Nightcrawler: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 2)

by J. D. Oliva

  Chris tried to sit up, but his head hit the soft, leather canopy top attached to the truck bed. It hurt his head a bit. One more injury to add to the list.

  His body seemed perfectly nestled between stacks of hard plastic Pelican cases. God knew what was inside them. He reached up to the canopy and saw his hands still locked together. That is a problem.

  BBBZZZZTT—

  Chris felt the phone vibrating. He moved his bound hands to his front pocket and struggled to push his fingers down to reach the iPhone buried in his pocket. Even this simple act is difficult with his wrists locked together. He was eventually able to free the phone. He found a text from Jamie.

  Are you safe?

  Chris pulled the phone up to his face. At least the biding kept his thumbs close together. He pounded out, I don't know. Not sure where I am.

  Three dots flashed in the word balloon. Usually, the waiting period on a text from a girl is exciting for a much different reason. Not today.

  Something is wrong with our friend. He's with Anderson.

  I think THEY got him.

  Chris didn't know what she meant.

  They?

  The three dots flashed and then went away. After a moment, they came flashing back before disappearing. It frustrated him, but he understood Jamie struggling to find the right words. Which couldn't be good. After a minute, a text popped up.

  The worms.

  Chris didn't need to read anything else. If that thing crawled inside the man in black's head, he's as good as dead. But why not kill him when they had him? He was unconscious for how long? Why not end him there, unless they still needed him to be a patsy.

  Or they have other plans for you.

  The thought of one of those things crawling around in his brain was it. He had to get out of there before they stopped the truck. Chris reached over and tried unlocking one of the black Pelican cases, but it didn't budge. Of course, it's locked. Whatever's inside is probably some kind of dangerous weapon. Chris ran his clasped hand across the edges of the case. They weren't really sharp, but they might work to cut the truck canopy. Chris grabbed the handle and thrust it upward. It bounced right off and nearly caught him in the face. Close, but not exactly what he wanted. This time, Chris held the case and tried hacking it downward like a samurai sword, hoping it would catch the leather. Nothing.

  Chris took a deep breath and hacked his arms forward, again and again, hoping the with each slice, the not-so sharp corner would hopefully catch something. But with every swipe, all he heard was the thud of plastic hitting leather. The more he swung, the angrier he got. Still nothing.

  This is a waste of energy. Chris mustered all of his remaining athletic ability, and with gritted teeth, he took one last hack at the canopy. This time, he heard something. The corner finally caught something and tore a hole in the leather so small, that it almost looked like someone jammed a pencil through it.

  It's not much, but it might be enough.

  LVII

  The two masked gunmen said nothing as they drove down Cedar St. Masks still draped over their faces.

  A voice whispered in the back of Jericho's head. It wasn't happy about the FBI agents. But why? It wasn't like this was something he hadn't done a hundred times before. Is it the money that helped him reconcile the action? They weren't used to having to direct so much energy at silencing the voices, but this one is different. It would just require a little extra focus. Anderson wasn't enough. They were going to need another presence. Like an additional antenna to harness their signal.

  You're gonna need it.

  The truck pulled up to a stoplight and took a left turn on to Chocteau Avenue. The truck finally came to a stop at the Mississippi Greenway, a hiking area directly off the riverbank.

  They exited the vehicle, their steps almost in sync as they walked to the truck bed. Jericho paused when he saw the hole torn through the top of the leather canopy. Anderson turned to him and expected an answer, but he knew Jericho didn't have one. If he did, Anderson would already know.

  Jericho grabbed the latch on the tailgate and pulled. The bed was filled with various black cases, but Chris Shane wasn't among them. He was gone.

  LVIII

  Chris heard the Green Beast finally come to a stop. He tore a hole big enough for his hundred and eighty-pound frame to slip through. The choice between waiting for the truck to stop and taking his chances rolling off of a moving vehicle is easy. He hit the ground hard and rolled across the pavement. A little road rash on his arm and a tear in his jeans were no big deal when considering the alternative.

  Chris pulled himself back up to his feet, thanking God the FBI agent, whose name he didn't get, tied his hands in the front instead of behind. Good thing they used a zip tie instead of handcuffs. As tight and secure as zip ties are, they're a lot easier to cut off than a set of metal handcuffs. But he'd worry about that later.

  As the Green F-150 eased on its breaks, Chris started to sprint. He was tired and hungry, wishing he ate a little of that coleslaw before chucking it across the train terminal. He had no idea where he was but could smell the river. The stacks of rocks meant he couldn't be far from the river banks. Chris dove behind a mound of stones and prayed for the second time tonight.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to control his breathing the way his high school wrestling coach taught him. Breathing is central to everything. Breathing too deep or too quickly is a sign of stress which forces the muscles into a state of flexion. Coach Aiello compared it to flexing your muscles and holding the position. After a minute, the body goes into a state of exhaustion, which forces the lungs to take even more breaths, heightening the effect. The opposite, not breathing at all, cuts off oxygen to the brain, again forcing a change to the breathing patterns causing exhaustion. Plus, you're just too damn loud when you breathe like that.

