by Matt Drabble
In the beginning, his education had been difficult, his saviour had spoken very little English, and to complicate matters further it would seem that his mind was shot to pieces. Their communication had consisted mainly of grunts and points with increasing irritation, Drake soon became frustrated with their lack of progress.
The man’s mind wandered worryingly, one minute he was there and the next his eyes were vacant, and his thought waves shattered. Drake had learned of his rebirth’s gifts mainly through trial and error to begin with. His speed and strength appeared to be significantly augmented, and his senses functioned with clarity far beyond the reach of normal man. As the days and weeks passed, he slowly became more and more attuned to his new abilities. He could hear the cockroach scuttling concerto in the walls; he could hear the low hum of the electricity cables running power to the street lamps on the streets above. He could smell the rubber tire tread deposit of the cars that passed overhead, and the acrid exhaust fumes emanating from the vehicles with inefficient filtration. He had made the mistake of walking into the sunlight on only the third day of his resurrection, luckily it had been an overcast day and the sun was somewhat hidden behind the heavy cloud cover. His face had only just poked out into the damp air when the weak ultraviolet rays had gently brushed his cheek; the pain had been immediate and immense. His skin had bubbled and blistered on contact, and he had vaguely heard a hearty, throaty laugh from his new flatmate. He had staggered quickly back into the cool shadows, and the man was doubled over. He was thumping his knees with clenched fists laughing riotously, his filthy face quivering in delight. Drake would have cheerfully battered the man’s grinning face if he had been able to. Slowly the pain passed, he touched his skin gingerly, fingering the broken surface as it scabbed and healed beneath his touch. His anger soon turned to excitement at his new found healing ability. He began experimenting with a broken glass shard, slicing the exposed flesh on his arms and watched fascinated as the soft tissue knitted before his eyes. He noticed the correlation between the hunger and the wounds, the worse the injury, the longer the healing, the more ravenous the hunger. All this while, the man watched him with interest during his more lucid periods. He nodded when Drake learned a new lesson, sometimes clapping, sometimes gesturing wildly. They slept side by side on the floor of the small shack; the only item of furniture that did not belong was a solid wooden chest adorned with generous metal hinges and a heavy padlock. The man guarded the chest with consummate care and only opened it when he thought that Drake was sleeping.
Drake observed all of this carefully, in his former life he had been a captain of industry, his industry being the seedy criminal underbelly of Eagleport. He had risen to the top of his particular tree with an iron will and an iron fist, and he had ruled his empire with precision, dedication and a strong stomach.
His diet consisted of filthy sewer rats provided by his host; at first the hunger had been so severe that he soon lost his inhibitions and his revulsion. As time passed however, he soon began to feel the need for a stronger sustenance. The rats provided only a limited buzz, and he found himself always hungry no matter how many he consumed. He knew that he needed more information than the other man could provide through his very limited communicative skills. He had tried to get to the man’s wooden chest to spy its contents, but he was always watched. Any time that he displeased his host, the man would fly into a rage and beat him savagely. Although Drake felt stronger and faster, he still had limited abilities to control his newfound talents. The other man despite his appearance, appeared to be faster and stronger than him, and Drake was never able to fully defend himself against the onslaught. He knew that he was lacking something; he felt like a Ferrari with the handbrake on. Something was holding him back and preventing him from realizing his full potential.
The man started to take him on the rat hunts through the sewers, slopping through the foul smelling ooze and hunting for an inadequate meal was not his favourite pastime. After a short while, he was sent out on his own to restock the pantry. He was a natural born leader and being demoted to serve a filthy sewer dwelling bum was not sitting well, but he bided his time.
The success in his previous life had not come easily or quickly, patience was a virtue that he had learned the benefits of, early in the game. He’d been born with balls and brains, and he had used both throughout his career. Knowing when to listen, when to wait, and when to strike, had been paramount to his ascension through the ranks. He waited now until his chance arose.
