Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  “And they didn’t—until you started causing problems,” Fischer replied, his eyes narrowing. “You and that cop became a real nuisance. But after tonight, after I kill you and take your energy, it won’t matter. I’ll do what I set out to do—”

  Mid-sentence, Simon dropped the protection spell and dove forward, shoving the flashlight against Fischer’s chest and setting off the charge. Unlike a stun gun that shot darts to send out an electric zap at a distance, the flashlight had to be in physical contact to work. Fischer gasped as his body jolted and he staggered backward, with Simon in pursuit to get in another shock and bring him down.

  Rage twisted Fischer’s features, and he grabbed Simon’s arm. Simon kept his grip on the flashlight and turned its blindingly bright beam into Fischer’s eyes. Fischer ducked his head, and Simon laid his left hand on Fischer’s forearm and murmured another rote spell. His hand grew warm, then blazing hot within seconds, and Fischer yelped, letting go and dodging out of reach.

  Simon whirled and jabbed the flashlight against Fischer’s shoulder, then pressed the button.

  Nothing happened. Cheap-ass $30 stun gun.

  Fischer grabbed for him, and Simon swung the heavy flashlight, clipping Fischer in the temple and opening a gash. Blood trickled down the man’s face as he gestured and raw energy tossed Simon against the wall, hard, and kept him pinned.

  “I will bleed you slowly for that,” Fischer promised. “I could have made it quick and painless, but you need to show respect.”

  “How long can you throw me around without draining all your stolen power?” Simon taunted. “Won’t that ruin your big surprise?” Poking the bear was definitely stupid, given the situation, but he was left with little other than bravado, and he hoped he could marshal just a little of Vic’s signature snark.

  Immobilized for the moment, Simon got his first good look at the room. It was indeed the lair of a serial killer. Photographs of the victims’ bloody bodies were tacked up on the walls, along with newspaper clippings and printouts from websites. A variety of small items were arranged like a shrine, and Simon guessed they were trophies taken from the victims. He couldn’t see what the pieces were from where he was pinned, but he imagined they were jewelry or small personal objects, things that would allow the killer to relive the excitement of the murders. Plenty for the cops to use against him.

  “Why bother taunting me?”

  “Because you were a challenge,” Fischer replied. “The others were easy marks. With you, I wanted to enjoy the game.”

  “What’s the plan?” He wondered if Fischer could stop his heart or asphyxiate him with pressure. Enough force could crush his bones. But no. The Slitter needed Simon’s blood, and he enjoyed making the kill with his knife, a personal, lethal connection.

  Keep him talking. He’s not a fucking wizard, just a sociopath with a bunch of stolen energy.

  “LDP is holding a big shindig for investors and the business community tomorrow night,” Fischer said, his voice scathing, naming the holding company that owned Bolton Construction. “Didn’t have money to pay the people who build their fucking buildings, but they can wine and dine the hot shots in style. I’m going to bring the house down on them.”

  Lowcountry Development Partnership—LDP for short—owned Three Triton Place and half the commercial real estate in Myrtle Beach. All of the city’s leadership would be at an event like that. And with his construction knowledge and his stolen power, Fischer would know which support beams to crack, which load-bearing walls to knock out to collapse a high rise like a house of cards. The death toll would be in the hundreds.

  “You planning to die with them, or walk away laughing?” Simon prodded.

  “What do you care? You won’t be around to see it.”

  Fischer made another gesture, and the force vanished, dumping Simon on the floor. He motioned again, and slammed Simon across the room, with enough of an impact that his teeth rattled. Two more slams had Simon’s head reeling and his body aching from the beating. This time when Fischer let him go, Simon fell to his hands and knees and did not get up.

  “I think we’ve wasted enough time.” Fischer kicked the flashlight out of Simon’s hand, and his boot connected solidly with Simon’s fingers in the process. He grabbed Simon by the hair and dragged him to the center of the room, then used his power to pin Simon spread eagle on the floor.

