He raised the gun and pointed at my heart.
“Now let it do what it was meant to do,” I said. “Pull the trigger.”
“You sure about that? I mean, if there’s one in the chamber—”
“Stop being a pussy and pull the goddamn trigger.”
He slowly squeezed the trigger. If he went any slower, he’d be in slow motion.
He closed his eyes.
CLICK!
“Did you feel anything?” I asked.
“I didn’t feel any—” he winced in pain. His hand went to his temple as he bent over.
“What are you sensing?”
“It wants me to load it. It wants bullets inside the chamber.”
“That’s interesting.” I took the gun from his grip and put it back on the table. I handed him a pocket knife. “It seems you have to focus on the object and desire it to fulfill its purpose in order for to you pick up the energy. That’s a good thing.”
“Really?” He looked at me with a quizzical but disappointed look on his face. “It seems limiting.”
“If it downloaded through you automatically, you would pick up impressions from everything. From the shirt you got at Goodwill to the steering wheel of your car. The limitation is good. It means you have to focus. Otherwise it would be overwhelming. And fry your brain into a coma.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
I grabbed an apple off the table. “I’m going to toss this in the air. I want you to throw the pocket knife and stick it to the wall.”
He chuckled. “How would I know how to do that?”
“You don’t know how. But the knife does. It’s done this a hundred times. Don’t think about it, just do it.”
“I tried to throw some knives and hatchets in a Renaissance fair once, it didn’t go too well.”
“It’s not about your skill level. I think we’ve already defined that your skill level sucks. It’s about the knife fulfilling its purpose.”
“When I fail at this, can we start using the cool weapons?” He bent down to look at the 1861 colt. Not even paying attention to the fruit.
I tossed the apple in the air. While bent over admiring the Colt, he threw the knife sideways without even looking. The blade skewered the apple and clung to the wall.
He looked in amazement. “How did I just do that?”
“Instinct,” I said, walking over to the apple. “You weren’t thinking about it. The knife did its job. And did what it was used to doing.”
I pulled the blade out and set both it and the apple back on the table. I smiled to myself and picked up the antique pocket watch. “What impressions do you get off of this?” I placed it in the palm of his hand.
“Hmmm, I’m not sure,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Tell me about liquid air.”
“Liquid air? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Pretend that you did.”
He sighed. “The liquefaction of air by self-cooling process was not, as properly believed, an accidental discovery, but a scientific result which could not have been delayed much longer. When used as a refrigerant, it is uneconomical as its temperature is unnecessarily low.” He threw the pocket watch down. “What the fuck?”
“Careful,” I said. “It’s a classic.”
His hands covered his mouth. “What the hell did I just say?”
“You were channeling the knowledge from the previous owner of the watch. Apparently, you can channel knowledge as well as actions. That will come in handy.”
Slowly, he moved his hand toward the watch, looked at me, and touched it. “It is as expensive to maintain a body at a very low temperature as it is to keep it very hot; takes cold to keep air cold. In oxygen manufacturing it cannot yet compete with the electrolytic method.” He jerked away from the watch. “Holy shit. I’m brilliant.”
“What’s the definition of liquid air?”
Without touching the antique pocket watch, he answered. “Liquid air is when Brad Linderman pissed on my head in second grade recess when the wind was blowing. I thought it was raining. That’s the definition of liquid air.”
“And August McKenzie is back.”
“How come I can’t speak smart when I’m not touching it? Shouldn’t I still retain some of the energy?”
“It would seem you’re limited to touch. We can work on that later to expand your gift, but for now let’s accept that limitation. We know you can channel knowledge. We’re making progress.”
“Who was the owner of the watch? Einstein?”
I grinned. “Nikola Tesla.”
“Holy assballs.”
“Let’s try another one,” I said. He quickly rubbed his palms together like an overly excited kid with quarters to burn at a video game arcade. I handed him a kitchen knife. “What do you sense from this?”
He gripped it tight. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“It would seem you have to be directed in how to use the object,” I said. “You need to know the purpose of the object before you can channel the energy. You don’t pick up random hits of energy or memory.”
“Was this knife used to kill someone or should I be filleting a steak right now?”
“The knife is new. Only been used once. You’re not getting anything from it because there’s not much to get. No sensory input was put into the object. There’s no emotion inside it. Nothing for you to channel.”
He set it back down.
I searched the table for the next logical object. “There are theories claiming that inanimate objects are techno-elementals,” I said. “The idea being that there are numerous inanimate objects that contain emotional energy and are, in a sense, alive. Panpsychism says that all objects in the universe possess individual consciousness.”
“Sounds trippy.”
“It is. You’ll get there eventually. We won’t get to how deep your power goes today, August. But I suspect, with practice, and experience, there’s no limit to what you can do.” I took the fork off the table.
He smirked. “Is that object going to teach me how to eat like a proper lady?” I flipped it around and drove it into his shoulder. He fell against the fridge. “Oh God, oh God.” His spine collided with the fridge. He slid down to his ass, holding his shoulder. “You stabbed me!”
