Shadows of Fear -- Part 2
by Martin H Slusser

“You will come to the Rheinhold’s, yes. Be less than an hour, or you shall suffer.”

The phone went dead. Long moments passed in silence.

Mom was gone for the day. Carl was just plain gone. There was nothing they could do to stop the Arab. Shivering, he reached up and touched the scars where a training collar once encircled the neck. It was starting again. Chains, slavery. A living death for him and dozens like him. There was no choice in the matter.

Ken:ta:ten, the Land of Tomorrow, seemed far away and inaccessible.

“I won’t,” he said to the hum of the phone. “I’ll kill myself first.” Very gently, he replaced the cheap black phone in its wall cradle. A small visi-screen over the phone slid back in place with an electric hum and a click. The screen faded to a star-lit black. Benny’s hand slid from the receiver.

Life’s a bitch.

And only the lucky die.

Eyes closed, he refused again.

It started like always, a faint twinge in the area where the microchip was attached to the cebrial cortex. Behind his eyes he could see it, small blue arcs of lightning. The dammed thing sizzled. Pain began to grow, the lights took on a red cast, then white. Then all he saw was fire. Benny sagged to his knees. Teeth fastened on his lower lip and sank deep to stop Benny’s cries.

The Arab was sixteen miles away, but he could hear the tastefully dressed ex-gigolo’s deep, coarse brays. It washed a thick hate into Benny. Flushed out any hope of living free or ever becoming the kind of man his father was.

Fists balled and shaking, Benny screamed, “No. Dammit, I won’t . . . go.”

He passed out on the floor of the kitchen. A trickle of blood wound out of his left nostril, pooling under the quivering face and stark, staring eyes.

Bah, it disgusted him. Bellisario glanced over the menu. Here, it was pay as you go. What a foul little hovel Rhinehold’s had become. Once, it was the pinnacle of all Pocono resorts, and he had stayed here often. It was superior to Project Janissary’s closest place, the Manse, a few miles north in Fern Ridge. Ah, but the things a man had to stoop to, to regain that which rightfully was his.

The boy would be here. The controls would not allow his foolishness.

“Five thousand ounces, in gold.” The Arab chuckled, an oily sound in the dull quiet of the hotel room. Bank accounts in Luzerne, Switzerland, and the Cayman Islands would be replenished. The Federal government used very high-handed methods to confiscate their contents. No matter. Once that odious VanTur woman had her little stallion back in a collar, he would be wealthy again.

America’s drilling in ANWR led to an independence that devastated the Islamic states. Many a sheik again depended on camels and slave raids to uphold their life style.

Glancing over the menu, he sniffed at the choices. Rhinehold would allow only so much more time in this place, then ask him to leave. So much for better times. The Italian foods he skipped over. Once they had been a staple, when he was starving on Rome’s Square. No more. Steak a la tartar with a sauce. No, it was beyond his means.

“Three point two, and in gold.” The magic to travel the world, to sample the wares of delight in Bangkok, of London, of Rio de Janeiro. In his suitcase, the only one he was allowed to take from his small estate near Carson City, there was a remote and a temporary collar picked up at a hardware store in the town of White Haven.

The collar was nothing, a plain black band of nylon and thin steel wires. On it was a small plastic box, also black. With the remote, the boy would cringe before him. Benny would belong to him, once that devil of a woman had all the sperm necessary for impregnating her subjects. After that, the sixteen-year-old would be good only for the harem. No one struck il Arabe and escaped.

Bellisario rubbed his unbejeweled hands together and settled on the lobster.

On trembling arms, he pushed from the floor. Benny crawled to his feet staggering out to the battered Uohali Night Sun motorcycle. The Native American Built was something that belonged to his father, Staff Sergeant Benjamin Grey the First, deceased.

Dragging a leg over the saddle, Benny kicked down on the starter. The old charger muttered a protest. On the third try, she turned over with a loud rumble.

