by Fynn Perry
“With lots of stab wounds.”
“So, I’m guessing he was murdered…in prison. There can’t be many other places that could happen to someone wearing a jumpsuit. That would make him a criminal, possibly a gang member––that might explain why he was stabbed so many times. Maybe he knew El Gordito, perhaps even Donovan?”
“But then why would he want you dead?”
“I still have no idea. It’s just a hunch. I’ll take a look around the club’s offices. Nobody will see me.”
“Except spirits, John—they can see and hurt you!” she cautioned. “What if you meet the one that came out of Hardwell?”
Her intensity seemed to catch him off guard but his tone was resolute: “We can’t just do nothing, Jen, and wait for more shit to happen. I need to find out more about Supreme Holdings. I was naïve before, I know, thinking I could stay out of trouble by luck, but this time I promise I’ll be more careful.” He offered a hopeful grin.
Jennifer nodded with a resigned expression. This time it would be useless for her to argue with him.
Nine
John headed for Midtown Manhattan, hitching rides on buses. It was an hour after sunset, and the rhythm of the city showed no signs of slowing down. Crowds of people still filled the sidewalks and formed clusters at crossings; the streets were still choked with buses, trucks, cars, and a seemingly endless supply of yellow cabs. Megawatts of electricity powered millions of bulbs casting incandescent light onto the streets and through glass walls high above him. Amid it all was his own, somehow self-generated, illumination and that of thousands like him.
Nowhere was their presence more evident than in Central Park. Dimly lit in comparison to the avenues and streets, its shadowy depths glittered with orange-glowing specks. He got out of the bus at the next stop, by one of the peculiar orange-and-white-striped stacks that rose out of sidewalks all over Manhattan. Billowing the same iconic steam that appeared from manholes in the street, it looked like a chimney connected to a sunken factory.
East 53rd. Street was a short walk away, and DNA was on the top floor of one of its tallest skyscrapers. As he walked closer to the building, the mortal and the spirit crowd began to look more and more hip. He walked past the club’s discreet entrance, located beside but completely separate from the building’s grander one, noticing that two huge doormen were rejecting many of the queueing visitors. He also realized that no spirits were attempting to get in, which told him he should find a better, perhaps safer way to enter the club.
Jennifer had found an article about special access to the club's VIP elevator in the basement parking lot. He guessed that the building’s designer would have put the club's freight elevator close to it, and that the latter would offer a quieter and more discreet way to get to the club’s offices, which were also likely to be in the back-of-house area.
It was just after 10:15 p.m., so the club had only just opened. He walked down the ramp to the parking garage and moved toward the rear of the first basement level, where he noticed an area with delivery trucks. Moving closer, hiding where possible behind columns, he was acutely aware that his orange glow was seeping out.
He saw that a delivery was in progress. One of the men stood out, dressed in a dark-grey dress shirt with a bow tie, a purple waistcoat, and pants. The others were dressed like delivery guys—in practical work boots and uniforms. Thankfully, John could see from their eyes that none of them were possessed. As he moved closer, he noticed the satin back of the waistcoat was patterned with a repetitive motif comprising the letters ‘D-N-A’ in regimented rows.
The employee in the waistcoat finished signing some papers and handed the clipboard back to one of the delivery men. Everyone seemed oblivious to John’s presence as he shadowed the employee, who was now pushing a dolly laden with boxed alcohol and cigars away from the truck and toward the steel doors of an elevator. A card reader beeped, and John followed the employee into the elevator and watched as he used the same passcard to allow him access to the fortieth floor.
It may have been just for deliveries, but being in a modern high-rise, it was an express elevator, and in less than a minute, the floor indicator showed '40' and the sound of a gong announced their arrival. John suddenly considered the mistake he had just made. If, on the other side of the doors was a hostile spirit, he had nowhere to escape except down a forty-floor drop. He held his breath, not knowing what to expect.
The doors opened, presenting two guards blocking the entrance to the fortieth-floor lobby. They were both as tall as John and twice the size of the waistcoat-wearing employee—both barrel-chested and without a distinguishable neck. The employee looked down as he approached them, wheeling out his trolley, clearly intimidated. John was less so. He could see from their eyes that they weren’t possessed.
One of the guards grabbed the shirt of the employee, hurrying him past with the trolley. "Come on, boy, keep it movin’ or I'll have to fackin’ smack ya one." John recognized the accent and choice of words as belonging to a Londoner.
John decided to follow the employee to his destination, which he figured, looking at the contents of the dollied boxes, would be a storeroom in easy reach of a bar, perhaps one connected to the VIP Lounge.
Glad of the absence of other spirits who might challenge him for being there, or worse, attack him, John continued to shadow the employee along a utilitarian corridor and through a set of double swing doors that led into a large kitchen.
Humid aromas of garlic and spices hit him, followed by the flash and alcoholic tang of a brandy-fueled flambé. Chefs hustled between stainless steel tables, sinks, and cooking ranges, only slowing for the precise pouring of sauces and the careful arrangement of ingredients on a plate. They shouted to each other through columns of steam and over the incessant noise of extractor fans, searing meat, and spitting fat.
