by Noah Fregger
The ghoul snapped two more fingers off in his back as it went to flee; but Mohammad threw himself upon it, stabbing it over and over. And he didn’t stop when it ceased its movement, or when the mechanical life had been drained from its face. Not even when he felt the two talons forced from his back as they fell at his knees. No, he continued to kill it until instructed by Gabriel to stop. But even then, he was reluctant.
“That is enough,” Gabriel insisted.
He sank the knife in one last time, then returned to his feet, standing triumphant over the slaughtered ghoul.
“You have succeeded, Mohammad,” the Traveler stated. “We have succeeded.”
He looked up at Gabriel, his breath heavy. “What do you mean?”
“It has begun.”
He wiped the blade on his pants. “Someone pregnant?”
“Yes.” The Traveler nodded. “And now the time has come to bring an end to your vengeance, to make this world a safer place.”
“I’m ready.”
“Good. You have until sunset to have it completed.”
“I’ll have it done before.”
“Very well. And Mohammad … ”
“Yes?”
“The father happens to be someone … you’ve shown special interest in.”
33
Death … Redefined
Jackson enjoyed the silence, the privacy, alone with the night and the fire. The wind was his carrier pigeon during the times when the world was thick with stillness. It brought him the occasional gunshot somewhere off in the distance, even the voices of those remaining miles away. With rifle propped up against his chair, he was standing the watch, tentative and alert. The fire gracing his fingertips, he watched the pink sun as it began to creep its way over the far mountains–a new morning on the horizon. He’d be having another weekly meeting with Caleb in just a few more hours–nothing new to disclose, however. All seemed to be reaching its rightness in the world again, at least as right as it could be.
But both brothers soon came out to join him, offering their company as well as the addition of their everyday antics.
Kyle and Kevin bickered like brothers do, but Jackson sure did enjoy their stories. They had a million of them. How many were actually true, he couldn’t say, but he enjoyed them all just the same.
“Then I was like, ‘Whatever you say, Marsupial!’”
“You didn’t call him a marsupial.”
“Yeah, I did!”
“I was there, Lame-ass.”
“No. You were too busy hookin’ up with that drunk, fat chick.”
They’d been at it for nearly an hour when the only thing that was able to silence them for a moment was the inexplicable poof of smoke from the distinguished fire.
“The fuck?”
“You see that?”
Jackson lit it again, and again it took to the fuel, Kyle throwing in some magazines, turning the flame red.
“Anyways, that chick wasn’t fat. She was hot as shit.”
“Whatever, man. You had some serious beer goggles, then.”
“Hey, at least I was gettin’ some.”
Poof–out again.
“What the fuck, Dude?!”
“I dunno, Man!”
“What kinda magazines you puttin’ in there?!”
“Fuck you! They aint flame retardant!”
The hunter awoke to some commotion outside his window, Kyle and Kevin raising their voices for some unknown reason. The hunter got to his feet, wiping sleep from his face, Victoria pulling the covers back over her.
“Tell them to shut up.” She put the pillow on top of her head.
He went to the window, looking down at the flameless trashcan, the brothers shoving at each other as Jackson rose from his seat.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, stepping into his shoes and pulling on a shirt.
Victoria mumbled something into the pillow just before he shut the door behind him and navigated the blackness of the stairs with the aid of the wall on his right.
This wasn’t the first time he’d had to cool an argument between the two, act as a mediator in order to alleviate an issue.
A splash of color illuminated the floor as he came to it, the sun sending its morning crimson through the glass doors. But no more noise could be heard once he reached it … no more squabbles being emitted from the outside.
All seemed … unusually quiet.
And out into the frigid air, before the gleam of the trashcan, the hunter found Jackson’s rifle still propped up against his vacant chair.
But all three were gone.
“Jackson?” he called.
No answer.
He swiped up the weapon, letting the barrel lead his stride as he rounded the building and called out again. But darkness awaited him beside the black bogeyman threat, far deeper than the mere shadow that lay beyond his bedroom door.
“Hunter,” something whispered. And he fell into it, swallowed whole, as it encompassed every corner of his mind.
The hunter awoke to a cold, concrete surface, his head pounding like a skull full of bricks.
“Boss, wake up!” Jackson was shaking him. “Boss!”
He sat up, placing his head in his palms. “What happened?”
It was either Kyle or Kevin that was jabbering somewhere off in the hazy background, the voice like a hatchet to his already cleaving mind.
“Jackson.” He pointed toward the shrill voice. “Shut him up.”
And Jackson did so, the brother falling silent upon the large man’s stern command.
The hunter, with some difficulty, managed to gain his footing, opening his eyes. He’d been unconscious for a time, now coming to in an entirely different location than last he remembered. “Where are we?” he asked, his vision beginning to clear.
“It’s that fucking factory!” one of the brothers shouted. “That place where we found the last hybrid! How the fuck did we get here?!”
He was right–that corrugate plant from before, the place where Jackson was mauled by that final animal.
“I woke up first,” Jackson began to explain, “and the four of us were placed on our backs, in a circle.”
