by Larry Hoy
“Father, I think someone is going to try and hurt us.”
Wrinkles crossed the child’s forehead. From the intensity of his expression, Erebus knew Herbert meant what he said.
He slipped out from under the quilt and pulled on a T-shirt that was sitting on top of the dresser. The shirt read, Dad—The Man, the Myth, the Legend. Grace Allen had the shirt printed for him one Christmas after seeing a picture of some biker guy who described himself that way.
“All right, buddy, let’s go downstairs so you can tell me about it.”
The boy led his father down the steps. The stairs ended in the sitting room, where the Christmas tree stood next to the picture window with presents piled up to the lower branches. Snow glistened outside. Erebus eased into his recliner. Herbert sat on the couch. It was the perfect Christmas morning, just like it had been yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.
“So, what’s wrong, bud? Did you have a nightmare?”
The boy shook his head. “I saw it in the other place, Father. Someone wants to hurt us.”
Erebus leaned closer and sipped from a mug of hot chocolate that appeared on the table beside his chair.
“I’m not sure what you mean. What other place?”
Herbert picked up a pair of bright orange plastic binoculars. He held them tightly in his hand as he talked to his father. “Before we came here, you were somewhere else. It was a place where bad people hurt you, but you couldn’t always hear me when I talked to you.”
Erebus reached up and massaged a temple with one hand; a headache was starting to press from right behind his eyeball. He could tell the headache would grow into a full migraine. “Hold on, buddy,” he hissed as his temples started throbbing. “I can’t think about that right now. It hurts.” The last few words were said in a near-whisper. The headache kept growing. Erebus leaned back in his recliner, his hands pressed hard against his temples, like a vice. He groaned. “My head.”
Herbert reached out and touched the side of his father’s head. The pain disappeared instantly.
“What?” Erebus asked, looking up to his son’s eyes. Flames flickered where his eyes should have been. It only seemed that way for three seconds, and then Herbert blinked. The eyes returned, looking like they always did.
“Did you do something?” he asked.
“I took the pain away.” Herbert kept his hand on his father’s temple as he spoke. “There are some bad people who want to hurt you. They want you to tell them something about your friend, and that will break up our family. They are going to take you from Mommy and me.”
Erebus took a deep breath and put his hand on his son’s knee. Had his son shrunk?
“If you can help me find ’em, I’ll tell them to leave us alone.”
Herbert’s head fell. Erebus saw his shoulders shaking, and his voice quavered. “It won’t work.” Herbert sobbed. “They are going to try to hurt you. They might even kill you. Father…they want to kill me!”
“Buddy, oh buddy, I won’t let that happen. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you or break up our family.”
“They are going to kill us,” Herbert insisted. “I heard them talking.”
“I’m not going to let ’em. I’ll do whatever I have to do.” He nodded to the orange binoculars. “Is that how you saw them?”
Herbert’s eyes widened, larger than Erebus ever remembered them and hot tears ran down his face. A trickle of snot covered his upper lip. “They are going to kill you, Father. I know it. And they will kill me, too.” He hugged the toy binoculars close to his chest.
“Hand me the binoculars, son.”
Herbert laid the plastic toy in his father’s palm. It had the slick, oily feel that cheap plastic toys have. He turned them over but didn’t see anything special about them. Herbert’s tears told him there had to be more to it, so he started to raise them to his eyes. His son reached out and stopped his hand.
“Father, you’re going to need this.” Herbert reached into a crease of the couch and pulled out the long, black pocketknife they’d bought at the convenience store, the one that had cut him up so badly. With a sudden thought he peered at his stomach, expecting cuts or scars, not the smooth skin he saw. A sense of unease seeped from the blade. He didn’t want to touch it, but…
“Take it, Father.”
“All right, buddy.” He took the knife. Where the binoculars were light plastic, the knife was heavy steel. Something terrible was about to happen—he could feel it—and he knew he couldn’t stop it.
“Don’t let them take you away from us,” Herbert sniffled through the tears. “Don’t let them hurt you. Kill them fast.”
