Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  He looked down toward the ground he’d fallen onto, his untimely deathbed. The dirt was soaked in blood, a dead man’s worth. He knelt to get a closer look, but it was hard to see much in the dark forest. He pulled out his cell phone — it was 11:47 p.m. — and used it as a light. Shining it downward, Mason noticed a thin, blood-filled hole where his stomach had been. He reached inside with his index finger and felt something smooth at the bottom— something solid. He yanked it out. A bullet, red with blood. It had gone right through him, he realized.

  Mason dropped the bullet and got back to his feet. Now what?

  He couldn’t remember which way was which— more importantly, which way was home. Mason walked for a while before finding a dirt trail he recognized and then followed it back to the street, back to civilization. Moving still hurt, though increasingly less so. His body was in shock, but as far as he could tell, it was also completely healed. Even the scratches and bruises from his fistfight with Mr. Huxley were gone.

  He wondered if that son of a bitch was still close by.

  Mason spotted a group of students heading in his direction. He crossed the street to the other sidewalk, trying to look normal, which for some reason was difficult when you sure as hell didn’t feel it. He lingered behind a car until they passed. Mason may have been healed, but he was still covered in blood. He didn’t want to involve anyone else in tonight’s affairs— especially the cops.

  With his fellow students far behind him, Mason scurried home feeling naked. Thankfully, he managed to make it back without having to hide again. It was a quiet night. Must be the rain. It was still pouring— though not enough to wash him clean.

  The front door was open when he arrived. Everything inside was as it had been when he’d burst out of here only an hour ago. The lights were still on and splashes of spaghetti sauce still stained the kitchen floor. But what about Lester’s body? Mason closed the front door and walked uneasily toward the basement.

  He stepped inside. The light bulb dangling from the ceiling was still on too, still flickering. Halfway down the stairs, Lester’s foot came into view, and then, step by step, so did the rest of him. He hadn’t been moved since Mason saw him last, though the pool of blood underneath him had crept further outward. Somehow, he looked even deader. At least Mr. Huxley hadn’t returned to the scene of the crime.

  Mason stopped at the end of the staircase, Lester’s body ten feet in front of him. He seated himself on the bottom step and sighed, as stressed as he was saddened. What the fuck was he going to do now? He couldn’t call the cops. They would never catch Mr. Huxley, and they’d think Mason was mad if he told them the truth— necromancers and all that. He could lie to them, but he was a terrible liar. They would probably think it was he who had killed Lester. No. He couldn’t involve the police. He had to clean this mess up himself, starting with his mentor’s dead body.

  Easier said than done, of course. His first thoughts were of mobster movies. Those mafia guys were always getting rid of bodies, but he wasn’t about to dump his friend into the ocean. He would show him some respect, however he could, and there were others who deserved that opportunity too. Indeed, that’s where Lester’s body should go, he realized— to the people who loved him. The problem was Mason knew very little about them.

  He knew they were necromancers, so he wouldn’t need to lie or involve cops. He also knew there were a dozen or so of them, if he recalled correctly, and that they all lived in a big house up north in the mountains. Lester had never been more specific than that, but considering the time it had taken him to get down here, they were probably a day’s drive away.

  Mason had the workings of a plan now, but two things remained: a car and an address. He could take his own from his mother’s place, but he’d have to insure it for a month— wouldn’t want to get pulled over with a body in the trunk. As for his destination, Mason would just have to look through Lester’s stuff and hope for an address, or at the very least a clue. If he couldn’t find anything… well, he’d cross that bridge if he came to it. For now, he was hoping for the best in the worst of situations.

  First, he needed to clean himself. Mason was still covered in dirt and blood. He closed the basement door on his way out and headed to the upstairs bathroom. He flicked on the light and gasped, actually gasped — like a B-rate actor in a slasher movie — at the sight of his own reflection.

  It wasn’t just the dried blood, or the dirt smeared up and down his cheeks, or his newly swollen lip— the face underneath all that had changed too. He ran the faucet and splashed himself with two handfuls of water. He dried his face with the nearest towel— a white one that would probably never be quite white again. Speaking of white, he looked almost albino, his skin paler than it had ever been, the red hues that once gave life to his cheeks faded. The pallet of his complexion had changed completely. He looked like a new man, like some twin brother he never had.

  His eyes too, they were redder, as if he hadn’t slept a night. He wondered if it was all permanent. The Spirit Realm had said he’d look different from now on; perhaps he was looking at the new Mason Cross.

  He could mull it over later. Mason ditched his clothes and took a long, hot shower. Afterward, he put on a different pair of jeans and a plaid shirt from his bedroom closet and then headed to the kitchen, ravenously hungry.

  Mason stepped around the spilled spaghetti sauce — he would clean it tomorrow — and toward the stove. A pot of dry noodles rested on one of the elements. They were edible, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to eat Lester’s last meal. He made a quick turkey and lettuce sandwich instead and then poured himself a glass of water. It wasn’t enough. Even after scarfing down every last crumb, Mason’s stomach growled for more. He checked the pantry for something even quicker and found a bag of chips. He took out a handful and turned around, bag in hand. Immediately, the foil sack slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a crinkle. There was a man standing calmly on the other side of the kitchen.

