A Million to One: (The Millionth Trilogy Book 2)

by Tony Faggioli

  A group of demons, eight strong, leaped upon The Gray Man, and a series of violent blows were exchanged, one of them tearing The Gray Man’s coat away in the process. He cast them off, one by one, like bags of dirt, but not before Kyle saw something on The Gray Man’s back: wings. They opened, unfolded and expanded out from him, a good ten feet on both sides.

  Glowing a light gray now, with his wings fully expanded, Kyle realized that he was looking at the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life: the truth. Final confirmation not only of what The Gray Man was, but what he represented.

  A desperate voice intruded upon his awe.

  “Hey! A little focus, please,” Detective Villa shouted.

  The blue told Kyle that the creatures that had arrived with The Shaman weren’t dogs, they were Hell Hounds, and they had already cut the distance of their attack path in half. Kyle blasted at them repeatedly, but as soon as a bolt came near them, they simply wafted out of existence, a sound like tearing paper accompanying each disappearance, and then came back again, elsewhere, always a series of moving targets that seemed a step ahead of his blasts.

  “Shit!”

  “What do we do!” the detective screamed, bending over to pick up the staff of the demon Kyle had decapitated earlier.

  They were too late. In the distance The Shaman rode to the church gates and pulled up on the reins of his horse, looking directly back at Kyle as he did.

  Kyle was scrambling to come up with a plan, his panic welling up inside him, when he saw her. If not for the gleam of one of her swords he would’ve missed her entirely. She advanced from the right, timing the reappearances of two of the Hounds exactly and carving them in half as they materialized again, both hands firmly gripping her samurai sword, her tattooed arms like streaks of moving color and the gold metal strips in her leather body armor reflecting like the sun.

  “Michiko?” Kyle half-whispered.

  There were four other Hell Hounds. One had briefly frozen in place upon seeing her, and it was lowering its head for a charge when Kyle exploded it with a blast from his right hand. A shrill whistle broke through the sounds of battle. It was The Shaman, calling the remaining Hounds to his side at the church gate.

  Michiko came up beside Kyle and assumed a defensive pose, nudging his shoulder, sword at the ready. She glanced at Kyle through a few strands of her silky black hair, smiled softly and said, “Did you miss me, horo-sha?”

  Kyle smiled and nodded. “You have no idea how much.”

  Detective Villa seemed unimpressed. “Well, now it’s only a thousand against four, instead of three. I guess that means our odds are improving?”

  Michiko looked over at him. “You must be Napoleon?”

  “You know me?” the detective replied.

  “I know of your sacrifice in coming here, and that is all I need to know. It is good to meet you. Now, let’s get you both safely home.”

  The Gray Man hovered into sight in front of them, his eyes trained on the advancing hoard behind them.

  “So, Gray. How do you want to do this?” Kyle shouted.

  Michiko will take the Hounds. I will hold the line here.

  “What? What about—”

  The Rider is yours, Kyle. He must be.

  “What!?”

  You have come to his lands, you have retained your soul, and worse, you’re about to try and help another escape with his.

  “But—”

  Villa is the key to the barrier, Kyle. He was how he and I got to this place to find you. Now he has to be the same gateway by which we all escape.

  A massive crash of bodies roared in from behind. The hoard was finally upon them. The Gray Man launched himself in an exploding gray ball that sent body parts flying and pushed Kyle, Michiko and Napoleon forwards. Michiko wasted no time advancing on the Hounds that charged her in blinking formations.

  Kyle grabbed Napoleon by the elbow and pulled him towards the gate. After a half-dozen steps, Napoleon shrugged his elbow away, stopped, pulled his gun and took aim. He squeezed off four shots at The Shaman before the gun clicked empty.

  Kyle saw The Shaman’s horse reel up. It had been struck by all four shots.

  In one, hauntingly fluid motion, The Shaman both dismounted off the rear of the horse and then pushed the wounded animal away, like a useless carcass.

