Gun

Raker's hunt takes him into the concrete sprawl, and a certain hired gun has a REALLY bad night.

The Dead Man is on the move again. He has not freed himself from the jealous embrace of the tomb to simply wait amid the moldering trappings of his unfinished life. He has not torn through the veil which separates life and death to bemoan his fate surrounded by broken glass and broken memories. Something within him propels his feet forward in tireless strides, winding through the concrete causeways and between the jutting cement and steel fangs of the city. Something at his core hungers, and there can be only one cure.
     Revenge; bold, red, capital R.
             As untiring steps devour asphalt under the garish glow of neon and halogen, the unwitting dreamers in their high-rise havens sleep unwitting of the predator which stalks the moonlit streets. They do not hear as he does. They can not hear the beast in his heart which bays for blood.
             And blood it will have. Bright red, brimming buckets of it.
             The Dead Man’s lips curl into something of a smile as his footsteps echo like gunshots across the blackened swamp of silent streets. There is no mirth, only a showing of fangs as the predator catches the scent of his prey on the wind.
             He’s getting closer.

             “Without you, woman, by my side.”
             The jukebox in the darkest, smokiest corner of the decidedly dark and smoky bar pumped the low croon of the old Zakk Wylde ballad, filling the air with its bluesy bereavement. The opening bars of it’s acoustic guitar accompaniment danced on the air, tangling in the mist of cigarette smoke and cutting sharply through the smell of old beer.
             “I’m contemplating suicide, torn from all my pride.”
             Zeppo’s was fairly unexceptional in just about every respect. A scattering of cheap wooden tables framed by a few leather booths and a long bar. Near the jukebox, on the far wall of the room from the door, an old and well-used pool-table stood as silent witness of a time when Zeppo’s was not just another dive on the strip of asphalt known as Broadway, but rather the dive. A few balls remained on the green felt, abandoned in the middle of some game by players who had either been to drunk or too jaded to finish.
             “Man, tell me son that ain’t the way. Gonna make a deal with you child, gonna live another day.”
             Zakk’s voice carried over the bar as Reg poured a glass of Jack Daniels for one of the men at the bar, mouth drawn into a frown of concentration, making the caterpillar line of his moustache seem to creep down his face as he measured out three fingers.
             “Just sign right here, son. Everything’ll be alright.”
             The chatter of low conversation, spoken in the soft tones and peppered with the furtive pauses which belong only among thieves and barflies, played counterpoint to the clink of glasses as Zakk’s song drove toward the chorus.
             “ Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do. Owing everything for you.”
             The glass of Jack slid across the bar and money changed hands, Reg’s teeth bared by way of thanks as cash found its way into the till.
             “Your love’s all I know and ever knew. Therefore, I have sold my soul for you.”
             The door swung inward, bells tinkling in greeting as Nate stepped inside. With a slow lope, quiet and inexorable as time itself, his steps brought him closer to the bar. Reg’s eyes caught his and a nod of acknowledgement passed between ‘tender and favorite customer.
             By the time Nate had taken his customary seat at the bar, Reg already had a coaster waiting in front of him, a simple disk of plain white cardboard against the scarred wood surface. Nate had started frequenting Zeppo’s about a year ago and it was rare that Reg spent a night working without seeing the guy.
             Nate ran a hand through his close-shorn red hair, flicking the water expertly from his hand. It seemed that it hadn’t stopped raining for about a week and a half. Not just any rain, but the thick drops that felt more like hail; bullets from heaven that didn’t fall to just water the earth, but did their damnedest to scour it clean.
             “Little wet out there, Nate?” Reg’s voice was about as gruff as one could expect from a man who looked like he had a fighting chance in a wrestling match with a bear. Gruffer actually, mostly thanks to working in a cloud of cigarette smoke for the better part of a decade.
             “I’m starting to seriously consider building an ark, Reg.” Nate wasn’t nearly as big as Reg, but his baritone did not lack in power. At about 5’9 and a hundred and fifty pounds, he had a voice which didn’t quite match his weasel face.
             Reg nodded, running a hand over his balding head. “So what’s it going to be, friend?”
             “Ah, hell, Reg. You should know by now. Beer and a shot.”
             Reg disappeared under the bar to get a glass and turned toward the half-empty bottle of Jack. “When you start tipping, I might start remembering.”
             Nate watched. Reg pour his drink, blue eyes already lapping up the smooth Tennessee whiskey. Reg measured the shot, frowning again in concentration, and set it in front of Nate with a flourish. Nate’s fingers expertly cradled the shotglass and raised it to his lips. In an eye blink the amber liquid drained from the glass and Nate brought it to the bar with a muffled grunt as the liquor trailed its burning course down his throat.
             Reg took the glass and deposited in the sink on his way to get Nate’s beer.
