I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) Read online

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-369-4

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-368-7

  I Kill Monsters: The Revenants copyright © 2014

  by Tony Monchinski

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by RavenKult: George Cotronis

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  To Bruce Micucci

  “I’ve come to make the sinners bleed”

  Kane, the Wrath of God

  Table of Contents

  *

  Tuesday, 13 October 1998

  1. 9:50 A.M. (Central European Summer Time)

  2. 3:55 A.M. (Eastern Standard Time)

  3. 6:03 A.M.

  4. 9:45 A.M.

  Thursday, 15 October 1998

  5. 3:30 P.M.

  6. 4:12 P.M.

  The Dark Lord’s Tale

  7. 5:03 P.M.

  8. 5:30 P.M.

  9. 6:00 P.M.

  10. 8:30 P.M.

  Friday, 16 October 1998

  11. 9:17 A.M.

  12. 8:35 P.M.

  Saturday, 17 October 1998

  13. 10:15 A.M.

  14. 12:00 P.M.

  15. 3:12 P.M.

  16. 8:35 P.M.

  17. 9:12 P.M.

  Sunday, 18 October 1998

  18. 2:14 P.M.

  19. 5:50 P.M.

  The Dark Lord’s Tale, Part 2

  Monday, 19 October 1998

  20. 3:19 P.M.

  21. 7:15 P.M.

  22. 8:08 P.M.

  Tuesday, 20 October 1998

  23.8:37 A.M.

  24. 1:25 P.M.

  25. 3:14 P.M.

  26. 7:23 P.M.

  27. 8:40 P.M.

  Wednesday, 21 October 1998

  28. 9:35 A.M.

  29. 10:14 A.M.

  30. 1:15 P.M.

  31. 1:55 P.M.

  32. 5:55 P.M.

  33. 8:20 P.M.

  The Dark Lord’s Tale, Part 3

  Thursday, 22 October 1998

  34. 5:45 A.M. (EST)

  35. 10:45 A.M. (Central European Summer Time)

  36. 2:43 P.M.

  37. 8:25 P.M. (CEST)

  38. 9:30 P.M.

  39. 10:32 P.M.

  40. 11:37 P.M.

  Friday, 23 October 1998

  41. 9:45 A.M.

  42. 11:45 P.M.

  43. 4:15 A.M. (CEST)

  Transcript of 9-1-1 Call

  44. 4:27 A.M. (CEST)

  45. 4:36 A.M. (CEST)

  46. 4:42 A.M. (CEST)

  New York

  47. 4:53 A.M. (CEST)

  48. 11:00 P.M. (EST)

  49. 5:01 A.M. (CEST)

  50. 6:30 P.M. (EST)

  51. 8:50 P.M.

  Saturday, 24 October 1998

  52. 12:34 A.M.

  53. 4:37 P.M. (CEST)

  54. 10:40 P.M.

  55. 10:45 P.M.

  56. 10:52 P.M.

  Transcript of 9-1-1 Call

  57. 10:55 P.M.

  58. 7:35 P.M. (CEST)

  About the Author

  *

  So, this is the mighty ‘Boone’ then? He doesn’t look the least bit frightening, not stretched out on the rack like that.

  You must admit he’s an amazing physical specimen.

  Must I?

  Look at him. His build, like a young Adonis…

  Please. And couldn’t you have put more clothes on him?

  What’s the matter—jealous?

  Of him? Definitely not.

  Don’t laugh. How fast he’s healed. Not so long ago, he was on death’s door.

  Oh, there’s something wrong with this one, that’s for certain. Better he had been left to die.

  Quiet. He’ll hear you. No, not him. Him.

  I’m entitled to my opinion.

  Yes, you are. But sometimes it’s best to keep it to oneself. My, I wonder how he tastes.

  His blood is what killed Kreshnik. Or have you forgotten?

  I know, I know. Forbidden fruit. Doesn’t it excite you though, even in the slightest?

