Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

The boy broke her concentration and she looked up at him. “Hi,” she said, hiding tears. “Why don’t you go play some more, Sweetie.” Then there was a casket, a slender man inside, a congregation of many in darkened attire, that same woman, now older, sitting beside him.

And then there was screaming.

A crowd of people were gathered outside. They were attacking him.

“All over some Oreos, Kid?” The voice sent a sharp rod through Mohammad’s chest. “Hope it was worth it.”

Son of a bitch.

His face filled the hologram, the same man Radia attacked, the one whose neck she’d ripped open.

You son of a bitch.

“They attacked you?” Mohammad asked the unconscious boy, his question falling upon deaf ears. He returned his focus to the hologram, hoping for a clue before it proceeded to the next memory.

There!

A familiar billboard in the distance, at about a forty five degree angle, possibly … a hundred yards away from where the boy had been during the beating. He’d seen it before from the roof of the plant, out beyond the shipping area.

“Thank you.” He patted the boy’s shoulder just as the blue light faded away, the hologram dissolving from view. “Now let’s see if we can’t get you a new body.”

The scar glistened in pink ripples along the side of Jackson’s neck–the remains of the wound he’d acquired from that final hybrid. The hunter would have to keep himself from glancing at it randomly throughout their many conversations. He’d hate to make the large man feel self-conscious about his physical appearance. But she sure did a number on him, the bubbled tissue laying out the path of her fingertips; and in their center, the concavity of flesh discarded by her teeth. It had been a horrific scene–something out of a horror flick, and a sight the hunter would not soon forget.

Jackson stepped into his quarters, nodding a customary morning greeting.

“What is it, Jackson?”

“There is some strange shit going down.”

The hunter offered a vacant expression. “What are you talking about?”

“We had that body go missing on Cider, but I just heard about this guy walking down Lexington by himself a couple nights ago.”

“I assume he’s dead now.”

“No.” Jackson’s eyes widened. “Some Jackals tried to give him shit and he tossed one of ‘em like twenty feet, broke all his ribs, then disappeared.”

“Where do you hear these stories?”

“Just keepin’ my ears open, Boss.”

Jackson wasn’t at all the kind of individual the hunter would have imagined himself becoming close friends with; but the war certainly seemed to change his perception of people. He trusted Jackson more than he’d allowed himself to trust anyone in his entire life. Other friendships had come and gone, a handful of them ending in bitter disputes, or even bar fights in his youth. But despite coming from a completely different walk of life, Jackson was more steadfast, more loyal than any before him. And in turn, he’d well earned the hunter’s respect.

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” the hunter huffed.

“But even you, the greatest tracker in the world, can’t explain that missing body.”

“Someone pulled a fast one on us, Jackson. I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Yeah,” the large man nodded, “that was some Houdini shit.”

“Yes,” the hunter agreed, finding reference to the famous magician somewhat fitting. “Exactly like Houdini. And speaking of keeping your ears open, I need you to keep an eye on Rick for me.”

Jackson squinted at him. “Why the sudden interest?”

“He’s been acting more squirrelly than usual. Just let me know if you hear or see anything … anything you think I should know about.”

He nodded. “Will do, Boss.”

“Good.”

Mohammad stepped into the corrugated plant, instantly turning to inspect the holographic map of the city. He found the sign from the boy’s memory, then traced his finger over at the angle he’d witnessed it. His pointer collided with a department store sitting at the appropriate distance, many violet dots taking refuge around it.

There.

Already a door awaited him, its crimson stroke calling out from the street over.

Cider.

He pressed his finger to it and the hyper-wall obliged, the holographic map shrinking away. And still harnessing his invisibility, the Fijian stepped again through the wall. The store stood just before him, its circular emblem carving out a portion of the sky line. There were men gathered beneath it, huddled in small groups in front of the entrance.

Mohammad’s approach remained undetected, the curvature of light concealing him better than any camouflage ever could. Yet, despite the fair number of patrons Mohammad could see, his attention was reserved for only five–just a handful of men he hoped were still occupying the world. Let the rest remain nameless, faceless creatures, spared from the justice the Fijian was dead-set on dealing.

R
ick inhaled those cigarettes like Big Tobacco was still rolling them, like there was no end to their supply.

Despite the hunter’s Louisiana heritage, nothing irritated him more than a man with the swell of dip bulging at his bottom lip–the apparent permission it gave them to spit wherever they damn-well pleased. It was disgusting, to say the least. The hunter would find himself stepping over tiny puddles of Rick’s saliva, even finding them within the store’s aisles. It was the equivalent of spitting on the floor in another man’s home.

It was Rick’s passive-aggressive form of disrespect. He wanted what the hunter had, his power, his presence, even Victoria. It was obvious. Rick had been after the blonde for months, only to have her disregard his advances as she became rather friendly with the hunter instead.

He’d receive glares from Rick when Victoria would come to grace his side, granting the hunter a bit of satisfaction at his expense. But what chance could he honestly believe himself to have with her? It was considered bad form for the hunter to admit this aloud, but from both a physical and mental standpoint, the hunter outweighed Rick a hundred to one. He was not even remotely as smart or attractive as his superior; and against the hunter, Rick would remain romantically invisible to Victoria.

