Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns

by Andrews, Christopher

  Dear God, she prayed. Please forgive me, Father. I’ve ... I’ve been such an idiot.

  Could she dial 911 without giving it away? But when she felt her jeans pockets, she found no phone — or keys, for that matter. And her purse? Long gone, of course. Wallowing in frustration for just a moment, she started to cry ...

  But she wiped away the tears before they could spill onto her cheeks; two of the other captives were already crying, for what good it was doing any of them. She couldn’t call for help, but there had to be some other way out of this. But ... how? If the amethyst man and pain-eyes man were any indication, they had been kidnapped by paranormal rogues.

  “Now ...”

  She looked back to the showman, the apparent ringleader of this ... whatever this was. He had stepped up onto a dirty crate so that everyone could see him, the enhanced bimbos lingering on either side, a hand placed on each thigh to steady him.

  “I know we got off on the wrong foot here, but ...” He spread his arms wide, his hands reaching toward the grimy ceiling. “Rejoice! Rejoice, my friends! For you - have - been - chosen!”

  Dear, God ... her prayer continued.

  How? How had she ever thought that His angels could ... that God would employ such ...

  “The Church of the Seven Stars has shared our truth with you!” he brayed. “Your gods of old have returned! Like Thor and Hercules and Ara Tiotio before us, we have been reborn to this Earth because its people are in need! Need of us!”

  Mia looked around. Some of her fellow captives looked as skeptical as she felt, but she saw several who were clearly buying into this b.s. And really, why wouldn’t they? Hadn’t they all embraced a church that taught everything the comb-over man was saying? She, at least, had placed her own filter, deciding they were angels rather than gods, but in the big scheme, even she had fallen for it; it made her blush in shame.

  The only two who seemed neither joyous nor scared were the Asian man who had saved her from falling and the big guy who helped up the purple man’s victim. Their expressions were just sort of blank.

  Mia wished she could feel as blasé about this as they looked.

  “Rejoice!” the charlatan declared once more. “For we — your gods returned for a new age of grace — have chosen you to be our beloved personal vassals on this Earth!”

  Mia looked around again. Like before, some were recoiling from this “glorious” news, while others looked excited. How could she get out of this? How?

  “Each of you,” he chattered on, “will be personally evaluated for the perfect match, so that when you worship your god, you focus your servitude in the most intimate possible—”

  One of girls who had been crying before started really freaking out, her sobs growing into screams as her eyes widened in terror; Mia suspected she was a victim of prior sexual abuse.

  The showman appeared quite put out by the interruption. Heaving a theatrical sigh, he practically whined, “Adaora, would you please ...?”

  One of the surrounding rogues — a tall, African woman, sporting cropped silver hair and a tasteful pantsuit — nodded and stepped forward.

  The wailing girl panicked, weeping louder, “No! No, please! Please!”

  But all Adaora did was raise a finger to her own lips and release an exaggerated, “Shhh!”

  The girl kept crying, her chest still heaving hard, but in an instant, the volume of her keening dropped to almost nothing, as though a transparent cage had erected around her; she could obviously breathe, she just could not make as much noise. She looked around for help, but those nearest her were either caught up in their own worries or, from the believers, actually giving her dirty looks for the outburst. Only the big guy took a step toward her, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder; she jerked under his touch, but did not withdraw from it.

  That’s why we can’t raise our voices, Mia thought. But how long does it last before it wears off?

  “Okay,” the showman resumed, “okay. All right. I see this is one of those groups.” He shook his head, huge movements from side to side with his brow furrowed, as though filled with deep regret. “We’ve seen this before, from those who don’t understand, don’t respect, what we truly are.”

  The believers shook their own heads, assuring him — in quiet voices — that this was not so; one doe-eyed blonde woman raised her palms toward him in supplication.

