Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (18 page)

“The plot to assassinate him,” Gabriel repeated. “Two members of his group have turned against their leader. And they plan to use the bogeyman as a means for murder.”

“The bogeyman?” It seemed ridiculous at first, but soon became quite logical. His calling card, a simple red hand print, was not at all a difficult thing to duplicate. “They frame the bogeyman and take over the store.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel confirmed.

As much as Mohammad truly loathed the hunter, he wasn’t at all ready to hand him over to his back-stabbing constituents. Besides, the honor of his death would be Mohammad’s, and Mohammad’s alone.

“We have to stop it.”

“I agree, but my hands are full, Mohammad. I’m afraid that will be your agenda.”

Between a potential Brutus, strategic vengeance, and a homicidal drone, Mohammad was unaware of exactly what order his priorities should be set. The world had indeed grown more complex since his resurrection, and like the great Atlas, he could feel the weight of it all on his back.

“I’m sure you can turn this in our favor, Mohammad,” Gabriel said, increasing the pressure another increment or two. “I know you will not disappoint me.”

The Traveler held out his hand, uncurling his long fingers. Atop his palm rested a small, metallic disc, about the size of a silver dollar. He left it suspended in the air between them as he turned and walked back through the hyper-wall.

What resided on the other side when Gabriel walked through still eluded Mohammad. He was aware that hyper-walls were bending space and time; but how much were they actually capable of bending? A few city blocks was one thing, but could they bend light years? Was there a planet on the other side? It hurt his head to fathom. Still, one day he hoped to find out; but like a vampire, he knew he’d have to wait until he was invited.

Mohammad approached the disc as it hung in midair, unaffected by what the laws of gravity could inflict upon it. Reaching out, he triggered the disc, which then tossed the hologram of two men beside him. They both stood slightly taller than he, engaging in a most private conversation.

One of them was Rick, the grumpy Marlboro man from two days prior. “It’ll be easy,” he told the other. “You were military–just gotta make it real quiet.”

“He’s been on edge,” the other man interjected. “I’ve been watching him, eyes darting, always moving, sneaking up on him’ll be anything but easy, Rick. Betcha Bastard sleeps with one eye open.”

“Don’t get all soft on me now, John.”

“Soft?” He jabbed Rick hard in the chest. “Don’t forget who you’re talkin’ to. I’ve slit throats more times than you’ve wet your pecker, Asshole.”

“Good.” Rick smiled. “Then this shouldn’t be a problem for you, right … Saint John?”

There was something significant about that name, the way the man’s posture straightened at the sound of it.

A man who boasts in the slitting of throats, yet aspires for sainthood
–
a most curious contradiction
.

“And we’ll take control of this place,” Rick continued, “make a home here for your daughter, and reinstall the fear that Maddox isn’t capable of anymore.”

Mohammad had no business with this
Saint
John. Rick, however, wasn’t so lucky. Sure, he’d have to deviate slightly from his present course to contain this; but after further thought, Mohammad decided the minor detour would only make the final reveal just that much sweeter.

“But it’s gotta be tonight,” John agreed. “It’s gotta seem like retaliation for what he wrote on that wall.”

The hologram trailed away, leaving Mohammad’s mind free to reel. Oddly enough, like some sick twist of fate, he’d be finding himself planning on keeping the hunter alive … for now, a plan that might require him to make a pit stop on the outskirts in the name of theatrics.

V
ictoria had been avoiding him like the plague, no eye-contact, leaving the room if ever he entered. But the hunter wouldn’t chase her, would never lower himself. Eventually she would come to him; and she would see that he’d been right all along. Then she would ask his forgiveness, to which he would kindly grant. But today most likely wasn’t that day, and the frigidity of her shoulder could be felt at every inch of his camp.

However unsuccessful, he attempted to keep her out of his head. But she was a woman, beautiful at that; and the male psyche, upon design, had always a designated place for a woman to dwell.

Still, he had bigger fish to fry.

A bogeyman to catch and kill.

Only then would his mind be able to settle; and only then would Victoria return to him.

“You okay, Dad?” Coda whispered.

