The Night Sheriff, page 18
There are shocked exclamations and muttered prayers as the scene loops a few more times. “Yes, it’s real; no, they were not kidding. It’s been infesting the park for less than a week.” He faces the new officers and taps his podium for emphasis. “Your test results show that you know how to keep a secret. Here’s your chance to prove it. You don’t talk about this to anyone outside the job. You don’t talk to non-security personnel. You don’t talk to the press. You don’t talk to family. You don’t talk to your priest.
“You wanna be able to face the Lord on Judgment Day and say that you had a hand in taking this abomination down? Then a buttoned lip is the price of admission. You can’t do that? You walk now.” None of the assembled men stir. It is obvious that they want to be in on this. The presenter nods in satisfaction. “Your most powerful weapon is the Light of the Lord.” He hoists up what appears to be an overly large flashlight. Seeing it, I pull back quickly, and thus when the expected flare of light fills the room, I’m safely beyond its effects. He clicks it off and I drift back. “That’s God’s sunlight, and the creature will do everything it can to avoid it. You will each be issued one of these, as well as a head-mounted unit.” He puts the light down. “And now,” he says with a smile, “let’s talk about ammo.”
An appreciative murmur goes through the group. The presenter holds up a cardboard box. “The Zenon Corporation has got your backs. These are the most nonregulation bullets you’re ever going to see. Ceramic-tipped dumdums that deliver a payload of holy water, silver, and cold iron.” The crowd applauds.
Bone Cat looks at me with raised eyebrows. I shrug back. I don’t know if those would kill me, but I know they would hurt. More and more, avoidance sounds like the strategy of choice. I look out at the excited men milling about, examining their newly acquired equipment. They are totally unlike the security officers I am used to dealing with. Their eyes are practically glowing with religious zeal at the idea of being able to take down an actual creature of darkness. I think about these yahoos striding about the park like vigilantes, each determined to be the one to take me down, and I feel ill. The next few days will be dangerous.
A new thought intrudes. These men are dangerous to everyone, not just myself. I will be astonished if they don’t shoot one of our guests, or one of the other employees, within twenty-four hours. Whoever is behind this is an idiot. My eye falls on Bone Cat and I’m forced to reconsider. I know what an idiot looks like, but a genuine idiot would not be able to take over the Zenon Corporation. Everything I’m seeing tonight is indicative of a subtle and convoluted mind. One that has been planning and committing significant resources to this for quite some time. Aside from the material costs for lights and ammunition, they obviously had the power needed within the company to transfer, hire, and fire personnel at will. They also appear to know a great deal about me, while I do not even know why they are after me. How I wish I still had access to Mr. Shulman and his files.
Suddenly, I realize that I very well might. Company policy states that when personnel are transferred, personal office material was be crated and shipped to them within a week, but the lads down in the shipping department tended to act as if that one-week interval was mandatory. Therefore there is a very good chance that those information-stuffed file cabinets are still here, waiting to be sent out along with the rest of Mr. Shulman’s things. If they are still here, they will be on the south loading dock. They will be locked, and booby-trapped to be sure, which will mean that it will take longer to go through them, but it is a concrete plan of action.
One convoluted journey via conduit later, and I am looking down at a large shipping pallet, stacked with recognizable bric-a-brac from Mr. Shulman’s office, and nestled at its heart are the two familiar orange file cabinets. There are also a half-a-dozen guards standing about, festooned with lights, looking like they are guarding a high-security facility in a bad science fiction movie. As if I would exit or enter through the loading dock. I mean, seriously, what are they thinking? I don’t even own an auto-mobile. But absurd or not, here they are.
Those damned lights change the equation enough that the best thing would be to draw them off. I think I can do that.
Thus, for the next several hours, until the park closes, I make a point of flitting about the northern sector. This is a bit of a risk, as two of the resting places they have not yet discovered are here, but I want to be seen as far from this particular loading dock as possible.
As I take pains to be seen skulking about, I cannot help but notice that even though I’m now believed to be a crazed demonic force of some kind, the park remains open. It displays a shocking disregard for the safety of our guests if they truly believe me to be as evil as all that.
