Chapter 21 – Bad News

John sat in stunned silence. Not only had they completely failed to find Paul but the tooth from the girl that had attacked him was indeed the same girl that had died from a deadly and invasive virus in the very lab complex that he now sat in.

He had sat at that very desk and read the report of her death and the complex problems of legalities of a living will.

She had died! There was no way she was alive. But if she was alive then so too might Paul still be. If Paul was alive then what was happening to him? He might be in pain.

What was worse was that the tooth carried saliva, which carried the virus, but there was extra DNA in the tooth sample. The extra DNA was viral.

The implications of this retro-viral discovery was staggering. In theory some one could be attempting to re-write human genetics. In John’s opinion, this was a very bad thought. Worse still, was the very bad thought that: it might be a natural phenomenon?

Whatever the truth it meant that something had to be done about it and soon.

He tried not to think about the cut on his hand. What if he had caught the virus that had clearly sent Margaret mad?

It was late and he knew he should be going home but he could not get his mind around the possible implications of these discoveries.

“What now?” He asked himself.

Jackson and the homeless guy had looked at each other for what seemed like hours before the homeless guy spoke up again: “You died,” he said, “you’s a member of the night crew now, ssson.”

“What do you mean?” Asked Jackson

The homeless guy looked at him: “got any sssmokes-ess?” he asked.

“No, tell me what you mean.”

“No smokesess, no ssstory.” Said the ragged man. “I’ll be right here collecting moonlight when you gets back.”

“What?” Asked Jackson. This old man of the streets was mad.

“Got smokesss yet?”

“No,” said Jackson, he hoped that this man did have answers. He hurried on.

Huso prowled the streets. The Cowboy was here and he would take this opportunity to have his revenge. After that, he determined, he would learn what the nature of the game was.

Up ahead was the Cowboy looking at him. Huso cursed silently. He had been too wrapped up to look properly. His pride had made him rash.

The cowboy cocked his rifle and pointed it at Huso.

Huso froze measuring the distance between himself and any cover and estimating his chances of getting to The Cowboy before a shot was fired. It did not look so good for his revenge plan.

“Talk, dog.” Ordered The Cowboy sharply.

Huso remained silent. He fixed his eyes on The Cowboy. The Cowboy stared him in the eyes and said nothing.

Without breaking eyecontact, The Cowboy demanded, “Tell me your target,” and with a menacing snarl, he stepped forward.

In a parked car, not so far away a man in a black business suit and dark glasses sat and watched.

The stare-out continued.

Huso knew that if he broke contact The Cowboy would fire unless he spoke up.

“I am here for Anabellus.” He said with a grunt and looked down. He hated The Cowboy for more reasons every year.

In a single movement, the cowboy slung his shotgun over his shoulder and launched a silver throwing-knife at Huso.

It landed square in his chest.

Huso looked down at the classy blade and said only: “You Bastered,” as his hands came up to his chest.

The Cowboy was gone.

Huso stood in the road. The pain was quite something and he vowed he would have his revenge. He palled at the knife but the backwards-facing spikes made agonising and slow work of the removal.

The man in black stepped from the car and walked towards Huso. Huso heard him and turned to see who approached. He saw the man in black and fear filled his heart.

Huso pulled at the knife it moved jerkily forward with an agonising ripping movement. Blood was running freely from Huso’s chest.

“You have failed. I will inform you masters of your end.” Said the man in black.

The blade ripped free and Huso instinctively launched it at the man in black embedding the blade into the man’s throat.

The man in black stopped in total shock. His hands reached for the blade as blood started to pour freely from a damaged artery.

The man in black blinked twice.

“God damn,” he tried to say to the empty street as blood poured from his mouth.

Jackson reached the twenty-four hour garage and walked in. He staggered up to the counter and fixed his eyes on the cashier.

The cashier stood with his eyes locked into Jackson’s. This ragged young man with the eyes of god himself it seemed was staring into his soul. He felt all desire melt away and stood without thought or feeling.

“Give me cigarettes,” ordered Jackson, “and food,” he added.

The man silently obeyed. Acting in a trance like state, he put a five hundred carton of cigarettes, several large packets of biscuits and several randomly selected pre-packaged sandwiches into a carrier bag.

Jackson handed him a number of additional items and then simply took the bag from the man. The man stood without reaction as Jackson left the premises only when another customer came in sixteen minuets later did the man start to realise something was wrong.

Jackson ambled along the road remembering the joy of smoking cigarettes. Something had happened, something mystical and magical. Something unusual had happened at the shop.

Jackson did not understand.

He hoped that the tramp would still be there. He needed answers to questions he did not understand

“Got sssmokes?” asked the voice in his ear. The voice rattled and tickled and hissed a little.

“Here.” Said Jackson handing him the entire open packet. “I didn’t have to pay for them.”

“Ssstole’d it did we?” Asked the tatty man rolling his “s” into long sounds.

“No. I did not get asked to pay.” Said Jackson

“Oh I sees” said the tatty man. “You’s is a charmer fledgling, how unusual.”

