Legacy
"Thank you so much for being here, Mr. Walker. I didn't know what else to do. It's been 4 months and nobody could help us. You are the last option we have left."
"Just Walker, please, John. It's not a name, it's a title." His voice was smooth as velvet and red wine.
The living room lay in disarray, uncared for, numerous items discarded and broken. Dusk's light streamed through the half-curtained windows, a single blade of amber splitting the scene of unlit sorrow and pain-stricken faces. John and Ingrid Howard sat in front of him on the opposite couch, huddled together without holding one another, an unspoken distance. Her eyes were bloodshot and glistening, reflecting distrust and beaten strength, a woman with repeatedly shattered hope. The ticking of clock crashed deafeningly, like bells tolling damnation.
"When did your father give you this number?"
"He never did, sir. He bought a locked box in '72 and put a list of phone numbers in it. Told us to open only in case of absolute emergency when every other options had already been exhausted. I've tried the other numbers and they were all out of service. You are the only person to answer."
Even in the depth of his pain John Howard held his head high and kept his back straight, as if his disheveled grey hair was still brown, and his drooping, sorrow-stricken features were still that of a man in control. The months of worry had not been kind to him. Who would one be if the only thing defining their life was stripped away?
"Imagine my surprise when it rang. That number hasn't been active in decades." Walker's tone was clear, neutral, his accent unplacable. "Your father was a very dear friend." He could see the doubt in their eyes, the mother's especially. After all, he barely looked 40.
"Lily. It's a lovely name." The girl looked up at him with joy in her smile. Pure, untroubled. She wore a golden summer dress, her playful eyes gleaming like sapphire, its color of the ocean's depth reflected by her earring. The photo fell damp in his hand, half crumpled. Smelled faintly of salt and bitterness. "How old is she?"
"14 this August." This time Ingrid spoke, her words steely hard, backed not by inner strength but the familiarity of repetition, each time a cut so deep she grew numb to the pain. "She was still choosing a high school. Was going to make a big reveal that Friday."
Her gaze caressed the image of her daughter between his fingers, longing, aching to hold that fragment of her memory so intensely it burned his hand like the midday sun. Gently, as if handling a fragile soul, he set Lily's picture on the table between them and rose.
"Show me."
John touched his wife's shoulder comfortingly before standing and leading him out of the room toward the stairs. Behind him he heard quiet sobbing, despair barely suppressed. She had no hope in him.
"The police had been through the house several times. Nothing was disturbed except her room." John's voice while hushed still echoed eerily through the empty home, an abandoned temple, its goddess stolen. "We've had complaints about the smell, but I didn't want to clean it up just yet. It could still be useful, and maybe someone will come along and..." His voice trailed off abruptly into awkward silence. He hadn't meant to phrase it that way, hadn't meant to betray his doubts. Still, Walker gave no sign that he had caught it. The veil of pretense hung between them the rest of the way, one neither men acknowledged.
The stench hit them first several feet away, a revolting metallic, rotting miasma clinging to the surfaces and walls of this floor like moisture. The closer they got the stronger the smell grew, debilitatingly overwhelming. Scented candles lined the hallway but did little more than slightly dampening the odor's edge, adding a sweet taste of lilac and rose, like the smell of new graves.
"It's unpleasant in there, sir." John handed him a cloth similar to the one covering his nose, which he declined with a shake of the head.
The door whined like a banshee's wail, trepidation manifested in its purist form. John's hand shook violently, and he had to clamp his other on top of it just to push a lifetime's weight aside to reveal a glimpse of the dreaded space beyond.
Blood splattered across every visible surface of Lily's room, drenched every inch, soaking through every single object and wall and bed sheet and memory. Dried blood flaked and fractured, blanketing the room with unnatural cracks, a red porcelain so fragile as to risk shattering with a single touch. The final light of the day set the scarlet curtain to smolder, the color of funeral roses.
Walker's white suit burned like pale flame in the tinted gloom, a phantom traversing a hell of crimson and shadow. He had half-expected to find the floor underneath him sticky and wet, but of course it wasn't. Behind him John audibly gagged and retched under his cloth, still incapable of getting used to the full force of the stench.
"We found this in the morning, and she was gone." Through the gagging and the overwhelming trauma of the memory, his words were barely intelligible. "They didn't find any sign of forced entry or struggle, or her leaving by herself. She just...vanished."
"What did they say about how the blood got here?" Walker ran his hand lightly over the caked surfaces, rubbing the red dust between his fingers. The flakes glimmered like tiny shards of ruby.
"Uhm...the police said the people who did this must have brought it in during the day when we were out and, hid in one of the vacant rooms on this floor." John' self-control was slipping but he clutched it like a man drowning in guilt and self-blame. "They must have been right here not 3 feet from us." Slow tears trickled down his face, the dam leaking, weathered down by the relentless waves. "I kissed her goodnight."
"It was not your fault, my friend."
"Wasn't it? I could have checked the rooms. I could have installed an alarm like Ingrid asked. I.."
"The blood was fresh."
A momentary pause. It hadn't been what the other man had expected.
"I'm sorry?"
"The blood was fresh." Walker's gaze traced the discoloring edges of each splatter, a painter examining a familiar canvas. "It was freshly drawn that night. Hours-old blood doesn't have the same texture or weight."
Slowly, confusion and a spark of light shone through John's eyes, the drowning man finding his straw suddenly sturdy. "So...how did they get it in here?"
