by Tim Marquitz
“Fuck off.”
Cillian ignored me. “Behind the picture of the Irish team is a safe. I’ve left you something inside. An apology of sorts. Combination is 3-3-7-9.”
I turned to scream another round of obscenities at him only to realize his ghost had finally left. See, the third of March 1979 was Alannah’s birthday.
I got up from the booth and went to the picture. The glass had been shattered by a bullet, but it still hung in place. I took what remained of the photo down to see a small safe with a tumble combination lock. I spun the dial, trying not to think about the fact that there would be no more birthdays for Alannah. When I’d dialed the last digit, I turned the small handle and the safe opened.
Inside was one thick envelope. I opened it to find a set of legal documents, included in was the deed for the Goat’s Head pub.
With my name typed neatly on the line that said “owner.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
#
At exactly noon the next day, Gerry Coogan walked into the bar.
Business was already brisk, as everyone had come into pub to hear the stories of gunfire and police that were circulating the town. I, of course, hadn’t slept. While Barb handled getting the pub ready, I’d been busy with other things. I had gone and claimed Alannah’s body for one and had it transferred to McConnnell’s funeral parlor in town.
The other thing I’d been doing was preparing for this meeting.
Gerry walked up to the bar. “Pint of Guinness if you don’t mind,” he said as if he’d never met me before. I poured his pint and placed in in front of him.
“Boss couldn’t make it, then?” I asked quietly.
“Too many people around,” Gerry said. “Sent me to pick up the item. And you better have it this time.”
I reached under the bar and pulled out a Crown Royal bag and gave it to the bounty hunter.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Open it.”
Gerry opened the bag and pulled out a small glass sphere. Inside was a matchbox-sized metal box.
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“No, mate. Cillian shrunk it down so he could carry it up from Kerry easier. It’s in there. I just haven’t figured how to get it out. I can try if you give it back to me for a while,” I said reaching for the globe.
Gerry yanked it out of my reach. “Naw. The boss has people who can work on this. He doesn’t want your hands on it.”
I shrugged. “Okay. No problem.”
Gerry put the globe back into the Crown Royal bag and shoved it into a pocket of his overcoat.
“Thanks for the pint. We’ll be in touch.”
He left, of course, without paying.
I suppressed a smile and watched him go in silence.
The Apostate
N.X. Sharps
N.X. Sharps is the Social Media Coordinator and Commissioning Editor for Ragnarok Publications. He is an Advertising/Public relations graduate, book critic, blogger, and aspiring author. He is the co-editor of Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters and the upcoming Mech: Age of Steel from Ragnarok Publications.
Brandishing a bloodstained maul during an interrogation is an effective method for obtaining answers with a minimum of fuss. I should know, I’ve done it enough times that carnage has become my calling card.
My enemies call me Apostate but I’d settle for Tate. Consider this an account of my sins. It’s extensive so settle in. I’ll try not to make excuses for the offenses I’ve committed. But before I continue just know this one thing. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for my daughter Penelope. Even killing her mother . . .
Especially killing her mother.
But as I was saying, that bloodstained maul of mine serves to precipitate conversation even amongst the most reticent of individuals. And the proprietor of The Twisted Spine? Hardly a human lockbox. Granted, my weapon of choice can't take all of the credit. Standing six-foot-three, two-hundred and thirty-five pounds, clad in a brown leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet molded in the form of a human skull, I cut an imposing figure.
"Where is the codex?" I asked.
The hippie trembled on the floor at my feet. When he opened the occult bookstore that day he never anticipated his first customer would be a maul-wielding maniac. And why should he? He may have read of my handiwork in the paper but he had no reason to expect an encounter with the Apostate. He was harmless, a New Age spiritualist that stumbled upon a copy of a rare book in an online auction.
"Where is it?" I barked, bringing the maul down on a nearby geode in punctuation.
Barnes tried to scoot back farther but found his progress impeded by the front counter. He would have pissed himself had he not already emptied his bladder. I rested the edge of the maul against his neck.
