The Broken Ones (Book 1)

  The Broken Ones

  By David Jobe

  The Broken Ones

  Copyright © 2015 David Jobe

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be copied or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher and/or author.

  All characters featured in this novella are the property of David Jobe.

  COVER ART BY Edward Hale

  https://www.facebook.com/zeesguy0204

  COVER FORMATTING BY Alie Knopf

  https://www.aknopf.com

  Edited by Karmin Dahl

  ISBN Number: 978-1514284797

  Flabisham Publishing

  Publisher’s Note:

  The Broken Ones is a work of fiction. All names, characters and places are the products of the author’s imagination, used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons living or dead places, locales, events, etc., is purely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  First Printing 2015

  This book is dedicated to my lovely wife, Julie Jobe.

  Thank you.

  Chapter One

  Death and destruction waited. Again.

  Chris stood at the edge of a four lane blacktop that was the scene for some terrible violence. The evidence of it still lay strewn about the roadway like broken toys abandoned by the children that had owned them. Dusk lingered at the edge of his vision, painting everything with a reddish hue. It mixed with the white and blues of police cruisers that panned the destruction with their lights. Chris could smell the smoke as it drifted up from the crumpled hoods of a few cars and trucks. He heard shattered glass crunch under the feet of the few policemen that wandered the pavement. Most stood behind a yellow line that was set up, drinking from steaming beverages as they discussed the events in tones too low for Chris to hear.

  This was the police version of the witching hour; that time between carnage and the cleanup of the crime scene, when the responding officers waited for the forensic techs to show up and start processing the scene. Those that could be saved or at least still lingered in this world had already been rushed to the nearest area hospitals. Those who perished remained where they lay; to be processed so those who were guilty could be brought to justice.

  Problem was, justice these days was in low supply.

  Though he wanted nothing to do with what lay before him, his legs marched him as an unwilling spectator through the carnage. He passed the yellow tape that marked this a crime scene and the lingering police officers paid him no mind. He wondered if they could see him. These things seemed to be without a sense of structure. Before him, in the middle of the road, close to where the concrete dividers stood, lay the blackened corpses of two people. Whatever they was before the fire was gone, stripped away by the hungry blaze that had consumed them. Race, sex and build fell away to just the barest hint of humanity. Both corpses lay prone upon the ground, hands outstretched and fingers curled as if grasping at something. Even at this distance, through the pungent odor of leaking gas and ruptured radiators, he could smell the distinct stench of burned flesh. Through his career, he had discovered that the stink of burnt hair remained the strongest.

  "Please, God, not this again,” his tone low. He cast a fugitive glance at the nearest police officer to see if his words registered. The officer appeared to be unconcerned or unaware of Chris's presence.

  That was not to say his words went unheard. As if awakened by his plea, the corpse closest to him swiveled its blackened skull to gaze at him with ash and soot covered eyeholes. In a fire, the eyes are one of the first things to burn. He stood motionless as the burned corpse gazed at him. He wanted to run, but his legs remained unwilling to hear his commands. A single burnt finger twitched. Then another. The hand they were attached to shook. The arm convulsed in spasms and began to claw at the air.

  "I don't want this.”

  "I don't think it gives a shit what you want,” a woman beside him said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Chris's mind screamed not to look, but his actions here were not his own. He turned his head to see who had spoken.

  She stood about his height and, from the look of it, was wearing some sort of one piece jumpsuit. Whatever color it was remained lost to the dying light and the amount of blood the suit had absorbed. Dark hair fell over her shoulders and concealed part of her rounded face. Though Chris wished it had, it did not conceal it enough to hide the gaping wounds that had once been her eyes. Two round, red, and angry holes stared at him with what his heart told him was open contempt. Her cheeks were stained with blood that fell like mascara that had run, but extended beyond her cheeks and down to her throat and the collar of her jumpsuit.

  "No," he choked on the word.

  Pink lips that might have once been kissable twisted into a smile that bordered on a sneer. "Yes." Her eyelids blinked over empty space and sagged in for the briefest of instances. The sight of it made Chris' stomach turn in knots.

  Behind her, just over her left shoulder he could see an overpass that crossed the highway. A faded green street sign announced the road as 56th Street. Illinois Street and a highway. That voice that had served him for so many years began taking notes as if this was a crime scene to solve. It was, but his days of doing that had come to a dark end. What state?

  "Stop it," he said aloud. "I don't want this."

