2. Demons
Armond Morrison
was a killer by choice. As a kid, he’d loved hearing stories about legendary
outlaws and assassins for hire, men of the shadows who seemed untouchable, invincible...men
who could evade entire police forces using nothing but their own intelligence
and physical prowess. That was when he first heard about the Dark Zodiacs –
an infamous band of terrorists who sought universal revolution. From that
moment on, he’d wanted to become one of them.
He made a name
for himself as a hired "gun," balking at no task. He killed women and
children without hesitation. Then one day, he stooped down to inspect the body
of his most recent target. The woman had the tattoo of a rooster on her ankle –
their mark.
Soon, they
came to him from the shadows. Beings of formidable power, asking him to join in
their ranks. He had executed the old Rooster, so he was to become the new
Rooster. He accepted the title with pride, invigorated by his sudden success.
But none of
that really mattered anymore, because at the moment, Armond was not doing any sort
of rising. Rather, he was falling – straight into the ground. This was
of no concern to Armond as his jaw hit the pavement, because his brains had
been blown out from the shotgun spray. At the age of 21, he, an attractive,
charismatic, drug-addicted killer dying a fool's death in a dirty alleyway.
The mission
wasn't supposed to turn out this way. He’d been searching for years, traveling
from town to town. The Snake had given him specific instructions: a Caucasian teenage
girl with a citrus psynergy aura. That third attribute was key, and also the biggest
problem, as trying to sense psynergy on Earth always gave one a crippling
headache. When things got boring, he would ‘accidentally’ target any girl who
struck his fancy. He was also happy to fill an entire street full of bullets
whenever he discovered a psynergy aura that wasn’t citrus, which is
exactly what he’d done a few minutes before he spotted his target. He never
worried. After all, how could anyone ever incriminate him if he didn’t carry a
gun?
After months
and months of searching, he’d found her – a petite teenager with an
unmistakably citrus glow. But right before he could claim his prey, a hole had
been blown through the back of his head, and now he was dying on the ground in
a pool of his own blood.
The teenager stood
frozen against the wall as she stared past Armond's corpse to her savior. He
was a broad-shouldered man who stood well over six feet tall, dressed in a tan,
wide-brimmed hat, a long duster coat, and snakeskin boots.
The man slung
a double-barrel shotgun over his shoulder, nudging his dirty-blond hair. An awkward
smile crept onto his face. "Cliff Walden at your service, miss. Vice-Captain
of the 4th division of the Dimensional Knights."
She stared up
at the stranger, trying her hardest to settle down and speak. "You...what?"
Cliff studied
her face. "You have no idea what’s going on, do you?"
"N-no," she stuttered. "He just started chasing me! I don't
know why!"
"A massive,
unidentified psynergy reading erupted from this area a bit ago. That’s why I’m
here. As for him..." Cliff dug his steel-toed boot into Armond's lifeless
back. "Guess we’ve got a puzzle on our hands. Not that it matters either
way. I’ve got no mercy to spare for a man who’d attack an unarmed lady."
The first tears began to fall down her cheeks. "Who are you?"
Cliff bent
down so that his eyes were at the same level as Armond's would-be victim.
"I come from a place called Despair," he began. "It's a desert
world. A great war turned it barren hundreds of years ago...we were one of the
first to be saved."
"Wait..." she stammered. "What?"
"When I
was a kid..." Cliff's eyes were lost, staring off into the darkness.
"I loved to see it rain. It would happen every couple of months, for a few
days at a time, and that would be the end of it. Everyone would rush out to
collect as much as they could...whoa, I'm getting off track here, aren’t I?
Anyway, when I grew up, I became a Dimensional Knight. And that, miss, is who I
am."
The momentary
relief that had filled her eyes was quickly replaced by unease as she watched
the ‘Knight’ slip into his nonsensical monologue. But Cliff seemed oblivious to
her confusion, and went on to fish in the dead man’s pocket for his car keys. As he did so, he noticed a small red tattoo
of a Rooster on the man’s wrist. His eyes went wide.
"A Zodiac..." he murmured. "I actually got a Zodiac? But
wait...why are they here? Why are they after you?"
"Shouldn’t we go to the police?" she asked warily.
"Come with me." He turned toward the Oldsmobile. "We'll
have to use his car. I came here on foot, you know."
Shakily, she walked
*************
up to the
large restaurant. The plastic 'Mark's Diner' sign signaled the end of Vance’s
journey for the night.
Unfortunately,
he knew that nothing good awaited inside. And it had only been a little over an
hour since his father dropped him off, so chances were that the ‘business
meeting’ was still in session.
A jolt of pain seared through Vance's back, knocking him forward into
the gutter. The clock flew from his hands and was quickly reclaimed by a dirty
man who smelled like a terrible mixture between alcohol and corned beef. Vance
coughed and pulled himself to his feet just in time to see the man escape into an
alley on the other side of the street.
First I get shot at, now I’m getting mugged...maybe Daryl was right
after all.
Go, a strange voice surfaced in Vance’s mind. Don’t let him take it.
Shut up, Vance quickly replied. Don’t tell me what to do.
Upon reaching
the other side of the street, Vance heard a soft creaking sound, and soon
spotted a rusty metal door in an adjacent alley. He carefully made his way over
to the crude portal, peeking into the depths of the vagrant's chosen hiding
place. It appeared to be an old storage room. Medicine bottles littered the
cluttered counter; the contents of ruined shelves covered the floor. Vance scanned
the mess thoroughly until he came upon a metal shutter on the opposite wall. He
managed to shove it open with a grunt, revealing a dark cement passage leading outside.