  Not in the least.

  Look at the size of his—

  Oh enough already! He’ll regain consciousness soon.

  The moment he stirs, we’ll summon the Dark Lord.

  And hopefully Colson will convince him before that. Best he changes his mind, dispatches this one before he wakes.

  No, I think he has plans for this one, Rainford does.

  Tuesday

  13 October 1998

  1.

  9:50 A.M.

  (Central European Summer Time)

  Amid the bustle of mid-morning, of men and women hurrying to-and-fro on foot and bicycle, a man sat alone at a table of an outdoor café.

  It was funny, Jay thought, the things that were expensive over here versus the things that were expensive back in the States. A glass of orange juice, for example, cost a lot more here than at a diner where he came from. Not that money was ever going to be a real concern again; they had all they’d ever need.

  On the table in front of him were his cigarettes, an ash tray, and a cup of coffee. He would have liked to have had a little something for his girl when she arrived, but he didn’t. He’d even walked by the flower market on his way over this morning, seeing what they had for sale. It’d been kind of early when he’d passed through, a lot of the vendors were still setting up. The season was passing, and each day there were fewer fresh flowers to choose from, more wooden tulips and that sort of thing. Jay wondered if the people who lived in this city all their lives had wooden tulips at home. If maybe those were just for the tourists.

  He smoked one of his cigarettes, sipping at his coffee between drags. Jay liked coffee here in Europe. To him, it was almost as strong as Espresso back home. He wondered if maybe it was just this place or if all the coffee on the continent was this way.

  Home. What did that word even mean anymore? Born in Guatemala, Jay had spent most of his life in New York City. He thought of home as anywhere his woman was. He was five and a half feet tall and dark skinned, sporting a Caesar haircut. Maybe, he thought, he stuck out just a little bit, but not too much. His girl more so, definitely.

  He’d found the Europeans by and large a polite bunch. This was an international city and they were used to a variety of people, wouldn’t stare. He and Tisiphy were getting along in their new surroundings just fine. She would fit in wherever she went. Most of the people here spoke enough English that he got by alright.

  He glanced at his watch. It’d be the middle of the night back home.

  Jay exhaled, tapping his ashes into the tray on the table. Everybody seemed to smoke over here. What was it Boone had said to him, about his choice of smokes, Can’t you at least smoke a man’s cigarette?

  Friggin’ Boone.

  Mierda.

  The problem with Boone, he didn’t respect the game. That’s what Jay had told Hamilton and Maddy. He wondered where those guys were now, how they were doing. Jay hoped they were well. Boone he could really care less about.

  Maybe he’d give Ham or Maddy a call one of these days, but not yet. He was here in Europe with his woman. The men who had hurt her had paid, got what they’d deserved, and it was over. They could relax now. Sure, they wouldn’t be welcomed on the east coast, but why ever set f
oot there again? Nobody back there knew where they were, and the people here didn’t know who they were. They could put it all behind them, get on with their lives.

  She’d been all over the world. He had not. Jay looked forward to travelling with her, to seeing what the globe had to offer. Maybe one day they’d return to his village in Central America. Jay wondered if there was anyone left there he’d remember. He barely remembered the place himself.

  They’d been coming to this café for a few weeks steady and were known to the wait staff, who gave them smiles, happy for their love, awestruck by her beauty. Only Jay had ever seen Tisiphy as she was and lived to tell of it. And he would never tell, because even in her other form, she was magnificent in his eyes. His old self would have warned him it was not good what they were doing, following a pattern, being seen here together day-in and day-out each morning.

  His old self.

  What was left of it? Who was going to try and find them? What was done was done. He kept up with the papers. The capo of the family, Nicolie, guy was headed to jail and would never get out. The family had enough concerns on its hands, Jay considered, what with the question of succession, to not give himself and his woman another thought.

