Christopher's Blade

by Ron Ripley

  How much more snow will we get? Marcus wondered as they stepped onto the street.

  ***

  “Tower to command,” Bryan Paisner said into his radio.

  “Go for command,” David said on the other end.

  “We have movement at 114 Broad,” Bryan stated. “Looks like Subject B and Timmy.”

  “Chase them back inside,” David said dryly. “We don’t need to make Timmy’s life inside the Village easy.”

  “Confirmed, we are chasing them back inside.”

  Bryan put the radio down, picked up his rifle and chambered a round into the small .22 bolt action, sighted a short distance in front of Timmy, and fired.

  Snow sprang up in front of the man, and Bryan grinned as Timmy stopped and looked at the tower.

  Damn, I wish I could put a couple of rounds into you, Bryan thought.

  Timmy turned to Subject B, who in turn glanced back at 114 Broad.

  ***

  “Alex,” Marcus called.

  “Yeah?” Alex stood in the doorway, frustrated he couldn’t go explore with the men.

  “Could you do me a favor, please?” Marcus asked.

  “Of course,” Alex said, grinning.

  “Could you ask one of your Huron friends to fire a few shots at that tower?” Marcus gestured toward the gate. “I think they might get a little anxious and perhaps shoot us.”

  “Sure,” Alex said. He looked at the dead Indians who loitered about the street, all of them watching Marcus and Timmy with mild curiosity.

  “Hey!” Alex called, and the dead looked at him expectantly. He spoke to them in their tongue.

  “I need someone to shoot at the tower,” he said.

  Several of the Huron warriors armed with muskets stood up, stretching and walking forward past Marcus and Timmy.

  They raised their weapons, and Marcus inhaled sharply as the dead appeared before him.

  ***

  Bryan was about to chamber another round when he heard one of the men on the gate swear.

  What now? he thought, and looked out toward Timmy and Subject B, expecting one of them to do something foolish. But it wasn’t the living who caught his attention.

  It was a trio of dead Native Americans, all aiming their muskets at the tower.

  Bryan had been hit before with the ghostly rounds, and while they didn’t penetrate the iron-laced clothing and body armor he wore, the impact was decidedly unpleasant. He had enough time to duck down, swearing as he landed hard on one knee, before the muskets roared in the winter stillness.

  Bryan popped back up a moment later, weapon at the ready, but it was already too late.

  He caught sight of Subject B and Timmy hurrying into a small cape.

  Swearing under his breath again, Bryan picked up the radio and called the situation in.

  Chapter 6: Meeting the Neighbor

  “They went into the cape?” Abel asked after David sat down.

  His commander nodded, and Abel saw the man was exhausted.

  “David,” he said. “You need to rest. You’re looking ragged.”

  The man smiled weakly at Abel.

  “I am, sir,” David said. “There’s no denying it. As soon as we have confirmation that Timmy and Subject B are back in 114 Broad, then I’ll go rest.”

  “They may not survive the cape,” Abel said.

  David looked at him in surprise.

  “I thought Christopher only hunted women, sir,” he said.

  “You would be absolutely correct,” Abel said. “However, this would not stop him from killing someone who refused to leave his home.”

  “Would you like me to bring up the feed from the cameras, sir?” David asked.

  “No,” Abel said after a brief hesitation. “I am supposed to have lunch with Meredith shortly, and I do not want to be distracted, or to know of some ill-luck to have befallen Timmy. Perhaps later, after lunch.”

  “Of course, sir,” David said. The man rose, nodded, and left the room quietly.

  Smiling, Abel drummed his fingers lightly on the desk as he wondered what the cook would prepare for the midday meal.

  ***

  “That’s not normal,” Timmy said, and Marcus could only nod his head in mute agreement.

  The body of a woman lay on the floor of the cape. Her clothes were cut away and in a pile beside her mangled torso. Her injuries were reminiscent of a person who might have stepped on a mine, and Marcus could only hope she hadn’t suffered too terribly.

