CHAPTER 2: DAMNED

  SOUTH END—OCTOBER 16th, 1992 | EVENING

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  "Christ, that smell is damn near rancid, man," David muttered.

  Only hints of whatever the hell might've been bothering David flowed into Cameron's nose.

  To his right, Cameron saw the rows of trash heaps in the distance, beyond the Hausser Waste company lot. Some were taller than small buildings, while others still worked their way towards such impressive heights. An empire of dirt. Its crown holder was undoubtedly waiting for them behind the gates, nestled in what Cameron imagined to be some unimaginable display of putrid odds and ends.

  Cameron knew as much as the next person that Elizabeth Hausser was deeply protective of her birthright and all of the junk it entailed. The Haussers, according to South End legend, were all notorious hoarders, and unsurprisingly, the trash collection business came to them naturally. A whole family content with a legacy of debris. A generation of filth mongers, more than happy to service all of the boroughs of Brinehaven if it meant adding to their pile.

  David and Mercedes were both in front of him, their coloring slight and their frames made visible only by way of the half-functional flood lights that dotted the perimeter of the company lot. Rusted, grating metal bars were wrapped in chains and heavy locks, and the surrounding patchwork of fencing was tipped with barbed wire. Everything in the South End was jerry-rigged to all hell, cursed, ugly, stolen, or crude.

  Sharp gray eyes trailed to David, who, still shouldering the crate from the van, grabbed hold of one of the large locks on the gate. The dim and silvery glow of the symbols and arrays on Pauper woke.

  One by one, he ripped each of the locks straight off their metal chains and tossed them onto the ground. Cameron stared daggers through the back of his head. He wondered if David was carrying the same look of self-assuredness he’d had when he stole the glove from the artificer that day.

  Mercedes passed Cameron and walked through the opened gates, her longish, brown-curls bobbing beneath her ushanka hat. She glanced over her shoulder at Cameron, her eyes baggy and spent.

  No guards, no workers. No foreman. It was awfully light for a rumored hoarder-queenpin of a woman, and in front of them was a loading bay filled with parked garbage trucks and an overwhelming reek as they pressed onward.

  “You should’ve told us,” Cameron said firmly, still moving behind the group.

  Maybe David was onto something. Maybe she would take the deal. David had been right before, and he could very well be right again. Cameron set his jaw at the thought of that, and the infuriating I-told-you-so look that was burned into his memory.

  David didn’t look back at him. “Should’ve told you what, Cam?”

  “About this. About your plan,” said Cameron.

  “I work better under pressure,” David retorted. “We all do, no? Have to.”

  Mercedes passed David and tried to open the doors. Locked. David made an effort to step forward, but Mercedes held up a cautioning palm. “Too loud,” she said. “If they haven’t heard us already at the gates, then they sure as shit will hear us here.”

  Cameron crossed towards her and started to kick the door several times over, not in any effort to open it. Just to make noise. Just to be loud. He wanted a deal—fine. He’d get one. After his outburst, his eyes onto David, wolfish and hungry for an equally volatile reaction.

  David didn’t grant him one, and offered him only an inert downturning of the lips, barely noticeable as he placed the crate onto the ground and sat on it, scrounging for a cigarette on his inside coat pocket. “We’re not breaking in, Mercedes. See, tantrum aside, Cameron isn't wrong. We’re better off making the deal out here. It’s more open, less of a chance for them to surprise us. Inside, in there, it’s their house, their rules. Out here, if something goes south, at least we have a head start.”

  “Have it your way, then,” Mercedes said. She stepped back from the door a few paces, gripping the hilt of the sheathed bowie knife along the belt worn over her black, long-sleeved shirt. The purple-pink wisp pushed against the miniature cage hung from her belt loop, waiting. She cooed it with barely a whisper and said words that Cameron couldn’t make out.

  The doors that lead into the warehouse swung open.

  A man stepped out: tall, pot-bellied, with arms half as thick as tree trunks.

