Damoren

by Seth Skorkowsky

  She pulled several paper targets out from a rack on the wall and Matt stapled them to the hole-ridden cardboard squares hanging from the tracks. Once done, they stood in a row before him like five black-silhouetted men. Their only features being the concentric oval rings blossoming from their chests, each printed with a number, decreasing with each larger ring.

  Unzipping a side pouch, Luiza removed a blued nine millimeter. She popped in a fresh magazine, cocked the action, and slid it into her holster. “Muffs are on the wall.”

  Matt took a pair of the olive-colored earmuffs off one of the pegs and put them on. “Ladies first,” he said, gesturing toward the range.

  The Brazilian smiled. She showed Matt how to operate the targeting tracks, then once she was ready, stepped up to the middle of the firing line, her hand by her side. Matt selected the correct program, pressed the green start button, and all five targets flipped sideways and raced away down their tracks. At ten meters they stopped, then began slowly moving back. The second target to the right turned, facing forward. Luiza ripped her pistol from the holder, bracing it in both hands, and fired two quick shots. The target rotated back. Another target flipped to face her, she fired again, nailing it twice before it reset. One by one the targets flipped, allowing no more than three seconds for her to fire.

  Once all five targets had flipped, she holstered the gun, and removed the large muffs.

  Pulling off his own earmuffs, Matt walked up to the line of targets. All but three rounds had hit within two inches of the center mark. “Good shooting. Little practice you might even get them all in the center ring.”

  Luiza’s brow arched sharply. “You can do better?”

  “Well, yeah,” he answered like it was the easiest question in the world. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, walking back to his duffel. “Winner gets to shoot this first.” He removed the black Ingram machinegun and set it on the table.

  The Brazilian’s face brightened. “Now we’re talking.”

  “Now I only had fifty practice rounds for it. Not shooting the silver ones. So that’s one full magazine and the other will just be twenty. So you’re not going to get a full mag after I shoot the first one.”

  “Stop stalling and get up there.” Luiza placed black stickers over the holes she’d shot in the targets, then took her place by the controls.

  “Dämoren only holds seven,” Matt said, unbuttoning his holster. “So I’m just going to fire once at the first, third and fifth targets.”

  “Wait, so I shoot ten and you shoot seven, that isn’t fair.”

  “Consider it a three-shot handicap for you.” He smiled.

  Luiza’s lips pursed. “All right, then” She turned to the controls. “Get ready.”

  Matt turned toward the range, his hand resting on his belt. The targets flipped sideways and raced away. He drew a breath. They stopped as they hit the red ten-meter line.

  The lights went out.

  Bright yellow and red spinning lights on the walls sprung to life, filling the room with dizzying patterns. The target on the far right, barely discernible through the confusing light, flipped toward him. Matt pulled Dämoren from the rig, cocked the hammer, and fired. A plume of dense smoke erupted downrange. It caught the spinning light, obscuring the targets even more. The target turned away. It had seemed longer before they reset when she shot. The approaching middle target clicked and rotated toward him. Matt fired, cocked, then fired again. The target reset no more than a second after it had activated. She shortened the times! Gritting his teeth, he finished the course. Once all the targets had activated, the ceiling lights flicked back on, and the spinning lights ceased.

  “What was that about?” he asked, holstering Dämoren.

  Luiza’s chocolate eyes widened like a child’s. “I was just making it even since you’re such a good shooter and all,” her voice overly innocent.

  Matt chuckled.

  Fanning her hand in attempt to disperse the thick cloud, Luiza approached the targets. “And this is what you do for a living?”

  Matt looked at the man-shaped silhouettes. Two hits were perfect bull’s-eyes. The rest were scattered around the centers, but no further than three finger-widths from their mark. “I’d call that pretty good.”

  She shrugged. “I saw a trick-shooter once. He could quick draw and hit aspirin glued to a board.”

  “Aspirin?”

