The Ghost.... (Part - I)

A story heavily inspired by The Punisher..

9^th November 11:28 pm

The silence in the midnight air on Bakersfield’s Street is shattered by a loud crash. A sole figure moves on the deserted lonely street. A thin man in an expensive black suit picks himself up after crashing into a few garbage cans. Breathing heavily and wiping the sweat from his face he looks around. Worried and nervous, he takes a quick glance in all directions then to the skies. His eyes blink and almost go blurry as if he were about to faint. He shakes it off. The Colt 1911 in his hand is exhausted with smoke coming out. Stumbling through the garbage he runs down a dark alley. Running near the wall he remains in the shadows. He keeps turning and looking back every few steps. He sees what looks to be a door on the left wall. Exhausted, desperate and out of breath he takes a quick look around again then begins to kick it. It takes him a few hard tries to finally break the lock.

Running in, he shuts the door. It looks like a club with a bar in the dim light still on. A signboard ‘Devil’s Crib’ above the counter. He sees a few boxes on the side of the door. Using whatever strength he’s got left he barricades the door with the boxes that have alcohol written on them. He then sways from left to right as he makes his way to a dark spot opposite the door. Resting against the wall he reloads his gun with the last clip of ammunition he has. He points his gun towards the door as he calms his heart and slows his breath. His chest is tight and his arms ache. It takes a great deal of strength and focus to keep his arms steady and aim straight.

Finally after a few minutes his heart beat is soft and breath is slower than before. His arms are quite steady now as he waits. His eyes focused at the door. His ears listing hard for any sound. Minutes pass as silence takes back the tense atmosphere. Sweat rolls down the sides of his head and inside his shirt on his body which makes him uncomfortable. His tongue is dry and throat parched. He swallows his saliva but it isn’t enough. Desperately needing some liquid in his body he looks towards the bar. Keeping his eye contact and gun fixed at the door, guided by the wall he makes his way silently towards the counter. Getting behind the counter he starts looking for some bottles of water or even a soda while keeping his attention at the door. Finding none he notices the bottles of expensive Scotch on the shelves. Knowing that it would be a bad idea inducing alcohol in his already exhausted system he decides not to. But his thirsty mind and dehydrated body makes the Scotch look very tempting.

Running his tongue along his dried hard lips he gives in. Grabbing a bottle of Macallan, 55 year old Scotch and a glass from the counter he ducks down as he opens the bottle of the dark red colored liquor. Just half the glass full, he chugs down the liquid in one quick gulp focusing his attention back at the door. He starts to feel better as the alcohol passes down his parched throat and into his system. He starts to relax whipping the sweat off his face and lowers his gun. His body absorbs the liquid as quickly as possible. He feels refreshed by the drink as he leans against the shelves closing his eyes, gathering his energy. He feels it easier to breath. Then he opens his eyes and inhales and exhales a deep breath.

But soon his calmness disappears and eyes are left wide open. He stares in horror at the glass he just drank from. It’s filled exactly as he had filled it. The same amount of liquor he just drank. He turns to the right and freezes still at the sight, of a tall figure in a full black suit standing right beside him. The distance between him and the figure did not scare him but the fact he was unable to notice it, sends shivers down his spine. Before the man can react in the blink of an eye, the figure sends his knee right into the man’s stomach. The force and power of the impact sends the man into a state of shock. His eyes and mouth are wide open as he falls to his knees dropping his gun. He grabs his abdomen which was in unbearable pain. But before he can regain his senses from the vicious blow, the figure drives his knee into the man’s face. The force cracks the man’s nose. He falls to his side, blood flowing out his nose. He spits out some more along with a few teeth and immediately tries to crawl away. As soon as he does so, the figure grabs his left ankle. In a state of fright, the man suddenly realizes his hand is right on his gun. He grabs it, immediately turns over and fires five shots right at the figure. This makes the figure release the man’s foot. He crawls away in fright without even looking back.

Crawling away from the counter he looks back with his gun aimed straight at, nothing. The counter’s empty. The figure’s gone. He looks around hard pointing his gun in every direction his eyes go. Nothing. Then suddenly a big box full of bottles falls out of thin air with a force as if it were thrown directly on him. Smashing over the men’s head. Glass pieces all around with a puddle of red liquid, alcohol and blood. The man tries his best to gather his senses but out of the darkness a big hand grabs his head. He lets out a loud frightened scream. The figure lifts him by his head with one hand and in a heartbeat throws him over the counter, on the shelves breaking them while smashing all the bottles. The man falls down followed by a hail of broken wood, glass and streams of alcohol. The man is rattled and shaken but before he can think the figure grabs his throat and lifts him up. The man now a full foot above the ground, held by the throat by the black figure in a tight grip struggles to breath. The figure brings him close. The man stares in horror at the black masked face looking at him.

“Kathryn and Damien. Where are they?” in a heavy thick voice the figure asks slowly.