  Mason recognized him, though he’d never learned his name. They had crossed paths on the beach two days ago when he’d shown Mason how to take control of a dead bug. There was no mistaking him— tall, even whiter than Mason, and ceaselessly enigmatic. He’d found Mason once before and it appeared he’d found him again, although his reason for being here was as elusive as the man himself.

  “Hi again,” said Mason uncomfortably.

  “Hello, Mason Cross.”

  “Can I help you with something?”

  The tall man peered around the room appraisingly. “I am looking for an inquisitor,” he said. “Miles Huxley. It would seem I have just missed him.”

  The kitchen had the look of a warzone, and Mason didn’t see the point of lying to a fellow necromancer. “He was here,” he told him. “He killed… he killed my mentor. He killed Lester.”

  “Unfortunate.” But the stranger didn’t look upset, or even surprised. “Why did he not kill you as well?”

  This time, Mason decided to lie; the truth would have been a hard sell anyway. “I wasn’t home when it happened,” he said (well, technically that was true). “I was out for a walk with a friend. When I came back, the front door was open. I found this mess in the kitchen. Then I found his… his body downstairs.” Mason felt like he was being interrogated— it was the way this man looked at him.

  “I see.” The stranger took one step forward. “You look different from when I last saw you, Mason Cross. Are you sick?”

  Mason considered forcing a couple disingenuous coughs, but he was even worse at acting than he was at lying. So he went with a different lie: “I think maybe it’s the shock. I’ve never… I’m a bit overwhelmed.” The best lies were also true.

  “Perhaps.”

  Mason couldn’t tell if this man believed anything he was saying. He recalled the stranger had ways of finding other necromancers, that he was able to find him on the beach with only h
is mind. He’d told Mason he could detect necromancy from afar. Maybe he could detect lies too.

  “What is your plan for Lester Wright’s body?” the stranger asked. “I assume it is still downstairs.”

  Mason nodded. “I was going to drive it up north, bring it — him — back to his friends, back to where he lived. Only I don’t actually know where that is. I still need to find his address.”

  “I possess that knowledge.”

  “His address?” asked Mason. “You have it?”

  The stranger nodded once. “That is what I said.”

  “Can I… could I have it?” Mason looked desperate. “I’d really appreciate it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Do you have a car? It is a day’s drive.”

  “I do. It’s at my mom’s house. I just need to go back and get it.”

  “Hmmm…. No.” The stranger retreated a few steps into the hallway. “I will take you instead. I will take you where you want to go. To Lester Wright’s commune. My car is outside. We will leave immediately. There is room in the trunk for his body. He will fit. He is small.”

  Mason would have preferred going alone, but the necromancer mulling in his living room wasn’t offering him a choice— he was giving orders. Still, Mason made a bid for his independence: “I don’t mind going alone. You know, if you’re busy or whatever.”

  “It is better if I take you.” The stranger offered no explanation. “I assume Lester Wright is down here?”

  Mason stepped into the hallway and saw his uninvited guest pointing toward the basement door. He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Wait here.” The stranger disappeared into the basement.

  Mason did as he was told, collapsing onto the nearest couch. He was partially relieved this man was helping him. He seemed pretty capable, after all, but his presence invited as much concern. Mason couldn’t bring himself to trust him. He was still a stranger and an odd one at that. Hell, Mason hadn’t even learned his name yet.

  He sighed, wishing he could sleep. Man, he was dead tired. Hah.

  For a moment, all Mason could hear was the rain outside. Then came the sound of footsteps on the basement’s wooden staircase, each one a little louder than the last, until the door swung back open. But it wasn’t the stranger who emerged— it was Lester, and he was walking.

  Not in his usual manner, mind you. His steps were staggered and his footfalls heavy. The rest of his body hardly moved, apparently just along for the ride. Blood dripped from his shirt, leaving a dotted trail behind him. Not that he would have noticed; his dead eyes registered nothing.

  Lester’s puppet master emerged from behind. This was clearly routine for him. He looked bored and apathetic, like an aged accountant punching the same old digits into a calculator— only his was a human body. “It is not unlike the beetle you yourself controlled,” he said to Mason. “Just another dead animal, only bigger.”

  “He was my friend.” Mason was a little insulted.

  “Not anymore,” replied the stranger. “We will be gone for two days. Grab whatever you need. I will be waiting in my car.”

  More orders, thought Mason, who wasn’t accustomed to following them. But right now, he had little choice. He headed upstairs and packed a change of clothes and his toothbrush into a grocery bag. He pocketed his father’s notebook before hurrying back down— it might come in handy. More than anything, he just wanted to get this all over with. He wanted to get back to his normal life— if any of it was still waiting for him. He wanted to get back to Asha.

  The stranger’s car was parked in the driveway. It was an old black Cadillac, dark and imposing like the man inside— almost comically suitable. But Mason didn’t laugh. He opened the passenger door and slipped inside, looking a little defeated. The car was already rumbling and ready to go.

  The stranger looked down at the grocery bag resting on Mason’s lap. “You have everything you need, I take it,” he said.