  She nodded. “From the hip, even. I figure since you’re a professional gunslinger and all, hitting a bull’s eye wouldn’t be a problem.”

  A bitter pang needled Matt’s gut. He knew the trick. He’d seen an exhibition shooter once when he and Clay were in New Mexico. The showman had reduced four tablets, suspended by stings, into puffs of white powder in just over a second. For six months after that Matt had egged Clay mercilessly, telling him he should be better than some Wild West reenactor. Now it was his turn. He could almost hear the old man laughing at him.

  “Marksmanship and trick shooting aren’t the same.” He said, his words mimicking Clay’s.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’m serious. Those guys are impressive, but it’s all muscle memory. They’re not really aiming. They shoot at the same target every day at the same distance. It’s not a real comparison.”

  Her tongue ran behind her lower lip. “Not buying it.”

  “It’s true.”

  “So you’re wanting a rematch?”

  “Just a fair game.”

  “No such thing,” she said through a mischievous smile. “Loser goes first. I’ll reset your targets.”

  Matt emptied Dämoren’s cylinder, dropping the spent shells into a canvas bag as she covered his last shots with more round black stickers. Once she’d finished, and he’d loaded fresh rounds into the pistol, Matt approached the firing line.

  The musical tone of a cell phone came from Luiza’s bag, barely audible through the sturdy earmuffs.

  She pulled it out and answered. “Yes? What is it?” She nodded and her face went slack. “When?”

  Matt stepped closer toward her. Her grim expression told him that their game was over.

  “I’ll be there right away.” She paused. “Yes, he’s here with me now. Okay, we’ll be right up.”

  “What?” Matt asked, as she hung up the phone.

  “The team in Spain hasn’t reported in and isn’t answering calls. They’re meeting right now to discuss a search and rescue.”

  #

  “You’re here,” Schmidt said as Matt and Luiza entered the meeting room. A dozen people sat in chairs along one side. Almost twice that many seats remained empty. Matt could almost taste the bitter tension.

  Mal, seated beside Jean, rolled his eyes and looked away. He touched the scarab tattoo at his wrist.

  “That should be everyone,” Turgen said, his voice husky like a life-long smoker’s. He stood, leaning on his cane beside where Allan sat before a computer. He cleared his throat. “To catch everyone up, our expedition team in Spain has not reported in since last night. Their last communication was at nine o’clock. We have been unable to contact them since.”

  Turgen waited while Riku translated the old man’s words into Japanese to Susumu. The samurai, holding his wood-sheathed naginata, nodded.

  “The tracking units they carried last showed them all here.”

  Allan clicked on his computer and a map flashed up onto a large TV screen against the wall. A blue dot ringed in red appeared in the center. A white cursor moved to a vertical bar along the side and slid upward, zooming the image. The dot, which now appeared as multiple spots stacked nearly on top of one another, rested half a mile off a snake-like road, judging by the map scale in the lower corner.

  “It’s on a farm an hour and a half outside Barcelona. Local reports in the area drew our attention. Anya,” he said, gesturing to the blonde woman, “discovered the location as the site of a resistance massacred under Franco’s regime.”

  Matt studied the map, now transposed with a satellite image of the
farm, as Riku relayed the information to his master. It appeared as a small clump of buildings surrounded by only a few trees.

  “Their GPS trackers simultaneously stopped working at 2:17 this morning. Prior to that, they arrived at the house at ten o’clock.”

  A window on the screen beside him dropped open, and the cursor selected 9:45 pm from a list of fifteen minute intervals, then Play. The map showed the clump of dots quickly move up the road toward the house, stopping about a mile away. Then two of the dots broke off and circled around. A green clock in the corner of the screen read the time in thirty-second flashes.

  “You can see them circle around the property in two groups.”

  “Who’s that?” Jean asked, pointing to the two dots that broke off first.

  Pausing the video, Allan moved the cursor over the indicators, their names, in red, appeared up beside them. “Ramón, and Anthony.” He started the recording again, but the names stayed floating beside them.

