The Armageddon Shadow

CHAPTER 1

1

Friday 0800

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They crashed through the front door; shards of wood flew from the shattered jamb. The elderly man turned to see suits charging the room, tasers drawn. They moved fast. A dog blocked the entrance. Its lips curled back, saliva drooped from pointed teeth. 

Their voices were loud and threatening. Shouting at him to get down, on the floor: Now! Quick! Down! Down! Down!

Ignoring the orders, an elderly man rushed for the window. Rage bubbled inside the man’s veins. The body was rigid and taken by surprise he could not move fast enough.

Someone grabbed the old man around the neck from behind and drove him to the floor. Landing hard on the carpet, a rug-burn set his cheeks alight. He fought against gripping hands holding him firm, fighting for a space to maneuver, and madly searching for an opportunity to break free. His arms and legs went wild, lashing out at anyone close. His shin struck the coffee table, knocked magazines to the floor. A cup of hot coffee skidded to the table’s edge, but did not tip off.

They knew not to shoot the body.

They had learned.

The men kept his back pressed to the floor. One pointed a taser at him. The man punched and kicked the best he could, until the cold steel of a gun was pushed hard against his temple. The old man laughed, it was weak and croaky but the message was clear. In response a knee was forced against his neck, forcing his head hard against the carpet. 

The old man’s mouth gaped open. A shadow rose from the parted, chapped lips, black and without form like an elongated blob.

A sponge of water filled the mouth.

Water. Its one true enemy.

Unable to pass this one hindrance, the entity searched for another way out and rushed to the eyes in hope of escape. Spying release, it rushed forward. A wet cloth slapped across the eyes, successfully sealing that escape.

It felt like a caged animal, desperate for a way out.

The nose!

Flipping around, it shot downwards and came to an instant halt, realizing the body was not breathing. It was suffocating. There was no way out if the body drowned. The bastards would have succeeded in a powerful trap. And that was unacceptable.

The man’s brain bubbled. Blood vessels ruptured. Blood dribbled from the ears. It pushed through the blood, its denseness enabling the entity to grip and move.

Jesus, a man screamed. Give me the cup. Quick!

That voice. It knew that voice. Agent Baxter. The son of a bitch was a thorn in his side.

An escape route showed itself. Light shone brightly. They had made a mistake.

Yes, almost free. The exit only seconds away.

Hot coffee rushed through the entry, slamming a door on the final exit route.

Fury ripped through the old man’s brain sending the body into violent spasms, jerking and twisting, almost impossible to hold down.

Agent Baxter forced his knee against the man’s neck leaning down hard, holding him in place. Agents John Dernaham and Shirley Wong fought to hold down the legs. Agent Susan Temple dropped to her knees fumbling a hypodermic needle from a plastic bag. Baxter shot her a glance; his eyes screamed at her to hurry. She nodded, clamped the plastic protective cover into her mouth and slammed the needle into the man’s back and pushed down the plunger. Muscle relaxant coursed through the lungs to the heart. The man continued to squirm but the neck lock did a better job than the drugs.

They held him firm until the spasms stopped.

Baxter took a final look around the living room and adjusted his black suit jacket. He nodded to the group as if answering a silent question. Get him into the van, Baxter ordered, sliding his .38 Special into the shoulder holster. 

At the entrance sat a German Shepherd. His eyes were locked on the old man downed by the agents. John Dernaham picked up its leash. You did a good job, boy. He patted the large bulky head. The dog looked past him.  It watched as Susan stepped back and allowed two agents to lift the man off the floor. As they approached, it stood up and moved to the side.

John pulled gently on the leash. This way, boy.

He and Shirley followed the agents outside. No one had thought to bring a gurney. 

Baxter stood in the doorway, the sun warm on his face. On the curb were two vans, rear doors open. Agent Ryan Hoffman stood guard. He watched the two agents cross the small path leading to the gate. They moved quickly. 

