We Hunt the Night: (Tales from the Supernatural Frontline) (Imperium Book 1)

by Richard Langridge

  He laughed. ‘A limo?’ He couldn’t help it—it was just so surreal. ‘Is this supposed to be hiding in plain sight, too? Because I hate to tell you guys, but it kind of stands out.’

  ‘Uh-uh—this is comfort. Come on.’

  They relieved the current driver and quickly clambered inside, Jake settling into the limo’s pristine leather seats like a newborn into its mother’s waiting arms.

  It was almost exactly like what he had expected the inside of a limo to look like. A TV hung from the ceiling—what looked to be several hundred dollars more expensive than the one he had back home. What looked like the interface for some sort of stereo system lay in the armrest, its buttons highlighted by little LEDs. At the end of the limo he spied a minibar, atop which sat bottles of various different and expensive-looking liquors, and what looked, suspiciously, like a coffee machine.

  He let out a long breath.

  I’m in Heaven. I died and this is what Heaven looks like. I knew it.

  They drove north, the limo gliding silently along, surrounded by a flood of yellow taxis. The traffic stop-started in that irritating way that was driving in Manhattan, and each time they braked Jake found himself staring out the window, watching the people as they passed. They didn’t have a clue. None of them; they had absolutely no idea that, only a few mere feet below them, the armies of Hell were rallying to climb up and devour them. Jake couldn’t even bring himself to pity them. Because it was true what they said—ignorance really was bliss. He played with the stereo controls instead.

  They pulled up at a set of red lights, the limo gliding effortlessly to a stop.

  Jake leaned forward. ‘So this is what her life was like, huh?’ he said. ‘Grandma Stella’s, I mean? All limos and nice suits and demons and whatever?’ It was hard to get his head around. All this time he’d thought of her as nothing more than some quaint little old lady, off doing quaint little old lady things somewhere, but instead she’d been riding in limos with their own coffee machines and TV’s hanging from the ceiling. Then, of course, there was the whole “demon” thing to consider. It was mind-boggling.

  ‘Not always,’ said Moss.

  ‘No?’

  ‘She also had her own helicopter.’

  It wasn’t until after an hour of painful stop-starting that they finally pulled up outside Grandma Stella’s estate.

  Immediately, Jake’s jaw dropped.

  While that well-tanned jerk Mr. Faraday had indeed been very thorough in his explaining of the fine details of his late grandmother’s will, he had failed to inform Jake about the size of her house. Because if he had, one thing was for sure, Jake would most certainly not have spent the past week sulking in his stinky, mold-riddled apartment.

  It was a mansion. A literal, no-exaggeration-needed, mansion. The driveway was all gravel, with a not-so-small fountain in the middle, a little cherub-type thing poking up out the center of it made out of what looked to Jake to be solid gold. Lights styled like Victorian streetlights lined the driveway all the way back to the gate, which, needless to say, was also gold. A line of trees flanked it all the way around, blocking it off from the rest of the neighborhood, giving them privacy.

  Jake stared up at it through the limo’s black-tinted window, his mouth open. ‘Holy Caesar’s ghost, Batman—look at this place!’ He turned to Moss sat quietly beside him in the limo’s rear and frowned. ‘You didn’t tell me it was a mansion!’

  ‘You did not ask.’

  ‘I—’

  No, wait, that was true. Goddamnit.

  A moment later, he was scrambling for the door.

  Feet crunching loudly on the fine gravel, he bounded up the steps two at a time, all giddy and high, like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Then they were inside.

  Jake ran from room to room, barely pausing to look before up and rushing to the next one. His excitement was like a fire under his feet.

  It was like no house he’d ever seen. Eight bedrooms. Nine bathrooms. A large kitchen, with one of those—what were they called, islands?—in the middle, it alone larger than his entire kitchen back home. A den with a huge brick fireplace and what Jake thought to be a bear-skin rug lay spread out on the floor before it like something out of an old spy movie. The floors were all hardwood and marble, so clean you could have eaten off them—though Jake wouldn’t, because even if he hadn’t been rich now, that still would have been tacky. Hell, it even had a bar—not that Jake was a huge drinker, or anything. But still—a bar. In his house.

