DEAD CELL
by
CHRIS JOHNSON
Dead Cell
Chris Johnson
Published by Chris Johnson, 2016.
Text copyright © Chris Johnson 2016
Cover illustration copyright © Chris Johnson 2016
The right of Chris Johnson to be identified as the moral rights author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000 and the Copyright Amendment (Digital Agenda) Act 2000.
This book and the stories contained are copyright.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. All rights are reserved.
Inquiries should be addressed to the author.
Johnson, Chris, www.facebook.com/ChrisJohnsonAuthor
Dead Cell
Cover design by Chris Johnson
Internal design by Chris Johnson
Typeset by Chris Johnson
Also by Chris Johnson
Twelve Strokes of Midnight
The Trick
Dead Cell
Bootstrap's Journey (Coming Soon)
Demon Blade (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at Chris Johnson’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Chris Johnson
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Sign up for Chris Johnson's Mailing List
Further Reading: Bootstrap's Journey
Also By Chris Johnson
About the Author
Dedication
To my wife Katrina,
and my readers, who encouraged me
Chapter 1
Dylan Byrnes didn't know her name, and neither did she know his name. This was his first time at "dogging", meeting a random stranger for anonymous sex. The idea excited him when a workmate joked about it to him, showing him websites for it. "But you're married to a great lady, so you needn't do that," his work mate told him, slapping him on the back. But it was too late. The idea intrigued Dylan, and he thought about it often enough he experienced a permanent erection. He imagined what it would be like, flesh meeting anonymous flesh; he'd need a condom to avoid diseases. Then he shook off the idea. It wasn't worth fulfilling that dream. So it lived in his head for months, like an impossible fantasy, until tonight when the dream came true.
It started when he argued with his wife over something stupid. He couldn't remember the reason behind it, but he remembered feeling pushed so much he needed air. So he drove to a neighbourhood park, parked his car, and sat in the dark with his thoughts. An adulterous meeting was not forefront in his mind, but that's how it started.
He wasn't aware of the other car's headlights washing his car's interior as it turned into the parking space. Angry flashbacks of the argument still flickered across his mind, making his heart thump hard in anger. Then knocking at his window broke him from the dark memory and he looked up to see her, sex dripping from her silhouette and the moonlight glancing off shiny skin. His mouth dried, and he wiped his eyes when he saw her. Her voice bewitched him, easing his worries with her sympathetic voice, and her eyes glistened from the streetlights. The mood overtook him, and he soon found her delicious mouth engulfing him, his fingers tangling in her auburn tresses. He almost reached the point when she turned around, quick as a practised dancer. Her clothing rustled, underwear dropping as she raised her skirt, rubbing herself up to him. It felt good, but also bad. He didn't want to be there now he felt aware of others watching, their hands stroking themselves. He wondered why the woman used no condom; they didn't know each other. But then he realised too late he was about to-
Bile rose in the back of his throat as his conscience spoke its mind. He pushed the woman away, stepping back, and stumbled almost tripping on his pants wrapped around his ankles. What had he done? He hurried to pick his pants up, doing up the button, but forgot to zip up. His fingers fumbled for his car keys, and he heard the woman ask him what was wrong. He mumbled some kind of apology, said he is married, but he couldn't get his words right. Another man stepped forward to the woman who accepted his advances, and they started a new dance on the bonnet of her car.
But Dylan didn't care. He needed to leave, clear his head, and think. What had he done?
After escaping the scene, Dylan felt a horrible tightness squeeze his chest, head and neck. It made him want to vomit, and another part of his mind screamed suicidal thoughts in his mind. How could he face his wife? What would he say when she asked how it happened? His breath caught in his chest, and he wanted to cry again. Memory of the soft warm wetness around his member charged through his brain, and he let the tears flow. He needed to think, and then he saw the fast-food restaurant ahead. Dylan steered the car into the last parking spot, stopped the car, and rested his wet face in his hands for a moment. He paused, realising where his hands had been, and he felt dirty. Leaving the car, he rushed towards the restaurant's toilets.
The tap's cold water shocked him back to reality, helped him clear his mind. A wretched man's tortured eyes stared back at him from the mirror, filled with redness, as he looked at his reflection. He tried to control his emotions, his mind wondering where he could stay. Vicki wouldn't take him back if she knew. She'd smell the stench of sex on him. He had to wash. As fast as his guilt could take him, he dropped his pants and put soap on himself down there, washing it off the best he could. Panic filled his mind, and he fumbled to wash faster. Dylan wondered about his anonymous lover's cleanliness; how long would it take spots to show up if she carried infection? What if he showed no visible symptoms and passed it on to Vicki? What would she say?
