Coffin Collector
Page 3
Giallo saw Rolfo emerge from the maze of coffins, pistol leveled at the assassin who was holding him hostage, but his bodyguard was too far away to save him.
“Drop the gun,” the intruder with the gun commanded. He spoke Italian with a strong American accent. “I won’t ask again.”
This was the voice of a man who didn’t make idle threats. A voice much like Giallo’s own.
Rolfo still hesitated, and Giallo barked, “Do as he says! NOW!”
The pistol hit the floor.
“Now start digging up the man you buried,” the American intruder ordered.
“You don’t understand…” Giallo protested.
“I understand. Your sick experiment is over.”
The intruder had said experiment. Did the assassin know what he was trying to accomplish. But how? The theft of Zamora’s coffin was well documented. Maybe it had drawn the attention of another occultist who might be after the prize of immortality?
Rolfo began to dig. A pile of earth grew around him.
Growing excitement replaced Giallo’s fear. Would Bruno Zamora be reborn inside the body of the American, or would a blubbering, terrified child emerge from the coffin?
Giallo tried to turn his head to catch a glimpse of the man with the gun. All he saw was a black balaclava and a tight combat suit. A man molded from darkness. “Who are you? What do you want?”
He addressed the assassin in English, communicating that he was well aware of his national origins.
“Shut the fuck up, freak!’
The disgust in the assassin’s voice brought a smile to his face. A true killer, like Giallo, wouldn’t be disturbed by his collection. The masked intruder might be a skilled assassin, but deep down he was weak. His lethal skill paled in comparison with the fire raging inside Giallo.
The assassin nudged him with his Glock, indicating he should head for the open grave. Zamora’s coffin sat at the bottom of the shallow wound in the earth. The wooden box held the answers to life’s mysteries. Giallo licked his thin lips in anticipation.
“If you know the origins of this coffin, then you know what it does. A chance to conquer death itself. To live forever.”
The assassin’s mouth twisted into a cold smile. “For a man who worships the art of death you sure seem squeamish about dying.” The assassin eyed Rolfo and said, “Open the coffin.”
A low, insistent scratching noise emanated from within the casket, and an excited shudder shot up Giallo’s bent, age-worn spine. The American student was alive. But whose soul resided in his body? Was it the American or Zamora reborn?
Even Rolfo failed to mask his fear as he hunched over the coffin. Putting people into the ground was easier than digging them up. Motivated by the assassin’s gun pointing at him, Rolfo jumped into the hole and using a crowbar, he pried open Zamora’s coffin. The lid flipped open and the American student glared back at them, his eyes wild and mad, his fingers bloody from trying to claw his way out of the wooden box.
“Warum hast mich nicht schneller zurueck gebracht? Warum? WARUM?”
The shrill intensity behind the guttural words reflected the speaker’s insanity. They were spoken in German, and Giallo knew enough of the language to grasp the gist of the message: Why didn’t you bring me back sooner?
Elation filled Giallo’s black heart.
It had worked.
The stories about the coffin were true.
The body that now held Zamora’s soul jumped out of the casket and launched into the nearest target, which in this case was poor Rolfo. Without hesitation, the American student sunk his teeth into the bodyguard’s exposed throat with animal savagery. Blood gushed, and Rolfo cried out in pain and shock as he shoved the madman aside.
Giallo sensed what might happen next. He wanted to cry out, but it was too late. Rolfo whipped out a knife from his belt and rammed it into the American student’s heart. More German words reverberated through the warehouse, but as far as Giallo could tell, they were nonsense. The stage magician had obviously gone mad. Who wouldn’t after all this time? His soul had been trapped for a hundred years inside the coffin, neither dead nor alive. A disembodied entity with nothing to occupy its mind but the memories of a life once lived and glories long faded.
The student collapsed, spurting red, and by the time his body landed in the soil, his eyes had already glazed over.
Fool!
Rolfo followed suit and dropped into the dirt. Blood colored the ground scarlet as he twitched and clutched his throat. And then he too stopped moving.
The black-masked assassin circled Giallo until they faced each other.
The coffin collector was about to say something, but the steel in the assassin’s eyes silenced him.