Vance continued,
following the ghostly glow that seeped through cracks in the brick and cement.
Grime covered each step, and sewage bubbled from various ruptured pipes along
the slanted walls. As he turned a corner and entered another passage, Vance
realized where he was going. Across the street from the diner, there was a parking
garage.
What, is he gonna
try and steal a car now?
Vance hurried
through the dark hall and burst out into the second floor. He peered across the concrete expanse and
just barely caught the end of a scuffle between the mangy man and an elderly
woman who was sitting in a brown Buick. Desperate, and clearly out of his mind,
the man ripped the woman from her vehicle with one hand and dove inside. Vance's
eyes widened, and the car
*************
zoomed down the
road as Cliff's eyes carefully scanned the streets. Spotting the flicker of
police lights down the road, the gunman sharply swerved the Oldsmobile in a
U-turn and began driving in the opposite direction.
"What kinda music you listen to?" Cliff asked awkwardly, as
he fiddled with the FM/AM radio.
She shuddered
softly. "Um, it doesn't matter." With every new moment, she felt more
and more unsafe. She had gone with Cliff because she wanted to feel that the
nightmare was over, that everything was okay again, but she was starting to
regret that decision now.
Cliff glanced at her nervously. "I don't believe I got your
name?"
"Oh."
She looked down and bit her lower lip. What have I done? He could be another
kidnapper, or worse...
"May I
ask for it?"
"Eden,"
she answered, raising her head. "I'm sorry for being so, I dunno, shy,
but...I’m scared."
"Well, you’re
safe now." Cliff moved his free hand and softly took hers. "You can
trust me. I’m not going to hurt you."
She froze, feeling
a stronger fear rise up into her throat. In the next moment, she recoiled,
pulling her hand back. Half of her wanted to trust him, while the other half
wanted to throw up.
"I can
sense psynergy in you," he said. "But I guess you don’t know what that
is, either. That must be why they were after you. How should I put this...well,
it’s hard to explain...hey, he shot at you, didn’t he? Are you okay?"
"I’m
fine," Eden quickly insisted, fingering the clean hole in her T-shirt.
"You
sure?" Cliff asked. "You aren’t bleeding or anything?"
"Where
are we going?!" Eden shouted. "Why do you need to avoid the police?
Because you killed that man? You were just saving me!"
"It’s more complicated than that." Cliff’s paranoid eyes continued
to scan the streets. "But now isn't really the time to explain!"
Suddenly, a black car turned out of a side alley, blocking their way.
Wheels screeched
*************
as Vance ran
in pursuit of the car. Behind the wheel was the clock thief, gripping the wheel
furiously with bony knuckles. The brown Buick skidded along the curving path as
it descended to the next level of the parking garage, leaving Vance in its
dust. Realizing that his legs alone wouldn't do the job, Vance leaned over the
edge of the cement barrier and looked down to the next floor.
With a quick
inhale, he hopped off the edge and landed roughly nine feet lower. His legs
hurt, but he could handle it.
Dashing around
the next loop, Vance caught sight of the car again. It swirled clumsily around
another curve, and he knew there was one way he could easily catch up with it.
After a few more seconds, he took a second leap downward and landed with a loud
smack on the dirty hood of the car as it continued to fly forward.
A half hour
ago, the teenager wouldn't have taken a flying dive onto a speeding car for
anything – or anyone, for that matter. But that clock had changed something
inside of him...and he would have it, no matter what it took.
This is a test.
Vance turned his
face up to the windshield, gritting his teeth furiously and staring at the
driver with desperate eyes. Fear colored the vagrant's expression, but Vance
could also see something cold and dead behind his eyes.
Then, the
driver’s eyes widened, and he began to panic. Keeping a firm hold on the bottom
of the windshield, Vance craned his neck around and discovered the problem. In
a few more seconds they would reach the garage’s exit, which was currently
backed up with a line of cars.
Vance turned back to the driver, and he felt an alien energy surge
through his body. At that point, everything around him ceased to exist – all he
could sense was the presence of some enigmatic power flowing out from the clock
that rested on the man’s lap.
Mom?
The windshield
of the car exploded. Glass filtered out in two steady streams past Vance's
shoulders. He rose to his legs and stood on the hood of the car as ribbons of
metal were shaved from it. Pieces of the engine dropped out alongside the brake
pads, fuel pump, and cleaved pistons. The hubcaps of the car flew out with a
deadly screech as the tires were severed by some invisible force. The frame of
the 1980 Buick fell to the ground, and all was quiet inside the parking garage.
The dazed vagrant's
mouth quivered as he looked up to Vance’s face. It wasn't the face of a sullen teenager...it
was something inhuman. As his body lit up like a beacon, the unearthly boy
gripped a windshield wiper with one hand and reached inside with another.
"Give...me...it!"
As if snapping
out of a trance, the dirty man shook his head, threw the clock off his lap and
scrambled out of the car. "It's a demon!" he screamed, wildly
throwing his body from one step to the next. "Our father...who art in heaven!"
Vance felt his
power shatter, and he collapsed on the hood of the ruined vehicle...just as the
clock's minute hand gave out a soft click.
Next: Subconscious Dread
