THURSDAY MIDNIGHT
Book Two of the Immortal Wake
A novel by Zachry Wheeler
Copyright © 2019 by Zachry Wheeler
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-9991027-0-8
Edited by Jennifer Amon
ZachryWheeler.com
For Evelyn, the only one I have ever let into the haunted mansion.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
[Invaders Forum / tMV - 0 replies, 0 followers]
[Post: Anonymous, 09.29.2580 AD, 444 EA]
The transients are dead. At least, the version you have come to know and fear. Some of us survive under a haze of secrecy, one that we continue to protect at great cost to our families and ourselves.
We are not your enemy.
We walk among you as brethren.
We are remnants who embrace the Eternal Age.
Two years ago, your world almost came to an end. This is something that you need to know, as it once defined the nature of our relationship. I was part of a global effort that plotted to release a plague, one that would have eradicated the eternal population.
And I assure you, it would have.
This was a pivotal crossroad in our mission to save the species. As the scheme unfolded, it roused many of us from a trance of subjugation. We recognized, purely and simply, that we were the villains.
That mission is dead.
Humanity is dead.
We killed them both.
Today, I offer a truce. Our eyes are open and we lament our atrocities. We may be young and restive by comparison, but we have endured the hate and bondage of a thousand lifetimes. We do not ask your forgiveness or pity, only the opportunity to restore our merit.
We are the Mortal Vestige.
[End Post]
An evening rain peppered the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse. Water trickled through the neglect and snaked down rusted chains hanging from the rafters. Hollow plinks needled the silence as drops vanished into murky puddles. Shards of broken glass reflected moonlight around the dark interior. Mold and stagnation polluted the air. Vines clung to old machinery, reclaiming it to the earth.
A lone silhouette detached from the gloom and drifted through the space, drawn to a distant rustle. It approached a doorway at the far side of the room. The entrance emitted a dim glow, like a portal to an unknown world. The shadow maintained a resolute pace as it slipped through the frame and disappeared.
The figure rounded a corner and into a narrow hallway. Portable lanterns were spaced overhead, like breadcrumbs leading to a secret lair. The shadow passed below the first, revealing itself as a rugged man cloaked in a leather duster. He passed below the second, unveiling a cold stare beneath a stockman hat. Grungy hair and a coarse beard framed a callous expression. The third light exposed a pair of logging axes hanging at his sides. Black tape encased the handles, gripped by sturdy hands in fingerless gloves.
A fourth and final lantern shone above a rusted metal door. The man came to a stop underneath it and closed his eyes to digest the moment. His chest rose and fell with the poise of a monk. The ruckus had magnified, morphing into the beats and barks of a social function. The man exhaled a measured breath, then opened a steeled gaze.
He pressed the butt of an axe to the door and gave it a push. The pane swung open with a shrill whine, revealing an empty foyer of brick and concrete. A lone pendant light offered the muted glow of a candlelit cave. The air reeked of booze and cigar smoke. A lingering haze infected the space, like fog in an alley. Another door at the opposite side led to small cluster of rooms.
About 20 steps away, the man estimated. The cackles of party banter taunted him from afar. No more than a dozen souls, he reckoned. A shrewd smirk crumpled his cheek. He lowered the axe heads to the ground and walked forward, dragging them behind.
The rasping scrapes of metal over concrete hooked the attention of a bouncer. His beefy body filled a folding chair inside the junction, serving as a barrier to entry. A silk shirt and bowler hat failed to capture an air of intimidation. He scoffed at the disturbance while thumbing through a feed on his phone. With a grunt and jerk, he rose from the chair and hobbled around the doorframe.
The man continued his steady approach, cloaked by the haze with axes dragging.
The bouncer paused inside the doorway. “Here for the game?”
Nine more steps.
“Ya need to check in with me first. Name’s Teddy.”
Six more steps.
The bouncer cocked his neck. “Whatcha got there?”
Three more steps.
The bouncer gasped. “What the f—”
The man whipped an axe up from the floor, catching the bouncer’s chin with a savage swing. The blade split his face from jaw to scalp, spraying the ceiling with blood. His body thumped against the wall and fell into a splayed pile. Blood gushed from the gaping wound and soaked his pricy attire. A crimson pool crept across the ground.
The man stared at his victim through a blank expression. He rolled his shoulders, lowered the bloodied axe head to the floor, and proceeded inside.
The junction housed a trio of doors, one open to a filthy bathroom, one shut with no signs of activity, and the other cracked with lights and laughs spouting from within. Just a festive poker game among friends. The man turned to face the door and seared his gaze into the wood. Puffs of heated breath fled his nostrils, like a bull waiting to charge. His grip tightened around the axe handles, popping the leather in his gloves. He rolled his neck with a slow arch, then reared back and smashed his heel into the pane.
The door shot open and slammed into the wall, bringing the soiree to an abrupt stop. All eyes snapped to the cloaked intruder standing in the doorway. Classic swing drummed in the background, countering a sudden silence.