“Huh?” He looked up from his wandering thoughts, a half-loaded magazine still in his hands. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look a little … out of it.”

“Just got a lot on my mind.” It was tough work, trying to cover every angle, trying to be three steps ahead of someone who always seemed to be three steps ahead of him. “I coulda swore I put a hunting knife here earlier.” He pointed at the table. “Did you take it?”

Coda shook his head.

“Weird.”

“Maybe we should barricade this door tonight,” Coda offered, motioning toward the only way into his quarters.

“I’m not gonna hide, Codes. I need to be in the open. These people need to see me.”

“Where’re you gonna sleep?”

“If I do, I’ll sleep downstairs, with everyone else.” Tension was hanging thick in the air, the potential energy of something big on the horizon, its bitterness on the forked-tongue of his sixth sense. “Something’s gonna happen, Coda. I can feel it.”

“So we’ll bag ourselves a bogeyman,” the boy agreed. “Rip its mask off, like fuckin’ Scooby Doo.”

The hunter laughed, the prize of it present on Coda’s face.

He grinned, its proud recipient.

“I can always count on you or Jackson to point out the oddest comparisons.”

“Well I did always have a thing for Daphne,” Coda admitted.

“We
all
had a thing for Daphne, Son.”

He’d go on to spend the usable daylight preparing himself for the coming of the bogeyman; and although the guy failed to come the night before, something continued to tell the hunter this night would be different. But if it wasn’t, he’d still do the same the following night, and the night after that. He would proceed to operate this way until the bogeyman threat was resolved, or until he’d gone mad in the meantime.

As men made their circles with sweeping firearms, torches were lit upon the gradual blackening of the night sky. The store was better guarded now than ever before, their tactics vastly improved. Everyone had a post, some duty to perform. Slipping in undetected would not be such an easy feat. No way could he elude them this time.

While trying to appear calm and collected, the hunter would make his rounds as well. With Smith and Wesson resting on his hip, he’d check each aisle beneath the blaze of his flashlight, and along the walls yet to be marked by the bogeyman’s crimson hand. All remained clear, quiet.

Hazel stayed inside, by the warmth of the fire, clutching her gray, floppy-headed rabbit between her chin and her chest. John would come to comfort her on occasion, patting her shoulder with his grisly hands. She seemed frightened, rightfully so.

The hunter fetched a Hershey bar, kneeling beside her as John left again. She accepted it with a toothy grin.

“Are you okay, Hazel?”

She shook her head, peeling open the brown wrapper. “Gray Bunny is scared, I’m trying to make her feel better.”

“It’s okay, Gray Bunny,” he said, giving her a soothing squeeze on the ear. “You’re being so brave, letting your mommy take care of you.”

“She is very brave,” Hazel nodded, the smell of chocolate on her lips. “She hasn’t been the same since we lost her sister.”

“Her sister?”

“Yeah, Yellow Bunny.” She ran a finger down the Bunny’s back. “We dropped her somewhere when all the noise happened. Daddy says we can’t go back to look for her yet.”

“Yeah,” the hunter agreed. “It’s a dangerous world out there.”

“I know.”

“Hazel … ” The hunter paused for a moment, taking a breath. “What do you think this …
bogeyman
is?”

“Shhhh.” She put a hand over Gray Bunny’s head and whispered, “He’s a monster.”

“A monster?”

She nodded.

“I know a story about a monster.” The hunter smiled softly. “Would you and Gray Bunny like to hear it?”

She looked down at her stuffed animal, who voiced its opinion by twist of Hazel’s thumb and index finger. “Yes, she would like to hear it.”

“Great. And it’s the perfect story to tell by the fire.” He rubbed his hands together as she took another nibble from the Hershey bar. “So, once upon a time there was a kingdom. And all the people were happy. There was so much to eat and drink and everyone was always having so much fun.”

Hazel nodded, inching down in her chair.

“But then there was a monster that lived in the mountains by the kingdom. And his name was Grendel.”

“Grendel?”

“Yes, Grendel.”

“Grendel is a funny name for a monster,” she objected.

“Grendel was his name.” The hunter shrugged. “And he was very mean and nasty and didn’t like hearing all those people in the kingdom having so much fun all the time.”