"There are only 2 exits." Walker murmured, more to himself than the other man. He drew back the curtains to the glow of street lamps and the night sky. The day had died some minutes before, giving way for golden artificial light to cast the crimson room into washed-out melancholy. His eyes glimmered like emerald gems in the glow, impervious to time.
"No human could lug 70 pounds of blood through a window 5 feet off the ground or a narrow second floor hallway without waking the entire house." Though it was no answer, it was true.
"What about the blood itself?" The smell was inescapable, the sight pervasive. The crimson screamed to be heeded, a message to haunt one's dream for a lifetime.
"It wasn't hers. Mostly animals', pig, chicken. And...something similar to goat?"
"It's not goat." Walker's voice was barely a whisper, like strands of smoke dispersing in the wind.
"Now, I have enough to start."
John's face lifted in an obvious forced smile, too exhausted to bother hiding his despondence.
"My friend, I don't give promises lightly." Walker's hand on the father's shoulder was tender. Compassionate. "But I know what you are going through. I know what it's like to lose a child. So I promise you this,..." for the first time that night something other than steely confidence touched Walker's features, an intensity of absolute attention that bore into the other man's eyes, resolution burning like the sun, "...I will find her. And I will bring her home to you, safe and unharmed."
John Lenney returned the gaze, and what he saw fortified his own hope even if for those moments. He nodded slightly, the gesture conveying a trust given without reserve, father to father.
Lily's mother didn't see Walker out when he left, but he hadn't expected her to.
----
LA at night was a feverish dream, the metaphysical manifested. The glamorous Downtown burned eternally, a neon heaven of sins and ecstasy unbound by daytime conventions, thinly veiled under throbbing multicolored flares and deafening beats drowning out all consequences. The City of Angels nurtured her own demons, crafted a personal hell where the lawless were kings, and the hopeless gods. Where lives were merely the entry price, and blood a mark of dominion. So enticing she was, so alluring, so mysterious, like the perfect night one chases their whole lifetime but never finds.
Walker's search took him into the underbelly of the beast following a trail few could pursue, through a past he had left behind decades before. Nothing resembled what they had been; bigger, better versions of the same establishments lay atop where their predecessors used to be, the demons freeing themselves of their bindings chain by chain. The mask of legitimacy had lost its exclusive value; now every crook and ex-con could get one for a couple of grams and a blowjob.
The fever of LA welcomed him home with open arms and loving whispers. A hunch brought him across town to several butcher shops and underground Satanic suppliers, none of which yielded much progress. They had covered their track well, whoever he was hunting, at least their more conventional loose ends. The years away had made most of his contacts unusable, his options limited. But the game hand't changed, and just like cops knew to follow the money, in his world one need only follow the blood.
Five hours and several favors later found him outside a nightclub at the intersection of Venice and Griffith. The street was deserted and murky, street lamps few and far between. The silence stretched long as shadows, broken only by the occasional sound of cars passing by a few streets over. Walker's white suit seemed to glow against the backdrop of midnight, a lone specter wandering purgatory.
His watch hit 1:11 AM when a side door of the club banged open, letting ear-piercing stroke-inducing bass music into the night, and a figure emerged silhouetted by flashing strobe-lights. A woman of about 35 strode onto the street, lighting a smoke. She wore a hoodie and jeans, her hair slicked back covered in sweat, the amber fire of the smoke revealing tired eyes and weathered features that were still beautiful despite the years.
His approach out of the dark startled her, and he could see her hand dropping into her purse, no doubt for a readied pepper spray.
"Hello." He offered his most disarming smile, his voice light and clear. "My name is Adam. I'm looking for Miss Janet Bailey?"
Her alarmed gaze ran from his smile to his eyes, searching, assessing. What she saw slowly relaxed her posture, but her hand never fully withdrew from the purse. "Sorry honey, I'm off hour. Come back tomorrow." She pushed past him without letting him out of her sight, a level of wariness very much warranted in these parts of town.
"I'm not here for that. I want to talk to you about your brother, Dean." He made no move to follow her and she showed no sign of turning, or even appeared to have heard.
"I'm looking for a missing child." That stopped her, perhaps due to either the sincerity he was trying project or the words themselves. "Please."
"Dean never had anything to do with any missing child." She said over her shoulder, an obvious edge in her tone.
"It's not about him, it's about his past associates." Their voice rang through the crisp night air like echoes of dreams. "Please, miss, just...let me buy you a drink."
Finally she turned to regard him, her eyes reflective beads of glass gleaming in the faint light.
"Associates. Miss. Shit, no one talks like that. You a cop?" She paused to take in his appearance again and shook her head. "No, you don't look it. No cop goes out at night dressed like a spook in a thousand dollar suit."
"It's just a suit." His smile never wavered, only softened until it was little more than a lingering hint on the corner of his lips. "How about that drink, then?"
Janet drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally she nodded. A few moments passed of her looking at him expectantly, neither of them moving.
"I...uh, don't know the neighborhood very well." That prompted a raised eyebrow. He only managed to look sheepish and shrugged.
"This way."
The clicking of their boots disappeared into the night, devoured by the unseen road.
----
The bar Janet led him to was a reserved establishment, hidden in an alley away from the main streets. The wood paneling, furniture straight out of the 1980s and the lack of patrons during the prime partying hour made it seem more small-towned than something that would fit in the big city. The clock on the wall struck 1:30.
