We Hunt the Night: (Tales from the Supernatural Frontline) (Imperium Book 1)

by Richard Langridge

  Vogel looked around at his group, the half a dozen of them now all standing around, looking uncertain. His face was a mask of pain and fury. ‘What are you waiting for? Idiots! Get me out of here!’

  This seemed to snap them out of it. They rushed over, hauling Vogel onto his feet. A moment later they were climbing back inside the car, the tires crunching loudly over dirt as it banked around, no doubt headed back for the interstate.

  Coleman and Eliza didn’t wait around.

  Before Jake could even register they were no longer standing beside him, they were booking it out the door, guns raised high and pointed at the car’s taillights as they fired shot after shot after it, continuing to fire until the car’s headlights were out of sight.

  Jake rushed out onto the drive after them. He felt dazed. Everything was happening too fast for his brain to be able to make sense of it.

  Coleman and Eliza doubled back.

  ‘They have the Key,’ said Eliza, breathlessly. ‘If we don’t get back to HQ before they do, we’re all done for.’

  Coleman wasn’t listening. He bent down beside Grandma Stella and gently lifted her head into his lap. ‘Still with us, old girl?’

  There was nothing for a moment. Just the whistle of the wind as it blustered around them.

  Suddenly, she blinked open her eyes. ‘You’re no spring-chicken yourself, you know...’ She tried to laugh, but winced instead. Jake tried not to notice the blood trickling down her chin—nor the gaping hole in her stomach, for that matter, though it was pretty gross. ‘Do you remember that night in Monte Carlo? The music the festival band had played? Oh, how we’d danced!’

  Coleman was silent for a moment. He lowered his head. ‘I remember, Stella.’

  ‘You said it sounded like cats let loose in a store full of tambourines!’ She coughed, spluttered. ‘I would have liked to have gone back there. Just one last time.’

  Nobody said anything. Jake noted Eliza was crying. Then he felt a wetness on his face, and realized he was crying too.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ said Coleman. He wasn’t crying, his face for the moment dry, but his voice had taken on a notable huskiness.

  Grandma Stella shook her head. ‘Not unless you’ve got a time machine under that coat.’ She turned to Jake. Even in the poor light, Jake could see her face had turned alarmingly pale. ‘I’m sorry, Jake,’ she said, her eyes holding his with an intensity that would haunt him from that day onwards. ‘And not just for dragging you into this terrible mess.’ She coughed again—an awful, throaty sound. If he hadn’t already known she was dying, that sound alone would have been enough to tell him.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s okay. Don’t try to talk.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ she went on. ‘I should have been there for you. When—when they died. But I was afraid, Jake. Afraid to lose anybody else.’ There were tears in her eyes now, glistening with moonlight. ‘Will you forgive me?’

  Jake stared into her withered face, his vision blurred. ‘Of course, grammie… I—’

  Her face broke out in a tremendous smile. She took his hand. ‘Thank you, Jake.’ She shook her head. ‘Now, no more of this sappy business. There’s something you all need to know. Something I’ve kept secret, through fear of what might happen were anybody to ever learn of it.’

  Jake frowned. He wondered if she was becoming delirious. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  He glanced around at Coleman and Eliza for clarification, but they just shook their heads, looking about as confused as he felt.

  Her grip on his hand intensified, drawing his gaze back to her. ‘Listen to me. There isn’t much time. You must… must—’

  Before she could finish, her head flumped into Coleman’s lap—only this time, it stayed there.

  She was gone.

  Jake opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He wanted to shout at her, or shake her, or something. He couldn’t believe it. He’d only just got her back, and now… now she was—’

  He let out a breath.

  No. It can’t be. This isn’t happening.

  ‘Jake?’ said a voice suddenly from behind him. Eliza.

  ‘Y-yeah?’

  ‘I’m sorry about your grandmother, but we have to go. If Vogel and the others manage to open that door, it’ll mean the end of the world—and I don’t mean that figuratively.’ She took him by the shoulders, turned him so they were face to face. ‘We can’t allow that to happen, Jake.’

  Jake blinked, felt himself coming back.

  Eliza was right. HQ had absolutely no idea Vogel was the guy behind the random spate of Breaches lately. They’d welcome him home with open arms, completely unaware that he was coming to bring about the apocalypse. They’d be like chickens, unwittingly welcoming the fox into the chicken coup. Then Vogel would open the floodgates. And Grandma Stella’s sacrifice would have all been for nothing. Jake couldn’t allow that to happen.

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah—okay.’

  From behind them, Coleman rose to his feet. For the first time, Jake noted he wasn’t frowning. Now he just looked sad and kind of lost. ‘We need to move,’ he said. ‘Right now.’ He pointed a finger at Eliza. ‘Get on the phone to HQ. Tell them to go into lock-down immediately. Nothing gets in or out.’

  Eliza shook her head. ‘Can’t. I’ve already tried. Vogel must have fixed it so we can’t get through.’

  He punched a fist into his palm. ‘Damn.’

  Jake frowned. It seemed like things just kept getting worse and worse. ‘So then… what do we do?’

