Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (15 page)

“You okay?” a voice asked from behind him.

Startled, Ethan spun to find a man observing him intently.

“Had a dream about your dad?” With a darker complexion, kind eyes, and a rather comforting grin, the man set his arm atop a dumpster and put his weight against it. “Not the best place to take a snooze, though, huh?”

But Ethan didn’t know how to respond. If this was actual, legitimate concern, it had remained nearly as alien to Ethan as the ones that brought them the hybrid species. “I’m fine,” he muttered, beginning to walk away.

“No,” the man objected. “You’re far better than fine, Son.”

“Whatever, Man.” Ethan waved his hand in the air, disregarding the odd remark, when he noticed the unusual lack of discomfort in the motion. He stopped, looking down as he curled and uncurled his fingers; and there, at the center of his palm, no remnants of any wound could be found. Ethan turned to look back at the dark man, but found nothing but a vacant alley, filled only with the elongated shadow of coming twilight.

Overcome by an icy mixture of fright and excitement, Ethan propelled himself in a maddened haste across the sidewalk, eager to share the experience with Amanda, along with the proof present right on his flesh. She was the reason, after all, why he’d ventured out at death’s door–the notion of dying alone, far worse than any other circumstance he could play through his sickly brain.

He had to find her, had to tell her that she was his Eurydice, that she remained the only reason why continued life in this Hades could seem at all appealing.

T
here were people looking to him for protection. How could he convince them they were safe now, after some unseen intruder came in to make a fool out of him? Supernatural or not, the hunter found the outcome to still be the same. It raised doubt. And doubt is dangerous. Better to be feared than doubted.

This would be the perfect time for some degenerate to stage a coup, when others might like to try their luck at a new leader. Talk all they want, no one could do a better job than him. Already he’d taken the necessary precautions. His men were guarding the place in shifts, armed to the teeth, just in case this supposed “bogeyman” felt like returning.

The hunter, himself, brought a whole stockpile of weapons up into his manager’s loft and locked the door. Victoria wished to bed with him that evening, so he’d allowed her entry. As always, he enjoyed her company. She had a way of soothing his mind; and intimacy with her was just another means of release. Seldom did he wish for it in that regard, but this night was different.

He found himself longing for the simplicities of the old world. Throughout his life, the hunter could only recall a handful of casual sexual encounters … how each of their names escaped him. They were important at the time, lust prevalent and heavy, met with a short-lived embrace. At least it seemed short-lived in retrospect. His whole life was a fleeting moment, the years he had with Andrea but the blink of an eye.

Even with Victoria at his side, he still thought of Andrea, what she’d think of him. But yesterday’s moral compass was in need of substantial recalibration; the standard of what used to define a good man no longer applied in this world, surely she knew that. Still, in dreams he’d often find her face, marked deeply by the concern and disapproval she had of the man he’d become in her absence. Countless lives had ended as a simple result of his whim. Every tally adorning the side of his building, though placed beside the names of his men, each of them belonged to him. He’d been at the helm of genocide–the oppressor, the orchestrator of everything. Would Andrea have stood by him for that? Would she have understood?

But hybrid blood wasn’t the only kind lining the insides of his fingers–that of men drenched his hands as well. He’d murdered in multiples with hardly a reservation, for the high road to which he’d formerly been accustomed was now scarcely traveled and cluttered with the dead. And in order to regain the respect of his people, the hunter would need to kill again. If there was to be a knife planted firmly in someone’s spine, he opted to be the one holding its hilt. It appeared his relationship with Rick, strained as it had become, was finally coming to a head.

The hunter only noticed he’d been claimed by sleep when he’d been rustled from it somehow, the warmth of Victoria’s head on his chest, the steady rise and fall of her slumbering body. They were still alone within his loft at some undisclosed hour of the night. Tomorrow would surely bring forth an all new set of challenges. Nothing was easy any longer.

The notion of rest had hardly crossed Mohammad’s mind. It was all he could do to keep from pacing, some fragment within him wishing for stillness. But the remainder was busily wrapping itself in the deduction of vengeance–the side to which he’d allowed himself to be overcome.

And Gabriel did not come to question his state, but rather left him to his own devices. The Traveler had watched Mohammad decorate their walls, smash their aisles, taunt them thoroughly, and didn’t seem to mind in the least. Now those men knew of his existence, could name him as the bogeyman. Mohammad enjoyed that thought, relished in it, as anger shrouded him like a darkened veil; and through it his hatred was justified. Whatever fate he brought them would be well-deserved; and no remorse would be waiting at the end of it all.

The emotional freedom was intoxicating.

Mohammad awakened the hyper-wall by gracing it with his glove. The emerald city then awaited his fingertips. He enlarged the department store, observing the violet people as many of them appeared to be making their rounds about the complex.

They think they can keep me out?
He grinned a bit to himself.

Surely he was witnessing their security, set to its fullest extent. Everyone was safe inside, save for those roaming the grounds. He recalled the thrill of that morning’s approach, all five of those men awaiting him outside. Mohammad had toyed momentarily with one of them and his cigarette, using the auto-zero to distinguish the flame until the man smashed it onto the asphalt.

Then the man who’d called himself the hunter came to offer his snarky remark, along with the man whom Radia removed several bites of. That was when Mohammad learned the name of the man with the cigarette.

Rick
, they called him. And he’d referred to the hunter as
Maddox
–must be a last name.

