Vol 1, No. 47
Generation Gap
Part One: Pale Horse
Cover: Sebastian and Jason crouched on the edge of a high rooftop, looking down. Behind them, a human face is
superimposed over an almost-full moon. It glares down at them.
 here were already three people in the 'empty' club when he entered, and Damion "Hardface" Howell took a quick mental roll-call. Two of the men, Marion "Killa" Kelly, and Donald "Skinny" Knowles, he knew personally. They weren't friends. They weren't exactly partners either, because in Damion's line of work there was no such thing as partners. OR friends. They were associates.
The third man, Stanley "Preach" Wallace, was not an associate. Damion knew him only by face and reputation... neither of which he liked. Preach conducted business in the next town, which wasn't that far away but far enough to keep his business from intermingling with theirs. Preach's natural habitat was a hellhole that had no pretensions or aspirations of being anything else, partially because of what men like Preach... and, in fact, ALL of them... did for a living. But with Rock Springs there had at least been an effort to change the face of what they did, even if the nature of it remained essentially the same.
That effort was now over.
Until recently, Damion, Marion, and Donald had been part of a 'mutually beneficial business arrangement' that had kept the flow of drugs and money to a modest but acceptable level, and the flow of blood to a minimum. They liked that arrangement. The customers liked that arrangement. Hell, even the police liked that arrangement. The continuous rolling turf-battle that was the alternative (and normal) way of business didn't please anyone except reporters and undertakers.
Unfortunately, the 'arrangement' had gone up in flames when their two chief suppliers... their ONLY two suppliers... vanished on the same night. That had left the Rock Springs drug trade in a precarious position. A position that wasn't shared by Preach, who had his own suppliers who were eager to push into a suddenly vulnerable territory.
And so here they were.
Damion weighed the possibilities that he or one of his associates might be dead before the night was over.
Probably fifty-fifty. Killa was heavily armed, extremely impulsive, and permanently angry. Preach was a smooth-talker... the kind of man Killa had zero respect for.
Gunplay was a given. And when it happened, Damion had already decided who's side he was on.
Damion walked over to the stairway leading up to the VIP rooms. It was no accident that this was the one place that afforded a view of almost the entire club... an even better view than from within the more private VIP rooms themselves. All the lights were on. There were no dark corners... no shadows. They may as well have been standing in the middle of a supermarket.
It was also no accident that everyone was standing up despite the chairs and tables cluttered around the large, empty room. Standing up kept meetings short and reaction-times low. Experience taught Damion that when something went down, the guy with his ass planted in a chair was usually the guy that got shot first.
"S'up," Damion said to everyone (except Preach) as he approached. For Preach he gave a simple nod of recognition. The nod said "I know who you are and I acknowledge the fact that you're standing here, " but stopped far short of cordiality. The group replied with the standard mumblings and muttering. Everyone checked everyone out. No weapons were on display, but it was a safe assumption that everyone was armed. Damion certainly was. Killa most definitely was.
"So what's this about?" he asked Donald.
"What it's about," Preacher answered... confirming Damion's suspicions even before the sentence was finished. "is a big hole in your distribution. Word is that the Family went out in some blaze of glory, leaving you fellas high and dry and low on supply." Preach smiled at them. Rows of crooked but perfectly white teeth gleamed. "Word ALSO is," he continued. "that even before the family went on to glory, you niggas was already on to somethin' else. They say that nigga Cole had you sellin' some new stuff-"
"We didn't talk about Cole's business when he was alive," said Damion with his characteristic deep near-monotone. "And we ain't about to start now that he's dead. Respect."
"Mmmhhmm" the other two associates added.
"Hey," Preach raised his hands and shrugged. "I'm not hear ta ask. I'm not a big fan of 'new'... except when it comes to new territory, new business, and new money. Which leads me to the reason I'm here."
"Why is that, exactly?" said Killa.
"Territory," said Preach. "You got no suppliers here any more. Not the family. Not Cole. Nobody. Rock Springs has been dry for a week, at least."
"I'm sellin plenty, what you talkin' bout?" said Killa.
Damion nodded in agreement. Skinny glanced at them both, a motion that the silent Damion saw and took note of. Might mean something. Might not.
"Nigga, what you SELLIN' is holdout and stockpiles that you shouldn't have in the first damn place!" Preacher said in a half joking, half chastising tone that no one in the room liked. "Stuff you shoulda sold a long time ago. Stuff you owe to other people... people who gonna come lookin for they product any day now. Stuff Cole told you to get rid of!"
"How do YOU know what Cold-"
"Nigga I KNOW!" Preach said with the fiery authority that earned him his nickname. "You niggas are diggin' a deeper hole just tryin' ta stay afloat. And soon that hole's gonna go all the way to hell. I'm here ta fix that."