"Speak."
"I s-s-sold it y-yesterday."
"You sold it."
"Y-y-y-yes."
“To who?”
I had failed to contain it and now it was out in the wild. Some deranged cultist trawling through self-help books had probably stumbled upon the find of a lifetime.
“I d-d-dunno, he was w-w-wearing a camp counselor s-s-s-sweatshirt.”
Or even worse – some dumb kid had bought the codex thinking it would contain some cool party tricks, make a nice conversation piece. Hey baby, behold as I make your clothes disappear. I removed the maul from Barnes’s neck and this appeared to have a calming effect on him. But don’t get me wrong, he was still freaked-the-fuck out.
“Camp?”
“Camp Evergreen Acres, further on up on mountain, located on the lake. The counselors go up every year the weekend before camp begins for a shakedown.”
“And by shakedown you mean…”
“They party. Alcohol. Sex. Drugs. That’s why they stopped here on their way up. Bought some kine bud off me. One of them saw the codex and thought it was cool. I told him it wasn’t for sale but he offered double what I paid so . . .”
So he had sold a copy of the most dangerous book in the world. And for far less than it was truly worth I might add.
“They’re up there now? The counselors?”
“Yes. Please, don’t hurt me. I don’t know what this is all about but I haven’t done anything to anyone. Please.”
Barnes was at my knees, groveling. He was a pathetic excuse for a human being but his crime was one of ignorance rather than malice. Unfortunately for him, my punishments tend to be universal.
It takes approximately fifteen pounds of pressure, per square inch, to crack the human skull. The maul did the trick. I drew the blinds and flipped the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED,” grabbing a brochure for Camp Evergreen Acres on my way out the door. I didn’t figure an occult book store got much business out here in God’s country. It would be a while before anyone missed him.
I stripped off the blood and brain matter flecked jacket and helmet, tossing them in the back of my Ford Bronco along with the maul. I lit up a cigarette and checked the brochure for directions. Surely enough they were there, in addition to a handy map of Evergreen Acres. A group of young, dumb, curious kids were about to pay for my failure in blood.
I observed the counselors from a distance. Phase One, Surveillance. Dense foliage provided adequate cover, even for my bulk, as I watched them bustle about. Camp Evergreen Acres was closed during the off-season and the staff had a lot of work to get the facilities in order. Boards and plastic were removed from cabin windows, walls were hosed down and pine needles swept up, fallen tree limbs were dragged away from trails they blocked. I designated targets as they engaged in these activities.
The burliest of the young men, the one responsible for all the heavy lifting, I immediately pegged as the physical activities director. Designation: Coach. His muscles strained the fabric of his uniform polo and he wore gym shorts and socks with flip-flops. He laughed loudly and often.
My other primary concern was the archery instructor. The dark haired girl set up the range and proceeded to sink shafts i
nto targets at varying distances. Her arms were toned from repetitively operating the compound bow and her aim was exact. Designation: Archer.
The rest of the counselors were less physically threatening. The two grungy boys I took for nature guides split their time clearing the walking trails of debris and smoking joints. Designation: Stoners.
A couple girls started drinking well before the festivities were scheduled to begin. The tipsy undergrads stripped down to their birthday suits and ran screaming and splashing into the lake. Designation: Sluts. Another girl, carrying a load of art supplies, stumbled by.
“C’mon Nicole, the water is refreshing,” called out Slut #1.
“Jump in Nicky! We’re all wet,” called out Slut #2.
At this the two burst into laughter. The art instructor gave a shy smile, put her head down, and walked on. Designation: Virgin. Reluctantly I crept back away from the shoreline.
Assigning labels to the counselors was necessary for what I had planned for the night. I needed to dehumanize my targets any way I could. They would allow me to distance myself from the lives I would be taking and help me keep tally.
I was creeping back toward the Camp proper when I saw Him.