  And all the while, his mind screamed—Mine. All mine—in a frantic chant, one that had he voiced out loud, would have no doubt gotten him committed—or at the very least some odd looks.

  He paused in the hallway, suddenly out of breath. It was almost too much to take in. His whole life he had been on the bottom rung of society, constantly scrimping and scraping and taking any old job—regardless of how many Jeremys it had—to get by. Now he had a chauffeur who was also his bodyguard, and a house so huge you could literally get lost in it for days. Think of the parties he could have (although, true, he’d have to find some friends first, though he was pretty sure money could handle that side of things as well. And it wasn’t like he was in exactly short supply these days).

  It was while journeying back through the main entry-hall, however, that Jake had seen the thing that most impressed him.

  It came scrambling up to them—a little bundle of dark fur and black eyes—its paws tap-tapping wildly on the marble floor before coming to a stop at Jake’s feet, where it immediately set about licking him to death.

  Jake gasped. ‘A dog?’ This was the greatest day of his life. A new job, new house—and now a dog? If this was a dream, he didn’t ever want to wake up. ‘She had a dog, too? What else haven’t you told me, Moss?’

  Moss squinted. ‘Actually… she did not. It would appear this dog is a stray.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I cannot imagine how it got in here.’

  ‘Can we keep him?’ said Jake. He’d always wanted a dog. Besides, it was already in the house, wasn’t it? It was practically his already.

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Yes!’ He lifted the dog up to inspect it. Hell, the droopy face, squinty eyes. He looked kind of like Winston Churchill. It was uncanny, really.

  He let out another gasp.

  I WILL CALL YOU CHURCHY, AND YOU SHALL BE MY CHURCHY.

  Coleman cleared his throat. ‘Well, if you’ve quite finished, I’d suggest we start heading back. The day is still young, and there’s a lot to be done.’

  Jake sniffed. ‘Yeah, yeah—in a minute.’ He turned back to Churchy. ‘Now, Churchy—stay.’

  The pug blinked at him.

  ‘Good boy! Now roll over! Go on!’

  It tilted its head, confused.

  Jake sighed. ‘Okay. That’s okay. Don’t feel bad. We can work on it. No biggie.’

  They stepped back out onto the graveled driveway, Churchy clutched tightly to Jake’s chest, where he would hopefully remain for the rest of Jake’s—or at the very least, Churchy’s—life. After a final look-over of the house’s exterior, they climbed back into the limo.

  As they began to pull away, Jake leaned forward. ‘Hey, wait. Let’s skip work for the moment. I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘An idea?’ said Coleman, glaring at Jake from the limo’s rearview. ‘I really don’t think that’s—’

  Jake groaned. ‘Oh, relax, Mr. Frowney-pants—it’s just a quick detour. It won’t take long.’

  *

  It took over an hour for them to finally make their way back across town. Jake sat in the limo’s back, staring through the black-tinted windows at the little place across the street—a place he hadn’t realized until then he’d never have to visit ever again.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘There it is, fellas.’

  Pete’s was unusually busy for this time in the afternoon. Not quite backed out the door, or anything—Pete’s was never that busy. But all the tables were taken, and there were
small groups of people hovering around near the counter, waiting with their arms folded to be served. He spotted one of the waitresses from his shift—a young, timid girl called Shelly, her glaring orange hair tied neatly back behind her head and a look on her face like she wouldn’t mind at all if an airplane turbine suddenly dropped out of the sky and smooshed her. Jake could sympathize—he’d been there.

  From the driver’s seat, Coleman frowned. Jake wondered if that was all the guy ever did. ‘I’m sorry—why are we here?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Because this is really wasting time. You know that, right?’

  ‘Why don’t you go frown about it,’ said Jake. He shot Moss an elbow. ‘Get it? “Frown” about it?’

  ‘Umm—’

  ‘Because he frowns a lot?’

  Moss stared blankly for a moment. His mouth twitched. He looked out the window.

  Jake laughed. ‘Yeah—he gets it. You big goof.’

  He looked back across the street toward Pete’s.