The food looked fantastic and at that moment John realized he could no longer feel hunger. But now was not the time to lament the loss of mortal pleasures and he followed the employee into a storeroom, which turned out to be a storage area for wines and spirits. The employee started unpacking the trolley and so John took the route that a waiter had just taken to a door with a plaque. Fortunately, it had the words ‘VIP Lounge’ on it.
On the other side of the door, he found himself behind a glossy white bar, at least twenty feet in length, with a mirrored wall of bottled spirits and liquors on glass shelves behind it. In front of the bar, the atmosphere was buzzing and a crowd was mingling in a sizable area filled with glass tables and chairs and enclosed on two sides by floor-to-ceiling glazing, boasting a spectacular view of sparkling, nighttime Manhattan.
Waitresses dressed in tight leather shorts, heels, and fitted shirts bussed tables with forced smiles as they attended to the denizens of the lounge, who were all brash, male, and expensively dressed. These clients were accompanied by girls, obviously escorts in the briefest of clubwear, who sat in their laps or danced on tabletops dusted with spent lines of cocaine. Mojo by Peeping Tom was playing over the sounds of showboating men and fake female laughter––its hypnotic, haunting melody perfectly suited to the generally sleazy, drug-induced vibe.
John could see that the floor beneath them was of dark glass and that they were above the main part of the club. Stray beams from spinning dance-floor lighting below their feet shot upward, randomly hit tables, bodies, and faces or shattered into rainbow-colored shards of light by the many crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling,
With his back to the bar, John started his scan of the room, feeling increasing relief that he could see no other spirits or anyone showing signs of possession. His eyes were drawn to a raised area of tables and chairs, where three men were standing with their backs to him. He kept staring until one of the waitresses walked up to the bar and blocked his view. The distraction was momentary but, as it would turn out, just long enough for John not to notice the event that was unfolding in the blind spot she had created.
With his view again clear, John
noticed that the wall of three men, all in dark suits, had parted to reveal a frenchified cocktail table, behind which a portly man sat in a gold-colored armchair, adorned like a throne. He was too far away for John to see his face clearly, but it was obvious he was a round-shouldered, pot-bellied Hispanic man of about forty, in a sharp suit and flamboyant-colored shirt. His body language screamed that he was in charge.
And then it hit John like a ten-ton truck. The fiery orange light radiating from the man’s eyes signaled that he was possessed. Worse, his manic stare indicated that he had just noticed John.
Thinking back to the photograph he had seen earlier online, John was certain that this was El Gordito. But possessed by whose spirit? He stood transfixed, thinking of Jennifer’s frightening description of Santiago’s spirit when it had emerged from Hardwell. He tried to prepare himself for its re-appearance.
But no spirit came out of the drug baron; instead, one of the men who had been standing with his back to John now turned to look at him, eyes glowing orange. Then he suddenly fell to one side as a spirit that had been inside him lunged toward John, discarding its host’s body as if it were shrugging off a coat.
Every synapse in John’s brain screamed for him to move, and his reflexes reacted just as fast as they would have done in his mortal life. He turned and ran, passing through wall after wall, heading for the goods elevator. The purple-waistcoat-wearing employee that John had come into the club with was in front of him, casually pushing the now-empty trolley back toward the elevator doors. With the guards gone, possibly on a break, the guy appeared far more relaxed and seemed to be taking his time. John looked behind him, along the corridor, while the employee placed his card next to the reader and pressed the call button.
A second later the spirit appeared, sprinting toward them.
One of the security guards John had seen earlier entered the corridor from a door to the left of the elevator, carrying a box and roaring, “Hold the elevator!”
The employee froze and started turning toward the guard as John invisibly passed him and went through the opening elevator doors. Inside the cab, John desperately tried to press the button for the garage level but was failing––his finger passing through it. He focused harder, imagining his fingertip interacting with the metal surface of the button. Finally, it connected and he pumped it as if it would make the doors close faster, switching his gaze back and forth from the button to the narrowing view onto the corridor and the rapidly approaching spirit.
The employee stuck his hand out, to try and hold back the door for the guard, but John’s momentary icy grasp of it made him retract it. John saw the orange glow of the spirit engulf the employee just as the doors snapped close. He shuddered as he remembered the damage the surfer spirits had done to his shoulder. That small injury would be nothing compared to what this thing could do to him. He took comfort in the fact that he’d escaped and the elevator had started its descent.
But the ordeal wasn’t over—an orange line of light seeped through the thin gap between the closed doors. It grew in intensity until glowing fingers and then the hand of the spirit emerged between the closed doors, three-quarters of the way up, and moved upward as the cab descended before disappearing through the ceiling of the cab. It’s on the cab roof. Any second it could jump down through the ceiling.
The numbers of the passing floors flicked up on the display: ...34...33...32... John felt his heart pounding faster and faster. The uncomfortable mortal feeling of fight or flight was upon him. If he was to jump out of the cab, he had to do it now. The floor display was already showing 28… 27... 26.
