Hero's Curse

by Jack J. Lee

  After I covered the body with a couple inches of dirt, I lowered the boulder back into position. I took the tarp loaded with dirt and sprinkled it little by little over the hiking trail. When I was done it was close to sunrise, a few minutes before 6 AM

  I hadn’t buried Fang’s head. A head is a lot easier to carry and hide than a body. I stuffed it in a garbage bag in my backpack. I went to the creek near the road and took a sponge bath in the icy cold mountain water and changed clothes to get the reek of Fang’s fluids and burnt flesh off me. I dressed like a hiker, grabbed my backpack, climbed up the trail, out of the canyon, and into the sunlight.

  When I reached a slope that was exposed to the sun, I took out the bag and set it on the ground. I used a stick to open up the bag and expose the head to the sunlight. I expected it to burst into flame. It had to be a vampire.

  It didn’t combust. It just lay there, green and ugly. Wait, was it changing color? It took minutes but it slowly started turning gray. A half-an-hour later I was looking at a granite rock that kind of looked like a head. It no longer had distinct features. What kind of monster turned into stone when exposed to sunlight? I went over to pick it up. Yup, it was a piece of granite. Way too heavy to bring back to the SUV.

  I stumbled back to the SUV. I could still smell Fang’s body odor; it had permeated the carpet. My adrenalin rush was gone. The wise thing would have been to get a hotel room; I was too tired to care about the stink or being smart. I crawled in the back and fell asleep. When I woke up, it was 2 PM.

  I stash my money in a safe deposit box as soon as possible after a heist. An inch thick stack of twenty dollar bills is worth forty-six hundred and forty dollars. I’d picked up about seven inches of bills last night; it had been a fair to middling haul. Banks are the safest places to keep money for everyone, including criminals. As long as you keep paying for the box, no one gets access except you. A seven inch stack of cash is suspicious and a great excuse for a cop to hassle you; safe deposit keys aren’t.

  The serial numbers of the cash I had taken from the ATMs would be on bank databases for years. Optical scanners are so cheap now that even the smallest bank branches have machines that can pick up the serial numbers. Once a year, I charter a boat from the Gulf of Mexico to the Bahamas. They don’t care about serial numbers there. When I wire the money back to the US, I make sure to pay my taxes on my international investment income like every other law abiding citizen. I only work four to six nights a year and easily clear six figures. It’s seems only right I pay my fair share.

  I try my best to be as normal looking as possible when I go to a bank. I need to look like an upstanding citizen when I talk with the manager. I headed to the local 24 Fitness. The nice thing about these national chains was one membership got you into every gym they had. Everyone showers at a gym. Brushing your teeth there isn’t a big deal.

  I acted like a typical gym rat. I made the Nautilus circuit and spent as much time looking at women as I did working out. Once I was done I soaked in the hot tub. God, that felt good.

  My mind kept going back to what had happened last night. I’m a rational guy. I don’t believe in monsters; especially ones that call me ‘mortal’. I’d be more comfortable with what happened last night if the creature that attacked me had looked like ET, Chewbacca, or the Predator. I believe in science. Aliens from outer space make sense to me; they fit my worldview. Things that turn into rocks when exposed to sunlight and call me ‘mortal’ don’t. It would have been so much easier if it had said ‘earthling’ or ‘human’. It would have been awesome if it had a high nasally voice. ‘Earthling, your planet is doomed.’

  I had just finished showering and was getting dressed when a guy approached me. He was an African-American, about six foot two, and was dressed too nicely. His suit had to have cost thousands. He could have been a male model. Handsome wasn’t the right word for him, ‘beautiful’ was better. People go to gyms to hook up. I don’t get hit on by guys often, but it happens; it was turning out to be one of those days. I got ready to turn him down nicely.

  “Victor Paladin, it’s good to finally meet you.”

  I’ve never regretted dumping that name. It’s almost as cheesy and memorable as Dudley Do-Right. I put on a puzzled look. “Sorry friend, but you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m John Evans. I’m pretty sure I don’t know you.”