  For almost three years, he had taken all sorts of crap from management and customers alike, worked his pale yet perfectly formed butt off, without ever getting any thanks or appreciation for it. So what it wasn’t an “important” job? Not everybody could be a neurosurgeon. Or an astronaut. And people still needed to be fed, didn’t they? Jake and his team had facilitated that. He had been a facilitator; the middle-man between the hungry and the fed, the needy and the satiated, gallantly bringing food to those most in need, or who could afford it. He was like a minimum-wage Jesus—and how had Jeremy and his kind repaid him? Oh, that’s right—by docking his wages, making him work extra shifts to account for all the time he may or may not have wasted coming in late. Hell, even Jesus was late from time to time. It was just so unfair.

  Jake shook his head.

  Not this time, asshole. Not on my watch.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what he meant.

  They sat silently watching out the window for another ten minutes, Jake fiddling with the stereo controls, Churchy snoring loudly in his lap—

  ‘There he is!’ cried Jake. He pointed through the window as the walking wall of acne scars know as Jeremy came striding out from behind the counter.

  Jake scowled. ‘Ugh, just look at him. All that self-righteous swagger…’ He waved his arms in the air like an out-of-work mime. ‘Ooh, look at me, my name’s Jeremy, and I like to be all cranky and stuff.’ He balled his hands into fists. ‘God, I hate that guy so bad!’

  Moss and Coleman just looked at each other, perplexed.

  Jake turned back to Coleman, his eyebrow raised. ‘So you have to do anything I say, that right?’

  Coleman shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. No way. Forget it. I don’t know what you’re planning, but I absolutely refuse to—’

  ‘Go punch that guy.’

  Coleman stared, his face blank. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Serious as your face. Now go on—off you go. Get swinging. If you manage to make him cry, I’ll let you ride in back with me and Churchy on the way home.’ Not that he really meant this last, of course—but Coleman didn’t need to know that.

  Coleman folded his arms. He looked out the window. ‘No. I won’t do it.’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He looked around at Moss. ‘Moss, be a pal and extract Coleman from the vehicle. He’s going to be walking the rest of the way back to HQ.’

  ‘Certainly, boss.’

  Coleman groaned. He let his hands fall angrily into his lap. ‘Okay! All right, goddamnit! I’ll go punch the guy—but don’t think I won’t be telling the Board about this!’ He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the handle.

  Jake raised his hands, laughing. ‘Sit down, Coleman. I was only kidding. Jeez, as if I’d go and make you punch someone…’

  Coleman stared, his face carefully blank. ‘But you just said—’

  Jake shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you were gonna just go punch that guy—a complete stranger.’ He laughed again. ‘You’re such a goon, Coleman.’

  ‘I am not a goon.’

  ‘Yeah, you are—isn’t he, Moss?’

  ‘Total goon,’ agreed Moss.

  Coleman cleared his throat. Jake noted his cheeks had turned tomato-red. ‘Well. If you’re both quite finished being jackasses, I’d very much like it if we could—’

  He was interrupted as a sudden ringing filled the limo.

  For a moment, this confused Jake. Then he realized—his phone. It was ringing.

  He sighed.

  Oh, great. Now who’s died?

  He snatched it from his pocket. ‘Hello?’

  The voice on the other end was curt and intense. If it was telephone sales, they had really let their standards drop. ‘We may have a situation, sir.’

  ‘A situation?’

  Coleman frowned. His face looked very serious—even for Coleman. ‘A Breach—ask him where.’

  ‘Uh, where…?’

  ‘Corner of 116th and Lexington. Shall I mobilize FRU, sir?’

  ‘Uh, can you hold on for just a second?’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What’s an FRU?’

  ‘First Response Unit,’ said Moss.

  ‘Oh—right.’ He put the mouthpiece to his lips again. ‘Yes, please!’ The guy on the other end hesitated. It was like he was waiting for something. ‘Uh… thanks?’

  ‘He’s waiting for your orders,’ said Coleman. ‘Your plan—you do have a plan, don’t you, Jake?’ He smiled in a way that wasn’t sarcastic or patronizing at all.

  ‘I have a plan,’ said Jake.

  ‘Oh, really? Care to share?’