  Chris closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, taking a deep breath, holding for a beat, and slowly exhaling. He felt his heartbeat slow. The palpitations still beat hard, but at least they were under control.

  When his breathing was back in line, Chris carefully peered over the mound, trying to prevent a panic attack. Dad never dealt with his anxiety, and he let it consume him. Chris wouldn't let that happen.

  Both of the worm warriors were out of the truck. Their masks still strapped to their faces. One was defiantly Ethan. Something about his gate, the general way he moved, looked off. Even with that gray neck-sleeve up to his nose, he could tell the other was Anderson. The worms are running the show. Whatever was going to happen to Dennis Reed was going on inside of them now.

  Both had guns drawn, but Chris was certain the bullets weren't for him. If they wanted him dead, they had two chances in the last half-hour to finish the job. They didn't. Watching Anderson scratch his ear, he knew why.

  But what now? He couldn't just sit there behind a bunch of rocks and do nothing. He turned back and saw the river. He could jump in, but then again, he wasn't a great swimmer with both of hands free. He wouldn't do much better with them bound. So what then? He couldn't run down the street. Maybe hiding here is best. For now, anyway.

  Chris peaked over the mound again and saw the twosome getting back in the pickup truck. The beast did a three-point turn in the middle of the empty side street. They're back-tracking, thinking he was still on the road. If he did choose that, it was only a matter of time before they found him.

  Maybe he should turn himself in? He is wanted for a murder he didn't commit. They'd lock him up, but being in jail is probably better than being hunted on the street by whatever the hell those two turned into. Then again, what stops those things from moving on into the prison guards and finding him in there? Nothing.

  There's only one real way to fix this. The Nightcrawler needed to die.

  LIX

  "What?" Nashida asked, having no clue what Jamie just said.

  "Look, yesterday, I didn't believe it either. But my sister did. She was a lot of things, but she wasn't crazy."

  Nashida sti
ll didn't buy it. Looking around at the four dead FBI agents and the one still trapped inside the crushed Camry, she understood why.

  "Ms. Casten, I appreciate your situation. But—"

  "Look, I don't care what you believe or what you don't. Chris Shane might be absolutely insane, but he didn't hurt anybody. If I don't find him, someone else will. I can't let that happen."

  Why she was so loyal to him, Nashida couldn't figure out. Maybe these two were in some kind of relationship? They were about the same age.

  "Fuck," cried a voice from inside the Camry.

  Both Nashida and Jamie raced back to the wreckage where Oroye tried to pull himself out.

  "My head is killing me," Oroye said with blood streaming down his forehead.

  Nashida tried to find his way back inside the death-trap to reach Oroye. "Can you move?"

  "No, I'm stuck." Oroye tried to push his hands against the steering wheel but couldn't budge. "What happened, Andrew?"

  Nashida would let that one slide. "Anderson and our mystery man crashed a truck into us and took Shane."

  "Well fuck."

  Nashida chuckled. All things considered, it is good his partner is still alive and in touch enough to make quips. But neither of them had any clue what kind of internal injuries Oroye might have. Heck, Nashida didn't know if he had any himself.

  "Don't worry, buddy. We got some boys coming to cut you outta there."

  Nashida turned back to Jamie, whose head was buried in her phone. Typical behavior for someone her age, but considering the situation, it seemed a little rude. When he was about to scold her, he realized what she was doing.

  "That's him, isn't it?" Nashida said.

  Jamie put her phone back in her pocket and picked her head up. She had the old Bart Simpson I didn't do it face.

  "Who?' she asked in the most teenage way possible.

  "You're texting Shane."

  "Who's texting Shane?" Oroye shouted from inside the steel trap.

  "My friend, Ms. Casten, over here."

  "Who's that?" Oroye asked again, clearly thinking there was more between them than a thousand pounds of twisted steel.

  Jamie put her hands behind her back and shrugged. The look on her face changed again. Now she looked like a snotty little brat who wasn't going to tell you anything. Nashida hated kids.

  "I'm not doing anything. I was just checking Twitter."

  Nashida didn't need the games. He stomped back over to her and got in her face. She seemed less than impressed.

  "Ms. Casten, you are aiding and abetting a known felon! Are you aware it's a federal offense?"

  "You think I'm scared of prison?"

  "Why? Wanna die inside there like your mother?"

  Her eyes tightened and tried to burn a hole through his soul. Nashida may have overstepped his boundaries with that one.

  "That's exactly why I'm not scared," she said with a curled lip.

  The tension is a little much, even for a by-the-book guy like Nashida.

  "I'm sorry for that," he said.

  She nodded. "It's okay."

  The pleasantries did little to alleviate things.

  "If you know where he is, I need that information."

  Jamie seemed to be weighing the options in her mind. She didn't have any choice in the matter, really. He is an FBI agent, and she had to comply. But it didn't mean Nashida needed to be a dick about it.

  "If I tell you, you can't arrest him. These people are trying to kill him, and I swear to you on my mother's soul, Chris Shane is innocent."

  Jamie stuck out her hand, offering to make peace and a deal. Of course, she had no legal standing to offer such an agreement. But she's just a kid. She didn't understand the situation or what this all meant. All Nashida needed to do is make sure Shane was found tonight.