  Cameron tensed as soon as he saw the man, who styled himself in a grease stained button up with a wrinkly vest. His face was pocketed with scars and wrinkles, both secondary to the more obvious features: black and hardened pustules, bulging and brackish veins on the neck and along his chin and cheekbones. Sunken, hallowed eyes. Skin that was alive but graying, like a newspaper with soggy, coagulated ink that obscured its words.

  This man was an accursed, and not the first one Cameron had seen, and his talon-like nails that did well to compliment the inhumanity he wore on his face.

  He wasn’t the ugliest one Cameron had encountered. Most survivors of demon attacks, though few and far between, were usually left with three limbs, or two, or a missing jaw, or something so internally broken that it changed the way they walked and talked. This man had all four, and they were all fattened by excess. Cameron wondered if it was the talons he’d inherited from surviving, or the bulky frame, which didn’t seem to match the tautness of his graying skin. Perhaps it was both, but he’d never know.

  “Scurry on, rats,” said the man, voice booming and bile-tipped, as if he had an excess of phlegm or blockage.

  “Here on business,” David chimed, cigarette now in hand. It hadn’t been lit yet, and it hung from between the gloved fingers of Pauper.

  “What business does the likes of you have with Ms. Hausser?” croaked the man.

  Cameron reached under the back of his hoodie where a Reign 18 handgun was pocketed, the one he’d quietly taken for himself when David and Mercedes had gotten out of the van to open the back doors. Mercedes issued him a harsh look, and he pretended not to see her scrutinizing gaze.

  “This crate that I’m sitting on,” David explained, "it has a few things that might be of interest to Ms. Hausser.”

  “Well, what is it then?” asked the man, crossing his large arms.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and get Ms. Hausser,” David advised.

  The man stepped forward. “You can tell me first.”

  The pinkish-purple wisp began to shake in Mercedes’ belt-looped cage, and she held her hand over it.

  “And what’s that, then?” asked the man, nodding towards Mercedes.

  “A pet,” Mercedes answered plainly. “He doesn’t bite. Not unless you scare him. So, don’t scare him.”

  The man's face soured, and he glanced back towards David. David cleared his throat, stood up, and removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth. He offered it to Cameron, who took it only to let it drop to the ground. He stomped it out with his boot.

  “Say, what’s your name?” David asked.

  “Theodore,” he answered.

  “Theodore,” David said, nodding, “I’m David. David St. James, and that’s Cameron Kessler, and Mercedes Garcia. Now we all know each other, and that’s worth something, no?”

  “You don’t know me,” Theodore spat, “and you’re beginning to overstay your welcome. I’ll not say it again, boy, tell me what’s in the crate. That’s the only way you’re seeing Ms. Hausser.”

  “Guns,” Cameron answered. “Reign 18s. Semi-automatic, fresh from Alistair Company Limited’s factories.”

  David snapped his head around. But strangely, the first thing he saw wasn’t Cameron, but the soggy cigarette on the ground. He studied it with a deep breath that he held in, and then, slowly, returned his attention to Cameron, who didn’t bother to acknowledge him.

  “Mmh,” groaned the man. He walked back through the doors to the warehouse. His shouts were loud, and he spared no details as he relayed David's spiel to someone who was either hard of hearing or didn't mind the loudness of Theodore's harsh bile-soaked voice. Every word he said to whoever he was saying it to almost triggered Cameron's gag reflex.

  The doors to the warehouse swung open not long after, and out came Elizabeth Hausser, who paced towards them like a crocodile woken from its swamp of filth. She was about as old as Cameron expected, easily well into her fifties. She was adorned in a workwear jumpsuit, framed by a set of buckles and belts that had all manner of odds and ends; mostly trash, but some might argue they were trinkets worth something to the right buyer. A sweat-soaked bandana was wrapped around her neck, and her graying hair was only slightly unkempt.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Flanking her was another accursed, somehow prettier than the last, and indeed, with all four limbs and lacking in the excess of fat that Theodore boasted. It was a lanky man with yellow and mutated eyes, long black hair, and a scar so deep along his face that it dug deep into his skull, parting his hair. Growing from the wound were a collection of black scales.