"Fix that how?" Killa scowled. "You comin' in and takin over, is that it? We put it down for damn near ten years to earn ours, and now yo silly ass gonna step up and we all work for YOU now? Nah, nigga... I don't think so."
Silence.
Killa had gotten his nickname not because he'd killed someone... they'd ALL done that at least twice, and it was nothing unique enough to award a street name over. But Killa was different. He actually enjoyed the dirty work, and considered bloodshed the only course of action in most (if not all) circumstances. It didn't take much to set Killa off, and from the sound of the thug's voice, Killa's bullshit threshold had just been reached.
"I'm not tryin ta take any of what you got, nigga," said Preach. "I'm tryin' ta help you out of a bad situation. Yes, I'm gonna earn me some cash in the process, but ya know what? Niggas that's been puttin it down as long as you should know there's more than enough cash to go around. Am I right?"
"Say what you gotta say," said Damion... if only to speed things along to the unavoidable conclusion. He could see the gleam in Killa's eyes. As of now, Preach was in the difficult position of talking himself out of a bullet to the face. And he didn't even know it.
"You niggas need supply. Powder, crack and meth is what I'm offering."
"What quality?" said Skinny.
"The same as what you been gettin'. That is... assuming you're willin' ta sell blow and not that exotic stuff Cole had you pushin."
"That makes three."
The unexpected voice came from behind Damion. He turned quickly-
-but saw nothing except the empty club. Then he noticed that everyone else was looking as well, each man turning to look as if the last spoken words had come from behind him.
But there hadn't been four voices... just one. And one voice couldn't come from behind four different people each facing a different way.
Damion heard a single footstep and then caught a movement. He spun, drawing his weapon and aiming it at-
The wall.
The wall he'd had a clear view of during the entire conversation. The wall that had no doors or windows. The wall that was still as solid and unbroken as it had always been since the club's construction.
And yet, someone had just walked through that wall as if it weren't even there. Walked through it.
Damion's mind tried to wrestle with what he couldn't possibly have seen:
...walked...through...it...
He couldn't. He couldn't believe what had just happened, and yet he HAD to... because it made perfect sense! It was logical. It was even expected: Of COURSE the owner of the unexpected voice had just walked through a solid wall. After all... the intruder WAS dead and that IS what dead people did, isn't it?
"That makes three times you've said my name," said Cole. Cole was dressed in a white silk suit.... white coat...white tie... white shoes... that was the sharpest thing Damion had ever seen in his life. Not just regular white, but a SPOTLESS kind of white that seemed to glow with a light all its own. Damion knew that even if the room went suddenly and completely black, he'd still be able to see that damned suit. Caught like a fly in syrup, Damion found himself squinting as he tried futilely to break his stupid, gaping-mouthed stare.
Cole stepped toward them... a perfectly ordinary motion made surreal and more than a little sinister by that fact that he was dead. Cold and clean and sharp and infinitely more dangerous than anyone else in the room, Cole's eyes glanced at the assembled men... who now seemed less like men and more like shivering wet vermin in the presence of something divine.
They were all caught now. Even Preach.
"You know what they say about the devil," Cole continued. His voice was louder. Clearer. ...sharper... "Speak his name too many times and you earn yourself a personal visit. Well... here I am."
"C-Cole?"
Damion had no idea who said Cole's name. He didn't care. There was no force on earth that could tear his eyes away from Coles'... Cole's...
...glory?
"wh-what the hell is happening to me?" Damion mumbled. The words barely struggled there way out of Damion's bedazzled brain, and by the time they reached his mouth they were nothing but an inaudible whisper.
"I thought you were dead," said Preach.
"Rumors of my death... turned out to be true," Cole replied. He was standing among them now. Damion desperately wanted to be somewhere else... but part of him wanted nothing more than to stand there and bask in Cole's presence for as long as he was allowed. And that part was in control of Damion's legs. "But I'm not even in the ground yet and here you are trying to take over what I died for. I build a house and you're just going to move in, Preach? Like it's yours... .like you OWN it or something? I don't think so. This ain't Habitat for Humanity, bitch... so scurry on back to your hole before I change my mind about letting you walk out of here."
"What is this, some kind of joke?" said Preach. Damion managed to drag his eyes away from Cole long enough to take a look. Preach was scared, sweating, and visibly struggling against.... something. Whatever glamor had ensnared Damion's mind was working on Preach as well. But it was working slowly.
Too slowly.
"What'd you do... fake your own death just to see what happened?"