Janet headed straight for the bar, and the bartender, a young Hispanic man perhaps in his early 30s, fixed her a drink without prompt.
He started to speak the moment they settled in, but Janet's raised finger made him swallow whatever he was about to say. She threw back the Whiskey in one and slammed the glass on the counter, hard.
"What do you want?" She mumbled, her eyes still squinted shut from the alcohol.
Instead of answering, he called himself a glass of water. Both her and the bartender gave him odd looks.
"You spooks and your tight-ass rules. No drinking on the job sounds like a bullshit excuse to jack your price." She made a disgusted face, her stare drilling a hole into the shelves opposite. An unpleasant past experience.
"I'm...not a PI." He only smiled in return, his gaze lingering on the bottles behind the bar a moment too long. "I also don't drink. Not anymore."
"So what the hell are you then?"
"Just someone trying to help two grieving parents." He sipped his water like it was fine wine. "Sorely lacking these days, I think."
She sniffed hard, possibly more at him than what he said, and drank some more.
"From what I've heard, your brother was...special." He chose his words carefully, hesitantly testing the water.
"You can just say it, I don't really give a fuck. He was crazy, stupid, deranged. He thought he was a vampire." She didn't meet his eyes, staring deep into the bottom of her once-again empty glass as if it held all the answers in the world.
"Yes." He could sense more the see that the bluntness both hurt and relieved her, like ripping off a band-aid. "How much do you know about the other people in his weird circle?"
"Next to nothing other than their names. They were a secretive bunch. Not really like a cult, but more a bunch of crazy idiots enabling each other, you know? At first I thought they were just kids playing make-belief, or one of those emo groups that everybody hates but that's basically harmless." She downed another drink like chugging cold water. "And then one day I caught him drinking blood." She half-gagged at the memory, her face twisting into a mirror of past recollection.
"Human blood?" He kept his tone light and interested, prompting rather than interrogating.
"No, thank god for that. Cow blood. One of his buddies got it for him. Bed sick for 2 weeks straight after that. Stupid fucking bastard." A fleeting smile touched the corner of her lips and was gone.
"Hmm."
All the bar's lights were off but for the one above them. Somewhere between Janet's fourth and fifth drink the bartender had disappeared, leaving the bottle on the counter. The street outside was completely deserted, letting a complete silence creep in through the windows like a numbing muted scent. It felt as if the entire world had faded away, and they were on a lone island of color and sound drifting on the ocean of midnight.
"January 16th, 2015. There was a gathering of this group which was an acceleration of their normal pattern involving sacrificial rituals done with a very special and rare type of blood. Your brother was reported to have come into contact with it. What do you know about this?"
"Nothing about what you just describe. Though the date does strike a memory." Her voice was already slurring, her eyelids drooping. She had to struggle to stay awake.
"He came home late that night. I noticed he had a change of clothes, he was wearing things that weren't his. He smelled...metallic. Like blood, but...worse. Like sulphur. I asked him about it and he said he hung out at the library. He had...injuries. Self-inflicted, I think, on his arms and neck. He yelled at me for washing his favorite shirt with the wrong powder, so I knew he probably wasn't suicidal. I left him alone."
"Is that all?"
"All that I can remember, yeah."
"What about his friends, then? This...vampire group."
"What do you want to know?"
"Tell me everything you can recall."
So she did.
----
The ticking of clock thundered in the quiet space. 3:17 AM. The bottle was empty, the glass overturned. The only sounds were quiet snoring and the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the hard wood of the bar. A scented candle burned on the opposite shelves, its sweet smell teasing up a memory he couldn't quite retrieve.
"Miss Bailey? Miss Bailey." He shook her shoulder lightly without a response.
"She's like that most nights these last few weeks." The bartender reappeared, collecting the bottle and glass. "I already called a cab. Here's her address."
"What happened a few weeks ago?" He looked up sharply catching the unspoken detail, but the other man was already gone again, leaving behind a note with the address on it. Walker's eyebrows furrowed, his gaze passing from the note to the back door swinging close. A quiet moan brought his attention back to Janet. Leaving a fifty on the counter, he rose and gently dragged her out of her seat. She reeked of the cheap stuff she was throwing back for the last hour.
"Come on. Let's get you home, alright?" He murmured, half supporting, half carrying her out the door.
A taxi screeched to a halt outside just as they made it to the curve. Gently, he set her onto the back seat and handed the note to the cab driver before walking off back the way they had come. But he hadn't gone 5 feet before being called back.
"I can't take her like this, man!" The short stocky middle-aged man yelled, a sour expression on his face. "She's out cold. I can't be responsible for this!"
Walker paused between the pitch black road, indecisive. His watch showed 2:24. Half way 'til morning.
Another second of contemplation, then he turned and walked back, getting into the passenger seat. The cab roared to life, a beast declaring dominion over abandoned roads. Its light vanished into the pit of the fevered city.
----
Janet's apartment stank of midnights' exhaustion and woeful disregard. The entrance was littered with empty fast-food boxes, discarded clothes and days-old trash bags. The air felt stuffy, suffocating, like a sealed tomb over a bubbling swamp.