  “Your name, boy. What is it?” she asked, looking towards David.

  “David,” he answered. “David St. James—”

  “You’re a ballsy damned fool, you know that? And a smug one to boot! What makes you think I need, or want, your guns?” she asked, crossing towards the crate, nearly toppling David over as she brushed past him. “Bothering me with a stunt like this, and so late into the evening too.. I should have Theodore rip you in half and throw you into the Mounds. Theodore! Open this.”

  Before David could answer, Theodore sauntered over to the crate. In a singular swipe of his taloned hands, cut the top of it in half, dirtying the ground with a mess of splintered wood.

  David looked down at the guns in the crate, a proud and knowing smile on his squared face. “I’ll cut you a deal, a discount, let’s say—oh, I dunno’—three-hundred each? It’s a bargain, Ms. Hausser, a steal. Going price for gear like this? I’d wager it’s about twice as what I'm asking."

  Tension gnawed at Cameron’s stomach with each word David said. His grip tightened on the Reign 18 he'd saved for himself. He felt eyes on him, and knew that it wasn't Theodore's ogre-like gaze, but the precise and vigilant leer of the lanky accursed with the black scales all along his face.

  “The money I pay these two,” she said, gesturing to Theodore and the snake-eyed man, “is worth more than the guns you’ve brought to me, David.”

  “Are they bulletproof?” asked David, plainly, while eyeing them both up and down.

  “No,” Elizabeth admitted, “but Theodore, as you can well see, is strong. His talons cut deep. Martinez is quick, and precise in ways I don't care to tell you about.”

  “And your workers?” Mercedes asked, resting a hand on her hip.

  “My workers,” huffs Elizabeth Hausser, “are exactly that. Workers. Mound-diggers and garbagemen, crane operators and warehouse foreman! Dangerous as South End is, I want you to all understand something. You know it, I know it. Where does the Commonwealth’s trash go? Here! In my Mounds! All of it! Outside of my personal security, David, “ she said, turning to him, “I am in no need of guns. The backing of the Commonwealth is more than enough, and with that, the guarantees of the Civic & Occult Authority. My family has been here longer than you’ve been alive, boy, and the Haussers—our company—have done well enough without colluding with the likes of you.”

  “The likes of us?” Cameron muttered, his jaw set in contempt.

  “Oh, I needn’t say it, but I will,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, scoffing, “Thugs, boy! Criminals, urchins! All of you are a dime a dozen. One small, sniveling gang among countless who have turned this borough into a cesspool of violence.”

  “How about protection?” David’s voice was harsher now, his bearded face strung closer together, his brows ever so slightly indenting into the bridge of his nose. “No guns, no deal. Fine. But you said it better than I could’ve, Ms. Hausser—”

  “Enough of that. It’s Elizabeth.”

  “...—this borough is a cesspool of violence, Elizabeth. Next time those gates are opened, a different set of guns, ones that aren't for sale, might be used to put holes into those things you call security. ” David glanced over at his shoulder, quickly, at Cameron.

  Cameron had seen that look before: during collections, during beatdowns, during muggings. It was a look that had more power than Cameron would ever admit, where decisive and grizzly eyes issued a set of commands he never had the strength to say no to: Go, dog. Bite.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. David had known the whole time Cameron had the gun on him. And maybe, just maybe he had been betting on it for this exact moment. David wouldn’t care who he shot, as long as a bullet met a body and it was more than a warning.

  Cameron withdrew the Reign 18 and aimed it at Theodore. He was the biggest, the meanest, and he imagined he'd have an easier time hitting him than hitting Martinez. He pulled the trigger and a bullet flew towards Theodore, a hefty kickback echoing up Cameron's arm. Blood gushed out from Theodore's shoulder. A grimace spreads across Cameron's face. That wouldn't do.

