Christopher's Blade

by Ron Ripley

  The stranger, Abel realized, stood closer to Brandon than he had first observed.

  There was the sharp crack of bone against bone, and Brandon staggered back into the first room. The stranger, framed against the door, was nothing more than a dark shape as he threw a punch at Brandon. Abel winced as the blow landed hard on the other man’s head, driving Brandon to his knees.

  The stranger stepped in closer and delivered a series of punches a professional boxer would have been proud of. Blow after blow landed on Brandon’s head. The crack of his nose breaking was loud in the stillness of the small home. Abel pressed himself back into the shadows, watching as the stranger beat the man.

  After several more blows, Brandon collapsed to the floor. The stranger lifted his foot, prepared to bring it smashing down upon the other man’s head. But he stopped. He tilted his head, as if listening, then lowered his foot back to the floor.

  “No,” the stranger said. “I’m not going to kill you. I want to. More than you can know. Neither of them would want me to, though. So, I won’t. I’ll be back next year. Make sure you’re not.”

  Abel watched the man turn sharply around and exit the building. Brandon lay panting on the floor, still conscious but unable to bring himself to sit up.

  Abel didn’t blame him. The other man’s anger was palpable. Then, as he stepped out of the kitchen, Abel realized the house was no longer cold.

  ***

  Abel’s eyes snapped open as he sat upright. The memory of the stranger’s voice connected with a recollection of a more recent vintage.

  Marcus, Abel thought. He was there! He was the one who beat Brandon.

  Shaking his head, he asked himself, Why though? What don’t I know about Marcus’ history? I need to find out.

  There is leverage here. Something to use against him, Abel thought. He remembered the small house. Then, he smiled. Yes. The house was important to him. I wonder if the family still owns the building. It doesn’t matter, though. Everything has a price, and to obtain this house, I will pay anything.

  Abel pushed himself to his feet and went to his phone. It was time to see how much the building might cost him.

  Chapter 24: In the Morning Light

  Despite the sunlight streaming down through the openings between the clouds, Marcus Holt did not enjoy the day.

  He lay propped up in the main room. From the kitchen came the sounds of Alex chatting with Elaine. Timmy sat beside Marcus with an amused expression on his face.

  “What?” Marcus asked, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

  “You’re a tough old bird,” Timmy responded. “Nothing else.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” Marcus asked.

  Timmy scoffed, then, realizing Marcus was serious, he said, “You were shot again.”

  Marcus glanced down at the blanket covering his legs. “Buckshot. Not exactly a high caliber round, Timmy.”

  “No,” his son said, chuckling. “You’ve got a point there. But, think of it this way, how many people would have dragged themselves back with a leg full of buckshot?”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice,” Marcus said. “I didn’t particularly want to freeze to death.”

  “True, true,” Timmy agreed. “Anyway. Most of the buckshot passed through the edge of your thigh. You’ve got a couple of pieces in there, but it’ll be better to let them work their way out. If I go digging around in there, well, it won’t feel nice, and I’m liable to do more harm than good. You’ll be all right, though.”

  “I’m certain I will be,” Marcus said. “I’m not feeling particularly kindhearted right now.”

  “Toward the guy who shot you?” Timmy asked, walking to the fireplace and sitting down in front of it.

  “Exactly,” Marcus said. “David will need to be dealt with eventually.”

  Timmy raised an eyebrow. “You know it was him?”

  Marcus nodded. “Why does it surprise you?”

  “It’s a bold step for him,” Timmy said. Then he added, “He’s pretty much Worthe’s lapdog. I didn’t think David would take a step like this.”

  “I can tell you without a word of a lie,” Marcus said dryly, “I would have appreciated him not shooting me.”

  “I’m sure,” Timmy said. He shook his head. “It’s a bad sign, you know.”

  Marcus waited patiently for his son to explain.

  “Worthe’s not exactly wrapped too tight,” Timmy continued. “If David’s taken this step, then it means he might consider going farther.”

