The decaying industrial buildings on the black island dotted the landscape like blemishes across sheet metal. Piles of black coke—fuel for blast furnaces—lined the dusty road in dunes from a black desert, lending even more shade to the gloom. Ahead, shipping containers rusted in tall stacks, arranged in staggered aisles that prevented a direct path to the Body Shop, where it stood on the island’s far side, its tall smokestacks pumping black smoke and soot that rained around us, painting across our bare skin like watercolors on a dirty canvas.
We stuck to a loose “V” formation as we crossed the island, with the better shots, Steven, Naomi, and Tarah in the front in a spearhead of sharpshooters.
I passed a row of containers but stopped after spotting a moving shadow at the far corner…the rising hairs on the back of my neck sending a message that I wasn’t just hallucinating, as usual. “Hang on,” I whispered.
“What is it?” Sam asked.
“I saw something over there,” I replied, pointing. “Some movement by that corner.”
“Neil, you’ve been seeing things the entire time I’ve known you,” said Tarah.
“Yeah, but I still thought I’d say something. Better safe than sorry and all that.” With the sun a useless white disk above the vaporous trinity of clouds, fog, and smoke, my eyesight was better than it had been for a few days. But I knew they couldn’t see through my eyes…couldn’t see from my perspective…and wouldn’t know any improvement or otherwise. I didn’t hold their distrust against them; I didn’t completely trust my sight anymore, either. But I wouldn’t point out every ripple of movement wavering in my vision unless I knew what I saw was real. I wasn’t in the practice of crying wolf. And I was doing fine keeping the reactions to the things I was hallucinating all to myself. But real or illusion…if a shadow jumped out at me, I still reacted as though it was real, and there was little I could do about that other than feeling a little embarrassed that I almost jumped into Tarah’s arms like a stereotypical 1950s housewife fleeing a mouse.
We continued down the jagged path through the middle of the island, shifting left and right in level switchbacks as the rows dictated. Factories operating without human labor surrounded us, the lights and machines automated decorations for the industrial hellscape we were crossing. The grind of mechanical activity washed over our ears in a deafening hum. Whooshes of air followed the buzz of a stamping press. None of us were sure what was supposed to be produced, and we weren’t looking too hard to find out. But then as we passed, the factories fell silent, as though the electricity had been cut.
“This is all for show,” said Steven, speaking from fresh shadow. “Aleister’s just trying to freak us out.”
“I’ll let him know it worked if we run into him,” Tarah said.
We approached the Body Shop’s front yard and heard a shriek from near the spot I’d just seen, which was now behind us. Our eyes darted frantically for the source before we heard creepy shrieks throughout the yard in response. I felt as though we’d sprung a trap.
“It might be time to find some cover,” said Tarah, readying her rifle.
“Keep your eyes open,” said Sam. “Whatever it is, it sounds fast.”
“And sounds like several,” said Steven. “Could be a pack of animals.”
“What animals sound like that?” Payton asked, loading two fresh shells into his shotgun.
“Ones we probably don’t want to tangle with.”
“Shoot first, find out later,” said Paul.
For a moment, a gentle silence enveloped everything in the yard except the pattering rain against dirt and stone that continued falling. But then rapid, vile breaths cut through the air like an obscene phone call, followed by the sound of scratching claws across the metal containers.
Then they were upon us.
Several winged demons appeared from hiding—skinny and oil-black—looking like spent matches attacking from above; their brimstone odor not helping the connection. The beasts nose-dived on us like birds of prey. We blasted away, mostly firing blind as their speed matched their stealth before they pulled out like dueling fighter pilots preparing for the next pass. Their long claws ripped through the air like blades on a Mixmaster, but we took the black blood they left behind as a promising sign that we could hurt them. And knowing that, our shaky confidence rose.
The crispy death angels then fell back and regrouped out of sight, screaming and chattering, before launching themselves from the container tops, their claws again scraping against the steel as they scrambled to charge us. This time we were ready, aiming our gun barrels and sword edges upward and along the containers’ welded top seams…firing right down the row, like decorating a cake’s edge with ropes of icing. Two were brought down as soon as they revealed themselves, giving us a better look at their tattered, leathery wings on the back of a black frame and lean muscle. These were beasts designed for assault and not much else.
When they became aware that we weren’t interested in pursuing them, the demons waited at a distance, almost mocking us with their shrieking chatter. While we remained under cover, coming up with a plan, I figured they were sizing us up for their next wave.
