3 Supernatural Thrillers

by Jason Brant

  The mental bridge between Murdock and me kept me from focusing on the man's thoughts. What I did manage to discern seemed simple enough; he wanted to kill me. He was nothing more than an innocent bystander that Murdock used to do his dirty work. That made this fight even more difficult as I didn't want to cause him serious harm.

  He bull rushed me with his head down, trying to tackle me like a linebacker. As he grabbed me I snuck my arm around his neck, clasped hands, and squeezed. This move cut off the blood supply to his brain. He thrashed around trying to get free, but his body fell limp a few seconds later. I placed him on the ground as gently as I could, his face resting on the muddy grass. He would wake up in a few minutes with a headache but he'd be fine otherwise.

  I see you aren't unskilled. Unfortunately, I don't have time to deal with you personally.

  Everyone at the funeral spun around and looked directly at me. Men, women, and children, most dressed in black, began to sprint forward. Even the priest had dropped his bible and ran as fast as his aged body would allow.

  The rain turned into a torrential downpour.

  Chapter 11

  If this was an action movie from the eighties, I would have stood my ground and beat down everyone that Murdock sent. Instead I turned around and ran my ass off. Smith could take care of this mess. I had done my part. Most of the people attending the funeral were your average out of shape citizens. Outrunning them wouldn't be an issue.

  At least, it wouldn't have been had I seen the caretaker hiding behind the mausoleum before he hit me in the chest with a shovel.

  Air erupted from my lungs as I stumbled backward, trying to stay on my feet. My mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Panic set in while my lungs tried to remember how to function.

  Pain exploded across the right side of my face. I fell sideways, arms pinwheeling as I tripped over a low marble grave stone. A mourner had caught up faster than I expected. He punched hard, too.

  The caretaker ran at me, the shovel raised above his head, as I staggered back to my feet. Instead of moving back, I stepped toward him, grabbing the front of his brown overcoat and swinging him at the funeral-goer. My toss and his momentum sent the two of them toppling over in a jumble of limbs.

  Leaning against a huge headstone with a statue of Christ atop it, I tried to focus on breathing. Touching my tender sternum, I checked for broken ribs.

  "Ash, are you okay?" Nami said.

  "I've been better," I wheezed.

  "You have some more people coming at you. Try not to get hit by anymore gardening tools."

  I'm down here getting my ass kicked and she's making fun of me. Computer geeks have always annoyed the hell out of me.

  "Thanks for the tip, Naomi."

  "Nami!"

  The rest of the funeral party closed in, two middle-aged men leading the pack. How many people could Murdock control at once? His mental powers were astonishing. Pushing myself up, I started circling left in an attempt to keep them both from reaching me at the same time.

  The man in front slipped in mud as he tried to jump over the caretaker and landed on his side, his arm at an awkward angle when he attempted to lessen the impact of his fall with it. The lack of a reaction on his face disturbed the hell out of me.

  When Murdock had control of you, did you not feel anything? This man had a completely different reaction than the senator, who seemed to have an internal struggle before shooting himself. Did Murdock decide if he wanted you to be aware of what you were doing?

  Behind him came a family of six, with the second man ahead of them. His large beer belly swayed, straining the buttons of his suit as he tried to grab me by the shoulders. I dropped to a knee and punched him in it. As he doubled over beside me, I pushed him on top of the man with the broken arm and turned to face the rest of his family.

  There was no way I could live with myself if I beat up a soccer mom, boys who were weren't even teenagers, and two pretty little blonde girls. There's a special place in hell for people capable of such a thing. Deciding to run again, I just started to turn around when rosary beads wrapped around my neck, pulling me off balance.

  Clawing at them with my hands, I tried to wedge a finger under them to allow a mouthful of air in. They say a man's strength is the last thing to go and the elderly priest strangling me proved it. The pressure from the rosary bit into my throat with such intensity that I could feel the warmth of blood beading around it. Gargles escaped me as I struggled against it, shocked that it wasn't breaking.

