Spirit Breaker

by William Massa

  After a week of the lazy life, he returned to his hotel one day to find a message on his cellphone. Casca had left instructions to check out a few Internet links he’d forwarded to Talon’s email account. Judging from the urgent tone in the billionaire’s voice, the lull in the fighting was over.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AS SOON AS Talon finished listening to Casca’s message, he checked his email and clicked the links in question. They routed him to three videos hosted on a website that showcased material too edgy and dangerous for YouTube.

  Talon played the first video. A skull and crossbones image flickered against a black background, and Talon noticed that the skull’s teeth had been replaced with a barcode. A beat later, a shot of a parked Mercedes filled the screen. Three guys decked out in faceless hoodies sporting crowbars and baseball bats closed in on the luxury car and went medieval on the vehicle. The car alarm wailed. The sheer aggression on display was raw and real and in your face. Metal twisted, glass spiderwebbed. Canisters of spray paint hissed, streaks of color bleeding over the luxury vehicle, leaving behind crude graffiti of pentagrams and inverted crosses.

  The camera zoomed in on the Mercedes and revealed a screaming driver cuffed to his steering wheel. One hoodie liberally sprayed him with lighter fluid while another tossed a match into the car, igniting the driver. The bone-chilling screams of the human torch echoed.

  Part of Talon wanted nothing more in the world than to kill the video. But he forced himself to endure it to the bitter end. Casca had sent him the link for a reason. He needed to know who his new enemy was.

  The next video showed variations on the same barbaric theme. A group of ratty skater punks circled two terrified men dressed in expensive suits. They projected an air of wealth and power, and Talon thought they looked like they might be bankers or lawyers. The hoodies destroyed their cell phones, Rolex watches, and tablets before turning their attention toward the well-heeled professionals themselves. The video spared no details as aluminum bats connected with the hapless victims. Pitiful pleas for mercy alternated with grunts of pain.

  Talon was a battle-hardened killer, but torture and cruelty sickened him. His greatest fear, while serving as an Operator, had been to be captured by an enemy intent on making his exit from this world as unpleasant as possible. In his mind, war should be a life and death battle between two professional soldiers; torture was the domain of psychopaths and cowards. Too bad the world rarely lived up to his ideals.

  In the final video, hoodies had invaded a lush property. An attractive couple was dragged toward a luxury pool that glittered in their home’s lights. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and Talon knew with a growing sense of dread where this was headed. The man was shouting, rage twisting his features, while the woman was crying and shaking with terror. No one heard their pleas as the home invaders tossed the couple into the deep end of the pool. Splashing water gave way to desperate gasps for air, foam erupting from lips unwilling to accept death. Talon’s phone suddenly chirped with an incoming text, mercifully providing an excuse to turn off the horror show.

  Did you check out the links?

  Instead of answering the text, Talon called Casca on Skype. The billionaire appeared on his laptop. Somehow his benefactor managed to exude wealth and sophistication even through his webcam. His classically handsome features and sense of style seemed more suited for a male model than an occult expert. Like himself, Simon Casca had been marked by the dark forces at an early age when a cult invaded his home and murdered his sister. Before the cultists could finish him off, the FBI had arrived on the scene and saved his life. Who knew how Casca would’ve turned out if not for his past tragedy? He probably would be living the high life, dating models without a care in the world. To be fair, Casca did maintain a front as a rich playboy, but there was a gravity behind the mask, a sense of mission that they shared in common.

  Both Talon and Casca had declared war on the forces of darkness. So far they’d won their battles, but the war was still young.

  “What the hell did you just make me look at?” Talon asked.

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant. But you need to know what you might be up against.”

  “These videos weren’t taken recently. Looks like they were uploaded a few years back,” Talon pointed out.

  “That’s correct,” Casca confirmed. “During the recession of 2008, a group of skaters, runaways, and anarchists committed acts of terror across the Midwest, which soon turned violent. The barcode skull became the identifying symbol of this satanic death cult, which mostly targeted members of the one-percent. Psychologists and sociologists deemed it a social manifestation of economic inequality.”

