“All right,” I said, clearing my throat and tucking the paper into my pocket. “Where can I find it?”
The smile returned to Amundsen's lips. “Like I said, I'll provide you with the address.”
TWO
Amundsen had me going out to some shitty neighborhood in Flint. Flint was about an hour's drive away on the highway, though taking the back roads would likely be faster for me, since I could speed as much as I wanted without having to worry about a dickish highway patrolman writing me up. On the way, I stopped at the 7/11 for a coffee and went real heavy on the cream and sugar. I realized I hadn't eaten anything since that morning and picked up a few gas station cheeseburgers, too. What can I say? When I celebrate a big payday I like to pull out all of the stops.
When I finally got to the place, though, a large, burnt-out shell of a house at the end of a winding, unoccupied street, it wasn't at all what I'd expected. Oh, sure, it looked like the kind of house where some emo kids might meet up to fuck around on the weekends, but the entire atmosphere was so eerie that I couldn't shake it, and I wondered what'd possessed them to bring Amundsen's little box out here. Then I started wondering about what was in it, and why it was so important to him anyway, but I caught myself before jumping into that rabbit hole.
Don't ask questions. It isn't any of your business, remember?
I parked the car a little ways away and shut off the headlights a while before that, so that I could approach the house without being heard or seen. I don't know if it was just a sudden change in weather or what, but the wind had grown considerably colder in the past hour, and I was suddenly regretting my choice of T-shirt and jeans. A jacket would've been nice.
The curb was pretty busted but I followed it a while and sized up the exterior of the house. A fire had wreaked havoc on it if the scorch marks were any indicator, and a large part of the roof had caved in. All of the windows were broken and the lawn was so overgrown it might've been declared a metropark.
There was no telling what I could expect. Amundsen had been entirely too vague. He wanted me to get the box back and was paying me a shitload to do it, but as I approached the house and the cool wind reached my arms, I began to feel nervous.
Nerves in a job like mine aren't a good thing, least of all when you're standing outside the house where the action's about to go down. There's a place and time for butterflies in the stomach, for self-doubt, but mere moments before go-time ain't it. I balled my fists and ambled up to the edge of the building where I'd be able to peer into one of the burnt-out lower-story windows, unsure of what I might see.
Amundsen had assured me that there would be no one here. All I needed to do was poke around in this creepy house till I found his box and then beat it. Something about that wasn't adding up, though. The air was heavy. I didn't feel alone here.
I stuck my head just inside the window like a thief in search of a freshly-baked pie and caught only the faintest glimmers of orange cast onto a wall in some adjacent room.
Sure as shit, this was the place.
And something was going on inside.
I thought he said the place was going to be empty. Damn it... I didn't have any reservations about roughing up a bunch of Harry Potter wannabes, but the fact that the house wasn't completely abandoned only ramped up my nerves and made my stomach stir up the dregs of those god-awful cheeseburgers.
Gulping down the dread that was quickly welling up in me, I did my best to ignore the subtle, breathy chanting I could hear issuing from deeper in the ruined domicile. Yeah, full-on chanting, like the kind you might hear in some voodoo orgy. I didn't know a whole lot about that kind of thing back then and have never been a religious person, but I knew enough to know that ritualistic chanting rarely ends well. In the movies, people or animals are brutally sacrificed, or demons are conjured up from the bowels of Hell.
Not that I believed in any of that. But knowing that I was about to barge into a room full of people who did believe brought an apprehension over me that was difficult to describe and even more difficult to dispel.
I edged my way around the house, my hands pressed to the cool siding, and sought out another window.
The chanting was getting a little louder with every step. Female voices, all of them. Couldn't hear a deep note in the entire chorus, and I stood by to listen for quite some time. I had no idea what they were looking to do, or why the smells of roasting meat entered the sensory equation a few steps later.
As I crept around the property trying to get a peek and establish the best entry point, I felt like a camera guy who makes nature documentaries for TV. Though, instead of wandering through the jungle to watch a couple of rare animals fuck, I was trying to sneak up on a little black box full of ashes.
I seriously doubt that any of those documentarians have ever been so utterly thrown off balance by what they've discovered, though.
Very carefully, and only after taking hold of a two-by-four I'd found on the lawn, I looked around a corner and found the sort of entrance I'd been looking for. Except, rather than pounce out and start pounding heads, I froze in place and tried to take it all in.
I'd been right about one thing; there was nothing but women in the place, all of them standing in a circle, hands joined and chanting.
A detail that was not lost on me, however, was that a scrap of clothing did not exist among the lot of them.
There must have been ten or fifteen nubile young things standing there, all of their good bits in view despite the wind's chill, chanting in some guttural language whose like I've never heard. I can't recall specifically how many there were; counting is not my strong suit when I've got an erection.