  But the showman waved his hands in denial. “No, no, I’m afraid this assemblage has been marked. I’m sorry, truly sorry.” He held up a finger. “But you shall not be forsaken, my children. Not all of you. We shall choose one — one — of you as an example of what happens when you reject the new gods’ blessings. One among you shall show the rest. Besides ...” He smiled, this one less overblown and more toothy. “... you need to know what happens to anyone who might consider tramping off when our backs are turned.”

  A few of the believers collapsed onto their knees, their hands together in submission or wide in devotion, while Mia and the other doubters edged toward one another, huddling for any form of protection.

  “Now ...” The showman clasped his hands, making a display of browsing his selections. “... who shall it be? Hmm? Who among you shall be sacrificed so that the rest may truly understand their proper place in the new order?” He pointed toward the tall Asian woman with the long hair, who stood among the doubters. “You, perhaps?”

  Before the Asian woman could react one way or another, the rogue with the pain-inflicting eyes snapped, “Hey!”

  The showman didn’t miss a beat. “No, no, I don’t think she’ll do at all.” He swivelled his gaze around until he settled again, this time on the lanky young man. “Now, you did cause a stir a little earlier, didn’t you? A little rebellious, perchance?”

  “Wha ...?” the lanky fellow tried, but he had to lick his lips and try again. “What’re you g-going to do to m-me?”

  “Ah! An excellent question! If you will all please direct your attention that way ...”

  Mia had to turn around to see where his sweeping gesture led, but what she found meant little to her. It was a large metal tank of some kind, like a modest, indoor water tower resting at floor level. A closed, hatch-like door faced them, with a rusty wheel that she presumed would open it. A few tubes ran in and out, but none of this told her its purpose.

  On cue, the showman recalled their attention. “You’re probably wondering as to the purpose of this contraption. This ‘way station’ of ours ...” He gestured all around, taking in the whole warehouse. “...served for many years for the breaking down and reconfiguration of stolen automobiles — I believe the colloquial term is ‘chop shop.’ ” He clasped his hands behind his back, as though giving a lecture. “You see, there were times where sanding off a VIN or changing the paint just isn’t enough. Sometimes the autos, especially the fancier models, were marked in some singular way that wasn’t safe to funnel back into circulation. Sometimes they needed to make sure these unique or identifying parts never again saw the light of day ...”

  Mia did not like where this was going.

  “This tank,” he continued with a point of his index finger, “served just this purpose. You see, it has been rigged to give a sort of shower.” His toothy, rapacious grin returned. “A shower of fluoroantimonic acid.”

  The lanky young man looked as though he might faint. “Please ...”

  “What do you say, my good subject?” the showman hissed, his expression sharing aggression and delight in equal measure. He bowed his head as he stared at his intended victim, and part of his comb-over slipped forward onto his forehead. “Have you had a shower today?”

  That, apparently, was a signal of some kind, because two of the male rogues stepped forward; the taller white man just looked intimidating, but the shorter Latino man rolled his neck, cracking it, and all his visible skin thickened and hardened into plates, like a tortoise shell.

  The lanky young man tried to withdraw, but between the believers hurrying to offer him as a sacrifice an
d the doubters wanting to save their own hides, he had nowhere to go.

  Please, God, Mia prayed. Please help us! Please!

  As the shell-armored rogue moved ahead of his partner and reached for their intended victim, the big, handsome guy stepped away from the crying girl and threw a punch. The blow connected, and it did bring the armored rogue up short, but that was all; his exterior was as hard as it looked.

  Those encircled — believers and doubters alike — gasped and moved back as much as their encircling captors would allow.

  The armored rogue snarled up at the big guy — a bizarre sight, given the texture of his face — and threw his own punch. But his effort was stiff and awkward, and the big guy ducked under it, shoving his attacker back.

  The armored rogue’s taller partner stepped around him and raised his left hand. Within seconds, his palm was glowing bright red-hot; Mia could feel the heat from several feet away.

  The taller man with the superheated hand shrugged, and said in a casual, New York accent, “Stand down or I’ll burn your face off, up to you.”