  With a renewed focus, Cameron aimed once more. Before he could pull the trigger, an ugly black tongue wrapped tightly around his hand and wrist. Cameron glanced towards its source: Martinez. His mouth hung halfway down to his sternum, loose and slack, as if he'd somehow dislocated his entire jaw.

  Cameron’s fingers, already black and blue, pressed into the gun itself, and he misfired. The bullet ricocheted off a nearby garbage truck and grazed Elizabeth Hausser’s face.

  Theodore bellowed and charged towards Cameron.

  David extended his gloved hand. Pauper was alight, the white and silvery symbols on it humming with laden power. He pushed, and from it, a concussive wave of force sent a Theodore onto his side, skidding several feet along the asphalt. "Cam, Mercedes! Handle it!

  Elizabeth Hausser was only briefly stunned by the bullet that grazed her skin. She ran towards the doors of the warehouse, where, undoubtedly, there was a phone-line inside, and with it an opportunity for her to dial in the Civic & Occult Authority. David ran after her, teeth clenched, jaw tight, and for whatever reason, erring on the side of caution. Cameron expected to hear the semi-thunderous clap of Pauper, but heard only David's boots on the ground.

  Mercedes quickly withdrew her bowie-knife on her belt and dashed towards Martinez. The black and slithering mass coiled around Cameron's wrist and hand was cut clean off. Blood spewed onto the ground and a wail of pain left Martinez's malformed features as his tongue, or what remained of it, slithered back towards him.

  Simply holding the gun sent tremors of pain up Cameron's arm. His fingers felt weak, and he could only just barely maintain a grip, but it was a grip all the same. Only now, he didn't know where to aim. Theodore and Martinez had both proven themselves worth of a bullet. But Theodore didn't give him a chance to make a choice, and stood up with a heave.

  Blood gushed out from his shoulder, and David's use of Pauper against him, clearly, hadn't been enough to stop him. With a great roar, he charged towards Cameron. Cameron's knuckles whitened painfully around the Reign 18. It was one thing to shoot at an accursed from a few feet away, but another thing entirely when an ugly, foul, and decisively inhuman-looking man felt emboldened enough to bull rush with a leaking bullet wound.

  Fear turned to hesitation, and within seconds, it was already too late. Wind was forced out of his lungs. A sharpness zipped up from the center of his back where he’d landed on the asphalt, followed by the burning sting of where Theodore's talons tore through his denim vest and flayed the front of his torso in a claw-like line. The impact forced the Reign 18 out of Cameron's hands and onto the ground.

  Theodore loomed over him. Tall, fat, strong. Behind him and to the side, Cameron saw Martinez’s tongue—or what remained of it—wrap around Mercedes. He threw her against a parked garbage truck, forcing a cry of pain out from her.

  “Hng.. Cameron!” she yelled.

  He knew what she wanted from him. It was what David wanted from him; and why David had taken him in to begin with. Cameron grit his teeth, curled into a fetal position, and burrowed deep into himself, searching for the twisted fury that boiled in the depths of his stomach and flowed freely through his veins like a fiery poison. He reached deeper into that feeling, and he embraced the way it hurt. A wince escaped him. And another, and another, each deeper, sharper and more primordial than the last.

  What left him was a painful, cathartic bellow that carried a version of a voice that sounded like it didn't belong to him.

  Clusters of veins along his body erupted in a dim scarlet. And then it came: a sudden, violent outpour. Deep red energy poured out from his eyes and ears and his mouth. Luminous, inflamed wax draped over everything below his clothes. At the blink of an eye, it hardened. The rips in his hoodie revealed an ivory the color of a corpse’s bone, sleek like layered steel. It covered most all of him—framing his chin and his jaw, and only leaving room for his hair and his face.

  When he finally stood, it was clear that he wasn't human, nor demon, nor accursed, but something nonetheless damned.

  CAMERON KESSLER

  DAVID ST. JAMES

  MERCEDES GARCIA

  ELIZABETH HAUSSER

  THEODORE

  MARTINEZ

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