I pause. It is shocking. Criminally shocking. Unbelievably shocking. The fallout from a monster rampaging through the park would be catastrophic. But upper management has not closed the park. Another moment’s thought and the answer is obvious. Whatever problem the mysterious Mr. Zoiden has with me, he has already shown that he knows all too much about me. I must conclude that he knows that I am not a monster, per se. He knows that the guests are perfectly safe, but he has manipulated perception to make it appear that I am dangerous. For the first time in a very long time, I am getting angry.
I continue to make my presence known. I assist two lost children, and excessively terrify one pickpocket (I do not know when I will next get a chance to eat properly), who I turn over to a lone security officer in full sight of a gaggle of kindergarteners. As it is, I almost overestimated the fellow’s self-control. For a moment, I fear that he will actually draw his weapon in public. Bone Cat distracts him at a critical moment, and I remove myself quickly. I resolve to keep my distance from these cretins for the rest of the evening.
However, my antics do have their desired effect, and by the time the parade is winding down, the northern sector is crawling with security personnel desperately trying to look like everything is normal. I cap off the evening by allowing myself to be seen as I dart into the stand of wood that girds the lake. To call it a forest is an insult to those vast, dark refuges that covered Europe for most of history, but it will be different enough terrain from the rest of the park that my pursuers will proceed cautiously, at least for a little while, which should be all I need.
I drift surreptitiously towards the nearest vent, and soon enough, I am once again observing the loading dock. Despite my best efforts, there is still a remaining guard. I grin. One is all too easy. Suddenly I feel the prickle of boney claws on my arm. I glance at Bone Cat, and he silently draws a finger across his throat. Death is near. I hear Mr. Mortimer inside my head, an unexpected echo from almost seventy-five years ago. Does it look too easy? he whispers. If they are still bothering with guards at all, there will be more than one.
I pause and examine the room more thoroughly. I extend my senses. Oh yes, there is someone else here. But … I cannot tell where they are hiding. I ooze around the edges of the room, examining the hidden nooks and crannies. Nothing. Whoever they are, they are very good. Still, there is only one hidden person. I’m pretty sure about that. And one-on-one, even without Bone Cat, I have a great deal of self-confidence.
I slide around until I am nestled within the lone guard’s shadow, then quickly flow upwards, engulfing the lower half of his face, along with his arms. He almost gets a shot off, but I insert myself behind the trigger and he pulls in vain. I feed quite well in the short time it takes him to pass out, and I lower him silently back into his chair. It is done so quickly and smoothly that I am confident that anyone making a random check on the monitors will notice nothing amiss. There is always the possibility that I was seen as I took him down, but I hear no alarms. I have Bone Cat scoot outside the door to keep watch.
There is no reaction from the rest of the room. This does not make me feel better. I can still sense the aura that intelligent beings surround themselves with, but I’m not getting any emotions. Anticipation. Boredom. Anything that might give me an indication of where this fellow is would be useful, but there is nothing. I wait for a minute, but I cannot assume that things will be quiet for long. I abandon subtlety, and head straight for the file cabinets. It is but the work of a moment to sweep aside (carefully, of course) the detritus blocking the drawer I want. The lock proves a slight challenge, but nostalgia and a healthy sense of mischief have kept me in practice over the years, and it quickly snaps open. I slide open the drawer—
And a punch tosses me halfway across the room. I had allowed myself to solidify more than I had thought. While my head is clearing, I see a massive form unfolding itself out from the file drawer, and then standing upright. This explains much. The second guard was not human, and—
Oh, for pity’s sake. It’s the McGoon. I feel a flash of annoyance. Whenever a member of the established supernatural community enters the park, they are supposed to let me know, out of courtesy, if nothing else. Obviously this was a trap, and the McGoon is here on behalf of the new owner.