He flicked the light switch only to find the single bulb in the living room shattered, pieces of glass scattering acrossr the floor like shards of broken memories crunching under his shoes. Letting out a long sign, he deposited the mess of hair, cheap alcohol and sweat on the couch and walked to the bathroom, turning its light on. A cold white glare cut through the disarray, brushing expertly a painting of loneliness and abandonment on a canvas bleached by unkind years and rocky paths.
A softness touched his eyes, nearly tender. Here was the full turmoil of a life presented before him in all of its sorrow and heartbreak. A memory tugged at him, begging to resurface.
A sudden groan snapped him back to reality.
"Where the hell..." Her words were almost intelligible.
"Your place. Is there anything I can get for you, Miss? An aspirin, maybe?" He turned her eyelids and checked her pulse. It was only normal intoxication. The amount she had got him worried, she had clearly had more than a few at the nightclub before they met.
"Cupboard..." She slurred breathlessly. The headache was catching up.
He came back a few moments later with 2 pills and a glass of water, which she chugged like the booze from before.
"I have to go." He absently murmured, beginning to rise. A damp hand grabbing his own made him pause.
"Stay." She whispered, her eyes downcast. "Stay. You're already here. Stay a bit longer." Her voice was clearer but still sluggish.
"I...can't, Miss. I'm sorry." His brows furrowed sadly, almost compassionate. "I have work to do."
"Quit the fucking charade!" The sudden outburst caught him completely off-guard, so much he didn't react to move in time when she shoved hard at his chest only to bounce off back onto the couch.
"Isn't this what you have planned the entire night, fucker? Getting me back here all drunk and easy?" Her voice rose to a shrill scream. "You can drop the fucking gentleman act now! You think you're so clever, don't you, preparing all these fucking questions, acting all mysterious and shit. News flash, you dumb fuck, no normal human being shows up in the middle of the night to interrogate people about their dead brother!"
She shoved him again, and this time he retreated a step.
"You want me to beg, you sick fuck? Is that it? Taking advantage of people in distress isn't enough for you? You want to see them grovel at your feet like dogs?" She swung wildly at him but missed, her legs wobbling and throwing her onto the floor. He sprung forward and caught her before she hit, only to have her scratch, claw and tug at him like a feral animal, pushing him away.
"Miss Bailey, I..." And then he saw it. Her eyes were wet with tears, make-up running down her face like rivers of ink and blood.
"You are grieving." He said quietly. A statement rather than a question.
The screaming seemed to have drained everything out of her, and she curled herself up on the floor and cried.
The silence between them stretched long, broken only by heartbreaking sobs wracking her small frame like autumn leaves in the wind. He sat a distance from her, feeling her pain and anguish radiating like smells, a palpable bitter scent he could almost taste or see. He made no move to come closer or try to comfort her, only sat with her in the cold, dark solitude. Offering his presence, and nothing more.
Eventually her sob subsided and the stillness took hold for a while longer.
"I want to take a bath." She said it so quietly he almost didn't catch it. "Help me."
Without a word, he pushed himself off the floor, removing his jacket and rolling his shirt sleeves up. Gently, tenderly, like taking care of a child, he undressed her, peeling off clothes drenched in sweat and reeked of booze, and carried her into the bathroom.
A haze hung in the air, the steam drifting lazily like a mist. The water was near boiling but she didn't make a sound. The tile at his back cooled his drenched shirt, sending shudders down his spine.
"Aren't you going to ask?" The veil of moisture distorted her voice, twisting regret into melancholy.
"Ask what?" He was only being curt. He knew what she meant.
"Who I was grieving."
"Should I?"
A moment of silence.
"My husband died last month. Car accident." The steam muted her pain, giving her words an eerie air. "He promised he would be back before lunch." Numbness radiated with each syllable.
"That's...the thing with promises, isn't it?" His chuckle was dry, humorless. "Each broken one is a tragedy. Makes you wonder, why make any at all?"
They shared a small laugh that trailed into more heavy silence.
"I notice you have a ring."
That drew his eyes down to the band of gold on his left hand. It was cool to the touch when his thumb pressed against its damp surface. Through the layer of condensation, he could almost see the reflection of a familiar form.
"Yeah." He murmured. "Sometimes I forget it's there."
"I'm sorry." She offered. It wasn't for him. It was for both of them.
"So am I." He breathed, his gaze far away. Absently he twisted the ring around his finger, slowly. Round and round and round.
"Do you have any kid?"
"Yeah. A boy." He could hear her smile. "He's at grandma's now." A pause.
"He's the only thing I have left." It was a sad smile, courageous, but beaten.
"I had a little boy as well." His was a wide, unrestrained smile, bright, happy. Sorrowful. "I had a little boy. He was the light of my life."
She seemed to sense his sadness.
"I'm sorry." This time it was for him.
"Thank you." was all he could manage.
The room was quiet except for her slow breathing. He checked his watch. 3:47. Only a few hours until dawn. Gently, he pulled the blanket tight around her and exited, closing the door softly behind him.
----
The crash resounded throughout the building, the crack of wood splintering and metal contraption ripping apart deafening in the narrow hallway. Any other part of the city there would have been shouting and at least five 911 calls. Here, however, the denizens were more than used to signs of violence and loud noises. Walker dusted wood fragments off his shoulder and entered the shabby apartment. The single bulb swung lightly from the vibration of heavy footsteps of the floor above, casting unnatural, trembling shadows across the room.