"Wasn't nothing fake about my death," Cole replied. "But if that gives me the opportunity to see what comes crawling out of the corners when the lights are out... fine. Now... are you gonna walk or are you gonna die, because talking isn't an option."
"I-" Preach started to say something.
Cole shot him.
Damion saw him do it, and even though his eyes and his brain were in total agreement on what happened, SOMETHING about the instant Preach died reeked of something darker than a mere bullet to the face.
Cole reached for the gun that was hidden under his perfectly white coat.
Preach reached for his weapon too, but Cole was faster. No one moved when the Black Gun swept into view and announced its presence with the resounding and familiar BOOM of a large calibre handgun... a sound that seemed a bit TOO loud, as if in attempt to hide its true self. Preach recoiled as if shot-
AS IF shot...
...and yet, Damion's eyes detected no blood on the man as he fell. Preach hit the floor dead and motionless. Without a wound on his body.
Cole twirled the Gun on his finger like a old western movie star. The weapon cast off faint wisps of black into the air as it moved. Smoke? No. Something else. An instant later, Cole swept his white coat back and dropped the Gun into the holster that SHOULD have left a bulge when the coat fell back over it. But it didn't. Both Gun and holster disappeared into the ether the instant they were no longer visible.
Preach, however, remained dead.
Cole flashed a faint smile at the cooling corpse, then looked at the others.
"Gentlemen," he said. "I'm assuming that everybody here is still committed to our previous arrangement? Business is business, after all. The white man's business doesn't stop when one man dies, so why should mine?"
"Yeah," said someone. It was spoken slow and muted... like a dream.
"Mmmhmmm..." said someone else. Damion was once again fascinated by Cole and couldn't look to see who. Somewhere, somebody nodded silently.
"I'm in," said Damion. "Was never out. I woulda killed that nigga myself if you hadn't shown up."
"I know," said Cole. "But don't you worry. I'm more than capable of doing my own killing."
"Right. Right." said Damion.
"Speaking of which, I have product to move. The sellers are anxious. People on the street still want a piece of heaven, and I'm still the only man to give it to 'em. For a price. You three get your cell phones out and start calling. Everybody who was down before is gonna be down now..." Cole looked at Preach. "...one way or another. Competition will not be tolerated. Get me names of who's in and who's not by the end of the hour."
"What happens then?" said Killa. Damion could hear the eagerness dripping from the words.
"Then we're goin for a little ride," said Cole. He smiled adding: "and hell followed with him."
" o what do you think?" Ashley glanced back into the hallway, where the real estate agent was still engrossed in a phone call. "Be honest."
"Honestly," said Soloman, regarding the empty master bedroom with unveiled boredom. "This isn't what I had in mind."
"Really? You don't like it?"
"It isn't what I had in mind when I asked to set aside some time to spend with me. I have things to show you. Things to teach you. But we've spent all day looking at houses."
"Two houses! We looked at two houses!"
"And -"
"You wanted to get away from Jason and everybody... well here we are and here they aren't. Just you and me."
"And a real estate agent."
"I'm sorry if I can't go sit in the woods and meditate all day, but I don't live in a monastery. I live in the real world-"
"This, from a psychic that hunts demons."
"-and I have responsibilities. ONE of which is find us a place to live other than that cheap hotel. So what do you think? Honestly?"
Soloman sighed and shook his head.
"Don't like it?"
"I think eight rooms is a bit much."
"No, see, there's five of us... six if we count you. There's already a library and-"
"I can guarantee you that I will not be staying here. Even if I was invited, which I will assuredly NOT be. Wait a moment... five?"
"Yeah. Me, Sebastian, Jason, Donovan and-"
"You're giving a ghost his own room?"
"Ye...w.... well when you say it it just sounds silly."
"That's because it is."
"I like it. I think it'll be perfect. Sebastian can have a room to play with his swords. Goode can have a lab. There's a basement for Jason to shoot things in. There's a library for... ummm... whatever."
"That would be books."
"Eh-heh..." Ashley gave a fake laugh and glanced at the real estate agent again. "And what's better, that guy is desperate to get rid of this place. It's been on his books for three years and I bet he'll sell it for half what it's worth."
"And you know this... how?"
"I read his mind."
"Ashley," The condescending, disappointed town came down like fast-moving shadow. "Have you not even paid attention to-"
"Joking... joking..."
Soloman gave her a doubtful look.
"Research? Internet? Computers? Hellooo... twenty-first century...? This place has been on the market for a while. He's gotta be desperate by now."
"And do you know why he's so desperate-"
"Shhh..."
"So this is the last room," The real estate agent said with a tired, practiced smile as he entered the room. He didn't look hopeful. The man was obviously just going through the motions, not expecting an actual sale out of his efforts. "What do you think?"