  "You said that,” her tone now held obvious contempt. She turned her head to look out to the area where the burnt corpses were. "It's drawing closer.” her tone made it questionable if she referred to the burnt corpse or something else. It was an ominous statement.

  Part of the back of her head was visible to Chris and he could see that a chunk was missing. Around the edges of what he could see where jagged lines of flesh pointing outward. Chris gazed at the wound and knew it was a gunshot wound. Two, if his years of training were right, since both of her eyes were missing. This wasn't the first time Chris had seen an exit wound. This one reminded him of the last he had seen and how it was because of him.

  "I CAN'T do this."

  The eyeless woman didn't turn. "I don't think it cares,” this time her tone was even less about the corpses. He could sense it. He would have called it a gut instinct, but here, instincts became something more. Like a dream where you knew things you shouldn't.

  Chris turned to look in the direction she stared and found that the first burnt corpse was now a few feet closer to him. Its movements were slow, but deliberate. With one clawed hand, it reached out to the glass-strewn pavement and latched on with blackened fingers. Then the other arm repeated the movement. Slow and steady, it dragged its body across the blacktop, grinding bits of itself away with each inch gained. Twins. Chris blinked as the voice whispered that in his head. The two burnt corpses were similar, but with that much damage, there was no way he could be sure they were even from the same race. Yet, that voice saw things he didn't. It had never been wrong when it made a determination.

  "You can save us, you know."

  He could tell from his peripheral vision that she had returned to staring at him with those gaping wounds. Torn between looking at the crawling corpse or the woman, he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. That did not appear to an option. Each was a gruesome sight. Neither of which was on his list of things to see again. For the moment, he watched in horror as the burnt corpse clawed its way toward him, the night just quiet enough so he could hear the sound of its charred flesh as it scraped on the pavement.

  "I can't. I truly can't. I tried, and I failed. I can't do this anymore."

  Try again. Look for the facts.

  "Then we die,” her tone calm and chilling. "I should have stayed a teacher."

&nb
sp; To his left, he noticed a bus that was a darker color than normal. Not the yellow that he had seen kids pile on for years. Blue with white writing on the side. He tried to remember if that was one of those buses they used for the special needs kids. Not the short ones, but the alternative school.

  Not a school bus. Modified. Bars on the windows. Armored transport of some sort?

  The front of the bus was crumpled up like it had slammed into an invisible tree. Though the front license plate was mutilated, he could still decipher the state.

  Indiana. Your state. Here.

  "Stop."

  The windows of the bus displayed bullet holes.

  Glass not completely shattered. No, glass shards on the hood. Maybe a sniper rifle? Could be from the overpass.

  With the crumpled hood and the holes, the bus's hood reminded him of a comedic snarling face. The displayed grill could have been the teeth. Though as he stared, the comedic grin seemed to take on a more sinister look and now with the darkness lingering behind the gunshot eyes, the front of the bus looked like a grinning skull. It was not a pleasant grin. Then, from around the side of it, a man stepped.

  At first, Chris thought it was just another policeman walking the scene, keeping an eye out for anything that might be considered evidence. Until he noticed that the SWAT vest had stained red the two middle letters. As the man walked closer, Chris could see that the majority of the man's throat was gone. Another gaping wound in a gathering of them. The dead policeman glared at him with hate-filled eyes as he stumbled closer.

  Police transport. The voice surmised.

  "I tried. I did. I tried to save them, but they died anyway," Chris protested.

  "Try and try again,” the eyeless woman watched Chris.

  "I am tired of all the death."

  Try again.

  "Then stop it." A twisted smile returned to those pink lips.

  The charred corpse had gained another foot. Soon it would be upon him. He wanted to run, to flee from this terrible scene, but his legs still remained motionless. The dead policeman with his razor-thin mustache started to cover the distance with speed. As the policeman moved, he drew a revolver from its holster. The look on the policeman's face told him just who he intended to perforate.

  "I can't do this!"

  Read his nametag.

  "No!"

  Read it!

  A charred hand reached for him just as the police officer stopped to aim.

  The eyeless woman leaned close. So close he could see the spiderweb of veins as the blood stopped flowing and began to darken. The tell-tale sign of the onset of rigor. Even now she stank of perfume and decay.

  With pink lips hovering just above his ear, she whispered, "Save us."

