by J. D. Monroe
She wraps a black nylon belt around her waist and tucks it down into her jeans. The Colt fits neatly into the concealed carry holster, and the blue ruffles give no hint to the hidden arsenal beneath. With her weapons selected, she grabs other essentials out of the yellow plastic toolbox and throws them in her leather messenger bag. Holy water, salt, strong flashlight, EMF detector—all the essentials a girl needs.
In addition to her paranormal toolbox, she carries a small spiral-bound notebook and a digital voice recorder. Her go-to cover story is newspaper reporter or blogger. It doesn’t really open any doors for her, but it’s a simple explanation for when she gets caught sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
The RV steps creak slightly, and she says, “You ready?” before Georgia sets foot on the ground. She turns to see Georgia with a charcoal-gray backpack over one shoulder. Her long red hair is pulled into a high ponytail and braided neatly down her back. She looks mildly surprised.
“Almost,” she says. “How did you—”
“You’re not sneaky,” Charity says. She hefts the trunk back into the storage well, then pulls out the crossbow in its camouflage case.
Georgia tries to keep the disapproval off her face, but it lingers there, like a shadow on her porcelain features. “That’s not exactly subtle.”
“Has anything at all about me struck you as overly subtle?”
“You can’t walk around in public carrying that,” Georgia says. She slides past Charity and unlocks the car, then deposits her backpack into the backseat. The compact silver hybrid probably gets three times the gas mileage of Charity’s truck and one third of the self-respect.
“That’s how a real hunter rolls,” Charity replies, keeping her face even. “It’s how people know not to mess with me.”
Georgia crouches and pops a mechanism behind the car’s front wheels to release it from the trailer hitch. Her neatly plucked eyebrows furrow, and Charity can practically see her churning through responses to find the one that won’t start a fight.
“Maybe we could…” she starts. “You could…”
“Georgia, relax before you hurt yourself. I’m messing with you,” she says. “It’ll stay in the trunk unless we need it. I may be uneducated, but I’m not stupid.” She stows the crossbow in the trunk, then slides into the passenger seat with her bag in her lap. There’s a thump as Georgia backs off the short car trailer.
“Why a crossbow? Seems kind of…unnecessarily big. A gun seems a lot easier to hide,” Georgia says as she drives out of the campsite and onto the main road.
“It certainly is, and no girl should leave home without one,” Charity says. She lifts her shirt to show Georgia the butt of the Colt in its holster. “But you start shooting a .45 in a populated area, and see how long it takes the police to show up. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not long. For some reason, they don’t like gunshots.” She shrugs. “Bow and arrow, crossbow, they’re old school, but they’re quiet. And cost-efficient. I can reuse a silver arrow a hell of a lot easier than a bullet.”
Georgia shrugs. “I guess. Are you ready to go?”
“I was born ready, Georgia.”
11. BACKSTAGE PASS
WHEN GEORGIA DRIVES ONTO THE CAMPUS of Brentwood University, Charity feels like she’s entered another world. She catches glimpses of red brick and white columns through the limbs of dogwood trees. Georgia follows the road around to a sharp-edged building that doesn’t quite match the campus. One entire side of the fine arts building is chrome and glass, overlooking abstract sculptures lacquered in bright colors. They look like a cluster of old playground equipment that melted in the sun, canted crookedly in a bed of mulch. There’s a small parking lot behind the building, and Georgia squeezes in next to a Volkswagen with a Brentwood Cavaliers decal in the back window.
If she thought the RV was a new experience, this is a new universe. She’s technically on university property, so this probably makes her the first Pierson to ever go to college. Harmony’s family were all hunters back to the Great Depression, and her daddy’s family were all carpenters. Higher education had never been in her future.
There are a handful of police cars parked in the lot, along with a big black SUV that has to belong to some sort of law enforcement. Georgia cuts the engine, and they sit in silence for a moment.
“That’s the theater,” Georgia finally says.