"Too big-"
"Perfect," said Ashley. "I'll talk to my... uhh....people, and get back to you. I'm sure they'll love it."
"Tell them I'm always available for another tour," said the agent. Hope? Just a glimmer?
"That won't be necessary," said Ashley. She was thinking that she could just re-create the mansion in Sebastian's mind if he cared... which he probably didn't. Goode didn't matter, and Jason had more important things on his mind. The decision was basically up to her and Donovan... and Donovan didn't need a tour guide to see the house. The ghost didn't even need a key. "I'll get back to you in a couple of days and we'll talk price."
"Oh. Okay." The agent was confused, but eager. Eager to get out of the house before something happened to spoil a potential deal. Or before something happened PERIOD. That, Ashley DID pick up from reading the man's mind. "Downstairs, then..."
The man ushered them to the door and gave Ashley yet another business card (she already had two, but that was a harmless little neurosis brought on by his growing anxiety). He stuck around just long enough to see Ashley and Soloman drive away in Soloman's car... then he darted for his own vehicle.
He would have a drink when he got home. Just one... but it would be a strong one. Very strong. When his wife and daughter came home, he would make love to the former while secretly wishing it was the later. One day, it would be. Ashley saw this, too.
"Mission accomplished," said Ashley. "God, some people are disgusting."
"Then stay out of their minds," It will improve your impression of humanity a thousand-fold."
"Yeah, but that'd be a lie, wouldn't it?" said Ashley. "Do you know what that guy-"
"I don't want to know. Neither should you."
"Whatever," Ashley dismissed her father with a wave of her hand. "I found us a place... now how about some Help Me dinner? You can talk alllll you want while I'm eating."
"Pardon?" Soloman gave her a confused look.
"What?"
"Did you just say 'Help Me'?"
"Uhhh, noooo..."
"Yes. Yes you did, I'm quite sure of it. You said 'Help Me' right in the middle of what you were just saying."
"Right dad. I think I know what words come out of my mouth when I'm talking, and I did NOT say 'help me.'"
Soloman looked at her a moment longer, then shook his head.
"Wishful thinking," Ashley added. "You WANT me to ask for your help, so you heard me say it even though I didn't."
"Possibly," said Soloman. "By the way..."
"Yeah?"
"The house we just left..."
"Yeah?"
"The one you want your friends to live in?"
"Yeaaaah?"
"You DO realize that its haunted, don't you?"
"Yeah, I did. Thanks."
"Any time."
 ason hauled himself up onto the rooftop with a deep grunt. He immediately rolled onto his back and peered up at the sky while his breath caught up with him.
"...oh man..." he gasped. "...this sucks."
Not far away, Sebastian spared Jason a quick glance, then went back to watching the alley below.
"Oh, I'm fine, thanks," Jason said as he stood up.
Sebastian raised a set of binoculars to his eyes to examine something more closely. A second later, he lowered them.
"All the buildings around here with a view of that street," Jason began. "Do you pick one with an elevator or a stairwell leading to the roof? No. Noooo you pick one with a ladder. A broken ladder. And a rope."
"Adequate view. Least likely to be disturbed."
"And most likely to have me bust my ass trying to get up here. My arms still feel like wet sandbags."
"Happens when you exert yourself too much in beast form," said Sebastian. "Especially when you're not used to it."
"Yeah well I wish somebody would have told me that BEFORE. Anything yet?"
"No."
Jason joined Sebastian at the edge of the roof. Sebastian's gear... consisting of a black backpack, binoculars, a night-vision scope, cell phone, two sharp stainless-steel swords, a collection of hunting knives, a large bottle of spring water and a small flask of holy water... was arranged around the overturned bucket that was his chair. Jason stepped around the meticulously placed equipment and looked over the edge.
"Garbage. Cockroaches. Flies. Demonic passageway to Hell. Nope, nothing new."
"Can you see the portal now?"
"Uhhhh-no."
Silence.
"You have no sense of humor, you know that? I don't know what she sees in you."
Silence.
"Sooo..." Jason looked at his watch. "I'm reporting for my shift. What're you gonna do while i'm up here roach-watching?"
"Hotel. Shower. Eat."
"Not gonna practice?" Jason nodded at the swords.
"Did that earlier."
"Of course you did. Might I make a suggestion?"
"No."
"Might be cool if you and Ashley hung out tonight. Together, I mean."
"Soloman is watching her, and Donovan is watching HIM. They've got it covered. She's safe."
"I didn't mean keep an EYE on her. I meant... Maybe check out a movie. Watch the sunset. That sort of thing."
"Why would I do that?"
"Are you kidding me?"
Silence.
