Ghost Guard 2: Agents of Injustice Page 12

  His lips materialized out of a state of half reality/half misty dream realm, just in time for a sultry kiss. A tingle in her bloodstream shot straight to the pit of her stomach. She felt like a little schoolgirl. Rev felt it too. A feverous heat bringing him to a level of exultation beyond comprehension.

  He kissed her like the waning sun was casting long shadows across the painted hills just for them. And like there were no other souls around, especially ones hunting them down like dogs.

  But there were people hunting them. And, before they even got started, before they both gave in to temptation, the balcony door burst open. At the threshold stood the two security personnel, bald men with giant biceps bulging from yellow polo shirts, snorting like wild bulls and shouting obscenities.

  Abby screamed, pulling her robe closed which Rev had, in his sneaky way, managed to open without her knowledge. She knew he did it because he wanted her. He would have argued it was for effect.

  “Hey!” she folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t you people have any manners?”

  The smaller of the two, not smaller by much, turned to his cohort, who shrugged and offered a look of confusion. After the unmitigated anger only a second or two earlier, the transformation bordered on comical. Wide eyes and even wider mouths. Red faces and stammering tongues. Not one of them able to form a coherent statement beyond blubbering buffoonery.

  “Uh…uh…uh,” Abby imitated them. The security men swore they were correct. They had these two on the run. But they hadn’t once, in the whole time they were chasing the intruders, actually saw who they were chasing. And by the looks of things, this amorous couple had been on the balcony all evening.

  Scratching his head, the smaller one looked at the larger one and they turned their sizable backs, walking away to the incessant creaking and groaning of the lodge’s hand hewn log floor.

  “And stay out,” Abby closed the door and leaned against it, panting for breath. She’d been holding her anxiety in this whole time, waiting for the ax to fall. Waiting for the whole thing to come crashing down on top of them.

  Chapter 15

  Brutus was breaking protocol, an act of pure insubordination and he knew it. He also knew his friends would come looking for him. But he had to do this. The guilt was weighing on him so heavily that he had no choice. Guilt because he was free and the other spirits weren’t. They were trapped. They were afraid. They were in a state of perpetual torment at the hands of a sociopathic sorcerer.

  So many innocent souls. They should have been at peace. They should have been free to decide their own fate and not kept like birds in cages. So many souls and also so many dangers awaiting anyone who dared try and save them. Brutus could not allow them to persist in this state another moment. But he could also not allow his friends to expose themselves to such dangers. The spectral inhibitor was a vile machine. And there were other, sometimes even more insidious obstacles awaiting them. Hatman was not a character to be taken lightly, and he seemed to take a particular interest in the Abby. This frightened Brutus, convincing him that he had to take action alone.

  He would do it himself. He would find a way in. First, using supernatural speed and cunning, he searched every cranny, every corner, every possible entrance to the hidden underground lair. At every turn he met frustration. He never encountered anything like it. Ghosts usually had the ability to pass through any solid object, no matter how dense, no matter how large. Yet the walls in this place were impenetrable. Soon it became clear there was no way in other than that door guarded by the spectral inhibitor.

  Brutus bristled at the thought of such a cleverly cruel device. A device so insidious in its design that it both terrified and intrigued him. He knew the only way to rescue those trapped and terrified souls was through that inhibitor, and he knew what he needed to do, though the ramifications were quite unsavory.

  What would happen to him if he purposefully got near, or even dared to place his ghostly hands on the inhibitor? He didn’t need to ask that question. He knew the answer. If he had an earthly, corporeal body, he would have likened the feeling to the most severe form of nausea, almost like a deadly virus had spread through his entire system. Violent spasms of pain circulating throughout his whole being.

  That was the experience of those tormented and imprisoned souls, only magnified a thousand times. Their torment was unspeakable, each of them, and there were dozens, locked in a dungeon of their own particular hell. They were fighting to stay in existence, fighting for their very souls, and it was a losing battle. Brutus knew the longer he delayed, the longer he deliberated about his own safety, the more damage would be done to those innocents.

  So he did the only thing he could. He went straight for that hateful place where he knew he would instantly be assaulted by wave after wave of revulsion. He knew it would hurt; possibly the damage would be irreversible. He had to take that risk.

  When he descended the staircase to the infamous doorway, he thought he must have been off with his orientation. Was this the place? He felt no unease, no magnetic pulse, no waves of revulsion. Nothing of that sort. But the visual cues were all there. The long and forbidding stairway, the rock walls and the old torches. And the massive doorway, the passage to than unholy place where a necromancer’s plans for domination of the entire spirit world were coming to full fruition.

  However, something was wrong. Something was off. By now, with his proximity to the spirit inhibitor, he should have been near delirium. The last time he was this close it felt like his insides were burning.

  But now that was all gone. No intensely awful feeling. No pounding in his head. No fire. No nauseating distress. Nothing. Again, he had to wonder if he was in the right place. Everything looked the same. This was it. This was the door. This was the passageway to the prison of souls.

