Two Zeros and The Library of Doom!

by Eric Bonkowski

CHAPTER 1: THE ZEROS

  The revenant battle was over–my very first, although undoubtedly not my last–and Finch was speaking in a mind-numbing ninety-five year old college professor monotone, complete with the hint of an English accent. Ironic in this case, considering he looked like one of those twenty-something hipster kids from Brooklyn.

  “Oftentimes, it is the lack of any truly conclusive evidence that will perpetuate natural earthborn doubt. The doubt–along with a fair dose of stubborn fear–is enough to keep even the most inquisitive minds at ease. However, when confronted with hard physical evidence, even the most skeptical mind cannot ignore fact, regardless of how inexplicable. I call this the ‘evidentiary silver bullet.’ I think this evening was your silver bullet, Dylan.”

  Gil spoke up, giggling. “Got that right! Our boy’s got hard physical evidence splattered all over him!”

  Gil Abercrombie. Eccentric billionaire, monster hunter, and exuberant manchild. Aficionado of pipes, scale science fiction models, and Hawaiian shirts. Alistair Finch. Coldly logical, monster hunter, and know-it-all boy-genius assistant. Enjoys frowning, fine Scotch whiskey, and indecipherable foreign films. They were friends to the lonesome and desperate; villains to the undead and malicious.

  To backtrack a little, either one of these guys could have dropped a few hints in the original job offer I received so that I would perhaps have been a bit more prepared for how my life was about to turn into an insane circus funhouse. They hadn’t.

  The note had read: The Docks. Midnight. Come armed.

  Cryptic, minimalist, and dramatic. To call it a job description was generous, but the certified check folded inside the note helped me swallow my questions along with the lingering doubt. If it hadn’t been a certified check, I would have immediately torn it up and thrown it out along with my mounting credit card bills and junk mail. If it hadn’t been certified, it would have had to be a joke. The damn check had more numbers than the note did words. I decided to give the note the benefit of the doubt. You have to admit; a few extra decimal points can be persuasive.

  I’d been laid off four days earlier from the private security firm where I’d been working for the past six years. Not bad money, but I had to wear a suit with a logo on the breast and spend ten hours a day checking IDs and putting up wet floor signs when it rained. Getting canned was probably a blessing in disguise. I’d spent my handful of unemployed days watching daytime television and reading murder mysteries. Daytime television is a nice reminder that being at work isn’t so bad.

  I arrived at the dock early, taking a cab from the Broad Street line’s last subway stop. In Philadelphia, the harbor overlooked the Delaware River, a churning snake of black water that had once been a busy import/export route. Now, it was mostly deserted. These days, the only things you’d likely find in the Delaware would be bags of trash and maybe a few stray jumpers from the Walt Whitman Bridge. In the pale moonlight, huge bodies of empty ships rose and fell along the water’s edge as the tide lapped at their rusted hulls. Behind me, a long line of warehouses stood against the dock and the shoreline, most of them abandoned. In the distance I could hear the low foghorn of a passing tanker. I felt like an extra in a shitty film noire.

  A deep rumbling of music announced my new employer’s arrival. A brown hulking mammoth of a car circa 1955 was burping clouds of exhaust up into the starry night sky. Inside, what sounded like some epic power metal was rattling the car’s windows. I guess you could call it music. Through the glass, I could hear a wailing guitar solo and some high, screechy vocals. The driver bobbed his head in time. After a moment, the engine sputtered to a grinding halt.

  A tall, lanky man emerged from the driver’s side wearing raggedy jeans and a yellow, purple, orange, and green Tiki shirt complete with girls in grass skirts and palm trees. It was hideous, like some Deadhead had thrown up on him. On his feet, he wore huge white orthopedic sneakers better suited for someone double his age. He had salt and pepper hair down to his shoulders and a thick bushy mustache that half-covered his mouth.

  “Hey, hey, you must be Dylan,” he said to me, grinning. “You look like you could rip a phonebook in half, my man. Perfecto.”

  I’m big. I mean, damn big. I never really worked out, but I’m still pretty built. People assume I’m a linebacker or bouncer when they meet me. In this case, I think it got me the job. They also usually assume I have the IQ of a microwave oven.

  “You must be Mr. Abercrombie,” I said, extending my hand.

  He shook it enthusiastically. I'd eventually learn that my boss did everything enthusiastically. “Call me Gil. If somebody calls me Mr. Abercrombie then I figure they either want me to make a donation to their university or become a Scientologist.”

  “Okay, Gil,” I said. “Is this your... associate?”