  Simon was pretty sure his hand was broken, and maybe a few other bones after the way Fischer had knocked him into walls. His head throbbed, and Fischer’s energy immobilized him. Fischer went to a long table near the window and returned with a silver bowl and a wicked knife.

  This is it, Simon thought, and his heart sank.

  Fischer walked back to where Simon lay and knelt next to his left arm. “I’ve used a lot of power on you, but there’s more where that came from. And once I top off with your energy, no one will be able to stop me from getting what I want.”

  “How did you learn the trick?” Simon’s body was pinned, but apparently Fischer wanted to hear him scream.

  “I’ve always had a fascination with old books,” Fischer replied. “Amazing what you can find when you look. Of course, no one else took the book seriously, but I did. It seemed to speak to me.”

  Simon wondered if Fischer himself had some native talent, grossly misused. “So you learned how to steal power.”

  “They weren’t using it for anything important,” Fischer said with a shrug.

  “I’m pretty sure they didn’t want to die,” Simon shot back.

  Fischer gave him a cold smile. “No? How about you? Not much of a life you’ve got there. Is anyone really going to miss you? Can’t imagine the world will notice when you’re gone.”

  Would he be missed? Simon wasn’t close to his parents, but they’d notice if he died. Tracey would mourn him. Maybe Jay and some other friends. And Vic…Yes, Vic would care, and blame himself.

  “I wanted that witch bitch, but she left town,” Fischer fretted, and Simon was sure the killer meant Gabriella. “And the conjure woman won’t leave her house, which is warded tight. So that left you.”

  Fischer talked big, but he looked like hell. Simon wasn’t sure how much was the drain of expending so much energy, and how much Miss Eppie’s curse was doing its work. Unfortunately, Simon feared the curse wasn’t going to move quickly enough to save him.

  “Since you’re in the occult business, I’ll tell you how this is gonna go,” Fischer said. “I’ll drain blood to fill the bowl. Now, with the others, I made the cuts long and deep so it would be quick. But you’ve pissed me off, so I’m doing it crosswise, a slow drip.”

  He leaned closer. “I want you to feel the cold coming for you, and the dark. Feel the life leaving you, your body shutting down. The full death experience. While you’re doing that, I’ll work the litany. And then, to seal the ritual, I have to drive the blade through your heart while it’s still beating. Nothing personal.”

  He reached over Simon’s open palm with the knife, and Simon muttered his flame spell. A tongue of fire flared just under Fischer’s wrist, igniting his shirt.

  “Damn you!” Fischer shouted, jumping back and beating out the fire with his other hand. His face contorted, and he landed a swift kick to Simon’s side, then backhanded him across the face.

  Simon didn’t have enough in him to try the spells again and pinned as he was they would have little effect. He felt despair well up, and so many regrets, chief among them how he had left things with Vic. I should have fought harder for him, told him how I felt before it was too late.

  Fischer’s knife slashed across Simon’s left wrist, and blood welled up immediately, beginning a steady rivulet into the waiting bowl. Simon still could not move except to talk, and right now, he had nothing left to say. He was exhausted in mind and spirit, and as he resigned himself to die, he saw the ghosts of the Slitter’s victims gather, ready to welcome him among their number.

  The best way to fight evil is with what you have inside you, Mis
s Eppie said.

  Fischer had stepped back with an old grimoire, eyes shut in concentration. Simon saw his last, desperate chance and seized it. He reached out to gather his waning strength and pulled with all his will, summoning the angry ghosts and giving them the dregs of his own life energy to help them manifest to take their vengeance.

  The temperature in the room plummeted, and the spirits Simon had seen only in his inner sight became visible to the eye. They showed up with their death wounds and bloody clothing, their eyes glinting with rage. Simon supplied the power, and the ghosts became solid. Too late, Fischer opened his eyes and saw himself surrounded by ten furious spirits intent on revenge.