  Coleman let out a long sigh. ‘Come on—’

  He led them over to the SUV, the three of them climbing inside instantly. They made to pull away, and rolled jerkily forward instead.

  ‘The hell?’ said Jake. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Instead of answering, Coleman suddenly hopped out of the car. He looked down—

  He growled.

  Following his gaze, Jake immediately understood why.

  The tires—they’d been slashed, the cuts so deep Jake could make them out, even in the poor light.

  Coleman let out another stiff groan. ‘God damn you, Vogel!’ He kicked the SUV, making it rock slightly.

  Jake stared. That was it, then. They’d lost. Vogel had thought this thing through, rigged it so they’d have no way of warning HQ of his intentions should his plan fail. On top of that, he’d also somehow had the foresight to slash their tires, leaving them stranded miles from home with no form of transportation.

  Jake had to laugh—the guy was a goddamn evil genius.

  Touché, you magnificent bastard. Touché…

  ‘So what do we do?’ said Eliza from the front seat. ‘We can’t phone HQ, and we have no wheels.’

  Jake blinked as an idea suddenly occurred to him. It was so obvious. How had he not thought of it before?

  ‘Quick—give me the phone!’ he said.

  PART 3

  Diary entry from branch head Filius Fawn’s personal journal, dated September 9th 1930:

  Dear diary,

  I heard the voice again today. I was sitting in my office playing a round of chess with Jermaine when I heard it clear as day, as clear as if somebody had just walked up and whispered directly into my ear. As always, its tone was of the utmost urgency; that of a man treading water in choppy waters, begging for a life preserver. And, as always, I was unable to decipher exactly what it was the voice was saying; just a desperate, frightened mumble.

  It’s the third time this has happened now; the first, at Roseburry’s, while interviewing a potential agent; and the second, during yesterday morning’s meeting with the Board—which, as I’m sure you can guess, had not gone down well.

  I’ve elected to keep these occurrences to myself for the time being. I fear it wouldn’t go over well were the branch head to start making claims about “voices in his head”.

  Who knows—maybe they’ll just go away.

  Diary entry from branch head Filius Fawn’s personal journal, dated
September 28th 1930:

  Dear diary,

  This morning I went to see Kepper over at Medical for my annual physical. All things clear, except, he said, for a low white blood cell count, and a general “tired” disposition. He asked me if I were having trouble sleeping. I laughed, said “why, yes, Dr. Kepper! I am, in fact, having trouble sleeping,” to which he had stared at me sideways a moment, unaware I had not slept for three nights straight, because of the voices. Those damned voices.

  I tentatively broached the subject of auditory hallucinations—simply as a conversation piece, you understand—though all that had earned me was a concerned look from Kepper, which I promptly brushed off. “Just something I read recently”, I told him. The fool—if only he knew.

  I hear them three or four times a day now. Those voices. They’re getting clearer, too. I find if I sit there and listen—really listen—I can almost make out what it is they’re saying. Not quite, but almost. It’s hard to explain; like listening in on somebody’s final moments from the next room over, only this person is dying hard, and calling out to you for pain relief. But of course, there’s a wall between you, so all you can do is listen and wait, praying for his pleas to stop. Only they never do.

  They never do.

  Diary entry from branch head Filius Fawn’s personal journal, dated November 1st 1930:

  Dear Diary,

  I snapped at Hanson in the lunch hall today. We were passing each other in the aisle and his shoulder brushed mine, so I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him down onto a table. Believe me when I tell you, you have never heard a room go quiet so fast in your life. Hanson stared at me with wide eyes, confused and frightened. I got myself under control, muttered something about watching where he was going, and stormed out of the room. I don’t know what I was even doing in the lunch hall to begin with; I always eat lunch in the office.

  Then, an hour ago, I awoke to find myself standing before the Door. I don’t even remember falling asleep. Evidently, I’d been clawing at it, raking my fingers along the steel like an animal, the tips of my fingers now all raw and bloodied—even as I write this.

  And the voices—I hear them all the time now. From the moment I wake, until the moment I fall asleep. Like the accompaniment to my life. They never stop. I fear if I don’t find some reprieve soon, I’ll lose my mind.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  Last diary entry, taken from branch head Filius Fawn’s personal journal, dated January 3rd 1931:

  Dear diary,

  I understand now. All this time, these long months I have suffered, I finally get it. I had brushed the voices off as nothing but hallucinations, the slow fracturing of an overburdened mind. But they had been so much more—and all I had to do was listen.

  It seems funny to me now, looking back; all the torment they had caused, when the answer lay right before my very eyes.

  Well—I’m listening now. Preparations are all in place. Soon, everything will be as it should be, how they should have always been. The time is almost at hand.

  I know what I have to do.

  End of diary entries.

  VOGEL IS A JERK, AND OTHER BAD NEWS

  It took only thirty minutes or so for him to get there, but to Jake and the others it felt a lot longer.

  They heard him before they saw him—the emotional bleat of Celine Dion’s Titanic theme rushing at them through the until-then still night air, so loud it sent critters in the underbrush around them scattering off into the night. Jake had to laugh—for such a masculine guy, he sure had a girly taste in music.

  As it turned out, his car was no less feminine.