“Did he write them a letter?”

“A letter?”

“To ask them to be more quiet?”

“No.” He smiled. “He didn’t write them a letter, Hazel. He went over there and broke all their stuff and ate all their food, so they couldn’t be happy anymore.”

Her mouth dropped open. “How mean.”

“Yes, he was very mean. And this happened more than once–many times, in fact. So the king had to ask for help from a man named Beowulf.”

“Beowulf?”

“Yes, Beowulf.”

“Beowulf is a funny name, too.”

“Okay, but Beowulf was the strongest man, most fierce warrior the kingdom had ever seen.”

Her eyes widened.

“So Beowulf came to the kingdom and there was a party … a loud party.”

“Uh oh.”

“And Beowulf waited for Grendel to attack.”

“And did he?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “But then Beowulf made sure the monster would never bother the kingdom again.” He tapped Gray Bunny with every word of his final sentence, believing the ending might actually quench her five year old thirst for details. The hunter quickly discovered, however, that he was mistaken.

Hazel’s face scrunched. “How?”

“How what?”

“How did he make sure Grendel would leave them alone?”

“He … uh … he killed him.”

“Killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he just talk to him?”

“Because Grendel was very bad, and talking to him wouldn’t have helped.”

“He coulda tried.”

“That’s just … that’s just not how the story goes, Hazel.”

“I think Beowulf is the mean one,” she insisted. “He needs to learn how to use his words.”

“That’s an interesting point of view.” He smiled. “I guess I never thought of it like that. But the moral of the story is that monsters are made to be defeated by heroes.” The hunter rose, rustling her thick, blonde hair. “I was just hoping that would make Gray Bunny feel a little better.”

She looked down at the rabbit as the two of them seemed to lock eyes for a moment. “Yeah.” Hazel nodded. “She does.”

“Well good.” He squeezed her shoulder. “So do you know what to do if something happens tonight?”

“Yes, I curl up on the floor next to the fire.”

“And pull the chair over you,” he added.

“I will.”

“Good girl. And keep Gray Bunny safe.”

“I will.”

C
ombing the darkness with feverish persistence, Boss seemed a bit more on edge tonight; and his strained relations with Victoria couldn’t be helping the matter. Jackson was pleased to see him finally break for a small conversation with Hazel. Her innocence could certainly have an uplifting affect; as even he enjoyed her curious perspective from time to time.

But Hazel, by no fault of her own, did not belong there, always seemed out of place to him. With innocence as delicate as her tiny body, it was only a matter of time before this world took her, changed her … granted she survived that long. And Jackson would find himself regarding her as such, something temporary, like the short-lived bloom of a rose–beautiful in the moment, especially in contrast to the dry and thorny weeds that surround it.

To his knowledge, she was the youngest of all the survivors; and he would protect her for as long as he could, most unfortunate, though, that he could hardly stomach her father for more than a minute.

Jackson stayed alert and in the moment as he walked the store’s old electronics section, proceeding to humor Boss’s paranoia by keeping his eyes open and head swiveled. But nothing yet struck him as out of the ordinary.

He spun then at the sound of a voice, someone whispering a cryptic message through the darkness. Yet, however distinct and unmistakable it was, his flashlight could not uncover anyone that could have said it.

Still, he’d heard it quite clearly:
Five.

“Hello?” he asked of it.

There was no answer.

He shuffled for his weapon, keeping the flashlight steady, when the hiss of spray paint came some distance away. Distinguishing its direction, he sprinted towards sporting goods, his flashlight frantic in its patterns across floor and ceiling, and found a new mark upon the wall.

He shined his light upon it. “What the?”

“Five,” the voice whispered again.

Jackson turned to find the source of it, a dark figure staring back at him, its stance wide, hands down at its sides.

He graced it briefly with the flashlight, nearly yelping in horror of what he saw, before taking several shots at the thing.

But it was gone before his arm even raised.

Multiple shots rang out, accompanied by their flashes of light. And it was like music to the hunter’s ears, indications that instantly justified his level of awareness; and proved, at least to himself, that he was still within his skull.