He had begun storing rats from his hunts a short distance from the shack, an extra one here and there until after a few weeks he had a full catch. On every trip he practiced, practiced his coordination, his sense of smell, his sight in the blackened sewers and his hearing. On several occasions, he would pause further and further away from the makeshift home, listening for the other man’s noises. He trained until he was able to gain greater distances whilst still hearing the man moving around. Eventually his patience paid off, and he heard the man leave the shack, he collected his pre-filled meal quota and headed silently and quickly back. He went straight for the man’s pride and private joy, the chest.
The lock was heavy and sturdy forming a protective seal around the secrets within. He had hoped to illicit a clandestine entry, but that would mow seem impossible, he paused for careful consideration. If he broke the lock, then the man would know his guilt and may well finish the violent job that he had started several times before. The contents of the chest were still a mystery; it may well hold the building blocks of a new life for Drake, or it may well hold nothing of any value and be the end of him. Weighing the odds he finally decided to go with balls over brains, it was no life for him to be the errand boy of the sewers, and he would not stand it any longer.
He took a rusty, but still solid pickaxe head, that he had found several weeks ago and secreted along with his private rat store and tried to lever the padlock. The lock was fairly new and not without integrity. It held on grimly serving its purpose with honour and commitment, but eventually Drake’s need was great and it succumbed. He lifted the heavy lid; it swung on its hinges with barely a whisper. The contents were covered with a dry and clean looking blanket which he lifted aside. The chest was stacked with several old books, the spines were cracked, and leather bound. They looked older than anything Drake had ever seen before, ancient holders of ancient text. Knowledge secured through the ages and handed down for storage here in a disgusting hovel beneath the world.
Drake pulled the first book gently from the pile respecting its age and wisdom. For the next two hours, he waded through the volumes, all of the languages were unrecognizable, but the illustrations were decipherable. There were penned sketches of winged beasts that walked upright like men. Horned demons with claws, men with huge jaws that split and cracked revealing giant fangs dripping with gore. Some illustrations appeared to show a kind of do’s and don’ts list: sunlight was out. Images showed burning bodies, the blood of the living was good, whilst the blood of the dead appeared fatal. Drawings of various animals showed the varying attributes of the food chain. Some of the illustrations also showed a diagram of a human figure. There was a dotted line at the neck and dotted lines pointing to the heart, kill strikes, destroy the heart, and sever the head.
Throughout his life and professional career, Drake had never been accused of being a stupid man. He believed in his knowledge, but he also believed in what he saw with his own eyes. Drake would never discard information that he saw simply because it did not fit with what he previously believed to be true. He now had enhanced speed, strength and senses, his healing ability, the hunger and the blood. It did not matter if he believed in any of it or not, what was happening to him was real. It was a strange and alien word that rolled uncomfortably around his parched mouth, a word that he could not, would not, say aloud, vampire.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
April 2012
Ghost dragged himself slowly to his feet and staggered back against the wall for s
upport, his face was a bloody mask and his insides felt like jelly. Tank circled him slowly, up until yesterday he would have taken the bigger man down without breaking a sweat. Whilst Tank was undoubtedly physically superior, he lacked the combat intelligence that Ghost possessed, but unfortunately, this wasn’t yesterday. He was being thrown around like a rag doll and Tank was undeniably playing with him, suddenly he was faster and stronger than ever before. Ghost felt as though his head had been bounced off of every solid surface in the casino, and every punch that he threw missed woefully. One minute Tank was in front of him the next he was somewhere else, the beating was bad enough for his ego, but the laughter was harder to take.
“Come on Ghost, is that really the best you have to offer?” Tank taunted, “Is this the big bad monster that everybody fears?” He asked as he hurled Ghost ten feet across the floor.
Ghost landed heavily onto an already damaged body, he rolled as best he could up into a defensive position. He glanced around the casino floor desperately searching for a weapon of any kind. His mind whirled furiously; his usual tactics were scanned, processed, and discarded in the blink of an eye. Whatever he was dealing with was far outside of his experience.
Tank strolled casually, hands in pockets and a smug grin stretched across his cruel features. “You know, I’ve always wanted to try you Ghost, everyone said that you were the best. Your rep was second to none, and that business with the Raphael’s back in the day is the stuff of legend” he circled around Ghost with his back turned dismissively. “I have to say old man, you are one major disappointment” in a flash, he hoisted Ghost to his feet and slammed him into a Vegas style one armed bandit.
