by C. G Harris
I wanted to explain about the Nazi, and the axe, and the coin, but I couldn’t. Telling her about the Nazi meant telling her about the axe. Telling her about the axe meant telling her about the coin. Telling her about the coin meant telling her about the Denarii Division, and that ended in a way I didn’t even want to consider. I couldn’t tell anyone—well, almost no one. It was probably time I paid a visit to Judas to let him know what happened. Maybe he could explain the Nazi and the coin’s flaming axe trick.
I hurried forward to catch up to Alex, aware of my one bare leg in the wind now that all the excitement had died down.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I said. “At least I stopped the guy on the mezzanine from assassinating whoever it was he was going to assassinate.”
“Let’s just get back, and we can figure all this out later.”
I grimaced and looked over at Alex.
She stopped and gave me a hard stare. “What now? What else happened? What else aren’t you telling me?”
I held up my hands in defense. “Nothing, I swear. It’s just that ...”
Alex crossed her arms with impatience. “What?”
“We still have to go pick up Twizzlers.”
Alex stared at me. “What?”
“For Sabnack. He wanted Twizzlers, remember? If I don’t get them, he’ll have my hide.”
Alex sighed and blew out a breath. “Fine.”
After a few steps, I cleared my throat. “Could you go in and get them?”
She glared at me and kept walking.
I gestured toward my bare leg and the tattered remains of my pants. “Come on. No one is going to serve me like this. You have to go get them.”
Alex sighed again and shook her head. “I don’t know how I ever got saddled with you.”
I smiled at her. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Chapter Fifteen
Judas wasn’t in when I arrived at his office. Probably out finding new ways to weaponize baby llamas. Either way, Procel and Mastema were still in their usual spots, and since Mastema only seemed to giggle when things got all murdery, I figured Procel might have some useful intel.
“From the description you provided,” Procel rumbled, “the entity you witnessed was likely a Whisper Wraith.”
“A Whisper Wraith? Never heard of such a thing. What do they do, I mean besides turn people into personal assassin robots? And why am I the only one who can spot them?”
“Whisper Wraiths can be deployed in any number of different scenarios. They can be created in small batches or by the thousands, but each family of Whisper Wraiths will have a single goal. They are particularly effective at influencing large populations, like starting a rebellion, electing officials, committing mass suicide, any number of shadowed dealings. Once that goal is met, they disappear.”
“So, what are you telling me? That these Whisper Wraiths have been created to assassinate ... who? Everyone? One person?”
“I said they are created with a common goal, not a singular skill.” Procel remained in his position, giving up almost no emotion. When he did move, it was like a force of nature—slow and deliberate like a far-off storm rolling across a darkened sky.
“Whisper Wraiths can accomplish a number of different tasks in the pursuit of a common goal. They are given an assignment, and they carry it out with unrelenting determination. They never quit unless they have no other way to complete their mission, and even then, their focus will often shift to whomever or whatever caused them to fail. This trait can be quite formidable; however, they do have a few weaknesses.”
I stood there with my hands folded in front of my body. Waiting for an answer. After a moment of silence, I raised an eyebrow, then two. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Procel did not show an inkling of satisfaction at my irritation, but I knew he was beside himself with laughter inside those dusky robes.
“Seriously? The big boss is away and now you’re a comedian? I’ll bet you wouldn’t cut up like this if Judas were here.”
“Judas is not here.” His deadpan was flawless.
“Okay, will you please tell me about the Whisper Wraiths’ weakness?”
“Of course.”
More silence.
“Could you tell me now?”
Procel twitched an eyebrow and made an almost imperceptible shift of his head. Just enough to show I had somehow put him out.
“Whisper Wraiths are one of the few entities who have access Topside without the use of a Splice or some other transfer device.”
Some other transfer device? There are ways to get Topside other than the Envisage Splice? I kept my face placid, but I would keep that tidbit of information in my memory banks for later.
“They have this freedom because they maintain no free will and little capacity for creative thought. Once set on a mission, they must complete that mission following strict criteria. For instance, if your Whisper Wraith was sent to recruit a sniper, when he failed, he would not go back and try to poison his target later. He would not have the capacity to do so. I am surprised he sent the sniper off the catwalk as a makeshift projectile. Even that is creative thinking for a Wraith.”
I nodded, remembering the fleeing crowds and poor Joe lying lifeless on the stage. “So, when the Wraith’s mark disappeared, he turned his sights on me because I prevented him from completing his mission.”
Procel bobbed his head once in agreement. “So how did he find Alex? How did he know where I would go?”
He did the eyebrow twitch thing again and turned his gaze to more interesting parts of the room. “I suspect you were not hard to track, considering you bore a huge flaming axe. From your description of events, it sounds as if you were more interested in ... how did you describe it? Turning off your lightsaber axe than paying attention to anyone tracking your movements. The Wraith likely anticipated your path, planning to intercept you, and ran into Alex by chance. Lucky her.”
Even Mastema came out of her preening stance to giggle at that.