“Kinda figured,” Charity says. The back wall of the building is plain red brick, with a pair of oversized doors that open to a wide loading ramp. Yellow police tape is stretched across the doors.
“It’s probably all blocked off inside,” Georgia comments.
Charity snorts in derision. “So?”
“So? We’ll get caught,” Georgia replies.
“Yeah, if we go right now. So let’s wait.” They sit in tense silence for a few minutes, and finally Charity speaks up. “So did you go to college? You seem like the type.”
“Which means?”
“I don’t know,” Charity says. “You’re a lot more refined than most hunters.”
Georgia shrugs. “Yeah, I went to college.”
“So why the hell are you doing this instead of working some office job that doesn’t involve the walking dead?”
Charity’s not sure she’d be able to do anything else, especially after eight years on the road. But Georgia has options, doesn’t she? This isn’t the kind of life you go into because your first career didn’t work out.
“This is more fun,” Georgia says. That’s a non-answer if she’s ever heard one. “What about you?”
“Oh, hell no,” Charity says. “I cut my losses when I turned seventeen. Did my part to contribute to North Carolina’s dropout rate.”
Georgia’s eyebrow lifts, and her nostrils flare a little. “You dropped out of high school?”
“Didn’t suit me,” Charity says. “This’ll come as a real shock to you, Browning, but I didn’t do well with all the rules.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. She did fine with the teachers, because her mother and father would have strung both their daughters up by the ankles for sassing a teacher. It was the students she couldn’t stand. The rumors flew about the backwoods town of Aran Valley; they said everything from incest to snake-handling cults. It didn’t help when Patience started every school year by picking a fight, like she was fresh meat establishing herself in prison. That didn’t make them any friends, but no one ever did more than whisper when they walked by.
After Harmony killed Andy, the whispering got louder and meaner. Patience went and graduated somehow, and left Charity to fend for herself. Two days after tossing her cap in the air, Patience tagged along with a couple of hunters in town on a graveyard shakedown up in Virginia. She was hooked, and Charity knew from the moment she heard Patience tell that first exaggerated story that she wouldn’t make it to her own graduation day. She stuck it out as long as she could, though she made up for Patience’s absence by picking a fight with anyone who dared mention her mother. The day she turned seventeen, she walked into the office and demanded her withdrawal papers. If college had ever been more than a fleeting dream, she’d put a lid on it that day.
“Well, it’s never too late,” Georgia says.
“I’ll remember that next time a poltergeist asks to see my diploma,” Charity says. She leans over and turns on the radio, killing their conversation.
As the night darkens, the parking lot clears. Sure enough, the tall back doors open, and two guys in sport coats walk out. After fixing the tape over the doors, they climb into the black SUV and leave. Called it, she thinks with a satisfied smirk. Within another hour, the two campus police cars are gone.
“Shall we?” Charity says. She slips into a light khaki jacket, then opens the trunk for her crossbow. Georgia gives it a disapproving look like her father would have given a miniskirt as Charity lifts it out of the camo covering and slings it over her shoulder. “You can give me that stink eye all you want, Red. She goes where I go.”
&
nbsp; “Fine,” Georgia says. She hefts her backpack onto her back. “And don’t call me Red.”
She hadn’t noticed from inside the dim glow of the car, but now she realizes the parking is lot is eerily dark. Populated place like this, it should be lit up like a football stadium by night. Charity looks up slowly, heart thrumming at she goes from light to light. The big halogen lamps closest to the theater are out. She can overlook one outage, but four huge lights don’t go out at the same time unless something weird is going on. At the farthest corner of the parking lot, a single light struggles to stay on. It flickers, strobing harsh white every few seconds. She fishes in her bag for the heavy flashlight and uses it to illuminate her path.
The theater is separated from the parking lot by a dense hedge. As they approach the leafy wall, Charity catches a whiff of something foul. She shines the bluish-white light on the bushes. The furled leaves are speckled dark, like they’re diseased. She touches a branch and runs her fingers over the dry leaves. At the lightest touch, the discolored leaves break off and fall to the ground. She frowns and grabs one of the branches, then gives it a firm shake. Dead leaves snow to the ground, disintegrating into brown dust on the sidewalk at her feet.