The door of the porch was open. He backed her out, then swung around to take one last look at what had been home. Mom’s gardens melted into a patch of chestnut and apple trees in the back. A horde of ravens used the woods for a nesting site in summer. He could see their ragged nests through fiery yellow and red leaves of maple trees.

A messy pile of split firewood lay scattered under the oaks to his left. A good way to spend a sunny October morning, doing something to make life a little easier for Mom. The Uohali missed a beat and he was drawn back to the present.

It wouldn’t be for long. Cindy VanTur had too many hard feelings about her prize stud. In a couple of years he would be free. He’d join that correction officer, Davis, and a couple of dozen hosts behind the stables at the Manse. Then he’d be one of the lucky ones.

Route Nine-Forty wound up the Lehigh Gorge towards a crossroads where Interstate 380 spilled a lot of traffic back onto Interstate Eighty. Nearing it, he took a left, rode up the lane passed the hotel, and around to the rear. Benny didn’t see the flocks of ravens settling into the red oaks and maples around the place. The noise of trucks and cars from I-380 was muted here under the trees. He caught a glimpse of light from a car on 940. Then it was gone.

Only a very few cars marked the lot. Rhinehold was an old man and he bought cheap, then refused to pay a decent wage. The one-time elegant hotel, the Castle of the Pocono Mountains, was showing signs of weathering that nothing could erase. Sheets of white cardboard decorated a lot of windows. Roof slates were falling into the gardens and dining terraces. In his reach for the moon the Arab had fallen far.

Benny uttered a quiet, ragged laugh.

On the west side of the building he slipped through a sagging glass door. The dirt-encrusted carpet muffled the thud of the engineer boots. He walked the passageway to room 1010-A and gave the door a light tap.

Bellisario must have been standing by the door because it snapped open.

The Arab looked Benny over in such a way, he wondered if the man was going to tell him to show his teeth.

“Get in here, boy.”

Sidling passed the man, Benny stepped in. Bellisario laughed. He made a quick check of the hall.

“You told no one?”

Staring at the floor, Benny shook his head. “No.”

“No sir, you little capon. I am your owner until that odious woman arrives.” Bellisario made a sharp gesture at the bed. “Take off your clothing.”

Backing away, Benny shook his head. He glanced up. Bellisario was advancing, a small whip tapping the outer seam of thread-worn trousers. Benny cowered away.

“Please. She never made me go that route.”

His mind screamed, Do it! Do it or burn.

All he had to do was lay on the bed and hug a pillow for a while. At the Manse, his friend Chris had to with a lot of hosts and male and female predators. And cried with shame on Benny’s shoulder only hours before he killed himself.

Cringing to the floor, Benny wet his lips. “Mrs. VanTur ain’t going to like it.”

Bellisario offered him a thin smile.

“Perhaps.” He threw the whip on the bed. “Fetch it. Step lively, boy. Your mistress shall be here soon.” Benny ran for the whip and, kneeling, handed it to Bellisario. The man fingered the zipper of his fly. “Still, there is one way to make me happy, boy.”

The zipper came down with a soft rasp. Bellisario reached in to fondle himself.

Benny looked away. The quirt slashed down and the crack on the coarse black denim jacket made Benny jump.

“I won’t.” Benny edged away. The small whip followed, slicing the air down to his shoulders, his head. Bellisario was panting, his words ragged, interspersed with the street lingo of the gutters of Rome.

One lash cut Benny’s ear. White light flashed through the room. It filled it, tore the hate and pain from Benny, and ripped him away from his humanity. He rolled away and snatched a knife from a pocket sewed in the crotch of his jeans. The knife snicked open and struck, hacking through the Arab’s groin. Through the soft guts. Up. Crunching into the cartilage of the breastbone.

A classic strike done as pretty as any Wy:O:Ming executioner.

Mouth opened in a silent shriek, Bellisario’s eyes widened. Breath fluttered on his lips. He grasp the hand and knife.

Benny gave it one final, savage twist that snapped the blade off inside the heart to ‘kill’ the knife. That was the law. A blade used to kill humans took on a life of its own. If not fed, would eventually turn on its owner.