  For a few seconds, the big guy looked like he might take his chances ... then he lowered his fists in defeat.

  “Wise choice, my little drongo!” extolled the showman. “Trust me, the acid shower will be much swifter, and you just volunteered to take your friend’s place!”

  The armored rogue, still snarling, stomped up and seized the big guy by his right arm; the taller man took his left, his searing palm held next to their victim’s ear, just in case.

  Mia felt relief for the lanky young man, but anguish for his handsome savior. Handsome and brave? Or just stupid? She wished she could have had a chance to find out. If only she could have run into him somewhere else, somewhere far, far from this horrible place.

  The big guy’s two escorts marched him forward, toward the “acid shower” tank. A short, plump lady with an abundance of freckles rushed ahead of them and spun the hatch’s wheel without effort; it didn’t even squeak, telling Mia that it was well oiled, and well used. The hatch swung open, and acrid fumes rushed out to taint the warehouse; the astringent odor stung Mia’s eyes and made several of the others gag; even the shushing silver-haired rogue turned her face away and coughed.

  She hoped that the big guy might put up some kind of fight at the last moment — and the man with the searing palm must have thought the same, because he brought it so close to the side of the guy’s head, it was a wonder the heat didn’t set his dark hair on fire. But the big guy offered no such fight. He just stepped over the door’s bottom ledge and into the tank, turning around to face everyone — his expression as placid as before — as the freckled lady moved to push the door shut.

  “No, no!” the showman called. “Thank you, Astrid, but no. I will do the honors, so that our children may see.”

  A second later, a loud clank echoed through the warehouse, and a bright light, like an airport spotlight, turned on behind the showman, throwing him into silhouette. He raised one hand high over his head.

  “Eyes front, please,” he chastised those who were looking back at him, snapping his fingers and pointing toward the acid tank. “After all, this is for your benefit.”

  Mia and the others turned, with reluctance, back to the macabre demonstration that awaited them. The big guy stood within the tank, waiting, far more dignified and calm than Mia would have been. The stark shadow of the showman’s hand reached to just below the bottom of the open hatch; the twisted ringleader wiggled his fingers, made a peace sign, and even offered a Vulcan salute — something even an ardent non-nerd like Mia could recognize. And she thought she heard the bastard giggle under his breath.

  Then the shadow-hand shuddered, as though the showman had suffered a chill, and the shape contorted, lengthening. Mia sneaked a peek over her shoulder, but no, it was not the man’s hand that was changing shape — only its shadow.

  The shadow-hand stretched up toward the tank’s hatch ... and then it slapped the edge of the metal door, slamming it shut! Now on the outside of the hatch, it inched up even further — further than the short showman could have reached without standing on a ladder — until it settled upon the wheel. Wrapping around the rim, as though two-dimensional shadows managed such three-dimensional maneuvers every day, it spun the wheel until the hatch locked into place.

  Slipping further to the right, the shadow-hand turned a dial, then seized the handle of a prominent lever and jerked it down until it rested flat against the wall of the tank.

  A loud gurgling sound thrummed through the air, followed by the chugging of fluid through the pipes. Mia expected to hear the big, handsome guy scream in pain ... but no sounds emerged from within the tank — either it was soundproof, or death came so fast that the victim lacked the time to react; she prayed it was the latter.

  “We’ll just let that wash over him for a minute,” the showman called over the noise in his hatefully cheerful way, “then I’ll open her up and show you the results! We want to impress upon you the reality of your new circumstances!”

  Mia wanted to physically turn away, but feared how the showman would react if she did. Still, she shifted her gaze to the side, not wanting to see what awaited them when the “shower” finished and the hatch was opened ...

  The Asian man who caught her when she stumbled was fidgeting with his belt buckle, probably his own way of expressing his nervous dread; with his back to the showman, another captive directly in front of him, and his shoulders hunched forward, it was as safe a distraction as any.