"Dude," Jason shook his head and sighed. "Okay, you know she likes you, right?"
"Yes."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"Donovan-"
"Leave Donovan out of this. Tell me what YOU-"
"I can't. He made the mistake of getting attached. It cost him. I'm not going to repeat his mistake"
"Attached? You make it sound like he had a tapeworm, not a girlfriend."
"That's what she turned out to be."
"A tapeworm?"
"Actually something very similar. There's this type of demon that-"
"I do NOT want to hear what your mother turned into. Okay? Please? Please don't tell me. Even if I ask. Please."
"Fine."
"Trust me on this, Sebastian: The girl likes you. She doesn't give a damn about what you do for a living, what the dangers are, or this whole 'half a soul' nonsense you've got going on."
"It's not nonsense-"
"Yes it is. You've got half a soul. You've got nothing inside but hate and anger... which comes in handy when its time to kill things. Hell, I knew people like that in my NEIGHBORHOOD when I was growing up. My DAD was like that after my brother died. But I didn't see any demons running around taking bites out of souls. What you've GOT, Sebastian, is a messed-up childhood... same as a lot of other people. Maybe Donovan did the best he could given the circumstances... or maybe he had an ulterior motive for screwing up your mind. Whatever the reason... whatever happened in the past, you've got to deal with the here and now and stop using your past as an excuse."
"So now you're here to lecture me?"
"Look, man... I may not be the best Knight in the world. I may not even be alive right now if it wasn't for you."
"You definitely wouldn't be."
"But I know a good bit more about actually LIVING than you do. I've seen people mess up their lives by doing things wrong... and I've seen even more people mess up their lives by not doing anything at all when they had the chance. Well... here's your chance. This has nothing to do with Ashley; it's all about you. You're at the crossroads. Up until a few days ago your life was all planned out. Either you'd become a Knight like your father, or you'd die trying. That door is closed now. But instead of sitting there staring at something you never could have had anyway, you could be looking around and noticing all those OTHER doors you've never seen before."
"I can't open those doors," said Sebastian. "They aren't for me. This life is all I've ever had."
"This life is all you've ever had until now. But by this time tomorrow, you could have that life PLUS a night out with a girl that thinks you're the greatest thing since Tom Cruise. This time next week," Jason shrugged. "...it's up to you. And that's what I'm saying: it's up to you. You may not like what's behind every door, but you owe it to yourself to at least take a peek."
Sebastian stared into the alley and said nothing.
"This is the first time you've heard ANY of this, isn't it?"
Silence.
"Well I'm sorry it had to come from me. I'm not the best at making speeches."
"You did fine," said Sebastian.
"So back to the matter at hand: What are you going to do about her?"
"I'm not sure." Sebastian looked back up at Jason. "I know what I should do, but that comes from Donovan... not from me."
"Do you like her?"
"I..."
For an instant, Sebastian looked like someone else. Someone younger... a confused and vulnerable young man who had no idea what to do. His face never changed, however.
It was the eyes.
"You don't know, do you?" said Jason.
Sebastian shook his head.
"How do you know?" he asked.
"You just do, man. It just sort of... happens."
"But what does it feel like? How do I know if... what do I do?"
"Okay," Jason nodded. "Fine. You're a 'take orders' kinda guy, so I'll help you out just this once. Here's what you do: Gather up all your little toys here and climb back down that rope. Call Ashley, and ask her if she had any plans for dinner. Whatever she actually SAYS...the real answer will be 'no'. Ask her what her favorite restaurant is. Tell her you'll take her there at..." Jason checked his watch. "Nine. Just you and her. No Soloman. No Donovan. No demons. Just the two of you. Then call ME and tell me where you're going. I'll tell you what clothes you need to buy between now and then. Got it?"
"Then what?"
"Then go get the car detailed. Not just washed... detailed. I know a place downtown on fourth street. You'll have time to shop while they're working on it. By then it'll be almost eight. Hotel... shower... get dressed... Pick her up and go have dinner. Leave the swords in the car. Take a SMALL gun if you think you need one."
"And then what?"
"Then, during dinner, you're gonna do something so amazing that you’ll sweep her completely off her feet... while putting the matter of ‘do you like her or not’ to rest once and for all"
"What's that?
"You're going to listen."
"To what?"
"Her. Listen to her. Don't just sit there and nod your head... listen to what she says. This'll either come naturally... or it'll be impossible. If it's impossible and all you end up doing is fantasizing about killing demons, then you know there's nothing there. But if it's like second nature... if you actually enjoy listening to what she says no matter what she's actually talking about..."
Jason shrugged.
"...what?" said Sebastian.
"Then you're in trouble. Now get out of here."
