Nightblood

by T. Chris Martindale

  Alex was quiet for a moment. “Don’t whine, Hoss,” he said. “At least you’re still alive.”

  At that Chris Stiles went rigid. His weathered face tightened and his eyes flared. He stood slowly, stalked across the room, stared into the shadows at his brother and hissed, “Don’t you lay that guilt shit on me. Don’t you dare! I’ve given up everything for you. I’ve laid my ass on the line time after time. I’ve paid you back for ’Nam and more, so don’t you ever start that shit. Alive, you say. Am I? Really?” He walked to the table, picked up his cigarettes, and lit one with a shaking hand. “I thought so for a while, when you didn’t show up again. I had a job in Louisville. The money wasn’t bad and I had friends. There was even a girl there. But then I get this feeling, this gnawing at the back of my neck. ‘Go to Indiana,’ it says, ‘Alex is waiting,’ and I drop everything just like that, just like before. I dropped my life for you. So don’t ever get in my face like that again! You hear me?” He ground the Vantage into the ashtray after just a few puffs and sat down at the dining table, turning his attention to the reloading press there, his back to his brother.

  For a while there was silence, save for Carson on the jittery tube. “Our first guest is someone I’m sure you’re all familiar with. . . .”

  Alex coughed, then cleared his throat. “Kind of edgy, aren’t you, Hoss?” he managed weakly, but humorous quips weren’t going to help him now. He saw that and fell silent for a moment, fidgeting uncomfortably in the old recliner. “I’m sorry, Chris. Really. It’s just . . .” He paused, inviting the silence back while he sought the words. “It’s hard for me, sometimes. All these years without rest . . . I’m tired, Chris. And scared. I’m afraid this is never going to end, that we’re never gonna win. I guess it gets to me sometimes.”

  “It gets to me, too,” Stiles said over his shoulder. His voice retained its bitterness but was now softer, more controlled than before. “I know it’s not easy for you. And I’m still trying to help. I came, didn’t I?”

  Back in the shadows Alex smiled, or at least gave a semblance of a smile. The closest he could manage. “Yeah, you did, Hoss. That you did.”

  Charles Nelson Reilly began telling a story to Johnny and Ed. The picture had faded for the moment, but he could still be heard, rambling madly.

  Stiles lifted the Uzi pistol off the table and worked the bolt on the compact submachine gun. “So, what is it this time?” he wondered aloud. “The boogeyman?”

  Alex shrugged. “Who knows? I can never be sure. I just feel a tingle, like a Geiger counter. I know it’s there, somewhere. It’s real evil this time, and I mean hard-core evil. It’s strong, and it’s getting stronger.”

  Stiles reached for another cigarette. “You’re not making me feel any better,” he muttered around the butt. “You think it might be the Enemy?”

  Alex’s voice changed slightly. “It could be. It’s damn thick this time, almost smothering. Just like that night.” For a moment he seemed lost in thought, in a sudden surge of memory. After a moment he grimaced and shook it off and returned to the present. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Stiles turned to the table where the tools of his trade were laid out and asked himself that same question. Are you ready?

  The Heckler & Koch carbine lay stripped and cleaned before him; originally a civilian Model 94 semi-automatic, it had been converted to full auto and an integral suppressor had been installed on the barrel. The laser sighting system had been mounted as well and was fully functional. He put the Mini-Uzi down beside it and checked his second Smith & Wesson 669, this one still nestled in its Cordura shoulder rig. Loaded and ready.

  The center of the table was monopolized by ammunition: thousands of rounds of 9mm hollow points he’d loaded on the press over the last several days. There were also packages of factory ammo, all of a certain make. He preferred the Glaser Safety Slug, a particularly destructive round. On impact its copper jacket would simply peel away, allowing the number-12 shot within to expand and chew up the intended target. A Glaser round did maximum damage, and that was just why he used them, though they were too expensive for the wasteful autofire of the SMGs. So he saved them exclusively for his pistols.

