Ferris could not help but continually throw glances behind him as he walked up the entrance road. He had not gotten far when the sound of a woman’s terrified scream overpowered the thrumming of the falling rain.
Nash stopped and stared into the dark cavern. His night vision caught only the orange of the fire light reflecting from the metal surfaces of the now riderless motorbikes.
Again, the woman screamed. Her cry for help ended with an abruptness that could only mean unconsciousness or death.
Nash turned and broke into a run. It quickly became clear to him that he had not tried running in a long time. After some blocks, his lungs burned, as did every muscle in his legs. A few passersby stopped and watched him go by from underneath their umbrellas or wide-brimmed hats.
Lost and exhausted, he turned into an alley, leaned up against the closest brick building and vomited. His heart pounded dangerously fast and hard. As his left arm became engulfed in pain, his legs failed him. Nash crawled back toward the sidewalk he had crossed.
“Hey, man!” a voice called out from above him. “Holy shit! Don’t worry, man! I’m callin’ da’ medics!”
Nash Ferris’s world went dark and he lost consciousness on the sidewalk, face down in a puddle.
***
In the dead of night, with his gullet full of the hearts, livers and the bits of muscle and other flesh he had decided to try, Elliot wiped the blood from his body with the sweat-stained white shirt he had torn from the older of the two women. That one had put up more of a fight than the young one, who had resigned to her fate all too easily. He felt the scratches the second one had gouged into his cheeks and smiled while he dressed.
The meat on the grill sizzled and smoked as he walked into the darkness to retrieve his hat and overcoat. He hurried back to his cooking liver, as it had begun to blacken. Thinking quickly, he skewered the meat and dropped it into a saddlebag attached to one of the larger motorbikes once he had dumped the contents within. He repeated this several more times, hoping to store enough meat for a few days.
Three-Seven’s body made immediate use of the intake of calories, allocating much of the energy to healing the bullet wound. The bleeding had all but stopped some minutes after his assaults on the woman had finished.
Elliot stared at the motorbike he had planned on taking. Matching its physical appearance and manufacturer name to his FROG-ServLink’s encyclopedia, he verified the placement of the gear shift, clutch, accelerator, and the brakes. It was a large motorcycle powered by an antique internal combustion design. He had always wanted to try one.
He took his time going through the deceased gang’s belongings. The weapons that he came across were rather crude and worn, ranging from revolvers like the one he had taken from the older woman, to a mismatched pair of compact sub-machine pistols. He left the shotguns behind as he did not favor them over his blades. Elliot shrugged as he chucked the firearms into the saddlebags, one on either side. The extra magazines he stowed in his coat.
Three-Seven grinned as he inspected one semi-automatic pistol in particular. His implant identified it as a rare model and chambered in a powerful fifty-caliber round. He had to pry the large handgun from the grip of the gang’s leader. Upon inspection, its finish had been weathered, worn, and heavily scratched, as if it had been dropped to the pavement a hundred times. Elliot removed the magazine, cycled the action, and caught the ejected round in his palm. The pistol seemed to function well, so he reloaded it and stuffed it in his waistband.
Elliot considered staying in the garage for a time. He was enjoying the warmth from the barrel fires, but his interest in the motorcycle gnawed at him. He turned the key to activate the gauges and found the fuel tank was not but half-full. He fished around the other bikes for a syphon, for certainly there would be at least one amongst the group.
Three-Seven was in luck. From the motorcycle belonging to the now very deceased and partially digested young biker who had nearly filled him with buckshot, he pulled a hand pump with two rubber hoses connected to it. In a matter of a half an hour, he filled the tank.
Though it was raining rather heavily, Elliot yearned to ride the motorcycle. He straddled the machine and flipped the kickstand up with his foot. He gave the key a turn and was rewarded with the nearly instant ignition of all four cylinders beneath him. They settled into a pleasantly uneven idle that, after some revolutions, made an intoxicating rhythm.
