Wraith ; Semblance Read online

  I see the men in their jackets labeled in acronym wheeling out the body that's draped in the shiny black bag zipped up to the top. I'm the only one without my cellphone in the air, I’m the only one that’s watching the scene and not just watching the body. I look up and down the street just to make sure one of them didn't get to brazen or curious, they’re simple animals, with the smell of death in the air, even a death they caused, they might get curious.

  After the body I can see a few Detectives coming out, talking amongst themselves, sharing notes, sharing information. I decide to leave, tomorrow in the obituaries it’ll confirm that the woman that I suspect was attacked was the one that actually perished. I feel bad for her, I know what they can do, and I know that that she hadn’t seen what was doing that type of damage to her. To only hear their growls and shrieks must be terrifying.

  Chapter 3

  I walk back uptown. It's only inching towards midnight, there is a lot of darkness ahead of me. I can survey the area, find the quieter pockets as night looms and maybe find out something.

  Usually, the homeless are the first to be go. I’m surprised that the news or the police have never connected these types of horrific deaths to some serial killer. All of them share the same traits. The brutal carnage, the shedding of skin and bone, and the teeth and claw marks. For a long time, I read the articles online thinking that someone would eventually forge that type of connection, I was glad when they weren’t. A one-off killing in the city gets attention for a few days before more crimes add to the pile and eventually attention is turned off and away to something else entirely. A serial killer gets a lot more attention and a lot more publicity and as such, they get more cops investigating. That would make it harder for me to walk the streets with a live weapon regardless of how well it’s concealed.

  My custom Desert Eagle is joined by two more blades, both evolved under their time with me. At this point they are so soaked in dead man’s blood I could have a year of razor edge and potency before I’d have to restrike the metal. That and the silver inlay on the rock salt bullets can usually handle what I’m hunting or what the night has in store for me.

  Siren's cry behind me and I can hear that there is more than one but they’re heading up to Times Square, nothing in Times Square requires my attention. For now, I decide that I’ll go the park. Central Park always has silent pockets and stray people moving around it at all different points in the day, I figure maybe I’ll get lucky.

  I turn, throw my hand in the air, seconds later a yellow cab pulls up to me. “Central Park,” I say and despite the strange look that comes back to me through the reflection in the rearview mirror by a man that I’ve never met, I know what he’s thinking. It's getting on one in the morning, why would she be going to the park.

  Despite his objections that are apparent in his wide eyes, I see the meteor come to life and he starts to drive. I look at the city as it dances by my window, cracking it open to let some fresh air into the back seat of the cab.

  I’ve never looked at the city the way I wanted to. I envy tourists who come and see this city for the first time. I feel that they get to see the city the way that it was intended to be seen and enjoyed. I observe and analyze, that’s all I can ever do with it. When I was younger, or at least from the first memories that I really have, I imagine that I looked at this city that way. I had made my first kill within three days of being here, that was more than enough to dial down the bright lights.

  My memories are spotty to say the least. The only real ones are from the training to becoming a Chaser. Those that helped me along the way have some place in my head but for the most part, the gaps in my mind stretch years. It was hard a first to cope with it, I’ve learned to adapt now. My mind hadn’t given me much choice.

  I got out of the cab, touching my phone to the pay console and leaving him, looking into the darkness of the park as I closed the door. Hands in my pocket I walked in.

  Chapter 4

  The park seemed to be ignoring the cloud cover overhead and did its best to block it out. Being in here in late June was peaceful. The trees blocked out the heat and allowed a cool breeze to float through the paths of the park.

  I’ve always learned to expect the worst from parks especially at night. As much as I come here to hunt, there’s always people and never what I’m looking for. People are much harder to concern yourself with. You can’t kill them like you kill what I kill. They leave traces and those traces bring attention. I don’t want that attention. I’m more content with my life if not entirely thrilled by it. It serves me a particular satisfaction and feeds an age-old hatred that lives somewhere in my heart. Even though I’ve long moved on from what put that hate there, my body and my mind still live to serve it.

  I’ve tailored my entire life to that hate. It’s why I still do this. It’s why I can still have satisfaction bringing pain to one of those beasts and get a ghostly smile when I know that I’m about to deliver a kill shot. Even now my hands are growing anxious. They want to hold the double-barrel and they want to use it. If I don't find something soon I might have to fit in some target practice somewhere to keep them trained.

  I walk passed two dope heads sitting on one of the benches. I’d be more nervous if their heads weren’t slumping over and I could see the evidence of what they’ve injected themselves with on their laps and on the ground. This is what lives here and sometimes I figure that nothing attacks in here because there's no challenge. When you hunt, you don’t kill the weak and the sick unless you're starving. An island with eight million people, the creatures have some options.

  At the far end of the path, I can still see the carriage and horse setups. People still standing in line, couples and newlyweds waiting to take a horse drawn carriage through Central Park. All the woman that want that taste of what it’s like to be Cinderella or another of the Disney princesses’ even if it’s just for a few minutes.