  He grinned. He even had dimples; it was ridiculous. “I’m sure you don’t since we’ve never met before, but Victor, we’re going to be great friends. Last night you destroyed a minion of darkness. You’ve joined the Great Game. I’ve been assigned as your guardian.”

  I smiled back, “Seriously, you’ve got the wrong guy. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Victor, you really think random chance brought you here? You were destined to come to Salt Lake City. You need to learn your purpose.”

  I let my real emotions show. “Look man, I’m trying to be nice but if you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling security.”

  The pretty guy looked even more amused. “One of the best parts of my job, I get to talk like a character in a bad made-for-TV movie. We can do this easy or we can do this hard. It’s no skin off my teeth. You’re the only one in danger. Here’s my card. Contact me when you’re ready.” He turned around and walked off before I could say anything.

  I looked at the card. It just had the letter “B” and a phone number. I never stay in the town where I’ve made withdrawals. I didn’t know what was going on, but it wasn’t anything I wanted to be a part of. I had no interest in finding out who B was and how he knew my real name. I finished dressing and went straight out to my truck.

  There are two kinds of criminal. The first has poor impulse control, seeks excitement, and spends a lot of time in prison. The second is methodical, avoids unnecessary risks, and rarely gets caught. Years back when I was stupid, I was the first kind of criminal. I’m still paying for the mistakes I made back then. I try my best now to be the second kind.

  I admit my curiosity was piqued. What had I killed? Why did B use an initial instead of a name? Why did he use the word guardian? What in the hell was the Great Game? These were all good questions. I was sure years from now, I would mull them over in my mind, in a cozy place far away from here. As I have gotten older, I’ve learned that an intriguing mystery is often better than an unpleasant answer. I would be happy to never learn the answers to these questions.

  I had planned on going to a bank. I decided it would be better to just get out of town. I could get a safe deposit box in another town. I sprayed a whole can of air freshener into the SUV and made sure to switch the plates back out before I returned the rental.

  I was on I-215 when I saw the exit to get to I-15 South to Las Vegas. It was weird. I knew what I wanted to do; my body wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t make my hand turn the wheel to the right. I kept going straight on I-215.

  I was able to get off at the next exit and head back to the I-15 interchange. Again, I couldn’t make the turn to go south. I knew what I wanted to do, I couldn’t do it. What the HELL WAS GOING ON?

  Chapter 2: The Beating

  I tried going north. I couldn’t force myself to drive past Bountiful. The Salt Lake City Airport was the furthest west I could go. I couldn’t enter Parley’s Canyon from I-80. Instead of heading east like I wanted, I found myself steering my truck up north onto Foothill. I pulled off at the first gas station. I stared at my smart phone and thought about calling B. I decided instead to find a VCR player. This technology is now so obsolete, I doubted if I could find a new one at a big-box retailer; I used my phone to find the closest thrift store.

  At Deseret Industries, a Mormon Church run thrift store, I found a portable VCR/TV. My truck has a DC to AC inverter; I was able to plug it in and play the VHS tape from the ATM right there in the parking lot. The VHS tape had been used over and over again to record countless hours of surveillance. It was scratchy and grainy but I was still recognizable; Mr. Fangs wasn’t. He looked like gray smoke
. It wasn’t the fuzziness of a poorly focused lens; he literally looked like a cloud of smoke.

  Between jobs, I have plenty of time to keep up with all the latest gadgets. For obvious reasons, I have a particular interest in surveillance and law enforcement technology. I’ve never heard of a device that could do this to an electronic image. I have a mobile broadband plan and card, so I pulled up my laptop and started surfing the web. I couldn’t find anything about a device that could mess with an electronic image this way.

  I looked for news of any technology or medication that could keep a person from being able to leave a city—nada. I looked up articles on hypnosis to see if this could explain what had been done to me. Every article I found said a hypnotist couldn’t make a person do anything against his will. All the people who do stupid things in public while hypnotized are volunteers; subconsciously they want to be the focus of attention even if it means they look like fools. I was certain my subconscious didn’t want to stay in Salt Lake City.

