Adira eyed him curiously. “You’ll be taking conventional weapon along?”
“Your toys sound great, but they won’t do much good against the Lightwalker and his killer cult.”
Adira didn’t flinch. Talon wished he knew what was going through her mind. Judging from the expression in her face, she was beginning to realize that he didn’t plan on taking any prisoners in the upcoming conflict. Could she be trusted once the bullets started flying and people were dying? Casca seemed to think so. Personally, he wasn’t so sure. Not everyone out there approved of his brand of vigilante justice.
He faced Adira and asked, “So how does one end up tracking spooks for a living?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me how you ended up with a pentagram carved on your chest.”
Touche.
Talon shrugged. “I run into some freaky fellows in my line of work. Most times they’re just trying to kill me. Sometimes they get creative.”
Adira was clearly still mulling this over when Casca interjected himself into the conversation. “What Talon is saying is that there are certain men out there intent on causing death and destruction, men who dabble in the occult and black magic.”
“And you hunt these men?”
“I stop them,” Talon said.
“I see. Sounds dangerous.”
Talon shot a playful grin at his benefactor. “The job comes with a pretty good medical plan. Isn’t that right, Casca?”
The billionaire rolled his eyes.
“Okay, your turn. How did you get into all of this?”
Adira’s lip stretched into a thin line before she said, “You ever see the Carterville House Horror?”
Talon searched his memory and shrugged. His day job nowadays was hunting nightmares but ironically enough he’d never been a big fan of thrillers. “I’m more of a comedy guy.”
“That makes two of us.” She paused for a beat before she said, ”The movie follows a pretty basic formula: Family moves into haunted house and weird stuff happens. Eventually the evil spirit possesses the husband and he murders the wife, two of the kids, and ultimately eats a bullet.”
“That’s probably why I skipped it. I like my movies to have a happy ending.”
“Then you’ll be glad to hear that one person made it out of alive. The teenage daughter survived the haunting.”
Talon searched Adira’s face, taken aback by the hollow tone in her voice.
“The movie was based on a true story,” Adira said, her voice drained of all emotion.
For a moment, Talon just stared at the parapsychologist, the enormity of what she was telling him sinking in.
“I’m sorry. How..?”
“They said my dad lost it. His schizophrenia made him see visions, hear voices. But I was there. I saw the thing that took hold of him.”
Adira turned back to the monitors, her hands trembling. The conversation was over.
He eyed Casca, who confirmed the tale with a nod of his head. All three of them were victims of paranormal evil. Survivors. That was why Casca thought she could be trusted. In her own way she was working toward protecting innocent lives from the supernatural.
Adira’s expression softened. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have unloaded like that…”
“No worries,” Talon said. “I understand where you’re coming from. To fight monsters, you have to know they’re out there.”
Adira searched his face and nodded slowly, a newfound understanding between them.
The mobile command center came to a halt. They’d arrived at their destination.
He shouldered the machine pistol and wrapped a belt with ammo around his waist. “Time to see how your toys hold up in the field.”
“I think I should go with you,” Casca said.
“I appreciate that, but trust me—it’s a real bad idea. You’re not trained to fight killers.”
“You could use some back-up.”
“I know you practice martial arts and probably hit a shooting range once or twice a month. But this is the real deal. This is war.”
There was a beat between them, and Casca finally relented. Talon snatched the ecto-pulse rife and slipped the necro-helmet over his head. The scent of synthetic foam filled his nostrils. The weight and feel of the helmet added the surreal sensation that he was indeed entering a warzone.
He headed for the exit of the black command bus. Outside, a heavy mantle of late-afternoon mist enshrouded the Regional National Mall. The monolithic structure extended like a malignant growth from the fog. Facing the haunted mall vividly brought back the horror of the other night.
You’re crazy to do this all over again.
He suppressed his natural flight response. Doubt and fear were part of being human. Every time he’d parachuted into a warzone or closed in on a heavily fortified enemy position, nagging doubts had manifested themselves. The trick was to train your mind to not pay attention to them.
I must be a sucker for punishment, he thought as he sprinted toward the mall, mist weaving around him. The helmet amplified his breathing. Decked out in the imposing necro-armor, he looked like a futuristic soldier heading into battle on an alien world.
One way he overcame combat anxiety was to focus on the mission and not the danger. He risked his life for a reason. He was making a difference. Each time he faced a new cult, he was, on some level, avenging Michelle all over again. But even more importantly, he wanted to prevent other victims from meeting a similar fate. He’d joined the military because he knew this was a big, bad world that needed people willing to put themselves in harm’s way to make it a better place.
The massive department store jumped into view. Ready for the next step, he removed a grappling gun from his belt, targeted the roof, and pulled the trigger. There was an explosive hiss from the CO2 cartridge, and the anchor shot toward the roof’s ledge. The rope paid out, and the steel claw latched around a cooling pipe with an audible clang. He tested the rope, making sure it was securely anchored, and proceed to scale the wall with quick, powerful strides. The suit slowed him down a bit, but he was used to carrying armor.
