Daemon

by Doug Dandridge

  “Then you were lucky to get out,” said Guffy, shrugging his shoulders. “You ever thought of going to the church, seeing what they could do?”

  “Not really,” said Jamie, looking over at his wife who returned a wan smile. He looked back at the big man. “I never thought much of their message. But this is no life for a woman and children.”

  “No life for a man either,” said Guffy. “I'm going down to the nearest church tomorrow and see what they have to offer. Why don't you and your family join me?”

  “I,” said Jamie, just before a blue flash stole his words. He looked up and saw a glow high up the building across the street. A glowing red ball was forming in front of a high window. The blue glow of a building defensive field grew, then the red went through it. A moment later a window shattered. Some glass fell tickling to the sidewalk, and people yelled and ran. Not enough glass, thought Jamie, a former building engineer. It blew in.

  The screaming of a building soul echoed off the walls of the alley. That was followed by a distant scream that could only be human. A short, sharp scream that ended in finality.

  “What the hell,” said Guffy.

  Jamie looked over at the man for a moment, then back up at the high window. The red glowing object was coming out of the window, looking like lava flowing from the vent of a volcano. The red thing fell toward the street. No, thought Jamie, watching as the red flow went past floor after floor, its floating.

  Float it did, until it reached street level. Then it started to swirl, turning into a mini tornado of red energy. It stood in place for a moment, catching up the trash on the street and spinning it out at speed. This swirling went on for a couple of moments while the homeless stared, and faces appeared at the windows of the building to look down on the strange apparition. Then without any warning it started to move down the street.

  “Move,” yelled Jamie at his wife and children, springing to his feet, reaching down and grabbing the hand of Stephanie, helping her to get the children to their feet and back into the alley.

  People were shouting and yelling as the unknown moved down the street. Because it was an unknown, and in this world unknown meant dangerous. Jamie hustled his family back as Guffy stood with him to form a barrier that both knew would not stop this thing if it meant them harm. It didn't seem to mean anyone harm, avoiding the street people as it picked up speed and moved out of the area, actually leaping one man who had fallen down.

  “I think we'll go with you to that church tomorrow,” said Jamie, clapping the man who had stood with him on the shoulder. “Things are getting a little too freaky for me. Maybe it's time to give the Good God a try.”

  The sounds of sirens rose in the distance.

  “You think we should get out of here?” asked Guffy, looking up the street.

  “Don't think we can,” said Jamie, when sirens sounded from the other direction, and he saw lights flashing on the buildings as the cars grew nearer. “I guess we better just stay here and tell them what we saw. Whether they believe it or not is up to them.”

  Chapter Three

  The harsh alcohol slid down Jude's throat like toxic chemicals on the dead lands. He wished sometimes he could afford better than the rotgut he forced himself to drink. But quantity was more important than quality at this stage of his life. As he forced another swallow the building soul chimed, indicating an incoming link through the com system.

  Jude cursed under his breath while he dragged a hand through his stringy, dirty blond hair. All he wanted to do was to get drunk and be left alone. That’s all he had wanted to do since Laurie had died in childbirth last year. Her third miscarriage, but this one had sucked her life into the void as well. So he had accepted that this was the best way out of this life.

  That's not really true, he thought, closing his eyes so he could imagine the fading image of his wife. I could shoot myself and it would be quicker than this slow suicide. But Laurie had been a churchgoer, and adherent of the Good God. He was not sure he believed in the afterlife that she was sure would come. He believed in an afterlife, enough of the spirits he contacted were being pulled toward something. He did know that if he shot himself he would not go to that place she believed in, would not be with her. He couldn't take that chance.

  Oblivion is what I want, he thought, ignoring the second and third chimes of the house soul. I wish I could just stay here and drink all the time. Unfortunately he had to go to work, and sometimes be on call. But this was not one of those nights. I already did one fucking case today, he thought. I’ve done my part for the day.