“Let’s just keep going,” said Steven. “They’re not that tough and we’re almost there.”
“Keep your eyes on ‘em,” said Naomi. “They’ll attack when we make a move.”
As expected, the crispy death angels waited until we were exposed in the courtyard. This time, four of them ganged up on one of our group, springing on Hector and taking him to the ground. Sam and Steven closed quarters and pounded them back with mace and billy club until I could reach in and pull Hector away from the flurry of slashing claws like an adrenaline-fueled mother plucking her child from a neighborhood scrap.
Once Hector was clear, the bullets flew, taking three down and sending the remaining demons away to tend to their wounds.
I helped Hector to his feet. “I see blood. Where are you hurt?”
He dusted himself off, inspecting. “I don’t think that’s my blood. At least I hope not. It’s a little on the dark side.” Then, looking ahead to the front side of The Body Shop, he said, “We’re close. This way.”
***
Soon, we crossed the yard and came upon the Body Shop itself, a large industrial complex with gray, pockmarked walls stretching up into the hazy sky. Rows of windows crossed the cracked walls, some of the empty panes becoming black spots that looked like missing teeth from a smile, the rest of the glass frosted with grime. Vegetation tried its best to grow from cracks in corners and edges along the building, only to be turned black with soot that enshrouded the means to light and water…life born into a world that choked off the ingredients to live.
A doorway stood open before us, protected by a rusty cage once painted white. A graying, warped sheet of plywood the same size as the doorway was leaning off to the side, against a wall with long brown-gray water stains streaking behind it. A sign above the doorway stated: “EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE. ALL EMPLOYEES SUBJECT TO SEARCH” and the one next to it read: “Deliveries to South Dock.” A rusting, rectangular steel grid was affixed to the concrete slab right at the entrance for workers to clean their boots when clocking in or out.
“What do you think they made here?” asked Sue.
“Before revenants?” I said. “From a factory this age, probably auto parts.”
“This is prime cursed Rust Belt real estate,” said Paul. “Anyone who buys it will have to clean up the pollution first. And that doesn’t make for a profitable deal.”
“I’m going to pray before I go in,” Payton said, closing his eyes. “I suggest the rest of you do as well.”
“Stay out here as long as you want,” said Tarah, strapping up. “God stopped listening to my prayers long ago.”
“Maybe you should think about asking for forgiveness, then.”
“With all due respect, I’m not going to punish myself for anything I might have done to deserve it.”
“We’re all doing the best we can,” I said. “Let’s go.”
The rest of us readied our weapons and entered an institutional tiled hallway that led past a security booth and time clocks, with a large, empty rack on the wall where a generation of workers kept their time cards.
We then moved to a vast open warehouse space with abandoned crates and junk machinery. Dozens of dirty windows above filtered gray light through the rust-brown interior. Human remains of various kinds were stacked on open metal racks like barbaric inventory, creating a foul odor that attracted chaotic clouds of flies, as well as our disgust. A crude assembly line of body parts began in the area and extended through a nearby wall like giant puzzle pieces en route to be sorted. We held our noses, looking through the gloom for an escape from the stench.
Although I was grateful to walk into the place without careening into a whirlwind of violence, I was suspicious of the quiet. “Is this what we can expect?” I whispered to Hector. “I figured every rev on the island would be on our ass by now.”
Hector shrugged. “There was a lot more when I was here.”
“Maybe Aleister’s operation is winding down. It’s practically self-sustaining after a while.”
“You were expecting something other than those flying twigs in the yard back there?” Naomi asked. “Why would they keep a bunch of revenants running around here unsupervised? They probably can’t control them any more than we can.”
“I was expecting at least a little more resistance, though I’m just fine with not escalating anything for my sake. But how could Aleister not know we’re here and not do anything about it? He doesn’t have any lackeys to check out any unsecure entry points? He didn’t feel like hiring any security? It’s a little odd, as far as my limited knowledge about evil lairs goes.”
“Then the only explanation is that we’re walking into another trap,” Naomi said.
As if on cue, several armed figures appeared from behind machines and metal racks and began firing pistols. With navy blue coveralls, they looked more like technicians than magicians…but a bullet is a bullet. We scattered, running and crawling for cover. I grabbed Hector and pulled him with me behind a rusty drill press while bullets clanged off the surrounding metal. I looked over to where we’d just been standing and saw Payton on the ground, clutching his bloody leg where he’d been hit.