In any organization there are those members who actually enjoy punishing back-sliders and recidivists. Amongst the local supernatural set, the poster child for that particular mindset was the McGoon. I never bothered to learn much about him. He claims that he was known as the Ketch back on that Emerald Isle he’s so excessively fond of going on about (Although if memory serves me, a ketch is actually a type of boat. I try not to judge. America is all about reinventing oneself.). He actively enjoys hunting people, and the one thing I do remember hearing is that if he gets ahold of you, he does not let go. He is also excessively large, unbelievably supple, and capable of patience.
Oh. And he can also extend his arms in a seemingly impossible fashion, as he demonstrates by reaching for me without moving. I dissipate almost completely, and his oversized, clawed hands close on little more than mist. I then feel a terrible ripping pain as he retracts his hands, and a handful of my essence goes with him. Ah. He really doesn’t let go once he has a piece of you. This is a magical attack I have never encountered before, and it’s a good one. I lose precious seconds coping with the unexpected pain.
Again his great hands stretch out, but this time I avoid them. The McGoon chuckles. “You can’t run, me lad,” he rasps in that bubbling liquid voice of his. “I hunt. It’s what I do.” He elaborately passes one of his hands under his enormous, pointed nose and sniffs deeply. “And I have the scent of you now. No matter where you run, no matter what burrow you rattle yourself into, I can find you and dig you out. Even under the light of the glorious sun.” He rubs his hands together. “So why don’t you just come here and let’s end this early and with a modicum of dignity, hey?” He then cracks his knuckles with a sound reminiscent of shattering walnuts.
Like many humans, the McGoon loves the sound of his own voice. With any luck, he’ll say something useful. He starts to circle the room, sniffing deeply as he goes. The sound of his sniffing may as well have been designed to brew terror in those trying to hide from him. I nod in admiration. I never could pull off a good sniff like that. Don’t have the sinuses for it. But I can appreciate artistry when I see it in others. Oh, but now he’s talking again. “I don’t really care why you went bad, old son. It happens. You look around and see the humans and you remember the good old days …”
The Good Old Days is a topic that, ordinarily, would keep the McGoon blathering for hours. Best to move things along. I alight upon a ceiling girder. “I did not ‘go bad.’ You’re being used.”
His hands move like quicksilver. Flowing towards me like impossible raindrops running up a windowpane, faster than the mind can comfortably comprehend. But I’m not there when they arrive. He gives a sharp-toothed grin. “Could be.” He shrugs, producing another set of rumbling pops. “But the client, you see, he knew the words. He paid the price. And he overpaid it enough that I’m willing to let any irregularities slide, if you know what I mean.”
“Client? What client? I thought you worked as a bouncer when you weren’t tracking down oath breakers for the Council of Shadows?”
The McGoon laughed. “Bouncin’ is fun, and no mistake, but the pay ain’t enough to keep me in style. Workin’ for the Council used to do nicely, but there ain’t too many oath breakers these days.” He shook his head. “No new members a’tall for a few years now, and the old-timers are either settled in, or else they cracked and I dealt with them a while ago.”
Suddenly he spun, and with perfect aim, his arm shot out and grabbed hold of me. It was neatly done. I allowed myself to be towed back. “So you’re hiring yourself out as an assassin?”
The McGoon spat. “That’s what the client called it, but that’s a fancy word, and I don’t cotton to it. I prefer hit man. It’s ever so much more accurate, don’t you know?” And then he hit me. I suppose he thought it was clever. It wasn’t, but the punch still hurt.
He had me within normal arm length now. I had to hurry. “Who hired you?”
As I thought, the McGoon couldn’t pass up an opportunity to talk. “He called himself Zoiden. Hans Zoiden.” He looked at me shrewdly. “And I can see you’re not surprised.”
I wasn’t, and now I know that Hans Zoiden is a man who was willing to deal with other supernatural creatures, but not me. “Did he say why?”
At this the McGoon frowned. “He did, but it didn’t make no sense. He said you had to face an assassin.”
I waited, but that seemed to be all he was going to say. “… I don’t understand.”
The McGoon smiled. “Well, I’m right pleased to hear you say that, old son.”
“You are?”
“Here I thought he was just bein’ a clever bugger. But if a smart feller like you, me lad, don’t get it, then myself, I don’t feel so bad. My thanks.”
