by Platt, Sean
Though the motel looked like homeless people were squatting there, Larry was always organized and prepared to leave the second shit hit the fan.
And now, shit had hit the fan.
His two major concerns were switching the van he was in for another and hoping he’d eliminated enough of the bastards to prevent them from regrouping too quickly. Larry had disabled the van’s tracking systems, but he wouldn’t feel comfortable until they traded it in for new wheels. Fortunately, they were only a mile from a chop shop where he placed an emergency order a minute from the motel.
Sometimes it paid to keep the right company.
John
In the van’s darkened rear, Abigail’s breath rose and fell, her body curled against John. No windows meant the heat he was feeling through the indented panels was mostly in his imagination. John was safe from the sun, and, thankfully, Abigail was now safe from his parasitic touch.
He’d grown so used to avoiding unintentional human contact that he flinched when Abigail had first leaned so lovingly against him. But as she relaxed, then passed out almost immediately, he wrapped an arm around her, receiving as much comfort as he was providing. His sad eyes lost a tear to the top of Abigail’s head.
Her gunshot had mended entirely, the skin where the bullet had ripped through her flesh was no less smooth than her cheek. The cigarette burn from her abuser had also healed. A part of John was glad that Abigail had remained groggy, not yet lucid enough to receive an explanation of how he had managed to save her.
Larry had grabbed two fistfuls of pillows and a pile of blankets to make their accommodations more comfortable, but John was too distracted, or maybe too scared, to close his eyes. He didn’t mind tumbling through the recent events in his mind. It was necessary to pull order from chaos, but closing his eyes gave the images teeth.
From the bits of memories he’d managed to extract from the agents, he knew the gunmen were part of a unit called Harbinger.
Harbinger of what, though?
The agents were as much in the dark about their end game as John, though crystal clear on how much their boss, Jacob, had paid them to kill enemies, silence opposition, and unearth various artifacts with mythical properties.
Artifacts from Otherworld.
Why they wanted him, though, John wasn’t certain. At least not beyond anything outside the bristle of instinct. Perhaps he was the ultimate artifact, a man who once walked on another world’s soil. Though from what he could tell, he wasn’t alone in that distinction. The agents’ memories revealed that Jacob traveled in an entourage of others who were either from Otherworld or were trained in its magick.
Of Jacob, though, he couldn’t gather much. The soldiers for hire had viewed him as a weak but cruel man, with tons of money at his disposal. Beyond that, most of the men knew little. At least one of them believed Jacob’s weakness to be a facade, and knew the man to be incredibly capable of terrible deeds.
John looked down at Abigail and felt a fierce, almost paternal need to protect her from all danger. That aching need embittered his thought, tainted with wave after wave of unforgiving guilt. He had delivered his curse unto her, even if only to save her life, and had turned her into a vampire.
What would that mean for her? Would she need to feast to survive? Had he turned an innocent child into an eager killer? Was Abigail now immortal? Would her soul grow old as she remained forever fixed behind the mask of a child?
Larry was the only person with answers, up front, driving as fast as he could to put the motel and its murderous men behind them. As soon as Larry killed the engine, John would find out everything he knew, whether he wanted to spill it or not.
Larry
Larry swung into the chop shop — an unassuming warehouse in the middle of a dozen others, nearly invisible in a broken row in a rundown neighborhood just ten miles south of their next port of call.
Lydia was waiting outside, alone as he’d requested. Most hours, she’d have a crew of at least six to help ensure her safety, but their amorous past was a solid promise of protection. She raised the bay door, and Larry pulled inside, parking beside the white Ford Econoline she’d readied for him. The van was modified inside with a spacious cargo area sealed off from the front to prevent any light from seeping inside. Larry would transfer John and Abigail, then be on his way. Lydia would take care of the black van.
Larry hopped out, and Lydia lowered the bay door. She turned to him, her infectious smile lighting the room. “Hey, stranger.”
“Not by choice.” He laughed. “You still seeing Tony?”
“Hell no, he’s back with his little bitch, Jessi.” Lydia sidled toward Larry then leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You asking for any particular reason?”
Larry grinned. It had been a while since he’d been laid. Even longer since he’d been with a kinky little minx like Lydia. He felt the usual stir but ignored the wish that was turning to a want that time wouldn’t allow. Lydia’s eyes danced, hands in her pockets, head sideways, a lock of chestnut curls teasing the nape of her olive-skinned neck. Larry swallowed.
“No reason, just wanted to make sure the hairs on my neck weren’t rising because of an asshole behind me.”
Lydia laughed. “Nope, just you and me … and whoever you have in the van.”
“Thanks for this.” Larry reached into his pocket for an envelope of cash.
“Anything for you.” Lydia smiled, peering over Larry’s shoulder at the black van. “So, what are we about to unwrap?”
“I need to get these people to safety.” Larry led Lydia to the side door and slid it open. Inside, an especially large-looking John with a still-sleeping Abigail like a rag doll in the nook of his body.