Ghost’s head span and rattled and he could almost see the cherries spinning before his eyes. Tank’s face snarled into his, his eyes burned, and his breath was foul, long fingernails scraped his face like talons.
“I’m going to peel your skin like a fucking chicken you insect” the big man roared.
“Son, you couldn’t peel a fucking grape” Ghost spat in bloody mouthed defiance.
Suddenly he was airborne, spinning through the air with the greatest of ease. He crashed into a large neon and metallic display advertising the blackjack tables. The glass shattered, and the metal poles gave way as his drained body landed amongst the sirens call.
“Damn that felt good” Tank exclaimed from the starting point some distance away, “You really flew my man”
Ghost peered through the spinning haze of his vision, Tank’s bulk seemed to blur and distort, one second he was twenty feet away and the next he was right in front of him. Tank leant into the wreckage and Ghost felt himself grabbed harshly by the shirt, the material ripped and tore as he felt himself drawn into Tank’s grinning mask. The big man’s face was distorted and ridged, his mouth opened and expanded, Ghost saw the fangs and could not bring himself to believe them. He was pulled effortlessly to his feet, he grasped frantically amongst the debris desperately searching for salvation. His fingers brushed a shard of a broken metal pole; they caught, then slipped, then caught again. Tank pulled him painfully towards his salivating jaws, and Ghost saw death in his eyes. The eyes that had been so pale and so cold now blazed and Ghost felt himself drown in their fiery glare, his end was arriving in slow motion. Time stood still and he felt his will slide, fetid breath blew into his face, and a sandpaper tongue caressed his throat. A stubborn thought buzzed his brain annoyingly, not like this, he mentally slapped the thought away, but it persisted, not like this, NOT LIKE THIS. At the last possible moment, his hands remembered their prize, and he suddenly felt the cold steel. He exhausted whatever dregs he had left in the bank and plunged the pole into Tank. The ragged shaft sliced through the large man’s chest and by pure luck pierced his heart; Tank dropped him immediately and staggered backwards. He began thrashing wildly; he howled and screamed incoherently clutching at his impaling. Ghost sank to the floor and looked up at the big man’s struggles as they slowed. Tank fell backwards board stiff and crashed to the floor violently; he jerked, once, twice, and then lay still. Ghost crawled excruciatingly towards him, bleeding heavily from multiple wounds. When he reached the body, the first thing that he noticed was that Tank looked like Tank again. His broad face was almost serene; his skin was ivory and his features peaceful. Ghost poked him with his one good hand and the body rocked with the motion but remained otherwise still. Tank’s mouth was closed, but Ghost had to look, he prised open the once distorted jaws and saw that the teeth were now normal again.
Unknown to Ghost he shared a philosophy with Drake; he also would never discard information that he saw, simply because it did not fit with what he previously believed to be true. The word that caught in his thoughts and in his mouth was the same strange and alien thought that Drake had. Ghost was no more capable of saying it aloud than Drake had been, vampire.
Jess watched the rain slide down the glass of her bedroom window, and her mood fell with the water. The one guaranteed downer in her life was the weather, when the skies darkened, her disposition followed suit. It was days like this and in private moments like this, that her shiny iron suit of confidence that she presented to the world, suddenly looked a little faded and rusty.
She had walked out of a top paying and high profile job some three years ago with visions of grandeur, visions that now looked a little blurry with the benefit of hindsight. She had believed totally in her own ability, and more importantly that her ability would be enough on its own steam to carry her as far as her vision could see. Yet on private mornings such as this, she felt grounded and wasted. It would never matter what she produced, if nobody ever got to read it. Was a Picasso buried in a grave, still a Picasso if no one ever laid eyes upon it? If she was writing and nobody ever reads it, was she a writer or was she just writing. She had abandoned her promising career as a journalist at the first chance for glory. She had seen an opportunity to pursue a Ghost, a real life Ghost. Abraham Kane was the root of her developing obsession, her quest for his story had become her quest for her own redemption, an increasingly faint hope for justification. Everyone had told her that she was making a terrible decision when she quit the Globe. Her friends such as they were, her colleagues, even her parents were reticent, but at least they had been nonjudgmental. Her parents had always been a little removed, chilly if not completely cold. Her mother had been disapproving, but held her feelings in check behind a thorny wall of politeness. Her father was a little more involved with her life, but more in a supervisory role rather than a paternal one. He had weighed the pros and cons with her as he would any client, and his view was always dispassionate and clinical.