  The ghosts swept around Fischer like a maelstrom, shrieking and howling. They clawed at his skin and tore at his hair and clothing, raising bloody welts and leaving long gashes. Fischer dropped the grimoire and tried to fend off the swarm of revenants, flailing and kicking to no avail. He lashed out with his power, but the force that had worked to toss Simon across the room had no effect on ghosts. Fischer, apparently, had no other tricks, and fighting Simon had drained his energy. Between Miss Eppie’s curse and the ghosts’ vicious attack, Fischer looked like a corpse himself.

  Fischer staggered, and Simon felt the power pinning him wane. A few seconds later, the malevolent force was gone, but Simon wasn’t sure he could crawl, let alone stand. Fischer went down to his knees next to Simon as the ghosts continued their assault. Outside the door, Simon heard running footsteps.

  Everything seemed to happen at once.

  The door slammed open, ghosts vanished, and men in riot gear surged into the room. Simon thought he glimpsed Vic and his partner right behind them. Fischer drew a gun and aimed across Simon’s body.

  Simon forced himself upright, intending to knock Fischer’s aim wide. Instead, he plowed into Fischer, and they went down together with the gun between them. Simon heard a shot, felt his body jolt, and then searing pain flooded over him as Fischer threw him off and tried to stand.

  A fusillade of bullets flew, a man gave a hoarse cry, and then silence.

  “We need a medic!”

  The floor shuddered beneath Simon as someone dropped to his knees. “Simon? God, Simon, don’t you dare die!” Simon recognized Vic’s voice. He made it, just in time.

  Simon was so very tired. The spells had sapped his energy, and what was left had been used up powering the ghosts to slow Fischer. And the blood…

  “Simon! Can you hear me? Hang on. Come on, baby, hang on,” Vic begged.

  Simon wanted one last look before he fell asleep. He used his remaining strength to open his eyes and saw Vic’s panicked features. “I love you,” he murmured and stopped fighting the inevitable.

  20

  Vic

  “Vic, you’ve got to get out of the way.” Ross’s voice had the tone he used to talk a jumper off the bridge, or reason with a hostage-taker.

  Vic fought Ross’s grip on his shoulders as his partner pulled him away from Simon, letting the EMTs get in close.

  Ross wrestled Vic back to the wall as the room filled with SWAT members, uniforms, and the forensics team. Vic never took his eyes off Simon lying too still and pale in a pool of blood. The EMT chatter they overheard didn’t sound good.

  “….lost a lot of blood. Get an IV started.”

  “…keep pressure on that wound. Got a collapsed lung.”

  “…immobilize him. Expect broken bones.”

  Vic watched numbly as they loaded Simon onto a gurney. As the EMTs started to wheel him out, Ross released his grip and gave Vic a push. “Go with them. Say it’s police protection. I’ll handle the Captain,” Ross said quietly. Captain Hargrove was busy for the moment coordinating with the other units, but he’d already cast a questioning glance in their direction, and Vic knew his reaction had been anything but controlled and professional.

  Vic fell into step behind the EMTs, his presence unquestioned until they got to the ambulance. “I’m riding with you,” he said, hopping in.

  “Stay out of the way. He’s in bad shape.”

  They had barely pulled out into traffic when alarms squealed. Vic didn’t need to be a doctor to recognize the high, flat whine of a heart monitor flatlining.

  “Clear!”

  Vic watched sickly as they cut away Simon’s bloody shirt and placed the paddles. Simon’s back arched beneath the electricity trying to jumpstart his heart. Two attempts finally restored a rhythm, but even Vic knew it didn’t sound right.

  “Blood volume is way too low,” one of the medics reported. “Let’s hope we don’t hit a lot of traffic.”

  Vic clung to the sound of the monitor all the way to the hospital. It was only a little over six miles, fifteen minutes or less with the siren wailing, but it felt like an eternity, every second measured by the beat of Simon’s failing heart.

  At the Emergency Room, the ambulance doors flew open, and the EMTs unloaded Simon and whisked him off with the precision and urgency of a SWAT team. Vic followed, numb and dazed.

  “You can’t go in there,” an orderly said, blocking Vic’s way.

  Vic flashed his badge. “Police escort. Where he goes, I go. He’s a witness.” Vic’s voice sounded flat and cold, even to his own ears.

