Page 134 of American Hellhound
Michael said, “Shut up.”
A creak of a floorboard overhead.
“Someone’s up there,” Michael said.
Boomer let out another of those shaky breaths.
Lightning strobed outside, its glare flashing through the windows. The thunder that followed rumbled up through the floor; Mercy felt it in his back teeth. A strong gust brought a spatter of rain in across the old desk tops.
“Stairs,” Mercy said, pointing toward the back corner. “Go.”
They picked their way through the chairs and cabinets and propped-up doors. The stairs, when they reached them, black wrought iron, were dusty at the edges, outlining a clear path where someone had been travelling up and down them. He’d definitely been here.
In the next lightning flash, Boomer’s face was pale, throat bobbing hard as he swallowed, gaze fixed on the darkness that lay at the top of the stairs.
Mercy leaned close to be heard above the pounding of the rain. “I’ll go first,” he offered, taking pity.
Boomer nodded in fervent agreement.
He hadn’t brought his sledgehammer – he mourned its absence – on the bike, but had a nice, solid-wood hatchet handle he’d been able to hide in his cut for the trip, and he pulled it out now, feeling its solid weight in his hand. Not his sledge, no, but he could still put a man in the hospital with it. It would do.
The crash of the rain and the thunder disguised his footfalls as he ghosted up the stairs, club at the ready. The goal was to talk to this guy, not beat him up, but Mercy wasn’t letting himself get jumped.
The upper floor had a low ceiling composed of acoustic tiles that seemed claustrophobic when compared to the floor below, the faint traces of daylight waterlogged and gray, hinting at a nest of cubicles furred with mold and dust.
He needed a flashlight, but knew that would give anyone with designs on him a place to aim. A glance back down the stairs proved that the others were right behind him.
Should they call out to Reese? Probably. Anything else would seem ill-intentioned.
“Reese!” he shouted to be heard above the thunder. “You up here? I’ve got Boomer Mayer with me.”
Boomer stepped up beside him. “Reese, it’s me! Come on out!”
In a break between rumbles of thunder, something crashed to the floor off to the right.
Mercy held his position, but Boomer took a few steps in that direction. “Reese? That you?”
Lightning, hot and phosphorous, streaked over the building, its residue Klieg-bright through the second story. In its succinct flashes, all three of them, Mercy watched the stop-motion progress of a lean, black-clad figure, from one wall to the next, caught mid-leap over the wall of a cubicle at one point. Flash of eyes, gleam of teeth, and then he was gone.
“Fuck,” Aidan said. He didn’t sound scared – just caught off guard. It had been unsettling.
“Reese!” Boomer called again.
Mercy headed toward the last place he’d seen him. Against one wall, a bank of copy machines, printers, and fax machines had been gutted for parts, stray wires and bits of plastic debris scattered across the industrial carpet. The lightning was so frequent he didn’t need his flashlight as he searched between the machines, peeked into cubicles, anywhere a grown man could hide.
Someone said, “Hey!” behind him, and he whirled, just in time to catch sight of the black-clad ghost dropping off a file cabinet and onto Boomer’s back.
Boomer screamed and tried to buck him off, but it didn’t work; the ghost had an arm wrapped tight around his neck, thighs gripping his waist.
Aidan was the one who’d yelled, open-mouthed in shock. He juggled his flashlight into the hand that held his gun and grabbed a fistful of the guy’s hoodie with the other. His eyes swung to Mercy, clearly asking for help.
Boomer was screaming like an idiot.
That old adage about wanting something done right always proved true in instances like these.
Mercy grabbed the ghost under the arms, digging his fingertips hard into his lymph nodes – earning a grunt of discomfort in return – andyankedhim off Boomer. Mostly off – Boomer fell over backward in a graceless heap. The ghost, once he was no longer attached, turned into a slippery eel. Mercy was reminded of some of his less successful fishing expeditions back home, Daddy laughing when a catfish wriggled right through his hands.
That was happening now. “Hey, hey, no!” He dug his fingers into the hoodie fabric. “Grab him!”