             “Just sign right here, son. Everything’ll be alright.”
             Zakk continued to croon from the jukebox, every mournful note ricocheting from the walls like a Winchester cartridge from an old-west movie. Nate’s eyes took stock of the bar, settling on faces and assessing, observing without being observed. He didn’t recognize anyone, none of the usual regulars. Odd.
             But not so very odd. Zeppo’s was daily becoming more of a slumming spot for what he and Reg called the “Down and in” crowd. Snotty little kids who thought it would be fun to spend a night seeing how the other side lived, daddy’s plastic in hand.
             His lips turned into a sneer, his weasel face screwed up in disgust as Reg came back with his beer. “Man, Reg, why the hell do we always have to listen to this bullshit? Always so damned depressing.” He motioned nebulously toward the tired old juke.
             Reg set the bottle on the bar with a muffled thump, sliding it toward Nate. “It’s a jukebox, a*****e. Don’t like the song? Change it.”
             Nate took hold of the beer and raised it to his lips, taking a long slow pull. When he set it down, he screwed his lips into a slow smile. “First you want me to start tipping. Now you want me to pay the damned jukebox too?”
             Reg’s arms, arms as thick as some men’s legs, came up in a shrug, held out plaintively. “I’m just saying, man. Let me know if you need anything else.”
             Nate nodded and settled back to nurse his beer. Reg’s massive frame had only sidled away for a minute when he turned. “Almost forgot, Nate.”
             Nate cocked an eyebrow by way of answer.
             Reg took two steps closer to Nate, leaning in to whisper. “Guy came in looking for you.”
             Nate’s eyes narrowed. “ Guy?” That had his interest. “What guy?”
             Reg shook his head slowly. “Wouldn’t give me a name, man. Just said that he was looking for a Nathan Kale. That’s you, right?”
             Nate nodded slowly. “That’s me. What’d he look like?”
             Reg shrugged scratching at the baldspot on the back of his head. “Tall, dark, and handsome? F**k, man. I dunno. Just some guy. Why?” It was his turn to narrow his eyes. “Do you owe someone besides me money?”
             Nate shook his head slowly as he ran his hand over his mouth. “No. What’d you tell this guy?”
     “Ah, nothing much. Just that I knew you, where you live, how much money you owe me, your credit score, and a list of all your favorite hang-outs.” His features slowly twisted into a smile. “C’mon man, I didn’t tell the guy s**t. ‘Tender-customer confidentiality and all.”
     Nate’s heartbeat slowed from its steady hammer. Good ol’ Reg. If he’d told the wrong people that he knew Nathan Kale, both he and Nate could’ve been seriously fucked. People who came looking for professional hit-men could not always be trusted to spare the innocents during their search.
     “Thanks, Reg.” Nate took another swig from his beer. “Sure, you don’t remember anything about this guy?”
     Reg’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember. “Yeah…yeah. He said a name as he left. Told me that if I saw you, I should tell you that ‘Raker’ sends his regards.”
     Nate choked on his beer and set it down hard on the bar, gasping for air. He doubled over coughing through the beer foam in his lungs, trying to expel the fluid which he’d sucked in in surprise.
     “Damn, Nate. You okay?” Concern was not an emotion which lent itself well to Reg’s voice, but it was evident now. “You know this ‘Raker’ guy?”
     Nate’s eyes met Reg’s as he straightened. There was something different about them now. These weren’t the eyes of the guy who came into Zeppo’s every night. These weren’t the eyes of the man Reg laughed with. No, these were someone else’s eyes entirely. Someone that Reg definitely never wanted to meet.
     Nate’s lips curled into a snarl. “Where did you hear that name.” His hand reached out to take Reg’s collar, pulling him closer. “Who told you?” His voice hissed and burned like acid.
Now the casual observer might’ve found this situation amusing, humorous even. Reg had half a foot and more than a hundred pounds on Nate, but for some reason, that didn’t matter right now. He shook his head helplessly, “The guy, Nate! The guy who came in told me, honest. Why?”
     Nate released Reg’s shirt, hand shaking. “I know Raker.” His voice cracked on the last word. He took up his beer and took one long pull which served to finish it off.
     Reg took a step back, the hair on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end. Nate laughed a high-pitched little laugh; one that Reg thought might’ve been better suited to the padded white walls of an asylum rather than smoky air of Zeppo’s.
     “Yeah, I know Raker.” Nate’s eyes were fixed on his bottle. Slowly they trailed upward until they met with Reg’s. “Raker’s been dead for two years now.”
     He set his empty bottle on the bar, a dull thud as it met the scarred and pitted wooden surface, and without another word, he stood, turning with the jerky movements of a puppet on strings. He didn’t look back at Reg who stood rigid behind the bar, watching Nate angle toward the door, frozen. He hadn’t paid for his drinks, but the paltry couple of bucks weren’t enough for Reg to risk calling the madman back. Nate reached for the knob on the door and in seconds he had left Zeppo’s to the cigarette smoke, a barkeep with a tingling spine, a few confused down-and-in patrons who craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Nate’s retreating form, and the crooning of Zakk Wylde from the battered jukebox.