  The orderly stepped aside, and Vic barreled through, keeping his badge out in case anyone else decided to get in his way. At the doors to the operating room, even his badge wasn’t enough.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. No one goes past here unless they’re holding the scalpel or going under one,” a stern nurse with short, graying hair told him.

  “How long?” he asked in a rasp he barely recognized.

  “The guy they just took back? No idea,” she replied. Her expression softened. “There’s a family waiting room right over there,” she said, pointing to a door. “The doctor always comes there first.” She sobered. “You might want to contact the man’s family, just in case.” The nurse patted his shoulder and headed away.

  Vic walked to the waiting room on autopilot. He had no idea how to contact Simon’s family, or if they were still on speaking terms. Tracey. Tracey counted as family. He pulled out the card she had pressed into his hand just before he and Ross left Simon’s house, and dialed the number.

  “Did you find him?” Tracey answered, not even bothering with a greeting.

  “Yeah but…fuck, it’s not good,” Vic said. “We’re at Grand Strand Medical. Can you get here? Hurry.”

  Vic was alone in the waiting room, for the moment. Elsewhere in the hospital, other people had crises of their own, but none of them nearby. It had been a long time since Vic had been to Mass, except for when his mother begged his attendance at Christmas and Easter. Upbringing aside, he didn’t consider himself religious, let alone a praying man. But with his lover fighting for his life, Vic begged whatever powers might be listening to spare Simon.

  Vic didn’t know how long he’d been sitting with his head in his hands before someone else entered. He looked up, afraid he would see a somber doctor bearing bad news. Tracey was just a few steps inside the doorway, looking absolutely bereft. He stood and put his arms around her, glad she permitted the comfort for his own sake as much as hers. Vic released her, and she stepped back.

  “How is he?”

  “No idea. They took him right in. No one is saying anything.”

  They settled into chairs beside each other. Vic recounted what had happened, his voice taking on the monotone that helped distance himself at crime scenes when it cost too much to feel. Now he knew if he let the full force of the horror hit him, he wouldn’t be able to hold it together.

  Tracey laid a hand on his arm, her earlier animosity set aside, at least for the moment. “He made it to the hospital. That’s a good thing. And they’re not out yet. That’s good, too.”

  “They said we should let his family know. In case—” Vic couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Fuck, no. Not that they’d come,” she added with a derisive snort. “This is all too sordid. I
t wouldn’t play well in the papers. Especially since his gift is going to be all over the headlines.”

  “That bad, huh?” It pained Vic that he and Simon hadn’t had enough time together for him to hear more than the bare basics about Simon’s family.

  Tracey regarded him for a moment, searching for something. “Don’t you have somewhere else you’re supposed to be? I mean, this is the Slitter. Big case. Important stuff. I thought Homicide detectives would be all over it.”

  Vic looked away. “Yeah, I should be at the scene. There’ll be hell to pay about it tomorrow. Ross will cover for me as best he can, but Cap’ll have my ass. That’s okay,” he said almost to himself. “This is where I need to be.”

  “Guess you made your choice.”

  He glanced at her, frowning with an unspoken question. “I told Simon you were going to have to decide what was most important to you if it came down to the wire. I guess you did.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Vic replied. He recognized the adrenaline crash after a firefight. But normally he wasn’t alone when the aftershock set in. A bust like tonight would go on until dawn, securing the crime scene, escorting the photographers and evidence teams, the forensic crew. Someone would deal with the reporters, who wouldn’t take long to sniff out the Slitter’s downfall. And after that, paperwork. Vic had only barely glimpsed the walls of Fischer’s lair, but from what he saw, he didn’t doubt there would be plenty of evidence to send him away for a long time. Vic could only hope that when they tried William Fischer, it was for ten murders, and not eleven.

  Vic and Tracey spent the next few hours in companionable silence. They took turns fetching coffee and sodas from the cafeteria. The chairs weren’t comfortable, but they were too tired to complain, dozing off when fatigue overwhelmed even fear, waking fitfully when dreams and worry intruded.