*copyrighted material*
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The wayside on which he used to sit felt banally sleet that night, lanes empty on both sides. The ideal spot for mournings and a smoke break beneath a shining streetlamp, the distant beeping of motorcars in much lower grounds. A debased wire fence partially blocked the view, but not less attractive to admire Nooktown buzzing with life upon that hill. Clouds of steam and smoke formed before Wyatt’s lips, a cigarette in one hand and two stamped orange-tinted tickets in the other. He should have known it had been a fishy deal since the very beginning, a fast buck, and a very specific request for a pouch of cleansing salts to sniff on in the lack of any trinkets for petty traffickers that called themselves part of the military. The price paid for two very tight spaces on an aircraft that could carry more than twenty-two passengers while seats were removed. A ride he’d certainly have to endure on his own two feet with nothing but steel handlebars to hold on to. Calvin’s decision had been a definitive one, a no was a shatterproof no when it came to that boy. Vivian Bixbee’s passing made no odds in the matter. It was too risky.
Somehow, he remembered this moment much more ordinary and not so bleak, despondency filtering through his bones. Yorkwich could have been their land of redemption before getting involved with the Rootstocks. Yet, that had been his brother’s choice, followed by a public fallout that had been unredeemable after besieging Fort Yggdrasil and escaping on what he would describe as a fart-magic bus of sorts. All records of admissible behavior were gone. The news had been reported in all of Roanoke’s radio frequencies controlled by the government, an abridged statement rather than twisting the story in their favor like usually done. The news of the assault had a big impact on the
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nation while the Rootstocks scrutinized their enemy trying to decipher what the consequences would be in the long run in the shape of new policies and security measures. But they’d never be prepared for what would come.
Wyatt shut his eyes when everything came down spinning in an impassioned cyclone that tore down the sky and his surroundings. The next second his ear drowned to the sound of the French-flagged Dewoitine’s steel wings and fuselage rattling as they gashed out through the air on their way to Yorkwich. A couple of dozens of strangers, some whom he called friends, jammed together breathing on each other’s faces on that shaky thing. Suddenly the cone-shaped nose of the plane swiveled downwards without control. And, surely, he knew very well that had not been the case in his original memory of that trip. Which only meant one thing.
“YOU SCUMMY BAG OF BONES!” He shrieked, “STOP!”
Wyatt jerked upward, feeling Krishanu’s weight on his back and shoulders, pinning him down like a tonnage of snow burying him alive.
“SUBMIT TO ME, YOU UNSERVICEABLE CORPSE! I OWN YOU!” The phantom spoke infringing his mind with recollections of the past to subdue him for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest of his vicious phrenic attacks had brought Wyatt back to the moments where he’d chosen to abandon his younger brother in Nooktown, years before they joined the Rootstocks.
Still, the man found enough strength in his legs at a moment of rage, he pushed himself to his feet but his head collided with the bottom of the old kitchen sink, cracking the dry pipes open and shattering the thick porcelain. That was all he needed to wake up from Krishanu’s induced lethargy. He came upon surroundings he’d forgotten about in his sleep, he was inside a small and torn Victorian house but not just any house. His childhood home in Bartleby. Andrew, Harriet, and their two boys had once lived here. He knew then he was back in present times.
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A lit light bulb swung from what was left of the fallen, cobwebby roof. The dinner table and the chairs were just pieces as he had found them when he came in through the crumbling front door. Everything was abundantly decorated with snow.
The place where he sat now had been the same as where he’d hidden as a kid from the military as they dragged his father to the kitchen to interrogate him. He’d watch under the sink’s shadow, sobbing uncontrollably. His mother had not uttered a word but picked up Calvin as quickly as a frightful family woman could have. Securing one-half of her children was not enough and she’d battle her eldest son to pull him out from below the glossy-white washing fixture.
Krishanu towered over him. Sitting on the kitchen counter as he shook his head left and right reprovingly. Two years had passed from their spirit bonding, and the human vessel incarnation had been successful and had proved to be effective at Fort Yggdrasil’s battle. But little to nothing had been very useful in them ever since, not a very productive team had been assembled. Wyatt had gone through rigorous training with the help of Dr. Mulhouse’s husband, Rolf Mcallister, shortly after their downward road trip from Mt. Mowaki to Bartleby city. However, the phantom and his vessel had not reached conciliatory grounds during that time. Fought a few battles shoulder to shoulder but the ill feelings and resentment towards each other cost them some victories and countless losses. Mickey and Rolf saw no point in having them currently on duty, and still, that wasn’t the greatest of their problems.
Krishanu, the Renou, and the rest of the Defenders of Shine knew the vessel—or corpse—to which a spirit bonded presented changes, most of all, physical abilities and attributes. However, Wyatt Elsner’s corpse had grown bigger, his voice had gone raspier and he’d aged rapidly in those two years. His face showed the softest of wrinkles, while silver hair grew where brownish blonde once did. Eyebrows, facial hair, and head follicles, as well as all other unmentioned parts. His eyes had turned to a sharp and frosty blue but held a perfect 20/20 vision despite the seeming aging. He’d been called the first
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nomination, the first of a new generation of inherent champions. He, ruling the flames. Thus, it did not mean he’d live long enough to meet someone like him. The probabilities existed but were scarce, it could happen in fifty years or a thousand. The Rootstocks were in current negotiations with the Defenders of Shine and the Renou, they were asking for a new reindeer king. Someone they could rely on. Someone of their choosing. Wyatt didn’t give a flying fuck.