  ‘Simple. We go down there, kick this thing’s ass. Maybe get a hotdog on the way.’

  Moss leaned in close to him, hand once more raised to his mouth. ‘It is not standard practice for a branch head to enter into the field,’ he whispered. ‘It would be highly unusual. And dangerous, of course.’

  Jake scoffed. ‘Dangerous-Shmangerous—you worry too much. Besides, I want to see what else is out there.’ He gestured at the front seat. ‘But no more of this lollygagging—go, driver! Let’s catch us some hell-fiends, already!’

  So they set off across town, Jake and the others completely unaware that things were about to go very, very wrong.

  THE THING IN THE SUBWAY

  They’d already blocked off the corner by the time Jake and the others arrived.

  “Careless Whisper” blaring loudly from the limo’s speakers (Moss’s choice), they pulled to a stop next to a procession of blacked-out SUVs and cop cars. The place was packed—not quite Time’s Square on New Year’s Eve, but still way busier than you’d expect for this time of the afternoon. From where Jake sat he could see what looked like hundreds of people all bunched up along the corner, looking a mixture of concerned and intrigued. Cops worked frantically to keep people back, while others barked into radios, their faces strained.

  Popping the last portion of hotdog into his mouth, Jake straightened. ‘Okay—let’s do this.’ He looked down at Churchy lying spread out by his feet, still cradling the last of his hotdog between his paws. ‘Now, Churchy. You wait here. Daddy’s got to go catch some monsters. Understand?’

  Churchy dug his head into his crotch and began fervently licking his own balls.

  Jake sighed. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  People crowded around the corner all stopped and stared as the three of them climbed out of the limo, began to stride purposefully toward the corner, arms swinging, legs pumping. Among the chatter Jake heard the occasional murmur: whispers of “NSA”, and “terrorist attack”. Jake couldn’t blame them. There had been a lot of that going around lately.

  They ducked under a length of yellow police tape—

  A cop in beat uniform appeared, his hand outstretched. He was some tall guy, with a moustache of a style Jake hoped was intended to be ironic, but that just looked kind of tragic instead. He couldn’t have been much older than Jake. ‘Hey, this area’s for authorized pers
ons only. You can’t just—’

  Coleman offered his badge.

  Then a funny thing happened. The cop’s eyes widened. His face went instantly white. It was like watching some new form of hypnosis, one probably from somewhere very hot and exotic, where rather than playing dead or barking like a dog, you just got shit-scared instead. ‘Oh… oh, of course. P-please—right this way, sir!’

  Jake watched this display with a mixture of amusement and fascination. Before, he’d only ever seen people do things like that in movies or on TV, had always assumed it was just an over-exaggeration to make things more dramatic and interesting for the people watching. He was pleased to know it was just as cool in real life.

  Memo to self: must get badge, make everybody look at it.

  They met Eliza at the entrance, standing next to a handful of tall men in full assault-getup, large guns hanging from their necks on black straps. Like Eliza’s, they were not your standard, everyday guns, but long and somewhat strange-looking; thick and bulky, with giant barrels you could have lost your entire head inside of. They looked, in all honesty, more like leaf-blowers.

  She saw them approaching and waved. ‘Hi, guys!’

  ‘Sit-rep, Agent Danvers. What are we dealing with?’ said Coleman.

  ‘Bloater, by the looks of it.’

  He grunted. ‘Damn. I had a feeling you were going to say that.’

  Jake frowned. ‘I’m sorry—did you just say “Bloater”?’

  She nodded. ‘An X-0111, technically. Came right out of the track. Attacked one of the attendants there before fleeing back down the tunnel.’ She gestured to a nearby ambulance, where a plump black woman with frizzy, graying hair sat between its open doors, sucking deeply from an oxygen mask.

  ‘Any fatalities?’ said Coleman.

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet. But he’s made one heck of a mess.’ She put her hands on her hips and sighed. ‘So what’s the plan, here, exactly? How are we doing this thing?’

  Coleman rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘Well, first off, we’re going to need more men. Get on the phone to HQ. I want a unit posted at every exit between here and—’

  She held up a hand. ‘Actually, I was asking him…’