“Who are you?” Erebus said with a sudden clarity of mind.
“I’m you, Father. You’ve always known that.”
Erebus nodded as a new comprehension filled him with resolve. Herbert was right. Herbert was right, he had known it. They were one.
Raising the binoculars to his eyes, what he saw didn’t make any sense. There was some sort of tunnel-like room, filled with sunlight, dark swivel chairs, and a blue carpet. He heard people talking, adults, and some of them were familiar. Still holding the binoculars to his eyes, something pushed in the small of his back, something powerful.
After a momentary sensation of falling, Erebus blinked and found himself strapped to a stiff, uncomfortable platform. He recognized the interior of an airplane even if he didn’t know how he got there. In the seat beside him sat a large man in scrubs. He wore noise cancelling headphones with a fold-down microphone, and his attention was on the people in the seats in front, not on Erebus.
Along with his sudden shift from the cottage to the airplane, he recognized his clothes had changed. He was dressed in a full set of blue pajamas, but not the comfortable ones he had at home. These were stiff, as if they had never been worn before. He also felt his feet were enclosed in a thin pair of slippers. He still held the binoculars and the knife.
Over the insistent whine of the jets, he heard snippets of the others talking. It was Sweetwater again; that bastard was still alive! Rage stabbed his brain like a surge of electricity, but instead of driving him to desperation, it had the opposite effect. Instinct told him this was the last chance he’d have to avenge Grace Allen. Outnumbered and with only a small knife for a weapon, he had to be smart.
First, he worked slowly against the limited freedom afforded by the straps. Eventually he was able to slip the plastic binoculars into a pouch on the bulkhead to his left. Conveniently, the knife was already open, and he began sawing through the heavy, threaded cloth. Someone shifted in their seat to check on him, and Erebus quickly tucked the knife under his leg and closed his eyes, mimicking a comatose state and trying hard to slow his breathing.
Chapter 34
20,000 Feet Altitude, Somewhere Over Texas
Steed sat up, alert, like a birddog flushing a covey of quail.
“What?” Witherbot said.
“There’s an immediate threat,” he said.
“How do you know that?” Warden said.
Witherbot waved at her. “Ssshh. Where, Steed?”
“It’s—I can’t pin it down. Something’s interfering.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know…”
Sweetwater decided it was time to speak up.
“Do any of you folks believe in ghosts?”
Through slitted eyes, Erebus saw the agitation of the people in the seats. The man beside him, however, hadn’t yet noticed. Awake now, he focused on the approaching ground out the window. If Erebus was going to strike, it had to be now. He chanced sawing the straps faster until the first one parted, giving him leverage to cut the other one more easily.
“Hey!” cried a strange man, half standing from a seat in front.
The man beside him grabbed his wrist. A hard thrust of the blade ripped open his neck from bottom of the chin to Adam’s apple, and he fell back, blood gurgling through his fingers as he tried to seal the fatal wound. Erebus’ wo
unds hurt as he stood up from the gurney. The muscles were tight from new scar tissue, but he couldn’t let it slow him down. Protecting his family mattered more than a little pain.
Sweetwater was already on his feet, blocking the aisle as the older man tried to push past, brandishing a pistol. Without thinking, he held the knife outstretched in both hands, and charged toward them.
Witherbot and Warden had craned their necks around the seats when Robert cried out and watched in horror as the formerly comatose Erebus cut Robert’s throat. Erebus’ face was twisted into a visage of demonic fury as he attacked Sweetwater. Both women had to throw themselves backward to avoid the black knife.
The downward angle of the plane’s descent added momentum to Erebus’ attack. Sweetwater had regained some of his strength, but he was really just starting to get his feet under him. Walking was still an effort, and the last time he’d fought this man, he had barely avoided dying. But in the seconds as the raging Adrian Erebus ran downhill toward him, Sweetwater’s brain registered tiny flames in the man’s eyes.
A fist holding a pistol braced on his shoulder and two shots rang out, both hitting Erebus high in the chest. The impact stopped him cold, like he’d been slapped. Then, with a roar, he came again. Sweetwater felt the hand tense as Steed squeezed the trigger…and the plane banked forty degrees to the left.