  He picked up his Alice pack and combat vest from the floor and inspected the pouches and pockets where his munitions were tucked away. In all, there were enough arms and armaments before him now to wage a highly effective one-man war. Which is just what he did for a living. If you could call it that.

  Would it be enough? The doubts were always there, like splinters beneath the skin. “Ready as I’ve ever been,” he finally reported. “Where do we fight this time?”

  “Not far from here,” Alex told him. “Just east of Bedford. A little town called Isherwood. And this time you’ve got something to go on. The word Danner. Whether that’s a name of a street or a store, I don’t know. Just Danner.” With that the dark figure stood and stretched mechanically. “Will you start soon?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Fine.” Alex stepped away from the La-Z-Boy and stood in front of the television. When the picture abruptly came back to life, his shadow was not visible on the walls. “I’ll be with you if I can. If they let me.”

  Chris watched his brother and Johnny Carson at the same time, for his view was unhindered. He simply looked through Alex’s torso, which was becoming more and more transparent as he watched. “Alex,” he whispered, “what’s it like to be dead?”

  Alex “laughed.” “You always ask me that, Hoss.”

  “Yeah. And you never answer.”

  Alex stopped laughing and faded from view.

  Part I: THE HUNT

  Chapter One

  It was midautumn in Indiana, and the countryside showed it. The trees clung to their garments of red and gold and copper and refused to let even one leaf flutter away without a fight. Still, some leaves did fall when the wind picked up, only to be blown across fields and pastures and swept into backyard drifts for children to dive into. The air was crisp and clean and carried the scent of woodsmoke. It was chilly out, but not too bad for late October—what the locals called sweatshirt weather, the perfect time for a pickup game at the church field or a ritual get-together, with steaks and dogs sacrificed on the patio gas grill.

  But, strangely, few people took advantage of the day—few even paused to acknowledge those attributes. A pall of sorts had settled over them and the rest of the Midwest, and with its approach the fall no longer seemed so bright or beautiful. Now, all the people could see were the shapes of things to come, the naked trees and gray, shaded skies, the stark shadows, the white isolation of winter. “Enjoy this while you can,” was the downcast phrase of the day. “It won’t last long. You can feel it.”

  Of course, this creeping melancholy was not new to the region. It returned each year at about this time, and most people took the dismal nature of the season in stride or dismissed it entirely. But this year it seemed somehow different—more imminent, more . . . threatening? Perhaps, this year, there was something in the air after all.

  A long-bed Dodge van wheezed along Highway 50, headed east. It was an older model, ’76, and showed its age; it wore each ding and dent and scratch like a battle scar, and its fenders were losing the war to an angry creep of rust. The engine ran rough and would probably need a tune-up soon, if there was enough money. The driver’s window was down, letting cool air spill in and music back out. The cassette was a worn copy of John Prine’s best, turned up nearly all the way to drown out the whine of tire rubber on pavement.

  Stiles wrapped what remained of the Egg McMuffin he’d picked up in Bedford and dumped it back into the paper sack that had spawned it. It hadn’t been a pleasant eating experience, certainly nothing that would qualify as “breakfast,” but it had put something in his stomach and calmed the tremors of hunger, and that was all it was supposed to do. It had also further depleted the already pa
ltry sum in his pocket. Five dollars left, he reminded himself. Spend it wisely.

  He let his mind wander as he tried to enjoy the scenic beauty along the roadway and the wry-witted music of Prine, and a casual glance in the rearview mirror almost caught him smiling. Despite the dreary winter herald in the air and the croupy engine and the lack of funds in his pocket, Stiles was in a comparatively good mood. Certainly better than he had been of late. And that surprised him. He’d been slowly drowning for weeks now, waiting, killing time as best he could, feeling the minutes inch by and the bitterness build within him and fill his throat. Waiting was always the worst. Too much time for worry and regrets and resentment. Too much time, period. Now the hunt was on again; at least he had something to do. He wasn’t quite sure what it was or how to do it or what he’d be doing it to, but it had to be better than sitting idle.

