Spirit Breaker (6 page)

Talon zoomed in on the entrance of Sears. The tinted glass of the doors gave no hint at what might be going on inside the immense structure. There was no way around it. He’d have to enter the mall to determine if the copycat cult had found sanctuary within its decaying walls.

For a moment he debated if he should hold off his inspection until the morning, but if the enemy were here, he would be active at night.

There was a prickly sensation in his neck, and a sensation of ice in his gut. Shivers tracked the length of his spine. He couldn’t shake the pervasive feeling that he was being watched.

Talon slipped the binoculars into his backpack and dashed across the deserted parking lot. His boots made no sound as he flitted toward the three-story structure. Cloying condensation wrapped around him; the fog was growing heavier by the second.
 

Moments later, he reached the department store’s doors. All of them were locked. He removed a lockpick and went to work. Within minutes, the door gave way to his concentrated efforts, and he slipped into the Sears. He donned his night vision goggles, and ghostly green light drenched the store. A landscape of empty racks, shopping carts, and mannequins confronted him. The place was as silent as a tomb.
 

Talon inhaled the musty air and advanced deeper into the structure. He crossed the main floor and found an arched entrance that led to the mall’s main concourse.

Moonlight shafted down skylights that pierced the length of the large hallway. The mall boasted two more floors with balconies running along the upper levels. Picking up his pace until he was moving at a light sprint, he passed rows of caged-up shops and restaurants that had long ago gone out of business. His senses became attuned to his environment, probing the yawning darkness for any signs that he might not be alone. All throughout, his fingers never wavered from the trigger of his machine pistol, its steel barrel leading the way.

He followed the moonlight. Based on maps and floorplans he’d checked out earlier online, he was headed for the main plaza of the mall where the food court was located. So far, it appeared as though no one had set foot in this place for ages. But Talon knew better than most that appearances could be deceiving.

The forsaken mall stirred strange emotions inside of him. He had a soft spot for malls. Even though he’d traveled the world as a kid, his father had made sure to let him spend his summers in the States with his uncle. He might not have been able to offer him a traditional American childhood, but he wanted Talon to have a taste of what life back home felt like, at least for a few months out of the year. Most days his uncle, who worked security at a local museum, would drop Talon off at an air-conditioned mall in the morning and pick him up at the end of the day after work.
 

He’d spent much of his summers roaming the local shopping center, catching movies in the multiplex, reading comics off the rack at Waldenbooks, and flirting with girls in the food court. Ever since then, malls had symbolized a slice of Americana that made him feel at home no matter where he was. It made him unaccountably sad to see this one desolate and abandoned. He stepped up to a pair of escalators fronted by overturned, potted artificial trees. Taking two steps at a time, he scaled the escalator, hoping the high-angle view on the second level might offer a better overview of the terrain.
 

He continued his advance, passing more gated boutiques. He also encountered signs that the mall hadn’t been completely uninhabited for the last few years. Graffiti scarred the walls and storefronts, and detritus littered the ground. Discarded fast food wrappings and empty bottles of liquor abounded.

Guard up, Talon slowed his approach. Shapes were becoming visible in the plaza below him.
 

He wasn’t alone any longer.

A ring of spooky human silhouettes formed a large circle around a cement island. A lone figure stood at the top of island and overlooked the crowd.
 

Talon slipped off his goggles. There was enough moonlight here to follow the action without any technological assistance. Narrowing his gaze, he counted about twenty-five hooded figures in the circle. The man they faced was decked out all in ghostly white, and they kept a reverent distance from him. He had to be the leader of the group.
 

The Lightwalker
.

He can speak with the dead.

Talon crept closer to the circle, hoping to gain a better view, his machine pistol ready. He was right above the gathering now and realized that there was another man he hadn’t noticed before. This figure didn’t sport a hoodie but was dressed in slacks and a button shirt. He appeared disoriented and isolated, crouched on his knees, positioned between the crowd of followers and the white-garbed leader on the cement island.

A prisoner
, Talon realized.
 

Now that he hovered directly over the unholy congregation, he saw that the leader wore a spray-painter’s mask. His white attire formed a sharp contrast to the dark clothing of the cultists. The moonlight played over the white hoodie and cargo pants, heightening the spectral effect. The other followers all sported curved blades. Sickles. Was it a way to honor the legacy of the Reaper? Talon gripped his Heckler & Kock a little harder.

Below him, the Lightwalker spoke.

“Death is only the beginning.”

What happened next proved that these weren’t mere empty words.
 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

IT TOOK DETECTIVE Benson less than a minute to figure out what was happening after he regained consciousness. One look at his surroundings told him everything he needed to know. He was back inside the Regional Mall. He couldn’t see the eyes of his hooded captors, but he spotted their shiny blades. To his surprise, a strange calm had fallen over him. He knew what would happen next, and at some level, he even welcomed the confrontation with the terror that had haunted him for five years. One way or another, he wouldn’t have to live with the fear any longer.

A figure appeared on the cement island that once had sprouted trees and plants. For a second the old terror gripped him as he wondered if the Reaper had returned from the grave.
 

He let the moment pass.
 

Schiller was long gone from this world. This had to be the man in charge of the copy-cat cult.

The leader in the white hoodie loomed before him like some spectral post-apocalyptic warrior-monk. The figure was about six feet tall and athletically built. Definitely not Schiller, then. Benson tried to catch a better look at the face under the hood, but it remained shrouded in mystery. A spray-painter’s mask hid all details of his features, heightening his larger than life persona.
 

The cult leader approached Benson.

“You know why you’re here,” he said.

Benson remained silent.