  “Incoming call for Detective Lieutenant Jude Parkinson,” repeated the house soul com system, over and over. It knew that he was here, and he couldn’t fool it with his silence. But maybe if he didn’t pay attention the person on the other end would give up.

  Santana stood up from where he had been lying next to Jude and butted his head into the man’s arm. Jude smiled as he looked down on the big orange tabby, his wife’s favorite and the last of her cats that he had. The others had disappeared, as they were wont to do in this city. He scratched around the big cat’s ears, eliciting a deep purr that rumbled through his hand. The Detective hadn’t had a lot to smile about lately. The animal was one of the few things in his life that could cause one. He took another gulp of his drink, one of the other things that could bring a smile to his face, even if it made him feel like hell in the morning.

  “Override,” said a hated voice from the air over the table. “I know you’re there, Parkinson,” said the whiny voice of Major Malcolm Dowdie, the head of the city homicide division. “Damn it man, answer me.”

  “Nice to hear your voice, Major,” said Jude, slurring his words. “What can I do for you?”

  “We have a murder, Lieutenant,” said the higher ranking Officer. “They need a reading of the scene, and you’re what we have available.”

  “I’m not the on call tonight, Major,” said Jude, a smile on his face.

  “And you’ve been drinking,” accused the Superior Officer.

  “Nothing says I can’t. It's my night off, after all.”

  “I've been hearing that there is more to it than that,” said the Major, a hiss in his voice.

  “My personal life is my own, Dowdy,” said Jude, throwing his glass toward the sink. Santana started to bolt from the table. Jude grabbed him with both hands and said gentle words to calm the animal.

  “I would like to tell you to get your ass to bed and don’t bother coming back in, ever,” said the Major loudly. “But this is a high profile murder, involving an employee of Daemon Corp. And we need your expertise. So splash some water on your face and get some caffeine in you. Montoya is on his way over to pick you up. At least we don’t have to have you endangering everyone else by driving. Dowdie out.”

  Jude cursed under his breath. Santana started to slide from under his hands, the sensitive animal reacting to the anger rising in his master. Jude pulled the cat back to him, then started kneading his shoulders. He spent a minute doing that, then got up from the couch to splash some water on his face and get dressed.

  He looked at his big forty-five caliber revolver after he picked it up from his dresser, thinking again of how easy it would be to take his head off with the big gun. Who will take care of the cat, he thought as he looked down the huge bore of the pistol. He'll just wander away and get taken by the shadows. Can't have that, now can I. He put the gun back down and buckled on his shoulder holster, then holstered the gun and added the pouch of reloads. Nothing like guns and alcohol, he thought with a laugh as he pulled his jacket over his rig.

  Jude reached the door at the same time as Santana. The cat rubbed against his leg, begging Jude to let him out. Jude shook his head and pushed the cat away with a gentle foot.

  “That’s what happened to your brothers,” he said, looking down at the cat. “Let them out and they disappeared. I couldn’t stand to see that happen to you.”

  The cat meowed plaintively, then turned away and walke
d back to the small apartment’s living room. Jude watched the beast go with a tear brimming in his eye. That was his last living connection to his late wife, and he’d be damned if he’d let the animal come to harm out there in the hazardous dark. Leaving the apartment, he walked down the four flights of stairs to the lobby and out through the protective building field, looking up and down the well-lit street to see if the Sergeant was already there.

  He only had to wait a minute on the street corner for Montoya to show up in the same unmarked steamer he had dropped the Lieutenant off in. Wisps of moisture curled up into the air from the engine compartment. He let himself in the passenger side, the aroma of good coffee in his nose.

  “Got you one with plenty of sober juice in it,” said Montoya in his lightly accented English, giving Jude a big smile.

  Jude nodded his head and got into the seat, grabbing the large steaming mug of coffee that was set in the center cup holder. He took a sip and smacked his lips.

  "I should have known that you would bring the gourmet stuff," said Jude, looking over at his partner. "Though I can't figure out how you keep getting it."