If she still had any doubts, this confirms Tommy Crane’s death is most definitely her kind of thing.
“Copy that,” a deep male voice says from beyond the hedge.
“Shit,” Charity mutters. She peeks around the edge of the bushes to see a uniformed man standing at the back door of the theater, radio held up to his lips. The patch on his black jacket says Security. She leans close to Georgia and whispers, “Side door?”
They tiptoe around the bushes and follow the walkway that loops around the side of the theater. The path is shadowed by overgrown trees that whisper in the cool night breeze. Charity catches the smell of decay again when the breeze changes direction. Georgia grabs her arm suddenly.
Charity tenses and her hand flies to the gun at her waist. “Georgia, rule number one. Never grab an armed woman without warning.”
“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “Look.”
Her heart thumps as she follows Georgia’s pointing finger. The walking path continues on toward the main campus, but where they stand, it joins a staircase that descends below ground level to a side entrance. A chipped brick sits on the bottom step.
Charity hurries down the stairs and tries both handles. Locked tight.
“Shit,” Georgia says. “They’re probably guarding the front doors too. What now? We try again tomorrow?”
“We need to work on your criminal instincts,” Charity says. “Flashlight.” Georgia shines her flashlight on the doors while Charity digs into her bag for the little zippered lock-picking kit. Thin tension wrench in the lock. Apply pressure carefully. Work the rake, trip the pins until— “Boom,” she says, pulling the door open quietly. It’s amazing what a girl can learn on the Internet. Georgia looks like she can’t decide between being impressed or disapproving. Charity is okay with either.
“Oh, wow,” Georgia murmurs. “Are you sure we should…”
“Georgia, do you want to hunt or not?”
“Of course.”
“Then you need to remove that enormous stick from your ass,” Charity says. “Come on.”
The interior of the theater is dark beyond the doorway. They wait silently for a moment; no police chatter. No apparent movement. It’s too quiet and too cold.
Charity shines her flashlight around inside. There’s a wall just inside the door, sectioning off a narrow walkway that seems to run the length of the theater. The scent of decay is heavier here, and she smells the reek of shit and blood under it. Death is a nasty business. That fact that the stink still lingers almost four days later is one more check in the something hinky category.
Georgia starts to push past her, wielding a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. Charity blocks the door and shines her own flashlight in Georgia’s face. “Give me your hand.”
Georgia frowns. “Huh?”
Charity rolls her eyes and takes Georgia’s left hand, closing her hand around the cold metal flashlight. “Close your eyes. You never hunt without praying.”
“I’m not the praying type,” Georgia says.
“Then be the shut-up-and-be-respectful type,” Charity says. She looks up to the night sky. She’s never gotten behind the idea of bowing her head. Maybe it’s a respect thing for some people. To her, it makes the most sense to look up. Look where your help comes from. She feels appropriately small and insignificant as she gazes at the broad expanse of dark sky. “God, please watch over us and protect us from the evil that hides in shadows,” she murmurs, keeping her voice low so the rent-a-cop doesn’t hear them. “Lend us the wisdom and strength we need to stand against the darkness. Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection, and cast into hell all who roam this world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.” She releases Georgia’s hand and kisses the cross around her neck. Georgia stares at her incredulously, like she just walked in on Charity trying on her underwear. “What? You never heard anyone pray before?”
“Not like that,” Georgia says.
“You want me to do it in Latin for you?” Charity says. “Is English not fancy enough for you?”
“No, not at all,” Georgia says. “Apparently, I was incorrect in some of my assumptions. That was my mistake.”
“Damn straight you were, and yes it was,” Charity says. She’s not exactly sure what Georgia means, and she’s not sure why she cares. Plenty of people think she’s dumb white trash, and she never bothers to correct them. “Besides, you asked for my help, and I’m a hot damn mess. You might need the Lord’s help before this is all over.”