  Normally, I would have researched more on hypnosis. What would hypnotism do to a hot woman in a bar who was tempted to say “yes” but for rational reasons said “no”? Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to waste on that interesting question.

  Alright, what kind of monster turns into granite when exposed to sunlight? I finally got something. According to Wikipedia, trolls are creatures out of Norse or Scandinavian folklore. When exposed to sunlight, they turn into stone. They are also called Jotunn or giants. God damn it! This didn’t make any sense—fairy tales? I scanned other websites; they all confirmed sunlight was deadly to trolls.

  Twenty-four hours ago, if someone had told me trolls existed, I would have laughed right in their face. Even now after I’d killed one, chopped off its head, and watched it turn into stone, I still didn’t believe in fricking fairy tales.

  The articles that described Norse trolls also discussed Scandinavian witch doctors and shamans. According to the Urban Dictionary, a Geas was a curse used by Norse witches. It could be used to make the victim do pretty much anything the witch wanted. Every instinct I had told me this was bullshit. Cold hard logic said fairy tales and magic spells were real.

  I didn’t know why I had been cursed, but I had a pretty good idea who was responsible. I have enemies with access to the best hackers and databases who’ve been looking for me for years. My cover identity was unbreakable by any normal means, but I hadn’t accounted for magic. How in hell do you stop a witch from finding you?

  I looked for ways to break spells. I found a website that said if I placed St. John’s wort, sage, and sweet flag in a sachet, lit candles, and said a poem about lemons, salt, and water I’d be free of any curse. I had difficulty believing it would be that easy. From then on, I tried to filter out the sites that looked like they had been put up by adults who slept with stuffed animals. If the webpage had any kind of unicorns, pretty flowers, or cute elves, I figured it didn’t have useful information. Despite my efforts, I still had to spend hours looking at all kinds of pastel colored crap. I learned the essence of magic was getting in touch with your feelings.

  This was awful; I would have been less pissed if B had put a bullet into me. Most of the people who want me dead have good reasons. Making me read this drivel was unforgivable.

  I found other sites by people I would have labeled as nutty religious fanatics just a couple of hours ago. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live” was often prominently displayed. Unfortunately, according to these same sites, killing the witch didn’t always break the spell. It looked like I’d have to question B before I killed him.

  I’ve been in this situation before, where I’ve wanted to incapacitate someone dangerous. I’ve studied martial arts all my life but I’m not that big, strong, or fast. I’m five foot nine and weigh one sixty-five. I’m fit and coordinated, but no more than any other reasonably athletic guy who has a lot of time to work out. I don’t like fair fights. If you’re not cheating, you’re not in it to win.

  Deseret Industries has a large parking lot and most of it was empty. It was a good place to meet the witch. In a way, I was grateful for being trapped. I’d been living the safe and cautious life for a long time. Now that I was forced into it, I could admit to myself I was bored. Killing the troll had been a rush. Given the choice, I would have left all the questions I had unanswered, but I didn’t have a choice. B had fucked with the wrong guy. I drove my truck to an empty corner of the parking lot and then prepared to meet B.

  The Taser C2 shoots a replaceable cartridge that uses compressed nitrogen to shoot two barbed, one inch long probes up to fifteen feet. Insulated wires connect the probes to the Taser. Every pull of the Taser trigger starts a thirty-second electrical cycle inhibiting voluntary muscular control. I’ve modified one to pulse continuously until the battery runs out. I call it my hand buzzer.

  I carefully paint my right palm with liquid latex that has been custom colored to match my skin tone. The latex secures a tab with the two barbed probes attached to the center of my hand. I’m careful when I use this device. An electrified hand naturally forms a fist. I don’t want my hand to get caught in my victim’s grip, so I don’t use latex on my fingers or the back of my hand. Dry skin isn’t a great conductor. I was reasonably sure that even if one of my targets grabbed my hand, I wouldn’t get the full impact of the electrical discharge. Still, it wasn’t something I wanted to test.