“Some sick, ritualistic shit!” Kevin shouted. “And what do these fucking hand prints mean?!”
Jackson hushed him again, then looked back at the hunter. “Boss, look around.”
He twisted his head, observing the shadowed factory as streams of daylight still managed to light their surroundings well enough.
Weapons … weapons were everywhere, laying all over the floor at their disposal. The brothers had already armed themselves, pointing the semi-automatics in all directions. And on both of their chests … on both of their chests was a red handprint, a black number on each palm. Kevin was two, Kyle three. Jackson had a handprint, too. He was number five. The hunter looked down, discovering his own, personal handprint. Number six.
“Rick wasn’t our guy, Boss,” Jackson said, arming himself. “Just like he said.”
“Where’s one and four?” Kevin asked. “We’re two, three, five and six.”
“One and four … ” The hunter thought for a moment, his mind beginning to clear. “One and four must already be dead.”
“What?”
“Arm yourselves well, Fellas, while we still have the means to do so.” He swiped up the .45 at his feet, checking the state of its ammunition, when he discovered it was his own, left kindly there for him. But it … it all was his, every weapon around them, each taken from the stockpile in his quarters. He stuck the pistol in his waistband, then picked up a rifle. “Someone in here wants to hunt us, but they’ve given us an advantage.”
“What advantage?” Kyle asked.
“This is sport,” he said. “And besides giving us all the weapons we’ll need to defend ourselves, he’s also shared with us the exact order he’d like to kill us in.”
Kevin looked down, seeming to realize that, in absence of number one, he’d be the first. “Oh shit!”
A peculiar noise then began to resonate through the factory, putting all four on guard–the skillful picking of guitar strings, a melody being played just for them. They all trained their weapons toward the source of the music, a mezzanine claimed by utter blackness … then a voice began to sing, raspy in the execution.
“The man I buried … had a heart of stone. Left him there in the bright light, out on a dirt road. The day you saved me, from shadow and shame. Old things gone. Got a new song. Got a new name.”
The strumming ceased, the sound of the instrument being set aside as something stirred within the heavy shadow. The man stepped out into the light, wrapping his fingers around the railing, the features of his face hidden beneath a dark hood. And in his hand … in his hand was the hunter’s missing hunting knife.
The man lifted his head slowly as terror spilled like molten lava into the hunter’s gut. His face was a skull, the same skull the hunter gave to the flames, the one he watched burn to absolutely nothing.
It was Jackson that opened fire first, screaming something the hunter didn’t recognize, as the rest of them followed suit, lighting up the mezzanine with a volley of gunfire.
“Baron Samedi!” Jackson shouted, just before attempting to kill the Lao of the dead. But what good were bullets against it? Jackson had already been chosen, his number stamped clear on his chest, the same number whispered to him many days prior.
And sure enough the deity vanished before a single projectile could pierce him.
“Stay tight!” Boss shouted. “No one separate!”
Jackson went to throw his back against a steel, yellow fence, sliding the barrel of his weapon through the partition. He shot a couple more rounds up into the darkness, the flashes of white revealing the vacant aisles of the mezzanine.
Baron had moved on.
Boss said one and four were already dead. Since Samedi tricked Boss into killing Rick, he had to be one of the two. But who was the other? No one else was missing.
“Our exit’s on the roof.” Boss pointed up toward the stairway on the mezzanine. “But there’s another way.”
He led them past various machines as they ran further into the factory. Jackson stayed behind Boss, covering him, the twins in stride until Kevin hit the floor, his rifle slamming hard onto the asphalt.
Kevin went to lift himself up, Kyle there with a hand to assist, but their fingers met for only an instant. With a scream, Kevin was yanked between two pillars of flattened board, scratching to hold onto something. But he disappeared. Even his wailing ended just beyond the bend.
Kyle unloaded his weapon between the pillars, shooting at nothing.
Jackson grabbed him by the shirt. “Let’s go!” But Kyle pushed him away, running off in search of his brother. Jackson watched as he snatched another weapon off the floor, calling out to the one who took Kevin.
“Come get me, Asshole!” he shouted. “I’m your number three!”
So Jackson left him to fight the Baron alone. It was an honorable desire. But Kyle was the one death standing between him and Samedi. Jackson was next on that list. So it was in his best interest to either protect him, or to get as far away from Kyle as humanly possible.
He could see the dead-end opening of the boiler room just ahead, the huge rolls of paper standing like redwoods to his left. That’s where Boss was going. There was a hatch in the ceiling, the one they’d climbed through to kill that hybrid lover and his pet. He had to find it again.
Kyle was still out there, shouting threatening obscenities, which was a good sign. The Baron was still detained, still toying with his prey, but surely not for much longer.
Several shots rang out on the factory floor as Kyle’s screaming changed tune, adjusted by the horror of whatever he was witnessing at the moment. His screams seemed to last an eternity, then like some twisted trick of sound, his voice seemed to be coming from one direction one moment, then another the next. This happened multiple times as Jackson tore through the aisles, unsure if the affect was forged from the adrenalin pumping through him, or if it was simply one of the Lao’s many powers.