“But the big question is still out there,” I said. “Why? What does some demon have to gain by killing Nick? Other than the obvious, I guess. And assuming Nick was the target.”
“A demon cannot spawn a Whisper Wraith.”
My eyes went back up to Procel’s huge, albino face again. “What do you mean? Who else could send one of those things up there?”
Procel peered down at me and smiled, which scared me more than all Mastema’s murderous giggles combined.
“Now that is a valid question.”
I shrunk back, feeling like a mouse in a snake pit.
“The only entity in the underworld capable of spawning the Whisper Wraiths is The Council of Seven.”
Procel stood up straight again, taking on his placid expression, but I’m sure mine was anything but.
“And you didn’t think to lead with that little tidbit of information?” I blew out a breath and ran a hand over my head. I prided myself on what I call comedic irritation timing, but Procel was a grand master. I could almost understand why Judas got so short tempered with me sometimes ... almost.
I took another breath and evened out my voice, not missing the irony that I had seen Judas do the same thing any number of times. “So, if The Council of Seven are involved, can we assume Nick, or at least MiRACL, has something to do with the coming Catastropher?”
I looked to Procel for an answer, but I was back to bouncing ideas off a stone statue again. He just stared at me with an impassive expression.
I huffed and glanced away, pacing the office as I ran this new information through my head.
“So, if Nick is involved with The Council, maybe he’s not what he seems to be? But why would they want him dead? Unless he wasn’t the target. Somebody else was. What if someone is planning a coup in the company, and The Council wanted to stop it? Either way, I need to find out more about Nick and his business dealings.”
I looked to Procel again as I got ready to head for the door. “Are you
all right with briefing Judas on all this stuff? I mean I can write everything down if you don’t think you can remember it all.”
I swear I heard a creak as he tilted his head toward me and narrowed his eyes.
“I’ll assume that means you’re good to go.”
I was almost to the door when I remembered one last thing. “You never answered my question about seeing the Wraith and the axe. Why am I the only one who can see them?”
Procel considered this for a moment and then turned his eyes back to me. “The axe is obviously a manifestation of the coin and should be kept secret. The weapon should materialize to aid you in battle, or perhaps it served its purpose, and you will never see it again. Either way keep its existence to yourself.”
“And what about the Wraiths? Why can I see them?”
Procel did not answer right away, making me think he might not be all that sure.
“A Whisper Wraith can remain hidden if it so chooses. Once a Whisper Wraith is revealed, however, any Wraith within that spawning family cannot be unseen. Perhaps the coin willed you to witness that first Wraith. No matter the reason, you will now be aware of any other Wraith within its spawning family. It is also likely that they know about you as well. The Whisper Wraiths possess something of a hive mind and can sense what the others learn. If the Whisper Wraith you encountered knows your face, the rest will as well.”
“Excellent.” I nodded. “Just what I needed. An army of ghost Nazis trying to kill me. And I thought this job would be boring. At least I can tell no one about it, so my partner will be of no use whatsoever.”
I waved at Procel. “Thanks for the help, big guy. Call me if you need anything, and Mastema ...” I paused while she turned her blindfolded eyes in my direction. “Stay creepy.”
Chapter Sixteen
I parked the Rusty Rocket at my black-market shop, then made my way on foot to the meeting spot Jonny had told me about. I didn’t know much about this area of The Nine, which meant they didn’t know much about me. Anyone in my part of town would leave my modest ride alone, out of respect for what I do for the neighborhood or for fear of The Agency. Either way, I didn’t have to worry about seeing the thing up on blocks every time I walked out of the local Satan-n-Save. I couldn’t say as much for anywhere else.
Zoe and the girls hadn’t been at the shop when I left, and we still hadn’t hammered things out after our last argument. I hated leaving things undone, especially with Zoe. She had such a good heart. I always wondered what landed someone like her in a place like this. Her hardened exterior came from years of being a disposable, not from anything she went through Topside. I’d ask her someday, but I figured she had enough bad memories from down here without reliving rotten memories from her past life. Either way, I would make things right when I got back. One thing about Zoe, she was a loyal friend. She always had my back, and I would always have hers.
I found the twin radio towers Jonny had mentioned as a landmark in his note and headed for the base. Nestled between them stood an architectural wonder of rusty automobiles, roughly the size of a mini mall. They had all been through a crusher, compacting them into huge, automotive bricks, leaving gleaming glints of chrome and chipped remnants of paint among the otherwise naked metal. The cars were layered in staggered fashion, forming the walls of the incredible structure. They fit so well that I doubted a rat’s hair of sunlight could shine through. A few of the headlights still worked, shining on a pathway into the entrance, which had been made out of three welded car doors. The top one even had the glass intact, allowing a view to the interior which appeared no less impressive.
I pulled the door open with a screeching pop and saw more working headlights pointed in haphazard directions. The walls were bare ... or absent of any adornments other than the cars themselves. Here and there, I spotted a car door or a hood that had somehow escaped the crusher, hanging on the wall like a work of art. The effect resulted in a surreal, yet finished, feel that I could only be described as junkyard chic.
