Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  His smoke was halfway finished when he arrived out front of Terminal City’s tallest tower. Before he could find a way up, however, Mason was in for a scare.

  A loud thump. The tinkling of shattered glass. Mason jumped backward, dropping his umbrella before falling on his ass. It took him a couple seconds to register what he’d just seen. A man’s body had fallen from above, like a vertical torpedo, crushing the roof of the white van parked ten feet in front of him.

  “Jesus.” Mason scrambled to his feet then fetched his umbrella. He looked up at the sky before moving any closer, but no one else was falling from it, at least as far as he could tell.

  The man’s torso had crushed the roof of the van. His head, meanwhile, dangled face down through the shattered windshield, a glass spike jutting through his neck. The red rain made it hard to see where the blood began, but unlike the woman in the car, Mason didn’t doubt for a second that this guy was dead.

  But who the hell was he? All that Mason could tell was that he was wearing a black suit and that he’d fallen from the Apex. He certainly didn’t look like any construction worker Mason had ever seen. Then it hit him. The black suit. It was just like Mr. Huxley’s. This guy was an inquisitor— what else? If he’d doubted himself before, he didn’t now: Rowland was definitely up there. And he was not alone.

  That’s when Mason noticed three more vans parked behind this one. He might not be alone either.

  “Ms. Westcott, over here!”

  Mason didn’t know who Ms. Westcott was but decided not to risk it. He bolted toward a station wagon parked across the street, dropping his cigarette in a puddle as he hid himself behind the trunk. Peering around the rear of the car, he watched as more men in black suits, carrying equally black umbrellas, swarmed around their fallen colleague. At their helm was a slender woman, older but attractive. Ms. Westcott, he assumed. She moved closest to the body, examining it in grisly detail, never once looking the least bit fazed.

  Mason tried to count the number of inquisitors. There were at least twenty, maybe even thirty. The only thing he was certain of was that he would rather remain unseen.

  “Poor, sweet Philip,” said Ms. Westcott; things were quiet enough that Mason could hear her clearly. “He was a good lad, a good inquisitor. Dutiful and eager to please. He never once shied away from doing what needed to be done, certainly not tonight. He’s with God now, but he’ll be missed down here.”

  “What now?” said a voice in the crowd.

  “Ain’t that the million-dollar question,” she replied. “We may not know much, boys, but we do now know one thing for sure. That evil son of a bitch is up there, and we’re going to kill him— mark my words.”

  “But he knows we’re coming.”

  “Shush, Frank.” Ms. Westcott strolled through the men around her; they parted like water. “Of course he knows we’re coming, but that don’t matter. There are two dozen of us and one of him, and I ain’t letting him leave alive. I wager there’ll be two sets of stairs going up. We’ll flank him, make sure he can’t escape. I know it’s a long way up, but in the bigger scheme of things, darlings, it’s little more than a hop, skip, and a jump.”

  No one looked particularly happy about the plan, but perhaps pleasing them wasn’t her job. From his vantage point, Mason got the impression that nothing was more important to their cruel cause than killing Rowland. Or to this woman.

  She split the inquisitors into two groups and assigned each a staircase. “You two stay behind and guard the entrance,” she said. “And remember, this ain’t a race. Pace yourselves. I’ll be going with group one.”

  “Ms. Westcott, maybe you should stay behind. It’s too—”

  “I said shush, Frank.” She raised her voice this time. “I need to see this through. I need to see Rowland die with my own two lovely eyes. Surely, you gentlemen understand.”

  There were a few grudging nods.

  “Good.” Ms. Westcott moved to the front of the pack. “Now, let’s do what we do best. Let’s go kill a necromancer.” She looked at them one by one. “All right, then. Leave your umbrellas.”

  Mason watched the inquisitors file through a break in the construction site’s chain-link fence, mud splashing their ankles. They smashed open the Apex’s glass front doors and then disappeared into the tower, one body at a time.

  Once they were out of sight, Mason emerged from his hiding spot and walked over to the opening. He considered having one more smoke, but screw it, nothing could cool his nerves at this point— and time wasn’t on his side. He just had to do this. He hesitated before stepping through the fence, but adrenaline guided him past the mud and metal.

  Just get this over with, he told himself.

  “Mr. Cooper, go watch the front entrance.”

  Oh shit.

  Mason ran back without thinking, diving behind the nearest car. Of course he couldn’t just walk right in. Sure, it took a lot of nerve, but nerve would only get him so far from this point on. Now, he needed something more. He needed necromancy. Indeed, tonight Mason was bound to find out just how good of a necromancer he really was.

  Chapter 26

  Clayton didn’t know what to make of the crimson rain. He’d been caught in it initially, walking back from the wine store with a bottle of Pinot noir in hand. When the rain started dotting the pavement, it took him a few seconds to notice anything was off. Once he realized the rain was red, however, he started running. He and everyone else. Good thing Clayton had only been a block from his place.

  That was an hour ago. He’d since showered and rinsed the red from his clothing. As far as he could tell, he was okay, although no less confused.