     Nate’s footfalls fell with heartbeat steadiness against the sidewalk as he bent his steps toward the high-rise apartment he called home. Black leather boots met concrete with oiled ease, even as his heartbeat tremored in his chest, pounding against his ribs. Rain continued to fall, mingling with the cold sweat that had formed on the back of his neck at the mention of Raker’s name. It hammered down with meteor intensity, dousing his hair and letting rivulets drip into his eyes.
     Nate’s was the only form to darken the buttery halogen glow of Broadway’s sidewalks. The usual pedestrian traffic was gone, vanished into whatever crevice of the city they called home, leaving Nate alone on the street; not even a solitary headlight broke the stillness of the avenue. The effect of the empty street was enough to make Nate, hardened from years of contract killing, chance a glance over his shoulder. Something did not feel right.
     It wasn’t yet midnight. Someone should be about. A drunk, staggering home from his favorite dive to sleep it off; a college kid, winding his way back to the dorms from the graveyard shift; a bum, derelict eyes hungry for a handout…someone should be sharing the sidewalk. Anyone. Again the tickle on the back of his neck, something he couldn’t quite place. It was too damned quiet.
     Nate stopped and turned to look again, green eyes straining to penetrate the driving sheets of rain. He had the unmistakable feeling that he was being watched; he felt the eyes upon him. Not the normal eyes of some passing pedestrian, but something harsher. Eyes that burned into his skin, into his bones, into his soul. A predator’s eyes.
     “Hello?” His voice joined with the patter of the falling rain and echoed through the streets, morphing slightly in timber as it returned to him.
He was losing his mind. The very fabric of his mental state was starting to fray, to run, to unweave before his very eyes. It burned away under the steady downpour. The foundation of his sanity had never felt more shaky than when Reg had told him that a dead man had come to his favorite bar to look for him.
     There was no one there. No one was watching him...but what if?
     No. He banished the thought from his mind. Of course no one was watching him. The idea was ridiculous. Reg made a mistake. No way would Nate let something like this ruffle him. Not a chance in hell. He’d gone through too much to let a misunderstanding like this rile him up. In his line of work, it paid to keep a cool head.
     Nate settled his shoulders and resumed walking. One foot in front of the other, eyes sweeping from one side of the street to the other, he made for home. Only a few blocks, now. He rounded the corner onto Centennial passing a Laundromat, a small office building, and the black, yawning void of an alley.
     The gaping maw of darkness split the damp background of grey stone and red brick, offering a momentary break from what seemed, at the moment, to be a poorly painted backdrop running on massive drums. Almost as if it was moving around him, not the other way around. He was sure, in that moment, that if he could silence the steady throb of his heart, he would hear the grunts of the stagehands turning the cranks.
      And then something moved in his peripheral vision. A mere flicker of movement, too fast to follow.
     Adrenal glands poised on the brink, the basic hard-wired fight or flight instincts taking over. His throat suddenly as dry as sandpaper, Nate spun to face whatever might appear from the alley, every muscle tensed to meet the threat. His fists clenched so tight his fingernails dug into his palms.
     A flash of yellow eyes in the darkness, a low hiss, and a glimpse of bared fangs played counterpoint to a metallic ring of a trashcan lid falling to concrete as the cat bounded from one of the trashcans at the mouth of the alley. Nate let out his breath between his clenched teeth as the black blur sped past his legs.
     “Goddamn it,” Nate spat. “I hate cats.”
     His teeth still on edge, pulse still pounding, Nate managed a nervous little laugh. The jitters of unused adrenaline would start soon. There were few feelings Nate hated more. Something about the pins and needles of a scare that just wouldn’t leave his gut…it ranked only slightly lower than the feeling of being observed from the darkness.
     Again, Nate turned back to his trek home. He’d never known the short walk from Zeppo’s to the Heron’s Nest to be so damned long. It was only a twelve block walk for God’s sake!
     His footfalls seemed unnaturally loud, like gunshots in the still night air. They drowned out the soft patter of the slackening rain. As he hiked the last three blocks, the rain stopped altogether and he was left in the unnatural silence, unbroken save for the slapping of rubber soles against rain-soaked concrete.
     The feeling of being silently stalked was all but gone when he hit his block. By the time his steps led him to the front doors of the Heron’s Nest apartment building his steps had resumed the normal, subdued tone and Nate was ready to laugh off all of the night’s oddities as his overactive imagination. He stepped under the blue awning in front of the Heron’s Nest and for the first time in what seemed like hours, his heart began to beat normally.
     With a heavy sigh he ran a hand through his hair in the vain attempt to rake away the remaining rainwater that drenched his scalp. As his fingers traced through his short crop of red hair his brow furrowed. Instead of the cool wetness of rainwater, his hand met a warm stickiness. Slowly, tentatively, he brought his fingers in front of his face.
     His hand was covered in blood; crimson against the darkness beneath the awning.