In his excitement, Elliot emulated the sound of the engine vocally and smiled like a child as he slipped the bike into first gear and let it roll forward. Immediately, he understood the need to open the throttle in his right hand. He guided the motorcycle beyond the gathered corpses and took a tenuous left turn. With hardly a miscue, Three-Seven mastered the balancing act and quickly shifted into second gear. He gave the throttle a few sudden twists and felt the powerful accelerations.
The powerful white headlight allowed Elliot’s night vision to relax and, with one last look and pass around the carnage he had created, he launched himself and the motorcycle through the south exit. He pulled to a stop just outside the garage and gazed beyond the concrete overhang. It was raining hard and he had never ridden a motorcycle before. He smiled over the challenging prospect and throttled up as he let out the clutch. The rear tire spun against the pavement and squealed loudly, giving Three-Seven a strong feeling of satisfaction that he had never experienced.
Elliot changed into second as the bike went from dry to wet cement. The tire lost traction for a moment and the rear end slipped to the right. Quickly, he shifted his weight and let off the throttle until the bike regained traction.
He was engulfed in the heavy rain by the time he reached Michigan Avenue. On a lark, he hung a left, carefully balancing his weight and the throttle to keep the bike under control. In the rainstorm, even his best ocular setting could see hardly further than a normal human could. Despite the danger, he laughed maniacally into the night as he pressed the motorcycle beyond one hundred kilometers per hour. The spray of the rain covered his face and he drank from it.
As the blocks rolled by, the pavement became more and more neglected. Elliot held the speed, nonetheless, daring the conditions to throw him from the machine. Weaving with quickly learned care, he made it around most of the potholes, but a few jolted the big, powerful bike. Still, he maintained ninety-five KPH. As the black hat caught a gust of wind under the wide brim, it was forced from his head. Elliot’s laughter continued hyena-like. He realized that he was having too much fun to care about the loss of the stolen hat.
His greasy black hair was cleansed by the torrent of rain and the assault of the wind. His ears were filled by the thrumming engine and the continuous collision with the air.
A shocking jolt halted his laughter mid-gale. He had struck a gaping hole in the street, which seemed large enough to swallow a small child. The tires lost contact with the pavement for less than a second, but the rear end was sent askew when it returned, as he failed to lessen the throttle. His heartrate increased immediately, and for the briefest of moments, Elliot Three-Seven felt something beyond exhilaration.
Fear!
Elliot let the throttle snap to idle, counter steered, and balanced to keep upright. He closed his fingers around the clutch to disengage the power from the wheel and found that he had to counterbalance in the other direction. The tail end of the great motorcycle wagged like a dog’s. His right foot met the brake for the rear as his right hand grasped the brake lever for the front. Together, he was able to slow the bike and bring the back wheel under control, just in time to keep himself from striking another hole.
“Fear! Yes!” Elliot shouted gleefully. He remembered it now. It was the emotion he had originally discovered during his first parachute lesson. It had melted away quickly, but it had happened upon his stepping out of the airplane. Three-Seven smiled as he recalled the reaction of his recent victims. “I gave fear to you! To them!” he called into the rain. “I am…the giver of fear. Fright,” Elliot confirmed for hi
mself and nodded vigorously.
The FROG’s mind was flooded with the sudden and complete understanding that he had been guided to this failing city. Whether it was by a god or some unknown and untapped form of telepathy, Elliot understood that he had been sent to Chicago to dispense his gift of terror.
“They will relearn their fear!” he cried out above the din of the machine he straddled. “I will give them the gift of myself…and they will worship me! Fear and respect me!”
Three-Seven took the motorcycle out of gear and placed both feet upon the ground. He remained there, accumulating rainwater as the engine grumbled out its strangely beautiful rhythm.
“Pa-cha, pa-cha, pa-pa-cha, pa-cha, pa-cha, pa-cha, pa-pa-cha,” Elliot emulated in a childlike voice, over and over until he fell into lighthearted giggling.