The day was quiet. No birds chirped, no dogs barked; no wind rustled tree leaves. Baxter tensed. He drew the .38 Special from his shoulder holster and held it at his side. Behind him, he heard Susan cock the hammer of her .38. They both felt it like a sixth sense. Something was wrong.

Hey man, wa’cha doing? The young man stepped through a gate two doors down. He had long black hair and blue jeans with torn knees and wore a rock band T-shirt. In his nicotine stained fingers a hand-rolled cigarette sent small wafts of smoke twirling into the sky.

Agent Ryan Hoffman stepped forward from guarding the two vans.

Hey, isn’t that old man Torrent? The kid rushed forward. The cigarette fell from his fingers, spinning in the still afternoon. His hand reached behind him. The cigarette hit the road and bounced. He pulled a Glock from the back of his jeans.

No! Agent Baxter watched the scene unfolded like a nightmare.

The back of Agent Ryan’s head exploded splattering the van and road with clumps of blood soaked hair and bone. He toppled back.

The two agent’s carrying the body dropped it, the sponge inside the mouth slipped out unnoticed. They pulled out their weapons.

Shots punched into the van’s side and ricocheted off the road. 

The kid was fast. He jerked to the side of the van and used put two bullets to take the men out. Baxter saw his smile as the Glock jumped in his hands.

The dog bolted forward. On hind legs it pushed the kid off balance and its jaws clamped on the gun hand forcing the kid to drop the weapon. The German Shepherd increased his grip against the struggling kid, and brought him to the ground. 

Sensing release, It escaped spewing forth from the mouth, instantly it blended with shadows thrown first by the vans, then by trees. It raced to the gutter and dropped down the first drain it found. The blackness inside was sweet. Water rushed below it. Attached to the top of the drain it slid towards the city center.

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Baxter saw the shadow make a run for it, and he fired three times knowing it had no effect but unable to stop.

Agent Dernaham grabbed the leash on the dog pulling it back as Agent Baxter reached the scene with Agent Temple and Agent Wong a step behind. 

Baxter’s face was the epitome of rage. He slammed his foot into the young man’s gut as Dernaham swept the Glock under the van out of harm’s way.

Grabbing him by the hair, Baxter lifted the kid to his feet. You have no idea what you’ve done!

The kid smiled. Yeah. I do, he replied.

Without warning Baxter grabbed the kid’s face and shoved him against the van. He stepped forward quickly and drove a fist into his stomach. The kid doubled over. Baxter almost drove a knee into the kid’s face. It was so close and so tempting, yet somehow, he managed to restrain the temptation.

A wallet poked out from the back pocket. Baxter grabbed it and flipped it open. Well hello, Henry Buffalo. He squatted down and pushed Henry’s head against the van. Do you have any idea what you just did?

Fuck you, Henry’s voice was strained, almost a whisper.

No, fuck you. Agent Baxter took a step back and pushed the barrel of his .38 Special against Henry’s temple.

The kid was silent.

I’m waiting, Baxter said.

Go to Hell.

Been there. Baxter squeezed the trigger. The hammer thumped an empty chamber making a loud click.

Henry screamed, his bladder lost control. He grabbed his head in his arms and whimpered sliding against the van to the ground.

Stepping away from Henry, Baxter reached under the van and retrieved the Glock. He put it in the back of his suit pants. Cuff him in the van, he told Susan and Shirley.

Agent Dernaham watched Susan and Shirley drag Henry into the back of the van. Pure hatred burned behind those orbs.

Baxter felt the same way but he had to keep everything under control and he had to maintain control of his team. He clapped Dernaham on the shoulder. They would mourn the loss of their comrades later.

First things first. Baxter needed to chat with Henry. 

A police cruiser screeched to a halt next to the van. It arrived without sirens. Two officers leapt out of the car, using the open door as a shield. Their guns instantly drawn.

Stop right there, fuckers! one yelled, his voice was firm and authoritative. Show me your damn hands!

Baxter sighed and gently laid the fallen agent on the road. He held up his arms. Gentlemen—

Shut it! I want to see everyone’s fucking hands now! the second officer yelled.