     With a strangled, inarticulate cry of fear he raked his hand through his hair again, searching for a wound. His throat constricted with cold fear as he panicked. He felt nothing; no rent, no leaking brains, no tell-tale sign of injury, only the close shorn hair and the unbroken scalp beneath.
     Eyes lit with uncertainty, he brought his hand again before his face. No trace remained of the blood that had dyed his hand the color of his trade. Idly, Nate flexed his fingers, watched the muscles beneath the skin move. He turned his hand over, inspecting the back before turning it over again.
     Nate let his eyes close for a moment and drew a breath.
             “Sonuvabitch.” His chest rose and fell as he drew three deep breaths. “Get a grip, Nate.”
             He was rattled. He needed to get inside. Back to the inner sanctum. Back to the comfortable safety of his apartment with its locks and its shades and its lights. He turned to the door and fumbled in the pocket of his bomber jacket for his keycard. With a hand that shook like a palsied old man, he ran the card through the mag-reader and heard the satisfying click of the bolt being drawn back. Nate reached out for the door’s brushed steel handle and pulled.
             Edging his way into the lobby and making a beeline for the stairs, Nate didn’t spare a backward glance, unsure of what he would see. His heart hammered in his chest so loud that he was sure that when he reached the sixth floor landing he would wake Ms. Daniels who lived next door with its bass thump. Fishing in his right front pocket for keys, he made his way to his door, allowing himself a look back toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. As he blindly rattled the key into the heavy deadbolt lock, he half expected a figure to darken the stairway; a half-rotted corpse, fresh from the gravedirt, covered in leprous sheets of peeling flesh and pustulent decay…and coming for him, coming for revenge.
             No such figure reared his head. The key cycled the lock and Nate swung the heavy wooden door open, sliding his narrow shoulders into the door sideways to allow for one last look into the hall.
             Clear.
             Click. The door shut softly and Nate quickly cycled the deadbolt, letting his forehead droop against the wooden paneling of the door. He drew a slow breath and held it to a slow count of five before he let it hiss between his teeth. Home free. All that was left now was a stiff drink to settle his nerves…preferably one without a bartender to tell him that a man he had killed two years ago had dropped by to say hello.
             His hand reached out to flip on the light-switch, rasping over the textured wall as he searched for the smooth plastic of the panel. Fingertips met the cold plastic toggle and flipped it up. Eighty watts of ruddy illumination responded, streaming from the small lamp beside Nate’s favorite chair. The meager incandescent light did its best to drive back the darkness, but only succeeded in banishing it to the corners of the room. Shadows clung to the walls like a tangible thing, inky pools of liquid menace.
             Nate stepped further into the apartment, crossing to his closet door. With the rustle of leather on cloth, he shrugged off his bomber jacket, running a hand idly over the worn black surface to clear off a bit of the remaining water before hanging it up. As he closed the door, he took a look over his shoulder. No matter how much he assured himself that he was alone in the apartment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being watched.
             His eyes met with only an empty apartment; a worn leather recliner, glass coffee table, matching end table, nondescript silver lamp with a canvas shade, and drawn blinds across a closed window. Not a thing out of place.
             He turned the corner which obstructed his view of his kitchenette and flicked another light-switch. Two spotlights shone down on the white tile countertop, reflecting off of a sink-full of breakfast’s dirty dishes. The shuffling of Nate’s boots over the sparse grey carpet turned into a soft clicking as he crossed onto the linoleum to fetch that drink to settle his nerves. Willing his hands to stop shaking, he reached out for the handle of one of the light wooden cabinets for a glass and proceeded to pour himself a whiskey.
             Just as he was screwing the cap back on the bottle of Jack, his ears pricked up. Either his nerves were getting the best of him or he had just heard the tell-tale shuffle of feet across carpet. Reversing his grip on the bottle like an improvised club, he slowly turned. Across the living room, the door to his bedroom stood half-open, yawning hungrily like the maw of a predator. He swallowed hard.
             Somewhere in the animal center of his brain, the part that wanted to simply run up the nearest tree and hurl excrement at whatever was in that room until it left, Nate knew that whatever waited beyond that doorway wasn’t going to be frightened of his whiskey bottle. But that didn’t mean he was going to simply wait for it to come to him.
             With slow, even steps he moved toward the door, careful not to let the tell-tale click of his boots betray his approach. Running his tongue over his lips, he hefted the bottle back and braced a hand on the half-open door. He drew a deep breath, steeled his nerve…and then the lights went out.
             “Put the bottle down, Nate.”
             The voice, no more than a whisper, reverberated off of the walls like a gunshot. It was cold and even, equal parts steel and sarcasm. Nate turned to see where the voice had come from, bottle still brandished like a ward against evil.