“Will you return to headquarters now? It’s been a long three months away, Calvin and the Rootstocks must be looking for us . . . again. Self-commiseration will get you nowhere. It is not as bad as you might think, at least you don’t look like me . . .” Krishanu disregarded. The phantom had been battling him from within for the past few weeks to take control and return to the others, but to no avail.
His partner rose and threw a punch that went right through his ghostly and decrepit face, crushing part of the pantry behind and shattering a window with the other flying half.
“Fool! You’ll give our position to the Visitors!”
“I DON’T CARE, DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?!” Wyatt blasted. “YOU ARE INVISIBLE TO THE NAKED EYE WHEN YOU WANT TO BE. I CAN’T MAKE MYSELF DISAPPEAR LIKE YOU!” He paced around in the kitchen, hands intertwined at the back of his neck. “On top of that . . . you failed to inform me ages ago that I’m a wandering corpse . . .”
“I meant to say that you’ve passed on already. Bonding can’t take that out of the frame, humans die once and there’s no turning back. But the bonding I volunteered to has tied your soul to your corpse indefinitely. You are still tied to this shell because of me.”
“Sounds much worse when you say it as if it were nothing,” Wyatt called out.
Krishanu was about to enter yet another anger fit when shells pierced through the front walls. His inmate took refuge behind the musty-smelling GE Monitor Top refrigerator and coughed to gunpowder.
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“Quick, the mask!” The ghost reminded him as he reached out for the gun strapped to his ankle.
“I will never forget . . .” He sighed in acceptance. Burying his face inside layers of warming leather that match the ebony, hooded suit set he wore. No ordinary clothing, but original Visitor’s uniform pieces Rolf had assigned him to use during combat for elusiveness and much freer roaming in enemy zones within Bartleby. A tactic still not very commonly known amongst Visitors, he’d been good at keeping a low profile under the suit to spy on the enemy. However, to distinguish him from all adversaries it had been requested of him to wear a blue ribbon around his right arm at times so the Rootstocks could easily identify him. And he did so still at that moment, but snatched away the blue stripe in the last second and secured his gun to his ankle again.
Krishanu was gone from sight, wheezing telepathically, “What are you doing, you cretin?! Shoot!”
Still, Wyatt stood by the front door as the Visitors tore the remaining pieces of it apart, too high on abterra leaves concoctions as usual. He picked at his grubby gloves as he took the sight of them coming in and immediately welcomed them with their infamous pistol-to-neck salute in complete silence. He let loose a stiff breath beneath the mask when they responded to him in the same manner before walking past him to search inside the house.
They’d fallen for it, he had replaced his mask’s detachable goggles with those of a higher rank Visitor on his way here just in case. Lenses with short, silver-plated wings. These four Visitors he’d just welcomed into his old home were on a lower tier made of long, brass pinions. Their leader gestured to two of them to check the stairs with a pair of fingers while his other buddy and he took on the living room and kitchen. Calvin, Mickey, and some pharmaceutical specialists—who preferred to work anonymously—had run tests with the abterra leaves on rebel volunteers which had brought some new insights and lots of research material for a couple of years. The study had led them to believe daily dosages of abterra could numb the tongue to the point of minimum speech or sometimes, completely
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neutralize the ability. Very close to a sedative. Keeping his mouth shut around these killing machines was not just a cautionary measure.
Making a run for it then and there would not have been a good call. But he remained where he stood looking at the top of the staircase. It hadn’t occurred to him that the house and all its corners held clues to be inspected if it was ever known this was where Calvin and he originally lived. Disappearing would bring up suspicions and therefore lead to an investigation. Besides he’d have to come back to look around and investigate himself, after all, it had taken him years to finally find this place. And he’d ruin that precious chance, taking a nap.
He headed to the living room quietly and pretended to search the area while calculating all of their deaths if something transpired in the middle of his make-believe agent of evil role.
“Such ideations of yours better solve this mess.” Krishanu’s voice echoed inside his skull. Wyatt simply brushed it off and brought himself to one knee, removing the seat cushions from the water-stained sofa in looks of anything. Peeled off the rug, looked through the oak display cabinet that contained aged porcelain trinkets, and checked the radio, whatever to fit the part in this play. Soon enough, the Visitors rummaging upstairs came down and met their fellow companions, exchanging just a few gestures. They turned to him then. Wyatt had been taught a few of their gestured codes before wriggling out of Rootstock’s headquarters, but he remembered none, he showed them a thumbs up, and ridiculous enough, he got away with it. They were all exiting the house. He followed just a few steps behind them when an unlooked-for yank of their heads towards his direction started a heated stare-down that Krishanu knew only meant trouble.