  "We came here with a good supply," said Sebastian Montoya, putting the car in gear and accelerating ahead. "Not much left now. But I was sure you would be needing it."

  Jude nodded as he glanced at his short, slightly rotund partner. He had heard the story many times before. Montoya's family was wealthy in their own lands, coffee growers all. Those lands had been dead for generations now, and Montoya's family had been one of the first and last out before it died.

  What Montoya had just said finally penetrated. “Why did you think I might be needing it, Sergeant?” he said in a harsh voice, wishing he could take the words back as they left his mouth.

  “You haven't been yourself lately, my friend,” said Montoya, a concerned look on his face. “I know you don't want to talk about it. I know you didn’t want to earlier, but you need to.”

  "I wonder what happened to all the cats," said Jude, looking out over the road, changing the uncomfortable subject. "When I was growing up here there was always a couple in sight on the street, no matter where you went."

  "Maybe the refuges ate them," said Montoya with a laugh, shaking his head. “And what does that have to do with what we were talking about?”

  "You know where you're going?"

  "More or less," said the Detective Sergeant, turning a corner. "We have to go a bit roundabout from here, unless you want to go through a dark zone."

  "Not me," said Jude, swallowing a gulp of the good coffee. "If you want to on your own time, be my guest."

  "Mama Rosa's boy wasn't raised dumb," said the Sergeant with a smile. He put on the brakes with a squeal as a woman and two children crossed the road at the intersection.

  Jude looked out the window at the family. The mother kept her eyes averted from the headlights, a hand on each child's shoulder. The children stared at the Detective with wide, frightened eyes. It was night, and they must have spent some time on the streets. Enough to know the terrors that the night held. The children were pushed by their mother from the intersection and Montoya pulled ahead.

  Jude could see many more of the homeless as they went, people who had come to the city to escape the expanding dead lands. People who could not get into a house or apartment, past the building souls. A hundred thousand or more who huddled around the public lights in the night, afraid that the darkness would get them.

  "How many do you think die every night?" asked Jude, glancing at his partner, then looking back out at a family under a light post.

  "Them?" asked Montoya with a frown. "A couple of hundred. Maybe half from the shadows. But there are always more where they came from. I feel so sorry for them."

  Always more where they came from, thought Jude, nodding his head. Until there are no more where they came from.

  They continued on through the city, lights everywhere, holding back the darkness. Old newspapers blew through the streets, garbage piled up on the curbs, until the waste crews came to get it, earlier in the morning. The neighborhood became more upscale, though the street people populated this area as well. Finally they came to a large building across from another block of luxury apartments. A half dozen beat cops walked outside the building. One waved the detectives' car down, then looked through the window while resting his billy on the bottom of the frame.

  "Lieutenant," said the man, nodding at Jude. "Sergeant. I think they are expecting you up on the fortieth floor."

  "Can't keep them waiting, can we?" said Montoya. "Where do you want us to park this thing?"

  "Over there, sir," said the patrolman, pointing with his billy at a spot under a light, next to the white meat wagon.

  A thin man in a worn suit intercepted them before they reached the building entrance. A uniformed cop saw the man at the last minute and hustled to intercept him.

  "Statement for the press," said the man, holding up a notepad. "Just what is going on in there, Lt. Parkinson?"

  Jude waved off the beat cop and slowed for a moment.

  "I just got here myself, Murphy," he said to the reporter. "You know a statement will be issued when we have enough information to give out."

  "The same canned shit we always get," said the reporter with a scowl. "And what can you tell me about the world dying?"

  Jude arched an eyebrow and looked at the reporter, then shrugged his shoulders and walked on.

  "The world is dying you know, Lieutenant," called the reporter, as the uniformed cop grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the building. "It's been dying for centuries, but death is at the doorstep for us."

  "What a fucking nut," said Jude, glaring at the man for a moment while the beat cops pulled him past the police line.