The man refuses to talk. There’s silence between the two with only the sound of liquor drops falling. The figure in silence increases the pressure on the man’s throat, chocking him. The man turning blue still doesn't say a word. The figure lessens the pressure only to slam the man’s face on the counter, right on top of the Scotch bottle he drank from. The glass pieces from the bottle piece the man’s face as he yells out in pain. The figure increases the pressure while twisting the man’s head over the broken bottle. The man yells loud as the glass pieces between his tender flesh and the hard counter go deeper, tearing his skin. Blood pours out like a river. His yell gets louder as a piece of glass enters his eye.

“Kathryn and Damien” the figure says again in a more stern voice. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know man.” The man replies almost on the verge of crying.

The figure releases his head. The man falls to the floor, holding his bloodied face trying to ease the pain by pulling out some of the glass pieces gone too deep. But out of nowhere a hard right handed punch to the left side of the man’s face nearly dislocating his jaw. He falls to the right in the pool of alcohol, broken glass, wood and teeth. Dazed and confused. The figure reaches out and grabs a hand full of his hair, lifting him up by them. The weight of his entire body being suspended by the hair on his head causes the man to shout in pain. Blood from his face flows down his body and drips from his shoes. His voice is silenced when the figure delivers a violent punch to the man’s ribs, cracking them instantly. A confused mind, a battered and shocked body and now internal bleeding.

Taking a deep breath the man yells out “The abandoned factory”, spitting out a mouth full of blood, he takes another deep breath “The abandoned factory on Willard Street.”

The figure releases his hair. The man drops to the floor, breathing heavily on the verge of passing out. He looks up through the blood covering his working eye. One of his eyelids is hanging on to the rest of his face by a single tissue. His vision finally clear only to make his heart and mind stop for a second as he looks into the barrels of a double barreled sawnoff shotgun pointed right at his face. Before he can think, the sound of both barrels going off together and his head exploding fills the air. The wall behind him gets covered with blood and pieces of skull, brain and everything in between flies in every direction. The gun shot sound clears and silence falls all around.

11:40 pm

A grey dusty Ford Fiesta stops behind a huge crowd of people. A man in a grey coat gets out. A clean shaven man with a little grey hair showing on his side locks and wrinkles on his face. He drops his near finished cigarette as he slams the car door. He buttons his coat and ups the collar. He makes his way through the crowd till he comes up to the police officer in charge of keeping the people back. He pulls out his badge and shows it to the officer, who greats him with respect then lets him through. Walking the man takes a glance at the three news reporters covering a story. He walks into a building.

He stands at the door of a room, all eyes in the room fall on him.

“Ah! Detective. Glad you could make it” a voice says from the back. A man walks up to the detective. A young man with a small mustache, curly shot brown hair, well-built and wearing a tight t-shirt, blue jeans and a leather jacket.

“Mathew”, the detective replies shaking the man’s hand.

“Hope I didn't disturb you?” Mathew asks.

“Not at all. Now what do we have here?” the detective asks.

“You’re gonna like it, follow me”, replies Mathew.

Mathew leads the detective. “Watch your step”, he says.

The detective looks down as he steps on broken glass, “You mean the broken glass”.

“Yeah! That and the pieces of skull and brain”, replies Mathew.

Before the detective can say anything Mathew points to a head-less corpse in an expensive black suit lying against a wall.

“Who’s the head-less James Bond?” the detective asks.

Mathew turns and signals one of the officers.

“The victim’s name: Jacob P. Anthony. P stands for Paul. 32 years old. An investment banker. Owns a home on Chad street, another one by the beach and drives a BMW z4. We found it parked a few blocks down the road. The Colt handgun lying beside him is registered to him. No criminal records.” A female voice says.

The Det. takes a look at the female officer. A young woman with short blonde hair, slim glasses, well-built from her shape and no makeup. Wearing a white shirt, black pants and a blazer, carrying a note pad in hand.

“Our victim here was first beating. Damage to the body, broken ribs, punch marks. Then shot in the head with what appears to be, judging by the damage and shrapnel found in the wall, a shotgun. Double barrel I presume. Both barrels emptied at the same time” the female office continues.

The detective looks at Mathew.

“Denise, Detective Andrew Calum.” Mathew introduces the two. “Cal, Denise here just got out the academy. Top of her class.”

“Pleasure” the detective says with a short smile while extending his hand.

“It’s an honor. Sir, I've heard so many stories about you in the academy” in a slightly excited voice the officer says shaking the detective’s hand, smiling.

The detective ignores the last part. “So what about the CC…” but before the detective could complete his sentence another officer ran in.

“Captain Mathew, we've found another one” the officer says out of breath.

“Another one?” Mathew asks.

“Yes, Sir. Another body. Same as this one. Head-less. At a club called the Devil’s Crib on Bakersfield’s Street”

Mathew and the detective look at each other. Mathew smiles.