“Suck it up, Princess. It’s a love bite.”
“I’m bleeding!”
The fork was buried deep in his shoulder. But didn’t come out the other side. How bad could it really hurt?
“It’s just a flesh wound,” I said. “The teeth are cutting through your rotator cuff, in your subscapularis muscle. It will hurt every time you lift your arm.”
“How am I supposed to train with a wounded shoulder?”
“You want to kill Poe? Rule number five: Embrace the pain. All that matters is how much pain you can handle.”
“How am I supposed to fight when I can barely move my arm?”
“Don’t tolerate the pain, accept it. Welcome it. Let it move through you. Don’t let it stop you. Let it fuel you to take action.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t lift my arm. There’s no way I can use a weapon.”
“It’s rarely ever the pain that stops us. It’s our belief about how much we can take before we stop. What matters is taking the pain and getting back up again.”
“But it hurts so bad.”
“So does life,” I said, heading to the back door. “Do you want to save your mom from eternal damnation? Or do you want to sit here and whine like a little bitch? Now pull out that goddamn fork and let’s go train.”
I could tell from the look in his eyes he felt defiant. His eyes held a fuck you attitude.
Good.
He wrapped his fingers around the fork and wrenched it out of his shoulder, screaming all the way. I snatched a Bo staff from the closet and walked out the back door. With staff in hand, I jumped off the porch to the backyard.
A minute later, the kid showed up. “I’m supp
osed to train like this? All bloody and hurt and shit?”
“The bad guys don’t care if you’re all bloody and hurt and shit before they attack. In fact, that’s reason for them to attack.” I threw him the staff.
He caught it with his good hand. “Show me what you got, kid.”
“You want me to fight you with a Bo staff?”
“No. I want the staff to use you to fight me.”
“How do I get my power going?”
“Without the drugs in your system, it should come naturally. Remember, just let the staff do what it’s meant to do.”
He took a step at me and swung. I blocked easily. He spun the Bo behind him, twirling it with two fingers. Within three moves, he had me on my back.
He pointed the stick in my face. “I am Bruce Lee and Donatello combined. I am Augie-tello Lee. Samurai Master of the Bo staff.”
“Not bad, kid,” I said, getting to my feet. I snatched the staff from his hands and shoved him to the ground.
“Hey!” he yelled, his tailbone crashing to the dirt. “What was that for?”
“You should have seen that coming,” I said. “Without the staff, you suck.”
“The staff is my power.”
“In time, you’ll have to learn to fight without a weapon. You can’t always rely on a knife or gun in your hand. You never know when your opponent will remove it.”
“The weapon?”
“No, the hand.” I pulled out the demon blade, turned it around, and offered him the handle.
“Oh, demon blade, my old friend,” he said, heartily grabbing it. “We shall make mincemeat of our enemies.”
I shifted into a defensive position. “Attack.”
The blade came down. I blocked with the Bo. I attacked, he blocked. He kicked, I parried. After a few attacks and counter moves, I threw him the staff.
He caught it.
He laughed heartily. “Fool,” he said in a stupid low warrior voice. He was exaggerating his lips like an old Kung Fu movie when the lips don’t line up right with the sound. “You’ve relinquished your weapon. That shall be your final mistake. Now prepare to die at the hands of a superior opponent.”
He tried to twirl the Bo, but it fumbled from his fingers. I grabbed the knife from his hand and buried my fist in his gut.
He bent over, holding his gut and coughing. “How did I screw that up?”
“You’ll have to learn how to use two weapons at once. Your body didn’t know how to channel them both at the same time. It created crosscurrents. Don’t worry, you’ll learn.”
His face was beet red. He looked like he just got head-bunted in the balls by a bull. “Is there a less painful way to learn?”
“No.” I extended my hand and helped him to his feet. He grunted when his wounded arm stretched and fell back down. I removed a steel vial from my pocket. Poured out the syringe inside and stabbed Augie in the shoulder.
“Ow!” he yelped, grabbing his shoulder. “What was that for, you ass—?”
The wound sewed itself back up.
THWIPP. THWIPP. THWIPP.
In less than ten seconds, he was healed.
“Whoa,” he said, getting to his feet. “What is that stuff?”
“Forever blood cocktail.”
“Where did you get it?”
“7-11,” I said, smirking. I walked to the porch and pulled out my butterfly knife. “Wait here.” I ran in the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the fridge. Grabbed an emergency kit from the drawer and moseyed to the porch.
I pulled up the chairs on the porch and plopped my ass down. “Come here. Sit.”
He bounced on the porch and sat down. “What’re we doing, having a heart-to-heart?”
“Not exactly,” I said, uncapping the bottle. “Lift up your shirt and lean back.”
“Dude, what the hell?”
“Carrying two chunks of Ore on you ain’t enough. You need to stash one where the sun don’t shine.”
He winced. “I need to put one up my butt?”
“No, jackass. In your gut.” I took out a small piece of Ore from my pocket. “Always have a back up. You need one where no one can find it.”