Baxter turned to his team and nodded his head. They raised their hands as the officers crept from behind the shield of the cruiser’s doors and carefully approached, weapons scanning back and forth between Baxter and his crew.

There was neither helicopter nor other cruisers in sight. They had to be waiting for back-up. 

One cop trained his barrel at Baxter and nodded at his partner. You move and you’ll have a bullet for a friend! Understand?

Yes, Baxter said as the second cop holstered his weapon and forced him against the van. His legs were kicked apart. The cop started to pat him down. Found his identification in the breast pocket and pulled it out. It was a standard black identification pouch. Inside was a photo I.D card and a silver badge pressed into the soft leather.

Holding the pouch, the cop went to his unit. Baxter watched him radio in. A moment later the cop came out and handed the pouch back. Sorry, he said. Communication breakdown. He turned to the other cop. We gotta go.

Actually gentlemen, Baxter said. We would very much appreciate it if you could call an ambulance and help us out here.

Sure thing, sir.

Baxter passed on instructions and two minutes later, the team headed out of the cul-de-sac with Susan behind the wheel, her foot hard on the accelerator and the two remaining agents next to her. Baxter was in the back. He wanted a word with Mr. Buffalo. 

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2

Friday 0815

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Bright light shoved spears of pain through the slithering shadow. It changed direction, found shelter and zipped under a car, only to be exposed moments later as the car pulled into traffic.

The sun’s powerful ray scorched the shadow in a thousand places. The pain forced the shadow to move fast, forced It to locate a new host quick. But It was picky. Not just anyone would do. They had to be the right breed.

A boot slammed the ground as a skin-headed neo-Nazi wannabe strode past. It watched him walk down the street. The black jacket, black torn jeans, black boots and tattooed head meant nothing to the shadow curled up against a doorway studying the figure. The guy had a raging emotion it liked: violence. It was in abundance in the young man, but barely controlled. Hate was its driving force.

The shadow turned away from him.

Shooting along the gutter, It rounding a corner, keeping in the shade of a delivery truck. Sensing an ideal location, It jumped the curb, flew along the pavement and stopped.

The city square lay before It and near empty at this hour, only a few people were there. Some talked on cell phones, others smoked and drank coffee. Sitting on a bench eating a bakery-store breakfast, was a young blonde lady with fair skin and sharp blue eyes. Her figure was petite; she wore standard office lady clothes, a knee length dress, white blouse and a thin light jacket.

She wasn’t strong enough to be a suitable host. The shadow knew that straight away, but there was some kind of special attraction to her. There was power in her and the ability to deceive was incredibly strong. It felt a violent tendency in her waiting to be exposed and explored.

Laughter, loud and boisterous grabbed the attention of the shadow. On the other side of the square, a man leaned against a light post. He wore a gray suit, dark shirt and a red tie with a cartoon character on it. Pressed to his ear was a cell phone and his lips were turned up in a smile. He watched passing cars and trucks as if he was waiting for someone.

The man drew his hand through his dark hair with premature gray streaks. Laughter lines scarred the skin around the brown eyes and dimples pumped his cheeks when he laughed.

Taking things easy, the shadow moved slowly toward him. It drifted across the concrete, over an abandoned chalk drawing of baby Jesus, closer to the pole. It barely noticed the pain of the sun. 

The man was ripe. He had that ‘something’ the shadow searched for. 

Reaching the pole It slithered around the man’s feet and waited for the right moment.

The man laughed, his mouth opened wide, lips pointed to the ears.

The shadow loomed back, leaning into and through the ground.

The laughter stopped but the mouth was opened in a wide smile. Shooting upwards, the shadow wrapped around the man’s face.

Shock released the man’s grip and the phone dropped. Inhaling, he sucked in the shadow, the essence of the shadow slid up his nose, through his mouth and inside his ears. It traveled up the pathways to the brain and made a nest. 