As he sat thinking, he looked about the landscape he had ridden into. He realized that, at some point, he had left the large apartment complexes and the commercial high-rises behind. There were small trees and overgrowth in the center islands of Michigan Avenue and larger trees on either side of the road, but the buildings scattered among them were small, decrepit, and appeared uninhabitable. Still, he noted flickering orange light in the windows of a few of them.
Elliot adjusted his vision to its maximum magnification of six times, but was still defeated by the rainy gloom. This intersection was missing its street sign and he had not counted the blocks he had ridden.
There was not a vehicle in sight that was not an abandoned hulk lying on an empty lot or left at the curb. There was no sound beyond his engine and the weather, even though the sky to the southeast flashed with lightning. Thunder was still too far away. He had wandered beyond civilization.
Elliot put the bike back in gear and guided it eastward. He rode on and on, passing over intersection after intersection until the seemingly endless gray of Lake Michigan loomed ahead of him. He slowed and turned north onto a multi-lane highway that he knew had to be Lake Shore Drive. At a more reasonable pace he rode, noting the improvement of the pavement as he came closer to the city’s center. Lightning lit the gray to a brilliant white and Three-Seven heard the thunderclap just over the sound of his motor. The heart of the storm was still approaching.
I will teach them all. One after the other.
He rode on and on, pushing the bike to higher speeds as he found himself returning to McCormick Place. Much of it lay on the left side of the road, while the remains of the Arie Crown Theatre and vast convention halls took up the right.
Though the rain stung his face and forced him to squint to see, Elliot decided to ride on. Soon after, however, a looming, half-dish shaped structure appeared ahead of him. He slowed as he checked his FROG-ServLink to discover what it might be.
Ah. Soldier Field.
Part Three
Agent Jerry Quinne stepped out of the terminal with his baggage trailing behind him in the grip of one hand and a briefcase in the other. He walked to the curb ahead of his reluctant and much older companion.
Quinne was about to raise his arm for the cab when he heard his name called from his left. Looking toward it, he could see Marcus Williams standing next to his unmarked police cruiser.
“Come on, Professor,” Jerry said over his shoulder. “It’s an old friend of mine. The reason we’re here, really.”
The older man sighed. “I am not a professor, Agent Quinne. I’m a doctor.”
Jerry Quinne rolled his eyes unobserved by the man behind him and strolled to the dented and faded gray sedan. He and Williams shook hands and the luggage was placed in the trunk. The three men jumped inside the car to get out of the mist of the gray spring shower.
“Marcus, this is Dr. Mitch Ruger,” the FBI agent said in a professional tone. He gestured to the elderly man in the rear seat. “Dr. Ruger, this is Detective Marcus Williams.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Williams replied and shook the old man’s hand gently. He was a small man with white wispy hair and thin, bony appendages. The doctor’s hand felt especially fragile.
“Same here,” he returned somewhat reservedly and with only a hint of a smile. Once his hand was released, he retreated to the comfort of the back seat.
Quinne and Williams shared a quick glance. His agent friend made his eyes bug out slightly in mock frustration. Marcus smiled and manually drove the cruiser away from the curb.
“So, what’s new on the case, anything?” Jerry Quinne asked.
“Well, last night, we had a wanted man drive himself to the hospital, claiming that some sort of monster had attacked his gang. He was shot in the back with a small caliber revolver,” Marcus explained while merging onto the interstate that would take them downtown.
“What did he say, then?” Quinne pressed.
“He passed out in the ER before he said anything further,” Marcus continued and set the cruiser to automatic. He turned to Quinne and could see Dr. Ruger in the corner of his eye. “He was rushed into surgery, where they removed the bullet and patched him up, but it appears to have nicked a kidney pretty good. Frank Campanelli is with the uniforms guarding the door.”
“But that could be anything,” the doctor piped up. “What makes you think that he’s talking about one of my FROGs?”
“Dr. Quinne, the man I’m talking about is Scott Kabel, a.k.a., Blades.” Marcus expectantly watched the doctor’s face for signs of recognition. There was none. “He’s wanted for murder in two other states besides ours. He’s got an extensive arrest record for A and B, armed robbery, and a few counts of murder.”