Rick must have recognized his own transparency. The hunter knew it; and it was the source of spit upon his floor.

The hunter, keeping Rick within his peripheral, could see the wisps of gray emitted from his lit cigarette as he spoke to John. The two of them conversing together sent the hunter’s insides into a twist. No good could come from any dialogue shared between them; but something struck the hunter as slightly comical, causing him to chuckle every now and again. As Rick inhaled, that ember glowing between his fingers, there were times when it would suddenly and inexplicably extinguish.

At first it was but a minor irritant as Rick retrieved his lighter to bring flame to it once again. And it stayed lit … for at least a few seconds, before smothering itself again. Rick cursed extensively as this same dance repeated multiple times, the hunter trying to keep from laughing too hard. Until Rick, with inches of unused cigarette still available, threw it on the pavement and stomped it with a livid boot. The commotion caused a small scene as those around turned to see what had angered him.

“Just a cigarette, Rick.” Jackson grinned. “Calm the fuck down.”

But Rick ignored him as he started back into the store.

“Where you headed, Rick?” the hunter asked.

“Getting another cigarette,” he spat. “That okay with you?”

The hunter shook his head. “No, it’s not. You know the rule.” He lifted his index finger. “You get one per day, and it looks like you squashed yours.” The hunter was pleased to have people there to laugh at his remark, causing Rick’s ears to grow red.

“That thing was busted, Maddox!”

“Still,” the hunter smiled wide, “rules are rules.”

“Fuck your rules!”

The statement hung in the stiffened air for a time; and there was no reaction–besides shock–from the others, silence the only noise emitted from their opened mouths. The hunter nodded, stepping away from the wall, approaching the man who only just seemed to realize what he’d said. Rick’s stance faltered, wavering in the foot he placed behind him.

“You got something you wanna say to me, Rick?” the hunter asked, the words rigid off his lips.

Rick’s jaw clenched. “No, Maddox.”

“Yeah, I thought not.” The hunter squinted. “I suggest you watch your mouth, Rick,” he warned, “or I’ll show you another way I can extend our supply of cigarettes.” His head then twisted toward a huge crash that came from within the store, the toppling of something massive and heavy. “What the?” He rushed inside, the others on his heels, as they sliced the darkness to find its source.

He found Coda before one of the aisles, the boy’s mouth agape as he stood, staring. The shelving had been knocked completely over, pieces of merchandise everywhere.

“What happened?!” the hunter shouted. But the boy wouldn’t move. The hunter shook him. “Coda!”

“I … ” he started. “I heard spray paint … so I came over … and this aisle just … fell over.”

“It can’t just fall over, Coda,” the hunter stated. The thing was heavy–would have taken at least three men to push it over. “What did you see?”

The boy stared blankly back at him. “I told you what I saw.”

“Look!” Hazel was tugging on John’s sleeve, pointing beyond the collapsed shelving. “On the wall.”

The group walked on either side of the fallen aisle, coming to gather on the other side. And there, written on the wall in red spray paint, was posted this peculiar message:

And just below it, a mark of the bogeyman himself–a single, red, right hand print.

“Let me see your hands!” the hunter demanded, everyone holding them out to prove their innocence. He shone his light over them, finding Hazel at the end, her clean palms raised toward the ceiling. Another crash then pierced the darkness, coming from the opposite end of the store.

“Cover the exit!” the hunter shouted, pulling out his weapon. “Go!”

Several men broke away to stand guard at the glass doors as the rest followed the hunter to the source of the second noise. No flashlights were cleaving the blackness ahead of him. Whoever was doing this managed to navigate without the need for one; and was evading them incredibly well while doing so.

They came to yet another toppled aisle; and placed neatly before it, with crimson lid reattached, was the can of red spray paint.

“Looks like someone just pulled another fast one on us, Boss,” Jackson whispered.

“Thank you, Jackson. I see that; but the bogeyman aint outa here yet.” As long as they had the exit covered there was nowhere he could go. The hunter needed more men to guard it. “Kyle, Kevin, to the exit!” They took off toward the front of the store. “Everyone spread out! Let’s find this son of a bitch!”

While Jackson might believe whole-heartedly in the bogeyman, the hunter was fighting to bring logic to it all. It had to be someone within his group, someone he knew. The hunter tried to recollect any absences outside, just prior to the first crash.

Coda was inside … he was the only one the hunter could think of. He might have suspected his own son, had it not been for the second crash. Coda was nowhere near it.

There was more than one way into the store, however. There were three, actually. But the other two were locked and barricaded–the keys for which only the hunter possessed. Still, even if someone had found a way to open them, either one would have let sunshine slide in like a beacon.

Both doors remained undoubtedly sealed, the bastard still slinking somewhere within the shadows.

Then another noise, this one from the entrance–the yelp of someone’s surprise, followed by the breaking of glass and a volley of gunfire.

“What happened?!” the hunter shouted, running to find all four firing their pistols out the shattered entrance. They were firing at nothing. “What happened?!”

Kyle turned to the others. “Did you hear it?!” he shouted. “Fucking thing fucking talked to me!”

“What’d it say?” Kevin asked.

“Hunt her.”