  “I call it a freak show. Making a boatload of cash is bad, but killing people is okay?” Talon shook his head. Another example of fanatics leading willing sheep to the slaughter, he thought grimly. Would mankind ever learn to tune out the dark siren call of extremist ideology?

  “Did the cops catch these monsters?” Talon asked.

  “Fortunately, yes. It all came to a head when their leader, Robert Schiller, nicknamed “the Reaper” by the press, gathered the most fanatical members of the group and went on a shooting spree at the Regional National Mall in Ampton, Ohio. He and his followers murdered twenty-five people that day before the authorities took them out.”

  “Someone deserves a medal,” Talon said through gritted teeth. He was shaking with rage. The sadistic torture videos had worked him up, raising the memories of Michelle’s horrific death video once more. Not only had these bastards tortured innocents, but they’d been proud of it, too, had wanted to show it off for the world to see.

  Talon typed Schiller’s name into his laptop’s search engine and a haunting face appeared. Talon immediately understood why the press had nicknamed Schiller the Reaper. The mass murderer staring back at him was bald, his neck and chest covered in satanic tattoos with the barcode skull taking center stage on his throat. Skin stretched tightly over his gaunt, emaciated features, the bones sharply outlined—a skull wearing the mask of a man. Body shots revealed Schiller to be six foot-four, bone-thin without a gram of body-fat on his ropy frame.“So why are we looking at the work of a deceased cult leader?”

  “It appears that Schiller’s work has inspired a copycapt cult. There have been reports of four new kidnapping cases in Ampton, Ohio over the course of the last week that bear the MO of the Reaper gang. Same graffiti signature, similar high-income targets, crime scenes characterized by acts of vandalism.”

  “Schiller’s freak show is back on,” said Talon.

  “I’m afraid so. The police haven’t found any bodies, but it’s probably just a matter of time.”

  Talon sighed. “I guess the vacation is over.”

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant.”

  “No worries. I was getting bored out here anyway. Beach, babes, and sun just can’t compete with demons and killer cults.”

  “Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” Casca’s grew more serious as he added, ”Be careful out there. We don’t know yet what we’re dealing with.”

  Casca’s words illustrated a problem Talon faced every time he tracked down an occult lead or investigated a paranormal case. Many of the cultists they hunted turned out to be dabblers, amateurs like Espinoza who believed they could conjure evil forces but were a long way from achieving their goals. But sometimes the horror was real. Talon wouldn’t know what he was up against until he was right smack in the middle of it.

  He touched the pentacle pendant that had saved him back in San Francisco and in Arizona. His guns and knives were great against mortal enemies but pretty much useless against a true agent of darkness. Was this copycat cult just a group of psychos who lacked the imagination to come up with their own freak show? Or were they tapping into the darkness, the ancient, primal force of black magic that had fueled Zagan, Amon, and Rezok’s evil? Was he about to step into some black magic shitstorm?

  There was only one way to find out.


  Talon met Casca’s gaze and said, ”When do I leave?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TALON’S PLANE TOUCHED down twelve hours later in Ampton, Ohio. As always, he was traveling light, and within a half an hour of landing, he was navigating the foggy roads in his black BMW rental car. His first stop would be a local Best Western, where Casca had booked a room for him. He didn’t plan to waste any time. After the long, relaxing week in Florida, he was hungry for action.

  He located his room and found a metal case waiting for him on the freshly made bed. From experience he knew that Casca’s little care package would be filled with kit. He tapped in the proper combination and the case snapped open, revealing a Glock, Ka-Bar knife, night-vison goggles, a Heckler & Koch machine pistol, and multiple magazines of ammo. He loaded the Glock, strapped on the knife and decided to seek out the copycat cult’s last crime scene. The authorities had found the Porsche of a missing couple in a nearby park, about a mile away from where he was staying.

  Geared up, Talon left the hotel.

