Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2)

by Noah Fregger

  Ethan swallowed hard. This really wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

  “You’ve come to us with a punched ticket, Ethan.” Menace tugged at the leader’s lips. “And I’m afraid there’s a penalty for that. You must excuse the pun, but we caught you red-handed.”

  The back of Ethan’s skull collided with the building’s wall as he was hurled against it. Two men held him in place as the man called Jackson scooped up his fallen items.

  “All over some Oreos, Kid?” he smirked. “Hope it was worth it.” Jackson opened the bag and shoved a handful into Ethan’s mouth and held it there. Another man stepped forward as Ethan attempted to scream–the sound all but lost upon the duct tape being wrapped around his lips.

  “How’s it taste?” someone was taunting.

  But the voice was merely a whisper beyond the deafening blaze of Ethan’s adrenalin. Jackson gripped him by the shirt and threw him to the floor. The burn of asphalt tore across his skin as terror continued to pump its numbing agent through his veins. Ethan rolled to his feet and shot for the only opening in the circle of men forming around him. But they caught him there, where he’d received a fist to the stomach.

  The leader was waiting patiently beside the wooden table. Jackson dragged Ethan and dropped him before the man’s feet.

  “Pick him up.”

  Ethan’s body was lifted, his stance aided by a few. The leader stepped forward, tilting his head until Ethan was able to match his gaze.

  “Sorry we have to make an example out of you,” he said. “But there must be consequences.”

  He placed his hand at the back of Ethan’s neck, much like a father would while empathizing with a son. “This is the world we now live in.”

  The leader broke eye contact and nodded to Jackson, who grabbed Ethan’s left hand and forced it flat on the table. Beneath the encompassing weight, his struggles were as useless as the screams upon his fastened lips. The gleam of a knife danced across his blurred vision as Ethan wrenched his eyes shut. There was then the crisp sound of its tip entering the wood; but the pain, dulled by the fury of Ethan’s racing heart, was reduced to the sensation of ice in the palm of his pierced hand.

  1

  The Rifleman

  Plump and oblivious, the thing sat content as ever, its tiny-brained head tucked within the comfort of its soft feathers. The rifleman took aim, and with the pull of his index finger, managed to send the pigeon on a flapless fall, ten feet into a pile of corrugated scrap. Nostalgia could be found in a falling bird; it always brought him back to childhood.

  His rifle, an M14 pellet gun, made little more than a crisp popping sound once fired–hardly enough to frighten away any lingering game. There was something about that place the pigeons seemed to enjoy, that sunny spot below the factory’s cyclone. In ranks like some pigeon militia, they would assemble there each morning. And the rifleman would take just a few of them down–whatever was necessary to survive.

  Four more pigeons remained; and without the collective intelligence to disburse, they stared down at their dead companion, bobbing their heads in dim fascination.

  Thank you, Lord, for all your stupid creatures.

  The roof offered enough cover for the rifleman to remain well-hidden. Littered with large motors and hundreds of feet of reflective ducting, the place was a metallic jungle suitable for any aspiring Hunter. The afternoon sun brought with it an unforgiving heat, turning certain surfaces into searing replicas. He had to be mindful, for even the briefest contact could result in blister–then to infection, if not handled properly. True, the rifleman had a stockpile of antibiotics–treasures he’d smuggled from the pharmacy a few blocks away–but he couldn’t afford to be more reckless than life was already calling him to be.

  The rifleman took aim again, bringing the left-most pigeon in his sights, when a loud bang rang through the air … then another, sending the pigeons off in a fit of babble. Cursing, the rifleman got to his feet and rushed to the side of the building, peering down into the factory’s outside shipping area.

  Apparently I’m not the only one hunting.

  The rifleman found a small league of survivors scouring the yard below. They’d chased something into the stacks of pallets, the huge towers of wood lining the farthest gate, and were working on surrounding it. One man shouted orders with an outstretched hand, signaling the others to close in on their prey.

  Must be a cat.