But the screaming soon ended, the Baron then becoming free to seek out Jackson.
Gunfire then boomed from within the room of rolls, along with the Boss’s yell. Had Samedi skipped him? He pressed himself between two huge, towering cylinders and tucked his body in with the darkness. If he was still and quiet, perhaps Samedi wouldn’t be able to find him there. The place was such a maze, surely even a deity would have trouble navigating it in search of him.
“Five,” it whispered, as if it was his name.
It spoke behind him, but Jackson didn’t turn at the initial sound of the voice. He hung his head instead, knowing his time on this earth was all but over. Still he’d not let a scream cross his lips. He would accept his fate, like those before him.
Jackson knelt to place his weapon on the floor, then turned, putting his weight upon his knees. “I won’t fight you, Baron,” he said. “I know of your power and will not do you the disrespect of running from it.”
“Look at me,” the Lao commanded of him.
Jackson raised his eyes to the dark figure, to the skull that dwelled within the hood.
Samedi lifted his own sleeve, revealing his dark flesh, as he ran the blade across it. His skin split as a result, blood coming to the surface until the wound closed itself again, the Baron smoothing the blood away, no laceration beneath.
“I know what you are,” Jackson lowered his head, “and apologize for what I’ve done to upset you, Baron.” He wrenched his eyes shut, tears forming along his cheeks. “I am ready now.”
The hunter didn’t stop when Kevin hit the floor. His fate would not come to rest on the clumsiness of another. It had slowed the others down, instantly separating him from the group. If they were being hunted, the worst thing would be to stay out in the open. They’d only survived this long because it was sport. The bogeyman wanted a challenge, wanted to savor it. The hunter understood that more than anyone. The hunt was everything.
The number on their chests, as frightening a notion as they might be, were a courtesy given to them. His number gave him the most time. If the other three could survive long enough, he might find the means to either escape, or better yet, beat the bogeyman at his own game.
But based on the fury being emitted by Kyle, Kevin had already met his end.
Something then touched him on the shoulder and he spun, finding the object that collided with him on its journey to the floor. And there at his feet, hacked off at the wrist, was a human hand. The fingers curled inward, the fingernails bloody and busted, the state of the cut amazingly fresh.
Kevin?
But that was impossible. He kicked it into the shadows, continuing onward, his rifle trained ahead until the screams of Kyle came to haunt his surroundings like the woes of a Banshee.
He seemed to be everywhere at once, echoing through the place from every discernible direction … until Kyle’s cries suddenly ceased.
The blood stain of Beetlejuice was just ahead, marking the hatch directly above. Still he needed to find a way up. He split the aisles, finding the same assembly of rolls on the other side, making up a sort of staircase, when a second object came again to collide against him.
The hand of Kyle, falling limp to the floor.
He turned to find the figure standing not ten feet away, the blade at his side drenched in the blood of his men. The hunter yelled, firing as the bogeyman slipped out from beneath his aim. He ran after, cursing at the nothingness beyond the bend.
That left only Jackson.
He rushed back to the stairway and climbed it. Plywood still rested atop the rolls, creating a sturdy floor on which to walk as he reached the ladder to his exit. He unlocked the hatch, thrusting it open, and pulled himself up onto the roof. Rifle at his side, he ran for the rope he hoped was still there … and it was, coiled up at the corner of the building.
But he slowed as he came to it, discovering the bodies
of four men lying out beneath the sun, along with something resting bloody at the peak of its pile.
Jackson’s hand.
The rope itself had been terribly shortened, the end of it tied into a grisly and sinister slip-knot.
It was a trap, the macabre display set out just for him.
“There’s your exit,” a voice informed him as he turned from the noose to fire upon the dark figure. But the bogeyman didn’t move. He stood firm, accepting each bullet as it deflected harmlessly off a violet energy surrounding him. Still the hunter held down the trigger, releasing with only mere bullets to spare.
He lowered the weapon, looking into the vacant eyes of the skull. “What the fuck are you?”
“Death,” the bogeyman answered, “redefined.” He reached up to remove his hood, pulling the mask free from his face.
Beneath it … beneath it were the dark features of a man he swore he’d seen before.
“I know you?” he asked.
“Knew me,” the bogeyman smiled, “well enough to have your boys throw me over the side.” He motioned toward the edge of the building. “After you killed the last hybrid.”
He squinted at him, but it couldn’t be. “Rifle … Rifleman?” the hunter realized. “But you … you were dead.”
“I think you’ll find death becoming rather relative, Hunter.”
“You died.” The hunter pointed a finger at him. “We watched you die.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he offered. “But I was brought back to ensure hybrids have a safer second chance at life.” He revealed the hunter’s knife again as he wiped it off on his clothes. “And I’d say a world without you is a decent start.”
And on the rifleman’s hand, the hunter witnessed some otherworldly device, clearly crafted not of this earth–its origin … elsewhere.
“Aliens,” the hunter said. “Those things brought you back.”