bell I was right.”

  “I think you are right but what if we’re both wrong?”

  Fitz took a moment to think about that as if the thought had not hit his mind once. He shrugged after realizing there was no good answer. He asked Sisto what time it was, and the men realized it was time to check in with Calvin Bell. Sisto told Fitz to scan the event and look for more degenerates that Sisto could go invade their private moments while he called. The phone answered before the second ring was completed.

  “Bell.”

  “Bell, it’s me.”

  “You catch him already?” Bell mockingly asked.

  “Funny. I’m just checking in. This place is a landmine of scum. I am going to need a vacation after this one, I can tell.”

  “Mitchell and Wallace have been digging in on all the case files, including that one they found on their own in Alaska from the ’90s.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know how the fuck they did it but I think they found the origin of where this piece of shit started. The authorities in Hoskins say two boys were under suspicion after that kid showed up in the river.”

  “Mitchell and Wallace are good detectives. I’m sure if it was our guy, they will find it out. Anything new from the others?” Sisto tried to ask nonchalantly to see if Ama was staying busy, or maybe even reached out to Bell with concern for his safety.

  “Culpepper just got me a report with a preliminary assessment from Dr. Madigan. She says based on the files, the brutality, everything Culpepper has shown her, she feels this guy wasn’t turned into a monster but has always been that way. No one factor drove him into violence. She said that it has been clinically proven that some people start with this detachment of empathy for mankind. His kills are mainly for gratification, not vengeance.”

  “What do you mean?” Sisto asked, trying to remember the vision he entered as the killer when he tased that burly man, causing him to piss himself before being dragged off in a corner and killed.

  “She believes the reason most of these kills are not gunshots, or stab wounds, is because our boy likes to look his victim in the eye as they die. Strangulation, suffocation, drowning…all of these are up close and personal.”

  “That would fit with how I felt during that vision. The guy was not revved up, he was performing an act like he had it justified in his mind to kill that guy. He wasn’t conflicted. He just plain liked it.”

  “That reminds me, about your—”

  Fitz tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to an event by the kegs that was getting started.

  “Uh, Bell, I got to go. I’ll check back in around nine.” Sisto ended the call before Bell could reply.

  “Some of the guys are starting a beer pong tournament down by the kegs. We should check it out.” Fitz proclaimed.

  Sisto was unsure the man whose visions he invaded would let something like alcohol take over. The brief glimpse into the man’s psyche made Sisto feel that the killer always wanted to be in control. On the other hand, Sisto could have all the potential perverts and outlaws in one place so he could try to get through as much bile the world held, in one sitting. The two men followed the trail down from the edge of the complex, where the mountains of removed earth had been placed by the bulldozers, over to the flat region where the crowd of different clubs started to gather.

  At an event like they were at, it was next to impossible not to get bumped into from time to time. Sisto thought the brace and sling would make people more careful when approaching, but low and behold, ignorant assholes will continue to be ignorant assholes. Something struck Sisto as odd though as they made way towards the crowd. A couple who were arguing off to Sisto’s right side and heading straight towards him and Fitz were so lost in themselves that the man didn’t even notice Sisto as he slammed right into him. The contact threw Sisto into a homemade production submitted by The Reels. Sisto was whisked away from the hundreds of leather-bound bikers and found himself in a dingy apartment.

  Sisto was not in the memory of the man that bumped into him, however. He knew that because the memory he was invading was looking at that same man, passed out on the couch with more than a handful of crushed beer cans on the coffee table in front of him. Sisto couldn’t stop or turn off the memory, but in the back of his mind was concerned he was getting the memory from another source. As far as Sisto could remember, he had only ever experienced a vision from an offender that he came in contact with or a victim that was affected by the person. The vision made no sense since the man who bumped into him was sleeping in the vision. There was no way he was offending or creating a victim while asleep.

  He watched the vision of the person’s eyes he had been peeping through, look at the man on the couch. The feeling of disgust and resentment filled Sisto’s mind. In addition to adrenaline, he had logged a few more senses that could be associated with feelings over the last year. The feeling of resentment or pure repulsion had related to Sisto in the scent of rotten eggs, which was appalling to him. It took him time to put two and two together. The maniac lapdog that had been thrown his way the previous year, had a convoluted and unwarranted resentment for Sisto. Pure hate would be another word for it. The showdown in the outskirts at Chemistry Cove had gone down in the scrapyard of an industrial plant that pumped out an unmeasurable amount of Sulfur into the air.

  Sisto remembered from way back in high school that Sulfur can leave a pungent smell, like rotten eggs. The interaction with Carson Vinnova had left more than bruises and scrapes and a fractured jawline. It left an emotional scar on the sleeve of The Reels, resulting in the new association anytime repulsion, resentment, or hatred was present. The vision found Sisto leaving the living room that the rude prick that had bumped into him in the present moment, had been passed out upon currently. Sisto looked down as the person grabbed the wall and watched as their feet made contact with each stair, ascending to the top and towards a room on the right.

