Chapter 17 (Adam Novus Chronicles - Book 1)

This navigational gadget glued to my dashboard was quickly growing on me, despite its annoying idiosyncrasies. I don’t think it was a top-of-the-line model; at least once a week it glitched and slipped into its default Chinese mode and had to be reset. Still, how did people go anywhere before it was invented, I have no idea. OK, I know—we used maps, but this is ten times more convenient. Nina is in for a pay raise, for sure (as soon as she tells me how much I am paying her).

The directions on the little screen led me to the part of the city where I had never been before—and would have never wanted to. When you see the old trash haphazardly thrown on the street, you just know that even sanitary engineers gave up on the neighborhood.

The Alpha’s abandoned factory building was right where Derek said it would be, and the high-security chain link fence around it sent a clear message that uninvited persons should keep out. There was even a private property sign.

Four gang members were in a small guardhouse beside the wide gate. It was easy to identify them by the leather vests with Alphas emblem on their backs. They were clearly not very dedicated to their job of guarding the place, as they should be patrolling the perimeter.

I parked a long way from the factory and made the rest of the way on foot, using shadows and a few overgrown trees to approach without being seen. When I was close enough, I saw why they were all looking in the same direction, and it was sickening. One of them had a tablet and was showing the others a homemade video. The scene was of a brutal rape, and I don’t think it was fake. You see, real blood has this unique consistency that fake blood can never truly imitate. (Maybe I should not brag in a civilized society that I am an expert on how spilled blood behaves—not being a forensic blood spatter analyst or a butcher.)

The smart thing now would be to call for a backup, or the cops—to make sure the perps are arrested and convicted for their crimes. To hell with that voice of reason—I was not that patient and they had Mrs. Barkin’s granddaughter in there; I didn’t want to risk the possibility that while I waited for help to arrive, she too could experience what the guards were watching. Furthermore, the moment they crossed the line and committed those hideous crimes—their fates were sealed, at least in my book. They were guilty and there was a price that needed to be paid. Therefore, I have elected myself as the collector of that debt.

The trick to fighting multiple targets in a tight space is the speed and precision of your strikes; not pausing to watch your handiwork, and making sure that every move counts. I didn’t make any noise as I sneaked to a few inches beside the open doors. It was hot tonight, and with the amount of cannabis smoke pouring outside, it was understandable why they wanted to let in some fresh air. Two were close together in the front, sitting in worn-out office chairs; two were a little to the back, leaning on the guardhouse wall, and looking over their shoulders.

I closed my eyes and concentrated. Every time before, the black knife appeared in my hand a split second before I plunged it into the hearts of my enemies. For some reason, I instinctively knew it would be there, but now I wanted to make it appear by conscious intent.

It wasn’t easy, and there were a few false starts with me having that constipated look that everyone gets from time to time. The thing that worked was focusing all my will and need, and imagining what was going to happen in a few seconds. It felt as if something clicked inside my mind; comparable to figuring out a problem that had for some time made you bang your head against the wall.

I opened my eyes in time to see it magically appear out of nowhere. It was mesmerizing and more than a bit eerie. First, an outline of it could be seen, bending the light as an optical lens would. In the next moment—it was in my hand. So black, it sucked all the light that hit its surface. The whole process was so quick, if I blinked—I would have missed it. My hand clenched around the knife’s grip; as solid as any blade I ever held in my life. But this one fit as though it was precisely molded for my hand.

I took a deep breath, visualizing the moves I would have to make. On my lips was a thin but vicious smile that no sane person would like to see on the face of another. I was fully committed, no backing out now. Those four inside had an unavoidable appointment with the Grim Reaper, they just didn’t know it yet.

I slowly exhaled and tensed my muscles, and then jumped right in.

The first two were in a perfect position, their throats were slit in one single move. This knife was scary sharp— absolutely no resistance. The third one got a knife in the back, at the end of my hand trajectory as it was returning from the first slash. I aimed it precisely so it would slip between the ribs and pierce his heart. Enough time has passed for the fourth gang member to realize that something was wrong; he turned in his seat and jumped at me, then impaled himself on the knife I had just pulled from his friend’s back and conveniently positioned in his path. I’ll give him this, even high as he was, his reaction time was excellent… not that it did him any good.

Two dead and two dying, holding their hands over severed jugular veins—in vain. (I’m killing it tonight with all these convenient puns). One of them had taken a hit of his joint before I gave him an unnecessary tracheostomy, and the smoke was now escaping from his throat. At the same time both a nauseating and morbidly fascinating thing to see.