  But right now, he was thinking more about his date with Alicia. The plan had been to meet at her place for dinner, only she hadn’t made it home. Alicia had been wrapping up her last class of the week when the rain began, meaning she was stuck on campus, waiting for better weather inside Sherwood Hall with her students.

  She had told him as much on the phone — and to stay where he was — but Clayton had decided not to listen. He wanted to see her. He wanted to be there for her. And after a day like today, after seeing so many of his fellow officers — his friends — killed on that bridge, he needed her to be there for him too. He was going to down this bottle of wine one way or another, and he didn’t want to do it alone.

  Plus, he’d already been outside, and he was fine. This time, he had an umbrella and, more importantly, a car, which he was now driving out of his apartment building garage. He was the only one.

  Clayton drove up to Broadway Avenue and took the same lane all the way to Carwin University, only ever passing one other car, speeding in the opposite direction. But he wasn’t in the mood to pull anyone over, and he’d blown past a couple yellows himself tonight, so who was he to judge? Well, besides a cop.

  Like many universities, Carwin was a bit of a labyrinth. He knew his destination, Sherwood Hall, but getting there was another matter— and this wasn’t even his first time. As it turned out, the road he thought would connect to the one he needed to be on didn’t, and somehow, he ended up in a cul-de-sac surrounded by houses. He wasn’t far from the crime scene he’d investigated yesterday, come to think of it, but a good hike from Sherwood Hall.

  “Son of a bitch.” Clayton circled back around, ready to drive off, but stopped instead. Much to his surprise, there was a man outside, wearing a suit and walking warily toward one of the houses, unbothered by the red rain, or so it seemed. Clayton took his foot off the gas pedal and rolled almost — but not completely — out of sight, watching him from afar.

  The stranger stepped onto the veranda then stopped, peering into the living room window, though the lights inside were off. He tried opening the front door, but it was locked, and apparently, he didn’t have a key. Next, he tried the window, but that wouldn’t budge either. Clayton started to suspect this man didn’t live
here. But should he intervene?

  The stranger eventually took a few steps backward, and Clayton wondered if he was giving up. The answer, it turned out, was a loud no. The man charged back toward the door, kicking it open— something Clayton had only ever gotten to do once in his career, much to his dismay. But at least his reason had been lawful; this guy, on the other hand, was up to no good. And this time around, Clayton had to be a cop.

  Once the suit-wearing stranger had disappeared inside, Clayton turned off the engine and grabbed his handgun from the glove compartment and his umbrella from the back seat. He stepped outside, stuffing his pistol into his jeans, and then took his time walking toward the house, carefully surveying the dimly lit cul-de-sac for anyone else. As far as he could tell, there was just one man, though he’d lost sight of him.

  As Clayton inched his way up the driveway, his free hand hovering over his pistol, the kitchen light came on. He could see the stranger’s shadow through the blinds, pacing past the window. Clayton left his umbrella on the veranda and stepped through the broken doorway. He walked down the hallway and turned into the kitchen, but the man had moved on.

  Clayton tiptoed across the room, growing exponentially nervous every second. There was something about this guy, this house. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but a sense of danger poured over him like a sudden, cold sweat. He could feel his heart kicking at his chest, his muscles tightening. It compelled him to reach for his gun.

  That’s when he heard footsteps behind him. Clayton whirled around, clutching his pistol with both hands, and there he was, the man in the suit, pointing his own gun right back like a vengeful reflection. He looked surprised— maybe even more so than Clayton.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  “I’m a police officer,” replied Clayton. “Now, put your gun on the ground. Slowly.”

  The stranger peered back pensively and then around the room, breathing heavily, weighing his options like a disgruntled chess player. His face was covered in cuts and bruises, and he had a fresh bandage over one eye. It looked to Clayton like someone had kicked his ass.

  “I’m not going to tell you again.” Clayton tightened his grip on the trigger, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Put your gun on the ground. Right fucking now.”

  The stranger returned his gaze to Clayton, who saw something in his eyes just then. It was a look he recognized. A look he’d seen only once, in that brief second before two bullets nearly ended his life.

  But not this time.

  Bang!

  The stranger dropped his gun and grunted, stumbling two steps backward, a bullet now lodged in his forearm— exactly where Clayton had intended it to go.

  “Kick it toward me, your gun,” Clayton instructed him. “Try anything else, I shoot again. And next time, it won’t be your arm.”

  The stranger glared at him disdainfully, clutching his bleeding arm with his left hand. But he did as he was told, kicking the handgun with the tip of his shoe. It slid across the white tile floor and stopped a foot in front of Clayton, who left it where it was and made his way across the kitchen, his own gun pointed at the other man’s head.

  Normally, Clayton would have told him to get on his stomach at this point, but he’d left his handcuffs in the car. That made things a bit trickier. He would have to escort him there— carefully. “Turn around,” he said sharply.

  “Yeah, yeah,” grumbled the stranger. He was a tall, lanky man, maybe a decade older than Clayton, and exhausted by the looks of him— which may have had something to do with his ravaged face. Hesitantly, he turned toward the hallway.

  “Now walk. Slowly.” Clayton kept his gun and three feet between them.

  “Whatever.” The stranger stepped out of the kitchen and into the unlit hall.

