Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter

by Frederick H. Crook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Cover Art:

  Arvin Candelaria & Velvet Lyght

  Stories by CL

  http://www.storiesbycl.com/

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2016 Frederick H. Crook

  Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter

  by

  Frederick H. Crook

  Dedication

  Much love and appreciation to my wife, Rae. She’s my biggest fan, and without her I could not be who and what I am today. This is also for my family and friends, who have been very supportive and understanding over the years.

  For Michael Shockey.

  Part One

  For a weekend evening, the hospital was quiet. Even with the waves of influenza raging through the streets of Chicago, the full facility seemed at peace. The staff was more lighthearted than on the weekdays when Detective Frank Campanelli visited. The nurses even smiled as they briskly fulfilled their duties, wandering from room to room and administering whatever care they were called upon to perform. As he walked by them, he saw the sides of their white anti-bacterial masks lift upward with the movement of their cheeks as their eyes brightened.

  The Sentinel Squad’s second-in-command was not sure, but he thought he recognized one of them from a couple of days before. She was petite, blonde, if her eyebrows were any indication, and had apparently grown fond of Marcus Williams, Frank’s partner and the man he was visiting this Sunday evening. If he was correct, she had been in his partner’s room the previous Thursday, and though Williams was encapsulated within a germ-free tent and hard to hear, the young lady was being entertained. Frank walked in to the sounds of laughter, which died almost immediately upon his arrival.

  The young woman unsealed the outer door to William’s room and cleared Campanelli to enter.

  “Thank you, Miss…” Frank bid her, fishing for her to complete the sentence.

  “Linda,” she provided as the anti-bacterial mask widened at the cheeks. Unlike Thursday, she brightly welcomed him and cheerily sealed the airlock afterward. Frank adjusted his anti-bacterial suit’s visor and swung the inner door out of his way.

  “Hey, Frank,” Marcus called from his bed. The tent was gone.

  “Hey, yourself,” the honorary captain greeted and stepped to the chair next to the patient. He sat and gestured to the world beyond the hospital room door. “This is not a complaint, you understand, but why is everyone so cheery around here?”

  Marcus gave a short, weak chuckle. “Damned if I know.” He laughed a little harder as he looked over his friend and partner’s appearance. “Nice hat.”

  “You like it?” Frank adjusted the black fedora set awkwardly over the medical tunic’s hood and looked at his partner’s face from the corner of his left eye.

  Marcus laughed again, causing a slight cough. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Well, an old friend strongly suggested it,” Frank answered in a mild voice as he removed it. He turned it over and over in his hands and inspected it like it was new. “I’ve actually had it a long time. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it.”

  “I haven’t, but it suits you.”

  “You think so?”

  “It goes with the briefcase,” Williams joked. The black briefcase was something that Frank had been given by the chief of the Chicago Police Department’s Organized Crime Division, Earl Sebastian just days prior. It was crammed with documents and crime records that Sebastian had regarded as too sensitive to commit to the department’s computer network, which had become less than reliable of late. “Where is it?” he thought to ask.

  “I left it in the car,” Campanelli admitted in a whisper.

  “Frank,” Marcus blurted in mild, perhaps feigned, shock, “the Chief is not going to like that.”

  “Well, keep your mouth shut and he won’t find out.” Frank adjusted the fedora and looked to the sealed portal. “I’m heading straight home after this.”

  “Good. You just got that commendation for taking down DeSilva and Ignatola. I’d hate to see you fired.”

  Campanelli’s retort was a sharp, grunted chuckle. “Said the guy that took a bullet meant for Mayor Jameson.”

  The two men shared wise grins, clearly pleased with the other’s feats. Neither felt like a hero, but they did not mind complimenting each other.

  “Doctor says I’ll be out in a few days,” said Marcus.

  “Bullshit,” Frank spat. He knew the handgun round that struck his partner near the collarbone and chipped the bone had been of a rather large caliber. It had missed the vest completely, though by millimeters.

  “I’m serious, Frank,” Marcus stared at him plainly for a moment. “This is the third time I can thank military science for saving my life. If it weren’t for these genetic alterations, I’d never heal this fast.”

  Campanelli smiled. “Go Navy.”

  “I should be able to return to duty a week from Monday.”

  “That’s amazing,” the Captain of Detectives granted. He considered the state of technology in this post-Great Exodus world where the best minds had left for the colony planet of Alethea. Williams was still a young man, though long retired from the U.S. Navy, and during their short partnership, Campanelli had become very fond of the giant ex-SEAL. Frank had lost much in his life, including his wife and son back in his home town of New York and did not want to lose anyone else. He had hated to leave Williams lying on that stage in front of the Daley Center, but it had paid off in bringing in the shooter’s employer.

  “You okay, Frank?” Marcus asked. Frank’s eyes had glossed over in thought.

  “Yeah, pal,” Campanelli spoke up, “I just can’t wait for you to come back to work.”

  “Me neither. It’s not in my nature to lie still for so long.”

