The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas

by Christopher Salch

  Sheridan paused, his jaw clenched hard. "Get your ass out of my sight!"

  I was out the door and collecting my effects from the desk sergeant before Sheridan could change his mind. I'd been inside the main police precinct a few times before, though this was the first time I'd been back to interrogation. The heavy stone walls always reminded me of a military bunker more than the bastion of public safety. Michelle was waiting for me on the front steps when I made my way through the heavy oak doors and steel gate.

  "That was a close one," she said and handed me an all-too-familiar envelope. "Our mutual friend wouldn't be too happy if you wound up in jail."

  "Are you supposed to be the cavalry?" I asked.

  "No, I'm just the messenger; the cavalry's over there," She motioned toward a massive man leaning casually against an alley wall across the street. His face contorted into a predatory smile the moment our eyes met. "Ed, we're done here."

  "Too bad, I was looking forward to a little play time," answered Ed, walking over. "I'll bet you don't remember me do you?"

  "You know I can't forget," I said, hand tightening around the butt of my pistol.

  Ed only laughed.

  "Your mother would be proud, but she didn't survive our last meeting did she? Let Paige know I'm still waiting for a rematch."

  "I haven't seen Paige in a long time," I said.

  "Too bad," he replied and followed after Michelle.

  I let out a long, slow breath as they disappeared around the corner. As if I didn't have enough problems already, Ed being in play made the situation all the more troublesome and deadly.

  The letter contained only three words and T.E.M.'s usual signature: Be more careful.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  T- 17 Years - The Trail

  Ed stood in the hall of the rundown apartment building, sniffing at the air. There was death here, just waiting to happen. He could see it in the crumbling walls, the dark stains on the floors, and smell it in the musty air.

  One apartment in particular held his attention—it still had the faint odor of his prey. Her essence was mingled with that of another, strangely potent, female scent. Then there was the stench of a much weaker male, dripping with fear—and someone else, barely perceptible but nearby. There was no doubt, the woman he sought had left weeks ago with the intention of never returning—the quickly fading smells of exertion, packing tape, and cardboard gave that much away. She left shortly after being visited by the stronger woman. Interesting, he thought.

  The male's scent was everywhere. He lived one door down on the other side of the hall. Perfect. The door wasn't locked, and Ed walked right in, bending down to keep from banging his head on the doorframe. Marco was sitting on a threadbare recliner, laughing at something on a black and white TV with a cracked bezel and missing knobs. He saw Ed and grabbed a snub-nosed shotgun from the magazine rack next to his chair.

  "Who the fuck are you?" said Marco, pointing the weapon at Ed's chest. His jaw was wired shut so the words came out muffled and distorted, but clear enough that Ed got the gist.

  "Names are not important," stated Ed casually. Marco's apartment smelled like a mixture of rotten meat, body odor, and soured clothing. Ed could sense the echoes of pain and torment in the walls, smell the blood that had soaked into the floor. "What can you tell me about the woman who lived down the hall?"

  "Get the fuck out of here!" cursed Marco, gesturing to the door menacingly.

  "You aren't very cooperative are you?" frowned Ed. "I have business with the woman who used to live down the hall. What can you tell me about her?"

  "I said get the fuck out! You wanna eat lead asshole?"

  "I've already satisfied my needs for today," answered Ed. "Answer my question and I'll leave."

  "You with that freaky bitch? If you're with that freaky bitch I'll shoot you right now!" yelled Marco.

  "If you wanted me to answer that question honestly, you shouldn't have said that," answered Ed. "But, I am not 'with' that freaky bitch."

  "You're a real smart ass!" said Marco and pushed the shotgun barrel hard into Ed's stomach. "Get your ass out the door."

  "We seem to have a breakdown in communication. I want information," said Ed, grabbing Marco by the throat and squeezing. "And you're going to give it to me."