  He turned and laid his hand across the battered car’s roof. “No, this is my baby,” he said. “The Tank. A real classic. 1960 Mercedes 190B. Vintage collector’s car, here. This puppy is worth a fair chunk of change, lemme tell you.” I tried to look impressed as I admired the rust stains blooming from the wheel wells, the three missing hubcaps, and the dents that covered the car like polka dots.

  “Actually, I meant your other associate.” I pointed to the slim kid stepping from the passenger’s side. He was a tad under six foot and skinny, dressed head to toe in black, making his red hair all the more glaring. His face was pale and freckled just under his eyes, which were dark and deep. Perhaps he was the artist of the group.

  “Oh, this isn’t my associate, this is my partner,” Gil said. “Finch, come say hello.”

  “Hello,” Finch said with a nod as he rounded The Tank and opened the trunk.

  “He’s very serious,” Gil said. “I mean we are on a mission. Savin' the innocent, defeatin' evil monsters, etc, etc.” He shrugged, grinning. “After this we'll probably hit up some Mexican food or somethin'.”

  “Hold on. A mission? Your job description left a little to be desired.”

  “That’s why I included the check, big man.”

  “Well, yeah, that’s–”

  “Wait, wait, wait! Hold on!” Gil interrupted, waving his hands. “I didn’t do the job interview yet. We don't take just any slouch. Are you ready?”

  “Um...”

  “Number one: Can you drive?”

  “Yeah, sure I–”

  “Nice! And number two. This one’s a real doozy, okay?” He licked his lips. “Can you cook?”

  “Actually, I love to–”

  “Fantastic! Here’s what I like. Spaghetti-os, tacos, sloppy joes, grilled cheese, hot pockets, nachos, fried chicken, mac and cheese, hot dogs, that pink wine that comes in boxes...”

  “Am I your... butler?” I interrupted.

  “What? No. I mean, not really. You’re an equal partner, just like Finch here, of course. I'm here for morale, Finch for the laughs, and you can be the cook. Come on, the fact that you cook is pretty great.”


  “Well, what exactly are you paying me to do? What is it you do, exactly?”

  Gil smiled. “This is that really awkward moment of the first job where you ask a bunch of totally fair questions because you’re beginning to wonder what you got yourself into and I try to answer them without scaring you away. You know, the whole what’s goin' on here, what do you do here, blah, blah, blah thing. Let’s just skip it, eh?”

  Oh boy.

  “I see that look on your face, and it’s totally fair. I mean, you deserve to know what’s up. I get that, big man. But I picked you because I hear you’re smart and you’re discreet.” Gil rounded The Tank and stood at Finch’s side in front of the open trunk. “So trust me when I say this isn’t the first time I’ve trained somebody this way, and believe me, this way is much easier. Just roll with it, okay?”

  “Roll with it?”

  “Yeah,” he smiled. “Roll with it.” He pulled a huge, weathered tome from the trunk along with a flashlight and dropped them into a duffel bag Finch was holding open. Across the book�
�s leather jacket, the words GIL’S GRIMOIRE were stamped crookedly.

  “If you start to get spooked or lose your nerve, just keep that check in mind. You’ll be getting one of those every month.”

  “Every month?”

  “You got that right, big man. It’s worth it for us heroes!” He struck an honest-to-God Superman pose.

  “Zeros is more like it,” Finch said. His voice was bitter in the cool night air. “Worth nothing to no one, we are.” He winked at me.

  Gil smacked Finch’s arm like a disapproving grandmother. “Stop being dramatic, Mr. Grump. This is supposed to be fun, remember?” I saw the glint of moonlight on metal as he pulled something from the trunk.

  “Uh, is that a sword...?”

  Gil either couldn’t hear me or ignored me. He chattered on as he pulled another long, impeccable blade free and dropped it nonchalantly into Finch’s bag. “It’s gonna be pretty awesome, dukin’ it out with some revenants. Remember, if we get done early enough, the burritos are on me.” He looked up at me; I must’ve had shock in my eyes. “Just some swords, dude, relax. Haven’t you ever rocked out a renaissance fair? Anyway, this is gonna be a cakewalk.”

  The last thing he pulled from the trunk was a weathered skull covered in crooked runes. Gil rubbed his hand across the surface like a Magic 8 Ball. “Do us proud tonight, old buddy,” he said before dropping the skull into Finch’s duffel. Finch shouldered the bag and leaned into the trunk, pulling out a longsword and leaving the leather sheath behind. Gil reached in and pulled a double-sided battle ax free with a cackle.

  He looked up at me. “Oh, damn, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” From the duffle on Finch’s shoulder, he dug out a blade, shorter than the others, and the only weapon with noticeable nicks cut into the edge. He held it out to me, hilt first. “Short sword?”