The cult leader turned his attention away from him and addressed the crowd. “Four years ago, this man took the life of someone who wanted to change the world we live in. A man who was brave enough to hold up a mirror to society and show them what this country had become. He told the truth, and it cost him the ultimate price. This man you see before you was the one who pulled the trigger. This is the pig who shot the Reaper.”
 

“Schiller was scum,” Benson hissed under his breath. ”Just like the rest of you.”

Benson’s words reverberated in the cavernous plaza, adding to the impression that he was standing at the center of an ancient temple.
And I’m about to be the sacrifice,
he thought.

“
You think you won that day, but Schiller never left you, did he? He stayed with you, haunting your every moment. Cursing you.”

It was as if the bastard could read his mind. Knew all his secrets. Who the fuck was this guy?

The cult leader took another step toward him.
 

Come on, just a little closer…
 

“Not everything that dies disappears from our world. Sometimes the dead linger, unwilling to pass into the light because their life’s work remains undone.”

What the hell was this asshole jabbering about?

“Can’t you feel it? Our master is here with you right now. Schiller’s flesh succumbed to your bullets, but his spirit remains right here. Watching. Waiting to punish you for what you did that day.” The cult leader paused dramatically and added, “Death is only the beginning.”

The crowd of hoodies echoed his words, the chorus of their voices bouncing off the walls like an unholy prayer. “
Death is only the beginning.”

“Master, take his life the way he took yours,” the leader said.

Terror gripped Benson. He could feel the atmosphere change, a chill falling over the plaza. The burst of frigid air made him want to wrap his arms around his torso, but he couldn’t allow himself to show any weakness. For a crazed beat he wondered if Schiller’s spirit could truly linger. Benson’s rational mind tried to discard the notion, but the superstitious part of his soul knew the cult leader was telling the truth. The realization made his body turn rigid with atavistic fear.
 

The Reaper is here.

Shaking off his growing terror, Benson willed his thoughts to focus on his predicament. Three hoodies were closing in, sickles out. The wheels of their skateboards crunched over the trash-covered plaza. Perhaps Schiller’s spirit still lingered, but these knife-wielding gutter rats were flesh and blood. And that meant he could fight back.
 

Willing himself to remain patient, Benson waited until they were almost upon him. The first hoodie rolled forward on his skateboard, moonlight dancing over the knife in one hand, and the canister of spray paint in the other.
 

Benson pretended to be paralyzed with fear—which wasn’t all that far from the truth.
 

He waited…and waited.
 

The knife slid into his field of his vision, and that’s when he made his move. Without warning, his right leg swept out, catching the incoming hoodie off guard. He’d clearly expected the middle-aged cop to offer little resistance. An instant later, the punk was on the ground with Benson pinning him down. The knife clattered to the floor, and was lost in the encroaching shadows.

Benson experienced an undeniable rush as his fist shot out and whipped the punk’s head back. Before the hoodie or his friends quite knew what was happening, Benson snatched the can of spraypaint the skater had dropped when he hit the floor. Lightning fast, he unloaded it at a second skater's face. There was a hiss of aerosol as a stream of blinding paint engulfed the cultist’s face.
 

Stunned by the counter-attack, the skater reeled backward, giving Benson a chance to stagger to his feet. The skater let out a howl of rage and charged, his face streaked red—a demon from hell.
 

Benson sidestepped the punk and brought up the hoodie’s skateboard. Tapping into all his strength, he drove the deck down on the cultist’s scarlet face. The head and board connected with a sickening crunch that was followed by the thump of the punk hitting the ground.

Reacting on pure instinct, Benson ran down the dark concourse, unsteady legs barely able to support his two-hundred pound frame, leaving the circle of hooded wraiths in his wake.

He wasn’t going down without a fight, that much was for certain. He stole a glance back and saw more members of the psycho skater gang separate from the crowd and shoot after him in dark formation. Shadows pinballed through the mall at breakneck speed, phantom figures who sported steel that was all too real.

Benson’s legs kept pumping away as the boarded-up, gated stores rushed past him.
 

Behind him, the urban wraiths ripped around empty water fountains and derelict kiosks. Skating with near supernatural grace and agility, they slalomed through the mall's obstacle course, matching his pace, never letting up.
Benson was doing his best to shake his pursuers, but he knew it was merely a matter of time before they would catch up with him. He was running for his life.
 

Breathing hard, he rounded a corner. Didn’t get far before another skater appeared in front of him, cutting off his escape. As the skaters closed in, Benson rushed toward a nearby escalator. He powered up the stairs as fast as his body allowed him to.
 

His plan was simple: He had to reach one of the exits inside the department stores at either end of the mall. If he could make it out of the mammoth shopping center, he might lose the cultists in the parking lot or the trees beyond.
 

It was a long shot, but what choice did he have?

As he reached the second level, he was confronted with more shuttered stores. The mall had transformed into one giant haunted house.

Benson exhaled, and his breath clouded before him. Once again he experienced the unnatural chill, as if he’d walked into a freezer. He took a few steps back, adrenaline pumping, as the shadows separated and a bone white figure lurched from the liquid darkness.
 

Time froze as his eyes locked on the apparition. Blood-shot eyes peered back from a blue-veined face straight out of Benson’s nightmares. The Reaper was back. A gaping bullet hole formed a third eye on his forehead where Benson’s bullet had felled the mass murderer.

Not everything that dies disappears from our world. Sometimes the dead linger…

Benson reeled, his blood turning to ice.

“No,” he cried. His voice was a glassy whisper as the Reaper’s spirit advanced with jerky, surreal speed.

The figure shimmered and vibrated and was suddenly upon him, inches separating them. Terror-stricken, Benson recoiled and hit the balcony. Arms wheeling desperately, he pitched over the railing. The ground rushed up as he plunged head-first toward the floor… but the deadly collision of bone and cement never came.