  Swiftly he approached and saw where the spirit inhibitor sat in a state of idleness. Upon further inspection, Brutus concluded that the power was off. Was it broken? Was it turned off intentionally? Brutus didn’t wait for the answer. This was his chance.

  It didn’t take him long to reach the forbidden grotto. It was dark and quiet. If Brutus was alive he would have been afraid. But he was dead. He wasn’t afraid. Still, there was that feeling of foreboding, that sense of unspeakable evil that wrapped him in a blanket of unease. This was the place. He saw the staffs protruding from the floor, and the second he did, he heard the voices.

  Some of the most influential and powerful people in human history were there. Writers and philosophers and thinkers. Well-known politicians and great leaders and celebrated minds. It was a veritable high society of the dead. What was The Singulate doing with these influential spirits? Brutus shuddered at the thought of what kind of influence and power they could have with these souls at their disposal.

  He began working the posts from the ground. One by one. Quickly and simply and definitively. No time to waste. He heard instant reluctance. Cries for his forbearance. Pleas for his departure. Despite his heroics, it seemed none of the trapped souls wanted his help.

  How can it be? How could such torment and torture be desired? Stockholm syndrome? He didn’t have the time to stop and find out. These people had been imprisoned too long. They had forgotten what freedom was. And now, finally, Brutus would remind them.

  Because he didn’t have arms in the traditional sense, he had no difficulty loading up dozens of the insidious sticks with the strange hybrid technology. Crowns of thorns and wicked wiring and other strange features that he cared not think about. One thing was certain. The bizarre devices were powerful. If Brutus was not careful, he could have gotten caught up in one himself. But he worked quickly. He was nimble. He was strong. He fought the gravitational pull long enough to gather every one of the staffs.

  It was an ambitious goal, and Brutus realized he would have to come back for second trip to get them all. He was determined. Despite the cries from the captives, despite his own reluctance and fear, he kept going, kept working, kept rescuing.

>   He plucked nearly every one of the staffs out of the ground, and each time he felt a strange sensation. Yet he kept going until he reached the last one. But this was different than the others. This seemed larger and had a stronger gravitational pull. He was determined to get it, and as he drifted closer he felt the pull even mightier.

  Laughter resounded throughout the deceptively large grotto. Brutus recognized the voice instantly. And then, without warning, he saw its owner.

  The dark being stood behind the wicked staff. A picture of sharp features and angular lines. A man, but not a man. Tall and well-built, on his head a hat tilted sharply downwards so his face was hidden in shadow. Brutus recognized him instantly.

  “Nice try, Brutus,” Hatman said condescendingly. “You got farther than I thought you would. But not far enough.”

  Brutus heard another voice, this one unfamiliar and strange with its thick German accent.

  “Velcome to the fold, herr Brutus. Vee have been expecting you.”

  Brutus struggled with all of his might against the strongest gravitational pull he’d ever felt. Like a black hole was devouring him. Like a tsunami crashing upon him and taking him out to sea. He was helpless. He was trapped. But still he struggled harder than he had ever struggled in his death. As he fought against the strange magical technology, he heard the shrieks and screams of the trapped souls. They were certain that Brutus had met his final fate. One more soul had been added to Hatman’s collection.

  Chapter 16

  Ruby had never been so animated. She wouldn’t stop circling the one-room cabin Morris had procured for them near The Singulate compound. She never changed her message, not once in the entire time. She was losing her mind with fear. Something was terribly wrong. The team was in imminent danger. Worst of all, all signs of Brutus had vanished.

  “Ruby, please,” Morris was getting seasick watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Can’t you see I’m working?” He had a tough task trying to find a stealthy way of bypassing the spirit inhibitor. He was getting close, if it weren’t for Ruby’s incessant caterwauling.

  Ruby wouldn’t quit. Her persistence became more than an annoyance, and Morris threw up his hands in grief after she announced, over and over, that she wasn’t getting anything from Brutus. It was like talking to a brick wall, she said.

  “Ruby, I understand. This is a dangerous mission, I know. But we have to trust our teammates to do their jobs.”

  Her tone became more resolute. She told him this time it was different. This time there was something seriously wrong with Brutus. He’d been captured.

  “And he’ll find a way to get out of it,” Morris went back to work. “Ruby, I’m telling you. How many times has this happened? Brutus can handle himself.”

  She insisted it was different. Her shrill popping and buzzing indicated darkness, desperation. Despite her unmitigated fear of The Singulate, she was contemplating a solo mission, and Morris knew it.

  “No you don’t, Ruby,” he scolded. “We all have our assignments, and yours is to stay here with me. End of discussion. Don’t bug me about it again.”

  She skulked about that statement. Her super-cooled attitude dropped the temperature in the room over ten degrees until Morris saw his breath.

  “Go ahead and pout,” he said. “Make the room freeze for all I care. My computers like it cold, anyway.”

  That made her even gloomier. She became much like Brutus normally appeared, a dark, nebulous cloud of static-charged attitude that only got worse when Morris paid her no attention.

  “It’s not going to work, Ruby. I’m telling you,” he tugged his sweatshirt around his lean frame and placed the hood over his disheveled hair. “So just stop it.”

