See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die)

by Nicholas Black

  They both play together, the sound and the video. I don't see anything particularly interesting on either. I've disappeared into the attic. And then there's some rattling of door handles, and then it gets quiet again.

  Red line is taking a nap.

  Green line seems sleepy after the rattling stops.

  Blue line is a dullard. It spits all about when I'm scooping up the microphones in the attic, but then it goes flat as I switch them off.

  And I'm counting in my head the time it took for me to look up and see the hive. I'm counting 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 ¾ . . . 2 ½ . . . 2 . . .

  Then the red line goes ape shit ! I mean, totally off the charts psycho. It's like the opposite of some guy having a heart attack. It's like a sewing machine with red thread. This thing is coloring the rest of the graph red.

  And we all freeze.

  Ricky, still watching at the screen, he kind of turns his head towards me, “What the hell, Jack? What happened in the attic?”

  Nothing much, really. You know. The usual, I guess.

  “Hal, can you run the red sound stream please, and play at one-half speed.”

  The green and blue lines disappear and all we see is the red one. Door handles and hinges and me, we take a backseat to disturbing EVP sound.

  The time resets and I watch myself go by on the small box above the graph, again. I'm up in the attic. I'm picking up microphones. And I'm counting 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 ¾ . . . 2 ½ . . . 2 . . . and . . .

  This low, guttural growling sound, like an angry animal of some kind starts up. And then it seems to double and triple, until it seems like we're hearing 20 or 30 of these things growling. The growling grows and then levels off, and then it suddenly disappears.

  Silent, again.

  Coincidentally, that's when I'm walking back down the steps leading from the attic . . . at half-speed.

  We play it over and over. Each time the growling seems more and more animal in nature.

  “Could there be animals stuck between the floorboards or something?” Ricky asks. He knows something is wrong here.

  The attic microphones were already switched off, so there's no explanation for the other microphones to have picked up the growling. But then, I'm looking at it from a slightly different perspective. I saw the gatherer hive.

  Ricky and Billtruck turn to me, both of them with their eyes wide and questioning. “Something you want to tell us, Jack?” Billtruck asks.

  I glance down at Ricky, sitting there in the black leather rolling chair. I ask him with my eyes, Yes or No ?

  He shrugs, then looks up at Billtruck. “You better sit down for this, Bill.” And by the way he says it, this is going to be a big pill to swallow.

  I haven't had to explain any of this to anyone, so I don't relish the idea of letting someone else in on my living nightmares. But then, Billtruck is a part of our team now and he needs to be appraised of the situation. He needs to know why we're really doing all of this in order to help us fight the 23 Evils.

  So I wait for him to plop down in a chair. I clear my throat, and we begin. “Bill,” Ricky starts, “do you believe in ghosts?” And before Billtruck can answer he presses on, “ . . . because what we are about to tell you is far worse than any ghost story you've ever heard. And not because it's necessarily scary, but because it's absolutely, one-hundred percent true.”

  “I'm listening . . . ” Billtruck says as he leans back in the chair, his arms crossed over his thick chest.

  And that's when we told the story for the first time.

  Almost every detail.

  We didn't leave much out.

  It took over two hours, filling in bits and pieces here and there. When I wasn't clear on something, Ricky would jump in and clarify. We told him about the spooks, the gatherers, the Land of Sorrows, and the book. We tried to explain how I had to cross over, drowning in some hypnotic state and then climbing out of my body in that twisted place. He heard of the monsters that own the dark skies and the Angels that control them.

  Ricky explained the experimental drug IK-1009 (hydrogen sulfide solution) that was used to inhibit my body's cells from using oxygen, thereby suspending my animation until I crossed back over.

  And he learned of the 23 Evils, and my connection to Kristen. I may have glossed-over the fact that I killed her here on earth, but he got the broad strokes.

  And perhaps that was the first time that I was completely honest with Ricky, and with myself, about what really happened over there. I finally admitted that Kristen had used me, like some love struck fool, to go against the wishes of God, and open the doorway back to earth for the 23 condemned Evil souls.