He took a step back and ran towards the elevator doors. As he approached them, he saw his own glow reflected, then a second orange glow starting to appear. John guessed the spirit was dropping through the ceiling but he didn’t look back. He pushed hard off the cab floor with his right foot, just in front of the doors, like a long-jump athlete hitting the take-off board as close to the far edge as possible. He passed through several floors in a second, his eyes momentarily registering the cross-sectional composition: carpet, cement, concrete, rebar, ductwork, ceiling tiles, and again carpet, cement, concrete, rebar, ducts, and ceiling tiles. He would have to choose which one of the floor surfaces to connect with to stop his fall. The longer he waited, the greater the fall, and the more the interaction would hurt. He might not be able to get up and walk. He allowed himself to pass through one more floor and then braced himself to interact with the next one, which was even now shooting upward towards him. The sole of his right foot made contact first with the surface, which spun him over and sent him flying forward, headfirst. Stretching out his hands, he braced himself again, anticipating the moment when the rest of his body would connect with the floor surface. His hands and chest hit first. Keeping his head clear, he slid along for a few yards before coming to a halt.
A cloud of white dust surrounded him. As the particles slowly settled through him, he looked around and saw he was on an office floor that had yet to be partitioned and decorated. He had unobstructed views of the whole floor and out onto the neighboring buildings. There was no place for him to hide if he needed to.
Getting himself upright, he attempted to get his bearings. From his earlier walk around the building, he knew the main entrance was located at the opposite side. The bank of elevators running from the main entrance lobby to every floor, including his, would be his way out.
He raced to the other end of the floor, his glow lighting up his surroundings. Ahead of him was a concrete wall and fire doors partitioning off a section of the floor. He passed through the doors and found himself in a marble-clad elevator lobby. He was in the right place. The quickest way down would be by elevator, but what if the pursuing spirit had thought the same and was waiting to ambush him? He took a chance and pressed the call button. All the elevators, in accordance with standard practice during times of low-usage, were parked at the first floor. One started making its journey upward toward him. He felt an increase in panic just before the doors opened but thankfully it was empty. Sighing with relief, he got on and pressed the button for the first floor. As he descended and approached his destination, he felt his stress levels rise again.
The elevator cab slowed down to a smooth stop, and the doors snapped open. A figure stood in front of the elevator.
It wasn’t the spirit. It was a security guard, and he wasn’t possessed. John figured the use of an office elevator at 1:00 a.m. had gotten the man interested enough to check it out. John left the man with his confused expression and ran past him, through the lobby and out toward the street.
Something made him look back toward the lobby. As he did so, he saw the spirit coming out of the elevator lobby and starting to run at him. He had to take cover quickly.
The sidewalk was deserted, but the street had a near-constant flow of traffic, two lanes in each direction. John ran out into it, straight through cars and yellow cabs that he could see were unoccupied by spirits. He didn’t want to collide with one. He ran straight through a bus, which he hoped gave him sufficient temporary cover to leap, unnoticed by the spirit, into the back of a white panel van in the next lane.
His hands made contact with the van’s floor, and he hauled himself into the load area just seconds before the van overtook the bus. He rested there for a while, lying chest down, hopeful that he had outsmarted the spirit. It was dark inside the van but his orange glow illuminated enough of it for him to see that it was empty apart from a pile of ropes in one corner, and stacked against the partition separating him from the driver, seven or eight odd-shaped items wrapped in thick, transparent plastic and sealed with duct tape. Some had worked loose from the stack and were rocking with the movement of the van. For the briefest of moments, he couldn’t identify the contents. All he knew was that it must be some kind of meat because blood was pooling at the base of the packaging. Then, suddenly comprehending, John backed away in horror.
“Oh, fuck!” The panicked eyes and a gaping mouth of a se
vered human head stared out at him from behind blood-smeared plastic. Next to it lay packaged limbs and pieces of a torso.
“Fuck!” John exclaimed again. He couldn’t help but think of the victim’s spirit standing frightened somewhere in a Dexter-type, plastic-sheet-covered kill room after having watched his body being chopped up by a psychopath.
He looked up at the partition that separated the load area from the driver. It had just a small window covered with steel bars. Through it, he could see the back and side of the driver’s head. He seemed oblivious to John’s presence, but as John knew, in this new world, appearances could be deceptive.
Just as he had feared, the driver’s head started to emanate a soft orange glow and then thin needles of orange light, gradually increasing in intensity and thickness, penetrated his buzz-cut hair. The emerging head of a spirit turned to look straight at John.
It had a round face with squinting eyes buried in deep sockets behind wire-framed glasses.
“Fucking get out!” It screamed, jowls quivering.
John just lay there, already exhausted from running away from one evil spirit. If this one wasn’t going to make a move toward him, he wasn’t going to use more energy to escape. Until, that was, he was sure he was far enough away from the other spirit to be safe. He figured that the fat-faced spirit wouldn’t leave the driver now and risk him running the van off the road. It didn’t, however, seem to share John’s concern about the van crashing and was becoming increasingly agitated by John’s inaction. It started to leave the driver’s body to move in John’s direction, causing the host to become drowsy and the van to veer.
This wasn’t good. John didn’t need the swerving of the van to attract the attention of the spirit chasing him. He needed to bail now—and he did so by rolling out through the side of the vehicle.