Before they go inside, she props the door with the brick. As they feel their way down the carpeted wall, there’s a faint glow at either end of the gently sloping walkway. They head toward the lower end, closer to the stage. On the other side of the wall is the audience seating, row after row of red-upholstered chairs. A dim reddish light glows backstage, and a single work lamp casts a cold white light over a soundboard at the back of the theater. The shadows are long and unsettling. It’s so cold that Charity can see her breath, puffing in little steam clouds. The chill cuts right through her thin jacket, raising goose bumps down her back.
Programs from the show cover the floor, piled like dead leaves along the edge of the stage. More still litter the sloping walkways that lead up and out of the theater. She even sees a few jackets on the floor and draped over seats. She can picture the chaos; some people would have run to the stage to gawk at the aftermath of the bloody scene, while others ran away.
“It’s cold,” Georgia says. “Way too cold to just be central air.”
“Agreed. There’s definitely something here,” Charity says. She gestures for Georgia to follow her up the side stairs onto the stage.
The wooden floor creaks underfoot as they cross the stage. The backdrop ripples like it did in the video, giving the stage an eerie, underwater sensation. Half a dozen plastic yellow placards are arranged on the stage, tiny tombstones to mark the timeline of Tommy Crane’s violent death. The stage’s black surface is faded and scuffed, but the spot where Tommy lay is darker, the blood soaked and dried in the wood.
A clatter echoes from behind them. Adrenaline floods her body in a hot rush, and she yanks the crossbow around to aim it into the darkness. Georgia yelps and draws her gun, pointing it shakily out into the audience. Her eyes are wide and wild, but she holds the gun comfortably and her finger rests on the trigger guard, where it should if she’s had any kind of training. Maybe there’s more to Georgia than meets the eye.
Charity’s heart pounds, a rocker’s bass drum against her temples as they stare out into the silent stillness. She waits for it to move again, to give her some idea where it is. But all is quiet.
“Something’s here,” Georgia whispers.
“You think? Until we see it, we keep going,” Charity says. If anything
, it’s Caesar’s ghost. She snorts a laugh that bubbles into a full-blown guffaw.
“What could possibly be funny?” Georgia snaps.
“I’m sorry,” Charity wheezes. “It’s not funny at all. You got the high tech?”
Georgia kneels to set down her backpack. As she unzips it, she casts a lingering stare out into the darkness, eyes wide and unblinking. Charity allows herself a smile. Hunter Barbie talks a big game, but she knew this would happen as soon as they actually encountered even a hint of the real deal. Georgia shakes her head, then takes a black toolbox out of her backpack and lays it open.
The case is lined with gray egg crate foam, hollowed out with small compartments for the electronics inside. Georgia pulls out an EMF detector first. The electromagnetic field meter is an upgrade from Charity’s, but still does the same job. Georgia’s is a plain black box, smaller than a smartphone. She switches it on and watches the digital readout.
There’s a red plastic device that she hands up to Charity. “Temperature gun.”
“Nice,” Charity says. She eases the crossbow back over her shoulder and takes the temperature gun in her left hand. Barely bigger than a soda can, it’s just a plastic handle with a lens on one side and a readout on the other. She aims it at Georgia and squeezes the trigger. 99.2. Impressive.
She points it out into the dim shadows of the theater.
Squeeze. 59.4.
Squeeze. 60.1.
Squeeze. 20.6.
Her eyes fly open, and she shines her flashlight out into the house. Everything is painfully still. She wishes it would move, let out a blood-chilling howl, and announce its presence. There are few things as terrifying as knowing something is watching, waiting, and not being able to see it. Her skin crawls like a cloud of gnats is swarming through her veins.
“Anything?” she asks Georgia.
“Not here,” Georgia says. “You?”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Cold spot. I don’t see anything, but it’s definitely out there.”