  The sound of the shotgun going off in such a confined space was deafening. Ed's hand dropped from Marco's throat, and he staggered back into the hall. The sulphuric smell of spent gunpowder and the metallic tang of fresh blood filled Ed's senses as he took stock of the injury to his gut. Marco racked a second shell into the chamber and fired again. He followed as Ed backpedaled into the hallway and kept firing until the shotgun was empty. An old woman peeked out of her door. She took one look at Marco holding a smoking shotgun, and Ed laying in a crumpled heap against the wall, before slamming her door. Marco could just make out the sound of a door bolt being slammed home over the ringing in his ears.

  "Showed that bastard," he spat out.

  "Honey? What's going on?" asked a girl, peeking her head out of Marco's bedroom. Her matted hair looked blond but the brown roots proved she use dye. Heavy makeup—now smudged and runny with tears—covered a darkening bruise under her eye. She had done her best to hide wrinkles well beyond her years, but had only succeeded in creating a parody of youth.

  "Get back inside!" yelled Marco without even looking.

  She saw the gun in his hand and Ed's body on the floor.

  "Marco?" she said, taking a step out of the room. Her bare foot landed in a wet spot, and she glanced down. Blood. All of the pieces clicked into place in her mind, and she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  "Shut up! Shut up!" snapped Marco, tossing the spent shotgun onto his chair and grabbing the girl. She beat on him with her fists, hitting his sore jaw. Marco yowled in pain, slamming the girl against a wall. She could see the rage burning in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry Marco! Don't hu—" she tried to beg, cowering away from him. Marco ignored her pleas and backhanded her hard enough to spin her around. She collapsed on the floor, crying, blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. Marco stormed past her into the bedroom and tore the top drawer out of a chest of drawers. A box of fresh shells in hand, he grabbed the shotgun and started shoving the plastic cylinders in one-by-one while the girl crawled back into the bedroom and shut the door quietly behind her.

  "That wasn't very nice," said Ed.

  Marco shoved one last shell into the shotgun and spun around to find Ed standing over him with a demonic grin. Ed caught the shotgun and forced the barrel to point upward as Marco reflexively pulled the trigger. Ed's stomach looked like hamburger, covered in black clots of blood and oozing thick, greenish fluid. Dust from shattered sheetrock in the ceiling rained down around them.

  "Now, where were we? That's right! You were going to tell me what I wanted to know."

  Ed twisted the shotgun with one hand, snapping Marco's trigger finger. He turned it further and tore the finger completely off—sending blood spurting against the wall. Marco screamed incoherently, staring at the stump of his finger and falling to his knees.

  "I was asking what you knew about the woman who lived down the hall."

  He grabbed Marco's grimy shirt—dragging the man back to his feet—and wiped off the trigger guard before racking a fresh shell into the chamber. Marco was still too shocked by his injury to notice Ed pointing the shotgun at his knee until the barrel touched it. He had just enough time to look down before Ed fired point blank and Marco's right knee exploded in a cloud of blood and bone. His missing finger forgotten, Marco collapsed, screaming and clutching what used to be a knee.

  "What do you know about her?" asked Ed racking another shell into the shotgun. "You'd better answer quick, while you've still got that other knee."

  "I don't know shit!" screamed Marco following the shotgun barrel with his eyes.

  "Good! We're finally communicating," cooed Ed with a predatory smile. The shotgun barrel wavered around Marco's body, cente
ring in on his left foot. "Now tell me something useful."

  "Some pretty bitch showed up about a week ago and then she left!" said Marco.

  "Better," said Ed. "Keep talking."

  "That's all I know!"

  "Wrong answer," scowled Ed, pulling the trigger. Marco's foot exploded and he started screaming again. Ed ejected the spent shell and let the barrel rove over Marco's body again before pinning his good hand to the floor with it. "What do you keep in this thing? Slugs? Now about the woman… "

  "The bitch broke my jaw! That's all I know!" screamed Marco.

  "Well now. That is something!" said Ed. "What did she look like?"

  "She wore black! Uh, lot's of black!"

  "Come on, you can do better than that," chided Ed.

  "Glasses?" he said keeping his eyes locked on the shotgun. "She wore glasses."

  "Do you know where your neighbor went?"

