The Bloodspawn

by Michael McBride

  “No one. There were just these… arms that came out of the corner of the room, grabbing me, pulling me towards the center of the darkness. And they were so cold. And the voices, right before I fell through the whole I was able to understand what they were saying.”

  “What was that?”

  “They were saying ‘master,’ over and over again, a hundred different voices all whispering it at the same time.”

  “What do you suppose that means?”

  “I don’t know, but I think they were calling to their master, and whoever, whatever their master is, I sure as shit don’t want to be up there when he gets there.”

  Harry stared down at him for a moment, a somewhat bemused look scratching across his wrinkled face.

  “What’s that?” he finally said, pointing down at the book Scott still had tucked beneath his arm.

  “It’s all yours,” Scott sighed, handing the leather bound tome to Harry for his inspection.

  He took it within his leathery hands, slowly peeling back the cover and opening it to the first page. A tuft of black smoke billowed in a small cloud above the book as the whole thing suddenly turned to ashes in his hands, falling between his fingers like grains of sand to the floor. It sifted into the carpet on the wisps of cold air that gusted down from the hole above.

  Scott and Harry just stared at each other, and then at the darkened stain on the carpet.

  “Do you know what that was?” Harry asked without looking up from the soot.

  “No, what?”

  “That was the Book of the Damned, but like no other copy that I’ve ever seen. Hell, you can buy it off the shelf at most bookstores in paperback, but that one was old, far older than any other copy I’ve ever come across.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Scott said, wincing, as he rose to his feet, warily staring back up into the darkened square above his head.

  “It’s a bible of sorts for certain sects of Satanists. It was written in the early seventies by a man named Ashvan Montevega, and, rumor has it that it was written somewhere around here. He was said to have taken court with the devil himself, receiving, as a gift, a handwritten copy of the book. I forget which publishing house he sold it to, but to make it more palatable for the masses, they had no choice but to make countless revisions. This guy in this little bookstore downtown where I found my copy told me that there were six original volumes, all hand pressed. He had never seen any, but he had heard the stories of the leather bound, gold embossed tomes, and, I believe, that is what we were looking at.”

  “I don’t know. That book looked much older than thirty years.”

  “If that’s right, and those rumors are true, then that must be one of the original copies penned by Satan himself.”

  Scott just looked at him.

  “So, what bearing does that have here?”

  “Those who take the book as gospel believe that after being cast down from heaven, the angel Lucifer’s punishment was to walk the earth in human form until the day of the final reckoning, whereupon a great and final battle would ensue. The final winner of which would take control not only of the heavens but of the earth as well. But in order to lure the angels from the heavens for the final battle, Lucifer must first collect and damn enough souls to bleed the heavens dry. And these souls stalk the night at their master’s bidding until that ultimate conflict when they will fight long past their deaths.”

  “So you think that is the reason for the two hundred souls?”

  “Stands to reason. Why else would the Vatican give the story enough credence to devote an entire sect to trying to stop it?”

  “Sounds insane,” Scott mumbled, looking back over his shoulder as he walked out of the bedroom, careful not to walk directly beneath the open hole in the ceiling.

  “Any more insane than what we’ve seen over the last couple of days?”

  Clambering down the steps towards the entryway, Scott stopped on the landing and looked back up to Harry as he began his descent down the stairs.

  “So…” he began with a pause. “What are we supposed to do?”

  “I believe we have to stop it.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “We have to find your friend Matt, or whatever he has become, and make sure that he is not allowed to claim his two hundred lives.”

  “Kill him?”

  “Unless you think pleading will work.”

  “How do you propose we do that? He’s not even human any more for God’s sake.”

  “Whatever he is, if his body is still flesh, then we can still kill him.”

  Scott sighed loudly, his furrowed brow lowering over his troubled eyes. He stared into the living room where there had once been rust colored carpet and a small antique wooden coffee table. In his mind he could see Matt and himself as eight year- olds playing with their Star Wars figures on that table.

  A tear crept to the corner of his eye.

  home • order • blackest death • authors • community • contact • submissions • auctions • message board • live chat

  mail list • customer service • bargain bin • free fiction

  THE BLOODSPAWN

  Michael McBride

  © 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved.

  PART TWELVE

  SECTION 12

  Chapters 16 & 17

  XVI

  Tuesday, November 15th

  9 p.m.

  They had locked up Matt’s family’s old house and had driven across the neighborhood to Shane Corso’s mother’s house. The roads had grown increasingly treacherous as the fluffy snow was piling atop a thick layer of ice, and it was only a matter of time before not even the snowplows and sand trucks would be able to get back into this area to try to clear the roads. Why they hadn’t already remained a mystery, but he had learned a long time ago that when dealing with the city, nothing made sense.