Watching the spectacle for a long while, I realized that this was some sort of Witch's Sabbath. I can't take credit for that revelation; I'd seen more than a couple paintings from fellows like Goya depicting such things. The whole scene was rendered almost as darkly by the flickering firelight, but was a good deal easier on the eyes than any of those pieces had ever been. Young, sexy witches? If not for the fact that I had a job to do, I might've joined in.
The scene was on the lawn. The back of the house had crumbled away, and the hollows were lit up by the firelight like a massive jack-o-lantern. The congregants were standing in the grass, and on a spit positioned just above their bonfire was a hunk of meat. What kind was hard to say. It might've been a trick of the light, but I thought I caught sight of fingers on that bit of meat, as if a thick, human arm had been set to roast.
Ultimately, I spotted the little black box on a makeshift altar. It was off to the side, about twenty feet away from my present position. It would have been a simple thing for me to rush over and take hold of it, except that, with so many sets of eyes in the area, there was no way my approach would go unnoticed.
And then it happened.
From behind, I felt a strong push. Two hands met my back and shoved me forward, so that I fell into the grass and out into the open.
Shit.
I wasn't particularly frightened at this point; all I'd seen so far was a bunch of sexy babes chanting and carrying on like loonies around a fire. I sprang up and balled my fists, preparing to deck whoever it was that'd just pushed me.
And then the chanting stopped.
All eyes were on me.
The hands that'd pushed me down belonged to a kid. The kid, about twelve or so years old and scrawny, just didn't look right. His eyes were too big, his skin too pale. He was dressed in rags and stared me down with a vacant intensity that chilled me to the bone. He was human in shape, but, at the risk of sounding crazy, I admit he seemed anything but.
What happened after that, well, is more than a little hazy. Things moved quickly from that point. I could have handled myself a little better, maybe even escaped, but I didn't truly sense the danger of the situation until it was far too late.
I went to grab the kid's raggedy collar, but when I threw him down to the ground, he suddenly disappeared into a
cloud of black cockroaches.
I shit you not.
His skin, like the exterior of a pale balloon, was torn away the instant he met the grass and then a thousand cockroaches simply erupted from the space he'd occupied like he'd been some kind of infested pinata.
I didn't have a whole lot of time to process the colossal mass of writhing insects in the grass before me, because in the time it took me to loose a groan of disgust and turn around, I noticed that the entire group of women had stopped what they were doing and were now running straight for me.
Believe me when I say I'm a dick. To lick it in this line of work, you have to be a bit of an ass. Still, I'd never hit a woman. I was raised better than that, and the thought of doing so makes me cringe a little.
Those women-- those things-- that were running at me just then, though?
I had positively zero problem letting my fists marry their faces. I'd have let my fists write their own vows and everything, in fact, they were so damned hideous. In a split second, something had radically changed in their appearances. They were no longer young, gorgeous women, but hags. Crones. There is literally no word in the English language that can sufficiently encapsulate the distinctive mixture of antiquation and inhuman repulsion that these creatures possessed in spades. I wanted to give them the beat-down, defend myself as they bum-rushed me, but if we're being honest I also didn't want to touch them.
I got knocked around good and proper by the throng of women as they got within arm's reach. I say “women”, but I should really refer to them as what I now know them to be: witches. In film, witches tend to be represented as something silly; impotent foes that can be dispatched with a bucket of water.
There wasn't enough water in the whole of Flint to fuck their shit up, though. I felt confident of that. They took turns stomping the hell out of me, some of them still muttering in that deep, throaty language that's so grating to my ears even now, in reminisce. I fought to stand, seeking out the two-by-four I'd dropped, but couldn't even get to my knees. They were too strong; unnaturally, unbelievably strong for beings so undoubtedly old. Their shapes were frail, their frames were bereft of developed muscle, but they knew how to throw a punch. It was like getting whacked by Iron Mike from every angle. Just as the blows were becoming more and more intense and I found myself pinned to the ground, too weak and injured to stand, I realized what was happening.
These bitches are going to kill me. I'm about to get beat to death.
Someone in the group kicked me over onto my back with a technique that would've made Pele proud and then proceeded to show me the first example of bonafide magic I'd ever seen in my life. We're not talking rabbit-out-of-a-hat level stuff, either.
The rest of the group quit beating on me while this single crone, extending her bony white fist, uttered a few words. Before my eyes could even register the change, her hand had been completely transformed into something I recognized all too well.
A long blade.
Dazed by the attack and seeing stars for all the blows to the head, I wasn't too stunned to know what that meant. My body squirmed in anticipation of the killing blow. I felt like a chicken with its neck stretched across the chopping block. There was nothing I could do. Rolling out of the way was impossible for the wall of sneering and apparently super-powered witches that surrounded me. The bitch scowled and then reared back, ready to plunge that blade into me.
I winced before the blow was even struck.
At that moment, or as close to it as I can reliably remember, there arose a commotion from around the other corner of the house. I only got a brief look at them right before the end, and wasn't sure who they were specifically, but the circle of witches took off at the sight of them, which was good enough for me. They wore all black, had gas masks of some kind on, and were holding guns that would've made Chris Kyle blush. I heard the deafening report of those selfsame guns as the masked men unloaded into the fleeing throng.