  When he landed on the ground he wasted no time removing a small battle-axe from his belt. He held it out at his side and spun it in his hand, as if loosening the muscles in his wrist.

  “Stay behind me, Detective Villa. Okay?”

  The look on Villa’s face told Kyle that this was not a man who was used to putting his life in the hands of someone else, that perhaps “trust” was more like a four letter word to him. Still, he did it.

  Terrified, Kyle looked at The Shaman and realized he had no choice: he charged him.

  With his advance, the axe stopped spinning in The Shaman’s hand and locked in place. He spread his legs in a combat stance and held his point at the gate.

  This was it then. Kyle sent two bolts of blue at his target, but they were deflected by axe strikes, which sent them off into the sky. Oddly, Kyle figured as much. It would’ve been too easy otherwise.

  When Kyle was within ten feet, The Shaman brought the axe back to strike him. This close, there was no way for Kyle’s bolts to miss, but the axe wouldn’t either. At the last possible second Kyle shot at The Shaman’s knees.

  It was not a tactic that his enemy expected. His stance had suggested as much; his axe – free hand was in front of his chest, his stomach tucked in. He was all about protecting his core. But Kyle knew from football the most basic of lessons: take out a man’s legs, and it doesn’t matter how big he is.

  You never, ever take him up high.

  The bolts struck true and cost The Shaman almost all his leverage, and, as such, the vast majority of the force behind his axe swing was dampened. Still, when it struck Kyle in the left bicep it hurt badly. But something told Kyle that he’d gotten off easy. The blow had meant to sever his arm entirely.

  The Shaman was at least eight feet tall. As such, Kyle had to bull rush his forehead into The Shaman’s solar plexus instead of his chin, which was Kyle’s intended target.

  The result was to be expected. Kyle’s head snapped back and he was momentarily dazed. The Shaman was solid as a brick wall, and he was strong. He pounded Kyle in the back with a closed fist, the blows vibrating through Kyle’s ribs with such a force that he was afraid his guts might burst through his skin.

  He was trying to pull Kyle off, but Kyle bear-hugged him tightly, refusing to relinquish his grip, waiting for the axe blows that were sure to come next. From this angle, up in tight, The Shaman could still hack at his hip or lower back. They didn’t have much time.

  “Now, Detective! Run!” Kyle yelled. He turned his head to watch for Detective Villa’s advance to the gate.

  But it never came.

  Neither did any axe blows.

  A scuffle ensued and, instead, Kyle watched in shock as Detective Villa grabbed The Shaman’s axe wielding arm and refused to let go.

  “No!” Kyle screamed.

  The Shaman had been hobbled by Kyle’s shots; one of his legs cracked and nearly gave way as the three of them stumbled backwards against the wrought iron fence of the church. The Shaman roared as the bars burned into his back and a sickly smell of burning meat wafted into the air. In one motion he squeezed Kyle tightly, as if to crush him against his chest, and shook his battle-axe arm violently, trying to free it.

  Something in Kyle’s neck popped as he struggled to get away, but he hardly noticed. He was still stunned by the fact that Detective Villa, in his efforts to help Kyle, had put himself mere inches away from The Shaman’s axe. Their defeat was nearly imminent. If The Shaman shook Detective Villa loose…

  That’s exactly what happened. In an instant, Detective Villa was thrown to the ground, right in front of The Shaman.

  “No!” Kyle heard Michiko sc
ream from somewhere behind them, the desperation in her voice conveying the fact that she was too far away to do anything about what was going to happen next.

  Villa! The Gray Man yelled, but the word was heavily muffled, as if he were buried now beneath the thousands of demons that had descended upon him.

  Kyle watched as The Shaman brought his arm back to swing the stone-bladed axe, which dangled a tassel of white beads. No. They weren’t beads. They were teeth. Human teeth.

  The axe descended towards Detective Villa’s head and Kyle saw Napoleon’s eyes widen in horror.