Back at The Twisted Spine I failed to ask for a description of the counselor who purchased the codex. It was an oversight on my part but I chalked it up to frustration. I planned on enacting my scorched earth policy anyway – no survivors. But then I saw Him.
He lay on the roof of a cabin, hands behind his head and book over his face, snoring. Even from fifty yards the red leather, gold leaf cover of the codex was distinguishable. I started forward – if I could kill the kid and take the codex there would be no cause for collateral.
If he hadn’t shared it with the others . . .
I stopped halfway out of the underbrush. It was unlikely that this group of college kids was scheming to jumpstart the apocalypse – but did I want to take that chance? Did I want to risk my daughter’s future?
I reversed my stride and slipped back into the forest.
“Hey Derek, get off your lazy ass and help me bring in the kegs,” came a shout.
I recognized it as Coach’s voice. The counselor on the roof sat up, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and slid down to help his friend. Designation: Reader. I watched the two of them unload two kegs from the back of a black Escalade before making another circuit around Camp Evergreen Acres. I found no more counselors, setting the total at eight. Phase One was complete.
I withdrew from the camp grounds to a secluded area a couple miles down the road where I had parked the Bronco. It was still early summer so the sun would shortly and the darkness would shroud my movements. I set the alarm on my wristwatch, reclined in the driver seat, and took a nap.
I woke up to the sun edging behind the hills a minute before my alarm was set to go off. I got out and opened the rear hatch of the Bronco. I opened a duffel and put on my Phase Two ninja kit – black long sleeve shirt, black pants, and a black ski mask. I grabbed another duffel, this one rather heavy, and the maul. I locked up the Bronco before delving back into the woods.
I crept through the shadows of the approaching night, mindful of the noise I made as I neared the Camp. The closer I got to the cabins the more obvious it became how unnecessary my stealth was – the party was in full swing. Shitty pop music blared from speakers interspersed by cheers of “Chug it! Chug it!”
I left the duffel and maul by a rotted stump in a small clearing, well back from the tree line. It had been a pain in the ass trying to remain unheard while hauling such a massive pack but at least I wouldn’t have to walk all the way back to the Bronco when the time came to launch the final phase of the operation.
Unburdened by all that ungainly weight I flitted through the trees to catch a glimpse of the counselors before I set to work. Flood lights affixed to cabins lit the center of camp where they had set up tables of beer pong. Coach and Slut #1 played the Stoners. Coach seemed to be carrying his team as Slut #1 was sloppy drunk, evidenced by her slurring speech and exaggerated movement.
Down by the lakeshore Archer was kindling a fire in a hastily made pit. Slut #2, red cup in hand, walked over to render her input but succeeded only in spilling beer on Archer. Meanwhile Virgin was with Reader in the lake and judging by their coupling and her moans I had given Virgin the wrong designation. Yeah, I definitely called that one wrong.
With all of the counselors accounted for I decided to proceed with Phase Two, Sabotage. The counselors had brought three separate vehicles up the mountain – an Escalade, a Wrangler, and an Outback. I couldn’t risk the possibility of them driving out of here so I slashed the tires of all three vehicles and removed the spark plugs for good measure.
I made a visit to the target range. I grew more and more anxious about Archer as the day progressed. Something about the strong young woman reminded me of my daughter. She had the look of a fighter and I desperately wanted to avoid being stuck with an arrow. I cut the strings on all of the bows in the utility shed and hid all the arrows in the undergrowth behind the targets.
The mess hall was next on the list. The kitchen was fully stocked with objects that could possibly cause me bodily harm. There was an assortment of knives – butcher, boning, carving, steak, paring, and bread knives. Yes, even bread knives can cause serious injury when applied correctly. I dumped them all in the compost heap out back.
As the darkness deepened I decided to make the dangerous incursion into the cabins. With the counselors preoccupied with partying it was an opportunity to rid them of a means of communication. I didn’t doubt for a second that they would be glued to their cells but there wasn’t a thing I could do about that. The reception in the Appalachian wilderness was spotty at the best of times and the camp’s landline would be their single reliable link to civilization.