“I have to face an assassin.”
The McGoon nodded. “That’s it.” He grinned again. “It don’t mean nothing to me, so as far as I’m concerned, you get to die for nothing.”
That sounded final, and I couldn’t count on us being alone for much longer. Time to wrap this up. As I feel his hands begin to tighten, I extend my neck and open my mouth, revealing my beautiful teeth. That startles him. You see, whenever I deal with the extended supernatural community, I endeavor to look as human as possible. If for no other reason than to try and set a good example. However, as a result, many of them have never seen the monster behind the façade.
I sink my teeth into that great sniffing nose of his, and he gives a scream like a horse set on fire. And there it is, a beautiful spike of pure fear that I latch onto and begin consuming. Almost instantly, the fear is replaced by rage, but it’s much, much too late. If I’m making direct contact, and latch onto a being’s fear, I can keep it flowing from that terrified part of my victim’s brain. Pull it forth. Grow it. Strengthen it. Amplify it so that it begins to overwhelm the other emotions.
But the McGoon will not go easily into that long good night. His hands tighten, and I think he’s trying to crush me. Futile, as I can become as tough as old boots. But no, he has me in both hands, and he is not letting go; in fact, I can feel his fingers digging into me, and then with a tremendous shock of pain, I feel him start to pull. He’s making an effort to literally rip me apart, and the pain is almost overwhelming. I pour as much of myself as I can into the slowly widening gap between the McGoon’s hands, but it’s agonizingly difficult to get past those terrible fingers.
I bite down harder, and it is the McGoon who cracks first. His right hand lets go and he desperately tries to rip me free from his nose, but my beautiful teeth have burrowed deep. The fear is running from him like a torrent now. Usually the McGoon is too stupid to feel fear. It requires a healthy dollop of imagination. But he feels it now, and he does not like it. He begins smashing himself against the walls, trying to scrape me off, rolling on the ground, and finally just clawing at me with ever-weakening hands. This is surprisingly effective, and I’m damned lucky he didn’t begin with this tactic. As it is, he’s peeling shreds of me off every time he swipes at me. But it is too little, too late. The fear is everything now. It fills his entire head and heart, and so unused to the feeling is he that the final shuddering spasm happens much quicker than I had anticipated. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. The McGoon contorts one final time, and then collapses to the floor and begins to crumble.
As I’ve mentioned, some monsters are born from human imagination working upon perfectly normal things that they didn’t understand. They will insist upon anthropomorphizing these things, trying, at a subconscious level, to animate them, sometimes for generations. Occasionally, these things oblige by coming to life. But almost every monster of this type still has that original mundane thing at its heart; a wounded animal, a slightly mad recluse, a skeletal-looking dead tree … Something like that, ensnared in local lore and rebuilt into something malevolent and cunning by unfettered imagination and wild magic.
The McGoon was reverting to that ur-state now. Once the life was stripped from him, the magic holding him together begins to dissipate as well. His flesh dissolves into stinking mud and his bones are revealed to be thorny sticks that would have caught and pulled the unwary, and with a final squelch, the terrible McGoon melts back into nothing more than the remnants of a peat bog, with a few stained brambles. His anime vitae remains buried until the bitter end, then makes a desperate dash for freedom. I snare it easily and study it with great interest.
Old in years and experience, this is still a young soul, in that this was its first time through. I usually try to make some allowances for first timers, especially when they get ensnared in one of these unfortunate animism situations. They never end well. But this entity had centuries to try to develop a little sympathy for the creatures around it. I find nothing like empathy within the thing flickering in my grasp.
However there is terror, and a new understanding that it is not omnipotent. A very important lesson for the young. I reinforce it with a final breath, infusing a touch of dread into its being that should make it a bit more cautious the next time around. I let it go, and it dissipates off to wherever things like that go. And seriously, I have no idea what happens after one dies. I mean, I know that there is some sort of recycling mechanism at work, it’s obvious, really, especially when you meet the same souls once or twice, but the specifics are a mystery to me, and, quite frankly, I’m okay with that.