  Looking at Billtruck you couldn't tell if he was listening to us, debunking our story, or fitting us for straight jackets. For a couple of minutes we all just sat quietly. I showed him my tattoos and explained why I needed them. And he just sat there, his stern face kind of locked somewhere between indecision and disbelief.

  And then Dr. Bill Blackledge slapped his thighs with his hands and nodded. “So, were I to summarize all of your non-sequitur, seemingly incoherent rambling, I would gather that our mission is to hunt down the most evil forces in the history of history, and trolley them back to your Land of Sadness?” His eyebrows raised, “Would that be a fair estimation of the predicament we find ourselves in?”

  Yes, I answered him. But it's the Land of Sorrows , not sadness. Although that's just as fitting, I suppose.

  Ricky's kind of biting his bottom lip, “Seriously, Bill, that's what all this is about.” His eyes circle the large office expanse. “The purpose of all of this is to track the footprints of Evil, and get all these bastards back.”

  “And what happens if we can't find them? Can't return them to the Land of Sorrows?” Billtruck asks as his fingers interlace and he cracks his knuckles.

  Nobody has an answer for that, I tell him. The way I had it explained to me, the longer they're here, the more powerful they grow. And the guys on the other side were adamant about that being a bad thing. A very bad thing.

  “For real,” Ricky adds. “They'll fuck the earth up in a big way. Remember that game Gears of War ?”

  “Yeah,” Billtruck responds, of course.

  “Picture that squared, and throw in a little BIOSHOCK .”

  Billtruck sighs, shaking his head. I don't know what the hell Ricky's talking about, but apparently the doctor understands what he's getting himself into.

  “You two realize that I'm a doctor?”

  Yes.

  Ricky nods, Yes.

  “And you're telling me a story that goes against everything I've ever learned, ever?”

  Yeah.

  Ricky nods, Yeah.

  “ . . . a completely unbelievable story that has no rational basis or fundamental line of reasoning that I can test using empirical data, or verify using observation?”

  I could go and point out people that are about to die, I offer. After enough dead bodies you'd eventually believe me.

  “It's true,” Ricky agrees, “ . . . he can do that. It's way creepy.”

  Billtruck looks down, shaking his head. Then he starts to laugh to himself a little. The laughter gets louder and louder and his shoulders are bouncing up and down. After a minute he sits up, his face red and tired.

  “What . . . I mean . . . you know that, knowing what I now know about you two, and Ms. Josephine, if I continue to work here, I'll never be able to practice medicine again? You two realize this is career suicide, right?”

  Probably.

  Ricky nods, Most certainly.

  “No rational man would listen to you two lunatics.”

  We both shrug. He's probably right about that.

  And then Billtruck half smiles, looking up at the ceiling, “I once was a promising doctor . . . ”

  “But you were bored,” Ricky says.

  And now you've found your calling, I add.

  “ . . . hunting twenty-three evil escaped souls from the land of the undead,�
� Billtruck finishes.

  And killing them, I remind him. We have to kill them.

  Ricky slaps me on the shoulder.

  He's either going to walk out, or join us. There's really no third option here.

  “I don't believe in God,” he said, still looking up at the ceiling, “ . . . but that's only 'cause I ain't seen him yet. And I'm damned sure scared of anyone who can build all of this, and not leave a set of instructions laying around.”

  Then he lowers his head, his eyes cold and calculating, “What kind of dickhead would ignore the fickle fingers of fate as they swayed him through both fortuity or serendipity?”

  Does that mean you're with us? I asked, not quite understanding what he meant by all that. Doctors can get frustratingly wordy sometimes.

  He nods his big head. “Oh, I'm in. To hell with it! Let's hunt evil.”

  Billtruck then turns to the computer, “Hal,” he orders.

  “Yes, Bill . . . ”

  “We're going to need to expand the search parameters of Project: Human .”

