Yong resumed his tall stance, his expression serene as he watched Ramsey flip upward from the floor to take a cat stance. "Empty your mind," he chided his student before jumping forward and lashing a foot out. Ramsey ducked, blocking the leg and pushing his Sifu off balance. Yong's other foot struck Ramsey's shoulder with the force of a hammer, knocking him over so both were on the floor. Regaining their stances with quick reflexes, they regained their stances and faced each other like warring tigers before resuming the fight. They continued sparring, Ramsey sweating from the effort. His Sifu also sweated but Ramsey knew it was all an illusion Yong manifested for effect. Each of them matched the other's strikes with an effective lock, block or evasion until Ramsey gained another advantage by backing his master up to the wall. Ducking down and stepping under Ramsey's punch, Yong appeared three steps away, and pulled a hair from his chest, blowing upon it.
As Yong's breath passed from his pursed lips, the hair split into the air, like the seeds of a dandelion, each piece transfiguring into another version of Yong. Ramsey's eyes opened with surprise as he spun around to survey the twelve opponents surrounding him.
"That's unfair, Yong," he panted, dodging his first opponent. He ducked a fist, feeling its breeze on his cheek, turned, grabbed the Yong clone's wrist with a twist, and smashed a fist into his elbow. The joint cracked like a gunshot, but Ramsey's opponent screamed louder before a punch to his throat silenced him. Still holding the man, Ramsey threw him in the path of a second opponent, and kicked the knee of a third. Ducking down, he twisted, spinning to deliver a hammer fist to the kidney of a fourth. Two more approached him from different sides as he felt another grab him from behind in a bear hug. Ramsey thrust his buttocks back hard, bowing a little as he winded his opponent, and took advantage. He grabbed the hugger's hand and elbow, applied a joint lock and swung the hugger into the path of two other opponents; flowing in the moment, Craig dropped to bow stance, blocking a downward strike with one hand while punching the second opponent's gut. A fourth Yong took him in a headlock, squeezing hard on his throat and punched his face. Ramsey tasted his blood's coppery tang but ignored it. Turning his head, face burying itself in Yong's body, he grabbed the fourth Yong's right leg with his left hand; simultaneously, his right hand snaked upwards to grab the hair on the back of his opponent's head. Then in one synchronised movement, he pulled on the hair, taking the fourth Yong's head off balance while lifting his leg and flipping him over onto the wooden floor. With eight opponents down, Ramsey turned to face the remaining four, each armed with swords.
Mouthing a swear word, Ramsey retreated, flipping somersaults towards the wall where he found his own sword - a black katana. He faintly knew of Emily's spirit sitting to the side, munching on something that could have been popcorn; she loved watching martial arts. Grabbing the katana, he blocked two swishing blades, the steel ringing in his ears, as he kicked behind him; his foot planted square in the stomach of a Yong double, winding it. Dodging a second blade stabbing from the side, he side-kicked, missing the opponent's head. He felt the wind of steel, ducked, and twisted away, not noticing the sharp blade had sliced off an inch of his hair that fell to the floor.
Ramsey side-stepped, manipulating the fight's layout so that his final three opponents could not reach him from different angles. His throat burned, sweat stung his eyes, and blood rushed through his ears with a thumping drumbeat. Centring his thoughts, he took a long controlled breath, focusing upon them. Yong's long black beard drew his attention, and he released a blood-curdling yell as he launched his attack. Ramsey's sword whistled through the air three times, each stroke cutting through defences before removing the first Yong's left hand; the next stroke of the katana's handle knocked him unconscious. The remaining two Yongs looked at each other, backing away in surprise, but Ramsey refused to fall for the ploy. He picked up a fallen sword and now held a katana in each hand as he faced the remaining pair. A bead of sweat trickled down his skin as he assessed their positions. Before they could attack, Ramsey he pressed forward, his sword a glittering wheel of strokes that disarmed the second-last opponent and "killed it". Breathing hard, he turned to face the final opponent.