The curtains were fully drawn, furniture almost non-existent except for a couch, a TV mounted on the wall and a half-crumbling kitchen table. Personal touches were few and far between, little indicating that the person living here thought of the place as home. His boots clicked against the bare unfurnished floor past the living room toward the other doors. The bedroom was in much the same condition, as was the bathroom. The place looked like it hadn't been lived in for weeks.
In the bedroom closet he found a cardboard box, carelessly discarded. The contents were marked as belonging to one Lincoln Holmes, who also happened to be a member of Dean Bailey's old vampire group. Inside were several notebooks and files containing lists of contacts, maps, disturbing drawings of satanic symbols.
And at the bottom of the box, a single ocean-blue earring.
The line rang 3 times before it was picked up.
"Howard. Who's this?" Exhaustion bled through like audible noise.
"It's me. I didn't wake you, did I?"
"I hardly sleep these days, sir." There was no conviction behind John's chuckle. "How can I help you?"
"I found a lead."
The line went quiet for several seconds.
"How...how promising?" His voice was shaking, a man struggling to hold back his fear, not daring to hope.
"Could lead us straight to her if we're lucky." Walker's tone was hesitant, unsure. Afraid to over-promise. He could hear the other man swallowing, hard.
"Take me with you."
"It could be dangerous..."
"Take me with you." There was no room for argument in John Howard's voice, only steely determination. A father's resolution.
"Very well." answered Walker. He understood.
----
The warehouse was deep inside an industrial area where every building looked the same and endless crates formed a maze of steel and rot that led nowhere. A heavy chain held shut the chain-link gate, and he snapped it with a loud crack which resounded through the night like a gunshot.
"What time is it?"
"A quarter past 5." said John, holding a flashlight and looking like he had just crawled out of a grave.
The warehouse was half-crumbling, lacking maintenance for at least a decade. Grass sprouted from the cracks in the cement as high as their knees, blanketing the yard in front of the building.
"Are you sure this is the place?" John was having to fight to stay awake.
"This is the one." Walker said calmly. "She may not be here at all."
"I know." The words seemed to drain him, the possibility despairing even to acknowledge.
The warehouse's metal door groaned open on rusty hinges, letting out a blast of stale, moldy air. The flashlight beam ran over rows upon rows of empty shelves, broken and abandoned, unburied corpses of someone's past unremembered. Miraculously, when they snapped the light switch on. some overhead bulbs still worked, illuminating disconnecting patches of the floor. The carpet of sawdust crunched under their shoes as they moved through the space, searching for a sign, any sign. But half an hour went by and nothing noteworthy was discovered.
"We must have missed something." said John, his brows furrowed in worry. "There's nothing here."
Walker's hazel eyes seemed to glow in the gloomy half-light, scanning the ceiling and floor with patient care, casting his mind back to review each lead that had brought him here, each tiny detail. What had he missed?
A sound broke him out of his thoughts, a strange echoing noise under John's shoes wholly uncharacteristic of solid cement. The other man also caught it a moment later, and they exchanged a look of amazement. Together they knelt down and tested the ground again until they found the section of floor from before. Brushing aside the layer of sawdust revealed a wooden hatch.
"Is this what we're looking for?" Excitement bubbled uncontrollably through John's voice, the thrill of discovery temporarily distracting him from his tragedy.
"I believe so." Walker was more controlled, calm and leveled. They hadn't succeeded, not yet.
The hatch crashed open with a heavy boom, uncovering a seemingly depthless space, like the maw of some unspeakable beast patiently awaiting its next prey's foolish descend. John lost his breath at the sight, his gaze boring into the darkness as if his daughter would materialize out of the opening any second.
The wooden rungs creaked worryingly beneath them but held together. Only half a dozen steps took them to the bottom, the space underneath more wide than deep. Bare brick walls surrounded the claustrophobic basement, covered by a multitude of messy crawling Satanic symbols sprayed in red. The flashlight beam swept across numerous badly drawn depiction of sacrificial rituals and 3D-styled slogan proclaiming the End of Days, and finally came to rest upon a small frame in one corner.
John's body started to shake the moment he spotted the figure, his face frozen in shock and frightened hope. His eyes went to Walker, seeking reassurance, or affirmation. Walker didn't meet the other man's pleading gaze, his own fixed unblinkingly on the tiny body not 10 feet from them, gradually closing the distance while surveying every visible detail. Could it be?
It was a child, he could see that much, lying face down. There was no indication that they had been there long, the clothes - hoodie and jeans, which provided no further detail of any kind- were still at first glance clean and new. The child's hair was hidden under the grey hood. There was no sign of injury. Walker found the hand he was extending shaking when he touched the child's shoulder and rolled them over.
A little boy of maybe 10 years old looked up at him groggily, squinting against the glare of the flashlight. Behind him, he heard a sobbing gasp, the sound betraying more dismay and pain than a thousand screams.
"Hello." He breathed, brows furrowed gravely but his smile stayed friendly regardless.
"Hello." The boy replied with a tiny voice and his own hesitant smile, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"I'm Adam. What's your name?" Walker said, one hand diverting the flashlight hand behind him away from the kid.
"Noel?" He said it shyly, like a question.
Walker pulled Noel into a sitting position and carefully dusted the front of his clothes off. "Do you know where you are, Noel?"
"No..." His voice grew even tinier, as if he was expecting to be punished for not knowing the answer.