Steed didn’t fire. He and Sweetwater both lost their footing and slammed into the port bulkhead, falling in a heap. Steed cushioned Sweetwater’s fall and absorbed the punishment. He appeared stunned, with a long contusion on his right cheek. The pistol was nowhere in sight.
Lacking his former core body strength, Sweetwater gripped the seat back to try and pull himself away from the unconscious Steed. Muscles quivered as his arms strained, and he was half standing when Erebus appeared in the aisle. Blood was spraying his face and torso, just like the last time. He held a black knife aloft, just like the last time. It was the same knife as at the hospital, the one the boy had given him, the boy with the flaming red eyes, the boy that disappeared. The boy that Sweetwater knew wasn’t a boy at all and never had been.
Knees bent, with Steed underneath him, he planted his feet. One way or another, Erebus was going to die. Sweetwater wasn’t going to let him carve up the women, even if it cost him his own life. That was why he’d joined the Marines, to protect others, and by God he was going to do just that.
Like brains tend to do in combat, his slipped into hyper-mode. Forget the dodge, he told himself. If he accepted the blade, he would have the opportunity for a counterblow. A Marine goes down fighting, so he balled up his fist and aimed for Erebus’ throat.
“Sweetwater, down!” Witherbot yelled as the engines throttled-up to a deafening whine.
There was no time, as once again the floor tilted sharply to the left, throwing Sweetwater off his feet. Only this time Erebus fell on him.
Even with blood pouring from the new bullet wounds, Erebus drove the knife downward with great strength. Sweetwater grabbed the killer’s wrist and stopped it, but Erebus was too strong, and the point inevitably reached for his face. Using his right fist, he pummeled his attacker. Although his core strength remained weak, his arms were as strong as ever. His right hand flew into the broad nose, smashing cartilage over and over again with sprays of blood. But he was stopped by the floor, unable to draw his arm back. None of them had enough power to disable Erebus.
The knife point pricked his left cheek, where his jaw met his ear. Three more inches would be fatal.
The barrel of Steed’s Sig Sauer P320 touched Erebus on the right side of his head. The gun was being held by Cynthia Witherbot.
“Not even you can survive without a brain, Mister Erebus,” she said in her cold British Bitch voice. “Put the knife down or die right here, right now.”
“No,” he said, somewhere halfway between a hiss and a growl. “I have to save my family.”
“Your family is dead, and it’s your fault.”
Erebus lost focus and turned. His hate twisted his face and gave Sweetwater a clear shot at his throat. Bloody knuckles drove Erebus’ Adam’s apple backward, and he rolled off Sweetwater, gagging. The knife flew out of his hand.
“Even maniacs gotta breathe,” Sweetwater said through gulps of air. “Who’s got handcuffs?”
“We’re not cops. Let me see what we have in the back,” Witherbot said, handing him the Sig. “Don’t kill him, Luther. You hear me? We need him.”
“No promises.”
“He won’t,” Warden said, coming into the aisle now that it was safe. “Luther’s not like that, but if we don’t get him medical treatment ASAP, he’s gonna die anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Sweetwater said. “Those two bullets are both potentially fatal hits, but you saw what just happened. And I learned that punch in the Marines, it’s meant to be lethal.”
“What are saying?” Witherbot said.
“Nothing yet.”
Raising an eyebrow, the assistant director of LEI went to look for something to restrain Erebus.
Sweetwater pushed to his feet as Erebus started to recover, pushing himself up from the floor. Pistol whipping somebody wasn’t like they showed in the movies, it usually resulted in damage to the gun and/or the hand holding it, so instead Sweetwater maneuvered for kicking room. Warden beat him to it with a heel to the forehead.
While Erebus moaned on the floor, she reached into the overhead storage to rummage through her backpack, checking each pocket until she pulled out two pairs of cuffs.
“Tell Mom they fell out of the overhead.”
“Only if you tell me later why you had handcuffs in your bag. Or better yet, show me.”