  The rifleman would see the animals darting this way and that, stopping to dip their tongues in puddles of rust-filled water.

  Seems like a lot of trouble over a cat–wasted two bullets already.

  But it was then the rifleman saw what they were after, a glimpse of its reddish skin between a break in the wood. It tried to flee, but was tackled by the two surrounding men. It thrashed and shrieked, but couldn’t fight free.

  Jesus Christ.

  It was a girl, looking no more than sixteen, her black hair tossing frantically, her body entirely visible now to the rifleman. She was a hybrid, one of the creatures those things had left behind two weeks before.

  The lead man circled the girl and knelt beside her, whispering something; and then, lifting his weapon, silenced her. It was the third and final shot, the one to claim her life. But the rifleman could still hear her screams; they echoed off the building’s concrete surfaces and metal structures … or perhaps … it was only in the hollows of his mind.

  The man then knelt, removing a knife from a sheath at his side, and proceeded to cut her right hand off at the wrist.

  What in God’s name …

  Once the appendage was fully severed, he stabbed her left hand and wrapped the right in cloth. The men then rose, leaving her there, a crimson puddle expanding beneath her, hooting and congratulating themselves on a good hunt. The rifleman lowered himself until they left the shipping area, their banter nearly out of earshot, when he rose again.

  And there in the yard, the girl lay still, motionless.

  It’s a witch hunt.

  Indeed, the rifleman just witnessed a trial; and there would be more, he was sure of it. Man had not yet finished the spillage of blood, proof could be found at his own front door–the reason why he’d separated himself from the others.

  Hunger departed, he descended into the plant, pigeon in hand. It was a massive fortress, one the rifleman managed to barricade in a minimal amount of time. Several factors made this possible. In order to make corrugated board, one needs to have an ungodly amount of paper. This paper comes in rolls that stand seven and a half feet tall, five and a half feet wide, and weigh nearly eight thousand pounds. There were hundreds of these rolls still within the plant, along with the propane-powered lifts used to move and position them.

  The rifleman had stacked them in front of every entrance and sealed every sturdy fire-door. The place was all but impenetrable. He stacked the rolls two-high and five-deep, when space allotted; and nearly emptied the propane tank in the shipping area to store in several smaller containers within the plant. The castle was his, and he planned on keeping the devastation on the outside. He could live on pigeons and accumulated roof-water for as long as he had to.

  There were only two ways in and out of the plant, and both ways led directly to the roof: one through a hatch in the ceiling, and the other from the mezzanine above the maintenance shop. If he had to leave to gain supplies, he’d toss a rope over the side of the building and climb down, rigging up a pulley system if he needed to get something too large for his bag.

  The place was deathly quiet at night. He could hear the scurry of a rodent from opposite ends of the plant. The acoustics within Castle Corrugate were lovely. The entire place seemed to be an extension of himself; his ears were his eyes in the dark, and at night the place was utter blackness. Atop a forest of rolled paper, leveled by plywood, he slept below one of many skylights. The evening’s nest served as his sanctuary. And he would awake in the morning to see what game had come to gather around that skyward cyclone, living his life in
a series of repetitive twenty-four-hour periods. That was his plan, at least.

  Too bad things hardly ever go as planned.

  The skylights within the plant had gone purple, after purple they would bring in the blackness of night. With a gun on his hip and a shovel on his back, the rifleman made his way to the roof and down the side of the building, leaving the rope waiting for his return. The long and wispy shadows of twilight stretched far across the shipping area, his own shadow carving the asphalt a great deal ahead of him.

  The girl still lay on the ground as the rifleman, for a moment, thought he saw her breathing; but drawing near, the only movement he witnessed was a breeze through her hair and the scurry of red-faced felines.

  “Get!” he commanded, but they were already gone.

  Standing over her, the rifleman knew what he’d come to do, but far from relished in the need to do so. Taking both her cold wrists, he lifted her torso and started to drag her across the pavement. The sound of her sliding flesh made him feel sick, so he tried to imagine dragging something else–but when nothing else came to mind, he was relieved to reach the dirt. The sound of her body there was not nearly as unsettling.