  The mother, who looked incredible considering she had four children, bent down to pick up the shovel. The rain caused her black dress to cling to her toned body. She held the handle like a baseball player stepping up to the plate and marched toward me.

  So this was how it would end; strangled by a man of the cloth and bludgeoned by Carol Brady.

  Over her shoulder I could see at least two dozen men in black battle dress uniforms running across the cemetery, assault rifles aimed at the blonde woman standing by the funeral site. The blanketing sound of the rain blotted out what they yelled at Murdock. Their guns managed to convey the message.

  The rosary around my neck released. Gasping for air I fell to my knees, holding my bleeding throat. Soccer Mom gave the shovel in her hand a perplexed look.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  The armed men behind her continued advancing at Murdock. Their tactics didn't make any sense. Why approach a man who is able to manipulate your very actions?

  The roar of a large diesel engine pierced through the pounding rain. I could see a massive eighteen wheeler accelerating on Route 1, behind the agents. It veered across both of lanes of traffic, causing cars to swerve in every direction. The big rig collided with the front end of a Toyota Prius, crumpling it like tin foil. Instead of braking, the truck driver shifted gears and accelerated, sending plumes of black smoke from its chrome exhaust stacks. The agents, hearing the collision, turned in time to see it barreling forward.

  The truck hopped the curb and began plowing through headstones. The thicker, sturdier grave markers smashed the grill and bumper of the tractor trailer. It continued forward despite the damage. Boring down on the agents, the driver jerked the wheel, forcing the trailer into a jackknife and tipping the entire rig over.

  The armed men, only a few dozen yards from the road, didn't have much time to react. A few of them managed to dive out of the way at the last second. The rest were mowed down like crops harvested by a combine. Those who evaded the front end of the truck were crushed under the toppling trailer. Muddy water and blood squirted out from the impact. At least two members of that unnamed force were still alive. I could hear their bloodcurdling screams.

  Murdock wiped out almost thirty armed men without ever firing a shot. Defeating him seemed impossible.

  Smith and Nami yelled in my ear at the same time, but I couldn't understand them. The earpiece must have been damaged, because their voices came through in high pitched, painful screeches. I couldn't concentrate through those awful sounds, so I dug the radio out of my ear and dropped it to the ground.

  Dragging my eyes off the overturned truck, I looked back at Murdock. He stood by the open gravesite, staring back at me. Kicking off his pumps, he turned and fled from the cemetery.

  Interfering with my revenge is the last mistake you'll ever make.

  Splashing footsteps made me look back at Soccer Mom just in time to see the shovel as it smashed into my face.

  Chapter 12

  Waking up in a strange place with a splitting headache was getting really old.

  Once again I was on a bed, staring at the ceiling. At least it wasn't disgusting this time. This room was about as vanilla as you can get. Sterile white or light blue covered almost every surface. No television, no second bed. A bunch of monitoring equipment and an I.V. sat beside me. The only door to the room was shut.

  My head felt like it had been squeezed in a vise. I tried to reach up and touch it, but my arm only moved about six inche
s. Lifting my head, which didn't help with the pain, I looked down at my arms. Both were handcuffed to the bed. Sometime between being hit in the face with a shovel and waking up here, I had been arrested.

  All I could remember was seeing the shovel coming at me, then nothing. Until now, anyway. How did I survive?

  Still looking down, I saw one of those awful hospital gowns that feel like they're made out of cardboard. My clothes were nowhere to be found. I didn't see any casts or sutures on any of my visible skin. Lots of bruises and scrapes, but nothing that looked permanent. Swallowing hurt like hell where the rosary beads had done their work.

  The smell of food wafting in through the door made me realize how long it had been since I had anything to eat. My stomach grumbled at the enticement. I may have been the only person in the history of the world to actually crave hospital food.

  The call button for a nurse sat on the side of the bed above my shoulder. No way I could reach it. I decided to try the old fashioned way.

  "Uh, hello? Can anyone hear me?"

  Speaking gave me a jarring reminder of the punch I took at the cemetery.

  No one responded.