  The rouge-colored Prius rolled to a stop next to the SUV right as the chorus hit, making them all wince, and not just because of how loud it was.

  ‘Boss,’ shouted Moss from the driver’s side window. He wasn’t wearing his usual suit and tie combo, his overly muscular form tonight hidden behind a too-tight polo shirt. It was so tight it looked like a child’s shirt. Jake wasn’t surprised; when you had a body the size of a small truck, finding clothes that fit had to be a challenge. He had one arm in a sling, the other clasped around the wheel, making it disappear under his huge bicep. ‘You called for me?’

  Jake grinned. You just had to love the man. ‘Hey, big fella. How’s the shoulder?’

  ‘Fine, sir. Dr. Marcus was kind enough to afford me some experimental new pain-relief drug during my stay in Medical. I have to say, I am rather fond of it.’

  Jake noted the somewhat glazed look in his eye.

  Oh, great. He’s high. This should be interesting…

  They climbed in—having to all squeeze together like sardines in a can—the Prius pulling away mere moments later in a spray of dirt and Celine Dion.

  As they drove, they filled Moss in on recent events. To Jake’s surprise, the guy took it all without question, only nodding when the conversation called for it—occasionally offering the odd head-bob or two. If not for Moss’s obvious devotion to his job, Jake would’ve said the guy wasn’t listening.

  ‘So Vogel is bad, and he is on his way to HQ to open the Door and unleash the forces of Hell onto Earth?’ Moss shouted. It still hadn’t occurred to him to turn the stereo down.

  ‘Essentially—yes.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay? I just told you we’re minutes away from what might very well be the end of the world, and that’s all you have to say?’ He blinked as a thought occurred to him. ‘Wait—how many of those painkillers did you take?’

  ‘Do you like karaoke?’ said Moss. He reached out an enormous hand and twisted the dial on the stereo, Celine Dion’s already-blaring vocals rising even higher in volume. ‘I LOVE KAROKE.’

  Jake listened in horror as Moss began choking out sounds that some might have taken for singing, the Prius swerving dangerously from lane to lane.

  ‘What the hell is he doing?!’ shouted Coleman from over Jake’s shoulder.

  ‘I think he’s singing!’ cried Jake.

  ‘Well tell him to stop!’

  ‘You tell him—besides, look how happy he is!’

  There was a brief respite as they pulled off onto the shoulder, where, after some logistical problem-solving, they were pulling away onto the interstate again, Moss in the back, Coleman at the wheel, Celine Dion—thankfully—now nothing but a memory.

  ‘So,’ said Jake, turning to Coleman after a moment. ‘All this time, the whole “you being mean to me” thing—that was just you acting, right? Just part of you and Grandma Stella’s game?’

  It actually made a lot of sense, now, thinking about it. The guy had to be mean to him—he had no choice. If the two of them had been all chummy, especially considering how Jake had just cock-blocked him out of being branch-head like that, it would have been obvious to whoever watching that something was up. Hell, when he thought about it like that, it was a wonder the guy hadn’t been even more mean.

  But then Coleman shot him a look, and Jake realized that wasn’t the case, after all. So that was a shame.

  They rejoined traffic, the Prius merging in effortlessly, and then, just like that, Jake found himself thinking about Grandma Stella again. It still hadn’t fully sunk in that she was gone—for real, this time. Now Jake really was the last of his clan, and the realization brought with it a sense of loneliness he’d never thought possible. It was an almost palpable sensation of aloneness, so singular and oddly daunting in nature it made gooseflesh prickle up all over his body, even against the Prius’ heating. He’d heard the term “existential crisis” before, but until then had presumed it was just something middle-aged men used when confronted about their mid-life crises, because it sounded way more interesting and less sad. He realized with sudden, dawning horror that if he were to die tonight, all traces of his family—not to mention his family’s legacy—would be gone forever.

  Of course, that paled in comparison to what else might happen tonight, should Vogel and his band of not-so-merry men have their way.
But Jake couldn’t help it. It was just so sad.

  Then, of course, there was that “other” thing Grandma Stella had tried to tell them; some terrible secret, one apparently so terrible it was worth being her last words. She had passed on before she had been able to get the words out, so exactly what this “terrible secret” was, still remained a mystery. Jake wasn’t sure, but he thought it was a warning—but of what? What could possibly be that important?

  He sighed.

  Guess now I’ll never know.

  It was then, overtaking what Jake thought to be a Chevrolet, that the old anger kicked in, blooming out of nowhere like some terrible, unsightly flower. All this time, the years he’d spent alone, wishing for the family he’d lost. Sure, he’d forgiven Grandma Stella for her absence in his life in the wake of his parents’ death. She’d been on her deathbed, after all—how could he not? But the truth was, he didn’t forgive her. Not at all. Okay, so she may have lost a daughter—but he had lost everything. And wasn’t it times like those family was supposed to be there for one another? But instead she’d abandoned him, left him in the care of social services while she swanned off back to her mansion and her money and her super-awesome-amazing life. And she’d never looked back, never visited, or wrote him—then, when he’d needed her most. Was that how family was supposed to treat each other?