  Sisto realized from the dainty wrist of the arm that grabbed the wall, along with the finger and toenail polish, he was in fact seeing a vision through the woman that had been arguing with the man that bumped into him. He watched through her eyes as she walked into the room on the right to stare at a man ten years younger than her presumed boyfriend, laying in his bed, reading a magazine with his shirt off. The man looked over and said something with a grin that Sisto could tell from his hours of facial analysis, had been flirting. Sisto then felt the left hand of the woman reach up to the buttoned blouse that they shared at the moment and started to unbutton as she approached the man.

  Sisto grabbed Fitz’s forearm to stop him from continuing towards the crowd. Sisto looked behind him, as he had been back in his skin. The couple had still been arguing loudly, now knowing what caused the argument. Sisto just realized at that moment, as the grounds had been congested shoulder to shoulder with people, finding the I-83 Killer would not be as easy as they had hoped. Emotions and feelings that close in proximity, allowed visions to pass vicariously. The cheating woman didn’t touch him directly. She had been trying to walk away from the man with the thick vein bulging from his neck as they were fighting. In the corner of his eye, before the man bumped into him, he noticed the man had grabbed the bottom of the woman’s upper arm in an attempt to stop her from storming off.
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  “What’s the matter?” Fitz asked, puzzled as to why the men stopped no more than ten feet away from their destination.

  “Fuck me,” Sisto muttered.

  CHAPTER 22

  Andrick was shown into a room on the far end of the completed portion of the building. Cary, Púca’s second in command, had guided Mason and the rest throughout the half-constructed building. There were dozens of offices along with open flooring for desks that already had electrical and phone wiring completed. Further down were three conference rooms, and at the end were a handful of larger, private offices. They made their way around the corner to see an open floor plan break area, where there were a sink and countertop already in place, with empty space for multiple refrigerators. The tour was complete within ten minutes.

  “Just got a text from Púca. He will be here in an hour or so. He is having one of the boys lock up down there. Until then, enjoy yourselves, boys.” Cary bid a farewell, going in for an awkward high-five-hug hybrid between him and Mason.

  “I appreciate it, brother,” Mason replied.

  “Probably going to wrangle you and your guys up later once the boss is settled in.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Just head down that hallway and you will hit the elevators and front entrance stairs. I have to make a call.” Cary said as he turned to walk away from the group. He nodded to the men and grabbed the cigarette from behind his ear that he strategically placed until he was done showing off the amenities to Púca’s special guests.

  Mason leaned to ensure Cary was far enough down the hallway before speaking.

  “Look fellas, I don’t want any mention of Mole while we are here. I will inform Púca when the time is right. We understand each other?”

  The three men nodded, however, Andrick noticed cold glances towards his direction from Rug and Freddy.

  Maybe all three of them were stealing? God willing, Andrick thought to himself. I would gladly skin that man-child Freddy and that cliché of an outlaw, Rug.

  “Cool. Enjoy the next few hours. Meet back at the camp before dinner.”

  Andrick took the time to scout for new talent upon exiting the back doors of the building. He interjected himself into a few small circles, looking for anyone that fit his current criteria to satiate his bloodlust. From an outsider perspective, it always boggled his mind how no one could ever see through his façade. Internally, he wanted nothing more than to just stomp his foot over everyone’s larynx and watch as they gasp and shake trying to get one deep breath, but fail.

  The desire to see all the light in the sheep’s eyes dissipate was getting stronger each day. He was even willing to allow actual bloodshed and miss the light leave their eyes if necessary. Hater of mankind, yet there he was, walking up to strangers with his meticulous grin and years of peppered charm. He felt like he was running for city council.

  Mayor Wesley had a nice ring to it, he thought.

  Andrick felt a light shove from behind him, seeing Freddy break past the people blocking him from Andrick. Rug followed Freddy but with less urgency as he maneuvered around with two beers, one in each hand. Based on the size of the man’s beer belly, there was no doubt in Andrick’s mind both beverages were intended for Rug himself.

  “Andrick, there you are, we were looking for you.”

  “Fredward.”

  Freddy looked like someone slapped a math quiz in front of him at that moment.

  “Freddy,” Andrick rephrased. “What are you gentlemen up to?”

  “There is a beer pong tournament on the West end of the back of the complex. The winner gets two-hundred dollars. Are you any good?”

  Andrick was not into games. He watched grown men play video games, board games, drinking games, and just saw a man-child on the verge of mental retardation. He was, however, very good at precision and therefore, knew he would be good at the college-themed activity. He could have easily declined but liked to have options down the road. If he played the ridiculous game, it could put him in Freddy’s good graces. If anything over the years, Andrick always knew to have a backup. Worse comes to worst, Andrick could lure Freddy away from the crowd and choke him out in one of the luxury offices if he couldn’t find anyone else.