             There, one leg draped over the arm of the chair beside the window, a lithe form rested. Though the pose was one of utter relaxation, Nate could almost hear the tautness in that form, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. The only illumination from the room, the half-light of diffused neon through half-closed mini-blinds, cast him in shadowy profile. Mirth and menace showed in his very form, battling for control.
             And mirth was losing.
             “Who the hell…?” Nate’s voice sounded hollow and reedy inside his own head, like it came from miles away.
             The form swung in the chair, turning to face Nate head on. The head canted to one side in silent question.
             “You don’t remember me, Nate?” The voice was colder now. So cold that the question lost its form and became a statement, an icicle.
             “Who the f**k are you and what the f**k are you doing in my house?” Nate shook the bottle at the form in the chair, voice rising as the fear turned his guts to water.
             “It’s alright, Nate.” The form rose, not standing as much as it seemed to flow upward. “It’s been a long time. I understand.”
             Nate took a step back, the hardened killer retreating from the nameless form.
             “I—“ Nate felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as the shape seemed to float forward with liquid grace.
             “Yes, you.” Closer. One foot in front of the other with a lazy swaying motion, the figure glided toward Nate.
             Nate felt his back press against the wall; saw the opportunity for escape slip through his fingers. So close now; too close.          He swung with the whiskey bottle, desperate to stop the apparition.
             The form didn’t stop coming as the bottle whizzed in front of its face. Instead, one icy hand lashed out to pinion the wrist to the wall. With a vicious wrench, the bones shattered under the phantom’s iron grip and the bottle fell to the floor with a dull thud. Nate howled with pain as his wrist ground to dust.
             “Tell me, Nathan Kale.” The figure was hardly two feet away and still shrouded in darkness. He held Nate’s wrist with demonic strength, but seemed as languid as a slow mountain stream. “Tell me why it is that, the moment I clawed my way out of my own casket, the first person I wanted to visit was you? Why is it that I can smell the blood on you?” He paused, a fraction of a second, no longer. “Why do I want to kill you, Nathan?”
             Nate cried out again as the figure applied more pressure to his useless arm. Lightning bolts of white hot pain coursed through his blood, and hot salty tears stung his eyes. Pain was his world now, a burning haze that consumed everything. And then just as suddenly it parted.
             What it left in its place was a memory, burned in at the unconscious level. The climb up trellised ivy into the open window of the red brick house’s second storey. Crossing the bedroom floor to the doorway, stalking along the silent hall, creeping through the half-open doorway. He felt the cool wooden grip of the revolver in his hand. Like an echo from the past, the deafening crack of the gunshot. The coppery scent of blood against the sulfurous backdrop of gun smoke played upon the air. Blood splattered against a half-finished canvas as the body dropped to the floor to the sound of a cashing check. Money in the bank. No loose ends.
             Except…
             “Raker.” Nate’s whisper was almost inaudible. He knew it was him. It could only be the man he had been hired to kill two years ago.
             The form leaned in, features resolving themselves in the half-light. The corpse from two years ago stood before Nate, a sinister smile creasing his features. Blue eyes slowly glazed black, shadow dripping over the orbs like spilled ink.
             “Boo.” The dead man’s lips parted, teeth bared in a cannibal grin.
             Nathan’s heart raced, beating so hard that he was sure that at any second it would burst. It hammered against his ribs like a caged animal, one that wanted to be free; one that wanted to break and run, even while Nate himself could not.
             “What are you going to do?” His voice cracked as pain and fear broke what remained of his nerve. He was trapped with a walking corpse…who knew what it had planned for him?
             Slowly, Raker’s fingers loosened their grip on Nate’s mangled wrist. Nate instinctively drew the wounded arm to his chest, cradling it gingerly against his body as a fresh wave of pain engulfed him. Raker spun smartly on his heel and took a step away, the tails of the long trenchcoat he wore flaring out behind him. For a second, Nate dared to hope as the specter retreated.
             But the feeling passed like rain upon a mountain, draining away in fast flowing rivulets. Raker thrust a hand into an interior pocket and withdrew a familiar metal form: long barreled, bulky, wooden grip. Nate’s heart froze. His pistol.
             “I saw it, Nate. I saw it just as you saw it.” His head dipped as he considered the revolver in his hand. “You killed me, Nate.”
             Nate started to whimper. It was an obscene sound coming from a hitman, something like seeing a balerina in a belching contest. “Raker, I—“
     “One good turn deserves another, friend.” Raker flourished the pistol as he turned to face his prey once more. He raised the barrel to Nate’s forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it just as clean as you did.”
             Nate knew there was no escape. He knew it just as sure as he knew that there was an undrunk glass of whiskey on the counter. It was over.
             Nathan Kale closed his eyes and waited for the bullet.
             Raker didn’t make him wait long.

