Our apartment isn’t large. It consists of a front door which immediately leads into a short hallway. There are three doors in the hallway. The first one on the left leads to the small bathroom. The door right across from it leads to Carl’s bedroom. It’s the only room in the apartment. It’s a decent size and has a small walk-in closest. Surprising, I know. The second door on the left leads to our kitchen. Past that, the hallway opens up into a small living room. There’s a second door that leads into the kitchen from the living room.
I trudged down the hall; Carl disappeared into his room. The hardwood floor was covered in mismatched rugs. I tried to find ones that were as shaggy as possible so they’d be soft under bare feet. I also wanted something that would absorb as much sound as possible. The guy that lived below us was notorious for getting pissed at the sound of us walking around.
The living room is an open box. There’s a small couch and a used recliner in one corner. They point at the TV, which is a non-ironic tube TV that needs a mountain of cables and converters to do much more than be a decoration. Considering I found it in the trash, I wasn’t complaining. The only other thing in there was a giant floor to ceiling mirror. Five feet across it was a huge statement piece. It was also the door to my room.
I went and pushed on the side of the mirror. The whole section of the wall started to revolve to reveal a large closest hidden on the other side of the wall. There was a murphy bed hanging on the other side of the mirrored wall. That’s where I slept. I dropped off my stuff and grabbed a change of clothes.
Carl went to bed right away. He had work in the morning and would be exhausted when he got up at four thirty to get ready to head to the coffee shop. I took my change of clothes and went into the bathroom to take a shower. It took fifteen minutes and a half a bottle of Dial Gold to wash the stink of Hellion blood off my body. When I finished, I changed and walked back into the living room. I grabbed the KSG and tossed my duffle onto the floor by the closet.
It landed with a dull thud. Two more thuds reverberated through the floor. I looked down. Jerry, our downstairs neighbor, must have been home. He had logged several complaints about Carl and I. He’d even left us a pretty nasty note. That was the only reason I knew his name was Jerry; he’d signed it before telling us to screw ourselves. If he thought we were making too much noise, he would bang on the walls.
I had a particular hatred for Jerry. I’d wanted to go down there and beat him to death after he’d sent up the note, but Carl had said he would take care of. He’d gone downstairs to apologize a few times, but Jerry never seemed to be home when he did. The guy was an asshole who kept weird hours and trust me, coming from me, that’s saying something.
I walked into the kitchen, muttering curses at Jerry under my breath.
The kitchen is a white-tiled hallway with a stove and fridge in it. There was also a microwave and a small sink stuffed into a corner. The best part of the whole thing though was the breakfast nook. The built-in booth had a bay window, and I could look out at the street below.
I set the shotgun down on the table and went to the fridge. I opened it, knowing that I wouldn’t find what I really wanted. I pulled out another Redbull and went back into the living room. I sat down on the couch, popped the Redbull, and turned on the TV. I kept the volume low to keep Jerry from pounding the walls again. I didn’t trust myself to not load up the KSG with slugs and start pumping rounds through the floor.
I did that for ten minutes before the anxious energy needed to be let out. I got up, killing the Redbull as I did, and went to find my gym clothes. If I wasn’t getting to sleep anytime soon as I might as well do something productive.
3
My lungs burned as I rowed. I heaved, pushing with my legs and pulling with all my might. The chain of the row machine whirred, but it was lost beneath the sound of blasting metal music. The screams and pig squeals were a constant for the evening crowd of powerlifters. The small digital reader showed me closing in on five thousand meters. I kept pushing. I felt like I was moving as fast as possible, but I knew that I was going slower with each heaving motion.
I kept pumping until the reader jumped past five thousand. Letting the handle fall, I crawled my way off the machine and dropped to the ground, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling fan spinning above me. My heart was hammering, and everything inside me either felt like dying or puking. I would have been happy to do either if I’d been able to bring myself to move.