“Oh shit!” Lydia’s eyes widened. She took an involuntary step back from the van.
“So you’ve been watching the news, then, I guess?” Larry made a weak attempt at humor.
It didn’t work.
“Dude, what the hell are you into? I’m not helping a kidnapping, no way.” Lydia took another step back, this one on purpose.
Larry had seconds to calm her. Lydia’s blood was always hot, and it didn’t take much to boil. She may have run a chop shop with a regular clientele of thugs, thieves, and organized criminals, many with blood on their hands, but kidnapping, or any crime involving a child, was something she would never willingly take part in.
He spoke calmly.
“Come on, you know me better than that. Don’t believe any of that shit you saw on TV. There are some people after her, bad people. We’re protecting her.”
John crawled from the van and nodded to Lydia.
“What about him? I saw what he did on TV. What the hell is he?”
“You trust me?” Larry’s voice climbing an octave, like a guy defending the used condom his girlfriend found in the backseat of his car.
She looked past John and at Abigail, who was starting to stir. “You okay, sweetie?”
Abigail looked up at Lydia. Her eyes were cloudy and distant. Larry could only imagine the accusations barreling through Lydia’s mind. They drugged this girl!
Larry had always been able to count on Lydia in a pinch, but they hadn’t spoken in more than half a year, since the “Tony situation” came out of nowhere and took over everything. Who knew where her loyalties lay now?
Larry eyed her up and down, while her attention was on the child. She was surely packing heat; something small like a snub-nosed Ruger, probably in the small of her back. Lydia might not have run with the lowest of the low, but she was, like Larry, always prepared for any eventuality. He didn’t want to get into a gunfight, so he’d have to disarm her quickly the moment before she reached for her piece.
“Where are we?” Abigail’s syllables slurred, her expression vacant.
Larry thought something looked off about the girl. Same doll, different batteries.
“You okay, honey?” Lydia edged toward her.
John leaned over, blocking access to Abigail, and gro
wled. “Don’t touch her!”
Lydia drew back, and before Larry could make a move, she had a gun in hand, a Ruger indeed, and aimed it at John.
Oh fuck, this is gonna get ugly.
“What the hell is going on here?” Lydia asked, gun trained on John but eyes on Larry — wide, wild, and dilating in a fear that was full yet unflinching.
“Put the gun away,” Larry said, his voice a glassy calm. “You saw what this guy did to those people, right? He may not be human, BUT he’s not the bad guy here. This girl here, Abigail, isn’t human either. These government fucks are after them both. They want to capture them, experiment on them, and God knows what else. All that shit on TV is a giant spin by the media machine, Lydia. You have to believe me.”
Something in Lydia’s eyes softened, and Larry could see she was starting to buy what he was selling. He might have even believed they would get out of this mess unscathed if Abigail hadn’t started to scream, convulsing in a wicked rhythm of spasms. John tried to calm the girl, putting hands over her, but she swiped them away, her entire body shaking.
A low, predatory snarl spilled from her throat.
“What the fuck?” Lydia said, gun back on John.
John’s face turned gray. He turned to Larry, “What’s happening?”
Abigail echoed the question in broken gasps, her fingernails digging into John’s arm. “Wh … what’s hap … pening to me?”
Abigail’s back arched upward, her body a circus freak of contortions as anguished cries erupted from her lungs.
Tears poured down Lydia’s face. “What’s happening?”
She put the gun in the waistband of her jeans behind her back and moved toward Abigail, reaching out to somehow help her. Neither Larry nor John could stop her before Abigail’s flailing hand seized Lydia’s forearm and locked.
The feeding began.
Thirty-Seven
Caleb
Caleb kneaded his temples and stared at the laptop sitting on his bed.
On a safari for clues to his foggy past, he’d accessed a database in the bureau computer, wound his way through a series of gateways, and finally located his full file. While he’d pieced together many puzzles through public and classified records during his years with the agency — lives collected neatly in folders filled with facts, photos, and crime scene reports — it was another thing altogether, attempting to quilt the fragments of his own scattered existence.
Facts stared back at Caleb, things remembered and forgotten, both seeming as ancient as he was feeling. He saw nothing to indicate that his parents, William and Elizabeth Winslow, died in a violent crime. Their deaths were listed as an accident, just as his prior memories recalled. Driving home one rainy night, their car lost control on a slick road and wrapped around a light post. The only survivor was their son, Caleb, who was thrown from the car and remarkably unscratched.
No mention of a brother.
Shortly following the accident, Caleb had been adopted by Ed and Myriam Baldwin. Ed was an agent with the FBI, leaving a career’s worth of footsteps for Caleb to eventually follow. According to gospel he’d never thought to question, Ed and Myriam were a freshly married couple, unable to conceive. Ed had been on his way home from work when he arrived on scene at the accident. He cared for Caleb until the ambulance arrived. After a long talk with Myriam, they decided to adopt Caleb. They got their child and saved the world from one more orphan from the world.