  “Here you see Natuche, Daniel, and Yev, head up the other side toward the house, circling the buildings one by one. At 10:49 something happens.” He gestured up to the screen, showing the two groups suddenly break apart. The dots moved erratically, weaving and circling. One, Ramón, suddenly charged up around one of the buildings, then stopped. The others continued their agitated movement, staying close together, but one by one, they each ceased. The time read, 10:56. Seven minutes after the action had begun.

  “Then,” Turgen said, holding a finger in the air, “they all moved inside the house.”

  Matt watched the blue dots, each with a name beside it, pulse toward the house. Once inside they shuffled a bit, and then stopped in the pile that he’d seen at the very beginning. The video continued, nothing moving until 2:17 when all the dots and names suddenly disappeared.

  Turgen waited until the signal stopped. “We need a team to find our missing knights and retrieve them and their blades. Malcolm, I want you to lead them.”

  The tattooed hunter nodded.

  “Also, Takaira Susumu, Luc, Kazuo, Anya, and Matt Hollis.”

  “Master Turgen,” Anya blurted. “I have my research. I’ve almost found the meaning for those symbols.”

  “The records are centuries old, Anya. A few more days won’t make a difference.”

  “But I’m so close. Maybe Allan could be Librarian.”

  Allan looked up, dutifully.

  “Sir Havlock just returned from a three week expedition,” Schmidt said. “He was injured and nearly died. His own research has waited for his return. We need knights that are healthy and ready for combat. No, he’s to stay here until he’s healed.”

  The pretty hunter nodded in defeat. “Yes, sir.”

  Riku raised his hand. “Master Turgen, am I to go as well?”

  “No, Riku. This mission is too dangerous to risk an apprentice.”

  The young man relayed the order to his mentor.

  “Preposterous!” Susumu said in Japanese. “I must have my student. I cannot speak without him.”

  Leaning on his cane, Turgen listened calmly, nodding, his face emotionless as Riku translated the samurai’s words. “I understand your concern,” he said. “However there are five knights that are missing. We can only send our very best on a mission of such importance. Both Kazuo and Matt speak Japanese and can assist you.”

  “That half-breed’s accent is so bad, he can barely speak my language while the other is possessed with a demon. A demon that I should kill, not use as my ears and mouth.”

  “He says that Kazuo’s Filipino accent makes it difficult to understand,” Riku explained. “And he does not trust the demon.”

  Matt’s jaw tightened as he felt every eye in the room fall over him.

  “Mister Hollis is an accomplished hunter,” Turgen said, gesturing his pale hand toward Matt. “And while I admit apprehension in working with him, no one can deny that his holy weapon Dämoren has chosen him. He has saved the life of one of our knights who also personally witnessed him slay two demons. For this, we trust him. If Takaira Susumu does not wish to help find what happened to our brave knights, he may decline this mission. We will choose a replacement for him. However, unless he says otherwise, Mister Hollis is going.” The old man gave Matt a tiny smile as Riku relayed the Turgen’s words.

  The samurai said nothing for several seconds. He curtly nodded. “I accept.”

  “Good.” He turned to Malcolm. “You’ll need to leave within the hour.”

  “Master Turgen,” Malcolm said. “I need to voice my concern about this.”

  Schmidt looked up at the ceiling, then lowered his gaze onto the hunter. “If this concern is about the team we have selected, Master Turgen has made our stance very clear.”

  Malcolm’s lip moved, as if about to say more. He shot a bitter glance toward Matt. “Understood. We’ll leave in the hour.”

  Matt drew a breath, trying to quell the excited dread. He had his wish. He was going hunting. He only hoped it wouldn’t lead to a knife in the back.

  A Comparison of Demonic Territories in the Old and New Worlds

  In contrast to Europe, Africa, and Asia, whose histories span millennia of wars, plagues, and innumerable incidents of human misery, the New World continents of Antarctica, Australia, and both Americas have experienced significantly less suffering.