I sidled up to the bar made of bus doors and tried to make myself comfortable on the mangled iron perch that served as a stool. With only three or four people in the entire place, business was about as dead as dead got. The place had enough room to put a Chuck E. Cheese to shame, but it didn’t have the creepy puppet shows or snot grilled kids threatening to slime your beer glass when you weren’t looking. I couldn’t understand why such a cool place wasn’t either packed with Woebegone or flattened out of spite for being so amazing.
“What can I get ya?”
I turned to the bartender and saw an ordinary looking guy, older, somewhat frail, with thinning hair. He had heavy, black-rimmed glasses and clenched a pipe between his teeth. I could see the wife beater through his thin, cotton button up, and his polyester slacks screamed 1960’s working class.
I raised an eyebrow and asked, “What do you have?”
“You must be new around here.”
I laughed. “I guess I am a little new to this place.”
The guy nodded and shrugged his shoulder. “I’ve got pretty much any kind of booze you want, but don’t expect it to do much more than make you want to piss and give you a wicked hangover. The stuff doesn’t work in The Nine like it did when we were alive.”
“So, what’s the point?” I said, playing along.
The bartender eyed me and threw the towel he held in his hand over his shoulder. “What’s your name, son?”
I offered my hand, cursing myself for being rude. “Sorry, I’m Gabe. Gabe Gantry. And you are?”
“Tired and lonely.” He reached out and shook my hand. “I’m just kidding. You can call me Dan.”
“Nice to meet you, Dan. What do you call your place here?”
Dan pulled his hand back and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. A sign over the bar read “Hula Harry’s.”
I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question, but Dan held out a hand to stop me. “No, I’m not Harry. Yes, Harry owned the place once. No, you do not want to know what happened to him. And yes, I can do the hula.”
I barked out a laugh, drawing a few stares from the otherwise somber clientele. “You are definitely not new to this place.”
Dan pulled the towel off his shoulder and wiped down the counter.
“I’ve spent a fair amount of time here.” It was a simple statement of fact. No malice or anger in his voice. Just an indication that he, like me, had made his peace with this place and was resigned to existing the best way he could.
“So, you never answered my question.”
Dan nodded. “People come in here because they want a little of the old life. They want something familiar, even if they can’t get hammered and stumble out to their cars and drive home.”
I shot him a sideways grin. “I guess that makes sense.”
“It’s fucking stupid is what it is, but if a little sip and burn makes the Woebegone happy for a minute or two, I suppose it’s worth it.”
I laughed again. I was about to order a glass of Jack Daniels for old time sake when I saw Dan’s expression change. He bit down on his pipe and glanced toward the door, puffing a large cloud of smoke from his nose.
“Keep your seat and eyes forward, if you know what’s good for ya, son. You don’t want any part of this. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I watched Dan round the bar and head over to one of the steel top tables where three rough cut Woebegone men now sat. They all looked like they had spent the night eating their way out of a dumpster before cleaning up in a bath of axle grease. They were big, ugly, loud, and I could smell them all the way from my stool at the bar.
“What did I say would happen if you didn’t have my stuff the next time I came in?” The leader wore an old Russian ushanka. One of those fluffy fur hats with ear flaps. The fur was matted, and one of the flaps hung half torn away. But he still managed to make it look just as stupid on his head.
“You are not my only customers, and my supply line has dried up. As soon as I get your brand b
ack in, I’ll let you know.”
Ushanka nodded to his partners, and they stood up to flank Dan on either side, trapping his arms. “I don’t remember giving you permission to serve anyone my stock.”
Dan struggled in the grip of the two men, but they didn’t so much as twitch under the force of the frail man’s effort. “You don’t give me permission to do anything. I run this place. Take your goons and get out. I don’t ever want to see you around here again.”
Ushanka stood and offered Dan a cruel sneer. “I don’t think we’re going to leave. In fact, we might want to put Hula Harry’s under new management, isn’t that right, boys?”
His stooges laughed like a couple of idiots, and Ushanka got in Dan’s face. “Why don’t you leave? And just to make sure you don’t come back, we’re going to make sure you remember why this isn’t your place anymore.”
Ushanka drew his fist back, waiting for a reaction, but Dan just stood in front of him puffing on his pipe.
“Well, what are you going to do, stand there and look stupid? Get on with it, if beating up an old man makes you something big. It’ll take a lot more than that to kick me out of this place though, I can tell you that.”
A long moment went by while Dan puffed on his pipe and Ushanka stood with his fist halfcocked, then the fat man let out a laugh. “You have stones, I’ll give you that. If it’s more you want, it’s more you’ll get. Take him outside boys. We need to do a little redecorating.”
Chapter Seventeen
I got up off my stool and turned to face the trio before they could take more than a step or two toward the door.
“Dan. We’ve only known each other for a few minutes and already you’re holding out on me?”
The smattering of patrons in the bar studied their drinks as if they hadn’t noticed the gorilla show in the middle of the room.