Caleb sighed, rubbing his eyes. He’d already searched for records of his birth parents, but turned up nothing. Not too surprising. If they died in a car accident, they shouldn’t have been in the database unless they’d been flagged for some reason, or had been victims of a crime the bureau was investigating.
Another few seconds in front of the screen, and the corners of Caleb’s mouth twitched. He leaned forward and let his fingers dance across the keyboard. He typed John Winslow in the search box.
Four names, three with no relation to him; the fourth, a huge question mark.
Caleb clicked on the fourth name, and he received a message window. Red letters yelled, ACCESS DENIED, and three green ones agreed: PROPER CLEARANCE REQUIRED. Below the lines, a message showed his IP address and mentioned that Caleb’s search and failure to meet clearance had been noted.
Great.
What the hell is going on?
Why would John Winslow, possibly his brother, have a secret FBI file?
Caleb continued to stare at the monitor. He had no memories of a brother, yet something in the name tickled the deep recesses of his brain.
Could he have completely forgotten having a brother?
Or been made to forget?
He’d known of people forgetting things and blocking events after a trauma. Hell, he could understand wanting to forget your parents’ murders and burning the reels in your mind. But this, if true, went well beyond forgetting. There was a paper trail noting his parents’ death in a car accident, implicating lie as truth. This was an orchestrated effort to bury reality.
But why?
Why cover up a murder? Why cover up the existence of a brother? Could the government really have rinsed his memories, not only of murder but of a younger brother as well?
A week ago Caleb would’ve thought it was impossible or at least downright lunacy. It had been a long week, even without the dream. The dream! He shuddered at the involuntary image of his father’s burned heap of a body, a sack of ashy flesh no different from those which had littered the last few of his days, no different from Julia’s.
Something brought Caleb to life, out of his drugged fog, like an animal perking to a strange and sudden scent.
The monster in his dream had claimed to be his brother, Jacob.
Two brothers, one nightmare.
Caleb entered the name Jacob Winslow.
ACCESS DENIED, PROPER CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Caleb thought of the killer he was tracking. The killer, who finally had a name, thanks to Bob’s information: John Sullivan.
He entered the name and held his breath.
ACCESS DENIED, PROPER CLEARANCE REQUIRED
What the hell?
Caleb’s mind crackled, connections slowly clicking into place. Something inside him shuddered. What if the killer, John, was also his brother? It didn’t make sense, of course. According to Bob, the killer wasn’t from this planet. The killer also seemed younger, though Bob said he was much older.
The boy in the dream was distinctly younger than Caleb.
Yet when Caleb thought of the damage Jacob had done to his father’s body, and the damage this John Sullivan was doing to others now, the connections, as crazy as they seemed, almost arranged themselves with an unlikely sort of certainty. If both brothers were real and both some sort of otherworldly feeders, then …
What in the hell does that make me?
Caleb leaned back in his bed to ponder the question.
His cell phone vibrated, humming on the nightstand beside his bed.
Caleb answered and looked at the screen to see who was calling in the middle of the night. His boss, Bob.
“Hello?” Caleb said, feigning grogginess so Bob would think he was still asleep rather than launching an investigation into some half-cocked tapestry of deceptions based on a dream, more likely inspired by his drugs than actual memories.
“What are you looking for, Caleb?”
His heart pounded faster. They’re monitoring me? Why?
Caleb swallowed. “What do you mean, Bob?”
“Don’t make me drag it out of you. Why are you accessing department databases and dredging up ancient history? What is it you’re trying to find?”
Caleb, normally quick with a lie, was frozen.
Thirty-Eight
Larry And John
Larry
John and Larry both reached out with blind attempts to stop the slaughter.
Abigail’s fingers were ten tiny pythons around Lydia’s paling skin. Both bodies shivered and shook, Lydia tangled in de
ath’s inescapable clutches while Abigail feasted on her fleeting life.
The two men were impotent witnesses to the destruction playing before them. The child, so sweet just hours before, had been transformed into a killing machine.
John stared in horror, seemingly wondering what he’d sentenced Abigail to.
Larry fell back, crying out, “Stop her!” but unable to save his former lover.
He wanted to scream, but his mouth filled with vomit instead, spewed in a fountain, burning bile through his esophagus onto the cold cement floor. Something inside him snapped. Larry raised his pistol, aimed at the back of Abigail’s head, and marched forward.
John glanced up just in time, reached out, and for the second time that night, delivered a blast of energy from his palm, sending Larry to a crumpled heap on the cement. The gun skidded backward across the floor, and John descended on Larry in less than a breath. Unlike last time, he wasn’t weakened by his blast. However, it also hadn’t done as much damage to Larry, who was on all fours, scrambling away from John toward the gun.
“Stop!” John barked.
Larry turned and glared upward, anger coursing through him.
John stared down, silent. Unflinching. His message clear: Do NOT fuck with Abigail.
Larry looked past John toward Abigail, who hunched over Lydia’s ashen body. The electricity had nearly finished its course through her body, and the girl was now rocking slowly, murmuring something Larry couldn’t make out.