Careful to avoid blood pouring out of Bellisario’s groin and heart wounds, he stepped away. The stench of lacerated guts was overpowering. Benny staggered to the small bath and dropped to his knees. Vomit shot from his mouth. Cramping into a hard knot, his stomach emptied him of everything but the agony of killing. Not his first. Wouldn’t be his last because life was worth living and freedom was the only way. Ha:wa, listen to the Wolf of God.

Eyes closed, Benny’s arms propped over the toilet to stop from sliding in. He took a deep breath, then backed away to squat on his heels.

“Bastard,” he whispered at the mess on the floor and toilet. “Dirty bastard.” He crawled up the sink.

Rinsing out his mouth, Benny clung to the sink. He stared at the bowl, then glanced away from his reflection to the clouded mirrors. Benny slipped into the hall and down to the linen closet. The place was empty. A skeleton of elegance. He gritted his teeth, then laughed. Weird. No pain. Nada. Just this flash of white light, like when power hit.

Pulling out a small black case, he busied for a moment at the lock. Two pins, one push, a click, and presto, the worn lock opened. He snatched out an armload of towels and hurried back to the room.

Face averted from the mess on the floor, he slipped into the room. Better to think of it as a mess. Anything else and he’d be puking blood. Benny cleaned vomit off the floor, careful to leave no sign of it. Returning to the room, he dragged Bellisario’s limp corpse to the bed.

Nausea floored him. Grabbing his stomach, Benny heaved. Breath ragged and shuddering, his guts tried to puke the memory and guilt. Nothing came. He waited, willing himself to move. Benny shoved up. Stumbling through the room he opened the windows. Cool autumn air took away some of the stench.

Using the blankets, he covered Bellisario, then attacked the blood on the carpet. Five minutes later it was only one more stain on a dirty, nondescript rug.

Slipping out the door, he had a moment of agonized terror. An elderly face peered out at him from the opposite doorway. A small, uncertain smile on her face, she stepped out. An old man followed.

Benny nodded. “‘Afternoon, ma’am. Sir.”

His face had to be a beacon of guilt. Raw terror seeped from every pore. He stank of death. They had to see it. It screamed at them.

They nodded, murmuring, “Good afternoon, young man,” tottering down the hall. Benny heard the old woman say, “What a nice young man.” The old man nodded. “Don’t see many like him these days, Mama.”

He had made it this far without something, someone, demanding he stop and wait for the cops. A shocked Benny sagged along the wall. Fighting a desire to giggle he staggered out to the Night Sun. Head down, he straddled the motorcycle and leaned over the bars. Hidden in tangled laurel brush, late robins called for rain. A cricket chirped. Wind rustled through oaks and maples. It brought the stench of fumes from the highway. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Benny raised his head. He dashed away the tears, shoving the guilt into a cold, dark pocket in the back of his soul, and started the Night Sun.

The black and battered motorcycle arched under him. She purred to life all her own.

Turning the handlebars to the left, Benny tapped her into first and fought the desire to rip out around the building. He had to be careful. That old couple would remember him. If they talked, Cindy would find out. They’d disappear into some ‘office’ in a United Nations building and never be seen again. That would give O’Brian three more reasons to drag him through the courts.

Let tomorrow come. One way or another, things would turn out.

That old couple would be two more dead on his conscious. Corrections Officer Davis, he was the first. No, his father was. Wait a minute. It was the Sun-Wolf who had killed that pervert, Davis.

A small voice in the back of his head whispered, At who’s askin’, boy?

Through clenched teeth, Benny muttered, “Shut up, Grampa Waya. Just lemme alone, would ya?”

Warrior-saint, ala:tsis:do:ho:s:ki, chosen by the People of Light and Love.

A proud chuckle whispered though his soul. Benny shook his head. Bad enough to be the target of a lot of weirdoes, but his own Grampa just had to haunt him. Life’s a dead bitch. No use beating it. Roll with the punches, baby, you roll with the punches.