  “I believe I can help procure that prize money, Freddy. I would be happy to help.”

  “You don’t strike me as much of a drinker,” Rug spitting the words out of his hoarse voice box.

  “If you are winning in beer pong, you aren’t doing much drinking,” Andrick replied.

  The three men approached the check-in table for the tournament. Sign-in ended in ten minutes and it looked like there were sixteen groups, including Andrick and Freddy. That would be about two hours at least based on Andrick’s quick calculations. He would rather keep scouting but thought of all the people that crowded the event table. He would be able to scout right from the game itself. It may even give him more access as people would be going up to him. Andrick and Freddy were given pieces of paper with matching numbers on them. They looked like sheets marathon people pinned to their shirt. Freddy took Andrick’s paper and took a sharpie off the check-in table. He scribbled quickly then handed Andrick his sheet, along with safety pins, which had also been placed on the check-in table.

  “You like it?” Freddy asked gleefully.

  In scribbled marker, Freddy had given them the team name of Hotshot Killers.

  “I do, indeed, Freddy. I do, indeed.”

  The next few hours hadn’t been all bad. There was a lot of downtime as there had been multiple games and only one table set up for beer pong at any given time. Andrick and Freddy barely won the first game, courtesy of the primitive coordination Freddy displayed. Andrick was almost sure if he hadn’t been staring directly at Freddy, that he may have been playing with his eyes closed. There was almost no possible way someone could be that horrible at sinking a ping pong ball into an ocean of red cups positioned no more than eight feet away.

  The crowd of sheep was cackling all around him. In the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, bearded, weathered-looking man that resembled someone from one of the premium network tv shows he had caught once or twice. Next to him was a man that looked like he had left a horrific car accident, right before attending the event. He was slightly shorter than the television star and had some contraption on one leg, as well as an arm in a sling.

  The sling registered a memory of Cary describing a similar duo showing up at the shop earlier. Cary had elegantly described the man he did not like as a cripple that rubbed him the wrong way. The two must have been the friends of Púca that Cary had been venting about upon arrival. The gimpy man in the brace had a horrific look of concern on his face. Andrick assumed he was simply right-handed and would not be entering the beer pong tournament this year due to injury. The gimp was instantly added to Andrick’s potential list of victims. Even if he found a way to kill someone in the evening hours, it may be nice to go for that double bloodlust as he had just experienced with the couple from Miriam.

  Glancing to the disabled man’s stacked and rugged friend, his face told stories from over the years. It was a face that had seen battle, never steering away. The man had a silent suave about him. All of a sudden, Andrick’s palms began to sweat. Could it be he found the needle in the haystack?

  The man was a challenge, a worthy opponent at first glance. Andrick had gone years of extinguishing the life from people but rarely had it been on equal footing. If he could perform a hand to hand execution and stare at the warrior’s eyes as what remained left of his sad life slipped away, it would be a new level of accomplishment. The simple kills were no longer exhilarating to him. He yearned for more. He had decided he would befriend the worthy opponent and his injured sidekick after the game wrapped up.

  CHAPTER 23

  “What do you mean, your visions aren’t reliable?” Fitz spoke barely above a whisper, as the two approached the intense beer drinking game.

  “I mean, I don’t normally surround myself around h
undreds of people,” Sisto snapped back in the same lower tone. “I just had some guy bump into me but The Reels shot me into a vision from the man’s girlfriend.”

  Fitz looked back to see if he could spot the couple, but they were long gone.

  “Yeah, she was a real whore and I assume he found out based on the fight they were just in as they passed us.”

  “So,” Fitz took a moment to digest the news, “Slutty Sally jumped into your mind instead of her boyfriend, but it was her boyfriend that touched you?”

  Slutty Sally, ha. That was actually funny, you bastard.

  “He was grabbing her by the arm. I have a bad feeling that everyone so close to one another is acting as a conductor. A person with a vision The Reels passes on to me may be from someone two, three, ten people away from me, all leading up to the actual person that comes in physical contact with me.”

  “Psychic telephone.”

  “What?”

  “You know that game you played as a kid? You sit in a circle, someone whispers something in one’s ear, and it goes all the way around, hopefully getting the correct message relayed. Telephone. Only, the stories you hear are much darker than any child should repeat or be subjected to endure.”

  Sisto was baffled how Fitz deciphered so accurately the dilemma he was experiencing. He got lost in his thoughts another moment or two before seeing two of the men that had been with Cary earlier. They were winning the current round within the tournament of drunken assholes. He wanted to talk to that group at some point, but they were missing half of the people that were with them earlier. He will wait until dinner time, where he assumes the ones missing from the flock would unite. Sisto realized he needed to get these visions done in blocks. If he simply walked up to people the rest of the night, he would have a breakdown before dawn the next morning. One hour for Sisto, one hour for The Reels, was the logic he was moving forward with the rest of the day.