"No, no it's okay. It's alright. You're not in trouble. You're just far from home is all. Where are your parents?"
"I don't know..." It was clear that Noel wasn't going to be of much help.
"Let's just get you out of here first, and then we'll find a way to get you home, okay?" Noel nodded dumbly, still not fully awake. Walker took the boy's hand in his own and turned toward the ladder.
He found John sitting on the floor with his head in his hand. Fear and devastation radiated off him like palpable heat.
"I don't know if I can keep doing this." His voice quavered, teetering on an unseen edge. "I don't know how much more of this I can handle." His form was slumped, drained by warring emotions.
Gently, projecting all the strength he could muster through the touch, Walker set his hand on the other man's shoulder as he had done in Lily's room only hours before. "I have given you a promise that I will bring her home. And so I will." The smooth velvet in his tone was gone, replaced by granite. "But I cannot do everything by myself, John. Your daughter needs you." His eyes pierced into the tear-filled gaze of the frightened father in front of him. "Lily needs you." He hissed those last words, a violent reminder. They stayed that way for a long minute, until John finally pulled himself back together and took Walker's offered hand to be pulled to his feet.
"Thank you." He whispered quietly, a thousand more things left unsaid but understood all the same.
"It's my duty." Walker replied softly.
The half-light of the warehouse above was liberating compared to the claustrophobic hovel below.
"Now what?" said John, seemingly not expecting answer.
Walker was about to answer when a noise snapped his head toward a dark corner. His blazing emerald gaze narrowed, then widened in recognition. Slowly, his expression changed into something sad, aching, almost...regretful.
"I'm sorry, my friend."
"What is it?" John asked, but then he saw it.
Eyes in the murky black, glowing crimson like blood moons, radiating gleeful malice. Ten, twenty, forty, he lost count afterwards. Low grumbles from countless throats shook the very floor beneath their feet.
"What is that?" The terror John showed only fueled the eyes, and they began to circle, keeping to the shadow. Round and round and round. Walker signed to his companion to stay where he was, his stare fixed on a particular patch of shadow.
A figure entered one of the pockets of light, a middle-aged man with blond hair and dark complexion, wearing a black suit. He was grinning ear to ear.
"Our guest of the night is here." He proclaimed, the presenter of the circus introducing freaks.
"Powell." He said plainly, without surprise or accusation. "I take it this is a trap, then."
That only earned him a smirk. "Very perceptive of you, Walker. We've come to do our duty as hosts." Deliberately, no doubt savoring the show, two of Powell's front teeth began to lengthen, growing into grotesquely pointed fangs like that of a feral predator, twisting his already savage expression into that of an inhuman beast. "All 7 clans of LA are here to welcome you home."
And the eyes began to mutter, mocking, scorning.
"Look, look, here comes the great Walker of Ruins. All kneel before his Majesty and tremble."
"He hates us. Look how he despises us. We are ants under his boots. We are so afraid, terrified, quivering on our feet."
"Such compassion, such kindness. He shits rainbows and vomits sparkle. Everywhere he goes becomes utopia. We're so glad he's here."
And they laughed their petty, ugly laughs, a hundred nails grating on chalkboard, a thousand teeth grinding on stone.
"I've never hated any of you." Walker's voice was even, and everywhere he looked the eyes averted their gaze. "You are nothing more than junkies with bells and whistles. I don't hate you. I pity what you've become."
"Very generous, very noble." Powell said, his unnatural grin unwavering. "Now, you must have question."
"A few." He allowed. "I must admit I am quite puzzled as to how you crafted such intricate trap. None of you is clever enough for something this complicated. How did you know I'd recognize demon blood? How did you know I would be able track down a 2-years-old trail? Every crumb was placed so neatly exactly where I'd look. It's as if..."
"...the plan was made by someone who knows you intimately."
The voice stopped Walker dead in his track, his face frozen in absolute shock. The eyes quieted and a heavy silence devoured the warehouse.
A rhythmic clicking echoed in the hushed space like the inevitable tolling of death's door, and a second man stepped out of the shadow. He was perhaps in his 80s, though his back was still straight and his hair dyed a youthful brown. He wore a spotless white suit, nearly a matching version of Walker's. His tie was a brilliant scarlet the color of blood in the rain, and his piercing blue eyes projected frigid resolve. He leaned on an unornate walking cane just a little, as if fully utilizing it was a shameful weakness.
The stillness stretched, an eternity in a single moment. Finally the old man shattered the fragile atmosphere, his voice, a cultured, high-class English dialect, held a quiver of old age mostly suppressed by pure will power.
"You look the same."
Walker's face was slack, a hundred emotions passing through his features, numbness, fear, love. But none stayed. Eventually, a pervasive, debilitating sorrow settled, one that could never be hoped to redeem.
"Hey, Albert."
"Hey, dad." The old man replied simply.
"You look...well." His eyes were tender. Longing.
"I look old, dad." Albert sighed. "I'm dying soon. Stage 4 cancer." He said it like it was an inconsequential inconvinience.
"I'm...sorry."
"I know." Albert said lightly. "Your promise to mom and all. I understand, I do."
"She only wanted you to have a normal life. A full life." Untroubled by my mistake, my world.
"And I did." Fond recollections twitched the corner of his lips.