  The hunt is on again. Deep down, the thought gave him a tingle of anticipation, almost excitement. But he didn’t acknowledge it. He never would.

  He still felt guilty for yelling at Alex the night before, though he wasn’t sure just why. Hell, he had a lot of gall just popping in like that after three whole years, no hello, no how’s my favorite brother. Just smart-ass remarks and self-pity and here’s your assignment, Mr. Phelps. Nothing personal. Just business.

  He sighed to himself. But what did you expect? An enthusiastic thank you, a pat on the back? An apology for not getting around to see you, maybe a promise to take in a ball game or go fishing like brothers really should? Get serious, he snapped to himself—this is Alex you’re talking about. You couldn’t expect things like that when he was alive, let alone now. Still distant, still impersonal. Always had been. Always will be.

  He didn’t like ragging his brother like that. There had been a time when things weren’t so bad between them. But he tried not to think about ’Nam these days. There were too many conflicting emotions interwoven with the memories, and he’d never been good at sorting the two out. The heat, the rains, the nag of impending death or dismemberment waiting just along the trail . . . He still had nightmares after all these years. But there had been good times as well. Hell, he’d be the first to admit it—he had thrived there. He had been alive. He’d had his skills, his men. And his brother. It was there that he’d finally gotten to know Alex, something the previous nineteen years had failed to accomplish. He had depended on Alex then, counted on him. They were finally getting closer. Or so he thought. He didn’t learn until much later just how self-serving Alex’s motives were. He got what he wanted, didn’t he: an expertly trained killer to follow his lead like an obedient puppy, bound by a leash of family loyalty.

  Too bad Alex didn’t recognize the same bonds, he thought ruefully. Three years without a visit, without a sign or postcard, without knowing if he was hurt or happy or . . . At times Chris wished he had his brother’s sense of loyalty. Maybe then he could walk out on this hunt and not look back. Maybe then he could start a life of his own.

  His mood was darkening, and he was determined not to let that happen. He pushed Alex out of his mind. There were other things to think about.

  A sign rose up on the right and swept by the passenger window. It was small for a roadsign, and his eye almost missed it. ISHERWOOD, 2 MILES, it read.

  Stiles reached for a cigarette and patted down the many pockets in his down vest before remembering that he’d thrown them out somewhere south of Bedford. It was time to stop smoking, he’d decided. Maybe it was good that the hunt was back on; he’d been lax over the last few years, let his discipline slacken and his senses dull, and as soon as there was an opening his old habit had reasserted itself. It would be hard to stop again, but he’d do it. He couldn’t allow his wind to be cut or his reflexes hampered. In his “business” the slightest slip could have decidedly unpleasant consequences. Like death. Or worse.

  It was incentive enough. He settled for a fossilized piece of Wrigley’s he dug from the van console. It tasted like cardboard but he chewed it anyway.

  Up ahead another sign rose into view. It flanked the highway on the right, immediately opposite the merge of a secondary road, one which cut from Highway 50 at a sharp angle and snaked over a rise and disappeared. Stiles pulled the van onto the shoulder directly in front of the sign. It was really two sheet-metal placards on one pole, both light green and peppered with buckshot and 22s. The uppermost marked the new road as Croglin Way. The other sign simply read ISHERWOOD in modest letters and pointed down that same pike.

  Alex’s words echoed in his ears as he pulled onto that side road. Real evil this time. His hand strayed beneath his vest and touched the butt of a pistol for reassurance.

  Croglin Way was a typical country road, well traveled but rarely cared for. The pavement was pocked and pitted and it played hell with the van’s suspension. The road’s edges were crumbling away, and the abundance of tire gouges in the mud beyond testified to its narrow width. It was lined on one side by near-naked shade trees that left a stuttering tattoo of sunlight on the windshield, and on the other by a jigsaw of farms and open fields. Rusty strings of barbed wire edged the latter, grown over with cotton-haired milkweed and withering stalks of sunflowers, and completely fallen down in some places. Leaves swirled everywhere when the wind picked up, through the fields and onto the road like brown snow, a constant reminder of winter’s approach.