  Her wounds said otherwise, as did the twisted, pained expression on her face.

  “Do you know her?” Marcus asked.

  “I might have,” Timmy said, his eyes already moving away from the corpse. “Does it matter?”

  Marcus didn’t respond, hating the fact that his son seemed dead inside.

  Is this my fault? he wondered suddenly. Is he deficient because I wasn’t there for him?

  The questions were left unanswered as Timmy straightened up and motioned for Marcus to be still.

  A man stood across the room from them, and Marcus knew the person hadn’t been there a moment before.

  “Hello,” Marcus said.

  “You’re in my house,” the man said.

  “You’re Christopher,” Timmy said.

  The dead man’s head turned towards Timmy. “Yes. Get out.”

  “That’s not very hospitable,” Timmy said.

  “Timmy,” Marcus said sharply.

  His son glanced at him, shrugged, but stayed quiet.

  “Yes,” Marcus said. “We certainly are in your house. Christopher, is it? I’m Marcus, and this is Timmy. We were wondering if we might speak with you.”

  Something bright glinted in the ghost’s left hand.

  “About what?” the dead man asked.

  “About whether we might come to some sort of truce,” Marcus said, choosing his words carefully. “We live here, in the Village.”

  “I know,” Christopher stated. “There’s a woman there.”

  “No,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Not anymore. She left a few days ago.”

  “Dead woman, too,” the dead man said, his voice taking on a curiously intense tone. “Living and dead. Curious, isn’t it?”

  “Not particularly,” Marcus replied. “About a truce, Christopher.”

  The dead man shook his head.

  “No, no truce,” he whispered. “I need to see the women. Let me see them.”

  Marcus’ jaw tightened, and his eyes darted to the body on the floor.

  The body of a woman, mangled.

  She didn’t die quickly, he thought grimly. Not at all. He took his time with her.

  It’s what he likes, Marcus realized, and Timmy seemed to come to the same understanding a moment later.

  “You,” Christopher said, pointing the bright object in his hand at Marcus. “You smell like them.”

  “That,” Timmy said with a low whistle, “is one hell of a blade, big man. What do you do with that?”

  As his son asked the question, Marcus caught a glimpse of the weapon in the dead man’s hand.

  It was a blade. A huge, ancient looking bayonet. The back was ridged with the teeth of a saw, and he shuddered at the idea of the weapon plunging into flesh and then tearing back out again.

  “I do a lot of things with this,” Christopher replied. “I was a soldier once. Did you know that?”

  Neither Marcus nor Timmy responded, but Christopher didn’t seem to notice.

  “I was a good soldier. One of the best. I was wounded,” Christopher whispered. “Terribly. I wasn’t a man anymore. Those parts were gone. But I didn’t die. I wanted to, but I didn’t. So, I brought this home.”

  He held the bayonet aloft and grinned at them.

  “I brought it home,” he said, laughing. “It made me a man again.”

  Christopher pointed the bayonet at the body of the woman.

  “Ask her,” Christopher hissed, the humor suddenly gone. “Ask her if I am a man!”


  Before either Marcus or Timmy could reply, Christopher lunged at them. Marcus grunted as Timmy pushed him out of the way and knocked the bayonet aside. Christopher reversed the blade easily, laughing as he brought it plunging down. Marcus grabbed the hilt and screamed at the pain that shot through his gloved hand.

  The dead man vanished, and Marcus dropped the bayonet to the floor. From somewhere in the house came the crash of a door, and Timmy took hold of him, snapping, “Move! They’re coming in through the back!”

  Marcus staggered toward the front door as Christopher reappeared and passed through them, snatching up his bayonet. Looking over his shoulder, Marcus saw the dead man wasn’t chasing them. Instead, he was moving toward the sound of the new intruders.

  Marcus’ hand throbbed with pain as he and Timmy fled the house, seeking refuge in their own. Behind them, the rattle of gunfire spilled out of Christopher’s cape, and Marcus knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  Chapter 7: In New England

  They sat in the hotel room, gathered around a small table, their weapons holstered.