  “Killing me?” Marcus asked. He felt a strange disconnect as he posed the question. As if there was a sense of distance between himself and the person whose potential murder he was discussing.

  Timmy didn’t notice. Instead, he nodded, saying, “Yeah. Exactly. Worse than that, though. He might kill the boy, too.”

  The image of Alex being gunned down chilled Marcus to the marrow and caused him to wince as his wounded muscles tensed. “No.”

  “Hm, no, I agree,” Timmy muttered. “I don’t want the boy to die, either. He’s kind of grown on me. Strange, huh?”

  Marcus frowned, confused.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Timmy said dismissively, smiling. Then, the smile faded. “If David put some buckshot into you, I don’t doubt he could be responsible for Meredith’s murder. It’s right in line with what he’s doing now.”

  “What do you suggest we do about it?” Marcus asked.

  “Figure out how to get rid of the maniac with the bayonet,” Timmy said. “We need to be quick about it, too. He knows how to move himself around. Definitely a bad sign.”

  “You will get no argument from me about him,” Marcus said. “I think we need to focus on keeping Alex safe for now.”

  “Yeah,” Timmy said, glancing toward the kitchen. “We do.”

  ***

  Alex sat with Elaine in the kitchen, the dead woman’s shackles on the table. She looked at him with a worried expression.

  “It’s okay,” he reassured her. “Really. I promise.”

  She looked at his hand, the pen he held, and the piece of paper in front of him. Hesitantly, she reached out and slipped her hand into his.

  He shivered with the shock of the cold as it infected his flesh, but he forced himself to smile. She returned it, nervously, then moved his hand. The sensation of pins and needles swept over his appendage. He watched, fascinated as it moved of its own accord. Holding the paper down with his left hand, Alex watched as his right brought the tip of the pen to the paper, and he began to write.

  Beautiful script appeared on the page. Letter after letter connected, breaking only for the ending of one word and the creation of a new one. Within less than a minute, a sentence appeared, then Elaine jerked away, and his hand collapsed to the table.

  He hid the pain behind a smile, let go of the pen and lowered the injured right hand to his lap, where he could massage it under the table. Alex hoped Elaine would not see how much the writing had hurt.

  Clearing his throat, he leaned forward, squinted at the words to try and make sense of the letters, then he read them aloud.

  “My dear Alex,” he read, pausing to look up and smile at her. Elaine returned the smile and nodded for him to continue. “I know this must hurt you, so I will do no more than write this little bit.”

  Alex laughed, nodding and exclaiming, “This is awesome!”

  Elaine lowered her eyes, grinning.

  Timmy entered the room. “You okay, kid?”

  “Yeah, look,” Alex said, holding up the paper.

  “Cursive, cool,” Timmy said, smiling.

  “I didn’t write it,” Alex explained.

  Timmy frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know cursive,” Alex said. “Elaine did it. I let her use my hand.”

  Timmy took the page from Alex, walked to the counter, leaned against it and read the words the dead woman had written. After a moment he said, “You let her use your hand? She didn’t po
ssess your entire body?”

  “Nope,” Alex said. “I mean, we were worried about it, but she was able to do it without taking over completely. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Timmy murmured. “Pretty cool.”

  Alex wanted to say more, but the house suddenly shook, and weapons roared.

  Chapter 25: A Request

  David watched from the gate as the door to 114 Broad was smashed open by the entry team. Beneath his helmet, David smiled, listening to the chatter over the radio as the team members swept into the house. Several more shots were fired as nonlethal rounds removed Subject B from the situation.

  ***

  Cameron motioned the rest of his team forward as Subject B slumped to the floor, unconscious. Timmy was somewhere in the house, as was the boy the Professor was so interested in. Rumor had it there was a ghost who lived in the building as well, but Cameron didn’t worry too much about the dead inside. According to the intelligence, Subject B had taken precautions to keep the dead from getting past the doors and windows.