  It all should’ve been over then, if Kyle Fasano hadn’t realized what he needed to do. But he did. Resting his head against The Shaman’s chest, he turned his gaze up to his throat and whispered one word: “No.”

  The blue came from his mouth in a small, focused beam.

  The Shaman blinked. Three times. Slowly. Before the glow in his eyes went out and his head fell clean off his shoulders.

  The axe dropped first, and then his body, his grip on Kyle relinquished. Kyle heard the last of The Shaman’s Hounds yelping for their master before Michiko struck them down.

  The Gray Man’s voice came again, urgently this time. The gate!

  Kyle looked up. Detective Villa had finally had enough; he was already at the gate and fumbling madly with the latch.

  Kyle, though, had one more thing to do. He turned and faced the hoard. The blue in him was a roiling tide, and he let it loose. Power spilled from him. Michiko jumped up, first onto a mailbox and then up to a light post, where she hung by one arm.

  The sea of blue power enveloped everything in its path, rumbling down the street, washing away cars and demons alike, leaving The Gray Man in place as he dug his fingers into the street to hold his ground against the tide.

  The burning crows of hell fled into the once reddish sky, which was now blackening with a different force. Something of immense…

  We must leave, The Gray Man said. Amazingly, there was fear in his voice. Now!

  The Gray Man ran to Kyle and grabbed him as Detective Villa finally managed to open the gate behind them.

  Kyle resisted, looking at Michiko. She dropped to the street, landed softly and smiled at him. “I’m not done here, horo-sha. I still must find him. I promised him I would. It’s okay. Go.”

  With that, she bowed gracefully before she took off across the rubble and disappeared around the corner of one of the buildings.

  Then The Gray Man was pulling Kyle through the gate with Napoleon and they were bathed in immense light. Warm. Full of love. Full of hope.

  Free from hell.

  CHAPTER 30

  TROY FORESTER’S HOUSE WAS an unimpressive Craftsman, painted a sun-weary green with white trim that was cracked and peeling in places. A white picket fence with a few broken boards that teetered on loose nails surrounded the front yard, which was mostly made up of dead grass and weeds. From his experience, what you saw on the outside of a house was usually what you saw on the inside; Conch imagined an interior that was dirty and unkempt. The nicest thing on the property was the black Chevy Camaro in the driveway, the newer model, not as good as any of the classics that Conch had tooled around in as a teenager, but not bad either.

  There was a gate next to the car that led to the front porch. Unlatching it, Conch made note of the many bags of newspapers and magazines piled on the porch. Recyclables, no doubt. That or Troy was a hoarder.

  Two thin white pillars stood on either side of the red brick steps that led up to the front door. Ascending them, Conch noticed that the neighboring homes were mostly vacant. Of the two on either side of Mr. Forester’s home, one was shuttered with a “For Sale” sign out front and the other had no cars in the driveway. This side of town had been the hardest hit by the recession. Many of the homes that weren’t for sale were in foreclosure.

  The only other person around was a woman playing with her kids, about six houses down and across the street. He’d driven past her on the way here and noticed how seriously she seemed to take note of his patrol car. No wave or smile was offered, just a wary glance. In this neighborhood, it was not entirely impossible that as she played with the kids in the front yard there was a fresh batch of meth cooking inside on the kitchen stove. Conch imagined that even when everyone was home here, this was a street where people kept to themselves and minded their own business.

  He was just lingering on this thought when the screen door of Forester’s house creaked open a bit. No one was there; it was just a loose hinge. Beyond was the front door, painted what was once dark green, but that now had the worn look of the rest of the house.

  Conch opened the screen door and knocked on the front door three times.

  Shades and closed blinds shielded the inside of the home from view, so Conch couldn’t see if there was any movement inside the house. He waited a minute or so before knocking again, louder this time. Forester’s boss said he had called out sick today. It was possible that he was just sleeping. After another minute, Conch disposed of the pleasantries and banged on the door with the heel of his hand, loudly, five or six times.

  Still nothing.

  Conch looked up Forester’s home phone number in the employment file and dialed. Inside a phone rang, on very low volume, eight times.