While the rest of the group returned fire, I told Hector to stay put while I crawled across the smooth concrete floor back to Payton, who immediately tried to wave me away.
“What are you doing?” he yelled.
“I’m here to help you!”
“You’re a goddamn fool…but I appreciate it.”
“I can’t carry you, so lie flat on your back.” After he did so, I used his shirt collar as a handle and slid backward toward Hector and the hiding spot, dragging Payton behind me. A bullet chipped the floor inches from my hand and I paused only long enough to clear the dust clouding my face and make sure it was still intact.
A hidden henchman appeared from around the corner of a tall rack and aimed for my head, the end of the barrel as large as a galactic black hole in a rusting mechanical universe. From a small alcove across the room, Naomi shot and hit the goon on the side of the neck, saving my own. He dropped his weapon, clutching his neck with both hands to stop the bleeding, and Naomi’s second shot brought him down, allowing Payton and me to safely reach cover with Hector.
The skilled shots of Sam, Tarah, Steven, and Naomi overpowered Aleister’s crew of armed nerds and the gunfire soon died down, leaving gun smoke clouding the stinking air around us.
We followed a row of body parts on the assembly line’s roller platform that stretched from the inventory room to the neighboring assembly room, entering through a set of large double doors. The assembly line ran straight down the center of the area, with eight smaller assembly sections on each side, separated by peculiar thick white chalk marks forming squiggly symbols. Inside the chalk marks, dead bodies were arranged in various stages of completion atop dirty altars scribbled with runes, each manned with an acolyte in red robes who conducted the ritual assembly. They all looked pretty tired.
The area was further separated into two sections by overhangs containing vacuum hoses for sucking up flies, loose flesh, and fabric, and rows of red UV lamps that sanitized the parts the best they could as they moved down the line. Inhumanity aside, it appeared to be an efficient operation, with acolytes grabbing the parts they needed off of the line and assembling revs from there. After a final raising ritual at the altar, the acolytes hung the completed revenants on racks of hooks that carried them to the next room, well on their way to ending the world as we knew it.
After entering and attracting their attention, the acolytes scattered and took cover. The red cones of their acolyte hoods poked up from behind altars and metal crates before they charged at once—as though on command—with ritual knives in hand and war cries trailing the foul air behind them.
Caught off guard by the attack, we found little room to maneuver between the equipment, the people charging each other, and activated revenants hanging from their hooks as they struggled to reach any passers-by. I watched Hector use one to his advantage, leading an acolyte away from Payton and right into the arms of a hanging revenant, while he ducked under the rev’s suspended feet as though sliding his compact frame into second base. Returning to his own feet at the end of the slide, Hector then circled back around to the wounded Payton and they both ducked down behind a crate, Payton sitting in the front position with his shotgun raised and ready to blast anyone who came near.
Luckily, the fighting didn’t last long. After a few minutes, the Ninja Saints trio took down most of the acolytes in an organized fashion as they swept across the room. After all, they’d brought guns to a ritual knife fight. But I wasn’t sure why the acolytes settled on a last-resort death charge instead of escaping to raise the dead another day. Maybe they hadn’t seen any uniforms on us and thought they had a better chance against trespassing amateurs, as opposed to trained soldiers. When it came to me, Payton, and Hector, they were right, but luckily, we also had good fighters in our group, which the acolytes found out quickly.
We regrouped on the far side of the room, near the exit that would hopefully lead us closer to my brother. Meeting Aleister would only be the icing, though I wasn’t concerned with going out of my way to confront him. If Sam or the Ninjas wanted to have at him, they were more than welcome to beat on the bad guy. But the same focus that brought me to the Body Shop remained…my bond was with Sticks, not with any desire to be a hero. The Body Shop was no place for decent people…or even folks like me.
The seven of us stood in a loose circle, reloading weapons and checking for injuries. Surprisingly, I felt we were fairing a lot better than I’d imagined, though we weren’t in the safe zone yet.
We lined up against the wall near the door. I cupped an ear to the wall but heard nothing from the other side. Steven reached for the door handle and pressed down on the lever. “Door’s unlocked,” he whispered. “On three, I’ll throw open the door and we’ll take a look. Ready?” Steven’s arm went up and down as he counted silently like an orchestra conductor, his other hand poised on the knob. After the count, he pushed the door open and Sam entered, immediately followed by Tarah, then Steven, Naomi, and Paul. Everyone’s weapons were drawn. It was time to move.
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