A minute later he stood atop the roof and shifted his focus to the large skylight before him. Jagged holes perforated the glass and offered a shadowy view of the mall’s main plaza.
He peered through the cracked wounds in the skylight and scanned the ground below. There were no signs of the cultists, and the helmet wasn’t detecting any spectral activity.
Lets just hope this thing works, he thought.
He secured the rope and activated the ecto-pulse weapon. The hum of energy bashed the night. Gloved hands closed around the rope, and he carefully lowered himself through the maw of broken glass that jutted out like the teeth of some beast, his armor protecting him from the sharp edges. Rappelling to the main plaza, a crimson darkness enveloped him.
The helmet’s ecto-spectral viewing system amplified the post-apocalyptic feel of his surroundings, and he struggled to shake the feeling that he was descending into the depths of Hades itself.
Within seconds, his combat boots touched down on the ground. Machine pistol out and ecto-rifle powered up, he was prepared to rapidly switch between the two weapons if the situation called for it.
The red darkness waited.
“All clear. Not picking up any signs of the—”
He broke off, having noticed something strange. The floor was covered with lumpy shapes. Almost as if someone had dumped military sandbags across the mall’s main plaza.
“What is it?” Casca voice crackled over the comm in his helmet.
Talon approached the first shape and went stock-still. He suddenly knew what he was looking at and his stomach lurched. What he’d initially mistaken for sandbags were the bodies of the cult members, features obscured by their hoodies even in death. A feeling of dread slashed through him. He was standing at the center of a mass graveyard.
He kneeled before the first dead cultist. A wide-eyed stare greeted him from beneath the hood as Talon t
urned him over, the dead man’s neck coated red. He had opened his own throat with the crimson-caked sickle that lay on the floor next to his body. Looking more carefully at the corpse’s arms, he noticed familiar tattoos. The same strange circle with triangles Casca had shown him earlier.
The mark of the necromancer.
The broken forms of the Lightwalker’s followers lined the plaza as far as he could see. The colossal loss of life, the inherent madness in the act—it all revolted him. But San Francisco had taught him that mass suicide could power occult ritual. So what purpose could this terrible sacrifice serve?
A shrill beeping broke him out of his thoughts, and he realized the EMF reader in his right glove was picking up some crazy readings.
“Talon, what the hell is going on?” Casca’s words were drowned out by sharp bursts of static that quickly built into a bone-chilling, keening shriek.
Something was out there in the dark.
Something that regarded him as an intruder.
“Talon!”
He didn’t respond, every fiber of his being focused on the shifting mass of shadows before him. His breath clouded before him as blurry shapes separated from the encroaching darkness and appeared in the visualization system of his helmet. There was swirl of rapid, staticky motion as, one after another, spectral silhouettes grew visible. They vibrated toward him, closing in from every direction, too many to count or keep track of.
He performed a 360-degree scan of the plaza—ghosts everywhere he looked. Pallid monsters, eyes like pits, now pouncing toward him at predatory speed, moving in staccato bursts. The incoming specters fazed in and out, a rapidly approaching swarm. The air charged, crackling with spectral static.
The Reaper wasn’t their only problem any longer. The bastard now commanded an army of the dead!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SCREENS INSIDE the Comm Center exploded with spectral activity. Ghosts were homing in on Talon’s position from every direction.
“If you guys have any helpful advice, now would be the time to share it.”
Talon’s voice filled the mobile command center, a trace of fear in his tone. The Delta Operator had stared death in the face on more than one occasion, but engaging a swarm of spirits clearly wasn’t something they’d covered at Fort Bragg.
Adira clutched the edge of the console. She’d never experienced anything like this before. Back at the Santa Ana crash site, one apparition had been enough to send shivers of terror up her spine. Talon now faced about twenty of them, all weaponized by the Lightwalker’s psychic power. The necro-armor and weaponry were designed to give Talon a fighting chance against the Reaper. With the help of Dr. Mason’s Spirit Breaker technology, he might be able to hold his own against one entity. No way in hell would he stand a chance against this army of wraiths. The entities were just too fast, too powerful for one man to successfully ward them off and not succumb to their overwhelming numbers.
“He needs our help,” Casca said. He turned toward her. “Tell your driver to bring us closer to the mall. I’m going in.”
“You’ll get yourself killed.”
“What about Talon? If we don’t help him, he’s done for.”
Adira nodded and palmed her mic. “Steve, pull up to the main entrance of that JC Penney.”
The next words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “I’m coming with you.”
Casca eyed her with surprise as the mobile command center burst into motion and shot toward the shopping center. Adira knew it was suicide, but if the billionaire was willing to risk his life, she couldn’t stay behind. There were no spare suits though fortunately they had a few extra rifles and helmets.
We’ll see them coming—and might be able to hit a few— but we’re going to be completely exposed, she thought, her heart pounding. The spirits they failed to stop would just pass through them and kill them instantly upon contact. What they were about to do was completely insane. Was this billionaire just an egomaniac with a death wish? And why was she following along with his madness?