  “Of course you are, Bill.” Hal answered, giving us all a bit of a chill.

  We all stood, noding to each other. Right then and there we agreed, without words, that we would take this thing all the way. As far as it goes.

  Then it's like we're all possessed.

  The sharade is over.

  Now we hunt these 23 Evils down . . . and kill them.

  Part II

  30

  ALG office.

  One week later, Monday, 9:56 am . . .

  Things are happening now. It's like we're all driven. Ms. Josephine is here and we explained that Billtruck is now officially part of the team. We are like one big machine, the four of us, and we are moving around with a purpose. We all realize that the clock is ticking before truly horrible things start happening across the world.

  If the Evils get a stranglehold, they'll likely not be pried loose. So we must act, and act fast. Billtruck has tasked Hal with several different strategies for collating data he receives.

  Ms. Josephine is the defacto head of ALG's public face. She'll be handling the phones, going out on poltergeist calls and all that. If she gets a job booked, then one of us will go with her and sit on the haunted house until the job is done, or we get sidetracked by saving the world.

  My job is to basically use my knowledge of Deadside to build up a plan for when we locate some traces of the Evils. This is going to be a hit and miss deal, so I will be the one traveling around with Ricky, hitting the ground and doing field work in-country so to speak. This work is more demanding than it probably sounds.

  I'm taking jiu-jitsu lessons four times a week from this Brazilian guy named Carlos. I'm getting taught about kick boxing three mornings a week from this soft-spoken man in Irving, named Allen. This retired cop—who doesn't want me to mention his name—is teaching me the subtleties of breaking-and-entering, which he calls the art of the B&E . He makes it sound graceful.

  I'm also doing a lot of work in the gym, mostly endurance work. All of my lifting is centered around functional strength—manipulating my body through a series of realistic exercises like weighted pull-ups, dips, squats, and other explosive lifting movements. I still wear a long-sleeved shirt, even at the gym because I don't want people saying stuff behind my back. Ever since last week when we got chased a couple of times, I've been a little paranoid.

  I've been learning to function with my accidental death-vision when it comes on. I can't turn it on or off, but I'm getting the hang of knowing when it's about to hit me. I've even been getting ready for my driving test. I take the computer exam later on this week, if everything goes as planned, and then I'll take the actual driving exam as soon as possible. When I'm traveling I need to be able to drive.

  Anyway, that about sums up my preparation for all of this. I'm reading a lot, trying not to think about Angela. A few days ago Hal asked me where my girlfriend was, and it about broke my heart. I had to correct him that, No , she wasn't my girlfriend. And, No , she's probably not going to be coming by.

  And this is really sad because I'm discussing my broken romance with a computer. He's the only recorded proof that Angela and I ever actually went on a date. And I don't have the heart to bring up the audio and hear her voice again. That would just tear me to pieces.

  Ricky has been helping Billtruck with his work, as well as hunting the less known markets for what he calls ' materiales du guerre'. I don't know exactly what that is, but he's spending a lot of time going here and there, negotiating with whispers and anonymous bank account numbers. This is all rather cloak-n-dagger, so I probably shouldn't even be mentioning it.

  Ms. Josephine is looking across the room at me. She's wearing this wonderfully vibrant green dress with bright blue umbrellas all over it. She has a good fashion sense for somebody that hears the cries and taunts of the forsaken dead.

  “Jack, I tink we need to talk about your episodes.”

  My death-vision?

  “Dat's a 'orrible name for it,” she says as she shakes her head at me. “Fittin', but 'orrible.”

  Well, I tell her, I think my brain may be melting one hemisphere at a time.

  She starts laughing, “You are so over dramatic about everythin'. Can't you just have a gift? Is it always some awful disease or a terrible curse to you?”

  “What you got, child, is somethin' dat we would call da sight of da passin'. ”

  Right, I said. Death-vision . Same thing.