  “Should be easy,” Ivan said. “I mean, the guy can’t be too much trouble, right?”

  “Shut up,” Gayle said wearily. “I’m sick of your optimism, Ivan.”

  He blew her a kiss, and Luis rolled his eyes.

  “That’s enough out of both of you,” he said, looking from Ivan to Gayle. “There’s almost no information on this guy. It’s like someone went through and wiped him out of the system. Hell, even the kid and the man who live with him. It’s like the three of them are living ghosts.”

  “Too many video games and movies,” Ivan said, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “You’ve got to read more, Luis.”

  “I swear,” Luis said, “I have zero tolerance for stupidity right now, Ivan. You keep it up, I will put a round in the back of your head and dump you in a sewer.”

  “You need to calm down,” Ivan confided, and Gayle reached out and slapped him hard on the side of the head.

  The large man clapped a hand to his injured head and muttered at her, “Hell, Gayle, you didn’t need to do that.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I did. I have no desire to train another damned partner. Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ivan grumbled. “I got it.”

  “Thanks,” Luis said to Gayle, and the woman nodded, brushing her red hair behind her ear.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked.

  “It’s simple and straightforward,” Luis answered. “We go up, knock on the door, and tell this guy we want to buy the property for our employer.”

  “What’s his name?” Ivan asked.

  Luis picked up the information sheet and read aloud, “His name’s Shane. Shane Ryan. House is at 125 Berkley Street. You know, there’s more information on the house than there is on this guy. Which makes absolutely no sense at all.”

  “Who cares?” Ivan asked, scratching at a long scar that twisted around the side of his neck before vanishing into the collar of his shirt. “I mean, so what?”

  “He might be dangerous,” Gayle snapped. “Do you think? Like, ever? If he’s got no real background, then he’s a possible threat.”

  Ivan shook his head. “Nah, there’d be more, you know?”

  “He’s got a point,” Luis said. “If this was a professional job, we’d know every stupid thing. This is just a hole. I’m thinking he took himself off the grid. Just another wacko.”

  “We shouldn’t go into this blind,” Gayle said. “Whether he’s a nutter who decided to pull a Houdini with the world, or if he’s just a guy who really doesn’t have anything, we need to be careful. This is New Hampshire, the whole ‘Live Free or Die’ state. He could be holed up in there with enough weaponry to equip a battalion.”

  “We’re not going in blind,” Luis said. He reached below the table, took hold of a bag and put it in front of them. “This will help us see.”

  Luis opened the bag and showed them a trio of Glock 9mms. There were spare magazines for each weapon.

  “These are clean,” Luis said. “We’ll dump them after, if necessary.”

  Ivan and Gayle took the pistols silently before they added the spare magazines to their pockets.

  “When do you want to go?” Gayle asked.

  “Now,” Luis said with a grin. “There’s no time like the present.”

  ***

  They left the car at the curb, walking up the curved driveway to the front door. The building was massive, beautifully constructed of brick and marble, the roof shingled with slate. Smoke curled up from the massive center chimney, and the windows glared in the early morning light.

  It’s staring at me, Luis thought, and then shook his head. No. Got to be a ghost or two. Not the house itself. That’s foolishness.

  Ivan and Gayle took up flanking positions a few steps behind him as he knocked on the wide front door.

  The door opened as Luis was lowering his hand.

  A scarred man stood before him.

  The man lacked any hair that Luis could see, and there was a wicked scar that curved up around one side of his head. Part of an ear was missing, as were a pair of fingers off one hand. He wore a gray, threadbare T-shirt that read, USMC, and he had on a pair of jeans and black boots.

  “What can I do for you?” the man asked as he took a pack of cigarettes out from a back pocket and lit one up.

  “We’re here to talk about your home, if that’s alright,” Luis said, smiling politely.