“Shoot the fuckers, or I’ll do it!” Krishanu flipped, unable to get a hold of the body they shared. The Visitors did not give him a chance though, as he tried dodging the first closed fist and failed miserably. He took four steps back, and his winged lenses broke to crystal dust before his boots could squeak.
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The goggles fell off to reveal the eyeholes in his mask. The drugged soldiers met then the sight of his wintry eyes and brows knowing to whom they belonged.
One of them was quick enough and grabbed him by the windpipe, pulling him up against a wall. The Visitor’s hand twitched upon his scruffy skin. Wyatt wrapped his hands around the soldier’s wrist to relieve the beheading pressure on his throat. The other soldiers moved around him with their guns ready to take him away unharmed. But their prisoner swung to one side and hit his holder’s arm with an elbow, smacking his jawbone next. His magic barrier triggered just in time to cut the Visitor’s arm clean to the bone, the dazzling triangle, and stags hovering over his head. There were no screams of agony despite the abundant bleeding, yet the sounds of shells reflecting off his shield the instant they knew things had gotten out of control. He ran to the kitchen for safety and behind a wall, pulled out his gun. With the help of Krishanu, Wyatt had learned to have better control of his abilities too, turning on and off his ‘power supply’. Turning off to attack, turning on to protect himself.
They exchanged bullets until one enemy bolted forward and swung his knife at him, he dodged and grabbed the soldier by the shoulder whacking him against the floor before taking the knife and digging the blade into his skull. The soldier in question convulsed while the armless one tackled him to the ground in a bloody mess. Wyatt kicked him out of the way and shot him two times in the chest and another between the brows.
A projectile cut through the fabric of his parka coat. Another brushed his temple and blood trickled down his cheek. He took a fleeting chance to snatch the severed arm from the gory-stained wooden floor and strike one of the remaining Visitors straight on the face with it. His opponent lost balance but got right back to him with a punch and then a kick to the chest. Wyatt hit the floorboards with such force he left a hole in the hall that led to the bathroom. The two Visitors left dragged him away from his feet to the entrance, but while doing so Krishanu took over and grabbed a luger gun he found on the ground on their way out. Before they could reach the doorframe, the phantom gunned them at
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point-blank range with all of its bullets, then violently stabbed them while they still bleed out from their gun wounds.
“Motherfucking automatons . . . ” The phantom hissed, dropped the knife, then slapped his partner’s face still in control of him. Wyatt jolted awake where he stood. “Hurry up and help me drag the bodies to the second floor, you bootless meatball.” He said nothing and lugged the first one upstairs. He found a tiny closet up in a corner and squeezed the body inside, when he was done with all four he sat atop the stairs to catch his breath. He frowned at the bloody mess left below and shook his head.
“Didn’t go as planned? Huh?” Krishanu said. The human winced and before he could come up with a solid comeback, the closet door flew open and the bodies spilled all over. He would have succumbed to desperation right there except that something wasn’t right as he spotted the paperwhite, nude scalp of one of the bodies as the hood mask slipped off. He knelt before the corpse, blood still trickling from his mouth, and realized there were no traces of hair in its features. No eyebrows, just a few lashes and empty pores like a sphynx cat with sickish ivory skin and violet veins.
“Have you ever seen one of these?” He scowled at the ghost.
“Negative . . . ”
“Let’s check the others . . .”
The pair had encountered the Visitors on many occasions after the events set two years ago, killing most of them in barbaric ways to ensure they were good as dead under the use of the effects of the abterra substance. Nonetheless, corpses presented themselves as regular people in disguise, although some of them sported dark bags under their eyes due to the constant drug abuse. All of them were middle-aged or a little younger than that. Exclusively men.
It didn’t take a hard inspection to know something was wrong with that batch of lifeless bodies, all of them presented the same baldness and sickling visage all across their bodies. Wyatt had taken good
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measures just to clear any doubts. He decapitated one of them, took an old kitchen towel from a drawer, and wrapped it in it before pushing all the bodies back inside the defective closet and dragging a nearby cabinet to cover up the door. They left the house knowing the stench would lead their enemies to the spot in a day or two, so they quickened the pace traversing the seemingly unending and partially obliterated suburbs. There was just one thing left to do after their discovery.
“You’ve finally set your sights on.” The phantom smirked.
“Mickey needs to walk me through this. Assuming the Rootstocks do know of this, of course. Either way, it can’t be good.”
“I thought you said you didn’t care about the war at all.”
“That’s not what I said. I said that I don’t want to murder anymore when my brother and I could have just marched on up North. You, Mickey, and the Rootstocks tied both of us here!”
“Are you sure this wasn’t Calvin’s choice too?”
“He is a teenager, he doesn’t know any better. And by the way, you never gave me a choice either. Did you?”
“I can’t argue about that.” Krishanu crossed his arms and bobbed his gleaming skull. “But I just want you to know . . . the Cosmos did not give my kind some other choice either or anyone else involved in this rebellion. Ocean waves are stronger than men. This wave is, however, stronger than someone like me too.”
END OF CHAPTER #2