"But my time is short, and before I'm gone..." He made a gesture to the blackness behind him, "...I needed to see you one last time. To do one last thing, for you." Two pairs of glowing crimson orbs approached, and the familiarity of the forms they dragged behind made Walker's heart stop.
The first was a young girl of about 15, her blond hair dishevel and face twisted in fear. Her left earring was missing. Lily Howard.
At the sight of his daughter, all of John's fear and confusion and terror seemed to dissipate. Howling, fueled by a father's desperation, he sprinted forward with a speed uncanny for a man of his age, but Powell, impossibly fast, appeared between them. A slight shove of his palm threw John backward crashing into the floor coughing blood.
"Papa!" The girl's wails broke Walker's heart into a million pieces but drew roaring laughter from the circling hoard.
"It's okay honey." Even through the agony John still managed to smile, struggling to his feet. "Papa's here. It's alright now."
A moment later a young Hispanic man - the bartender he had met only hours before - dragged Janet Bailey screaming and kicking to Albert's side. Her face was bruised, bloodied. It was clear she had fought with everything she had.
"What are you doing, Albert?" Panic boiled in his chest like lava, threatening to drown him from the inside out.
Janet's head snapped up at his voice and her gaze found his, confused and pleading. But then her eyes dropped to his waist, and her form went still.
"Mommy?" He heard a tiny, fragile sound beside him, and his blood went cold.
"Noel?" Janet slurred through her broken lips. "Are you alright, baby? Did they hurt you?" Tears streamed down her face freely. Helplessness and fear drained whatever fight she had left out of her.
"Albert. Please. You are better than this." Was he? Walker didn't know this cruel man standing in front of him, resembling in no detail the angry little boy he had last seen.
Albert didn't meet his father's disbelieving eyes, looking instead down at the woman at his feet.
"Everyone who knows my dad said he was a good man, a decent man." His was magnetic, full of charm. "When you met him, you offered yourself to him like a whore, yes?"
Janet spat in his face. The bartender's fist connected with hers a second later, breaking her nose in a fountain of blood. Calmly, Albert withdrew a handkerchief and wiped away the bloody speck on his cheek, continuing unfazed and gesturing for the other man to hold the dazed woman up by her hair. Walker's nails dug deep into his palm, his entire frame shaking, his fury battling his shock and indecision.
"I expected you to. And he refused you, I'm sure, even if it was a kind gesture to comfort a grieving woman. You see, my father is an honourable fool, an idiot, in your crude language. He feels that he has a sense of duty, to lead by example, to be the best humanity could be. To show us
junkies, in his own word, that we could be something better." Now he raised his eyes and challenged Walker's stare with his own. "So he lives by his words. His promises. Even at the expense of his loved ones. Even if it meant robbing his only child of the one thing that gives their life meaning."
For the first time Walker looked away, numb with pain and regret. How many times had he offer his remorse to the people he had hurt? How many more time will he have to utter those same exact words before he could begin to atone for his sins? Would he ever be able to?
"So today, before my time runs out, I want to do one final test. To prove my father wrong, once and for all. It's quite simple in execution, really. It's the set up that proved challenging." From his pocket Albert produce 2 knives.
Walker's eyes widened, and he took a step forward. That was his final mistake. In the blink of an eye monstrous forms bounded from the darkness in ranks of dozens, short, abominable, hunched-over shapes with claws and fanged drooling maws for faces, and surrounded him. Another small group encircled John and Noel, cutting them off from him, forcing them into each other. The little boy clutched the middle-aged man's arm whose eyes never left the crying form of his daughter.
"The rules are quite simple." Albert let one knife drop to the floor at his feet. "You kill the child next to you..." the second knife was tossed through the air to clatter in front of John, "...and I let you and your child walk out of here alive." The beasts holding Lily and Janet released their hold throwing them to the ground, and the monstrous throng around John and Noel retreated a step.
Walker felt something unseen grabbing hold of his heart and squeezed, suffocating him. Bile rose to his throat, the urge to vomit almost unstoppable. How many decades had it been since he had felt nauseous? He had thought he was no longer capable of it.
"Albert! Please." The tremble in his voice only seem to amuse the old man.
"Is that fear I hear from you, dad? Don't be sad. I'm doing this for you, don't you see?" He opened his arms wide to encompass the entirety of the terror-filled warehouse, like a circus master owning the stage, "I will show you that not only human are cruel little creatures, but that their only redeeming quality is their ability to sacrifice everything for their children." He hissed the words, accusing, venomous.
"I've always wanted to step out of your shadow. I hated being known as "Walker's boy". But look,..." Albert waved toward the mass of creatures surrounding them, and they answered him with bellowing laughter, "...look how much power your mere reputation holds. I need only uttered your name, and an army gathered at my feet. They're all here for you, dad."
Hesitantly, almost in a trance with his face a mask of numbness, John knelt and scooped up the knife at his feet. In a sudden blur of movement Janet sprung forward, grabbing the knife and dashed toward the girl.
"No!" Both Walker and John cried out, John's blade reflexive pressing against Noel's face.
Janet's knife hovered inches from tender flesh, trembling hard. They could see her struggling with herself, willing the blade to sink it. Still it did not move, still she couldn't bring herself to just murder a child in cold blood. Even to save her own.
Albert clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Very well. It'd appear that you need some motivation. I will give you one minute." He pressed a button on his watch, setting a timer. "Then none of you walks out of here."