  Laying my head back on the pillow, I let my mind wander out. A guard, Officer Robertson, sat outside the door, reading People magazine with the torn off cover of Newsweek wrapped around it. He heard me call out, but had been instructed not to speak to me. Several nurses scurried by the door in a hurry to get to a flat lining patient down the hall.

  Pulling my mental reach back, I tried to figure out what my next move would be. The confrontation with Murdock in the cemetery changed everything. His capabilities were off the charts. Wiping out that entire team of armed agents hadn't even been a challenge to him. The only hiccup that occurred seemed to be when he released the civilians who were attacking me. If I had to guess, I'd say he wasn't able to control that many people at the same time. In order to kill the agents, he had to focus on them. He didn't stick Carol Brady on me again until after he finished with them.

  Why didn't he have her finish me off after she beat me unconscious? Smith guessed he could control people at a range of three hundred feet. Did he run too far away and take himself past his limit?

  Murdock was confused by my presence as well. At first I thought it was just shock because I was still alive. But he didn't seem to know what I meant when I mentioned the would-be assassins or the police. That didn't give me a warm and fuzzy feeling about Smith. Getting as far away from both of them as possible seemed like a good idea.

  I had to get out of this hospital. Being in police custody made me a sitting duck if Murdock found out I was here. The more I thought the situation through, the more concerned I became for Sammy. I had a few tricks of my own I could use to defend myself, but she was still struggling with the reality of my telepathy. I didn't like the thought of her being in Smith's custody without having me around. She was now my top priority.

  First I needed to get free of the bed. Working my left hand around in the cuffs, I could just get my fingers around the I.V. tube sticking out of my arm. The needle began sliding out of my skin as I gently pulled down on the tube. The tape holding it in place proved stronger than expected, but I managed to work it out centimeters at a time. When the end popped free I used my fingers to manipulate the tubing even further until I held the needle in my hand.

  When you're stationed at a small outpost in Iraq, being on guard duty gets boring really fast. I passed a lot of the time learning to pick handcuffs. By the time the I.E.D. ended my tour, I could get my hands free, while they were behind my back, in less than thirty seconds. At the time it was just to burn some daylight and to be able to say I could do it. The irony of using a skill I'd learned while defending my country to escape police custody wasn't lost on me.

  The weight of the tube hanging from the end of the needle complicated the process, but I had my hand free in a minute or so. My right arm took even less time. A quick hop from the bed made me notice the tightness in my chest from the shovel. Although I would have appreciated some pain medication, I was fortunate the doctors hadn't given me any. I needed all of my faculties if I wanted to escape.

  The floor felt chilly on my bare feet as I inspected the rest of the room, and I didn't appreciate the breeze I got from the open back of my gown. My clothes were nowhere to be found. I couldn't walk out of the hospital with my ass hanging out, so I needed to pilfer someone else's. Climbing over the railing on the bed, I laid my aching body back in its original position. I put the handcuffs over my wrists, but didn't click them into place.

  "Officer Robertson, reading about which celebrities are sucking face can wait. I need to talk to you." I began eavesdropping on his thoughts again.

  Though he wondered how I knew what he was reading, he didn't bother replying. I started delving into his memories. He wasn't very moral considering his occupation.

  "I know about you and Barbara. Your wife would be so pissed off if she knew you were bumping uglies with her sister."

  Jesus on a cracker! How does he know that?

  That got him moving. Looking around to make sure no one else heard, he unlocked the door and closed it behind him.

  "Who have you been talking to? Is that damn Susan running her mouth again?"

  He stopped about ten feet away. I needed him closer, so I grabbed at more memories.

  "She told me about you nailing her in the bathroom at your wedding reception. That's just wrong, man."

  His face turned white. "Is she going to tell my wife?"

  "There was one more thing she mentioned, but she made me promise not to tell you."

  "Oh God, don't tell me she's pregnant!"

  "I can't tell you; I gave my word."

  Stalking toward me, he pointed at my chest. "Tell me, you little bastard!"