  Gently, the rifleman laid her down and removed the shovel from his back. The earth, soft beneath his boots, would be easily pierced. He could have this done in an hour–maybe just a tad more.

  The rifleman worked vigorously into the night, creating a cavity large enough to fit the woman. In no way was it six feet deep, but it would have to do. He lifted her, trying to ignore the lulling of her head and the matted firmness of her hair, before placing her inside.

  Following a much-needed moment of reflection, the rifleman climbed out and stuck the shovel back into the earth. “I’m sorry.” He emptied the soil on top of her. “It was foolish for them to leave you here.” He dropped the second shovel-full. “You’ll never know love … ” The third. “Or kindness.”

  He placed the shovel upright in the dirt and put his weight upon it. “All you know is fear … and hatred.” The rifleman sighed heavily. “And you deserve more.”

  Several golden orbs appeared from beneath the tarps of forgotten machinery, each pair fixing on the rifleman as he spoke–the hungry eyes of wild felines.

  “And you’ll not be food for anything but the earth, I have seen to that,” he said, more to the cats than to her. “My name is Mohammad, Child, and I have given you the only kindness you’ll never know.”

  2

  The Pale-One

  Adeamyn had her ear pressed to the ungainly thing for the entirety of the risen sun. Peeling off her cover, she arched her back and allowed her muscles the quivering stretch they so desired.

  She’d survived to see another night.

  Many pale-ones had passed earlier in the day, followed by the sounds of their weapons and the screams of her kind; and with it, another member of her family gone. Why do the pale-ones only emit happiness at the deaths of her own?

  Folding her blanket neatly, Adeamyn inserted it into her bag as she crossed the monstrous and hollowed structure; and stepping softly as she moved, she climbed down from the previous day’s safety.

  She hadn’t a proper name–none that she knew–but this was always on the tongues of pale-ones, the closest thing she had to a name.

  Thriving in moonlight, Adeamyn found her blessing in the blackness, her edge in this world. Her senses were better than theirs. She was not blinded by night, as they were, but heightened by it. Adeamyn, therefore, moved only in darkness; for as long as she could avoid the eyes of the pale-ones, she’d live to see just one more sunset.

  Hunger and thirst tugging heavily at her, she dipped her hand inside the bag and withdrew a single piece of salty meat. Saliva pouring readily, Adeamyn placed it in her mouth and squeezed the juices through her teeth.

  She’d stolen this bag off a large pale-one as, weapon in hand, he slept, oblivious. In that bag she’d found the blanket, two neatly-sealed portions of the salty meat, and a container for storing water. But something else lingered within as well, its hefty metal pressing against her back as she escaped with her life. In it, beneath the softness of the blanket, was another of their blackish weapons.

  Adeamyn had seen them use it before, but wasn’t entirely sure how the thing worked.

  Point and kill, seemed easy enough.

  As for the meat, allowing herself only two pieces per night, she was already reaching the bottom of her second bag. Adeamyn, rationing herself more strictly, would be taking only one on this night; but the hint of salt had been on her tongue long before the taste of dried meat. Death was in the air, pungent and close; its unique, metallic quality quite obvious, even from her bed of rusted steel.

  With the world draped in night, Adeamyn still kept to deeper shadow, walking the underside of the machine until she reached a clearing. There, where death was most palpable, she emerged cautiously. The horizon itself became lightly crowded, giving way to the rolling hills in the distance–the night sky meeting them at their peaks. Perhaps, by the next few sunrises, she could reach them, away from the structures and into the region sparsely speckled with trees.

  Granted, there would be far less cover, pitting it against her current logic for survival, but something told her the pale-ones didn’t exist out there. And if that much were true, there would be no need for cover any longer. But those hills were still far, and Adeamyn couldn’t allow herself to become lost to them just yet.

  The place she currently entered was racked with pockets of dust and debris, surrounded by stacks of dismantled and discarded machines. Some, scaling higher than others, reached nearly half the height of the building to her left. Adeamyn crossed the clearing, in search of the one that had fallen earlier.