  She couldn’t stop. How could she sit idly by while a potential disaster was happening only a couple of miles away? But convincing Morris proved harder than she cared to admit. She also didn’t appreciate being ordered around like a child. She wasn’t a child. It was disrespectful, and she told him so with another emotional tirade. When she was done, Morris looked up at her, took off his glasses, and nodded.

  “You’re right, Ruby. You’re not a child, and I shouldn’t be talking to you like that. I apologize. Should I ever treat you so again, may I fall under a most embarrassing malady and find nothing but misfortune for the rest of my days.”

  He glanced at her with a there, you happy, look. She saw this and hovered in space for a moment, wearing a straight face and nothing more. Then she smiled and he returned the gesture.

  “So it’s a truce?” he offered his hand. She peeped her word for truce and extended what passed for an arm, a stubby appendage with three curled and deformed phalanges featuring filthy, chipped nails that resembled claws. They shook on it, and Morris returned to work while Ruby went to some work of her own. She had to figure out how to get out of there without Morris noticing.

  An idea came to her in a flash of brilliance.

  First, lull Morris to sleep. For that she created an entirely different atmosphere. The cabin had a small woodstove stoked with seasoned kindling and, with a touch of her static field, it flashed into an inferno inside the firebox. That created an intoxicatingly warm environment rather quickly. Soon Morris took off his jacket and was surprised to find, next to his workstation, a cup of hot cocoa.

  “Ruby? Did you make this for me?” he sipped it up immediately. Frothy and delicious. Morris had a sweet tooth. “You shouldn’t have.”

  She cooed amiably. Melodic and soft like a sonnet of strings and harps in a lovely spring meadow. These were the things that came to Morris as he sipped and listened to her tranquil tones, never so entranced by Ruby’s way of discourse, never having heard her so wonderfully musical in all of their time together.

  “That’s…it’s beautiful,” he had a tear in his eye. “I had no idea you could sing like that.”

  The sounds she produced, pleasing, delicate notes with awe inspiring crescendos. Ruby, in her many centuries, had learned to create not only her own language, but her own way of generating sound. And that sound generation process was nothing short of magical at times. Sure, on occasion it was harsh and strident. Not now. Now she was the sweetest songbird, the finest Stratocaster, the loveliest voice in existence. And the more Morris listened, the more his spine loosened. He hadn’t noticed it before, but his neck was exceptionally tight, with pain spiking from his splenius capitis all the way to his trapezius. Layman’s terms: it hurt like hell. But now, with Ruby’s honeyed melodies, the stress-induced sting began to melt away like winter snow on a sunny day.

  “This is wonderful, Ruby,” he sipped again from his mug. “I’m happy you’ve come to your senses. Panic will get us nowhere, you’ll see. I’m concerned about Brutus too. But we can’t help him if we lose our composure. So thank you.”

  With that he continued his work. The spirit inhibitor bypass unit had to be perfect, and since he wasn’t there and hadn’t seen it in action firsthand, he didn’t have a clue as to frequencies and polarities, so he had to have a multiple options available. He had to concentrate. The cocoa was so warm and soothing on a brisk high desert night, though. And Ruby’s choice of music put him in such a delightful mood. But his work. It had to be completed. The team was counting on him, especially now with Brutus in trouble. He understood Ruby’s high anxiety. He did. However, he knew caution must be used when dealing with Hatman.

  The music was so enrapturing.

  And the fire so intoxicating.

  And the cocoa so delicious.

  Perhaps if he just closed his eyes for a moment. They were getting so heavy. Weighted down like lead. If he could just sit and relax only for a moment, and only halfway, just with his eyes closed only for a—

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that strange things had occurred. The fire was out. The room was still. The lantern had gone dead. The music had stopped.

  And Ruby was gone.

  He scrambled for his statmag sensor and waved it in several directions, chasing something he
knew wasn’t there but wished desperately for it to be.

  Ruby had gone. And worse, she’d tricked him.

  “Ruby! Darn you! You’ve been hanging around Rev too much!”

  *****

  Ruby heard Morris from a mile away. Literally. She heard every angry, accusatory thought in his head, and giggled profusely at each of them. She giggled even though she was scared as hell. Ruby hadn’t been this worried since the ghost gun mission. Even then she wasn’t convinced she or any of her teammates were in direct danger. What the ghost gun did was child’s play compared to Hatman.

  She hated thinking it. Brutus had gotten himself in a bad situation, and now he was being slowly extinguished.

  That single, morose thought propelled her, low and slow, a jet fighter along the contours of the canyon. Twisting from one small cluster of pines to another, then, when she got to within a stone’s throw of The Singulate property boundary, a real and palpable sense of dread fell upon her.

  It came to her on a whispering wind, an evil portent from the east, where she sensed a disquieting world of endless sorrow. She slowed her approach, aware of the gloom in the air, aware of being watched, or something even worse, of being hunted.

  She scanned her surroundings, wary of even the slightest living aura. Field mice and nighthawks and foxes. She sensed a multitude of life in the outskirts of the small forest, but when she got into its core, all life disappeared, replaced by oppression and hatred.