  "No! She didn't tell me shit!"

  "Too bad," said Ed, releasing Marco's hand. Marco sighed with relief and then screamed in pain as the shotgun's barrel smashed through his wired teeth.

  "You won't live long enough to be useful," apologized Ed. He pulled the trigger and the back of Marco's head splattered all over the tiny TV. Ed savored the life fading from Marco's twitching body until it lay still. He looked down at his stomach as if noticing the oozing wound for the first time and sighed.

  "Going to have to do something about this," observed Ed. "Wasn't there someone else around here?"

  His demonic grin returned when he heard the girl whimpering in the other room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  T- 65 Hours - Old Wounds

  "Sir! You can't go in there!"

  I kept walking, deliberately ignoring Mulhullond's secretary—Amber, the same girl as the last time I'd been in the office. She did her best to block my path to Mulhullond's private office, but I was faster. One solid kick to the oak door and I was staring down the man who had ordered a hit on me.

  "I'm sorry sir! I couldn't stop him! He just—" started Amber.

  "Shut up and call security!" snapped Mulhullond, sending Amber scurrying back to her desk. "Are you insane, Zachary?"

  "No, just pissed off."

  "What?" he said taken aback.

  "A man shoved a gun into my back. I don't like being threatened," I said. "Even less when there's a corpse involved."

  "I had nothing to do with that! How dare you accuse me again!"

  "Sit! Down!" I yelled, letting a little too much of my anger seep into the words. Mulhullond dropped into his chair with enough force that the rollers collapsed under him. His face went from bright pink to white in the blink of an eye. I stopped and counted to ten, there was no point in letting my emotions get the better of me and doing something really stupid.

  "Who did you call?" I asked in measured tones.

  "I didn't call anyone," he squeaked.

  "You're lying! Two special, and I mean very special, phone calls were made from this office. Who did you call?"

  His eyes twitched to something behind me, and they went so wide I was afraid they might pop out of his skull. For just an instant, I wondered if he was bluffing, then Amber gave an abortive shriek.

  "Tell him," said Janus. "Tell him, or you'll have to deal with me, and I'm not nearly as nice."

  "I told you to stay out of this, Dad," I said without turning around.

  "And I said I'd let you have your fun… with Sheridan," His retort was accompanied by the sound of two bodies hitting the floor. I glanced over my shoulder to look at the two unconscious guards. One had a rather nasty bruise developing around his left eye and the other's arm was bent at an odd angle. "Don't worry, they'll be fine in a few hours."

  A small trickle of blood oozed from the corner of Janus's mouth.

  "Well, mostly fine," mused Janus.

  "I'm surprised you let them hit you," I commented.

  "It's more fun that way."

  "Sadist," I said and faced Mulhullond again. "Alright, you heard the man."

  "Janus, you've got to believe me. I never meant for things to go this far," he pleaded. "He wasn't supposed to kill her."

  "Who, Michael?" said Janus.

  "I don't know his name. We've never met face-to-face, just on the phone."

  "Go on," I prodded.

  "I was given a phone number," he said, reaching for the pen holder on his desk.

  My pistol was out before his hand came within six inches. Nothing in Pocketville was ever what it appeared to be—his pen might kill just as easily as it deposited ink on paper.

  "Slowly, very slowly. I see anything I don't like and you're a dead man," I said.

  Visibly shivering, he picked out a pen and scribbled something on a sheet of notepaper. I looked at the number and smiled. Finally, a real lead.

  "Now, how did you meet this guy?" I asked.

  "We were introduced by a business associate," answered Mulhullond. He looked straight at Dad. "He said he had a profitable opportunity for me. That money was of no concern. Then he told me he could reverse the door… for a price."

  "Who, Michael?" The raw anger flowing through Janus's words rolled over Mulhullond like a crashing wave and flung his chair into the wall. Dad already knew the answer, just as I did. Only one person would talk about "reversing the door" and only someone who had regular contact with Outsiders would know what that meant.

  "The only thing… the only way I can describe him… he always wears a white suit."

