Spirit Breaker

by William Massa

  The table rammed into Talon and sent him flying. A nearby gated-up storefront filled his field of vision, followed by the inevitable teeth-chattering impact. Metal creaked as he crumpled to the ground, and he exhaled sharply. The armor had cushioned the fall somewhat, but he sensed this was merely the beginning of his opponents’ new strategy. Who knows what else these ghosts might throw at him?

  Firing non-stop, he scrambled back to his feet. As he looked up, Talon saw the Reaper looming right in front of him. The unholy master of the spectral horde had arrived.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CASCA SHOVED THE door open and burst into the foggy night. The driver had as instructed pulled the mobile command center right up to the JC Penney’s main entrance. The billionaire had activated both his necro-helmet and ecto-rifle, and his body was burning up with adrenaline.

  Strange to feel so alive when he was about to face the dead.

  Adira appeared on his side, the vibration of her own weapon cutting the silence of the night. He’d read up on the parapsychologist soon after his meeting with Dr. Mason and had found her backstory fascinating. Here was a woman who had survived a haunting that destroyed her entire family. But instead of letting her experiences crush her spirit, she’d risen above past trauma and remade herself. From the easy way she handled the rifle, Casca guessed she hadn’t spent the last few years exclusively with her head buried in books.

  He barreled toward the entrance, Adira trailing him. Rifles leading the way, they barged into the mall and navigated the deserted department store. They made sure to stay close to each other and cover each other’s backs. Every successive step brought them closer to the moment when they’d confront the Lightwalker’s army of spirits.

  As they advanced, Casca’s mind kept turning to that day in the library when the cult leader took his sister’s life. He’d caught a glimpse of a dark shape among the aisles of books. A shifting silhouette of pure blackness, almost as if someone had carved a hole into the very fabric of reality. That defining incident had been his first and only tangible experience of the supernatural.

  He was about to receive a refresher course.

  His courage surprised him, but Talon needed help. The Delta Operator was formidable, but this was a fight he could not win alone.

  Three minutes later, the main plaza jumped into view and Casca spotted the first entity. His heart raced and his whole reality narrowed to that one detail: the shrieking spirit whirling toward them at breakneck speed. Rifle leveled, he pulled the trigger, and the magnetic wave obliterated the inhuman attacker.

  The thrill of his first spectral kill gave way to fear as more airborne entities zeroed in on him. He kept firing away at the incoming enemy while he combed the plaza for Talon. Where was the Operator?

  “Watch out!” Adira’s voice boomed over his helmet’s speakers.

  Casca spun around and saw one of the ghosts coming right at him. Fortunately, Adira vaporized the entity before it could embed itself into his flesh.

  He let out a sigh of relief and continued to blast the ghosts. Two dispersed, providing a clear view of Talon up ahead. He was pressed against a gated storefront, a dark silhouette closing in on him. Was it the Reaper?

  Casca pointed at Talon, and Adira’s voice crackled again over his mic. ”I see him too!”

  They both rushed toward Talon, blasting away. The semi-translucent figure descending on the man shattered under their sustained efforts. Casca knew it was merely a brief victory. Within seconds, the mass murderer’s ghost would begin the process of regenerating itself. They’d been lucky thus far, but it was impossible to sustain this effort.

  The three of them started to draw closer, ecto-rifles firing non-stop. They faced an enemy that would never grow tired, never grow weaker in numbers, never would give up.

  We will not make it out of here, Casca realized.

  Unless…

  His eyes combed the food court and landed on a can of spray-paint that one of the cultists must’ve dropped right next to where his body had fallen. It gave him an idea. He yelled into his mic, “I have a plan. Let’s form a circle, keep your backs to each other.”

  He sensed the Delta Operator’s hesitation, but the soldier knew from experience that even a bad plan was far better than no plan at all.

  “Talon, I need your pendant.”