  “You don’t think there’s anything to what he says?” said Montoya, glancing back at the reporter. He then looked back at his partner with a questioning look.

  "How are you feeling?" he asked as they walked through the entrance of the building, nodding at a pair of patrolmen who were watching the elevators.

  "Like hell," said Jude, looking out through foggy eyes. "How do I look?"

  "Like hell," said Montoya as they boarded the elevator and the doors closed behind them. "You know that shit is going to kill you some day?"

  "Sooner rather than later is my hope," said Jude, looking at the ceiling of the elevator.

  "You think Laura would want you to do this?" asked Montoya, grimacing. "You know she wouldn't."

  "She's not here to let me know what she would want," said Jude, meeting his partner's eyes. "So I guess it's up to me. And I wish you would quit bringing her into this."

  "God wouldn't want..."

  The elevator door opened, revealing another uniformed cop and interrupting Montoya's thought. The patrolman waved them on, and they headed down the hall to a door where several men in suits stood. The flash of a camera went off in the room.

  "Good to see you could make it," said Detective Gustavson at the door. "Hope your stomach is strong tonight. It's a horror in there."

  Jude pushed by the other Detective, trying to brace himself for what was coming. There was no bracing for the sight that met his eyes. He felt like all the alcohol and the little food he had eaten that night was going to come up. With sweat breaking on his brow he forced it back, making himself look at the horror that was the living room of the late Sondra Mangonel.

  His late wife had always said that he was in the wrong business. He had told her that he had a special talent, and that homicide was the place he needed to be. He had tried to harden himself over the years. To some extent he had been successful. But not completely.

  The living room was covered in blood, on every surface, like it had been misted into the air and then precipitated onto everything. There were gobbets of flesh intersperse with the liquid, and larger pieces scattered about. Jude found himself staring at a calf, foot still attached, lying on top of the couch. A staring head, dread locks spread around it, was sitt
ing on a small table, eyes staring sightlessly out at the place where its owner had once lived. The larger pieces were outlined in chalk, a man was gathering specimens in a container as if for a science fair, while a photographer continued to flash pictures of the diabolical scene. There was a tarp stretched over the large window that would have given a great view of the city, and glass sparkled near the window, most of it covered with a sheen of red.

  “We have a black female,” said Detective Gustavson, sliding up to Jude and rattling off the details. “Employed as an energy tech at the Daemon Corporation. Came home tonight just a little before midnight. Whatever killed her did it around the time of the witching hour. Her kids witnessed the attack.”

  “Of God,” said Jude, looking at the man in horror. “Children witnessed this?”

  Gustavson nodded his head and turned a page in his note pad.

  “Seems that Ms. Mangonel called a code on the security system that pushed them out of the way, back to their rooms, and held them there. So they didn’t see the finish. The building soul called in the incident.”

  “Thank the Good God for small favors,” said Jude reflexively, taking a step forward, then looking down at the blood tinged carpet.

  “If you want to believe he listens,” said Gustavson, giving Jude a curious look. “Or that he even exists.”

  “If you mundanes are finished I’d like to do my reading,” said Jude, glaring at the man.

  Gustavson nodded his head, a flicker of fear in his eyes, and hustled the rest of the investigative team out of the room. Jude watched them go, fuming. He wasn’t sure if the Good God existed either. The evidence was not in his favor. But he still got angry when others questioned the existence of a supreme being, at a time when the world really needed one, when his deceased wife's existence depended on one.

  Jude stood in front of the head, quieting his mind as he looked down at the top. He said the words of a mantra, driving the outside world out of his awareness. He squatted down to bring his eyes on a level with the dead eyes of the face. He stared into the cloudy orbs, willing his mind to see what they had seen, in the last moments they had still held life. The cloudiness began to fade, and in his sight the eyes took on the aspect of living orbs, reflecting his own face back at him. He concentrated, mumbling the words of the spell that would unlock the secrets of the eyes. Then with a flash he was looking from out of those orbs, seeing the last thing their owner had seen before she expired.