  “I know.”

  A handful of quiet seconds passed.

  “So, since the Ignatola ring’s been broken up, have you noticed a drop in the human trafficking?” Marcus asked.

  Campanelli smiled. “You asked me that last week. The answer’s still yes.”

  “Did I? Wow. Sorry,” the big man said with knitted brows. It was clear that he was searching his memory for the conversation.

  “Forget it,” he said, then laughed at his unintended pun. “You were pretty stoned on pain meds, bein’ fresh outta surgery and all.”

  “True.”

  “So, do you remember the mayor and Superintendent Dehner presenting the DSA to you?” the honorary captain fished.

  “That, I do.” Marcus Williams smiled brightly. “I’m putting the ribbon right next to my Blue Shield Award, which they also gave me that afternoon.”

  “I knew it! Faker,” Campanelli chided and laughed. Frank had earned the Distinguished Service Award from the CPD already and had no wish to earn the Blue Shield, which was the result of being shot while protecting the mayor. Not wanting to augment the size of his decorated partner’s cranium, he kept the fact that he was also to be presented with the Richard J. Daley Police Medal of Honor when he returned to duty. This would have been given to him during the annual awards ceremony the previous week, but Williams
was recuperating. It was announced during the ceremony, where Campanelli had accepted it on his partner’s behalf.

  The medal was in the black briefcase.

  “What’s funny, Frank?” Marcus inquired, having caught the strange smirk on his older partner’s face.

  “Oh, nothing.” He adopted a somewhat convincing expression of innocence.

  “Frank,” the impatient patient pressed.

  “It’s nothing at all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The two colleagues spent the rest of the visit speaking of the disappearance of Chief of Detectives Dmitri Vanek and his family, the internal power struggle over his vacated position, and other meaningless but entertaining banter. Frank kept to himself, and would most likely always have to, the fact that he had apprehended the Vanek family at O’Hare Airport and, out of pity for their child, had let them board the helicopter belonging to Maximilian DeSilva. The fact that Vanek and family had not been heard from since helped Campanelli sleep at night, as it meant they most likely were able to escape the planet and board a starship bound for Alethea. Confessing to anyone that he had let the family escape would have ended his career and earned him a jail term, which, considering the poor, disease-ridden conditions of the area prisons, was a sure death sentence.

  When it was time for Frank to leave, he signaled for the nurse via his bio-electronic implant. In moments, she arrived to unseal the door. He bid his healing partner a good evening and was led to the locker room, where he was able to shed the anti-bacterial suit.

  Sunday, June the first, was a cool day in Chicago. Frank did not mind, for between his trademark black overcoat and fedora, he was comfortable. He walked to his car, got in and commanded it to drive him home, where Tamara would be waiting for him. It was nearly five o’clock and surely, a nice dinner awaited him.

  ***

  Hours later, in the dead of night, a creature emerged from the Chicago River. It had no clear idea where it was, as it had become lost. It had not left that body of water for weeks, other than to feed in its most brutal method, but had traveled unplanned and untracked distances every day.

  With only the top of its head having broken the water’s surface, its eyes peered through the darkness for many minutes before it slowly made its way to shore. The amphibious hominid had chosen to emerge from the protection of deep water for two reasons. The river had split into two directions. One went south while the other continued northeast. Secondly, it was desperately hungry.

  The tall biped slipped out of the water, closed and retracted its gills. Water slipped out of its freshly opened nostrils and its skin felt the faint light from the stars and the sliver of the moon. The pigment darkened from pale pink to a deep charcoal upon a thought command. Its feet stepped onto the soil of the embankment and it was then that the entity discovered a bridge spanning the river. It climbed to the surface of a raised road, where it gracefully and silently hurled itself over a metal fence. It stared at its feet for a time, taking in the sensation of cool, rough concrete. The biped shifted its weight back and forth for a few moments, for it had swum so long that standing felt strange.

  Making a fist of its right hand, the creature rapped it upon the fence it had climbed over. The metal rang in the quiet night. It knew that metals had become a sort of rarity sometime after its activation date, so when it turned its attention upon the iron structure of the bridge, it could not help but quickly run to it.

  Carelessly, it traversed the short distance without stealth in mind. Its big feet slapped the poorly maintained street. It palmed the middle spine of the structure, causing a flesh on metal sound to reverberate. It was cold, gritty with rust and magnificent in its uniqueness. According to the computer in the creature’s mind, this bridge’s appearance corresponded to that of the Ashland Avenue Sanitary and Ship Canal Bridge of Chicago, Illinois. Reading more information, it was discovered that the bridge broke in the middle, allowing each end to rise into the air.

  Amazing! I wonder if it still works.

  The male hominid turned to look at the brick

  bridgetender building just across the street, but as he took a step toward it, a sound came to its sensitive ears and it froze in a crouch. He listened hard, raising the gain on his hearing devices. It was a car.