I pulled out my butterfly knife.
“Whoa! Whoa. Dude, no way! Are you going to cut me?”
“That’s what knives do.”
“Are you going to be an asshole if I say no?”
“The worst kind.”
“You did this to yourself?”
“More than once.”
He paused and reflected for a moment. “It will save my life, won’t it?”
“More than you know.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, lifting his shirt and gritting his teeth. “Do it.”
I cut a small incision of his love handle area, dousing it with the whiskey.
There are several kinds of Ore, each affecting Forevers differently. Some strains prevent teleportation. Others prevent draining. Mix them together for optimal effect. But this one was meant to prevent draining. A blended piece would be too large and would risk causing infection. This one was small enough to keep in there with no worries.
After I put it in the fatty tissue and stitched him back up, I poured more whiskey over the wound. For being a pussy, he took it like a champ.
“Stay here and recoup,” I said. “In ten minutes, meet me downstairs in the bunker.”
“There’s a bunker? What’re we doing?”
I grinned, knowing what I had planned. “We’re having a picnic.”
Chapter 19
How to Train Your Monster Hunter
I set the cooler on the metal table at the end of the room. I was standing in a huge vault with a solid steel door, the kind you see used for bank vaults. The only thing in the room was a metal table and a back dining area with a microwave, mini fridge, and a few cupboards and shelves.
I opened the cooler and pulled out a bag of popcorn kernels, a sandwich, and my drink. Augie walked in as I threw the popcorn in the microwave. I quickly closed the cooler so he couldn’t see the present inside.
“So when you said picnic, you really meant picnic in a vault,” he said, glancing at the surroundings. “What is this place?”
“It’s a last resort,” I said, dialing in the popcorn setting on the microwave. “If we were overtaken in the house, this room acts as a safe room. A panic room.”
“With a vault door?”
“Believe me,” I said. “You want the door.” He reached for the sandwich, I smacked his hand. “Mine.” I pulled it closer to me.
“Where’s mine?”
“Patience, young grasshopper. Your lunch is in the cooler. But you need to work up an appetite.”
“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?”
“You haven’t even begun yet,” I said. The microwave beeped. The popcorn was done. I grabbed it and set it on the table. “You sense anything in this room? Impressions? Visions? Feelings?”
“It feels stuffy. I feel trapped. It feels like impending doom.”
“That sounds about right,” I said, waiting for the popcorn to cool down. “What impression do you get when you touch the table?”
He placed his hands on the table. Closed his eyes. His head jerked back. “Death. Oh, my God. People being cut open. Operated on. Blood.” He snapped away from the table and stepped back. He looked down to the ground. The cement floor was stained with blood. “How many people died on this table?”
“Too many to count. Hold this.” I handed him the cooler and grabbed my sandwich, popcorn, and juice. I walked out of the room.
“Where are you going? I thought we were having a picnic in this very morbid, suffocating place you call home?”
“We are,” I said, walking out. I grabbed the vault handle and started to close it from the other side. “But you and I have a completely different lunch.”
“Hey, don’t lock me in here.” He ran to the door. But he was too late. The vault was locked.
I stepped next to the door in the ha
llway. There was a metal flap in the wall about two feet wide and three feet tall. I opened it. A computer monitor and several archaic buttons lied inside. It looked like something from a World War II bunker.
I lowered the bottom flap to give myself a table for my lunch. It was time for some afternoon entertainment. I turned on the intercom. Augie was yelling at me from inside the vault.
“Calm down,” I said.
“Why would you lock me in here? You’re an asshat.”
“It’s time for your lunch. Open the cooler.”
He was still holding the cooler in his hand. He opened it. Buried in ice, two beady eyes stared back at him. He threw the cooler to the floor.
A severed head rolled out.
He looked at the camera in the corner of the room. “What the fuck?” He paced back and forth, keeping several yards away from the head. It rolled along the floor until it hit the wall. “What is that? You sick, twisted f—”
“Your training’s not done,” I said.
“What do you want from me?”
“You have weapons on you?” I knew he didn’t.
“No, why?”
“Do you remember my book? What happens with their severed heads when they’re not on ice or cooled down?”
He stopped pacing and turned to the lifeless head. He stared at it and remained completely still. “It regrows a body.”
“Two points for you,” I said, biting into my sandwich. “Five for what comes next.”
I could hear the squishing sounds within the flesh of the head’s severed stump. It was squirming.
“Oh, God,” Augie said. “Something’s happening.”
The eyes of the severed head opened. Its eyes glowed amber.
“Until you see it,” I said, finishing half of my peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, “you won’t believe it. You have to know what we’re dealing with.”
“I read your books,” he said. “I don’t need a demonstration.”
“Academia and experience are two different things, son,” I said. “Unfortunately, no one can be told what the regeneration is,” I said. “You have to experience it for yourself.”
“I know you’re not quoting The Matrix again. You are not Morpheus. Morpheus was not a dick who tried to kill his student.”
Memoirs of a Monster Killer: Killing Forever Book 1 Page 11