I cut the line and wandered into one of the residence cabins in search of the codex. Suitcases and bags were organized in an orderly fashion. I carefully rummaged through the counselor’s belongings. The clothes packed neatly into the bags belonged to women. I didn’t find any grimoires but I did come across several phone chargers and a can of bear repellant. Having been sprayed with regular human mace I had no overwhelming desire to test the efficiency of its ursine equivalent. I took these items and dumped them in the toilet tank in the bathroom at the end of the long hall.
I listened for activity at the door before leaving the residence hall. Hearing only the distant cheers of debauchery I darted from shadow to shadow. I reached the opposite cabin inside I found a warzone. The floor and bunks were covered in shirts and pairs of pants as though backpack and rucksack grenades exploded in bursts of fabric shrapnel. Sports equipment, video games, and packages of snacks completed the bachelor pad.
I rifled through the mess until my hope of finding the codex diminished to a sliver and then vanished. It wasn’t in the boy’s cabin. On the other hand I did come across more cell chargers and a pocket knife. I stepped into the bathroom to dispose of them when the cabin door flung open.
I flattened myself against the shower stall and listened: lips smacking, grunts, groans, moans, and the rustle of clothes being shed – just more horny teenagers. I lacked my Phase Three gear but the rutting counselors presented ideal prey. They would have poor situational awareness and be vulnerable. If I got one and the other managed to take flight they would be naked and shoeless and you don’t get far running without shoes in the woods.
It was too good to pass up.
I unsheathed the buck knife at my ankle and stepped out of the bathroom. The cabin was dark but the exterior lighting shone through the windows and in the gloom I was able to discern Stoner #1 and Slut #2.
A healthy adult body has approximately twelve pints of blood. It can lose 40% or almost five pints before the body can no longer compensate. After I finished the two counselors had donated six or seven pints each. Any investigator worth his salt would mistake the scene for a frenzy killing. Blood stained the cabin from floor to wa
lls to ceiling. The victims bore an abundance of entry wounds, well in excess of what had been required.
The arterial decoration served two purposes. One being that if any of their friends stumbled upon the sight before I returned with my gear they would panic, thus impeding reason and logical thinking. And two being that the whole purpose of this exercise was to make an example of Camp Evergreen Acres. I would traumatize the community so severely that they would cling to their religion. Kids wouldn’t even fool around with harmless Ouija boards for fear of reprisal.
I cleaned my buck knife on Slut #2’s discarded thong and left the cabin in a hurry. Having already eliminated two of the counselors I would need to adjust the schedule. Once the counselors found the bodies of their friends I would need to be in position to capitalize on the surprise. I dissolved back into the woods, ready to enact the third and final phase.
I wasted valuable time blundering about the woods before I found the clearing and the tree stump. I stripped out of my ninja kit and opened the duffel to appraise my Phase Three slasher attire. I resolved to wear the Kevlar vest. It was heavy and restricted movement but I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and I long ago learned to trust my instincts. I zipped my leather jacket over the vest and put on a pair of professional workman’s gloves. I donned my custom skull-faced motorcycle helmet and ended the ritual by picking up the trusty maul.
I spun the handle, acclimating to the heft of the tool. I splintered the wooden shaft of my last maul and decided to upgrade. This new model sported a unique V-shaped wing design that promised “superior wood splitting” and a double spun injection fiberglass handle that offered “outstanding strength and durability.” I was eager to put the advertising to the test.
A piercing scream worthy of a starring role in a horror movie signified it was time to kick off Phase Three, Extermination. I stowed the ninja kit in the duffel, cracked my neck, rested the maul against my shoulder, and made my final trek into Camp Evergreen Acres.
The hysterics were in full swing by the time I reached the breaker box. Slut #1 was in tears. Coach was pacing around, cell pressed against his ear, unable to get a signal. Archer tried the main line in the office only to find it had been cut. Stoner #2 sat on the ground, blitzed out of his mind and unable to cope with the recent turn of events.