I stumbled my way to my feet after a few minutes. My heart had slowed to a nice jackhammer pace. There was a lonely TV above two treadmills. The local news was on. The volume was off, but the subtitles scrolled across the screen. They had discovered another animal attack. There had been a string of them recently, all within a fifty-mile radius of Reno. They weren’t revealing the ID of the body. If it had been a Wendigo victim, then there may not have been much left to identify. Good thing I’d melted the bastard down. Maybe we’d be lucky, and it was a plain old bear or pack of mangy coyotes. Wasn’t about to hold my breath, but you never know.
I looked around. The small cardio area of the gym was walled off by a short orange wall. It held two treadmills, a stair master, an elliptical, a bike, and a row machine. Outside of the wall, everything was free weights. No one was paying attention to me or the news. I was too small for the heavily muscled meatheads that filled this particular establishment to notice me.
U.S. Iron was a dungeon of a gym. It was perfect as far I was concerned. For one, it was open twenty-four hours a day. With the schedule that I kept, it was nice to know that I could come here any time of day and blow off steam. It was also cheap. That, and I don’t think I ever saw any of the other members even look at the cardio equipment.
The gym was full of powerlifters and bodybuilders, the real gym rats who trained until their noses bled and washed down every meal with protein shakes and steroid injections.
Carl and I had been coming to the gym since we moved to Reno. Carl said exercise was a good way to get my mind off of drinking. I’d been out of shape and pathetic a year ago. I still wasn’t anywhere near where I had been once upon a time, but I was getting there. I was getting stronger and faster every day.
I hopped on a treadmill and opened up into a run. I ran to empty my brain. If you run fast enough, long enough, your brain turns off, and all you want to do is die. I also needed to be faster than I was strong. Trust me when I tell you that being strong is nice, but when it comes to hunting Hellions, you’d better be able to run. Cardio or death.
I ran until my lungs burned and my ribs had a knife buried firmly between them. I jumped and planted my feet on the rails. I yanked out the safety stop, and the thing slowed instantly. When it stopped, I hobbled off. The inside of the building was hot and humid. I sucked in air and could taste the sweat of years and years of hard work. I stretched and rolled out my legs before leaving.
The cold air assaulted my senses as soon as I stepped outside. My sweat soaked shirt froze to my skin, and it hurt to breathe. The temperature had dropped to a point where every breath brought the faint metallic taste of blood. It’s a sensation that’s beyond the understanding of anyone who’s never lived anywhere that gets truly cold.
I walked to Carl’s truck, grabbing a sweatshirt out of the cab and pulling it on. It didn’t help a ton, but it felt good to try something to fend off the cold. I looked at the city around me. It was dark. U.S. Iron isn’t in a super well-lit part of town. It’s buried in the industrial district, packed between warehouses and distributing centers. I looked at the casinos, rising above the buildings in the distance. They flashed a variety of neon lights. I couldn’t remember the last time I just stopped and looked. I’d spent so much time worrying about what would happen if the Venatori caught up with me.
They’d come so close to finding me a year ago that I could practically feel their eyes on me everywhere I went. I had to keep a low profile. That was the main reason I’d been upset about Carl’s ad.
The ration
al part of my brain knew that there was nothing in the ad to link to me. I’m not known for putting a lot of faith in the rational part of my brain when it comes to being hunted down and thrown back into Purgatory. No, for that I rely on the paranoid core of my inner being.
I took a deep breath of frigid air and shook my head. I was fine. Carl and I had built a life here, off the grid and out of sight, hopefully out of mind too. As long as we kept our presence low-key, we’d be okay. That was easy for Carl since all he wanted to do was start his little church in the park and help me save the world from things that go murder in the night.
“Shit,” I said.
I got in the truck and slammed the door. The last shred of my conscience was starting to whisper inside of me. I had to apologize to Carl, again. Having a friend was nice sometimes, but dammit, I hate apologizing.
Firing up the engine, I ripped out of the parking lot and headed back to the apartment.
4
9 AM is a perfectly good time to start drinking. Pour a little whiskey in your coffee, sit back with a decent movie, and let the morning light wash over you. Too bad I’d given up the good stuff. All I had was coffee, Good Morning America, and the blanket of snow falling from the overcast sky. So much for the good life.