  Yet as these thoughts crossed his mind, Cameron felt a chill rip through him, and as he turned to see what might have caused it, he screamed.

  The dead Indians poured in through the door. Only then did Cameron see the salt scattered across the floor. The threshold was torn up, and a ripped piece of cloth was revealed.

  Cameron suddenly understood how the dead were kept out.

  He brought his shotgun up, pumping a fresh round into it and firing. Yet even as the round blew through several of the dead, others were swarming in. One of them managed to knock the shotgun out of his hands while a second raised a ghostly musket and shot him. The force of the round sent him tumbling back, his feet tangling up with Subject B’s legs and causing him to fall over the old man.

  Cameron tried to twist around and get back to his feet, but something locked onto his wrist. Surprised, he saw Subject B was awake, the old man snarling at him. A heartbeat later, Subject B ripped Cameron’s helmet off, throwing it aside easily. Freeing his wrist, Cameron reached down for the knife he kept on his utility belt, only to find it was missing.

  A flash of steel revealed the weapon to be in Subject B’s hand. Less than a moment later, Cameron felt the blade slide into his neck. He tried to grab hold of the old man’s arm. Before he could, Subject B twisted the knife and pulled.

  ***

  Abel screamed furiously at the monitor as Marcus Holt killed one of his men. Blood sprayed out from the neck wound as the guard’s head lolled back, partially severed. The dead men flooded the house, the screams of the guards filling the hidden speakers. Over his radio, Abel heard David issuing commands, none of which would help the raiding team. They would all be dead before assistance could arrive.

  Abel watched, outraged, as Marcus shoved the body away. Timmy entered the room a second later, driving a guard before him. As the guard attempted to battle Timmy, Abel knew it was a losing battle.

  Timmy was far too skilled.

  A soft, almost gentle smile graced Timmy’s face as he casually knocked aside the guard’s weapon. Timmy’s hands were swift, darting with a speed Abel could hardly comprehend. In a matter of seconds, the guard collapsed to the floor with a grotesque limpness.

  As Nurse Schomp entered the room, Abel turned off the monitor and screamed once more.

  ***

  The silence pained him. David sighed, then, in a clear voice, he said, “Cancel retrieval.”

  The quick reaction team radioed back for confirmation of the order. David gave it.

  “What now?” Ellen asked.

  He looked down at the smaller woman. For a short time, David considered her question.

  “Now,” he finally responded, “we get a fresh group of troops in here. This was our final hurrah. The professor and I have agreed not to sacrifice any more of us. I honestly thought we could pull off the snatch and grab. But, Timmy’s in there.”

  Ellen shook her head. “No, David. They’re all in there.”

  He nodded. Ellen was right.

  Chapter 26: A Winter Wonderland

  Jane didn’t know where the woman was, or how she was surviving in the storm.

  If she even is, Jane corrected herself. A harsh snowstorm had torn into the afternoon, smothering the world in white and turning the bright day grim. She had been forced to set up camp, losing any ground she felt she had gained on the woman. In the storm, Jane wouldn’t be able to set the trap.

  I won’t feel good until I see her body in the snow, Jane thought grimly, activating several hand-warmers and wrapping her fingers around them. Despite the insulated clothing and the warmth of the tent, she felt chilled and uncomfortable. The thought of the woman dying in the snow, unaccounted for, bothered her. I despise loose-ends!

  She shook her head. This should have never been given to me. I should be back at the compound, having coffee and relaxing. Not playing Daniel Boone out in the damned woods! I don’t care what David says. This is the pinnacle of stupidity. The professor has lost his mind.

  Shivering, she crawled into her sleeping bag, hoping to catch some sleep while the storm raged.

  ***

  Joyce could see the faint outline of the tent ahead of her. Yet even as she glanced at it, more snow piled up against it, the wind creating a snowdrift against the material. Moving through the storm was not only risky, it was close to suicidal. She could freeze to death, or be caught in the open by Worthe’s hunter.