  But then she saw that he was actually taking the buckle apart, his fingers (she noticed for the first time that his hands were covered in horrid burn scars) twisting and snapping different components into position. When he finished, the “buckle” was revealed as ... she wasn’t sure what it was. It looked, of all things, like a sort of crude, hodgepodge tiara. And sure enough, he craned his neck further forward and slipped the object onto his forehead in one casual motion.

  Then she realized he was talking to himself in a low voice, barely audible over the pumping of the pipes, even though she was standing right next to him.

  “... shadow manipulation,” he was saying. “Leave him to S.S. Only two unknowns left, assume Class One. I’ll cue you.”

  Under normal conditions, Mia might have been curious as to what that meant, might have whispered questions to the man with the burned hands, but she felt she had reached the limit to what she could process, how many new unknowns she could absorb. A sense of numbness was settling over her like a shroud, and she welcomed it.

  The showman’s shadow-hand raised the lever, and the pipes quieted. The shadow then wrapped around the wheel once more and spun it ...

  “Now, now,” the showman scolded as several of his captives averted their faces, “you must look upon this, my children! You must see.” Then, in a less “carny” voice, one that sounded more like it belonged to a petulant bully, he added, “If any of you refuse to look, I’ll throw your asses in there next!”

  Mia looked. What else could she do?

  The shadow-hand slipped onto a grip-handle along the hatch and pulled, withdrawing as the door drifted open and the showman’s spotlight turned off. As the horrid smell, worse than ever, washed over them, the armored man took a step forward, not shocking Mia at all that he was eager to see what was left of the courageous man who dared stand up to him ...

  But when the hatch eased all the way open, they were not greeted by a pile of sizzling bones — or worse, a writhing mass of still-living organic goo, as Mia’s darkest imagining had predicted.

  Instead, the big guy huddled in the center of the tank — his head down, his hands held together as though scooping a drink from a mountain stream, and every stitch of clothing burned away ... but very much alive, and seemingly unharmed. The floor of the tank was indeed steaming a bit, but not him.

  “What ... the ... hell?” the showman muttered behind her, the least boisterous words to leave his mouth yet.

  The armored
rogue stepped closer, his own bafflement clear.

  Then the big, handsome, now-naked guy raised his head, stood up, took a step forward and out of the tank ...

  ... and threw his cupped handful of acid into the armored rogue’s face.

  The rogue screamed. His armored skin held its own, the acid only scouring shallow grooves as it ran off, leaving trails of putrid smoke behind. His eyes, on the other hand, were not so protected, and he pawed at them even as he doubled over in agony.

  A gasp of shock escaped both captors and captives, each group taking a collective step back — except for the man next to Mia, who held his ground as best he could.

  Then the taller man with the searing palm rushed forward, slapping his glowing left hand against the big guy’s exposed chest. The big guy did not react at all, but the taller man did — enough acid remained on the naked man’s skin to force him to cringe and jerk away, leaving not even a hint of a burn on his “victim’s” skin.

  Then the big guy spat a mouthful of acid at the taller man. He missed his target’s eyes, but got enough on his cheeks and neck that his screams joined those of the armored rogue.

  The big guy spat again, this time more like he was ejecting a horrible taste than pressing his offensive, and placed one hand on the hunched, armored rogue’s shoulder and the other against the taller man’s chest ...

  ... and, seeming to barely flex his muscles, he shoved each of them away with such force, they sailed toward the opposite walls of the warehouse. The taller man’s cries cut short when he struck the concrete, while the armored rogue — still wailing in pain — broke nearly all the way through his wall to the outside.

  “Reginald!” the showman roared. “Reginald!”

  As the big, naked guy stepped toward them, “Reginald” puffed out his chest and did his sideways-blink thing. The big guy halted his approach — whereas neither the acid nor the burning palm had affected him, his face cringed in pain against this assault.

  “Lieutenant,” he said through clenched teeth but an otherwise calm voice, “a little help?”