“I want you to know what is going to happen next.” The assassin paused and his iron gaze swept the warehouse. “I’m going to burn down this cursed place.”
“You can’t! My life’s work…”
“Every coffin you collected will go up in flames. “
Giallo swallowed hard. Experience told him the assassin was the type of man who kept his promises. So his next words caught Giallo by surprise.
“And when this place is nothing but ashes, I’m going give you what you want.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WAREHOUSE BURNED, painting the air red. The fire’s merciless heat singed Giallo’s features as his prized collection went up in thick, oily clouds of black smoke. Tears streamed down his face, fury boiling inside of him as he bore witness to the inferno. If he were younger, he would’ve made a go at the black-clad assassin. The man had destroyed everything.
They both stood outside the warehouse, and the assassin’s gloved hand kept the Glock fixed on his head in case he should get any foolish ideas. The bastard wanted him to witness the destruction of his collection. What did he think he was doing? Punishing him for past crimes? What sort of mercenary was he dealing with here?
Nevertheless, one piece had survived Giallo’s collection: Zamora’s coffin.
The assassin had made sure to remove the casket from the warehouse before setting the charges that triggered the raging blaze. The fact that the coffin had been spared gave him hope. There was still a chance he might be able to start over again. If reborn through the coffin’s magic, he could enjoy all his wealth inside a fresh, young body. He could begin building a new collection. The assassin’s words cycled through his mind.
“And when this place is nothing but ashes, I’m going give you what you want the most.”
Was he implying he could be bought for a price? That Zamora’s coffin could be his for a price?
Controlling his anger, Giallo said, “Whatever you employer is paying you, I can offer you more. Much more. Name your price.”
The assassin’s swift answer left little room for negotiation. Giallo felt the handle of the pistol bite into his head…and the world turned black.
When he woke up, stars sparkled overhead, and for a moment he felt disoriented.
He tried to move but found himself confined, his hands cuffed. Craning his neck, he saw piles of dirt on either side of him. Instant realization hit him. He was looking up at the brilliant night sky from inside a wooden box. Not any box. Zamora’s coffin, which now rested in a shallow grave.
Above him, a shape stepped up to the grave. The assassin loomed like an angel of death. He removed his balaclava, revealing rugged, handsome features. Giallo choked back a wave of terror. The assassin didn’t seem worried he’d ever get to pick him out of a police line-up. This was the end of the road.
“What are you doing?’ Giallo croaked, his heart hammering away.
“You wanted to be buried in Zamora’s coffin. I’m making your wish come true.”
The assassin picked up the lid of the coffin.
Giallo’s bit his lips with terror, grasping the fiend’s plan. The American was going to bury him alive. He would indeed escape death, but he would remain trapped in the box in the same way Zamora’s spirit had. Even if he s
hould be lucky enough to have someone stumble upon his makeshift grave someday in the future, they would have no idea how to release him and bring him back from the dead.
“Please… you can’t do this,” Giallo said.
“How many of the people in your collection begged for their lives? How many did you spare?”
The question hung accusingly in the air.
Giallo’s mind went blank as the heavy lid closed over the coffin, entombing him in blackness. He was suddenly six years old again and at the mercy of his father’s madness. But this time there would no reprieve. Light would not make way for the darkness. His interment would be permanent.
The sound of dirt piling up on top of the coffin wasn’t loud enough to drown out the coffin collector’s horrified screams.
THE END
Mark Talon returns this winter in SOUL JACKER.
A brutal crime lord plans on unleashing an ancient horror upon Paris and only one man stands in his way.
Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker (Now Available for Preorder) - Amazon US Amazon UK
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Massa is a screenwriter (Return to House on Haunted Hill) and script consultant. He has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now calls Los Angeles his home. William writes horror, science fiction and dark fantasy. Directing a movie one day is on William’s bucket list. More books are on the way.
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Visit my my website at www.williammassa.com
Writing can be a solitary pursuit but rewriting can be a group effort. I strive to make each book better than the last and feedback is incredibly helpful. If you have notes, thoughts or comments about this book or want to contact me, feel free to email me at
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EDITING
Erin Elizabeth Long
COVER ART/CREDITS
Cover design by Jun Ares & William Massa
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