  Shane’s mother, Annette Corso, had answered the door in a long red bathrobe, her graying hair bound atop her head in large soup can sized curlers. She wore some sort of plastic or vinyl bonnet over them, just the first few rollers atop her forehead being visible. White slippers with purple designs adorned her bare feet. While at first she had been hesitant to talk, it only took a few moments for her to open up and that became a whole new problem as Scott remembered even from way back then, that once she started going it was nearly impossible to get her to stop.

  Her forced trip down memory lane began where high school left off. With Shane ready to leave the house to go off to school or whatever it was he was going to do, she and her husband of twenty- two years, Herb, were going to move up to the land near Crystal Lake that they had purchased nearly ten years prior. After all, their house was nearly paid off, and they had little other existing debt. Shane’s schooling had been taken care of for quite some time with the money that her parents had left to him for that very purpose upon their death. They were going to build a cabin right by the lake and open up a small general store. Herb would be able to sell the flies that he tied religiously to the tourists, while she would be able to run the gossip mill from behind the counter. It was something that they had talked about, dreamed of, for the last decade.

  That dream had been put to rest with a single call.

  The phone had rung at a quarter past seven. Herb was always home by seven. She had answered the phone with only the slightest concern in her voice, as fifteen minutes, even with Herb, wasn’t great enough cause to emote. Stirring the mashed potatoes on the stove, she had cradled the phone against her shoulder.

  “Hello?” she had answered merrily.

  “Annette.”

  “Herb?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What? Are you running late?’

  “No, not exactly,” he had said without the slightest change of inflection in his voice. “I’m leaving you.”

  “Leaving me what?”

  “No, no. I’m leaving you for good. I’ve fallen in love with Hel
en.”

  “Your secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is she, maybe twenty?”

  “Twenty- eight, but that’s of no importance. I’ve thought this through…”

  “Obviously you haven’t.”

  “As I was saying… keep the house and the car, the money in the kid’s college account. I’m taking the deed to the land in Crystal and the remainder of the money in the personal accounts. Good luck to you, and say ‘hi’ to the boy for me.”

  The conversation had been that simple, at least according to her version. And while that story had been somewhat gut wrenching, it really didn’t answer the question they had asked, “How can we get ahold of Shane?”

  Scott had been as patient as he possibly could; after all she had been exceedingly nice to him growing up. She had, more often than not, brought them out cookies and lemonade while they were outside just messing around, and had always invited him to stay for dinner. She was a relic, a throwback to the fifties, a mother who thrived in that role. She only seemed contented while she was serving her family in some fashion. So he had listened to her story, truly feeling sad for her, but in his current situation, he really just wanted that one simple piece of information so he could just get the hell out of there and find Shane before it was too late.

  A silver BMW had pulled into the driveway just as Scott was preparing to ask just one more time how he could find Shane.

  “Oh, no!” she had exclaimed. “All this chit chat has made me run late.”

  An older man, maybe in his mid fifties climbed out of the driver’s side of the Beamer, hiding the bouquet of flowers from the passenger seat behind his back. He paused at Scott’s Cherokee, almost jealously sizing up Harry as he sat in the car. Making his way up the front stairs, Scott asked just one more time.

  “Please, Mrs. Corso…”

  “Annette.”

  “Okay.” His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Can you tell me how I can get in touch with Shane… tonight?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, pulling the rollers from beneath the plastic hood as she frantically tried to primp herself before the man with the flowers made it to the top of the stairs. “He’s working down at the shop right now. I’d give you the phone number there, but he tells me his boss doesn’t like him to get personal calls while on the job, but he’s always there until close to nine. Just pretend you want to buy something. That always works for me.”

  “And the address?” he asked coaxingly.

  “542 South Mohawk.”

  “Are you sure?” He asked as all he could picture down there were a bunch of deserted looking warehouses.

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said, smiling widely as she allowed her robe to open a little further. “Tell him to call his mother sometime.”

  The gentleman from the car, the red roses blooming over his shoulder from behind, hopped onto the landing and swung the flowers out for her inspection.

  “Oh, Jerry, they’re beautiful,” she said, snatching them from his outstretched hand.

  “As are you, my dear,” he said with a slight bow.

  Rolling his eyes, Scott lumbered down the stairs and to the driver’s side door of the Jeep.

  “Don’t stay away so long next time!” Mrs. Corso, er, Annette, called after him as she pulled her gentleman caller inside and shut the door.

  With a chuckle, he had clambered into the vehicle, which he had left running. The heater blasted full tilt directly at him, warming him thoroughly, all except for his knuckles clenched tightly to the wheel, which felt as though they might catch fire.

  They rode in silence the whole way, the sun having long since set behind the mountains, though who could have known it as the sun had made but a brief appearance from behind the dark clouds that day. The forecast said that was more than they were likely to see within the next couple of days, however.