  “You want to know more about this place?” the man asked.

  “We do indeed,” Luis said.

  “Sure,” the owner said, grinning. “My name’s Shane, and I am bored as hell. It’ll be good to chat with someone new. Come on in.”

  Shane stepped aside, and Luis entered first with Gayle and Ivan following behind him.

  The trio paused as Shane closed the door and said, “Come on, we’ll sit in the study. Plenty of chairs and room to stretch out. Plus, we can have some coffee in a bit, maybe a bite to eat, if we spend that long talking.”

  “That sounds good,” Luis said, and they walked into a large study. Shelves were stacked floor to ceiling, and most of them were occupied by books. Several leather club chairs were at a fireplace, and Shane motioned for them to sit.

  “Nice place you have here,” Ivan said, nodding appreciatively.

  “I like it,” Shane said.

  Luis watched as the man picked up a bottle of whiskey from a side-table and poured a drinking glass full of the liquor. Shane sat down, removed his cigarette from his mouth and took a long gulp.

  Luis didn’t know whether he should be impressed or disturbed.

  “So,” Shane said, putting the glass down and returning the cigarette to his mouth, “you want to know about the house.”

  “We do,” Gayle said, and she smiled at Shane beautifully.

  She was an attractive woman, and she used her good looks to get what she needed.

  Shane didn’t seem impressed, and the cold, impassive look he gave her caused the woman to sit back slightly in her chair.

  Shane finished his cigarette and field stripped the butt with the curious motions Luis had seen in US Marines the world over.

  When he glanced back up at Shane’s face, he saw the man was smiling at him.

  Silently, Shane finished the whiskey and lit a fresh cigarette.

  “I don’t know why you’re really here,” Shane said after he exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “I don’t even care. You want to talk about the house, then let’s talk. You want to do something else, well, we can do that, too.”

  Ivan straightened up in his chair and said, “All right. Here it is. We’re buying your house.”

  “Interesting, considering it’s not for sale,” Shane said.

  “It is,” Ivan continued, “or you’re going to have a long and difficult day.”

  Shane smiled, and the look was feral and full hate.

  It was a look that would have put Timmy to sha
me.

  As Shane’s smile widened, Luis saw broken and missing teeth.

  This isn’t going to be easy, Luis realized suddenly, but Ivan seemed to miss the cue.

  “Listen,” Ivan said, getting to his feet.

  “You listen,” Shane said, and the deadly seriousness in the man’s voice froze them all. “You’re going to sit down, or you’re going to leave. There is no third option.”

  Ivan’s jaw twitched, and he stepped forward.

  Shane was almost a blur as he came out of the chair. His left hand was straight, extended fingers crushing Ivan’s larynx and collapsing his windpipe. His right hand disappeared behind his back and reappeared with a well-cared for M1911 .45 Colt semi-automatic.

  Luis found himself staring at the muzzle of the weapon as Shane jerked Ivan’s Glock from his shoulder holster and pointed the pistol at Gayle.

  Ivan staggered back, his hands at his throat as his mouth worked silently. His eyes were wide, terrified and furious as his face went red and he collapsed into the chair.

  Gayle sprang forward, and Shane fired both weapons as Luis jerked his head to the right.

  The round from the .45 clipped the side of Luis’ skull, leaving a burning streak behind it.

  Gayle’s head snapped back as bone and brain matter exploded in a spray onto the chair, and she slumped to the floor in a heap.

  Luis moved under the .45 as Shane fired again, and brought his own Glock into play.

  He didn’t know what he expected the bald man to do, but it certainly wasn’t to drop both pistols and grab hold of Luis’ extended arm. It took him a split second to realize what was about to happen, and when it did, there was nothing he could do.

  Shane took hold of Luis’ wrist with one hand, the Glock with the other, and bent and twisted in one beautifully executed motion.

  Luis grunted as his index finger was torn off his hand, the solitary digit dropping to the floor while the pistol went sailing through the air, smashing into a wall.