The man’s face twitched. Spasms caused his dimples to jump, the right side of his lip rose to the nose and fell quickly back in place only to repeat the process. His eyes swelled and he pushed his palms against them. Tiny bumps lined his forehead just below the hairline. His full weight leaned against the pole. The sudden pressure inside his head was incredible; it felt like a ton of books were balanced on his brain.

The pain softened and was suddenly gone.

The man’s hands fell from his eyes—eyes as black as coal. 

Slowly he bent down and picked up the cell phone. Someone was still talking on the other end. He pushed the end button and turned to face the woman.

Reading a fashion magazine, she had abandoned her simple breakfast. Part of a plastic bag poked out of her purse. Her blonde hair was long, stray strands swayed in the gentle breeze of the early morning.

The shadow knew her name, it was Nina Stewart. The man’s name was Christopher Ball. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them, the black was gone, replaced with the original color. He pocketed the phone, brushed his hair with his hands and approached the woman on the wooden bench.

She saw him coming, closed the magazine and smiled.

Hi ya, Chris, Nina said brightly.

Right back at ya, he replied with a closed lip smile.

The shadow accessed memory files: They worked in the same building on the same floor and lived not far from each other. Christopher hoped one day to have the courage to ask her to dinner without the pretense of work as an excuse.

Christopher Ball wanted Nina Stewart. Now, the shadow wanted Nina Stewart. There was something about her he instantly liked. A connection, weak at present but a connection nonetheless.

Who were you talking to?

Confusion clouded Chris’s face and he tilted his head slightly to one side.

On the phone, she added helpfully.

I am not Christopher Ball. He smiled. And it is not my phone but I shall use it. He pulled it out to show her.

She looked at him sideways. Are you alright?

What do you mean? he countered.

I am not Christopher Ball, she said trying to imitate his deep voice and failing. Covering her failure with the sweetest smile she could muster, she said, So, who are you if you’re not Chris? Nina stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder.

Reaching out, he pinched her shoulder. Nina froze, she didn’t even blink.

I am Darkness, he said and leaned forward. With his free hand, he pulled up her right eyelid and drew his tongue gently across the glassy surface. Each lash of his tongue darkened the eyeball. With it completely black, he attacked the other.

Watching closely, he observed the change—the infection—take hold. Her face slackened and tiny bumps lined her forehead. You will need a haircut. Get a new style with a fringe, he ordered.

She nodded.

He released the pinch.

Nina blinked and shook her head. What happened? she asked.

Darkness shrugged. Don’t know. You just seemed to space out there for a second.

She rubbed her forehead as the bumps sunk deep and her sharp blue eyes focused on him again. Weird, she said. Anyway are you going to answer me?

I did, he thought, but said, I’ve decided that I am Christopher Ball.

Smiling, she said, That’s good. I like Christopher Ball. It’s a nice name. She stepped past him. See you at the office.

Don’t you have something else to do? he asked.

Nina stopped in mid step. She didn’t turn. Oh yes, I do. And it is urgent.

He watched Nina walked out of the square.

Cars roared past. Motorcycles zipped in and out of traffic, dodging cars and shooting up the centerline to beat the red light. A group of high school girls in uniform crossed the square, their voices were loud and the conversation idiotic. A man entered the square with a small dog in a leash. The dog growled at Darkness.

Dogs.

Father had set the dogs on him.

CHAPTER 2

1

Friday 0830

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Jerked side to side, Henry found it hard at times to keep his balance. He was handcuffed to a thick chain on each arm; the chains were crudely bolted to a partition that separated the driver’s cab from the rest of the van. The bolts looked like they weren’t secured tight. Next to them he saw a small speaker with a printed label reading: 2-way.

A long metal table pushed against the right side of the van. A small fan built into the roof, provided little fresh air.

At the foot of the table sat his Glock.

On the other side, a bulky computer whirred with the screensaver running.

He did realize that he had stepped into a heap a shit and didn’t care. Darkness had chosen him, Henry Buffalo of all people, to help and protect him. And he had done that. Never let it be said that he abandoned a friend in need.