             Raze woke from a sound sleep. He had been dreaming. Not a good one either. It was one of those dreams where you ran and ran, but no matter how hard you tried to escape, you couldn’t run fast enough. His legs had pistoned with all their might, and yet it was like he was running through tar, as if the air itself tried to slow his flight.
             And behind him were the eyes. Black eyes; the eyes of the Devil himself.
              Raze sat bolt upright in bed, running a hand over his damp forehead. His skin was wet with cold sweat, his heart pounding. He drew a deep breath, trying to get a hold of himself.
             “Get a grip, Raze.” He whispered to the darkness, letting the breath hiss through his teeth.
             And the darkness answered. Beneath the whisper-hum of the ceiling fan, a light rasp issued from the opposite corner of the room, between the pile of dirty clothes and the TV stand, so quiet that Raze almost dismissed it as his imagination. When it came again, Raze rose from the embrace of his sheets and shuffled over to check it out.
             He kneeled down on the soft blue-gray pile carpet, bare knees rasping like dry leaves. His eyes strained in the darkness, searching for the source of the sound. One sleep-numbed hand reached out to pull away the leather jacket that obscured his vision.
             There. It was coming from the Ouija board’s box.
             “No way.”
             Could it really be? He’d heard the rumors and dismissed them as urban legends. Ouija boards couldn’t really animate by themselves, could they? Could a spirit manifest itself without a medium? Raze couldn’t help himself, he slid the board towards his knees and lifted the top off the box.
             The planchette stood out against the board, white in the early morning gloom. Raze didn’t even reach for the wedge of plastic…it was already in motion. Slowly, he whispered the letters to himself…and felt his blood freeze.
             “One down. Four to go.” Over and over, the planchette danced from one letter to the next with what could only be manic glee.
             Raze gingerly reached out to flip the planchette over. He shivered as he replaced the box cover and crawled back into bed. No matter how high he pulled the blanket, he couldn’t shake off the chill in his bones.
             No way was he getting back to sleep now.