Propping my feet up on the kitchen table, I sat back and sipped at the steaming coffee. It was black and tasted ashen. It got the job done though, that’s all that mattered at the end of the day. Thick grey flakes of snow clung to the outside of the small window.
Carl had been up before the sun and gone into work. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him. I knew I was going to need to. I couldn’t find it inside myself to be happy about it.
Getting up to pour another cup, I hobbled into the living room and pulled out a pair of old TV trays. I set my coffee on the end table next to the couch and flipped on the TV. It fuzzed black and white static. I slapped the side of it, and the picture jumped into existence. A movie about a giant tarantula that was fighting a mutated ape of some sort popped on.
I pulled out the Kel-Tec. The shotgun was crusty with Wendigo blood and smelled like shit. So did the clothes that I’d wrapped it in. I tossed the clothes aside. I couldn’t wait for the looks I would get at the laundromat when I went to wash them.
I posted up on the couch and started breaking down the Kel-Tec. I cleaned off all the blood on the outside and went to work on the barrel. I sipped coffee and watched TV as I spent an hour cleaning, oiling and reassembling the shotgun. It was clean as a whistle and ready to kill when I was done. I racked the slide, held it to my shoulder and sighted on the TV. The trigger broke cleanly. I set it down on the TV trays.
My cell phone started to ring. I checked the display. I didn’t know the number calling. I would have preferred to let it go to voicemail, but with Carl’s recent ad in the paper, I couldn’t afford to lose a potential job if it was a paying customer.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi.”
The voice was high pitched and youthful. “Can I help you?” I asked.
“Um. Is this DC Investigations?”
“It is,” I said. “How can I help you?”
“I saw your ad in the paper. It said you investigate anything. Does that really mean anything?”
I let out a slow breath. It was bad enough that the ad was out at all, but when you make a living doing everything from supernatural cleansings, exorcisms, and what I’m assuming would be the occasional adultery case, that meant a vague message was best. You need to cast a wide net. Wide nets usually meant crazies and people that had nothing better to do than call and yank your chain.
“It really means anything. Are you calling about something strange that’s been happening to you?”
“Not me. My sister.”
The kid on the phone sounded like he couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. His voice was squeaky and cracked awkwardly. “Your sister?” I asked.
“Yea. She’s missing. My parents think she ran away, but that’s not what happened. I saw something take her.”
“Take her?” I asked. “What took her?”
“A monster.”
Great. This was just what I needed, some kid who was still afraid of the dark and under the impression that the Boogeyman snatched his sister in the night. “Did you tell your parents?” I asked.
“Yea. They didn’t believe me.”
You don’t say. “Well, if they didn’t believe you, I doubt they would agree to hire me.”
“I can hire you.”
“Sorry kid, I don’t work for milk money.”
“I have a thousand dollars.”
I sat up, almost kicking over one of the TV trays. I flailed to catch it.
“Hello?” He asked.
“Hold on a second.”
I set the phone down. I looked at the glowing display. It felt wrong to take advantage of a kid, especially one who was under the impression that his sister had been kidnapped by a monster. Thing is, I needed the cash. I’d burned through my rainy day money to get set up after bailing out of the Bay. I wasn’t like I had gotten paid for the Wendigo. A thousand bucks would help get us through the next two months.
“Hello?”
I heard the voice squeak on the line. “Keep holding,” I said, speaking at the phone on the table.
I’d have to play it cool. If the kid’s parents found out, they wouldn’t let him pay me. If Carl found out, he wouldn’t let me take the kid’s money. That meant getting his money up front and making sure no one knew what was going on. Nothing creepy about that.
I grabbed the phone. “What’s your address?”
“932 Markus Avenue.”
I knew the area. It was in an old part of town. Not the kind of old that was rundown and filled with meth heads and hookers. It was the old that had money, lots of it.
“Your parents home?” I asked, trying not to sound like a pedophile.
“No. They’re working.”