Murderer.

The old Native American Built eased up the slight incline around the hotel. No pursuit. He had to go slow. Slower. Benny rode down the winding parking lot. Not many folks here, and it was full into the fall leaf foliage thing. Several years’ worth of overgrown chrysanthemums spilled from containers to sprawl on crumbling black top. He skirted them. Copperheads liked to lay in shrubbery. A bite wouldn’t kill him. Because he did a lot of hiking through the old strip mines above Sandy Valley, Mom demanded he take the serum. It would make him sick, though. Maybe so bad he’d wreck on the way home. Right now he felt sick enough for two people.

Murderer.

Justice, his stepfather, Carl, would call it. But he wasn’t Carl. Not half the man the big, husky Belerio-Russian was.

That small, still voice that worried at him now demanded he get off the road.

Benny tried to ignore it. The demands grew. A small ulcer in his stomach flared in an agony that doubled him over the bars. He swung to the left, bounced up a sharp, raw earth embankment, through laurels and over broken conglomerate stone rubble.

Murderer.

On a slow count ending at eight, a long black limousine rolled up the curving drive and passed him. The windows were tinted, but he could see from the plates, government yellow, VIRGINIA, that it was the woman.

He gasp and choked.

“Asshole, stop it.” Benny thumped a fist on his chest and demanded his heart slow. “Can’t see me.” He grinned. The limousine slid around the last curve and onto the parking lot. So much for the bitch. He had five minutes before she found her number one slave catcher slumbering in his room. Too much iron in his diet.

“Maybe something got caught in his craw. Damn, but yo.”

Benny crowed a laugh and shot out of the brush and down to the interstate. He leaned right and took the long way home through White Haven, up passed the old Buckhorn Inn, and through demon-ridden Sandy Valley.

Once home, he took the axe, sat a chunk of oak on a stump and swung. The oak split and the pieces shot off the stump. Benny reached for another and stopped, staring at a drop of blackened blood on the back of his hand.

Around behind the hotel, a raven cast himself at Bellisario’s room. Three more joined him. Then dozens. In silence a murder of ravens clung to the window frame.

One called. More gathered and they spiraled in, landing on the corpse. Silent, with only an occasional flutter of feathers, they began to feed. Soon, nothing was left.

They fled the room. A wolf-like head appeared over the sill.

Coyote glanced back at several others. He leaped through and sniffed at the bones. Not much remained, that was ravens for you, but the pups liked new toys.

First things first. That dammed kid made a lot of work for him. Coyote reached between the ribs to worry at a small, clinging bit of nothing. With a grin, he snagged the Arab’s spirit and trotted away to a special dank swamp he really loved. The spirit dropped into the dark, tannin stained waters and sank away, screaming into Shambala.

Between Coyote and his mate, they removed the bones to the forest, then to a den far up the mountain. A raven slipped back. In his beak were several fat maggots. He pushed under the empty suit, dropped them, and came out. The murder of ravens flocked into the room. No waste lay in the room. Not so much as a feather. They pushed under the clothes and soon where Bellisario’s corpse had lain, squirmed with thousands of maggots and piles of damp soil.

And this is the message Cindy found.

He watched them go. Tommy Drobnicki leaned on a rake. Rhinehold paid minimum wage and slept badly. The greedy old shit should. Most of his labor force still stank of prison. Tommy glanced at the scar on the back of his left hand.

Wertier-sign, werewolf. He smiled at the pentagram. The white skin reddened and burned a little. It seethed with a cold heat, a sign of the moon’s change that would lead to the coven and a sweet hunt through the cold mists of a Pocono night.

A woman opened a window on the third floor. Her teeth flashed in a gin. Hiding the rake, Tommy slipped through the cracked glass doors and into the hotel, taking the stairs three at a time. He raced down the hall to the room and the maid.

She was pulling off the last of her clothing as he locked the door. On her hand, the faint scars of her ascended master glowed and burned.

Wertier, werewolf.

“Night-stalking bitch.”

H2O2