She stood and stretched, rustling up a forward momentum that came with difficulty on such mornings. She had tried working on her story earlier, but she had been all thumbs on the keyboard. Some days her thoughts were so sharp they cut through the page and sliced a story with a surgeon’s scalpel. Other days her mind was foggy, and her thoughts dissipated before she could gain a firm grip.
She pulled out her note files, the papers sprawled out on the bed before her, a mass of white sheets crawling with scribbles and scrawls. Her writing was clear in some parts, structured plans with invisible links and lines plotting a path. Other sheets were a chaos of confusion, part sentences that began a thought but never ended. Here in front of her was over three years of her life, every scrap of information on Abraham “Ghost” Kane. On first glance, it did not appear to have been a fruitful endeavour. The paper trail on this Ghost was pretty much non-existent, nothing was registered in his name, no properties, no businesses and no vehicles. In this day and age, it would seem impossible that a man could float through life and never leave a paper footprint; But Ghost had never claimed benefits and had never been arrested. It seemed to be the case that he had not bothered the system, so the system had not bothered him.
One of her private pleasures was her graphic novel collection and some days she felt like Lex Luthor, Superman’s eternal adversary, sitting in her ivory tower plott
ing Machiavellian schemes for Ghost’s downfall. It wasn’t a secret pleasure due to any embarrassment, only tiredness for her constant need to defend the genre. The seminal Watchmen graphic novel had made it onto the Times Magazine 100 greatest novels list, not the 100 greatest graphic novels, but a compendium of books placing the graphic novel amongst the classics in literature. It was a passionate rant that she found herself partaking in time and again towards the ignorant scoffing of co-workers towards “childish comics”.
She had begun her quest with no strong feelings for this man one way or another, but as the years had passed her irritation and disappointment had turned outwards towards her quarry. It was not so much his criminality that she hated, as much as his seeming ability to frustrate her ventures at every turn. She had originally set herself a twelve month deadline to investigate, write, edit, and publish. Now over three years later she desperately hoped that at long last, her patience and stubbornness would finally be rewarded.
She had found her very first key with which to pick his vaulted locks, she had witnessed nothing but a pure wall of ice and the man was impenetrable. She had followed him for months at a time, and he simply appeared to have no relationships. There was no one who had been prepared to talk about the man that she had found, either in jail or out. Every crime reporter that she talked to had spoken in great depth and with great knowledge about Jimmy “Eyes” Dent. Jimmy was a legend in the underworld, his temper, his connections, his business were all common knowledge, and the man even seemed to reveal in his infamy. Jimmy’s arrests were multiple; stretching back to his youth when the charges were always of a violent nature, and he had served two prison spells both for GBH. Both of his convictions had been for assaults against fellow members of his industry which in turn did not frighten the public. Traders and residents spoke perversely of the calm that his violence had brought the Fresh Haven area of Eagleport back in the 90’s. It was a strange attitude that some members of the public seemed to accept crime as long as it was structured and organized. They all seemed to disregard the violence involved, perhaps our fear of the unexpected is stronger, she pondered. All of Jimmy’s life appeared to be lived under the full glare of the flashbulbs and the man revelled in it. He enjoyed his notoriety and always lived down to his reputation. She had a thick file of photographs of Jimmy from charity, sporting and public events spanning years. Upon examining these images meticulously she had found amongst the changing faces of Jimmy’s entourage one man was constant, Abraham “Ghost” Kane. Ghost was always at Jimmy’s shoulder; at first glance, he was dismissed as just another meathead bodyguard. But after that night at the gala night at the Natural History Museum, she had glimpsed behind the curtain. She knew that instant he was a man of interest and finally she had her “in”. The vault in which he protected his life was formidable; Eddie was only the smallest crack in the door. A sliver of light in the darkness but it gave her fuel, it gave her renewal, and it gave her hope.