The man quickly scanned the room without moving his head. Brick walls, slab floor, no exits. Five men, six women, all mark teens and twenties dressed in swanky attire.
Smiling faces shriveled as they traded worried glances. The player closest to the door, a mark teen boy in a snazzy shirt and matching vest, rose to address the stranger.
“You have to check in with Teddy,” he said.
The man stood motionless.
The boy stammered and stiffened his posture. “Y’know, rules and all.” His gaze combed the grungy garb down to a pair of axe heads hovering above the floor. One tarnished, the other drenched in blood.
A whimper escaped his lungs.
The man surged into the room and plunged an axe into the boy’s chest. A wet yelp met the strike as the boy crashed to the floor and vomited blood.
Screams filled the enclosure as everyone leapt from their chairs and scattered.
The man kicked the door closed with a back heel and started carving his way through the chaos. A vicious swing decapitated a girl in a ritzy gown. Her long blonde hair fanned through the air as her head spun to the ground. A mark teen in a tailored suit darted for the door, only to have his spine severed with a blow to the back. The man gnashed his teeth with every strike, painting the room with sprays of blood. Necks spurted. Mouths gurgled. Red splatters slithered down walls and dripped from the ceiling. The shrieks quieted one by one until a cold hush remained. The man heaved with exertion, looming over a massacre of his own making.
A final player cowered in the corner, paralyzed by fear. His trembling hands raised into the air in a desperate plea for mercy. The man stared him down with utter contempt as blood dripped from the axe heads.
“Please,” the boy said through welling eyes. “I won’t say anything. I swear. I—I swear it. Please, don’t kill me.”
The man tossed the axes to the floor, drawing flinches from the boy as they clattered to a rest. He reached into his coat and withdrew a silvery blade with a bone handle. The boy sniveled as the man approached with a menacing stride. A final step brought them face-to-face.
“Please,” the boy said as tears rolled down his cheeks.
The man replied with a frigid stare, then lifted the blade and pressed the tip to the boy’s chest.
The boy gasped.
Without a word, the man jammed his forearm into the teen’s neck and leaned into the handle, slowly plunging the blade into dense flesh. The boy howled in pain and pinched his eyes shut. Flailing hands grasped and swung at anything in reach. The man stood firm with every muscle locked into place, awaiting the final breath. The boy stopped thrashing soon after. Fingers relaxed as arms fell to his side, limp and lifeless. The man retracted his knife and forearm, allowing the body to fall into a crumpled pile on the floor. He plucked a handkerchief from the boy’s breast pocket and wiped the blade clean before sheathing it.
Classic swing continued to fill the void. The man turned to a nearby shelf where a mobile device linked to a portable speaker. He snatched it from the dock, silencing the music. A bloody finger swiped across the surface, revealing a home screen filled with random apps. He tapped the camera icon, then stepped around the chamber while snapping pictures of the slaughter. With a final shot, he sighed and tossed the device onto the gaming table.
The man grabbed a toppled chair and yanked it upright, scraping metal legs across the concrete. He straightened his jacket and took a needed seat. After a brief ponder, his gaze wandered the aftermath to take stock of the moment. Blood crawled around spilled poker chips. Empty bottles littered a tainted floor stamped with red footprints. His eyes settled on a faded Nighthawks print hanging on the wall, a 40’s era painting of a corner diner.
A slight grin lifted his cheek.
His gaze fell to a young woman slumped over the table. Her barren eyes stared into a crystal ashtray where a thin column of smoke rose from a half-chewed cigar. A gaping wound in her neck soaked the green felt with blood, turning it almost black. He locked onto her face, stern and resolute as if awaiting her resurrection. Before long, her smooth and perfect skin began to crumble into ash.
* * *
A black vehicle with tinted windows hovered along a maglev road through Georgetown, an industrial district at the south end of Seattle. Moonlight filtered through a bank of rainclouds, shrouding the area under a dim haze. A light drizzle rapped upon the windshield, which the onboard AI swiped away in steady intervals. Solid-state tires lowered from the frame as the vehicle exited the main thoroughfare. An agile suspension maintained a fluid ride. Walls of black glass climbed to either side as the vehicle cruised between the corpses of forgotten factories. Beams of red light swirled in the distance, slicing through the murk. With a final turn, a cluster of squad cars came into view.
The vehicle slowed to a crawl and proceeded towards a loading dock at the rear of a rundown warehouse. Mangled fencing enclosed a receiving yard filled with random debris. Tufts of grass poked through a field of cracks and potholes. Tires splashed through puddles as the car weaved through the discord and rolled to a stop outside of the bay doors. The sloshing caught the attention of a group of officers guarding the entry. Their heads turned as the passenger door swung open.
Agent Korovin emerged from the driverless car. Rising to his feet, he surveyed the terrain and straightened his suit jacket before stepping towards the officers. The door pinged and closed on its own. His horn-rimmed glasses fogged a bit as he approached the docks. A hanging mist dampened his cropped hair and stubble beard. The muddy ground soiled his shoes with every step. He reached a set of metal stairs and climbed up to the landing bay while studying the open gate. A rusted chain swayed in the wind, serving as a crude railing. Several officers lingered behind the hologram police line that encircled the area. Scan plates pinged inside utility belts as Korovin neared, signaling the presence of a NExUS agent. The officers stood at attention as he stepped through the barrier and strolled to a stop.