  I grabbed his outstretched arm with both of my hands and yanked him across the bed.

  Before he could yell, I brought my elbow down on the back of his head. His body fell limp over my chest.

  Five minutes later I was in the bathroom, trying to button the front of Robertson's uniform. He was much smaller than me so I looked ridiculous wearing his clothes. The pants were high waters on me, the bottom of the cuffs a full four inches above my ankles. The waist was too narrow so I pulled the zipper as far up as possible, and used the belt to try and conceal the rest. I had to take the laces out of his shoes to cram my size twelve feet into his black, size ten sneakers. The shirt was the most noticeable though: the fastened buttons would blow off my chest like a Subway commercial if I took a deep breath. I looked like a reject from the Village People.

  Looking in the mirror, I finally saw the damage I incurred from the shovel. My forehead had a deep purple bruise running from my hairline down to my blackened right eye, which was swollen. Fortunately my nose didn't look broken and my lips weren't too puffy.

  Before leaving I checked one last time to make sure Robertson's hands were secured to the bed. I put the extra pair of handcuffs he carried with him around his ankles. He now wore my hospital garb, which I'd been glad to be rid of. I couldn't have him alerting anyone to what had happened before I got out of the hospital, so I used his boxers as a gag. I tied them in place with the I.V. tube. He was coming to and didn't seem altogether pleased with the taste in his mouth.

  "I have three things to apologize for. First, for knocking you out. Second, for stuffing your undies in your mouth. And third, for going commando in your uniform."

  His grunts suggested he didn't accept.

  "I'll try not to do any lunges on my way out."

  Opening the door, I poked my head out and looked both ways. No one seemed to be paying any attention, so I locked the door and pulled it closed behind me. On the floor, beside the chair Robertson had been sitting on, was his hat. Jamming it on my head, I pulled it as far down to my eyes as I could.

  I walked down the hallway as fast as I dared, which caused the pants to pull up my shins even higher, exposing bare skin above my socks. I kept my head
tilted down as low as possible, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Pushing through double doors, I passed a nurse who eyeballed me from head to toe.

  "I think you might need a new uniform, officer," she said.

  "Damn dryers always shrink my clothes," I mumbled without slowing down.

  Sitting on a cart off to the side of a hallway was a plate with a half eaten hamburger sitting on it. I grabbed it without breaking stride and shoved most of it into my mouth. Even though it was cold cafeteria food I thought it may have been the best burger of all time. Hopefully that would keep my stomach pangs to a minimum for awhile.

  More than a few more people tried to suppress giggles as I walked by. As long as they didn't notice my beat up face, I figured I could make it out of the hospital.

  Chapter 13

  The cab driver spent more time looking at me in the rearview mirror than he did watching the road. Fortunately the trip was a short one so he didn't kill us in a head on collision.

  When I emerged from the hospital, which I had just learned was Prince George's, I saw the taxi sitting there waiting for a fare. After making up a ridiculous excuse about my patrol car being in the shop, he took me back to the crummy hotel where I left Sammy and Nami. Though he didn't say anything aloud, he thought I was a male stripper. When we pulled up to the hotel I gave him all of the cash in Robertson's wallet. Most of it turned out to be singles, which solidified the driver's misgivings.

  "I'm really not a stri—" I started before thinking better of it. "Never mind. I, Officer Jerry Robertson, am a gigolo. Lock up your daughters, or something."

  The guy deserved it for sleeping with his wife's sister.

  A tangible silence fell over the hotel room as I entered. Sammy and Nami stared at me in utter disbelief.

  "Uh, this is a private room, officer," Nami finally said.

  "It's me, Ash."

  Their eyes roamed up and down my absurd uniform for several more seconds. Then the laughter started. Sammy, nearing hysteria, fell off the bed while clutching her stomach. Nami looked like she was having a conniption fit. Looking down at my ensemble, I couldn't help but join them. I laughed so hard that I started snorting. Pain flared in my chest so I tried to stop, which only made me laugh harder. When one of the buttons popped off the front of the uniform I thought I was going to suffocate.