Chan jumped up from the comm center’s flashing screens, a disturbed expression etched into his face.
What was it now?
“We have another problem. The Ampton police scanners are going nuts. Sounds like the whole precinct is about to descend on this mall. All units are being rerouted.”
Almost as if to lend weight to Chan’s words, sirens filled the night. The first cops were closing in.
“What’s going on?”
Casca’s eyes glittered with dark realization. “This is what it’s all been about,” he said. “The copycat murders, going after Benson, gathering a new following. The Reaper is repeating the past.”
Casca was echoing her earlier words. The Reaper was about to relive the confrontation that had cost him his life. But this time around, he’d have a horde of spooks at his disposal—and the outcome of the battle would be quite different.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE ECTO-PULSE rifle hummed with power as Talon lined up one of the ghosts in its cross-hairs and squeezed the trigger.
Here we go!
No laser beam or projectile shot out of the weapon’s muzzle. Instead, an invisible magnetic wave warped and distorted the spirit’s shape before obliterating it into whirling tendrils of energy.
There was no time to marvel at the rifle’s power. More specters were zeroing in on his position, and Talon unleashed a firestorm of ecto-sonic destruction. He kept moving as he fired, desperate to break out of the tightening band of ghosts. For each spirit he destroyed, two new ones took its place. How to escape an enemy that wasn’t bound by space? An enemy that couldn’t be killed – because it was dead already. Even though the magnetic waves tore the spirits apart, they’d be able to reconstitute themselves seconds later.
Talon was no stranger to overwhelming odds. There had been many a close call back in Afghanistan when it appeared the Taliban would overrun his team. Superior firepower and training counted for a lot, but being outnumbered by an endless stream of enemies would break the strongest fighting force in time. But at least the terrorists had been flesh and blood. Facing the dead was fraught with existential terror that easily invited despair.
The air rippled, and a phantom materialized to his right. The entity tore into Talon, but unlike the attack by the Reaper the other night, it wasn’t able to pass through his body. His necro-armor lit up with sizzling energy as the apparition made contact. The ghost reared back, its howl reverberating over the helmet’s speakers. The shrieking voices of the dead cultists cried out in unison, a dirge of the damned. Talon wished he could just kill the audio and shut out the unnerving sounds. Seeing these lost souls was bad enough; having to listen to their unearthly cries was unbearable.
He retreated, blasting away, more machine than man as he carved a path through the ghostly horde. Two spirits burst from the floor and attacked. The armor repelled them, but the impact sent him flying. He banged into the ground, his helmet cracking against the stone surface.
Reality frizzed out for a second as the para-spectral visualization system went offline. For one blissful moment, his view-screen turned dark—the ghosts vanishing from view, the keening cries dying down. The spirits were still present but invisible to his senses, a welcome illusion of being alone in the now eerily quiet plaza.
The respite from the ghostly onslaught didn’t last as the system came back online and a phalanx of fast approaching specters invaded his reality. They may have succeeded in hurtling him to the ground, but the necro-armor was holding its own. He remembered all too well how the Reaper had dragged Benson’s frame across the ceiling. These ghosts could pass through matter—enter his body, stop his heart, or toss him around like a ragdoll. This suit was saving his ass. Imagine an entire strike force outfitted in Spirit Breaker technology. A group like that would demolish any supernatural threat they encountered. Then again, maybe that was Casca’s plan all along when he’d invested in the Spirit Breaker technology.
Talon cut a hasty retreat into the food court’s maze of bolted down tables and chairs. The spirit shimmered after him, passing through solid objects as if they weren’t there, unaffected by the material world.
Within seconds the entity was upon him, bony hands reaching.
Talon’s gloved fist snapped out in a punch. Instead of slipping through the immaterial assailant, it made contact with the ghost. A shock wave of white-hot energy erupted on impact.
Talon stumbled backward. Sensed movement above him. He looked up and saw a specter suspended in mid-air. A pallid, cadaverous monster, its features blurred. The vague impression features: a mouth like raw a wound, eyes like black marbles.
He brought up the ecto-rifle.
Fired.
A burst from the weapon seemed to decapitate the entity in mid-descent, the ghostly body crumpling.
One thing was for certain—the specters were noticeably slower than the Reaper. If the ghosts drew power from the Lightwalker, perhaps powering so many of these entities was taking its toll on him. If the psychic’s energy was now dispersed among too many ghosts, it offered a glimmer of hope. Maybe, if he could hold them back long enough, this army of the dead might exhaust the cult leader.
Of course, that gave rise to another important question: Where the hell was the psychic?
The sound of creaking metal suddenly cut through the food court, and a series of violent tremors rattled the bolted-down furniture. Steel screamed and an invisible force ripped a table from its anchoring, the spirits combining their energy to manipulate physical reality.
With an ear-splitting screech, the table shot toward Talon. His necro-armor could deflect spirits, but was useless against material objects. The bastards had already adjusted their tactics.
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