  It was around six when he set foot in the scenic playground. Red shadows bled over the playsets and trees. For the most part the park was sparsely populated. A couple of families kept watchful eyes on their children and shot Talon suspicious glances. He couldn’t blame them after what had happened here. The kids almost seemed to sense that a terrible tragedy had befallen the place. Their play seemed muted, lacking the laughter and shouts one commonly associated with children and parks. Perhaps the cold weather accounted for their lethargic behavior; a chill was settling over the area, after all. Having been spoilt by Mexico and Florida weather, Ohio’s brisk days felt unpleasantly cold. Though they paled in comparison with the snowy conditions he’d encountered back in Norway.

  The police had done a decent job washing away the vandalism, but they hadn’t quite succeeded in erasing all signs of the vicious attack. It didn’t take long for Talon’s eyes to find the graffiti the cult had left behind. The barcode skull on the cement wall that ringed the parking lot was faded, the result of multiple attempts to scrub it off by the authorities, but a person who knew what they were searching for wouldn’t have any trouble spotting it.

  Wary glances continued to follow him. Ignoring the attention, Talon continued to search the area. His behavior would be deemed suspicious by some of the wary parents but hopefully wouldn’t warrant a call to the police. The plan was to scan the park without overstaying his welcome.

  Talon held no illusions about what he would find. He didn’t think he would magically stumble upon some piece of evidence the cops had missed, but maybe there was some detail about the crime scene that would mean more to people like him and Casca than the law. The police were scoping for forensic clues; Talon was snooping for signs of the occult. He checked the surroundings…and finally spotted a pentagram and an inverted cross carved into the trunks of a few nearby trees. There was another sign too. The Greek letters Alpha and Omega. Beginning and End.

  Talon frowned. What did it signify?

  He snapped pictures of the symbols and kept combing the park. Further inspection proved fruitless, and he decided to return to his hotel. As he left the park grounds, he felt one of the moms staring at him again. He winked at her, and she quickly averted her gaze.

  A moment later he was gone.

  ***

  Talon resumed his investigation the next day.

  He showered, dressed, and knocked back some boiling coffee, his tongue desensitized to the point where his cup of joe needed to be volcano hot to work its magic. The Reaper and his followers had been skaters before they had added murder and Satanism to their resume. Maybe the new cult had a similar background.

  Talon decided to start his investigation in the East End, a wasteland dominated by empty tenements and industrial lots. According to his research, it was the place where the most radical and dangerous dudes shredded. The kids out there were mostly runaways, druggies and burnouts. Odds were good that the copycat cult might be drawing from the same talent pool.

  Talon wore an old pair of sneakers, green khakis, and a hoodie. His Delta training had taught him the art of blending in with his surroundings. He hadn’t shaved since Mexico and needed a haircut, which helped sell the look. No one would mistake him for some teen punk, but neither did he look like a square. He picked up a used board at Switchfoot, a skate shop he came across on his way to the East End, and parked the BMW about a quarter of a mile from his destination.

  He got out of the rental and skated the rest of the way. He’d been an avid skater when he was young and could still pull off a few moves. Being the son of a diplomat, Talon had lived all across the world when he was a teen. Every year seemed to bring a new city in a different country. Exploring a new place on his deck was a rite of passage, a way of making his ever changing surroundings feel like home. Shooting down the winding road of the industrial wasteland on his board brought it all back. For a brief moment he was able to forget the real reason why he was here.

  Fifteen minutes later, Talon reached his destination. The East End skate park lay tucked under a bridge, cars and trucks rattling by overhead. He descended a rusty staircase and walked along a chainlink fence. Before him the whole East End spread out. The place looked trashed, the skate rink scrawled with graffiti. Skaters abounded, sporting tats, piercings, and a ton of attitude. Talon’s skin prickled with a palpable aura of danger.

  A skater shot up a bowl nearby and finished off with a 360-degree kickflip. The wheels snapped against the cement. His appearance was ragged and dirty, oozing a predatory quality. Borderline gutter punk.