I didn’t get as much energy from the last two, but finishing off the first two of these suffering souls, surely did. I am merciful that way. Honestly, this was my personal record—less than half a second per individual kill. (Not that I was keeping a score… that would be unhealthy.)

Note to self, tell Nina to order more black T-shirts, this one was already ruined. Black is the perfect color for obscuring the red color of blood. The first two I killed did imitate gushing water fountains for a short while, and that tends to make a bloody mess.

For a whole minute, I did not move, waiting to see if anyone saw what I did. My sixth sense didn’t detect any other guards nearby, but I wanted to be sure. Exiting the guardhouse has become a necessity; the sphincters of the dead gang members had become loose, and the smell was making me hold my breath.

The factory building was some fifty feet away, and I walked towards it without trying to hide. Interestingly enough, people usually notice when someone is behaving abnormally, less so when one does what they expect. I shouldn’t have worried; there was no one else providing security. The structure itself was in total darkness, and the windows that weren’t boarded up were painted black, preventing any light from coming out. The only illumination was from the moon and a floodlight by the guardhouse. There was so much graffiti on the factory’s crumbling walls—it would be hard to tell what any one of them represented.

Was I insane, going against so many opponents alone? Perhaps, but it also felt right. The missions in the unit where I was by my lonesome were always my favorite. There is a sense of freedom there, the need to improvise in an instant without worrying about the welfare of other team members.

This close to the building, faint music could be heard coming from the inside. Maybe they are having a party? I was about to crash it.

Entering inside was as easy as opening the doors and stepping in, except there was another wall in front of me. Clever little punks, they have constructed another wall within, made from cheap plywood and a layer of insulation foam. This kind of setup did wonders for noise suppression. The likely reason why they needed the noise to stay on the inside was making my anger turn from a simmer to a boil.

The inside door was something you expect to see in a regular house room, cheap but functional. I turned the knob and opened it a little, to see what I was getting into; then I opened the door completely—not believing my eyes.

Fifteen of them were in the first room, passed out on old recliner chairs and threadbare sofas. There were enough drugs and hard liquor here to throw one hell of a block party. They spilled what must be a pound of cocaine on the table, as in an all-you-can-eat buffet.

On a big screen was the same video the outside guards were watching; a big tattooed creep doing unspeakable things to a young girl. All that was accompanied by extremely loud music one could expect to experience at a rave party. It was amazing that they managed to sleep through all that; maybe long exposure made them all deaf? It certainly worked in my favor.

What I did next may have been a little extreme and no doubt more than a little disturbing if anyone watched me doing it; still, it takes an effort and a strength of will to slice through fifteen throats. After the first few, it was a matter of repeating the same move, comparable to what a worker on a factory line does. Soon, the very walls looked like something Jackson Pollock would paint if he only used different shades of red. A few woke up when they felt the excruciating pain, and I had to hold them down with my hand over their mouths, until they made the transition.

One or fifteen, it was all the same to me, considering what they’ve done. If there were a thousand of them—I would’ve done the same. (Well, maybe use some fast-acting poison or a high yield explosive—to expedite things.)

The room quickly filled with the coppery smell of blood; these creeps were so drugged out of their minds, they passed away rather peacefully. I don’t think most of them felt a single thing; a pity, considering their sins. But practicality is sometimes much more important than exacting the appropriate amounts of pain and suffering. 

Not immediately needed, the knife disappeared from my hand and this reality, into wherever it went while I wasn't using it.

I just killed a lot of people in cold blood and felt as much guilt over it as a pest exterminator would for eliminating a bunch of cockroaches. In my mind, these were hardly human beings, but more rabid beasts in human form. We all know what one does with rabid beasts… enough said.

I moved forward through the building, noticing that they used the same plywood and insulation foam to construct more rooms within. Cheap but a smart way to convert an old abandoned factory into functional living spaces. There was a series of rooms, some occupied, with additional sleeping gang members (that is, sleeping the true sleep of the dead—after I was done with them).

The interesting thing was that there were no women with them. And I guess I can understand that—no sane (or insane) woman would want to be around scum that was involved in such an obscene business.

I walked into a big semi-dark space, barely illuminated by the light of the hallway behind me. When my eyes adjusted, I saw something that made me regret performing my recent kills so mercifully. Six big dog cages were secured to the concrete floor, and five of them were full. Five girls that were barely out of puberty were inside, beaten, and drugged into oblivion… but alive. The empty cage showed signs of recent occupation; for that girl, I came too late.