  When I shake my victim’s hand, the two barbed probes enter his palm. The natural reaction to sudden pain is to jerk away. As my target pulls away, he yanks the probes from the latex attaching them to my palm and the buzzer activates. The Taser causes every single muscle in your body to spasm. You can’t breathe. The three different times I’ve used my hand buzzer in the past, the batteries ran out between three and three-and-a-half minutes. All my victims passed out within two.

  The people I use my buzzer on are extremely dangerous; they’re not the kind to forgive and forget. I make sure they will never have an opportunity to get revenge. I’ve learned from past screw-ups to be cautious, to always have a backup plan. Even though my device has worked perfectly three out of three times, there was no guarantee it would work as well on B. I’d never gone up against a witch before. I had no idea what his capabilities were. If my buzzer didn’t work, I needed another way to take him out quickly.

  I don’t like handguns; it’s too easy to miss and too hard to get an instant kill. If I’m going to make noise, I want immediate results. My preferred backup weapon is a bang stick. Divers use them to ward off sharks. It’s a shotgun shell inside a metal tube attached to the end of a stick. I strap mine to my left inner forearm. To use it, I bend my left wrist out and I press my left palm into my target, hard and fast. This pushes the tube with the shotgun shell back onto the fixed firing pin on the stick, firing the shotgun shell. The tube is just long enough to prevent the lead shot from blowing out the sides. When the bang stick fires, it blows lead shot directly from the contact point into the chest. The entry wound is an inch wide. A few inches deeper the spray of lead is almost a foot in diameter. A hit anywhere in the chest is instantly fatal.

  It took awhile to prepare my weapons. It was July and even though it was close to 6 PM, it was hot. I could only hope the fact I was wearing a long sleeved shirt wasn’t too suspicious. Utah has a desert climate, even in the summer it gets cool at night. In an hour or so, the long sleeved shirt wouldn’t look so odd. I called B.

  “Yes?”

  “What did you do to me?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I can’t leave Salt Lake City. The hell you didn’t do anything!”

  The asshole actually started laughing. “You have no idea how true that statement is.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Believe it or not Victor, I want to help you. You’ve entered the Great Game and you don’t understand the rules. The situation is complicated and it’s going to take time to learn the intricacies, but first you have to survive. If you spend tonight
in your truck or in a hotel, you won’t last the night.”

  “Can we meet?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m at…”

  “I know where you are. Wait for me outside your truck.”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! He knew where I was and he knew I had a truck. If I hadn’t known I was stuck in Salt Lake City, I would have taken off. I wracked my brain. My windows were tinted. I was at least a hundred feet away from the nearest building or car. There was a chance he didn’t know what I had done to prepare.

  I got out of my truck. I was out there for less than two minutes when I heard a sound behind me. It was B.

  I studied him. When I last saw him at the gym, I had assumed he was black. I realized now that I didn’t know what he was. He was dark, much darker than most African-Americans, but had distinctively European features and light brown, almost golden eyes. He looked more Subcontinent Indian than African. Again, I was struck by how pretty he was.

  I couldn’t figure out how he got so close, so fast. I got the sinking feeling I was outclassed. I seriously considered going with the flow, to see how cooperation worked.

  Fuck it. He was messing with my head; he had turned my own body into a prison. There was no way I could live with that.

  I put on a friendly smile and reached out, “Hey B.”

  He took my hand without hesitation. He didn’t jerk back. I just had enough time to think, ‘This is going to suck!’ when he twisted his palm while still keeping a tight grip. I felt the latex give on my palm. I found out dry skin conducted very well.

  Your strongest muscles are your quads, your back, and your grip. When tens of thousands of volts run through your body, all your muscles contract. My knees locked into extension, my spine arced backwards, and my hand gripped tightly around B’s. I couldn’t breathe.