  Joyce pushed those thoughts out of her mind as she crawled forward, head to one side as she moved on. After another foot or so, she lifted her head up slightly, saw the tent a fraction closer, then repeated the process. Her face stung from the snow and snowflakes clung to her eyelashes when she peered at the tent. Yet as she advanced, Joyce remembered the lessons her father had taught her. How to keep low and to remain calm. To never be distressed or worried in the woods.

  Fear will kill you quicker than anything else, he had told her on more than one occasion. I can teach you to fish and to hunt. How to find food and to make a shelter. All these you can learn, Joyce. But if you do not learn how to master your fear in the wilderness, then nothing I teach you will matter.

  She smiled, thinking grimly, Don’t worry, Dad. I’m not afraid.

  Not at all.

  ***

  Jane grumbled, turned to her side and let out a sharp cry of pain as the cat buried its claws in her inner thigh.

  She sat up, looking around for the animal when she realized where she was.

  In the middle of nowhere, she thought angrily, reaching down and rubbing at her thigh absently. When she did so, Jane winced and wondered how she had pulled a muscle in her sleep. At the same time, she noticed the tent was colder, and there was someone near the entrance. Jane swore, reached for her pistol, and felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her.

  “You’re dying.” The speaker was the woman, Joyce.

  Jane shook her head. “No.”

  “Yeah,” Joyce said without any sympathy. “No doubt about it. I’ve severed your femoral artery. You don’t have much longer.”

  Jane slapped at her thigh, felt the warm flow of blood for the first time, and knew the woman was right.

  “I hate you,” Jane hissed, still pawing for her weapon.

  “You’re a heavy sleeper,” Joyce said. “I took your weapons before I stabbed you. Figured it was safer that way.”

  Jane didn’t have the strength to answer.

  “I feel like I should say something nice,” Joyce continued. “Something apologetic. I was a cop after all. But you, you’re a miserable piece of garbage. I hate you. I’m glad you’re dying. Hell, I’m happy to be the one who killed you.”

  “I’ll come back,” Jane hissed.

  “Sure,” Joyce said, laughing. “You go right ahead. I don’t care. I know how to take care of ghosts now. You and your little buddy Worthe taught me.”

  Jane tried to reply, but she simply didn’t have any strength.

  ***

 
Joyce sat in the tent and watched the woman die. She didn’t feel happy about it, nor did she regret it. Killing Worthe’s hunter had been as interesting as washing the dishes.

  A chore, Joyce thought. A chore and nothing else.

  For nearly ten minutes, Joyce waited. When she was certain the woman was dead, Joyce leaned forward and began to search the body as well as the tent.

  Waste not, want not, she thought and hummed to herself as she worked.

  Chapter 27: Organization

  It took them almost two hours to clean the bodies and most of the carnage up. When they were finished, Alex and Timmy sat in silence on the couches. Alex’s face wore an expression of dull shock, which pained Marcus to look upon. Timmy observed all with quiet contemplation.

  Is he always this way? Marcus wondered. Or is my son mourning the loss of his young lady?

  He did not give voice to his question. Instead, he stood up, wincing at the dull throbbing pain in his leg.

  Timmy raised an eyebrow as he asked, “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Not at all,” Marcus replied through clenched teeth. “However, I feel the need for some fresh air.”

  “There’s a hell of a storm out there,” Timmy said. “Probably not the best place to go.”

  “Regardless,” Marcus said, “I doubt they will be sending anyone else in, and, to be perfectly honest, I need the air.”

  “Suit yourself,” Timmy said, glancing at Alex. “The kid and I will hang out here. Wait for you to come back.”

  “One of the dead will be with you,” Alex said, his voice faint. “They’ll try to help you if you get in trouble.”

  Marcus limped to Alex and held out his hand to the boy.