             The dead man stands over the corpse of his first victim. The revolver smokes in his right hand. His eyes lose their onyx hue, regaining the icy tint of life. It’s only now that he notices the ragdoll form at his feet.
             He does not feel remorse. Not regret. Something else…something like the bittersweet bite of a fleeting pleasure. It’s the lovely laceration of vengeance. It dances on his tongue like liquid gold. He finds its taste to his liking.
             “Such a piece of work is a man.” The voice in the back of his skull whispers along the slender avenues of his nervous system. “How lofty in reason, how infinite in faculty, how like a god?” There is a laugh behind the feigned solemnity.
             “I was justified.” The dead man’s voice is like the rasp of leather on silk.
             “You are justified, Raker. We’re just getting started.”
             The dead man nods softly to himself as he looks back down at the revolver in his hand. He opens the cylinder and finds four bullets and one empty shell in the chambers. His lips set in a grim line as he removes the empty casing and turns it over in his empty hand.
             “Such a piece of work is a man.” The dead man’s voice is as soft as the gravedirt he has escaped from.
        The dead man ties the spent shell in his hair, wrapping the still warm brass in ebony locks until it bounces against his cheek as he turns for the door. “Number one, then.”
 

Reviews

[Kaitlyn M.]

"And blood it will have. Bright red, brimming buckets of it. " BRING IT ON!

And I mean it. You're really ramping up the tension here. Oh, and you have the best name for a bar ever.

In all seriousness, however, I keep wanting, and you don't stop giving. Your description, as always, is unrelentless, and even more so in this chapter than its predecessors. Absolutely gorgeous, and this chapter, is, for lack of a better word, flawless.

And hurrah for the return of Raze. I'd taken a liking to him last chapter, and it makes me immeasurably happy that you did indeed plan to do more with the teenagers.

Your characterization of Raker here too is something to note, as your foreshadowing lends itself to character description, and it's a nice technique. It's rather jolting to find out that Raker didn't know why he was there at first--just that he needed to be. The Rage in him is leaking out more and more, and you're doing a great job slowly drawing them out as two separate parts of the same whole. It's a rather exciting and innovative way to depict revenge, especially from the pseudo-undead. Everything here just keeps getting better, and I'm having a hard time trying to even find something to talk about because everything is rather well done and polished already. Mucho