“Career criminal,” Jerry grumbled.
“Yes,” Marcus nodded and again watched the doctor’s face for a reaction. “He’s a badass that would never turn himself in to the police unless he was legitimately frightened over something.”
“Most likely, it was one of his own people,” Dr. Ruger inserted with certainty. “A FROG can use any number of weapons, but if this man was shot in the back, it was one of his own.”
“We can’t be sure of that until he regains consciousness, Doctor,” Williams answered.
“I suppose,” Ruger mumbled.
“Anyway, we’re on our way to the hospital,” Marcus stated.
***
Campanelli sat in the hospital room with Scott Kabel and contemplated the thirty-eight-year-old in silence. Blades was the epitome of a tough biker. Somewhat taller than Frank and muscular, the man’s predominately black hair was salted with white, both at his temples and in his beard.
From what was pieced together from the rambling wounded man, the Warlocks had been on a ride and then had returned to their frequent hiding place only to be slaughtered, if what Kabel said was true and not some symptom of being a quart or two low on blood.
Normally, this man would be in the hands of a homicide detective, as Kabel was wanted for murder, but since his last words before collapsing in the ER indicated that the Warlocks had encountered the serial killer they were looking for, he appointed himself for the duty.
Kabel stirred. The oxygen mask covering most of his face fogged up fully and the man’s head began to thrash from one direction to the other. As Blades’s eyelids remained closed, Frank deduced that the biker was having a nightmare.
Campanelli stood up and stretched. He had been sitting there waiting for nearly six hours, having been awakened by a phone call by Detective Lyman at a quarter of two in the morning. He had offered to do the waiting in the room for him, but as Frank’s sleep was light and restless anyway, he had volunteered to go. Campanelli had drifted in and out of sleep in the recliner, listening to the beeping heart monitor and the hissing of the oxygen machine.
Frank stepped to the side of the bed and tightened his tie from habit. Kabel’s head went from one side to the other and a groan of despair was muffled by the mask.
“Mr. Kabel,” Detective Campanelli called. “Scott Kabel.”
The wounded biker grunted in response to his given name. His eyes fluttered open and searched the white tiled ceilin
g.
Frank repeated the biker’s name, following it up with his Warlock nickname. Kabel’s eyes followed the voice. He blinked his eyes to focus and as he did, tried to move his right arm. The handcuffs kept Kabel from moving it very far. He looked from his right to his left. Both wrists were linked to the bed frame. Scott gazed into the face of the detective staring down at him.
“Thank you,” he croaked.
“Thank me? Thank me for what, Mr. Kabel?” Campanelli inquired and placed his hands in his pants pockets. “Thank your surgeon.”
“I will,” Scott said in a tone of promise. “But you’re arresting me, right?”
“Sure.” Frank shrugged with a smile on his face. “I’m Detective Frank Campanelli and I’d like to know why you have this change of heart and want to turn yourself in.”
“Well, that thing was yours, right?” Blades asked through the mask. It was clearly an obstacle to conversation.
Frank leaned over and tugged the oxygen mask to the man’s chin. “What thing, Mr. Kabel?”
Blades chuckled and put on a weak smile. “Yeah, good one.”
“Does it look like I know what you’re talking about?” Campanelli pressed and continued quickly. “An ER nurse said that you were running on about some monster.”
The door to Kabel’s room opened and Williams, Quinne, and Ruger entered.
“Yeah,” Scott Kabel confirmed. “That thing moved so fast…in the dark. I couldn’t see the fuckin’ thing, but he…whipped knives into the group. You’re telling me that he didn’t belong to you?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’, Kabel,” Frank answered with a nod.
“Jesus Christ!” Blades went on and pulled at the cuffs. “He was everywhere…just running around us in a blur, just outside our campfires.”
Frank turned to Marcus and raised his eyebrows.
“Frank, this is Agent Jerry Quinne and Dr. Mitchell Ruger,” Williams said and stepped to the side.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 15