So Mohammad used the distraction to slip inside the store, acquire a red can of spray paint, and made his mark there on the wall. Lowering his invisibility to coat his hand, Mohammad left the print as sort of a fitting calling card. He wasn’t there only on his behalf, but of Radia’s, and Lumin’s, and every other hybrid to lose their lives to these men.

That print represented them.

But he was soon discovered by the hunter’s son, who came shortly to investigate. Mohammad needed to improvise quickly. Regaining invisibility, he placed his hands on the shelving, strained a bit, and forced it over, collapsing it at the boy’s feet before rounding to the other end of the store. Horrendous, the noise earned the attention of all as they spilled into the store in a manic herd.

The hunter must have been at the forefront. Mohammad could hear him grilling the stunned boy for answers, just before discovering his crimson message. The Fijian could have slipped out easily then, if he’d deemed it a proper demonstration; but it could have been so easily explained away, the boy taking the blame for everything. The hunter demanded to see their hands, searching for the culprit amongst his own. Everyone must have been accounted for then, so Mohammad set down the spray can and pushed over a second aisle.

Explain that
.

The hunter reacted in a frenzy of orders, in which he referred to Mohammad as a, “son of a bitch.”

With several already guarding the exit, he found the two young men that had helped to toss his …
predecessor
… off the factory’s roof, their eyes wide and darting. In one of their ears he’d left his final message:

“Hunter.”

And that was enough. He leapt through the two thick sheets of glass, their bullets through the air, and surely became instant legend.

That managed to cool his anger for a time, but the thrill of the encounter had long since faded; and Mohammad found himself itching for yet another.

He witnessed a staircase within the building’s hologram, leading to a small, rectangular room above. Two intertwining souls were residing within it that very instant.

The King and Queen
. Certainly, with all their pawns beneath.

And it didn’t take long at all–passing again through the Cider wall, venturing up to the storefront, extinguishing their nightly fire as he walked past, the guard there fumbling to get it started again. But Mohammad was already inside, weaving between various men and women as they slept, soon venturing up that staircase, King and Queen asleep on the other side of its locked door. He held his gloved hand to the knob as it began to tinker with the inner-workings of the locking mechanism. Apparently the thing worked also as a skeleton key, a true
deus ex machina
when one needed to be nothing more than a passing ghost. The mechanism slid gently over, allowing Mohammad access in just a matter of seconds. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him, and approached the man and woman as they slept.

And there he was, the hunter, in all his glory, defenseless as an infant. And just beside him, blonde and beautiful, rested his significant other.

“Check Mate,” Mohammad whispered.

The hunter opened his eyes slowly, Mohammad’s words waking him as he turned with heavy lids to inspect his surroundings. Mohammad remained quiet as he did so, trying to decide the best way to proceed, but was soon distracted by the clenching of his own jaw.

The hunter did not deserve such warmth, such peace. He deserved torment, deserved to have his life ripped from him, just as he’d done to Mohammad, to Radia. That was why Mohammad was there, why he’d been resurrected.

The hunter placed his head back down, wrapping his arm around the woman, and fell again to sleep.

Within the residing silence, Mohammad discovered the hunter’s fate as it hung frail in the balance, the man’s life lingering there in the palm of his tightened fist.

The hunter fell from the bed, retrieving his .45. “What is it?!”

Victoria was screaming.

“What’s wrong?!”

She stood, terrified, pointing at the hunter, her scream still resonating through the room.

“Victoria!”

“Jesus, James, behind you!”

He turned, his own breath escaping him when he saw the thing. There upon the wall, its color present in a stream of morning’s light, was placed yet another crimson hand print; and at its palm was etched a black number one.

“It was
fucking
in here!”

The hunter went to try the door–still locked. Impossible.

“Jesus, James!”

He thrust a finger to his lips. “Shut up for a second.” He could explain this. He just needed to think. He looked again at the handprint–larger than Victoria’s, definitely belonging to a man. He looked back at her. “Who is it, Victoria?”

Her breathing was shallow, a look of confusion on her face. “What?”

“Who did you let in here?”

“No one!” she snapped, flushed with offense.

“That’s the only thing that makes sense, Victoria.” He approached her, firearm still in hand. “Now tell me, who did you let in here last night?”

She took a step back. “No one, James.”

“Was it Rick?”

“Are you listening?! I said I didn’t let anyone in here!”

There was a sudden beating on the door. “Victoria, are you okay?!” It was Jackson, coming at the sound of her cry.

“Everything’s fine, Jackson,” he answered for her.

“You sure?” Jackson’s voice came again through the wooden barrier.

The hunter looked back at Victoria, pointing insistently at the door.

“Yes, Jackson,” she managed, “I’m fine.”

There was a long pause before the large man answered back; even then he seemed hardly convinced. Still, he left the door and walked back down the stairs.

“Don’t tell anyone.” He shoved a finger at Victoria. “They’re spooked enough already.”

“How the fuck did it get in here, James?”

“If you didn’t let him in, then I don’t know. But you can’t tell a soul, understand?”

She nodded finally, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Jesus, James.”

The hunter tapped the end of the .45 against his temple, exhaling deeply. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not; but it sure seemed like real fear Victoria was emitting. His gut told him she was telling the truth, in which case he didn’t know what to believe. No one else held a key to his quarters, and he’d already considered the most rational explanation.

You reap what you sow, James.

He’d had the most vivid dream of Andrea that night, remembered it so clearly. She seemed sad, disappointed, and that was all she’d said to him in the haze of their meeting, just before she walked away.