  “Yeah.” Mason clicked in his seat belt. “Is Lester in the trunk?”

  “He is.”

  “Well, I’m good to go, then.”

  The stranger backed out of the driveway, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

  “I never got your name, by the way,” said Mason, watching his house — his desecrated home — disappear in the rear-view mirror. “Apparently, you already know mine.”

  The stranger kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  “Rowland,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  Local cop survives life-threatening injuries

  by John Ryan

  A local police officer who was shot Tuesday evening during a drug raid in East Terminal City is now in stable condition, Police Chief Roger Chin told reporters Wednesday.

  Detective Constable Clayton Stark, 32, was shot twice in the stomach inside a suburban drug home, which police say housed a “sizable” crystal meth lab in its basement.

  The shooter, identified as 17-year-old Charlie Reese, was gunned down by two other officers shortly after the shooting and died on the scene, police say.

  According to Chief Chin, Det.-Sgt. Stark had tried to reason with the teenager and was shot for his effort.

  Det.-Sgt. Stark has been with the Terminal City Police Department for eight years and is described by Chief Chin as intelligent and kind.

  “He’s a model detective,” Chief Chin said. “It was a tragic day for all of us on the force, but his doctor tells us he’s going to be okay. It was music to our ears, I can tell you that.”

  Chief Chin wouldn’t speculate on when Det.-Sgt. Stark might return to work. “It’s far too early to say,” he said. “Whenever he’s a hundred per cent— not a moment sooner.”

  Little is yet known about his deceased shooter, Charlie Reese, but police say his family was notified of his death Wednesday morning.

  —The Terminal City Chronicle

  June 10, 2014

  * * *

  Clayton Stark stepped out of his car and scanned the forest across the street. He couldn’t see any of his colleagues, just two blue and white cop cars. He was probably the last one to get here, often was. He took a slow sip of coffee before locking the car door.

  With his free hand, Clayton wiped his bloodshot eyes then ran his fingers through his close-cropped brown hair. “God.” He shook his head like a wet dog. “All right, let’s do this.”

  He walked up the street until he spotted a small trail burrowing through the brush, jaywalked, then made his way down the dirt path. Clayton could hear ocean waves crashing in the distance. It was pleasant, but he knew only too well that nothing stayed pleasant for long in his line of work.

  At least his coffee had cooled down enough to swallow in swigs, which was good because, boy, he really needed this one. He hadn’t slept well last night, still not used to another person sleeping in his bed— at least, not that often and not when he was sober. But she was staying over every other night now. Of course, it was a worthy trade-off. Until recently, Clayton hadn’t been happy, truly happy, in years. Alicia was great. They’d been dating for almost a year, just long enough that he no longer felt as if she were always on the verge of leaving him (his problem, not hers). She even appeared to be as happy about the situation as he was.

  Clayton wondered what she was doing right now. He couldn’t remember if her class had started. She taught here at Carwin University, the location of this morning’s crime scene, but he wouldn’t be seeing her. There were no classes among the trees that bordered Carwin.

  But there was a pretty big pool of blood, apparently. He still couldn’t see it, but the shoulders of a couple officers about fifty feet off the beaten path popped into view. He made his way toward them, pushing back the twigs and leaves that got in his way with his free hand, holding up his half-empty coffee cup in the other.

  “Hey, Clayton.”

  “Hey, Bernard
.” Clayton spotted four officers, all guarding the crime scene perimeter from no one in particular. “Any other detectives here yet?”

  “Just James,” said Bernard. “And you. James is interviewing the witness. A young woman, a student here. She was going for a jog through the forest, noticed a bit of blood in the dirt over that way.” Bernard pointed southward, where the trail Clayton had walked down eventually curved. “She thought maybe someone or an animal had been hurt, so she veered off the trail looking and… well, that’s when she found this.”

  The pool of blood had sunk into the soil, but the reddish-brown stain left behind was about the size of a man’s torso. Clayton knelt down to get a better look. There were glaring signs of a scuffle: kick marks in the dirt, broken twigs, and smaller splotches of blood all over the clearing. Plus, two sets of footprints, both men’s by the looks of it. There had definitely been a fight here, a rough one, and things had ended very badly for at least one of the combatants.

  “Yo, you see the game last night?” It was Bernard.

  Clayton nodded. “Yeah. Real nail-biter, that one.”

  “I’ll say.” Bernard always brought up hockey because, frankly, it was all they had in common. “Man, that fucking kid they have in goal— he’s like one of those Buddhist monks, you know? Always calm, always focused.” He was talking with his hands.

  “I hear ya.” Clayton forced a smile. “Maybe the NHL should send a few recruiters to Tibet, eh.”

  “Yeah.” Bernard chuckled. “Maybe.”

  Clayton looked back toward the blood stain, the centerpiece of this mess. Blood, or at least this much of it, still made him a little queasy. He’d only just joined homicide last month and it took some getting used to, but the work, at least in his opinion, was the most important a cop could do. He hadn’t been as passionate about narcotics— drug busts and all that. In homicide, the bad guys tended to be more unambiguously bad. Then again, he was still new to all this. What did he know?