  Comparing Europe and North America, for example, the European continent boasts 39% more population than North America, while occupying only 41% of the geographical area. Furthermore, the sheer number of atrocities in the last three-thousand years is incomparable. The total sum of dead and wounded in all North American wars is less than 8% of those lost and wounded in the First World War alone. While historical records of North American wars prior to the European migration are unknown, scholars agree that even the worst-case estimates would be incomparable to Europe. Even the Native American Genocide, whose total numbers will never be known, is at most half of the fatalities caused by the Black Death of the 14th Century. The summation of this comparison is not to demean the loss and suffering experienced in North America, but merely to illustrate the difference.

  The result is that Europe, as a physical continent, contains a substantially higher density of sites tainted with human suffering. Each of these sites acts as a magnet that draws demonic energies closer until capturing them. This creates a bowl effect with multiple demonic entities held in each of these sites. The more lurid a particular site’s past, the greater the demonic gravity.

  To illustrate, compare this attraction to the rubber sheet model of gravity. Imagine a physical region as a sheet of smooth rubber tautly stretched. Every site tainted by death and suffering affixes a weight corresponding to the degree of negative energy. Now imagine demonic entities as smooth, yet irregular beads poured over the sheet. The beads will roll across, but frequently become trapped in the divots caused by the weights.

  With this illustration in mind, now picture the continents of North America and Europe. North America has relatively few weights that mar its smooth texture. Meanwhile, the sheet of the European continent is densely pockmarked with divots, leaving virtually no portion flat. Beads poured over the North American sheet will roll freely but become heavily clustered in the major gravity wells. The European sheet will have wide disbursement of beads as they are caught in the various pits, with only a slightly higher density in the location of heavier weights.

  This study does not explore sites that have a natural attraction or repulsion to demonic energies. Natural “holy” or “unholy” geographic anomalies of course affect the rubber sheet, but for purposes of this exercise, consider them neutral.

  Once every few centuries, natural disasters have eradicated certain sites, causing a sudden migration of demons into the surrounding regions. Some Valducans have theorized that these disasters themselves, be it Pompeii or Port Royal, were in some way caused by the abnormally high concentration of demonic powers. I however, disagree with that theory on the grounds that many hundreds of oth
er corrupted sites have never experienced cataclysmic ends.

  One recent example was in the city of New Orleans. New Orleans, a city deeply scarred by suffering and well known for its substantial demonic population, was evacuated in 2005 in the wake of hurricane Katrina. In that evacuation, thousands of refugees were scattered up to 2,500 kilometers away. Repopulation of the region took six years before reaching its pre-hurricane size. However, estimates show that demons and practitioners of demonic rites returned far faster than the general population, achieving full repopulation in only three years. This example only supports the theory that North America, as a continent, has far fewer demonic gravity wells, thus causing each one to affect a far greater range than their Old World counterparts.

  Hunters operating in Old World regions, therefore, must employ different tracking strategies than those operating in the New World. Old World hunters are more likely to find demonic entities grounded to their particular territories unable to migrate far before being caught in a new well. This also leads to major sites or corruption to be less densely populated with demons, as they are more spread out among the wells. New World hunters often have large areas where demons can migrate freely, unhindered by wells. Also, those fewer wells can be more easily monitored. However, in deeply-tainted regions, the high demonic saturation makes them far more dangerous.

  Adjusting to these differences is not a simple task, and the Valducan Masters must weigh an individual hunter’s regional specialization before assigning them on various missions. Sending a New World hunter to track and locate demons in Old World territories, or vice versa, can result in disaster.

  Sir Malcolm Romero Ph. D, 2013

  Chapter Six

  “Are you sure that’s safe?” Anya asked. She sat as far away as the van’s bench seat would allow.

  Matt tapped black powder into an etched metal vial, measuring the proper load. “Nothing to worry about. Just try not to open any windows or light a cigarette until I’m done.” He smiled.