  He looked up and there she was—his Tisiphone—crossing the street towards him. It was like everything and everyone around her froze in a blur and only she was in focus for his eyes, only she was moving. She came to him through the crowd, nearly six and a half feet tall in her heels. Her mid-thigh rain-jacket glistened, slick and glossy. Her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, cheek bones pronounced, full lips. All this time together, she still took his breath away. Her magnificence.

  Mierda, Jay whispered to himself, just to look at her.

  He ground out his Moore in the ashtray as she sat down across from him, gracing him with a smile. Suddenly it was like people were moving again, crossing by in the street, the sounds of the city back in the air. A few of the passersby—men and women—looked at her, nearly mesmerized by her pulchritude.

  “Hello baby,” he said when he could.

  He was the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth.

  2.

  3:55 A.M.

  (Eastern Standard Time)

  Olga Coyle had a phone on the wall in her kitchen and a second on the end table abutting her bed. Her son, Eddie, had a separate line in his own room. The phone in Eddie’s room had not rung in the days since he’d gone out and failed to return home. Even if it had, Olga would not have answered it. Her Eddie’s phone was her Eddie’s phone. Her boy kept his room locked, thinking his mother couldn’t get in if she wanted to. Her boy thought his mother didn’t know what he kept in his closet.

  The phone next to Olga’s bed rang.

  She answered it. The voice on the other end told her where she could find her son. The other party disconnected and Olga called her best friend, Sarafina, for a ride.

  Sarafina and her car were a mismatch. Olga’s friend was short and quiet, often deferential in Olga’s presence; her 1976 Ninety-Eight Oldsmobile was long, wide and loud. A four door hardtop, black over blue, with Cadillac-type tailfins, the Ninety-Eight’s rear wheels were recessed behind the quarter panels. The car, one of the largest General Motors ever made, rumbled and shook behind the 455 Rocket V8 engine, the exhaust system in need of work.

  Seated on a stack of cushions, leaning forward with both hands on the wheel, Sarafina drove. Olga’s cats, Leroi and Warrior, were in the back. Leroi was stretched out behind the headrests of the rear seats, under the window, purring. Warrior stood on his rear legs, his forepaws pressed to the passenger-side window, looking out at the streets passing by.

  The cats didn’t get to go for many rides.

  Olga sat across from Sarafina on the front bench. A large woman, obese, Olga’s girth took up a great deal of the bench. She had her hands in her lap and was forcing herself to be quiet, forcing herself to keep still.

  Her boy, Eddie.

  He needed her.

  The address they’d been given was for a maintenance building at a public park.

  It was late and the park was vacant as the Olds rumbled to a stop at the curb, the brick building looming a short distance away. Olga braced herself against the car door and car roof, Sarafina helping her from the vehicle.

  She placed one leg in front of the other, unsteady but determined. Warrior and Leroi weaved in and out between Olga’s stout legs as she made her way. Tennis courts and a baseball field loomed on either side, deserted at this time of night. The maintenance building was boarded up, looked unused.

  Sarafina walked next to her friend, Olga gripping her arm for balance.

  Olga’s son had been gone long enough now that Sarafina knew whatever they were going to find in that building, it wasn’t going to be good. Not for her, not for her friend. Oh, Olga. Younger than she looked, Olga would be sixty in two years. Life had been tough on Sarafina’s best friend: Olga’s husband had been gone all these years; her oldest son, Billy, dead five years now. Olga’s weight had crept up on her with the years, slowing her down.

  “Thanks Sarafina, my arthritis…”

  They reached the maintenance building, the door opening under Olga’s hand. Leroi and Warrior immediately disappeared inside, into the pitch-black, no fear. Sarafina produced a flashlight and flicked it on. The torch flickered and Sarafina tapped it, the light shining true. The two friends stepped into the darkness together.

  “Eddie?” Olga called out to the black. “Where’s my boy?”

  …my boy, her voice echoed back to them.