His hearing, sensitive from guilt-ridden shame, picked up approaching voices, and his fingers fumbled in desperation to finish. He had just re-zipped his fly when the door opened and a man entered with his young son. The father looked with suspicion at Dylan as he guided his son to a private stall. Dylan swallowed; he must have looked creepy right now. Once the stall's door closed, Dylan hurried outside.
Dylan strode out the door toward his car, aware that the teenagers behind the counter knew he had used the toilet without buying food. He could hear their indignation as the cold air breezed over the wet skin. Food. He needed to eat. Maybe that would mask the guilty taste lingering in his mouth. A few minutes later, he chomped on a chicken nugget while driving away from the drive-through counter. It wasn't the best tasting food, but it would do. His thoughts turned back to his wife and the argument. She was right as usual. Maybe he could smooth things over before he arrived home.
He picked up his phone, writing a text as he chewed the salty fries.
Police received the call at 9:38pm of 28th May 2016. Witnesses reported that Dylan seemed to lose control of his car. It weaved a few times before heading straight for the side of the road. His car engine roared at full acceleration as the vehicle wrapped itself around a telephone pole with a sickening crunch. Its engine continued to roar like a feral lion, but the car otherwise remained still.
Dylan died before the first person arrived to find him in the car. Fries overflowed from his mouth, filled beyond bursting, and his eyes stood open wide as though in terror.
Chapter 2
Their unspoken questions filled the darkness that enveloped the room's occupants, tingeing it with a tense anticipation. Ramsey smiled to himself, his own mood much more humorous than everyone else's, and listened to what the others were less likely to hear. The woman sitting next to him in the darkness squeezed his hand, maybe without realising it, as she tensed. Ramsey turned his head in her direction, remembering her attractive profile before someone turned the lights off. It wasn't often that he held hands with a beautiful stranger in the dark, and he enjoyed what the touch told him.
The guest speaker spoke in a solemn voice. "Would everyone please keep holding each other's hands? The circle must remain unbroken. Never break it under any circumstances."
A slight mumble came from another direction as a guest shifted in his or her seat, scraping wood on carpet. Ramsey could not see who it was.
"Quiet, please." The man's voice spoke, regaining control. "We need silence."
Silence came over the room again as the man, a medium called John Angel, began by muttering a prayer. Such a thing wasn't necessary, but Craig Ramsey knew showmanship's importance. Ramsey could not hear it all but heard the words-blessings, love, light and spirits-and figured the words were part of a prayer before the real show started. He chuckled in silence, knowing it made little difference.
Angel stopped praying aloud for a moment. Ramsey could imagine Angel pretending to be concentrating while feigning the expression under darkness so that his acting could carry more conviction.
A friend, knowing Ramsey's background, had invited him to this evening's performance because they felt suspicious of the medium and wanted Ramsey's expert opinion. People in Ramsey's circle, both friendly and unfriendly, knew him well for his uncanny ability to weed out the fake from the real. This was thanks to his background, both as a real psychic and stage magician. He could appreciate the difference, even if his balanced stance upset people on both sides of the fence.
The medium in question, John Angel, was one of the over-confident ones who appeared from nowhere. Posters and pre-publicity had appeared in various places across Statton, announcing his arrival several weeks beforehand. People, some on Angel's staff perhaps, shared and posted YouTube videos from his social media pages. Some appeared convincing but smacked of editing and staging to Ramsey, just like other magicians who claimed to be psychic. Craig had seen them before and felt that Angel was more dramatic and fake than fey.
In one clip, Angel appeared with Anja Williams, one of the top celebrity TV hosts, and gave her a reading. He made a few statements, some general enough to fit most people, but Anja nodded at them with enthusiasm. Others struck like a lightning bolt that left Anja stunned. But that wasn't all. Angel said he had something else to impart to Anja, something meant only for her ears. Was it okay for him to whisper it to her? The talk show host laughed, assuming flirtatious Angel only wanted to kiss her, but Angel's expression showed him to be serious.
Whatever he said must have been true. Anja appeared shocked, looking at Angel with a worried expression, and asked him if he was serious. Angel only nodded, leaning forward to whisper more to her. His words, known only to Anja, must have been comforting, as Anja seemed to relax with a relieved expression. But there was still a look of worry behind her eyes.
It turned out that Anja had to visit the hospital. A close friend of hers had suffered a terrible fall from a ladder at that moment Angel was telling Anja about it. How could he have known? He could not have set it up himself or even with help, could he? A week later, Anja gave Angel more airtime again. This time other celebrities attended, and some audience members picked earlier at random, and Angel was happy to read for them too with the help of his spirits.
That had happened a year ago. Now Angel was coming to Australia, visiting its capital cities, and a few of the larger towns and cities in the rural areas. Statton was part of that tour.