The witches were gone in the next instant.
But not before that bitch with the magical knife-hand buried her arm in the left side of my chest till her elbow was tickling the lawn, of course. She ran off shortly thereafter with the rest of them.
I thrashed, felt a sharp pain, and then began seizing. The breath was gone from my lungs and I noticed a distinct popping in my chest where my heart should have been. A warmth surged suddenly from the wound and I felt the most intense panic of my life in those few moments before the darkness came.
As I was grasping at the final straws of life, I saw a pair of dudes towering over me. They pulled away their masks, looked down at me with something of pity in their eyes, and tried not to step on my face with their size 14 combat boots. “Shit,” said one to the other, “poor guy's had it.”
THREE
I guess that that should have been the end of the story. This part, the part that follows, really shouldn't exist.
I should've died on that lawn, been carted off to a morgue and properly mourned with a memorial service far too expensive for any of my relatives to afford, while dressed in a suit that would have made my beaten-up corpse look nifty.
But that isn't what happened.
Sometimes in life, we roll the dice. We take chances, or are preyed upon by the forces of fate, over whose whims we haven't even the remotest shred of control. Well, a dice roll like this one gave me a result that should have been damn near impossible, mathematically. It was like rolling a pair of dice a million times and getting snake-eyes every time. And then, on that millionth roll, doing it another million times and getting snake-eyes for all of those, too. Things like this just don't happen, or aren't supposed to happen, but I guess you could call me living proof that they sometimes do.
When I opened my eyes and took in the bright, blinding light, it wasn't Saint Peter or Buddha looking me in the face, but rather some dude wearing a surgical mask. I couldn't feel my body, wasn't even sure that it was still there, but I could see. The lights were uncomfortably strong and a slight heat radiated off of them. Who the fuck is this guy and why's he shining a light in my face? was my first thought upon waking.
Nope, it wasn't “Thank goodness I'm alive!” or “Now that I have a second chance, I'm going to be a good person and donate all of my earnings to charity!”
I was alive, and I was pissed off.
This is probably what a newborn baby feels like.
Perhaps catching a bit of annoyance in my expression, the masked fellow, a surgeon, I presumed, began to speak. I couldn't see his mouth because he was wearing that white mask, and I have to admit that it put a hell of a scare in me, hearing his gentle voice emanating from god-knew-where and not having a mouth I could attribute it to. It was like a bad acid trip.
“You're awake,” he said in a soothing tone of voice well-suited to narrating children's television programs for the pre-K demographic. “You're very seriously injured, Mr. Colt. Your life is at stake at this very moment, but we have managed to restore consciousness long enough to have you answer one crucial question.”
If he asks me whether or not I'd like to become an organ donor I'm going to rage, thought I.
“We've only one hope if we wish to save your life. It is a rather controversial procedure, virtually unknown in Western medicine. The risks are great, and--”
If I'd been able to speak right then, I'd have cut him off. I didn't even listen to the rest, which, upon reflection, might've been a mistake. I wanted his miracle procedure, silver bullet, whatever you want to call it, and I wanted it in the worst way.
The surgeon finished his spiel with, “Despite these risks, would you still like to go through with the operation? I need some indication of yes or no from you. Nod your head if you can, or blink twice for yes.”
Tears poured from my eyes. My vision was cloudy. I wanted to live more than anything, goddammit. “You don't know what you've got till it's gone”-- it's a cliché for a reason. And standing this close to the brink, watching my future fall aw
ay, I got to thinking about how awful it would be if I never got to experience the finer things in life again. I'd never get to see what my future kids would look like, or my grandkids. I'd never know the satisfaction of securing proper employment, or the pleasure of a good meal with friends. I'd never have shower sex again.
I needed this damn procedure done.
I don't know where it came from, but I gave the guy as firm a nod as my banged-up shell of a body could muster. Evidently that was sufficient, because he motioned to someone else in the room and the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile. “Don't worry,” he told me. “We're going to get you fixed up. You'll be with us again before you know it.”
“Sure,” I wanted to say. “I just hope your people are willing to be flexible with the payments, because I've got more than a hundred thousand bucks in student loans, bud.”
The surgeon started giving orders in what sounded like German and the air around me was filled with commotion. I heard squeaky carts being wheeled by, heard the clatter of metallic instruments, the oddly comforting din of medical equipment as it powered up. There was something else that I noticed just as the anesthesia hit, a voice amidst the melange of ambient noise that I recognized.
It was Mr. Amundsen's.
FOUR
Let me tell you something.
Getting raised from the dead sucks ass.
It took me a while to realize that awareness had stolen over me. I was thrust into cognizance in the space of an instant, and it was like coming out of the worst kind of booze-induced blackout. Before I even opened my eyes I could feel a profound throbbing in my limbs and torso.
Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) Page 2