Jing Yong's spirit looked at Ramsey, their eyes locking, and threw his sword to the side. Ramsey replied in kind by relinquishing his weapon.
Armed with only their fists, the two warriors rushed at each other in a dance of death; their fists flew with furious precision only to be blocked by the other. It was a fight between two equals - master and student - that moved as though by choreography. Block, punch, counter-attack, kick, parry, grip, throw, reverse. Neither of them gave ground to the other as they circled in a hail of blows. At last, Ramsey overcame Yong's defences and flipped his Sifu to the floor, pounding his head five times in quick succession to win the contest.
Yong's spirit proved to be the ultimate punching bag and sparring partner as he could take damage without suffering. His bruised body healed in seconds, and Yong stood to face Ramsey. Facing each other, they bowed, right fist held by left hand in the Chinese martial artist's way.
Smiling for the first time since Ramsey entered the kwoon, Yong took Ramsey's hand in a warm grip. "You did well, Ramsey, but your technique still needs to flow better."
Ramsey smiled back. "Thank you, Sifu."
ALTHOUGH THEY DIDN't know what the other was doing, Cogan and Ramsey each finished their workouts feeling satisfied with working their aggression out. If asked, they would have admitted to picturing the other person as their target while working out. Each showered at the same time as well and, although they were each thinking of the other as they washed, their thoughts ran over the earlier argument at the police station and how they could work together.
So it was a pleasant surprise to Ramsey, who was lazing in his living room and listening to Pearl Jam tunes, when the phone rang. Picking up the phone, and muting the music with his remote in the other hand, he answered it. "Hello, it's Craig Ramsey."
"Mr Ramsey? It's Detective Sergeant Cogan."
Surprised, Ramsey's eyes widened, and he sat up expecting another verbal onslaught from Cogan. "Yes, it is. How can I help you?"
Her voice paused on the other end for the merest moment, and Ramsey grinned; Cogan still felt anger from the argument. "About before," she started. "We need to discuss how you can help with the investigations."
"Do you need my help?" he asked, trying to not sound arrogant, as he leaned across to a coffee table and lifted his mug of green tea to drink.
There was the briefest pause, but Ramsey could still sense it. "The fact is there seems to be a change with the recent shootings of random people," Cogan answered. "As you mentioned, they have the tattoos in common, numbers that increase sequentially with each killing - except for those who are shot."
Ramsey nodded. "Yes, indicating a second killer."
"Indicating," Cogan stressed, "that we have people dying by non-accidental means. Normally that shouldn't be a detective issue. Since you claim this is by supernatural means, is there any reason you can't investigate that while I go after the shooter?"
Ramsey thought for a moment; something didn't seem right. She seemed to mix her sentences or thoughts as though using double-speak. Craig believed Detective Cogan wanted to investigate something more tangible - the sniper, for instance - leaving him to chase something she felt to be a wild goose chase. He felt like saying that but changed his mind. It fit what he planned proposing anyway before she pre-empted him. "Okay," he told her, "on one condition."
Cogan seemed surprised. "What's that?"
Ramsey grinned as he replied. "I will follow up on the spirit killer, which I have been doing already; You can chase your sniper, but only if I have access to your records from those I believe related to the spirit-"
"Done!" Cogan answered, eager to move things forward. "I will -"
"I haven't finished yet," Ramsey insisted. "Since I am cooperating with the police on this, and you have been a key investigator so far, I also need to be in c
onference with you so you can stay up to date."
"What?" Cogan's voice sounded shocked and deflated. Ramsey couldn't help smiling at that.
"You do want credit when the killings stop, don't you, Detective Cogan?"
He could almost hear Cogan's thoughts of exasperation, confirming she hoped to have him out of her hair in the investigation. Her voice came back through the phone. "I'm not sure that's necessary. I'm happy to -"
"Great!" Ramsey responded with a cocky tone. "I'll talk to you later. Bye!"