  They had arrived in the small warehouse district, winding through the maze of Indian named roads until they found the address that they were looking for. 542 was a large, cement building that looked much like all of the others with the exception of the thirty or so cars parked in the lot on the side of the building. The lights in the entryway, behind the side by side glass doors, were dimmed behind the vacant receptionist’s desk.

  Pulling up against the curb just across the street from the front doors of the abandoned looking building, Scott looked over to Harry who wore that same puzzled look as he stared at the building.

  “What do you think they do here?” he asked. “It doesn’t look as though they provide any sort of service.”

  “I’m not sure, but why don’t you wait here for me.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, knowing Shane, I don’t think he would take well to being cornered by two of us.”

  “Think he’ll believe you?”

  “Not a chance, but I think I’ll be able to get him to come with us regardless.”

  “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

  “What does it matter if I’m able to get him somewhere that he’ll be safe.”

  “I don’t think there is such a place.”

  “Well,” Scott said, opening the door and hopping out into the snow that blew straight from the side. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  He left the engine running so that Harry could still take full advantage of the fiery heat that gusted from the heater. Slamming the door shut, he lowered his head and raced through the blinding snow across the slick street, bounding up onto the curb in front of the warehouse. Slowing, he walked straight towards the front doors, pausing briefly to note the sign etched into the glass on the door.

  “International Awards,” he read aloud, grabbing the handle and pulling it wide.

  A muffled ding echoed from the back of the warehouse, behind the closed doors to the left of the secretary’s desk. Several bronze service award plaques hung from the carpeted walls as well as the company’s mission statement that was tacked to the surface in large letters: “Quality and service are the industry standards. Set the bar high.”

  The door to the left side of the room opened and a man in a light pink button down shirt appeared. The cuffs were rolled up past his elbows and a tuft of the dense hair on his chest peeked over the top button. He wore khaki slacks with a pair of dark brown loafers. His long, black hair was pulled tightly into a ponytail behind the base of his skull, his green eyes leering from beneath his thick unibrow. A scruffy goatee wrapped an “o” around his thin lips, more than accentuating the look of surprise on his sun burnt face. A tattoo of a dragon was carved into his right forearm.

  “What can I do for you,” he asked, looking Scott up and down.

  “I’m looking for Shane Corso.”

  “Who can I tell him is here?”

  “Scott Ramsey,” he said, gnawing the corner of his lip.

  “Have a seat over there and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Scott turned to see a pair of folding chairs leaning against the wall. Pulling one down, he opened it and sat down, staring around the darkened room. There was a small door to the right side of the room without a knob, just a little circular hole where there had once been one. A peeled sticker on the door stated that at least once it had been a “Restroo.”

  The door opened to the left again as Shane burst into the room. With the exception of the thick sideburns, he looked just as he had a decade ago. He was wearing an expensive looking suit with a bright red and black patterned tie. His highly polished black shoes reflected the dim light that seeped from beneath the door he had just exited. And while his light brown hair was somewhat thinner, it was still in the same style he had worn it back in high school.

  “Scott Ramsey,” he said, a wide, white toothed smile appearing. He looked like a salesman. “Long time no see, my brother. What’s it been twelve years?”

  He offered his hand.

  “Something like that,” Scott said, clasping the hand which more than firmly squeezed it.
r />   “What brings you down here on a night like this?”

  “I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”

  Shane glanced down at the watch beneath his ornate gold cufflinks.

  “I’ve always got time for an old friend. Why don’t we go to my office.”

  Turning, he opened the wooden door and held it wide, allowing Scott to pass through the doorway first.

  It was an enormous room, with desks as far as the eye could see. There were people sitting in those desks, all of them with a phone held to their ear. Their voices clamored into a loud din, with none of them standing out. A handful of nicely dressed men and women walked the floor with clipboards leaning over the shoulders of the people on the phones. Every ten desks or so, there was a large chalkboard on wheels. Written on the green surface was a line of names along the left side, each of them with a varying amount of white markings to the right.

  Shane slipped in front of Scott and walked straight down the thin walkway between the desk towards a closed door at the back of the room.

  “But ma’am, surely you knew that it was Al Capone who originally started the better business bureau,” a man on the phone to his right said as he passed.

  “Now ma’am,” another said from a different desk. “I’m a business man and a Christian…”

  “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that you’re not only going to appreciate the quality of those pens, but I’ve got a hunch you may be the big winner,” a tall, burly looking fellow said into the old style receiver.

  Shane opened the door and stepped to the side to allow Scott to walk through, closing it behind him. The roar from the room outside was nearly sealed off from them; barely the hum of the clamor crept from the crack beneath the door.

  Shane walked around the desk and sat in the leather chair behind the desk. There was a brass nameplate affixed to a wooden placard at the front of the barren desk.

  “Mr. Corso,” Scott read with a nod.

  “That’s me,” Shane said, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back in the chair.

  “Well, Mr. Corso,” Scott said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. “I’ve got to ask. What is it that you do here?”