And Darkness was his friend.

He knew Darkness would find him. He doubted it would take long. Until then, he would have to wait and suffer the stupid questions and threats.

As far as he knew, most of the people in the street were not associated with Darkness. It made Henry feel special in a way. It was a special job with great responsibility and a touch of power. It gave his life even more meaning than previously.

The agent stared at him hard. Nothing they did would scare him. He was ready for death.

His beloved Glock was close to the agent. Desperately, he wanted to get his hands around its lovely cold grip. Feel the power he controlled.

The agent smiled. It was more of a smirk than a smile and Henry returned it happily. Do you truly know what you have done?

Henry stayed quiet and kept his returning smirk in place. He leaned heavily against the chains until his shoulders were pulled right back.

I think the doctor would love to see you. The agent picked up the Glock. Me?  I’d rather just shoot you. More easier and fun. He watched Henry closely and took a step forward. You killed three agents. Worse than that, you killed my friends.

So? You killed two cops.

The agent smiled. Yep, with your gun.

Henry’s face went slack.

You didn’t register it, did you? The agent laughed out loud. That’s a first.

Fuck you.

Wrong. You’re the one who’s fucked. Wait till you meet the doctor.

It took Henry a few moments to gather a reply. You don’t scare me, he said in a tough-man voice.

Did once. The agent pointed to the dark stain on the crotch of his pants.

Henry changed position. His shoulders were starting to hurt. He leaned against the partition behind him. My friend will come and get me.

The agent cocked his head to the side. It almost sounds as if you truly believe that.

The agent’s unwavering gaze was hard for Henry to hold, so he looked down at his feet. He’ll come.

Someone banged on the partition from the cab side. The agent banged back.

Home. His smile was cold.

The van bumped along what could have been an unpaved driveway. Henry wished there were windows so he could see where he was.

Run, make a break for it, his brain screamed.

And how the fuck was he going to do that?  He had no idea of the layout and there were bound to be security guards all over the place and this driveway seemed to take forever to stop.

The bumpy ride knocked him around a bit. The chains rattled, loosened and snapped taut, loosened again. The handcuffs cut into his wrists. The van turned sharply. Almost losing his footing, Henry cursed and gripped the thick chains with both his hands. The agent grabbed hold of something himself and he watched the Glock slide along the table and clatter to the floor.

As quickly as the turn had started, they were once again heading straight. A moment later the van stopped.

We’re here, the agent said, removing a small set of keys from his pants pocket. With his free hand he removed his .38.

Against the wall, he ordered.

Henry leaned back against it.

Sideways, dickhead.

He did as commanded. The agent pushed hard against his shoulder. The rear door of the van opened. A hand pushed his head against the metal partition. He heard the key unsnap the first handcuff and Henry’s arm fell to his side.

Pinned against the sidewall, he felt the handgun against the back of his head as the second cuff was removed by the Chinese agent. She grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.

Until now, Henry had kept his body relaxed and allowed them to push him around, but as he was turned to face the double open doors of the van and the freedom beyond them, he knew the time to make his break was now.

He spun out of the wristlock, grabbed the Chinese agent and slammed her into the wall. The male agent raised his gun, as the blonde agent entered the rear. Henry lashed out, driving his foot into the agent’s crotch. The .38 fell to the floor. Grabbing the agent by the head, he rammed him into the blonde agent. She lost her balance and toppled out of the van.

The van door swung inwards. He jumped forward and kicked hard, forcing it open. From behind, he heard a grunt as the door slammed into someone. In one jump he cleared the door and the fallen agent. From his side vision, he saw a guy holding his nose.  

Before Henry was open land. A thin wire fence stretched the property a fair distance away. He spied two tire tracks on the torn up and rough ground. He followed them. Legs pumped hard and he knew he was making good time.

The male agent called for him to stop. His voice was strained. Frankly, Henry was surprised the man was up as fast as he was. He turned to face him and saw the .38 pointed in his direction. Damn it. He turned forward and ran harder, zigzagging toward the wire fence, knowing he wasn’t going to make it yet hoping he was. Either way it didn’t matter; the only way to stop him was with a bullet. He would win out one-way or the other.