"Please. Don't do it. Please." John could barely speak through the fear suffocating him. "Honey, look at me." He caught his daughter's gaze and held it. "I need you to be brave, okay? I need you to be strong. It's going to be fine. You're going to be fine." Lily's eyes were swollen from crying, but she looked at her father and tried her best to smile.
Janet didn't speak. She bit her lips hard enough to draw blood, her gaze fixing unblinking on the form of her son. The boy wasn't crying, but covering his ears and scrunching his eyes shut as hard as he could. Pretending the monsters weren't there, maybe they'd go away.
"Powell. Please. We had a deal, an agreement. You gave me your word!"
"And?" Powell's grin returned, baring his fangs. Walker's face fell, disbelief and helplessness wracking his body like poison.
Time ticked by, each grain of sand a mountain's weight. John's knife was slack in his hand, seemingly forgotten. He talked to his daughter quietly, comforting her, giving her the strength he pretended to have. Janet's face was a purple mess of bruises and pain, unreadable, but her blade hadn't moved from where she held it first. Noel was singing to himself, each syllable of his childish voice another scorching brand on Walker's soul.
"Time's nearly up." Albert checked his watch. "Last chance." And he started to count.
"10."
John and Janet's eyes widened. They both looked at Walker at the same time, hoping, pleading that he held the answers. They could see that he had none.
"9."
Janet's hand shook, but her knife inched closer to Lily's neck.
"8."
Tears streamed down John's face, and his grip on the knife hardening. "You promised me, Walker. You promised." John's voice was a razor blade grinding in his chest.
"7."
Walker screamed and surged forward, hurling himself at the mass of monsters. His eyes started to grow, his fang and claw extending.
"6."
The hunched beasts raked their talon into his body splitting flesh open, but he barreled through their ranks with sheer determination. Suddenly Powell appeared in front of him howling with glee, delivering a devastating punch that rocked him backward.
"5."
Lily's wail impaled John's soul like a spear. "It's okay honey." He muttered over and over, the words becoming a hypnotic chant. "It's going to be alright." His head swam, and his knife drifted toward the boy like wading through dreamy water.
"4."
Claws slashed into Walker's legs, crashing him to the ground. More monsters climbed on his back, using their weights to pin him down. Powell stood over him, breathing heavily at the carnage. The scene of suffering gave him a raging hard-on.
"3."
Janet's knife made contact, drawing a single drop of blood.
"2."
Noel opened an eye just as the cold steel touched his skin.
"1."
"NO!" Walker screamed, the sound buried under a mountain of monster flesh. John and Janet both howled and plunged their knives downward.
Blood flew through the air.
The watch's shrill alarm blared its tolling of finality, cutting out all sounds.
Noel lay on the ground with his arm around his head. Unharmed, crying. Crimson splattered to the floor from where John had driven his knife into his own palm. Janet's blade was on the ground, clattered there at the last second. She held Lily tight to her chest, cradling the girl's head on her shoulder.
"Well,..." the bemusement was gone from Albert's tone, "...that was quite anti-climatic."
In one single motion he drew a gun and fired twice. John Howard dropped to the floor, an expression of surprise permanently frozen on his face. The body of Noel Bailey jerked once.
Walker's inhuman bellow devoured every other sound, the desperation in it piercing the sky like a lone wolf's cry at full moon. Between one moment and the next his body morphed, spikes sprouting from his back and arm, talons replacing claws. His hand shot out in a blur, grabbing Powell's crotch and ripped his cock off along with most of his intestine and midsection. They splashed to the bloodied dust like trash.
Albert turned his gun to the figures next to him and pulled the trigger again. Two shots rang clear enclosed space. Janet Bailey slumped, two smoking holes in her back. She had turned to cover Lily's body with her own at the last moment.
Albert frowned and raised his gun again, but before he could snap another shot a scaled fist crashed into his chest. Oddly, the last look on his face was that of relief.
The horde of the 7 clans descended upon Walker. He punched through one's chest and ripped out its spine, smashing another's head to a pulp with his other hand. He wrenched the bartender's head from its shoulders and beat the next monster to death with it. The spikes on his back moved like sentient whips, lashing out and impaling one beast after another. He tore apart each and every single Nosfe that came within his reach, and still they came without relent, waves upon waves, driven frenzy by blood and the massacre. His soul was in tatters, his mind fractured like a discarded mirror, reflecting distorted, magnified sins. The bodies of the people he was meant to protect glared at him unblinkingly from where they lay, silent judgment in their murders, demanding payment.
So for the first time in a century, he surrendered himself to the madness, and opened the cage.
----
Tap. Tap. Tap. The crimson trickled, each drop slower than the last. Walker clutched Lily's body in his chest, his shoulders trembling with each sob.
The ugly chuckle echoed above the carnage like a phantom's final haunting.
"You should...thank me, dad." Albert wheezed, blood bubbling through his lips at each word. "I freed...you. Snapped your...chain. First promise is...broken. The beast...is loose." The old man laughed until the internal bleeding filled his lungs and he drowned in his own blood.
Lily's blood pooled in his laps. The first light of dawn set the horizon ablaze.
One of her eyes fluttered dreamily open. Her left hand weakly lifted and wiped a tear from his cheek.
"Mister, don't cry." Her voice was tiny, like the lingering ghost left by a faded impression of something someone wished they had said.
"It's all going to be fine."
"It's all going to be alright."
"I promise."