To the side was something that resembled a horror movie studio set. A big bed covered in plastic with traces of poorly cleaned blood, surrounded with makeshift racks filled with all kinds of sex devices that belonged in a dungeon. Chains, whips, and handcuffs were the normal items I recognized; God knows what the rest of them were used for. I swear that I saw a few of the implements in a documentary I'd seen on the Spanish inquisition, so… really bad stuff. The smell pervading the entire space was revolting; rancid human sweat, old blood, and all bodily excretions human beings are capable of.

My sixth sense has been fully opened ever since I exited the car. That is why I was sure that aside from the girls and me, there was only one other being left alive in the building. His emotions were growing in intensity—he was getting closer.

The door from the opposite side opened and a man in his twenties came through. He stopped after a few steps when he saw me. There was one familiar thing about him—he was not human. The scent of freshly spilled blood was what most likely alerted him that not everything was kosher.

The way he looked—Holy Hell! Six foot five and weighing more than three hundred pounds. All muscles—an unhealthy amount of them. Think professional bodybuilders, the ones that have bulging muscles on their muscles. The freak was shirtless, for some unfathomable reason, and had more tribal tattoos than I had ever seen on someone. He would make Yakuza members jealous. Almost every single one of them had something to do with wolves.

I figured out two things at that moment—this was undoubtedly Zain, the Alpha’s leader—and he was the actor in the latest snuff movie the gang made and watched.

“Who the hell are you?” He snarled at me, showing me his teeth, which even in human form had elongated canines.

“I’m just a tourist, seeing the sites, meeting new people. I seem to be a bit lost; probably should have taken a left turn in Albuquerque.”

You know when people don’t get your sense of humor… it is a bummer. And yes, I am using humor to control my rage, or I would be foaming at the mouth. He was looking at me as an escapee from a mental hospital that he was about to kill for trespassing on his territory. I think he was also on some drugs; his emotions were all over the place. OK, to business then.

“Zain, you know the laws of the ‘Were-Council,’ now, what do you think your punishment should be?” I didn’t sound angry, or upset, those stages were way behind me.

His eyes opened wide. “Did they send you? My father should have prevented that. Anyway, they were nothing, only human, expendable,” he replied in a dismissively haughty voice.

“These young girls were expendable? They were nothing?” I repeated in a whisper. The weak control I maintained for some time now finally cracked; his words and uncaring tone were the final touch.

“Junior, the time has come to cancel your birth certificate.”

I didn’t want to jabber any longer, what was the point? The one thing I wanted now was to exterminate him, to erase this filth from the face of the Earth. I moved; thinking I would be on him before he realized what was happening. Which may be a bit overconfident on my side, this puppy was fast.

He grabbed a freaking desk that was beside him and threw it in my direction, far stronger than any human would ever be able to. Who the hell throws a desk at someone? It was certainly a first for me. I managed to sidestep and evade a big part of the projectile, but one desk corner winged me on the shoulder and threw me a few feet back. A crumbling support pillar stopped my fall, not even a bit gently.

To tell the truth, I hadn’t been in plenty of fights with supernaturals, so I was maybe a bit overconfident. Yes, I did kill a few vamps, but there was a surprise factor there, and I did not give much warning. When I think about it, most of my kills were of a similar variety. Then again, big prolonged fights that one can see in the movies are very rare in real life.

I should have rushed him the moment he entered the room. This time my big mouth was going to cost me more than I bargained for.

He was on me before I came to my senses, kicking me like a football. I felt some ribs crack, not a novel experience for me and not one I'd ever enjoyed. In my whole life, I had never been kicked with such force; no wonder—Zain here was a freaking werewolf.

As luck would have it, his kick threw me close to some discarded pieces of lumber that were left from the room’s construction. More accurately, to a nice piece of 4x4 that was a bit longer than a baseball bat.

“I am going to rip your throat—”

Zain started to say as he was getting ready to use me again as a football. Just before I took that 4x4 makeshift bat and slammed his face with it. Man, that was a home run if I ever saw one. The big bad wolf went flying across the room.

I stood up, despite the piercing agony that went through me as my ribs laid a complaint for moving at all. The coppery taste in my mouth told me that not all was well inside me, but I’ve been worse.

OK, wolfy here is a bit stronger than me; somewhat slower, but considering my condition, that didn’t matter as much. If I give him any chance—he is going to beat me into a pulp. On the other hand, one of my instructors did say, “Adam, fighting fair is for suckers with a death wish.”

Zain was coming around much faster than I thought he would. Already standing, and shaking his head like a heavyset boxer after a hard blow, to clear his vision. At least my slugger stroke made some improvements in his facial features. His nose was extremely flattened, bleeding profusely. The kind of injury that would demand a visit to a plastic surgeon. Not that I intended to allow him to live that long.