  Talon approached some of the other skaters lounging around the bowls. It was an older, more hardened crowd. He offered one of the dudes a cigarette and struck up a conversation. Soon he steered their chat toward the Reaper. His spiel was simple. He’d seen the stories on the news and wanted in. Unfortunately, the line of questioning proved to be a dead end. The kid eyed him blankly when the subject came up, almost as if he was addressing him in a foreign language, and then their chat was over.

  Talon continued to search for someone who might be more talkative if properly motivated. He secretly hoped that his questions might draw out a member of the copycat gang. If someone began following him or tried to start something, they’d be in for a surprise. Maybe he was being too cocky, but after dealing with Al Queda, a group of skater rats didn’t faze him. He wanted the bad guys to know he was looking for them. The question was who would blink first. After a few more failed attempts and some suspicious stares here and there, he found someone who was willing to help out. For a price.

  “You sure you’re ready to be part of this?” Carl, a twenty-something shredder with long greasy hair, said.

  “I spent four years risking my life for Uncle Sam and for what? To come home to a country where a bunch of pussy-assed, over-privileged hipster assholes have all the power?”

  “Seek out the Lightwalker. He’ll know if you’re ready.”

  “The Lightwalker?”

  “That’s what people call him,” Carl said. “I dunno, man, maybe if I had a couple more smokes I could remember why.”

  Talon regarded the kid with growing curiosity. The punk flashed him a knowing grin. He might be a drop-out druggie, but what he lacked in school smarts he made up for in animal cunning. He knew he possessed information that Talon wanted and was ready to negotiate. Talon offered him a whole pack of cigarettes and his lighter. As soon as the skater pocketed the spoils, he resumed his explanation.

  “Lightwalker walked into the light,” he elaborated, revealing a row of yellow, nicotine-stained teeth.

  Talon still stared at the skater with incomprehension.

  “He wiped out, hit his head. Died on the spot. Walked down the tunnel and into the light,” Carl continued. “But they managed to bring him back. That’s why he skates without fear now. Skates like he doesn’t care about living or dying.”

  Talon didn’t quite know what to make of this. Was the punk telling t
he truth?

  “Lightwalker saw the light and now speaks to the dead,” Carl said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  Talon blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Like that kid in The Sixth Sense. He can see ghosts. Speaks with dead people. You don’t want to fuck with the dude is what I’m saying.”

  Talon decided to risk it and said, “How do I find him?”

  “Maybe he’ll find you.” The punk shot him a grin. Talon felt his patience running dry. He was almost ready to snatch the asshole by the collar and rub that smirk right off his face when the kid added. “Word is he stays at the old mall.

  Talon frowned. The kid had to be talking about the Regional National Mall where the final showdown between the Reaper and the police had taken place. The mall had closed shortly after the shooting and had stood abandoned ever since. It had been scheduled for demolition at one point, but the developers ran out of money. Just another victim of the recession.

  “Be careful. If he doesn’t like you, he won’t let you walk out of that place.”

  Talon waited for the kid to add something more, but apparently the conversation was now officially over, the kid preoccupied with filling his lungs with carcinogens.

  Talon shrugged and left the park, sensing this was as much as he would get today. The hostile glares of the other skaters trailed him, but no one actually followed.

  As he climbed into his rental car and drove off, Talon kept reviewing what the skater had shared with him. This Lightwalker character apparently was a near death survivor. The weird detail sounded too crazy to just be a story the punk had made up.

  Lightwalker saw the light and now speaks to the dead. Something about the punk’s words sent a shiver down Talon’s spine.

  He drove back to his hotel and hit his computer. He Googled the mall, and a number of photographs flashed onscreen. A series of monolithic, weathered structures grew from a vast vacant parking lot. A fading JC Penney sign with two letters missing loomed forebodingly over a graffiti-besmirched exterior. This was an urban explorer’s wet dream. It would be Mecca to any freak who thought the Reaper had been some sort of hero fighting a corrupt system.