  Automatically, the military grade implant processed the sound and displayed its findings. It listed the drive type, manufacturer, and production years of the model. The shapes of the headlights confirmed the information, matching up perfectly with the diagram he saw projected upon his lenses.

  It was then that he remembered his hunger. As the electric light danced upon his body, he commanded it to change pigment. The feet he turned as black as the one true piece of clothing that he wore upon his body, his utility belt. His upper torso turned bleach white up to the wrists and neck, simulating a long-sleeved shirt. Everything below his belt was set to brown, as his hands, neck and face went to his natural state, quite close to his Caucasian origins. His hair, naturally black, remained so, but he swept it straight back with his hands.

  Almost as an afterthought, his optics changed colors. His irises went from pale yellow to brown for the sake of appearances and his sclera switched from a dull, non-reflective orange to a convincing off-white.

  As his training had taught him decades prior, he reached out to the oncoming vehicle’s onboard computer and began to hack it with his implant’s software tools. In seconds, he had access to the vehicle’s functions.

  The car approached, but slowed as the driver found the pedestrian in his headlights. Immediately, the human occupant knew something was wrong. The engine quieted and the brakes applied more intensely than he had demanded with his foot.

  “What the…hell?” the driver mumbled. His heart began pounding intensely. There was something odd about the man in his lights. There was a strange intensity in his eyes and something about his appearance was wrong.

  The rebellious automobile stopped dead, placed its transmission in park and opened the driver’s side window. Deeply frightened, the man could form no sound in his throat, and irrationally, he reached out with both hands and grabbed at the disappearing glass partition.

  “Shit! Sh…shit!” he shouted. His panic had brought about an asthma attack. The man’s chest tightened and, for a fleeting second, he debated over what to do next. There were two items in his glove compartment: a handgun and his inhaler.

  The glistening wet stranger began to stride toward the disabled vehicle. Seeing this made the driver’s decision for him. He stretched his torso to reach the glove compartment as his chest heaved and his breathing wheezed from deep within it. In a heartbeat, the pistol was in his grip.

  Then, the locking mechanism clicked. The driver righted himself just in time to see the driver’s door swing open and a blur of something long and black reach for him. Asthma or not, the man screamed.

  With barely a tearing sound, the seatbelt was sliced away and before he could bring his weapon to bear, two long arms reached in and scooped him from the seat. With well-practiced efficiency, the predator had thrust his long sharp nails into his victim’s body, skewering it like a dinner fork would a cantaloupe, giving the assailant the grip to launch the lighter man into the air. Seeing the weapon at the last second, he tore it from the other’s grip quickly and cleanly, though he had felt the weak bones under his grip snap and break.

  The man’s body was sent tumbling high into the air, disorienting him immediately. He landed on the sidewalk opposite his car with a crunch.

  The attacker inspected the weapon, identified it as something antique and only somewhat effective. He dropped it and moved to the crumpled human mess on the sidewalk in three long strides. He looked into his prey’s face. Barely conscious as the human had landed on its head, it made things all the easier.

  There was no trace of guilt in what the predator was about to do. That emotion had long left him along with so many other sensations and sensibilities that he had been trained and otherwise conditioned to
accept. The powerful hominid had been out of its element and without guidance for far too long.

  He drew his triangular blade from its sheath once again and slit the victim’s throat long and deep. In moments, the predator sank its teeth into the steamily warm flesh and feasted for many long minutes after prying the chest cavity apart with its powerful grip. There, the steaming heart and liver were focused upon. In between bites, the monster listened and looked about for signs of discovery. The unseasonably cold night was deadly silent beyond the grotesque sounds of frantic feeding.

  After the predator had his fill, he transmitted the commands to his dinner’s car to restart the motor, close the window, and set the interior heat to seventy-two degrees. The chill that had seeped into his flesh was months old and he craved for it to be gone.

  To rid his body of his victim’s blood, he dashed to the bridge and dove into the frigid river. Emerging from the same place as before, the well-fed predator leapt over the iron fence, ran to the waiting car and closed the door after him. The warmth of the cabin covered his naked flesh like a warm blanket.

  Oh! Yes! Heat!

  The tall killer shed cold water into the warming seats and carpeted floor as he pressed himself into the cushions for comfort. The coloring of his disguise was allowed to melt away to his natural pale pigment of skin and eyes. He regarded the world beyond the windshield for a time while he hugged himself to retain the warmth. His eyes were attracted by the mass of lights that turned the black sky to a glowing silvery blue over downtown Chicago, and though he normally avoided a larger populace, he decided at that very moment that it was time to stop wandering. It would be nice to have a rich hunting ground for a while.

  Though his body had been genetically designed and conditioned to be omnivorous with a strong tendency toward a diet of vegetation for efficiency, this predator had exposed himself to the pleasures of poultry, fish and meat for so long it had developed a preference.

  This preference over plants and vegetables had not been simply for the taste, but he had also developed a thrill for the hunt. He had grown to love the challenge and he thrived on it.