“Jeez, Luther, don’t be disgusting,” she said, wrinkling her nose while also smiling.
What the hell does that mean? he wondered.
After handcuffing the semi-conscious Erebus to a seat support, Sweetwater roused Steed and helped him into a seat. The knot on his head darkened to a reddish purple. Then Sweetwater collapsed into his own chair.
Witherbot knelt beside Robert, stood, and shook her head.
“Fuck,” Sweetwater said. He was breathing hard, but his ribs didn’t hurt as much this time. “Maybe you could change the policy about bringing demonic madmen on the plane?”
“That rules out all her exes…except me, of course,” Steed said as Warden touched the knot on his face.
“This needs ice,” she said.
“We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes. As to your suggestion, Mister Sweetwater, I’ll take it under advisement.”
“You called me ‘Luther’ a minute ago.”
“Yes, and now I’m calling you Mister Sweetwater. Do you have any idea where he got a weapon?” Since she was the only one still on her feet, she searched for the knife. “Found it.” She pinched the black blade between her gloved finger and thumb and held it up.
“Son of a bitch,” Sweetwater said. “Yeah, I know where he got a weapon. You’re just not gonna believe me.”
“You’d be surprised what I would believe, Mister Sweetwater.”
Steed laughed with his eyes closed. “She’s been around, Two-Bit, more than you think.”
“I hate that name,” Sweetwater said.
“And the more you say how much you hate it, the more your fellow Shooters will use it.” He paused and then added, “If nobody objects, I’d like to decapitate that bastard now.”
“I’m still waiting for Mister Sweetwater to tell me how Mister Erebus smuggled this knife aboard?”
“He had help,” Sweetwater said.
“Obviously. But the only suspect is Robert, and I’ll be shocked if he was able to manage that. It makes no sense.”
“Because that’s not how he did it—it was the boy, or whatever he is.”
“Oh my God, Luther,” Warden said, covering her mouth.
He only nodded.
“Would someone fill me in?” Witherbot asked.
“I think it was a ghost,” S
weetwater said, “or something like a ghost.”
Witherbot held his gaze. At one point he’d fantasized about having an affair with her, but now, as she bored into his eyes, he squirmed the way he’d done when he tried to lie to his grandmother. Except he hadn’t lied.
“Be certain of your answer, Mister Sweetwater. This may affect your future involvement with LEI.”
“He’s not lying, Mother,” Warden said.
“Quiet. I was not speaking to you. I want to hear his answer.”
“When we were in the secured area of the hospital, Erebus came to kill me, and I fought him to the ground—”
“You have already told me this more than once.”
“But not this part; I left it out. I was afraid you’d think I was mentally unstable. Teri came in and tied his hands behind his back, and then went to get help. While she was gone, an—I guess you’d call it an apparition—showed up. I’d seen it twice before that.”
Steed interrupted him next, and Witherbot said nothing. To Sweetwater, that showed the power Steed commanded within the company. “What does that mean, you’d seen him? Like a shadow figure?”
Damn! He’d been afraid this would happen, and now there was no hiding it.
“No, I see dead people. Not all the time, and not everybody, it just happens sometimes. But there’s nothing blurry about them. I wish there was.”
Witherbot met Steed’s glance, and something went unsaid between them. Sweetwater noticed.
“What?” he said. “I’m not lying.”
“I do not think you are lying, Mister Sweetwater,” said Witherbot. “We will talk about this more in the future, but in five minutes we’ll be on the ground, so please finish your story, and do so quickly.”
“The first time I saw him, he wasn’t a boy, he was like a man-bull, with horns and stuff—”
“Like a minotaur?” Steed said.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Never mind,” Witherbot said. “Get on with it.”
“Okay…Erebus was dying, or maybe dead. The bull breathed fire into his mouth, and he came back to life. The next time, the minnow-whatever was smaller. The third time is when he looked like a little boy, except he was all black, had this giant mouth full of sharp teeth, and no eyes. There might have been fire in them, too, but by that point I was pretty far gone.”