"What about-"
"What about nothing- You've got nothing better to do tonight and if something nasty steps out of that alley, I promise I'll call you. Get going. That's an order."
Sebastian looked doubtful for a second, then scooped up his belongings (except for the night-vision scope) and dumped them into the backpack. A minute later, Jason was alone on the roof.
"Kids," he said, shaking his head. He inspected the overturned bucket and then sat down on it, staring keenly into the alley for almost half a minute.
Then he got bored.
He looked around. There was nothing on the rooftop to interest him. There was a door leading to the stairwell, but that door had been first locked and then welded shut... a fact that he discovered only after mounting six flights of stairs.
He sighed lazily and looked into the alley again. Nothing had changed and there was nothing even remotely demonic about the dead end, despite Sebastian's insistence that he'd seen a demon disappear into a portal there.
Damn, how long ago had THAT been? Before the latest business with Braxis?
Jason frowned.
Braxis. And then Brite.
Zero for two. The last one he could place squarely on Soloman, but Braxis' escape was all his. He couldn't point to the single event or decision that lead to the good doctor's lack of a bullet to the face, so he had no choice but to assume he'd screwed the entire thing up from beginning to end. But how had he done THAT? Listening to Donovan? NOT listening to Donovan? What resources hadn't he used?
And why was he sitting here on a rooftop thinking about resources?
Jason looked around again, this time casting his attention past the rooftop and into the surrounding neighborhood.
Not too much happening THERE, either-
"Wha-?"
It was the car that caught his eye. An 80-something Lincoln convertible with fancy rims and a fancier paint job... pure white from top to bottom, inside and out. Typical drug dealer car; maybe a bit flashier than most. Ordinarily Jason wouldn't have given it a second thought. But the top was down and the driver... bedecked in white suit that looked as expensive as the car it was sitting in... was plainly visible.
The driver... and the roiling black hurricane that swirled around him. Jason hadn't seen an aura that demonic since-
-well, earlier that week, but that was beside the point. Not only was the driver of the car clearly demonic, but he was also familiar. Jason had to concentrate to push the aura out of his awareness, and when he did-
"Cole," Jason growled. A twinge of anger... old and hot... lodged briefly in Jason's throat. The drugs. The pain. The beast. It was all there. Jason swallowed them back down.
The car drove past, rolling through the intersection at 10 miles and hour below the speed limit.
Jason ran to the far edge of the roof, just barely fighting the urge to leap down onto the street and follow the drug dealer. There was just enough of the beast left in his blood to make him think he could do it.
But the full moon was over, and leaping off of a six-story building to chase a car was a quick way to end a less than stellar career.
He'd have to do this the hard way and hope he didn't screw it up.
"DONOVAN!" Jason shouted as he ran back to the rope on the opposite side of the roof. The Corvette was fast and close, but Cole had a head start. "I GOT SOMEBODY I WANT YOU TO FOLLOW!"
Minutes later, the rooftop was empty.
In the alley below, the demonic portal went unwatched.
That was unfortunate.
Very unfortunate.
" OW!" Rome slapped the ace of spaces on the table with the usual bravado and sound effects that accompanied a winning maneuver. "The last book is ours, and YOU niggas are 300 points behind!"
"Damn," Two of the four people at the table muttered profanities. They both knew Rome was cheating. The last round undoubtedly belonged to Rome fairly, but the score keeping was another matter. But Rome wasn't the kind of person one accused of such things... even with proof. And since there was no money involved (this time) the best course of action was to let the man win. He DID have the biggest gun, after all. The other player... Rome's partner... just shook his head and tried not to smile.
"No, wait," Rome said, picking up his last card. "I think you need to see that again."
He repeated his last maneuver, throwing the card down with such force that it made a slapping sound when it hit the table. Not that anyone could hear it.
"POW!!!" Rome exclaimed. "You lose, bitches! Mmmhmm... maybe you should give up splaying spades. Maybe checkers is more your speed! Want me to kick your ass at checkers?"
"We ain't down that much," said Richard "Low-Low" Kennedy. His partner, Barfield... no first name, just 'Barfield'... hushed him up with a sudden, wide-eyes look and a barely perceptible shake of the head.
"So what you saying?" said Rome. "You saying I can't add books or something?"
"Nah, I'm saying 300 ain't that much. We can come back."
"Oh, you wanna keep playin?" said Rome. "Fine, lets go to a thousand... I got all night. Barfield, your deal."
Barfield scooped up the pile of cards and began to shuffle.
"So who was that on the phone earlier," said Rome's partner. "Poet" Robeson was a huge oaf of a man... but was the most educated of the men at the table. Not only had he completed high school, but had been accepted to college before he realized that there was more money for less work in illegal pharmaceuticals than in business administration. So much so that, at age 19, Poet bought himself a decent house in a (formerly) decent part of town ... which was home to the current weekly spades game.