No gunshots yet.

The driveway suddenly vanished and reappeared. He only had a second to notice it before he ran straight into something. He hit the ground hard, rolled onto his side, looking up.

Nothing was in front of him. Empty space for as far as the eye could see and strangely the wire fence looked no closer. He could hear different voices ordering him to remain still. Leaving a spattering of blood on the ground, he staggered to his feet and reached out. His hands hit a wall. He slapped the wall and the scenery flickered.

He was laughing when the security guards reached him. He was unable to stop as they pointed automatic weapons at his head.

The agent was smiling as he slowly approached. You didn’t think you’d actually get away did you?

Laughter dying, Henry said, Nice trick. Let me make a run for it just to show off your high security bullshit.

Take him away, the agent ordered.

2

Two large buildings loomed in front of him. One looked like a factory with white-washed walls. Henry’s eyes locked on this building, they were taking him there, for sure. Shoved from behind he felt the barrel of an automatic weapon pressed against the back of his head, pointing him in the direction of the other building.

The agent from the van led the way up a short flight of stairs to the front door as two female agents grabbed Henry’s arms, coxing him forward.

Stepping through the door, the weapon against his head disappeared. He stood in a long hallway with doors on both sides. As he passed he heard muffled conversations and other sounds he couldn’t identify.

At the end of the hallway they walked through another door and into an empty room. Their shoes clacked on the wooden floor, sending an echo bouncing. They stopped at a door without a handle. He noticed a keypad attached to the side of the jamb.

With lightning speed, the agent punched in a seven-digit code. With each number pressed the machine gave off a small beep. Henry listened hard but the sounds seemed almost identical, making it nearly impossible to imitate. A backlight turned the keypad from white to pink.

A word flashed on the keypad read-out: Armed.

Another seven-digit code was entered and the door clicked open, revealing a grand room with thick lush carpeting, a huge old-fashioned mahogany desk, and an old man sitting behind a desktop computer.

Someone pushed Henry through the entrance.

It looked even bigger stepping through. It seemed as wide as the house. Thick curtains hung open, standard cream colored wallpaper covered the walls. Many portraits lined the walls: a couple of US presidents, a few New Zealand Prime ministers Henry recognized and a few diplomats he had often seen on the news.

In each picture, the man behind the desk smiled shaking their hands.

The agent spoke in whispers. The two female agents, attractive in their own right, still held his arms tight. They were stronger than they looked and their grip was fierce but he didn’t mind them holding him.

The old man got up from behind the desk to face Henry. He slowly approached, seeming to take in all of Henry’s details, trying to memorize his appearance.

Henry guessed the old man had barely passed fifty, yet he looked older. His receding hair was white and his face held a few wavy lines around his eyes and thin-lipped mouth, which seemed to enhance his appearance. He had a small potbelly for a stomach, yet the rest of him looked hard and firm. His shoulders stood out the most, they were thick and pushed hard against his shirt. He didn’t look like any doctor he had even seen before.

The doctor eyed him closely. He leaned forward and took a deep look in his eyes, searching for something. After a moment he straightened up. Baxter, he said.

The agent looked up. Sir?

Put him in our guest room.

Agent Baxter nodded.

And for the love of God, clean his face.

With a nod to the agents holding Henry, Baxter turned and headed for the door.

Young man.

The agents stopped walking and Henry turned to face the doctor. His face was solemn and gave the impression of truly being distressed at his actions.

Do you expect him to come for you?

Henry eyed the doctor coldly. He will come.

The doctor turned back toward his desk and in a soft voice said, Take him away.

Yes, Dr. Taylor. The agents pulled him roughly through the door.

As it closed behind them, Agent Baxter leaned close to Henry and whispered, I’m going to enjoy putting a bullet in your fucking head.

Henry stared at the floor and remained silent.

His