  The Operator quickly tossed him the amulet but never stopped blasting away at the enemy. The billionaire draped it over his neck and said, “Cover me and stay close!”

  He jumped forward, scooped up the can of spray-paint and drew a red circle around them.

  “What are you doing, Casca? This is a hell of a time for a goddamn art project.”

  “Glad to hear your sense of humor is still intact. You guys have to trust me on this. Make sure to stay within the circle.”

  Casca had studied the occult for more than a decade. He had internalized its mysteries but only personally dabbled with ritualistic magic on a handful of occasions. Praying that he wasn’t signing their death sentences, he whispered the words required to activate the protective circle’s power. The incantation flew from his lips as he quickly drew four ancient Sumerian symbols inside the circle. Once done, the next step was to etch out a pentagram, a perfect replica of the pendant he now wore. Pentagrams had been a symbol of good until Satanists had perverted the symbol by inverting it in the name of the darkness.

  One of the first things Casca had learned was that not all magic was evil. There were rituals that tapped into the darkness but others channeled the light. Up until right now, most of his occult knowledge had been of an intellectual nature. It was time to test his expertise in the field. How he wished he could’ve done so without a lethal swarm of phantoms swirling around him—but sometimes necessity was the kick needed to turn theory into practice.

  He’d almost finished reciting the spell when one of the ghosts circumvented the magnetic blasts from Talon and Adira’s ecto-rifles and surged right at him. Did the specter sense what he was up to?

  Adira stepped in front of the ghost, buying him precious seconds. As the spirit flung her out of the circle, he mouthed the last words of the incantation.

  The protective circle lit up.

  Three more ghosts charged, but they violently recoiled upon hitting the circle’s perimeter. It was almost as if an invisible force field was warding them off, the magical power of the circle activated. Even though he couldn’t make out Talon’s features, he knew the man was staring at from him behind the helmet. How would he adapt to the idea that his general was dabbling with the very forces they’d sworn to battle?

  Their momentary victory was bittersweet. He couldn’t pull his gaze from Adira’s motionless form sprawled next to the dead cultists on the ground.

  There was no time for grief as more specters made a go at them. The ghosts repeatedly dashed against the magical ring, and each time the power of the circle repelled them. They were unable to penetrate the barrier.

  At least for now.

  Casca wasn’t sure for how long the circle would maintain its magic under such a sustained pounding. His gut told him it wouldn’t be for much longer.

  “There are too many,” he said to Talon. “They’re going to break through any...”

  The barrage suddenly stopped.

  The specters froze.

  For a moment, Casca wondered what was going on. The keening shrieks on his necro-helmet were now replaced with another sound: the deafening prop wash of an incoming helicopter and the wail of sirens. The police had arrived. And the officers were about to walk into a supernatural ambush. They weren’t prepared for what they’d find in the mall. How many cops were about to lose their lives?

  The ghosts were pulling away from the circle, gearing up for their next assault. Their terrible mass suicide had turned the cult into an unbeatable weapon—a weapon about to be targeted against the hapless officers entering the mall.

  Footsteps echoed in the dark.

  The Lightwalker approached th
e circle. He was wise enough to keep his distance, just beyond the reach of Talon’s grasp. The bastard knew exactly how close he could get to them. Ghosts swirled around his form, the air shimmering with inhuman energy.

  The Lightwalker turned toward him, their eyes meeting.

  Casca immediately realized that powering this many spirits was taking a heavy toll on the psychic. Cataracts had formed around bloodshot eyes, and his skin was wrinkled and loose, aged beyond his years.

  The Reaper is consuming his life force, Casca thought. Draining him like a battery.

  How much longer before he’d burn out for good?

  His heart sank when he realized the Lightwalker’s weakened state wouldn’t prevent what was about to happen next. The psychic had found Talon’s machine pistol and was now pointing the weapon right at them.