He pressed the button on his phone, hanging up without giving Cogan a chance to respond.
Emily's laughter came to Ramsey's ears, surprising him as he didn't realise she was there and listening. "You two are so funny, Craig!"
Chapter 10
Black hatred filled the disconnected soul as his vision spotted three more people - three more fools who deserved to be culled like weeds from the human gene pool. The pickings here were good since coming to the Statton Motorway. A metaphor came to his thoughts, making him think of a billiards game, as he surveyed the scene with calculated precision. He used to enjoy billiards, but this would be his favourite game. The assassin landed in the Mitsubishi's passenger seat and stared hard at its driver, a tradesman according to the equipment in the utility's tray. He didn't favour tradesmen for some reason he couldn't remember, especially those driving utilities like this one. He felt they weren't good for much in society; they failed at mental skills such as mathematics of science, but they excelled as thoughtless hoons driving trucks and utilities. This ignorant specimen continued using the mobile phone, pressed to his head, the spirit assassin forced his immaterial finger into the driver's skull. Stirring his semi-solid fingertips through the frontal lobe, the assassin felt exhilarated as the victim's fingers went limp, dropping the smartphone to the floor of the vehicle.
The spirit knocked the driver's dead hands away, twisting the steering wheel, and the vehicle mounted the traffic island, crossing into the oncoming traffic. The orange Porsche's driver, a woman tanned from frequent beach visits, managed a choked scream before the collision. Metal screamed in torture punctuated by shattering glass as the runaway Mitsubishi crushed her car into the heavy semi-trailer behind her. Glass exploded from the semi-trailer's cab as the driver rocketed through the windscreen. The driver should have worn a seatbelt. His lacerated body shot through the air and stopped, impaled on the piping in the Mitsubishi's tray. A phone dropped from the truckie's twitching fingers, its display blackened as he died.
It all took thirteen seconds Traffic slowed. People stopped to leave their vehicles and help. Others took photos from their car as they passed. The spirit assassin finished marking the third victim's neck and turned to look at those who still drove by at a crawling pace. This would be too easy.
Picking one driver, he reached through the window, squelching her brain with his hand as she passed. The dead driver's foot relaxed on the brake pedal, and the car veered to the left before crunching into the guardrails. That car had no sooner stopped than another car crashed into it, followed by more collisions in a long line. At a sauntering pace, the spirit continued along the road, stabbing his hand either into their brains or into their chests to play with their internal organs. The highway transformed into a killing field of death and mayhem, a macabre spectacle for those who remained. Survivors beeped their horns and complained from their cars, most of them screaming in fright to learn they were looking at a growing number of fatalities.
The assassin flew from the motorway and landed on a nearby footbridge to watch the mayhem. What a lovely scene of destruction. If the mortals didn't understand his message earlier, this would surely reach through to them. Subtlety was no longer suitable.
His head turned around, something prickled his consciousness, stirring a memory. What was it? The assassin couldn't help feeling drawn to something, something that controlled his hunger, and he followed the compulsion until he saw her. Exerting his will, he appeared in the ash-grey VW Golf's front passenger seat. He watched the driver, as she drove, casually holding her iPhone to her ear, and he listened to her as she spoke, oblivious to his presence.
"I have to take a different direction, Stacey," she said, listening to the other person on the phone. "There's been another accident on the motorway. Yes, it's a pain. People should take more notice of what they're doing on the road."
The spirit assassin smiled to itself at those words. Yes, people should pay attention to what they are doing and their surroundings. He poised to strike, ready to raise the morning's body count more, but stopped. There was something about this woman. He couldn't take her eyes off her, the way she watched the traffic in the suburban streets, even while driving. She appeared to know something, did she know he was there?