  She smiled, sitting down in front of me and taking both of my hands into hers, slowly turning over my palms. She gazed into my hands—calloused now due to my weight lifting and jiu-jitsu. And she stared deeply into the swirls and folds of my palms. My individual, one of a kind, ocean of tiny ridges, they're telling her something about me that I'll never see on my own.

  “You're like a small child, wrapped up in a man's body. So simple minded, yet you 'ave so much 'idden in dere dat will eventually make its way to da surface. And when it does make its way up, you need to relax an let yourself evolve.”

  I'm always evolving, I told her.

  Looking down at my left hand she smiled briefly and then her eyes met mine, “You're missin' dat girl you just met.”

  I don't know what you're talking about.

  She cocked her head to the side and made little ashamed clicking sounds with her tongue. “I don't 'ave to see da feet to see da footprints.”

  Is everything about me that obvious?

  She slowly placed my hands together, “You're a good man, Jack. But you need to open yourself up to makin' mistakes and sufferin'. Dat's 'ow we grow as individuals. Dat's 'ow da soul is goin' learn your true path. You 'ave to be willing to fall down.”

  I fall down all the time, I tell her. Everything I do is wrong, or skewed, or socially deviant. I commiserate with the dead. I kill myself, repeatedly. I had an affair with a dead girl. I don't know what I do that wouldn't be considered falling down .

  “You're going to learn,” she tells me very slowly as she shakes my hands around, “dat da sweet in life ain't so sweet without da sour. You can't 'ave one wit'out da other.”

  “So how does this help me with my melting brain?” I ask her. It could be any of a number of deteriorating brain disorders that they failed to diagnose when I was under the care of the R. H. Dedman Memorial Hospital staff.

  My grey matter might actually dribble out of my ears and nose. And then what? Do I just let it drip out and shrug, well, there goes long-division ?

  “Da girl you like so much, she'll call,” Ms. Josephine says softly.

  How can you be so sure? I ask, hoping for an answer that I can use to overwrite my pessimism.

  “Because, Jack, you're one of a kind. And you're a good judge of character. So if you really liked dis girl, it means she's special. And if she's special, she'll see 'ow interestin' you are, and she'll want to be around you.”

  Ignoring her clearly circular argument, I say, “I hope you're right . . . because she
is different.”

  The good kind of different.

  31

  McDonald's, Josey & Valley View Ln.

  Mid-afternoon . . .

  About 30 minutes ago Ricky punched me in the arm and said that we were heading to grub . That's code for McDonald's . I'd been printing out maps of the different countries in Central and South America. The reason for all the maps was that Hal kept coming up with missing persons lists from the different 'dangerous' countries in the world.

  Hal uses several parameters to label a specific country as dangerous. Among them are: Size and effectiveness of local and state police agencies, level of corruption (publicized or otherwise documented), level of religious belief in the population, per capita income and education levels, and hospital quality. These aren't all of the things Hal looks at, but they are the ones that Billtruck added to the search.

  And with the exception of a few Eastern European countries, the lion's share of dangerous countries were located in Central and South America. I have this gut feeling that I should be learning Spanish.

  I'll have to work my Wernicke's Area —the area of the brain that places meanings with particular words. I've been studying the brain since I woke up in that hospital. Some people know cars, I know brains.

  Anyway, Ricky and I are sitting on the hood of his Porsche Cayenne , probably violating the natural laws of the universe by desecrating such a fine automobile. It's cloudy out, and for whatever reason it isn't too hot. I'm being bold today, trying Chicken McNuggets , dipping them first in honey, taking a bite, and then dipping the other half in barbecue sauce. I like the combination of sweet, then zesty.

  “That's disgusting , dude,” Ricky says as he shovels fries into his mouth like he just escaped a prison camp.

  What's disgusting? I ask, dunking a half-bitten nugget into the tangy brown sauce.

  He shakes his right hand up and down a few times, “Double-dipping after you've taken a bite.”

  It's my sauce, why can't I?

  “What if I wanted to dip my fries in your barbecue sauce?” he snorts rhetorically.