  “Maybe your little circle can keep ghosts out,” he said, ”but I wonder how it will fare against bullets.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ADIRA’S EYES SNAPPED open. Reddish darkness enveloped her. After a panicked moment, she remembered that the visualization system of her helmet was active and she was staring up at the mall’s skylight, occasional entities zipping through her field of vision. They’d lost interest in her now that their master had arrived.

  Adira should have been dead. A normal person would’ve succumbed to the spectral invasion of her body. But she’d never been quite normal. According to the Nexus Foundation’s battery of PSI tests, she qualified as a level-2 psychic. In comparison, someone like the Lightwalker had to score over 10 on the tests. But her abilities, slight as they might be, had probably saved her life as a teenager. Even though her psychic perception was weak and she still required the necro-helmet to see the dead, she’d been able to catch brief glimpses of the entity that had taken hold of her father. She’d seen enough to know that her father hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger that day, that ghosts were real.

  Later, once she’d learned more about anomalous phenomenon, she wondered whether she’d been indirectly responsible for the haunting. Had her psychic energy activated the spirit the same way the Lightwalker now powered the Reaper? The discovery had been accompanied by a crushing sense of guilt. It had sent her on a psychological tailspin that would include a vicious cycle of alcohol and drugs. But she’d overcome the past and sworn to find redemption at the Nexus Foundation.

  She shook off the memories and instructed her brain to focus on the problem at hand. Her peripheral vision revealed a figure striding past her. Dressed in brilliant white but clearly just a man. The Lightwalker. He was inexorably closing in on Talon and Casca, who were huddled close to each other in the protective circle, rifles ready. Ghosts were rippling toward them, but an invisible wall of some kind was deflecting their attacks. Adira was still trying to make sense of it all when the Lightwalker bent down and scooped up the machine pistol Talon had dropped earlier.

  It all came together in her mind. The entities were unable to reach the men, but bullets would.

  She had to stop the Lightwalker.

  And that meant she needed a weapon.

  As soon as the thought slashed through her mind, her eyes fell on the knife of one of the dead cultists.

  Tapping into her last reserve of strength, she crawled toward the downed hoodie. The Lightwalker was talking, but she mentally blocked out his words. Fueled by sheer willpower, she reached the corpse and her fingers tightened around the sickle.

  I can do this. Have to do this!

  She gritted her teeth and willed herself to her feet, muscles screaming in protest in an excruciating effort. One weak step at a time, she closed in on the psychic whose back remained turned toward her.

  He must’ve sensed her approach at the last moment. He turned, but by then it was too late. Before he could shoot Talon and Casca, before he could even cry out, Adira brought the sickle down on the Lightwalker. The white fabric of his hoodie turned crimson. A beat later, the cold metal of the machine pistol dug into her face.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A SHOCKED TALON stared at Casca through the view-screen of his necro-helmet. The system’s red tint gave the billionaire a demonic quality, an impression further enhanced by the guttural words of the incantation. Talon couldn’t believe it. The man he’d come to trust was using the same occult forces they were supposed to protect the world from.

  The insight made him lose his focus for a second, and one of the ghosts broke through their defense. The entity went straight for Adira. The wail of the damned drowned out her screams as the corpse-like spirit hurled her out of the protective circle.

  Talon’s gut clenched and his lips tightened into a hard line as the ghost buried itself inside Adira’s body.

  He blasted the entity, knowing full well it was a futile effort. The darkness had found another victim. There’d been so many, but he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Not now. Not here.

  The other spirits hovered above them, ever-shifting, endlessly breaking down and reforming as they slithered through the air. More specters attacked but bounced back before they could make contact. The ring Casca had drawn on the ground had conjured some invisible force that was stopping their advance. What sort of magic was the billionaire tapping into?

  The answer would have to wait. The Lightwalker was approaching the circle, sporting the machine pistol Talon had dropped earlier. His eyes glittered with deadly intent as he spoke. He was about to squeeze the trigger when Adira came into view behind him, sickle in hand.

  A feeling of relief washed over Talon

  She is alive.