“You’re home alone?” I asked.
“Yea. My sister usually watches me, but she’s gone. Please, I really need your help. No one believes me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Charlie.”
“Well, I believe you, Charlie.” I didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. “My name is Deckland, and I’m on the case now. I’ll be there in half an hour. Hang tight for me.”
“Thank you so much!” He squealed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Don’t mention it.”
I hung up the phone and stood up. My upper back ached, a knotted mess of fatigued muscles. I leaned up against the doorframe and tried to work out some of the kinks.
I pushed on the side of the mirror to get into my closet. I pulled out a clean shirt and jeans and put them on quickly. I followed that up with a pair of trusty leather boots and pulled out my leather bomber jacket. The black leather was faded and stained from too much time in the rain and fog of San Francisco. It was old and comfortable, but the thing had been through a lot. The knife hole in the back of it was proof of it.
I grabbed my duffle bag from the floor and took it into the kitchen. I opened it up to check my supplies. I pulled out a few bundles of rosemary, a brazier, a portable Bunsen burner, a spare propane tank for the burner, a Ziploc bag filled with ash, an eight inch section of a birch branch, a bottle of anointing oil, and tucked away at the bottom was a Sig p320 with three spare magazines. Everything I needed.
I pulled out the Sig and checked the chamber. The 320 was a decent 9mm striker fire. The Army had recently picked it as their next handgun of choice. Unfortunately for Sig, some videos on the internet of failed drop tests had spooked people from owning the things. I hadn’t minded. I’d been able to pick mine up on the cheap from some guy worried it was going to go off the moment it was dropped. Since I wasn’t planning on hitting the back of it with a hammer or throwing it on the ground, I’d been happy to take it off his hands for less than half the normal price.
I slung on my sho
ulder rig and stuffed the 320 inside. Two of the spare magazines went into the pouch hanging beneath my right arm. The third got slipped in my IWB magazine holster. The last thing I pulled out was my trusty fanny pack. A lot of guys talk trash about the fanny. More than one snide comment has been made behind my back or to my face. They didn’t know what they were missing though. I had all of my essentials inside that trusty pack. Wallet, chapstick, an OTF Microtech Halo IV, an XL Coldsteel Espada, eighteen-inch collapsible baton, mace, back up earplugs, and a spare pair of sunglasses. EDC is life.
I packed it all up and went to the bathroom. I didn’t have time to shave the three days worth of beard I was working with. I scrubbed at my shaved head and rinsed the taste of coffee out with some mouthwash. The enzyme wash didn’t even burn the way mouthwash was supposed to. Carl wouldn’t let us have the real stuff, the kind that’s mostly alcohol. He’d put the kibosh on that when he’d found out I’d been drinking it from the bottle a month into my forced sobriety.
It wasn’t the best stuff I’d ever drunk, but it wasn’t the worst. Plus, my mouth had been fresh as hell for three weeks.
I went back to my closet and dug around for my gloves and beanie. It was still snowing out, and I when you shave your head down to stubble, you need to make sure you don’t get frostbite on your scalp. Finding what I was looking for, I pulled on the gloves and beanie and went to close the closet door. I stopped for a minute and then went back in. I came up with a Ka-Bar fighting knife. The six and a half inch steel blade was tucked into a nylon sheath. I also had a homemade rig that I could wear under my shirt. The knife rode along my lower back and was pretty well concealed from anything short of a pat down or a Marilyn Monroe row style steam grate incident.
I also opened up a book that I’d cut out and pulled out the P64 inside. Some asshole had tried to mug me a few months after I’d gotten into town. He’d stuffed the little Polish pistol in my face and tried to take my money. What he got was a kick in the nuts, and I shot him in the ass with his own gun. It had been annoying, but I’d come up a free gun. The little Makarov clone was classic Soviet construction and practicality. I checked the chamber and popped it into an interior pocket I’d sewn into my bomber. The double action was just about the worst thing I’d ever fired. I wasn’t too worried about an accident.
80 Proof Hex_Deckland Cain 2 Page 3