  No answering machine picked up, no voice mail kicked in. Conch looked back to the file: There was no cell number listed.

  Odd, for this day and age.

  Conch tried again, this time letting the phone inside ring a dozen times before he hung up again.

  It was possible that Mr. Forester had gotten a ride from someone to the doctor and left his car behind. Or maybe he’d ditched work for the day with a buddy. Conch’s gut said no to both ideas though.

  So, Conch thought, why don’t you want to answer, Mr. Forester?

  There were only two innocent explanations left: he was in a NyQuil-induced coma, unable to hear the phone or door, or he was out back doing something, maybe working in the garage.

  As Conch turned to go down the steps, he looked out over his town. It was a quiet, dull day, like almost all of them here were. An army of thin clouds had scooted in from the west and were cast like egg whites against the sky, and a breeze was picking up. Perhaps a storm was coming in. If so, gray clouds would be coming next. And rain. “God’s way of crying,” his mother always used to say.

  It was the breeze that carried him the odd sound of a squeal of some kind. Like a child in pain. At first Conch thought it was one of the kids from the meth-head house down the street, but the sound had come from the opposite direction, to his left, not his right.

  At his age it was entirely possible that his ears were playing tricks on him. He glanced down the street at the woman. She had the kids in a small huddle and they were playing with a blanket, bouncing plastic balls in the middle of it in some sort of game. The kids were laughing, and Conch had just convinced himself that the squeal had indeed come from one of them when he heard it a second time.

  Still very faint, but this time more like a scream than a squeal.

  From somewhere behind Troy Forester’s house.

  Damn.

  He unsnapped the trigger guard on his holster and made his way back to the driveway. Beyond the car, near the end of the driveway, there was a chain link fence covered with green tennis mesh. To the left of the chain link was a brick wall that he could use to get over if he had—

  A third sound came from behind the house, he was closer to it now and this time there was no mistaking it: someone was screaming.

  His patrol car was at the curb. He could radio for backup, but Kendall was a half-hour away, at best, with Parker. Volunteer deputies didn’t carry radios and the call sheet for them was back at the office anyway.

  He took two steps towards his patrol car, intent on fetching his shotgun and at least trying to put out a radio call, when a chorus of screams broke out from behind him, still faint, but louder and more desperate.

  There was no time to go b
ack to the car.

  Pulling out his 9 mm, he advanced down the driveway. He pulled out his cell phone, too, and tried calling Kendall that way. Twice. It went straight to voice mail both times. Of course—they were in the canyons. What was it that Forester’s boss had said, that they couldn’t reach Forester the day he’d gone missing because there was no cell reception up there?

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He cursed through the entire process of his advance: down the driveway, up the side of the brick wall and over the chain link fence, proud of himself that he still had the chops to do it, but then almost dropping his gun on the other side.

  Stupid, weak old man!

  The sounds, closer now, were more distinct: females, two of them, yelling at the top of their lungs, from inside the garage.

  The door into the garage was on the left side, ajar. The screams were leaking out from beyond it.

  Okay. Okay. Stay calm.

  If he’s not in there, what about the back door of the house?

  Conch spun to his right. The back door was closed, but he still kept one eye on it as he moved closer to the garage.

  It was the next round of screams that told Conch that Forester was in the garage with them. Only one girl was screaming now, as if she were in imminent danger.

  You’ve got to stop him somehow. Flush him out.

  “Beaury Sheriff’s Department. Come out now!”

  The screaming stopped for a second, and so did the breeze, and the sliding clouds in the sky, and what seemed like time itself. Then…

  “Help us! Help! Pleeease! Heeelp!”

  Whoever she was, Conch’s heart broke for her. She was crying out with the desperate wail of a terrified child.

  Advancing three more steps to the side door of the garage, he leveled his weapon at the entrance. “I say again… this is the County Sheriff’s Department. Come out now.”

  His own voice embarrassed him; it sounded like it was tinged with fear.