“What are you blithering about old man?” Asked Jackson. The hunger was returning.

“Hases you got a nice warm place an ol’ man can warm his handses?” asked the strange and tatty tramp. “I will tell you great secretses.”

Maggie walked along the street. A few streets ahead she knew there was the house where Peter lived. She turned a corner and The Cowboy placed a revolver barrel to her forehead and cocked the gun with his powerful thumb.

“Talk to me, fledgling.” he said.

“Fuck you!” said Maggie in a rage.

“Obey.” Shouted The Cowboy and knocked her clear across the road.

She landed heavily banging her head several times. Pain flooded her senses and for a few moments, she did not know what was real and what was pain. She started to cry uncontrollably and wiped at her face angry that her makeup was now ruined.

The Cowboy lifted the laughable black obsessed child from the floor and pulled he into his face: “Name?” He demanded.

“Margaret.” She sobbed.

“Who is your master, Margaret?”

“What?” she wept.

“Who made you? Who owns and controls you – you silly bitch.” Growled The Cowboy.

“My Lover?” she answered questionably trying not to cry again.

“Give me a break.” Said The Cowboy, “just tell me the god-damn-name.”

“Anabellus.” She sobbed.

“Thank you,” said The Cowboy, “Now I will do you a favour in return. Your silly goth-girl fantasies are going to get you killed.”

Maggie burst into tears again and hung there limply just crying.

The Cowboy muttered, “I have no time for this” and threw her back across the road.

Luke, Angelina, Jackson and The tramp sat huddled around the fire. The Tramp smiled, he liked it here. It was a good den, one of the better fledgling nests he had found in his time. It would be good to prime these children and send them out to stir things up.

He dropped his hissing street accent and spoke now with a clipped upper-class English accent: “Let me tell you what you really hunger for,” he said.

John left the office. His nerves were shot to hell and he felt he was coming down with the flu.

He decided that he was going to take a few days off. He reached to car and found a note.

“You are dieing. Don’t worry about it.”

“What the hell?” he asked aloud.

Paul awoke again. The air was stale in here. He punched at the box. It shook a little and he punched again and again, on and on slowly breaking the soft chipboard top.

After a while, he passed out.

The night drew to a close. The sun began to rise and the day began.

Inside the apparently deserted house, four individuals went to sleep.

The day carried it’s own worries and cares. Police investigated blood spilt liberally over the road and then other people came and hosed it away.

John slept most of the day and knew that he would have to take some time off from work.

Peter pined away the day in his room thinking only of the girl he could not have. He wrote several dark and moody poems of limited artistic worth during the day and ate pizza.

Other people did other things and the day grew old and the sun set and the night began.

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Chapter 20 – Enter the cowboy

A car pulled up near to Geoff Maxman’s newsagents. It was a strange looking faded black estate car with blacked out windows. It idled for a few moments and then the engine cut out.

Geoff Maxman watched as the driver side door opened slowly. A strangely dressed man was sitting in the car. Looks like an American, thought Geoff.

He stepped from the ancient looking battered estate car and looked around. They called him simply: “The Cowboy”. They had called him this for so long that he no longer thought of himself by any other name. He stood at exactly six foot five in his boots and had the stance of a man who expected the world to give way to him. He dressed as always in black trousers and a clean white shirt with a black old-fashioned thick cotton waste coat. The wind had risen slightly since the night before but his thick, leather, riding coat failed to move more than slightly in the breeze.

The Cowboy was a rough looking man with a weather beaten face and strong rough hands. He clothes looked plain, hardy and of substantial quality.

The Cowboy pushed his coat aside and removed his pocket watch. It was a pure silver affair covered with fine engraved image of a strong looking horse fighting with a large serpent. He depressed the button and the case opened to reveal a handmade ivory face with minute gold numbering. The hands of the watch were fashioned from the pure black ebony to look like snakes crawling around each other.

It was early in the night.

He snapped shut the case and returned it to its waistcoat pocket.

The Cowboy opened the boot of the car and slung a shotgun by its leather strap to his back. He pulled two silver hand crafted knives from the leather sheaths, tossed them into the air and caught them again. He replaced the knives and strapped them to his wrists. Then he removed two ancient heavy revolvers and placed them in holders hidden within his coat.

The Cowboy hated to travel without his weapons but the ridiculous gun laws of this country meant that to do otherwise was to invite unnecessary trouble.

He stood and smiled. It was going to be a good night.

He lifted the floor of the large boot open to reveal a small armoury of blades and bullets. His eyes glanced expertly over the vast array of weaponry.

He selected the throwing knives, the small hatchet and two hand grenades. All these along with a vile of strong reactive acid he expertly hid upon his person before arming the bolt trap, closing the boot and locking the car.

There was going to be some answers to be had tonight for someone in this ugly empty little English town.

Paul opened his eyes. It was dark and he could not move. Something was wrong but he could not understand what. He felt sleepy and closed his eyes again.

He could not think where he was. He was vaguely aware of needing the toilet but could not think of his own name.