"I'd guess it to be about fifteen minutes before I can pick you up." The woman continued talking and stopped at a stop sign to wait for a passing string of cars. "Others have the same idea of avoiding the motorway. The back streets are filling now from diverting traffic."
Mustering his discipline, the spirit assassin moved towards his victim when a sound caught him off-guard. He turned his head and saw a little girl in the back seat, her eyes looking straight at him, and he stopped. Recognition hit his thoughts.
"Daddy, you are not supposed to be here," the little girl told him, looking him in the eye. "We are coming to see you."
Coming to see him? To visit his grave? Did they really do that? He turned, looked at the woman driving. If a spirit could gasp, he did then. Shocked, he realised he could have murdered his own wife, the mother of his daughter! How could he have not recognised her?
Conflict overtook him, tearing at his insides, as he felt pulled between his obsession - killing the people who deserved to die - and the love for his wife and off-spring. Wasn't that what forced him forward, the pain of not being able to touch them as fate had pulled them apart? Memories flowed through his thoughts like a river flood, flashing images like debris and flotsam on the banks of his consciousness, causing him to hesitate, falter and then cry. How could he continue his mission, without taking the lives of the family he wanted to protect? The spirit assassin recalled the pregnant mother he met a few days ago, and how he could not kill her either without taking another innocent life. He had to do the same now, give his wife a reprieve to save his own daughter.
He yelled at his wife. "Get off the phone!"
"Get off the phone, Mummy!!" his daughter cried, knowing that her mother could not hear her father.
Her mother turned around to reply. "Mummy's on the phone, honey. Please be quiet."
"But -"
"But nothing."
The spirit assassin moaned, feeling the panic and inner conflict, and then inspiration struck. Pointing at the phone, he concentrated, it beeped in her hand and she moved the phone in front of her eyes to look.
"Nooo!!!" he cried, realising his mistake. Sending her a message while she drove was the wrong thing! He darted his hand out, gaining enough mental force to knock the phone out of his wife's hand. The phone bounced to the car's floor, between his wife's feet, coming close to the brake pedal. Taking one hand off the wheel, she edged down, trying to reach it with her fingers.
The spirit cursed again. How could he have been so stupid? Panicking more, he tried to lift her up to view the road, but it was too late. She missed the stop sign, the car continued forward and an unnoticed car from the right blared its horn at her. Brakes squealed.
She had no time to apply her own brake.
Silence. There was no collision.
The car floated upwards, carrying them in the air out of harm's way, avoiding the oncoming car that stopped underneath it, missing a collision by a hair's breadth. The mother screamed, and her young daughter called out, "Wheeee," unnerving her mother with the noise. Like a miniature plane, the car continued flying before landing gently on the green lawn of a house opposite the cross-intersection.
The mother's heart pounded. Realising they were safe
, she stopped screaming and unbuckled her seatbelt so she could check on her daughter. The little girl was laughing, looking towards the passenger seat; but at what, the mother wondered.
She heard a noise on the car's controls, and she glanced to see the radio's tuning changing through different stations until it came to a point of silence.
Her blood froze, and her heart wanted to stop when she heard it. That voice.
"Rachael... Stop using your phone while driving. I love you." Static blurred the scratchy voice, but both mother and daughter recognised the voice unheard in so long.
"Daddy is on the radio," Rachael heard her daughter tell her.
She looked at her daughter, Rebecca, with wonder and awe at what she could not believe, and then back at the radio as it continued. If she didn't believe its first message, the second confirmed it. "Rebecca. I love you too. Be good for your Mum, okay?"
Rachael heard Rebecca reply to her father's voice from the radio but it didn't register. Her thoughts filled with shock from the strange events. Something tapped on the window, she jumped, screaming, and she saw someone at the window; it was the driver of the car she somehow avoided.
"Lady!" Rachael jumped with a start, heart thumping hard again, and she turned her head to see the man calling through her closed window. "Are you okay in there? Are you or the girl hurt?"
Dead Cell Page 8