“Come on little doggie, a mere human has spilled your blood. You are a poor excuse for your entire species. Don’t you feel ashamed? I bet I can make you do tricks by the end of this fight, and train you to bark on command.”

I could almost see the rage in him taking all control. He roared something unintelligible and his eyes acquired a yellowish tint. Zain was going through the change… perfect.

Marcus had instructed me about some interesting things when fighting Weres, especially werewolves. It is all about instinct and their need to change when in a dangerous situation. It was a genetic legacy of different times, when their animalistic form would be a big advantage in a fight. However, during that change, they were also very vulnerable—and I was about to exploit that.

As soon as his bones started cracking, and then reforming in a different way—I moved. Time slowed down, as I ran toward the werewolf that was looking less human with every second.

The black knife again appeared in my hand. In that split second, I could see in Zain’s eyes the realization of his mistake, but it was too late. I was on him before his brain could decide what to do, and an instant later, it didn’t matter anymore.

The blade sunk into his chest, without any resistance, and I followed his body as it hit the hard concrete beneath our feet.

It immediately started draining his life force, extinguishing his light. Anticlimactic really, I expected more resistance, more… something. His facial features straightened, returning into a full human visage, almost peaceful.

This creep was feared by so many people, even Hector did not want to mess with him. How many young girls died here, utterly terrified? His face was the last thing they saw in this world. And here he was, slipping away to the great beyond; his death an absolution of so many unforgivable sins. No… that was way too good for him.

So far, every time I took a life there was a certain serenity in it, a grace of the last moment if you will. I didn’t want Zain to go gently into that good night, I wanted him to feel the pain he inflicted on others. My energy reserves were already full by so many deaths I caused this night, and taking his was not needed. Besides, consuming the life force of such a revolting being was not something I wanted—it repulsed me.

By some unexplainable instinct, I willed the flow to reverse, giving him back what I already took. It was as if someone else was guiding my actions, and simultaneously giving me an intricate knowledge of energy pathways, and the way they can be misused.

Nothing happened for a few moments, but then that same energy I needed to survive started listening to my desires.

Zain’s face changed from almost peaceful to a surprised one, and then morphed into a grimace of pain. The energy was not simply flowing backward—it raged inside his body like a firestorm; bursting blood vessels, rupturing organs. He started screaming like you wouldn’t believe, tearing his vocal cord to shreds in the process. From his eyes, nose, and ears, blood started flowing in a steady stream.

I’m not sure how long it lasted, but deep down inside, I unapologetically enjoyed every second of it. Finally, all the energy I was manipulating converged into his heart, which consequently burst from the overwhelming strain, and… Zain died. From deep inside my soul, a strong feeling of satisfaction emerged—my enemy was vanquished.

OK… that was different. The last few minutes were not what I would usually do, quite outside my M.O. Throughout my entire career, I usually tried to make my kills as quick and painless as possible, almost clinical. There was a sense of detachment from the act itself. It was a job, nothing else. I may have faltered a few times, but never to this extent. From where this new bloodthirstiness emerged, I have no idea. Visiting a therapist to resolve my issues was the last thing I wanted to do. Even the old me would have locked me up in a padded room, let alone some snowflake stranger following outdated ideas of other unhinged pioneers in the field of understanding humans.

The pain of my cracked ribs reminded me that I needed help with this situation. My phone had miraculously survived mostly intact; well, the screen was cracked, but the thing still worked. I called Marcus, but it was Esmeralda that answered.

“Adam, where are you? How can we help?”

“I have five girls, beaten and drugged, locked in cages by gang members. They need to be taken to a hospital.”

“Give me your location, we will be right there,” she said, her voice cold and precise. By the sound of it, I knew she read the message I wrote Marcus before commencing my assault. In it, I explained what I was about to do and why. If for some reason I didn’t make it out alive—I wanted them to know what happened.

She wrote it down and hung up the phone. I wanted to check on the girls but I first needed to make a quick inspection of the rest of the building. A precautionary measure against any unwanted surprises.

My empathic sense was assuring me there was nobody else here, but old habits are hard to beat. The rest of the building was empty, with the exception of what must have been Zain’s office, with a few filing cabinets and a desktop computer in it. A few more things were inside, like a big pile of cash stacked on the table, and underneath it, dozens of square packets filled with white powder. I doubt it was flour or baking soda.