  The curved knife in her hand slashed out at the psychic. Talon saw his opportunity to make a move. Ecto-rifle blazing, he stepped out of the circle and surged for the Lightwalker. The psychic was about a second away from pumping a round into Adira when Talon attacked. His first punch aimed for the psychic’s wound.

  The Lightwalker let out a piercing wail as Talon’s fist found the bleeding knife wound. The psychic stumbled backward while he stitched his surroundings with lead. Bullets chopped mortar and punched through the dead cultists. Both Talon and Adira hit the ground, bullets sizzling overhead.

  As soon as the barrage ceased, Talon followed Adira’s earlier example and snatched a sickle from one of the dead cultists. Armed, he launched back to his feet and faced the Lightwalker. The psychic tossed away the empty machine pistol, lips twisting into a snarl as his sickle shot out at Talon, cutting the air inches away from his face. The next blow Talon parried with his own sickle, steel kissing steel. He lunged forward, knife out, pushing the psychic back. Suddenly a dark silhouette shot out of the cement floor, blocking the psychic from harm.

  The Reaper had joined the fight.

  The thrust meant for the Lightwalker cut through the entity’s translucent, unstable form. The Reaper lunged at him, and the resulting electrical discharge between ghost and necro-armor catapulted Talon a few feet back. Shaken, he barely maintained his balance and went into a combat stance. He tried to sight down the Reaper with his ecto-rifle, but the Lightwalker’s sickle whistled toward him from another angle. Servant and Master, the living and the dead attacking at the same time from separate directions, both joining forces in a combined effort to destroy their new enemy.

  The knife in Talon’s right hand blocked the Lightwalker’s sickle while his other hand blasted the Reaper backward with repeated shots from his ecto-rifle. Howls of agony filled his helmet as the magnetic waves drove the Reaper back and vaporized the living shadow.

  No time to celebrate as the Lightwalker lashed out at him once again. Already dark contours grew visible nearby as the Reaper reconstituted itself. This entity was unstoppable!

  Tendrils of energy engulfed his armor. But this time the suit failed to protect Talon. The Reaper held on with all its might, the ever-shifting form refusing to let go. The dead mass murderer’s horrific visage loomed mere inches before Talon, a withered, flayed bonemask that recalled the skeletal visions he’d had back in Mexico City.


  Talon felt the suit succumbing to the entity’s sustained efforts. Cracks appeared, and then pieces of armor began breaking off. A keening shriek filled his helmet, the rage of the Reaper given full expression. Talon’s armor ripped and the chest plate hit the ground in an explosive spray of metal and circuitry. Other spirits, emboldened by the Reaper’s success, pulled on Talon’s arms and legs. They clung to the armor despite the waves of agony it must have triggered in their vibrating spectral forms. More armored plating snapped off and clattered to the ground, the skintight bodysuit shredding.

  Spent, Talon joined his shattered necro-suit on the stone floor. Fully exposed now. Vulnerable. The remaining armor hung from his battered frame in tatters. The next attack would penetrate flesh.

  The band of spirits tightened around him. Talon braced himself for the inevitable.

  But then the specters froze. Almost as if some invisible force had snapped them back in mid-attack. The hands of the nearest ghost were still reaching for his exposed chest. The Reaper and his spectral forces hung in the air as if in suspended animation.

  There was only one possible explanation.

  Casca.

  Talon whirled toward the billionaire. His benefactor’s left arm was drenched in blood, a red sickle in his other hand. His features remained invisible under the helmet, but Talon knew he still had to be mouthing the guttural words of some ancient incantation.

  The protective circle had only been the first step. An effort designed to buy Casca enough time to complete the real ritual—one that required an offering of blood.

  And it wasn’t over yet.

  The specters began to rush toward the stunned Lightwalker. One by one, the entities slammed into him like sizzling bolts of lightning. A scream erupted from the psychic’s mouth and echoed across the plaza.