  "You don't know how sorry I am to hear you say that," said Janus. His eyes boiling wells of nothingness. "Zachary, you have what you came for. It's time for you to leave."

  "What are you going to do, Dad?" I hadn't seen my father this angry since Mom died—since the Wastes were born.

  "I'm going to have a conversation with Paige about a statue, and then Michael here is going to tell me everything I want to know about his friend," said Janus cooly.

  "Janus, please! We've known each other for years! You wouldn't do that to your old friend!"

  "Don't you dare call me that" He picked up Mulhullond one-handed and held the gagging man in midair by his throat. "I gave you charge over this place, and what did you do? You betrayed me, Michael! You betrayed everyone under your care!"

  Janus effortlessly tossed Mulhullond against the far wall. He hit hard, something crunched, and the foul stench of urine flooded the room. Eyes trembling, Mulhullond looked to me as if to plead for mercy. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  "He's your problem," I said, turning to leave. "Amber dear, I think it's… "

  Blood. Too much blood for the girl to still be alive. Her body was on top of the receptionist's desk, head hanging off the edge. Bare muscle defined her features rather than the smooth skin I remembered; instead of eyes, empty sockets oozing with viscous red fluid. Her heart was still beating—causing blood to surge from her severed jugular—but slowing with each passing second until Amber's body was completely still.

  "I warned you!" a hissing voice whispered in my ear, so close I could feel its breath against my skin.

  Behind me, Mulhullond screamed. Time felt like it was slowing down as I spun around. The air was sticky and pliable, like half-solidified gelatin. Janus stood over Mulhullond's body, frozen, reaching for him. Energy, raw and unfocused, poured from his eyes and mouth, casting strange, misshapen shadows.

  One of the shadows wasn't right. It moved, not shifting at random, but purposefully. A grey void shaped like the silhouette of a kneeling person. A person kneeling over Mulhullond's face.

  "Not this time!" I yelled and opened up with my forty-five.

  Eight rounds, each a perfect center-of-mass hit. Nothing. Not a flinch or drop of blood. I dropped the empty pistol and pulled out the matches, praying Anne's handiwork hadn't faded.

  "You can see me? No matter," it said. The shadow turned in my direction, an all-too-familiar, glistening silver knife clutched in its left hand. "A match? What do you think that will do?"

  "I
t'll do enough," I answered, stepping back through what felt like molasses instead of air. "You have something I need."

  "Oh?" The figure paused. "Then he sent you."

  "Who is he?"

  "Something Zachary Artemas doesn't know?" it laughed.

  I couldn't tell if the voice was male or female—human or monstrous. The sound wasn't distorted, just flat, devoid of any human character, and yet multifaceted, as though there were many voices speaking at once.

  "You should be more discerning about your choice of clients," it said.

  "My clients are my business. You know what I want."

  "Yes."

  "Then give it to me and we can get this over with."

  "No. If I gave you the eye, my fun would be over," it said and then rushed at me with the knife held low and flat.

  The match flared into an intense gout of white hot flame that washed over the figure, forcing it to stagger backwards. For an instant, I caught a glimpse of what lay beneath its shroud, and then the static engulfed him again. That one glimpse was enough to tell me why T.E.M. didn't want to answer questions; he knew I wouldn't like what I found.

  "It's your eye, isn't it? That's what he wants," I said.

  "He didn't tell you," answered the man. "Of course not. That would have made it too easy, would have made you suspicious."

  His shroud collapsed, and with it, the torrent of energy from Janus faded. Dad fell over, gasping for air, his face grey and covered in sweat. Mulhullond was motionless, surrounded by a growing puddle of blood leaking from a deep throat wound. Even without the shroud, the killer's features were so indistinct as to be nonexistent. He wore no clothes, had barely any nose or ears, and no visible genitalia—I guessed at gender based on a lack of feminine characteristics more than anything else. Except for his left eye—an orb filled with shifting silver fog—he could have been a bad plastic casting in a toy factory.

  "Last chance," I said, readying a second match. "Give it to me or shall we see just how resilient—"