  "Fine, you have my word."

  LX

  As the truck turned on to Interstate 55 heading west toward downtown St. Louis, Anderson pulled the neck sleeve down so that his face was shown. He looked over to Jericho, confused. They shared a link, but Anderson couldn't understand what his compatriot tried to accomplish. For a moment, he debated pulling the trigger on the Glock, just in case the host had somehow regained control.

  "That won't be necessary," Jericho said.

  Anderson tilted his head to the left, trying to understand what he meant and still unsure why Jericho could read him, but not the other way around.

  "Shane will go to the Chase Hotel."

  "How are you so certain?" Anderson asked.

  "Because that's where I told him to go," Jericho said, with such confidence and bravado that Anderson feared it belonged to the real Jericho.

  Jericho tapped his partner on the shoulder, trying to assuage his concerns. Jericho handed Anderson his phone. There was a text message from Chris Shane.

  I know what you are. We're ending this tonight. Then I'm going fishing. See you at the Chase.

  "Fishing?" Anderson asked.

  "Worms."

  "Ahh. He will not come alone," Anderson said.

  "Who will he go to? He's wanted by the FBI and the Police. He will invite conflict, and we will oblige. If Shane doesn't comply with us, we kill him."

  "In front of the FBI?"

  Jericho put on his left turn indicator and changed lanes. His eyes never left the road. He seemed so focused and self-assured that Anderson still wasn't sure who was actually driving.

  "Yes. If he's dead, this incident is over."

  "And what happens to you?" Anderson asked.

  "You will arrest me, and then your last action as Brian Anderson will be to release me. Then your time as the Nightcrawler will end, and I will take over. I will move on and find our true purpose. Exactly as planned," Jericho reminded the man who supposedly shared his mind.

  That was the plan when Anderson spawned him, but he wondered if that was a mistake. There were often two of them alive at once, but the elder consciousness would fade away in a few days.

  Maybe as Anderson, he felt nervous about his role in the plan. Though their legacy was long and brutal, their individual lives were fleeting. Just a few days on average. Once, they shared a single host for over a month, but that was a long time ago. As of late, a few weeks with a single host seemed to be too much.

  Perhaps, this was Anderson's fear more than the being living inside of him? He couldn't remember ever fearing that before. But looking at Jericho, his hand-picked successor, he couldn't help but fear his decision. Even more, the Nightcrawler feared its control over both of them is starting to slip.

  LXI

  Maybe sending a text message to the person that wants to kill you isn't the best idea.

  Maybe, but it did give Chris time to figure a few things out. Walking the streets, without having to look over his shoulder, and wondering when they were going to find him and try to kill him felt much better. He knew they'd be waiting for him at the Chase. One of America's most famous hotels with the FBI and SLPD present. Of course, maybe he should skip town and let those two forces figure it out on their own. That wouldn't fix his position on the FBI's most-wanted charts, of course.

  Chris walked north up Kingshighway Boulevard with his hands still locked together inside the zip tie. Turns out, he's surprisingly good at sending text messages with his hands like that. At some point, he had to remove the bindings, especially if he planned on fighting back. How he was going to fight back was a different story.

  The Google map showed it was nearly a ten-mile walk from the Greenway to the Chase with an estimated arrival time of three hours. Even if he got there, he'd be exhausted. Forget the importance of breathing, if he walked for three hours in the summer heat, even at night, he'd be wiped out before he got to the Chase. The air was thick and felt almost soupy. Chicago summers are always ridiculously humid, but down here, it's so much worse.

  He could call an Uber, but getting inside with his hands bound might bring up some questions. Plus, there's the whole matter of the app being tied to his credit ca
rd. Not the best way to hide from anyone. Jamie is with the FBI guys. She says they promise not to arrest him, but she's probably a little more naive than she realizes. The second they showed up to help, he'd be back inside a squad car on his way to jail. That wouldn't help either.

  Chris wandered his way up Kingshighway. He wiped the sweat moistening the sides of his temples with his bound hands.

  "Shit!"

  Come on, kid. You know what to do.

  He did. Breaking a zip tie is difficult, but not impossible. It's something that his dad taught him back in Jr. High. Back when Jack Shane had legitimate fears of what could happen to his family. The old man might have been crazy, but he was right about a lot of things.

  Chris pulled his wrist to his mouth and grabbed the end of the tie with his teeth, pulling it as tight as possible. The funny part about zip ties, the tighter they are, the easier they break. Chris lifted the binding above his head. He took a deep breath and quickly ripped the ties downward, pinching his shoulder blades together. Nothing. That hurt a bit.

  Come on. Pop your shoulders harder.

  Chris repeated the process two more times to no avail. The ties were starting to slice into his wrists.

  One more time.

  Chris closed his eyes and tried to focus on expanding his chest after pulling. He lifted the arms and ripped them back down, shooting his shoulders back.

  POP

  Jackpot. The lock popped, and Chris tossed the plastic cuffs away. He rubbed his wrists. The binding did a good job cutting into his wrists. That hurt, but at least they were free.

  His hands may be free, but he's still three hours from the Chase.