"Some nigga," Rome pulled a thin cheap cigar out of his shirt pocket and lit it. "Talkin' 'bout Cole."
"Pshhh," Richard dismissed the name with a wave of his hand. "Thought that nigga was dead."
"That nigga IS dead. Some fool tryin' to hold on to the past, that's all."
"Do they know something we don't?" asked Poet, his tone becoming more serious. "Supply is a bitch these days. They got a lead on something, we need to know-"
"They got jack," said Rome. "That same stuff Cole was selling."
"That stuff was puttin us outta business," said Low-Low. "Fa real."
"Speak for yourself, nigga. MY clients was still on the regular. Cole-"
Rome didn't finish. He let the last word... which happened to be Cole's name... hang in the air as his attention was diverted to something else: the sound of a loud car engine and screeching tires at the far end of the block.
That didn't happen a lot in THIS neighborhood. Especially not this early in the evening.
"Who's in that car?" said Poet.
Four men drew four handguns of varying calibers. Rome's was a .45 semiautomatic. Poet, a large .357 revolver. Low-Low and Barfield were both fans of the Glock 9mm.
There was a sawed-off shotgun under the table. Poet grabbed it..
"Back door," Poet told Barfield. "Me and Rome'll take the front. Low-Low.... kitchen. Rome... Get the Uzis out the closet. Give one to Barfield; them Glocks ain't worth a damn."
Everyone nodded and began to disperse. Running with head down and weapon ready, Rome darted to the hall closet/arsenal and snatched open the door-
"S'up, nigga."
"Wha-"
BANG!
The gunshot spun everyone around and sent them scrambling for the hallway-
-where Rome was on his back, legs spread and mouth frozen in an permanent "O" of surprise.
Dead. No blood... no bullet wound. Just dead.
Standing over him was Cole... looking like he's just stepped out of a rap music video and not Poet's hall closet. A tendril of black smoke rose from the barrel of Cole's Black Gun.
"SHOOT THAT NIGGA!" Poet ordered, and fired the opening shot with the shotgun. 00-buckshot tore blasted into the closet behind Cole, ruining one of the Uzi's that Rome had been sent to retrieve.
Cole, however, was unharmed.
The next twenty seconds saw the complete destruction of the hallway, the wall, the closet and everything inside it as the trio emptied their weapons at Cole. Every shot was a hit. Not a PERFECT hit, but a hit nonetheless.
But when Low-Low's 9mm clicked empty, Cole was still standing there with not so much as a smudge on his impossibly white suit.
Cole looked at Low-Low with something almost like pity.
Then he shot him. The Black Gun spat fire and sound at Richard "Low-Low" Kennedy, then swiveled ever-so-slightly and issued an encore performance for Barfield. Both men jerked on their feet... and dropped in dead, limp heaps on the carpet.
Poet tossed the empty shotgun aside and, while firing with his .357, snatched Rome's .45 from the floor.
Cole walked toward him. Poet let the spectre have it with both weapons... as if there was somehow something that a .357 and a .45 could do that a 12-gauge shotgun could not.
When both weapons announced their emptiness with a pair of metallic 'clicks', Poet tossed them aside and clenched his meaty hands into tight fists.
He stood his ground. During the entirety of the gunfire and through Cole's subsequent advance, Poet hadn't taken a single step back. He hadn't moved an inch, and he wasn't about to start now.
"Come on, then!" he said.
"What are you, stupid?" said Cole. "I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."
"Just 'cause you got some kind of fancy vest... what, I'm supposed to be scared?"
"Vest my ass," said Cole. "YOU shot me in the head twice just now. I got a vest on my head, too? An invisible one? This suit fit like I got a vest on underneath it? Huh, nigga?"
Poet had been more than willing to ignore that fact until Cole brought it up.
"The fact is," said Cole. "I'm already dead. The rest of these fools is too stupid to understand the ramifications of my... current situation." Cole smiled at his own use of big 'white man' words. "You, on the other hand, might have an appreciation for what I'm offering."
"And what's that?"
"Help me sell a piece of heaven for a big piece of profit. I made the offer to Rome, and he turned me down. He SAID he was speaking for you as well... but I figured I'd find that out for myself. You got markets I don’t have access to. The college scene... and from there, the professional set. Businessmen. Lawyers, doctors. EVERYBODY deserves a piece of what I got, and you can help me get it to ‘em. So..." Cole jerked the Black Gun toward Rome's corpse, and then aimed it at Poet again. "...what's it gonna be?"
"What are you?" said Poet.