Under normal circumstances, Ramsey would not have taken part. He stayed away from most psychic shows. Having worked as a stage magician and mentalist in the past, he found many performances crude and substandard. They lacked theatrical merit and entertainment value. Then there were those who believed themselves psychic when, in reality, they suffered delusions of grandeur with a mild Messiah's complex. But the friend who invited him, a past client who still passed referrals for him, had insisted he come along to see Angel's work. He refused at first until something changed his mind, which made his friend happy because the expensive tickets were non-refundable.
Angel spoke out loud again to everyone. His voice sounded disembodied in the darkness. "Does someone here know Albert?"
Another voice, a guest's voice, responded. "Yes."
"Who are you?" Angel asked.
Silence dominated for a moment, and the voice, a woman's, answered. "It's Doris."
"Albert is your husband?" Angel asked. "I mean, he was your husband?"
"No, he was - "
Angel interrupted her. "You don't have to answer. I know. Albert is here. He says you need to look behind the nightstand beside the bed. His ring is there and -"
"His what?" A male's voice responded from next to Doris.
Doris' voice answered, sounding upset in the darkness. Ramsey had to stop himself from laughing as he sensed the obvious drama unfolding. Doris started, but Angel's voice interrupted.
"It is not what you think, Trevor," Angel asserted, emitting a sound of authority in his tone. "Be calm."
"But he - "
"But he what?" Angel interrupted. "Screwed your wife? Is this the time for you to cast stones right now?" His tone seemed to carry an accusation there while carrying enough ambiguity to avoid libel charges.
Whatever the truth, it helped Angel regain control. Trevor went quiet, and Ramsey's eyebrow cocked a little as he listened.
"I told you my name is not Albert!" A hoarse whispering voice spoke, heard by no mortal ears other than Ramsey's. It sounded angry.
"There is no Albert here," a harsher whispering voice said. "But I know him."
Ramsey heard the voice emphasise the word, him, but could not tell who it meant. Angel seemed oblivious to the voices and answered Trevor. "Albert is innocent of any cheating," he explained. "He came by to fix the pipes in the en-suite."
Doris confirmed. "Yes, he did because you never fixed them yourself, Trevor. You kept finding something else to do."
A voice next to Ramsey's ear, belonging to a woman, whispered. "Can you hear the others, Craig?"
Without moving his lips, Ramsey answered by his thoughts, telepathy. "Sure do, Emily."
Angel continued making his quick readings for the audience who responded with sounds and replies of approval. Meanwhile, the other disembodied voices in the room became louder and more insistent.
"Why are you not taking notice of me? I know you can hear me!"
"What does this one have to hide perhaps? Perhaps he is not such an Angel as he claims."
Ramsey silenced his thoughts, wondering if the disembodied voices had heard him instead. It made no difference.
By now, the voices thundered and a new one joined in, sounding even louder. This new voice-arrival seemed more insistent, ominous, and more than capable of getting what it wanted.
"I'm here for Thomas," it said, in a matter of fact tone. "Which one is Thomas?"
Ramsey looked up with surprise at the voice's tone. He felt no doubt. It came from Angel, but it wasn't his voice speaking.<
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"What? Who is this?"
Emily's voice whispered in Ramsey's ear. "Did you hear that?"
Ramsey nodded, leaning forward to concentrate so his vision could focus better with his psychic senses.
Angel sounded distracted when he responded. "Thomas?" he said aloud.
A man sitting near Victor, who had invited Ramsey, responded. "I'm Thomas."
Everyone, not just Ramsey, could sense Angel's movements and that of another being they could not otherwise hear. Ramsey knew it was a real spirit being this time, much meaner in temperament than the others who insisted on Angel's full attention. This one had Angel's complete attention when it spoke.
"I have names that will interest Thomas."
Angel relayed the message and mentioned a name aloud. "Bradley Harris."
Thomas responded with a gasp. "What?" he stammered.
Angel's voice sounded stunned; Ramsey thought it was because he heard a voice that did not belong to his hidden assistant who had been whispering information to his hidden earplug's receiver. "Bradley is here with us." He paused. "And so is Emma Gent, David Han, Jason Craig and - "
"Stop!" Thomas' voice cried, betraying a sound of fear he tried to hide in vain. "What are you doing? I don't know those names."
"Ah, but you do!" the spirit intoned through Angel's vocal cords, having possessed his body.
The lights came on with a pop and everyone gasped in surprise to see Angel's face had taken on the pallor of a dead man. His California tan had disappeared, replaced by a pale porcelain colour, and a spider web of veins criss-crossed his features. His eyeballs had also withdrawn in their sockets, sinking back, and glowing from within their cavernous recesses with a brilliant red.
Ramsey felt a pain in his left hand, realising the woman beside him was holding a tight grip on him from the initial fright. He saw no one near save for the handful of spirits who he guessed had competed for Angel's attention while he gave fake readings earlier. Breaking her hand's grip on him, Ramsey moved forward to get a closer look at Angel who was several feet away. Angel showed all the signs of possession.
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