Usually, I would be all for taking the money, but the way this gang earned it was so despicable, I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking it, and that took some doing. There was also a makeshift armory with enough guns to start a small revolution. I’m glad they didn’t know I was coming, or else this mission would have had a different ending.

I returned to the room with the girls, cut the locks with my knife, and then pulled them out of dog cages. In the last cage was one I recognized as Mary, still unhurt, excluding a large black eye. Like the other girls, drugged to the point of complete numbness.

I made them as comfortable as they could be, by using mattresses from the empty rooms. Those from the occupied rooms were unusable, still soaking up blood.

I took a few minutes and visited the bathroom the gang built. One look at the dirty cracked mirror showed me an image that nightmares were made of. I looked as if I was auditioning for the part of Carrie; right after the bucket of pig's blood fell on her head. I cleaned my face and hands, giving up on a T-shirt that was glued to my skin.

Faster than I believed possible, Esmeralda came in barging through the door; they must have broken all speed records.

She didn’t say a word, just kneeled beside the girls, checking their pulse. Her emotions were very similar to the ones I felt before, when she spoke about hunting the people that killed her family.

“We have some ambulances that work for us, they will arrive shortly. Did you leave any of the gang members alive?”

“No, I’m pretty sure they are all dead.”

“Pity,” she longingly whispered.

Marcus arrived a minute later.

“I like your art performance in the first room, what do you call it?” he asked, smirking, and then assisted his wife in checking the victims. These two were in the patient care business probably longer than any other beings alive.

“I haven’t come up with a good title yet; The Last Judgment was already taken.”

“Boys, be serious, and Adam—call the Cleaners. That room looks worse than a slaughterhouse.”

It completely slipped my mind. A few seconds later, the nice phone lady informed me they would arrive shortly, with five vans since two were not going to cut it with twenty bodies that needed transport to their final resting place, wherever that may be.

After he diagnosed that all the girls would be fine until they could get more professional help, I led Marcus to Zain’s office.

“Can you make sure that it is given anonymously to the girls? It won’t erase what they’ve been through, but it will help,” I said, pointing at the big pile of cash.

“Sure, consider it done,” Marcus said, looking at the files neatly arranged in the filing cabinets.

In no time the ambulances came, belonging to a private service that the vampire clan owned. They took the girls away and the Cleaners (which came soon after), carried away the bodies while making sure to clean all the evidence of this night's events. It was just in time, as the sky was changing its color from black to dark blue, announcing the beginning of a new day. But we didn’t go home yet, there were still some things to sort out.

Marcus and Esmeralda didn’t come alone, they brought a few other vampires that were part of their clan, and they went through the place from top to bottom. The next few hours were filled with one horrific surprise after the other.

There was a sick collection of movies in Zain’s office, each with gruesome scenes of rape and murder. One vamp with a particularly sensitive nose reported that there were dead bodies in shallow graves, behind the building. We partly dug the most recent one, only to find the body of a girl from the movie the gang members were watching. She was the one from the sixth cage.

Beside her… were many more.

The files in the office revealed a complete list of their clients, the people who paid large sums of money to have original snuff films made. Marcus said he would take care of them, and by the gleam in his eyes, I pretty much knew what their fate was going to be. A few Alpha members were not here, but Marcus collected all their names and addresses from Zain’s files. I guess Cleaners will have a bit more work in the near future.

Tomorrow, the authorities would get an anonymous call about the gang’s graveyard, so their families could find some peace. The gang was all but wiped out of existence, so there was no one to prosecute, but I really didn’t care for public peace of mind. If brought to trial, some of those lowlifes could have walked; my method was much more finite and just, at least in my perspective.

We left the factory as the first rays of the sun broke through the clouds; it was a long night and I wanted to rest. My ribs hurt and a very helpful paramedic bound my chest in an elastic wrap.

After the night that I had, I only wanted to go home, lay down, and zone out for a while.

Before coming home, I stopped at Mrs. Barkin’s house, followed by one of Marcus’s clan members. When she opened the door, her expression and feelings were one of fear, expecting the worst. By the look of her, she didn’t sleep a wink.

“She is OK,” was the first thing I said and she threw herself in my arms, crying. I had to clench my teeth because those ribs were sending a clear message that they didn’t appreciate being additionally squeezed.

I don’t deal well with distraught women, what to do? Tap her back and say “there, there, don't cry?” I managed to extract myself out of that death grip and told her that Mary was in the hospital and that this nice gentleman with me would drive her there. I left my baker with a vampire, who was the epitome of politeness. This is one weird world we live in.

That errand finished, I finally went home.

It would seem that today I would not get my regular morning fix; I’ll need to make my own coffee… damn.