"That's an interesting question," said Cole. "What. Am. I. A ghost? No, I WAS a ghost. Now I'm something a bit higher up the ladder."
Poet swallowed.
"I got work to do, Poet," said Cole. "You in or out? With me... or with these dead niggas here on your floor?"
At that moment, the speeding car that had started the one-sided gunfight again grabbed Poet's attention... this time, by coming to a sudden end directly in front of Poet's house.
"Time's running out," said Cole. Outside, a car door opened and then slammed shut. Running footsteps approached the front door.
Poet stared down the barrel of the Black Gun.
And somewhere in that tiny well of darkness, something stared back at him.
Something hungry.
BOOM! BOOM!
BOOM!
The hinges holding Poet's front door in place vanished... shot off from the outside. Before the first flying hinge hit the floor, the gunman kicked the door and the entire assembly came crashing inward.
"Time's UP!" Cole announced as he yanked back on the Black Gun's warm, throbbing trigger.
'Poet' Robeson exited the scene at the exact moment that Jason Brooks arrived. Poet was dead before he hit the ground. Brooks felt more alive than he'd felt in days.
One of the massive revolvers was already smoking from his .454-caliber 'knock'. Brooks leveled the other one at Cole's gut and immediately-
-no smart remarks. No wisecracks. No questions-
IMMEDIATELY pulled the trigger.
Cole jerked backward, giddy smile fading as he looked down at his stomach.
There was a hole there.
"...huh?" Cole gasped. The sound seemed to come from both his mouth and the fresh hole in his gut.
Now came the questions.
"Hey. Remember me?" said Jason.
"Dammit, that HURT!!" Cole hissed. The flesh and gleaming white cloth surrounding the wound twisted and stretched to cover the hole. Cursing, Cole turned and ran down the short hallway.
Jason shot him in the lower back.
"UNGH!" Cole stumbled forward, then twisted and dove through the wall beside him. His seemingly solid form passed through the wall and made an ungraceful arrival in the living room.
Jason dashed to the end of the hallway, made a quick right turn and dove into a roll.
BANG!
The Black Gun spat something at him, but whatever it was was high and wide. Jason rolled to his feet, coming up in a shooters stance, one gun aimed at Cole's heart-
-and the other at his crotch.
Cole was retreating... scrambling backward into the kitchen while aiming the Black Gun at Jason.
Jason's hands wanted to fire. But his eyes wanted to wait. Wanted to see...
...that thing. That THING in Cole's hand. The thing pretending to be a gun. But guns didn't have auras Gun's weren't alive.
Guns weren't so inherently and undeniably evil as this thing was.
"Lucky for you," Cole said... a hint of desperation and a double fistful of pain in his voice. "I'm supposed to leave you alone. Your day hasn't come yet, Knight."
The last word was like a hard slap. Knight? What the hell did a petty drug dealer know about Knights?
And with that moment of hesitation, Cole was gone.
The drug dealer turned and sprinted for the kitchen door. His coat gleamed an impossible flavor of white as he moved.
-and Jason blinked as something tried and failed to wiggle its way into his thoughts. All it took was a second.
But a second was all it took.
Directly in front of Cole, the kitchen door wavered as something took shape in front of it.
Donovan stepped out of nowhere-
"STOP!" Jason's Guide shouted... as if he had some previously undisplayed authority to back up his one-word command.
Jason saw it coming.
He saw it coming... felt it happening a heartbeat before the actions unfolded. A locked and bolted kitchen door was no obstacle for a ghost, as Donovan clearly demonstrated.
But what about another ghost?
Cole preferred not to find out, and decided to let the Black Gun clear the path.
Jason reacted. He could shoot the Gun out of Cole's hand in the blink of an eye, but Cole's glamor slowed his reflexes just enough-
The thing in Cole's hand lashed out with a demonic roar and a flash of not-too-distant hellfire.
"UNGH!"
The look on Donovan's face.
That surprised... agonized look.
Donovan looked down at the wound in his chest. But the wound was not a wound, just like the gun that had made it was not a gun. And the ghost that had fired it was not a ghost.
Everything was something else.
Darkness spilled out of the jagged crater like entrails from a freshly sliced gut. Tendrils wrapped around him, pulling... tearing...
Jason saw the beginning of Donovan's scream.
But the beginning was all there was. In the next instant, the ghost was gone. Cole darted through the empty space where Donovan had been and continued through the door.
Jason started to run after him, but the hot weakness of pure dread sapped the strength from his legs. He jogged as far as the kitchen door, but stopped short of opening it.
He looked around.
"...Donovan?" he called.
There was no answer.
To Be Continued
copyright 2005 by Dark Icon Entertainment
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