He opened his eyes. He seemed to be in some kind of box. The sides felt solid and the top seemed close.

He pushed the top and nothing happened.

He felt weak.

He closed his eyes again and drifted into a temporary sleep. His mind filled with ideas about flowers.

He opened his eyes again and pushed at the lid.

His hands trembled but he felt no fear just confusion. Why was he in a box?

Who was he?

What should he do next?

His mouth was dry and his eyes stung a little. Breathing seemed hard.

He was trapped and that was all he knew. He closed his eyes again.

Sleep claimed him once more.

Huso Tristram was a dark haired and young looking man. His father had been oriental and it showed clearly in his features.

He hunted the night with a skill that was unmatched by any he had encountered, although it was rumoured that the semi-mythical Keeper of The Book was in a class of his own.

Huso did not believe in the keeper of the book, he believed only in his skill with a blade.

He was in the town to carry out the will of another. The hunter was still under the direction of the hunt master but here in the open he was the lord of the world. Through skill and expertise, he was the ruler of the night.

He stood in the centre of the park and did not feel exposed. He had seen the arrival of The Cowboy and did not like it. He had lost track of his quarry last night when it had caught some clue of his presence and bolted suddenly.

The night was still and the park was dark.

Huso listened to the sounds of the night and used them to gage the activities of the town. This was a particularly disturbed town and it troubled him that he had not been permitted to silence it.

He could hear the cattle in their cars and buses, the mindless drones watching mindless boxed entertainments and the pointless workers talking about pointless topics. The breeze carried the edge of sounds to him and although to most people the sounds were meaningless and garbled background noise to Huso, they told the stories to which he was listening.

He caught a sound that suggested the presence of his quarry.

The park was empty.

Maggie’s jaw ached from were she had been hit. The gums around her once perfect teeth that felt so beautiful were now sore and inflamed where the stupid ape had hit her and broken a tooth.

“Now you know we are not invincible.” Anabellus had scolded.

She had shouted at him and demanded that he kill the whole stupid family. He had remained infuriatingly calm and unflustered and that just upset her further. She had raged and screamed her hatred at him and then wept and shed tears until he comforted her

Finally, when she had vented her rage and bitterness he had asked if she had bitten or cut any of the family she had attacked.

She felt guilty and foolish, as this was something that he had told her she must never do.

She denied it and felt a little bad. It was strange that she should feel bad now. His hold over her was growing and his influence was working its way deeper into her unconscious mind.

She hated him for it. She hated him a little more every day. He had lied to her about the nature of the night and now he tried to keep her penned up and limited her use of her newfound abilities. He tried to make he act as if she was still the frail and useless being she had always been. She hated him for all that and said nothing.

Anabellus held her and they said nothing togeather. He knew that this breaking of illusions was far harder on her than anything else that she had been through in order to be with him.

He reached into the top pocket of his large grey overcoat.

“This,” he said, “is an ankh, the Egyptian symbol of eternal life.”

I know, thought Maggie. She looked enviously at the large ankh it was immensely ornate and fitted snugly in the palm of his hand. She wanted it.

“Life has more than one meaning,” continued Anabellus, “the Egyptians believed in life after death.” He held the ankh by the top and held it out in front of her. “They hoped for it, just as we now enjoy it.” He said and pulled the top from the bottom to reveal a sharp fine blade like a surgeons scalpel.

She gasped and looked at the item in awe. She wanted it more than ever. It would be so much more elegant to take a victim with that than to bite and tear at him or her.

She reached for it but he moved his hand away.

“This tool is far older than you know,” he said.

“It was given to me by my mentor and now I am going to give it to you.” He resheathed the tiny blade and said: “The blade is made from carefully folder steel. It will never grow blunt but you must clean in quickly or it will corrode the fine finish and become useless.”

“Okay.” She said reaching for the blade again. This time he let he take it.

“It is best used in the art of the seductive kill.” He said.

She smiled. That she understood very well.

Outside another car drove by. No-one noticed its passing but it carried a very important man. Dressed in a plain black business suit and wearing classic black sunglasses he drove though the night.

On the out skirts of the city a homeless man walked slowly into the town. Those that knew him called him The Meddler although no one knew his real name. It is rumoured that he has vast resources of wealth although it is more likely he is simply extremely resourceful.

Huso stood in the shadow of a large tree and watched the road in disbelief. He refused to believe that he had just seen the being he thought he had.

Huso stood unmoving for a long time. This assignment was meant to be simple: watch, assess and dispatch. Things were getting complicated. It could only mean that powerful men were playing a game and this town was fast becoming the flash point. Huso had no intention of being burned.

Jackson guts ached despite the food he had just eaten. He had volunteered to go out and get food and the others still ill had let him. Now he was on the road he had no idea what to do.

A tramp shuffled along up ahead. The sight of the man made Jackson feel hungry again. Jackson could almost sense the pulse in the man and he hungered when he thought of it.

It was illogical.

“What is happening to me?” he asked the air.

“You have died.” Said the tramp in his ear.

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