  Clayton followed. But then, just as he turned the corner— smack! The stranger had snatched a ceramic dish off the table around the corner, hurling it at him. It hit Clayton like a hard slap to the face, knocking him off balance. He tripped over his own foot and fell onto his back.

  “Piece of—”

  Clayton let off a shot without looking, but the stranger had already slipped into the kitchen, where his handgun rested on the floor. Realizing this, Clayton ran into the living room and dived behind the nearest couch. “I should have killed the fucker.” He was more than a little angry at himself. The next two shots weren’t his: one punched the back of the couch, the other broke the TV behind him. Clayton returned fire with a blind shot, keeping his head hidden, and hit the wall. “Shit.”

  Shit was right. Another bullet whizzed past him, smashing a hole through the window across the room. Clayton squirmed forward on his elbows toward the edge of the couch and peered around it. He could see the kitchen entrance, the only room with lights on, and the tip of a black shoe poking out from behind the doorframe. Carefully but quickly, Clayton took aim. I gotcha now.

  Bang! The stranger keeled over toward his foot— and into view. This time, Clayton didn’t take any risks. He’d had enough. The next bullet ripped through the corner of the stranger’s eye, spinning him forty-five degrees and head-first into the kitchen floor. He didn’t move again. Yeah… I gotcha. Clayton rolled onto his back and exhaled a heavy sigh.

  He spent the next few moments staring at the ceiling, absent of focus or thought. Eventually, he got to his feet, double-checked himself for bullet holes — there were only the two that had already been there — and then walked toward the body of the man he’d just killed. Clayton felt dizzy.

  There were two pools of blood, one underneath the stranger’s arm, the other under his head, growing and eventually converging. His right eye was still open, his left lost to blood and mutilation. Otherwise, he wore only a grimace. For some reason, Clayton felt he ought to look contemplative, as if searching for meaning in his own demise. But he just looked hurt. And dead.

  Clayton sat down on the floor beside him, wondering just who the hell this guy was. He checked all his pockets, first finding a silver matchbox engraved with a cross and then a brown leather wallet. He flipped open the latter and looked inside. According to his driver’s licence, he was James Harris, a forty-five-year-old man from Ohio. Clayton checked the billfold and found one-hundred Canadian dollars, eighty American, and twenty Euros. It would seem James traveled a lot.

  Clayton also found two small photographs tucked behind his credit card. They looked at least a decade old. One was a picture of a woman, thirty maybe and pretty, the other of two young girls, both blonde, just like the woman. Perhaps they were his family, thought Clayton.

  (He was right about that, but what he didn’t realize was that these faded, unmarked pictures were the only honest pieces of ID on Miles Huxley’s body; like every other inquisitor, he never traveled as himself.)

  Clayton put the pictures back where they belonged and the wallet on the closest counter. Then he picked himself up and walked out of the room, not wanting to have to see the man he’d killed for a second longer.

  Clayton flicked on the living room light and plunked himself down on the couch that had saved him from at least one bullet. Now what?

  Obviously, he had to call this in, which meant not spending the night with Alicia. He decided to send her another text message first: How are you? Is everything still ok?

  She replied almost immediately: Yeah. A bit scared. A bit bored.

  Her words calmed him. Do you need a ride home? Clayton figured he could spare thirty minutes to help his girlfriend.

  Thanks, but don’t worry about it. A lot of students are still here. I want to stick around and make sure they’re safe.

  Of course. I hope I see you soon.

  Yeah. Me too.

  Clayton smacked his phone down onto the coffee table in front of him and then stared out the window across the room — the one with the bullet hole — at nothing in particular. What a fucked up night. And what
an unassumingly fucked up neighborhood: that pool of blood and now this. This was supposed to be the safest part of town, for Christ’s sake.

  But he could ponder on that later. First, he was going to rest. He was going to see Alicia and put this terrible, terrible day behind him— if he could. That was the plan for tomorrow, anyway. Unfortunately, the night was still young and pouring red.

  Chapter 27

  Victoria couldn’t remember the last time she felt this tired. By the looks of her inquisitors, she wasn’t alone. She had stopped counting floors a while ago, preferring to remain oblivious. It was always so many more, too many more, simply more than she could handle, at least if she thought about it. So she didn’t. Instead, she forced herself to think about other things — like how she would kill Rowland when the time came — as her legs marched on mindlessly, one after the other. Each step, she told herself, was one less step to go. Eventually, she grew so exhausted that even thinking became too much for her.

  Then finally, Mitchell placed one of his small hands on her shoulder. Or Mr. Crosby, rather. She kept forgetting to call him by his new title; in her mind, he was still her dutiful assistant. “Wait here, Ms. Westcott,” he said. “We’re almost at the top.”

  “Good riddance,” she replied between pants.

  A handful of inquisitors poured out of the stairwell and onto the floor above her. Victoria couldn’t see them from down here, so she listened, half expecting to hear the worst — shots, screams, especially screams — but the only sounds were of footsteps. After about two minutes, the men returned, unharmed.

  “There’s only one way up from here on,” reported Mr. White, a grizzled veteran of the cause. “One stairwell. It’s a two-storey penthouse.”