Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2)

by Noah Fregger

  The notion of rest had hardly crossed Mohammad’s mind. It was all he could do to keep from pacing, some fragment within him wishing for stillness. But the remainder was busily wrapping itself in the deduction of vengeance–the side to which he’d allowed himself to be overcome.

  And Gabriel did not come to question his state, but rather left him to his own devices. The Traveler had watched Mohammad decorate their walls, smash their aisles, taunt them thoroughly, and didn’t seem to mind in the least. Now those men knew of his existence, could name him as the bogeyman. Mohammad enjoyed that thought, relished in it, as anger shrouded him like a darkened veil; and through it his hatred was justified. Whatever fate he brought them would be well-deserved; and no remorse would be waiting at the end of it all.

  The emotional freedom was intoxicating.

  Mohammad awakened the hyper-wall by gracing it with his glove. The emerald city then awaited his fingertips. He enlarged the department store, observing the violet people as many of them appeared to be making their rounds about the complex.

  They think they can keep me out? He grinned a bit to himself.

  Surely he was witnessing their security, set to its fullest extent. Everyone was safe inside, save for those roaming the grounds. He recalled the thrill of that morning’s approach, all five of those men awaiting him outside. Mohammad had toyed momentarily with one of them and his cigarette, using the auto-zero to distinguish the flame until the man smashed it onto the asphalt.

  Then the man who’d called himself the hunter came to offer his snarky remark, along with the man whom Radia removed several bites of. That was when Mohammad learned the name of the man with the cigarette.

  Rick, they called him. And he’d referred to the hunter as Maddox–must be a last name.

  So Mohammad used the distraction to slip inside the store, acquire a red can of spray paint, and made his mark there on the wall. Lowering his invisibility to coat his hand, Mohammad left the print as sort of a fitting calling card. He wasn’t there only on his behalf, but of Radia’s, and Lumin’s, and every other hybrid to lose their lives to these men.

  That print represented them.

  But he was soon discovered by the hunter’s son, who came shortly to investigate. Mohammad needed to improvise quickly. Regaining invisibility, he placed his hands on the shelving, strained a bit, and forced it over, collapsing it at the boy’s feet before rounding to the other end of the store. Horrendous, the noise earned the attention of all as they spilled into the store in a manic herd.

  The hunter must have been at the forefront. Mohammad could hear him grilling the stunned boy for answers, just before discovering his crimson message. The Fijian could have slipped out easily then, if he’d deemed it a proper demonstration; but it could have been so easily explained away, the boy taking the blame for everything. The hunter demanded to see their hands, searching for the culprit amongst his own. Everyone must have been accounted for then, so Mohammad set down the spray can and pushed over a second aisle.

  Explain that.

  The hunter reacted in a frenzy of orders, in which he referred to Mohammad as a, “son of a bitch.”

  With several already guarding the exit, he found the two young men that had helped to toss his … predecessor … off the factory’s roof, their eyes wide and darting. In one of their ears he’d left his final message:

  “Hunter.”

  And that was enough. He leapt through the two thick sheets of glass, their bullets through the air, and surely became instant legend.

  That managed to cool his anger for a time, but the thrill of the encounter had long since faded; and Mohammad found himself itching for yet another.

  He witnessed a staircase within the building’s hologram, leading to a small, rectangular room above. Two intertwining souls were residing within it that very instant.

  The King and Queen. Certainly, with all their pawns beneath.

  And it didn’t take long at all–passing again through the Cider wall, venturing up to the storefront, extinguishing their nightly fire as he walked past, the guard there fumbling to get it started again. But Mohammad was already inside, weaving between various men and women as they slept, soon venturing up that staircase, King and Queen asleep on the other side of its locked door. He held his gloved hand to the knob as it began to tinker with the inner-workings of the locking mechanism. Apparently the thing worked also as a skeleton key, a true deus ex machina when one needed to be nothing more than a passing ghost. The mechanism slid gently over, allowing Mohammad access in just a matter of seconds. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him, and approached the man and woman as they slept.

  And there he was, the hunter, in all his glory, defenseless as an infant. And just beside him, blonde and beautiful, rested his significant other.

  “Check Mate,” Mohammad whispered.

  The hunter opened his eyes slowly, Mohammad’s words waking him as he turned with heavy lids to inspect his surroundings. Mohammad remained quiet as he did so, trying to decide the best way to proceed, but was soon distracted by the clenching of his own jaw.

  The hunter did not deserve such warmth, such peace. He deserved torment, deserved to have his life ripped from him, just as he’d done to Mohammad, to Radia. That was why Mohammad was there, why he’d been resurrected.

  The hunter placed his head back down, wrapping his arm around the woman, and fell again to sleep.

  Within the residing silence, Mohammad discovered the hunter’s fate as it hung frail in the balance, the man’s life lingering there in the palm of his tightened fist.

  The hunter fell from the bed, retrieving his .45. “What is it?!”

  Victoria was screaming.

  “What’s wrong?!”

  She stood, terrified, pointing at the hunter, her scream still resonating through the room.

  “Victoria!”

  “Jesus, James, behind you!”

  He turned, his own breath escaping him when he saw the thing. There upon the wall, its color present in a stream of morning’s light, was placed yet another crimson hand print; and at its palm was etched a black number one.

  “It was fucking in here!”

  The hunter went to try the door–still locked. Impossible.

  “Jesus, James!”

  He thrust a finger to his lips. “Shut up for a second.” He could explain this. He just needed to think. He looked again at the handprint–larger than Victoria’s, definitely belonging to a man. He looked back at her. “Who is it, Victoria?”

  Her breathing was shallow, a look of confusion on her face. “What?”

  “Who did you let in here?”

  “No one!” she snapped, flushed with offense.

  “That’s the only thing that makes sense, Victoria.” He approached her, firearm still in hand. “Now tell me, who did you let in here last night?”

  She took a step back. “No one, James.”

  “Was it Rick?”

  “Are you listening?! I said I didn’t let anyone in here!”

  There was a sudden beating on the door. “Victoria, are you okay?!” It was Jackson, coming at the sound of her cry.

  “Everything’s fine, Jackson,” he answered for her.

  “You sure?” Jackson’s voice came again through the wooden barrier.

  The hunter looked back at Victoria, pointing insistently at the door.

  “Yes, Jackson,” she managed, “I’m fine.”

  There was a long pause before the large man answered back; even then he seemed hardly convinced. Still, he left the door and walked back down the stairs.

  “Don’t tell anyone.” He shoved a finger at Victoria. “They’re spooked enough already.”

  “How the fuck did it get in here, James?”

  “If you didn’t let him in, then I don’t know. But you can’t tell a soul, understand?”

  She nodded finally, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Jesus, James.”

  The hunter tapped the end of the .45 against his temple, exhal
ing deeply. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not; but it sure seemed like real fear Victoria was emitting. His gut told him she was telling the truth, in which case he didn’t know what to believe. No one else held a key to his quarters, and he’d already considered the most rational explanation.

  You reap what you sow, James.

  He’d had the most vivid dream of Andrea that night, remembered it so clearly. She seemed sad, disappointed, and that was all she’d said to him in the haze of their meeting, just before she walked away.

  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?”

  21

  The Bait

  Houdini 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 app
roached 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.”

  22

  Breath Enough to Scream

  Mike 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?”