  Something distracts me, some rustling in the bushes. While I’m eager, my mind still reminds me to be patient. My hand is close to the handle of my gun but it's not touching it just yet but close enough to move if I need it too.

  That sense of time slowing surrounds me, where my heart rate slows but each beat is so much more powerful inside my chest I can almost see it expanding like an explosion forced to slow down.

  I hear the growl, I know the sound, now it’s time. I pull the shotgun out and aim it at the bushes. I don’t move, I’m still patient, but the growl is growing louder. To everyone around me, they hear nothing. The growl is only audible in the ears of the those that are haunted.

  I slip my finger over one of the triggers and fire the first shot into the bushes and hear the whimper come out. I wonder if it's the one that mauled the girl from that building, Courtney if I remembered her name. I still don't know how many are out there on the loose, but I know they are out. They’re searching for something, that usually means something else is about to make their appearance.

  Before I can explore the bushes and can make sure of what I hit, a hand is around my throat and the tip of a blade is pressing its point into my neck. “Drop the fucking gun,” I hear come out of closed teeth carried on a wind of sour breath. I can tell by the hand that’s it’s one of the dope heads on the bench.

  “Get her fucking money,” the other one says in a loud whisper.

  My hand closes and my fist hammers hard into his groin and I can feel the vice grip fall apart. I open my left hand, the hand that’s not holding my shotgun and throw the side of my elbow into his jaw turn and aim the still smoking barrel at his partner. I wait for the man that held me to hit the floor.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I tell him, my voice is stained and hardened but not weak, there is nothing about my voice that’s ever weak.

  I can see he’s scared, terrified maybe. I know he thought that a woman alone in the park would be easy, maybe they figured I wanted this and came asking for it. I know he thinks differently now.

  He runs, and I decide th
at that’s not enough. I pull out one of my blades, it's short and handheld but maneuverable when it has to be. Pivoting, I throw it, and watch its path until it charges right through the meat of his left thigh and forces him down hard to the ground.

  I walk, casually for the most part, there isn’t enough attention around me for me to be in any type of a hurry. As I get to my blade, I twist, muffle his scream before he can let it loose, wipe the blood on his pants and slide it back into its holster. I know that if the thing I killed was the creature, the evidence would have dissolved already.

  Looking at my watch, it was getting on three in the morning. I didn’t have much time left.

  Chapter 5

  By five in the morning when the first people going about their daily lives comes awake and active, I decide that I’ll call it a night. I don't want to go home though. I’m not tired in the least. If anything I feel anxious. I wanted to see that creature and those two idiots messed that up for me.

  There is a diner by my house that I go to at all hours. I can only imagine what the cook and the waitress think of me with the odd hours that I show up, always alone, sometimes sweaty and dirty, but always famished when I get there.

  It's a small place, one of those holes in the wall that hold treasures in their kitchen. I always assume it because it’s slightly dirty or the years of failed cleaning have put a specific flavor into everything that touches the fire. Irene is the waitress; her son Marco is the chef.

  She’s a nice old woman, I do care for her. Despite the wrinkles in her face or the makeup that she uses to try and cover them up or the tint of purple in her pearl white hair, I don’t mind, she’s a kind woman and she lets me enjoy what privacy that I want.

  One time she tried to set me up on a date with Marco. I figured if I’m getting asked it must be slim pickings for him. He was a big guy, burly, some muscle definition to him but he was constantly covered in sweat, that’s never a good sign to see someone’s true appearance.

  I’m far from shallow but I’m also far from interested. My life and my work don't allow that type of behavior out of me. I crave it sometimes, everyone wants to be loved but in a city as forgiving as Manhattan, sexual ambiguity is something that is so much more commonly accepted. For all Irene knew I could've been a lesbian and that would've been fine for her.

  The one time she asked I politely dismissed it as best I could, and she was courtesy enough never to ask again, I was grateful for that. I didn’t want it to be weird when I walked in the diner, I did like the food and I appreciated the two of them.

  As I walked in and heard the bell sound off that hangs over their front door, I say “Hi,” to Irene and I waive at Marco who always give me this spatula salute with a wink. I used to find that strange, now I expect and like it, it’s funny how those impressions change over time.

  “What can I get for you darling?” Irene asked. There was no menu out, I only have five orders, it took three months before they gave up giving me menu’s, I never opened one. Don't all diners have the same food?

  “Four eggs over easy, side of sausage, side of bacon, home fries, white toast extra butter, cup of coffee with extra cream and extra sugar,” I said, that was my favorite, more often than not that was my order. I could always sense Irene’s eyes studying me to find out where I put the food once it entered my body and then she seems to smile and dismiss it entirely. By the time I can hear Marco crack the first egg over the griddle, I realize how exhausted I really am.