“You guys patrol?” he said, eyeing each officer.
“Yes sir,” an officer said.
Korovin gestured to the swirling squad car lights. “Turn these off, would you? Show’s over. We don’t need to start any rumors.”
“Yes sir, right away.” The officer nodded to his cohorts, who broke away and hurried to their vehicles.
Korovin proceeded through the open gate and into the warehouse. Musky aromas invaded his nostrils as drips of rainwater echoed around the hollow. Spotlights on tripods revealed a tangled mess of rust and neglect. Pipes and ducts snaked across the ceiling, drained of their use and purpose. A rumble of activity poured through a lone doorway across the room. The agent sighed, then slipped his hands into his pockets and stepped towards the opening.
He entered a dank hallway lit with portable floodlights. Expended lanterns hung from the ceiling, drawing his gaze as he wandered towards a distant murmur. He rounded a corner to find another group officers whispering at the end of a narrow passage. A single tripod flooded the tunnel with harsh light, revealing cracked walls and a ceiling of sodden tiles. Clumps of waste and rubble littered the scuffed floor. Korovin paused with a sudden trepidation, then ruffled his brow and continued down the hallway.
A crime scene, he thought. A peculiar summons given the worldwide peace under NExUS. His primary focus was the human scourge, everything from invasions to conversions. The last stronghold had fallen in the years prior, rendering his duties somewhat static. Paperwork mostly, with limited field ops. He occupied a desk on the fifth floor of the local NExUS branch, complete with a favorite coffee mug. While he appreciated the change of scenery, the nature of the call left him in a state of cautious intrigue.
A final step brought him to a large metal door flanked by detectives. His presence pinged on their scan plates, snuffing chatter for stern salutes. Korovin nodded in response, then removed his fogged glasses and dabbed them clean with a pocket cloth. Camera flashes spilled into the hall as survey drones documented the interior. The pops of light reflected off a grimy metal plate beside the entrance. Korovin reached over and wiped his thumb across the surface, exposing the etched lettering.
Caretaker Quarters, Timothy Reins
“Wow,” he said with genuine reverence. “This is an old building. One of the original blood plants before everything went automated.” He patted the wall like a gruff contractor. “Great bones, solid base. I’m surprised no one has turned it into condos.”
“Sir?” a detective said.
“Nothing. Just musing.”
Agent Jemison pushed through the crowded doorway and into the hall. Streaks of dust and grime clung to her pressed suit, but her frayed sneakers seemed right at home among the filth. Her short hair and tawny skin served as a soft contrast to the brawny officers, yet they stiffened in her presence as if to brace for a harsh rebuke. She paused for a needed breath, then met eyes with Korovin.
“That bad?” he said, reading her conc
ern.
“Bad would be an understatement. This is downright unsettling.”
“Care to enlighten? Your call was rather cryptic.”
“Not my intent, but some things are better seen than heard.”
She gestured to follow, prompting the officers to clear a path. Korovin trailed her into a small foyer where drones hovered overhead in near silence. His gaze fell to a pile of ash at the other side, soiling an empty set of silken attire. A bowler cap rested upside down nearby. Korovin studied the scene as they passed through the next doorway and into a small junction.
“Before we go in, you need to see this.” Jemison turned to Korovin and handed him a dusty phone. “It belonged to one of the victims. It’s clean, already scanned and logged.”
Korovin tapped the screen, revealing a candid image of friends enjoying a poker game. He shrugged. “So?”
“Swipe to the next pic.”
He exhaled a heavy breath, then drew his finger across the screen. Blood and carnage responded, image after image of lifeless faces and grisly wounds. “Bozhe moi.” He shook his head and handed the phone back to Jemison.
“There’s more,” she said with a grim tone. “Whoever did this wanted us to know. These images were sent to a NExUS hotline via this phone, which we traced back here. What’s even more frustrating is that the pics were time-stamped an hour before we arrived.”
“Cocky.”
“And smart. This is a rift site, one of many in the district. No surveillance, no roamers or signatures. They could have done it in the middle of the street and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference.”
“Fucking rifts.” Korovin glanced away in disgust. “Any suspects?”
“Well, um ... I was hoping you could help with that.”
“How so?”
She frowned and nodded to the game room.
Korovin steadied his mind and took a wary step inside, revealing a chilling aftermath. He tiptoed around a mess of toppled chairs and empty bottles, careful to avoid mounds of clothes sullied with ash. Strips of gray painted the walls and ceiling, outlining previous blood splatters. The gaming table lingered at the center, parched and prominent as if to invite his gaze. He studied the room with a slow pan before lowering his eyes to the table surface. There, written in ash, was a single word ... Jonas.
Thursday Midnight Page 1