  Her body must be here ... somewhere. Adeamyn would find them, if she could, if it was safe, and place her hand upon their cold skin–as if in death it were still somehow comforting. Be delivered, she would think, to a place where no pale-one can ever harm you again.

  The stench of the girl was well-present as Adeamyn traveled through the clearing, becoming stronger as she moved. Finding an array of nocturnal creatures engaged in an ominous lapping of tongues, they’d collectively gathered at the rim of a dark puddle. With the moon glistening across the liquid’s muddled surface, the creatures scattered as Adeamyn came to examine it.

  She died right here, spilling out, and was moved … recently.

  She then heard something within the darkness; and like the animals of night, Adeamyn took to nearest shelter.

  And there, beyond the hardened ground of the clearing, she found a single pale-one; and in his arms–loose legged, head bent badly at the neck–dangled the source of death in the air. Hers were the screams Adeamyn heard early in the day, followed by the rejoicing of pale-ones.

  Adeamyn watched him, his hands on the girl, and hated him with a growing fire in her chest. Was there no rest for the dead? Was there no end at all?

  But it was with an air of sadness that the pale-one placed her into the earth; and in doing this, no visible joy formed his features. There was only … regret.

  Adeamyn joined the numerous nocturnal creatures in wide-eyed study of this occurrence, when the pale-one, raising his voice, appeared to address her. Collapsing to shadow, she hid herself again. Had he seen her? The pale-one continued to talk, his voice soft and steady … but he wasn’t talking to Adeamyn … no … he was talking to someone else. She peered again in his direction. He was talking … to the girl in the earth.

  This pale-one, she realized, out of some form of respect, had come out this night … to care for her body.

  3

  Friggin’ Ninj a

  Mohammad pressed the back end of the shovel against the earth, leveling it the best he could. “Rest now,” he said. “Rest.”

  Scraping the soil from his boots and fastening the shovel to his back, he made his way across the shipping yard and to the rope he’d left suspended. Taking it in both hands, he began his climb to the factory�
�s roof. It took him longer to bury the girl than he’d anticipated. The muscles in his hands and arms were showing the common symptoms of fatigue. His trip to the top wasn’t quite as easy as times past. Throwing his leg over, he slid onto the roof and allowed himself a minute to recover before pulling the rope up again.

  He turned to begin his walk to the nest hatch when he’d found a woman standing before him. Brilliant beneath the moonlight, her eyes appeared to be glowing, her features reminiscent–the ghost of the girl he’d just buried. But her beauty and radiance alone did not hinder the fear he’d felt, standing at the end of her extended pistol.

  A hybrid was on his roof.

  A hybrid was on his roof … pointing a gun at him.

  Mohammad raised his hands, a common reaction when presented with a firearm, and tried to ease the tension with an awkward introduction. “My name is Mohammad,” he spoke slowly. “I mean you no harm.”

  She squinted at him, shaking her head.

  “Mohammad,” he repeated. “Friend.”

  The girl pointed to his belt; on it, tucked in its case, was his gun.

  “Oh,” he said. Moving slowly, Mohammad loosened his belt, slipped it free and let the weapon fall to his feet. He kicked it away and returned his hands to the air. “Friend,” he said again.

  But the girl still seemed unconvinced, keeping him trained with her weapon.

  “Food,” he realized. “You must be hungry.”

  She did not respond.

  “Follow me.” Keeping his hands raised, he walked past her and opened the hatch to his nest. Then, motioning for her to follow, he climbed inside.

  The distance from the hatch to the nest was covered by a seven-foot, vertical ladder. Once inside, Mohammad switched on his LED lantern, waiting for the girl to either enter or remain on the roof. Several seconds passed as he stared into the blackness of the open hatch, expecting to see her foot reach the first rung. But the ladder, Mohammed realized, was not necessary. She landed in front of him, leaving herself in a squatting position as she surveyed the nest.