  Sarafina panned the room with the light, revealing a vast, largely empty space. The remains of rusted industrial equipment took up much of one corner. Copper wiring and whatever else could be traded for money had been stripped long ago. Dried leaves were scattered about the floor from another time, another season.

  “There.” Sarafina went to point with the flashlight when it died. She tapped it against her leg, jiggling the batteries, bringing it back to life. Sarafina directed the beam on what she’d seen, the two cats circling a heap on the floor further into the room.

  “Who…” Olga lifted a leg and planted one foot in front of the other, breathing heavy, sweating. “…who could have done this…” Her weight an encumbrance, no amount of hustle would change what they’d come here to find. “…done this to my boy…”

  They stood above Olga Coyle’s son.

  “Oh Eddie, my Eddie.”

  His body lay stretched out on the ground, amid the leaves, arms at his side. Eddie’s head had been set on his chest. The lower half of his face was all gum and teeth, his lips and most of the skin around his mouth and cheeks cut away. His ears had been sawed off and an orbit was vacant its eye.

  “…my little Eddie...”

  Sarafina’s flashlight flickered and she cursed the thing, cursed it between her tears, rapping it with the palm of her hand, angry at herself, she should have changed the batteries. The light returned.

  “…oh, Eddie baby, my baby…” Olga had sunk down next to her boy and was cradling his head, caressing his hair, her son’s head half a skull. “I promise you, mommy promises you this...”

  The light in Sarafina’s hand dimmed.

  “…whoever hurt you,” Olga paused, something caught in her throat, “whoever did this to you baby, they’ll—”

  Sarafina’s flashlight died.

  “—they’ll have hell to pay.”

  They were alone in the dark together for some time, Sarafina’s sobs punctuating the quiet.

  When Olga spoke, the words were of an ancient and lost tongue. A light sprang to life in the palm of her hand. The effulgence radiated outwards from the woman, its brilliance filling the room. Shadows vanished and the stark emptiness of the scene was revealed to them. Warrior and Leroi scurried about, agitated, their tails raised.

  “Sarafina.” The otherworldly fire burning in her hand, Olga looked up from her boy to her best friend. “Give me a hand, would you? My knees…”
<
br />   Sarafina bent down to help her mistress back to her feet, Olga saying “I’m going to need help,” as she wrapped her pudgy arms around Sarafina’s neck, Sarafina heaving, Olga rising, standing, “need help getting Eddie to the car.”

  The light radiating from Olga’s hand burned neither of them.

  Olga stood there, above her boy, determination and something else in her eye. It was the something else that concerned Sarafina, scared her.

  “Yes, magistra.” Sarafina moved to help her high priestess.

  3.

  6:03 A.M.

  Dawn was still in process as Detective Will “Gritz” Gritzowski arrived at the scene. A homicide was what they were saying over the radio. What they weren’t saying—this Gritz could feel—Mephisto had struck again. He pulled off the Palisades Parkway at the Rockefeller Lookout, parking his Crown Vic beyond the marked police cars and emergency vehicles. Gritz got out of the sedan in his coat and tie, a little older and slower than the day before, a steaming blue and white cup of coffee in his hand to help chase away last night’s drink.

  He had no jurisdiction here across the river. The place was swarming with law enforcement: the Englewood Cliffs police were heavy on the scene; their medical examiner’s people; a number of Jersey State troopers with their Sam Brown belts and their saucer-shaped hats, badges on those hats. A collection of blue-on-white Parkway police cars and State Trooper vehicles filling the pull off.

  Gritz made his way through the crowd towards the taped off scene, greeting the Englewood P.D. like he knew them until he came across one he did.

  “Pull any black guy’s over lately?” Gritz mustered a grin. Heck if he could recall the man’s name. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t bust his balls. Maryland and Jersey State Police had been in the news lately over racial profiling, pulling black motorists over in disproportionate numbers on the Turnpike and 95.

  “Hey,” the cop replied, smiling back, recognizing Gritz. “I just do what my supervisor tells me.”