  For those enamored with country life, this setting would have evoked a certain rustic charm. But not to Stiles. His reactions were guarded; he was always wary and watching, trying to see beyond the placid images before him. Because, in his experience, the essence of evil always seemed to permeate rurality. It was not a hard and fast rule—even the Enemy, whatever it really was, had killed Alex in one of the biggest cities in the country. But such incidents were generally isolated. The majority of the evil he had encountered over the years, no matter what form it took, had at least one foot planted in the countryside.

  The reason had always seemed self-evident. Rural areas had changed the least over time and still had many ties to the past, especially concerning myths and superstitions. Nowhere else were they upheld and revered as they were in the country. Most were transplanted long ago from the Old Country and elsewhere, but the origin mattered little in the end. Folktales were well-loved traditions in these parts, a glimpse back into time, a heritage to be savored, even if a few of those old stories did raise the hairs on the back of one’s neck. Hellhounds, haunted houses, boogeymen—they all existed out here, not consciously but down deeper, on a primal level. They fed a fear that still resurfaced from time to time when the lights went out and the sounds of the night closed in.

  The stories fed the fear. And maybe it was that fear that attracted the evil.

  What the hell, he shrugged. It was logical. Fear could indeed be a lure, a sort of spinner bait for the supernatural. But that gave rise to a counterargument: if it is tradition that binds these primal fears to the country, wouldn’t that self-same tradition lend rurality its ultimate strength? In this age of city corruption and forgotten ideals, wasn’t the country the last vestige of “goodness” in the world, the anchor of traditional values, the stronghold of steely, don’t-tread-on-me, Bible-thumping faith? How could evil thrive in the very shadow of God?

  Stiles had heard such sentiments before, so many times over the years that the inherent smugness made his jaws ache. It was usually given voice by a stark-eyed pastor whose piety refused to let him see the horrors that threatened him or his flock. No, it can’t happen here, they would always say. There can’t be a ghoul or zombie or whatever it is at our doorstep, no, not here. We are a God-fearing people, and we’ve supported charities and had pancake suppers and yard sales in the name of the Lord, and the collection plate is fuller than ever, and we’re adding a prayer room next year, so evil cannot harm us.

  Of course, not all the people he’d met were playing at faith or hiding behind it. There were those here and there who had it, true and
unflinching, and some were of the church. But the rest were simply factory workers and teachers and farmers who relied on the Lord as often as their watch or their Chevy or the “AG-Day” report. Whether their vigilance ever brought them reward was anyone’s guess, but he did know that they were good and kind people and therefore the perfect targets. How could evil thrive in the shadow of the Lord? Simple. If there was a shadow to thrive in, evil would be there, just as it had always been, moving like a wolf through a flock, searching for the weakest. For that would be the ultimate prize, wouldn’t it? To get one of the good ones, to lure or cajole or steal or destroy just one. One would do.

  He laughed to himself at how far he’d let his mind wander down Philosophy Road. Good versus Evil. God and the Devil. Heady stuff for a college dropout with no job and an Egg McMuffin ossifying in his gut. In the long run it didn’t matter why evil was a country boy at heart. The only important thing was that it worked to his advantage. The country was a perfect hunting ground: not as many civilians or cops or places to hide. Here in the heartland he could roll into town like a wandering gunfighter, call the villain out, get the job done, and move on down the road. He could play the game his way.

  And that was the only way to play.

  His mind came back to the road. He was leaving the heart of cow country; the sprawling pastures were thinning out and more houses dotted the landscape now, not farmhouses but more staid, residential homes. He topped the next hill, and it gave him a sweeping view of the land. Croglin Way stretched out before him, down the side of the hill and across a relatively flat section of earth. Then it skirted the base of another lazy slope and disappeared behind it. But it was that flat place that caught his attention. For there, squatting on that very same road like a clump of birds on a power line, was the town of Isherwood.