  Chapter 6

  I say my goodbye’s and their courtesy as ever. I start my walk home passing a newsstand that has just been fully stacked with the morning papers. I buy one of each of the major news outlets, see if one of them broke the story on the murder last night in the Kitchen. I don't want to wait much longer. I wanted to know if it was Courtney that had been killed.

  I doubt it will change anything. It’s hard to feel bad seeing things that I’ve seen. I’m sure it’ll hit me somewhere, I’m just not entirely sure where.

  With the sun up in the air and sleep and me having no interest in one another for the next few hours, I decide that I’ll go the gym for a while. Training was essential, that’s what he had always told me. Keep the wits sharp and your mind frosty. Some words you never forget.

  After I leave my apartment, shedding all the weapons that I hold onto on a nightly basis, I take the subway uptown to Muay Thai Heaven, a gym that I’ve been a part of for the last few years. It’s hard to say I’ve been a part of it, they never charge me dues. The owner, a guy named Mike once asked me out on a date, again, just like with Marco I respectfully declined but after that he seemed more content with being friends then being anything more. I had hoped that romantic spark has fizzled out inside of him. Letting someone down once was bad, twice was uncomfortable.

  He was a great trainer. Most of what I knew when I got to New York were the basics in Ninjitsu and a few other stray fighting styles, my friend was dead, there was no more that he could teach me.

  I had gotten really well developed over the last few years. Despite Mike begging me to take on an actual event, I found it was much easier to turn those down. Most of the time it was just him and I sparring, it was like he knew when I was going to be showing up, knocking on a door that wasn’t meant to be opened for another two hours.

  We spared and trained for about two and a half hours. I still catch glances that he passes at me when he thinks I’m not looking. I don't know if that’s part of being a woman or part of being a Chaser that I notice things like that. I don’t like to see them, but I suppose they don't really phase me anymore. Being a woman in Manhattan is not the easiest thing in the world, if you can't handle wandering eyes then you have a lot bigger problems.

  I always loved how Mike had this obsession with Tony Jaa but it made sense. Being in the Muay Thai business, Tony Jaa was the name at the top of the list. One of the first celebrities in the discipline. It wasn't until I was pushed down into my first full split that I appreciated that practice that went into sharpening elbows and dulling shins. When Mike told me to drive my shin into a heavy bag two hundred times, part of me assumed he was joking.

  I was always fascinated more with it than most other things. He told me that I had to create micro fractures in my own bone so that it would grow back stronger than before. I found that amazing to hear. To break something down so that it grows back stronger. The phoenix tattoo on my back that wraps around my shoulder and my neck was because of that very concept. I suppose with what I’ve seen and learned, I have died more than once, and I have seen the pain of rebirth.

  As I walked back through my door I went to the papers on my bed and started to go through them as the first signs of fatigue started to wash over me. I had to do this before I showered.

  Daily News was the one that had gotten the obituary to print before the deadline. It was Courtney but it wasn’t in the obituaries it was on the second page listed as a homicide. A picture of her pulled from her Facebook was stained on the article, the words written around the image.

  There was something else that I noticed too as my eyes streamed over the printed words of the article. Something that didn’t make a lot of sense. I saw and read it three times to make sure that I had read it accurately. Whatever it was that killed her had taken her heart.

  Chapter 7

  I know what I had just read but it still didn’t settle and register the way that it was supposed to. By the fifth time that I had read it and relayed my eyes to that particular line of text and back to Courtney’s black and white picture plucked from social media, it had started to settle.

  It wasn’t because I didn’t understand that her heart could be missing, it’s what it meant that my mind refused to move too. It was a total confusion because it had been years since something like that had happened and the last time that it did, a lot of things changed. It was like my head tried to go backwards to that moment in time and something inside of me, maybe it was the hatred inside of my chest, outright refused to
let it go there.

  I threw the paper down and stood just as it was hitting the floor. I went to my computer. A shower and sleep were going to have to wait just a little bit more. I barely felt the severe pain in my arms from where Mike had forced me to rip my muscles open and put the fractures back into my elbow.

  My typical work is research, an outside consultant for a handful of different firms and consulting groups throughout the city, mostly on Wall Street and Fifth Avenue. I sit there with Facebook opened, I back-tracked her email account from something listed in the paper by her parents. From there I dropped a line of code into Facebook and pulled out her password and was logged into her account. From that it gave me her entire laptop.

  From what I could find, she had had dinner with her parents at a place down in SoHo two nights before. It was her birthday about three weeks ago now. I could see pictures uploaded from her birthday night out. I could see her videos that she posted on both Facebook and Instagram because I was friends with her in both places.

  In the end, I found nothing. There was nothing to see, nothing that was out of the ordinary. There was nothing in her emails, pictures, recent documents, on any of her accounts.

  Chapter 8

  I didn’t know this girl, I knew nothing about her other than the fact that she lived around my own neighborhood. It was better when the connections weren’t personal. For the most part, if I saw bodies, they were rarely in the condition for an open casket. To have a personal connection to them in that condition was too much for even the most hardened psyche.