  Chris woke screaming, his whole body drenched with sweat. The dream still lingered in his head, bright and vivid. He could still smell the burnt flesh and the rot of decay. He lurched over on the couch and vomited in heavy chunks onto the floor. A day's worth of binge eating sprayed the floor with a violent current. Even after the food was gone, his stomach still clenched and rolled, trying to empty itself twice.

  Finally, after the dry heaving ceased, he fell back into the cushions of the couch, swallowed by the sick stench of sweat soaked fabric. His eyes fell to the glass pipe still clutched in his right hand. For years this was his solace, his place of refuge. The calming high had taken away all the pain and anxiety, stripping him of the knowledge of his life wasted. Now it served as a gateway to horror and more failure. He flung the pipe as hard as he could and was rewarded with it shattering against the far wall.

  As he watched the small white rocks rain down on the floor, his eyes found the decoration that hung still in the middle of the room. His mind said it was a waste of good crack, but he knew that the drug would no longer take him from the fight. No, it appeared to be dead set on doing the exact opposite.

  A noose of aged rope hung, beckoning to him. It was his intent to dull the pain long enough to slip the noose around himself and end this miserable life. Even this failed as the rocks had brought on the visions again.

  This was the third time he had suffered the visions. His eyes drifted to the coffee table littered with news articles. On top lay the front page article about the secretary who had murdered her husband in cold blood. She had decided that her life would be better without the man's company and had decided to slit his throat from ear to ear. In his first vision, the man had come to him, his voice raspy from the wound he wore asking to be spared the fate that loomed.

  How was I to know it wasn't just the drugs? he asked, tears formed in his eyes.

  Two days later, the story ran and Chris sat in numb silence as they showed the face of the man who had begged for his life in the dream. The murder was a success, even if the wife would now spend her widowed years behind bars.

  By the time the second vision came, Chris was more aware of what it might mean. A young woman in her late teens begged him to stop her from what she was about to do. Every word she uttered was accented by a fine spray of blood when she talked. It was only when she turned her head and he saw the wound at the back that he understood that she intended to kill herself and how. He was smart, scanning the girl's room to discover who she might be and where she might live. An open yearbook for the local high school got him started and, with just digging on the internet, he discovered who she was and where she lived.

  He was too late to save her. While he was on the front porch, pleading with the parents that he was here to help their daughter, they all heard the gunshot. The parents disappeared inside without a word and he walked away.

  Defeated.

  I tried to save her. His eyes found the article that displayed her smiling picture. The parents had placed an ad asking that the strange man come see them. They were full of questions. Questions he could not answer. The ones he could answer they would not want to hear.

  He saw himself in the reflection of the old television set. Hunched over, his body was near skin and bones, the bones of his shoulders stark and visible. Gray eyes looked out from sunken eye sockets and gray shaggy hair fell in uneven lengths about his thin face. A ghost of a man stared back at him through the reflection.

  “Why did you do this to me, God?” He sobbed now, his words coming out in choked gasps. His heart hurt from all the pain. He wanted another hit, but he knew he couldn't. It was minutes after the last, and it was gone. It would no longer work for him, and it would send him back into a nightmare filled with the begging dead. "I didn't ask for this."

  Overpass in Indiana. Had it been cold? Maybe winter? Four lanes with a straight away visible for miles. We can find this. Just like old times. Make a difference.

  Shut up.

  He hated what he had become. He was once a great detective. A man with keen insight and a top notch gut instinct. Then things had gone south and he turned to the bottle. Soon, that wouldn't silence the voices that reminded him of the deeds he had done. His need to quench the pain increased as did the severity of the drugs he took to silence it. Now, one of the hardest on the market was as effective as children's Tylenol.

  His eyes found the noose again, like a promise hanging in the air. “I didn't ask for this.” He rose, moving toward the chair that stood behind the noose. “It is not my fault. I shouldn't have to shoulder this.” Each step brought more sincerity to his voice, more conviction to what he decided. It isn't fair to expect this of me. He climbed up onto the waiting chair. His tears dried. He looped the noose over his head and positioned it around his thin neck.

  I can't save them. I am too broken.

  Don't.

  He kicked the chair out from under himself.

  With a loud snap, darkness came for Chris Taylor.

  Chapter Two

  The halls smelled of recent wax, the night crew had just left from their work. The gleam in the marble floor reflected the large creature as he stomped through the concourse. Each footfall was a thud as compact dirt met unyielding stone. Around him, the steel
gate doors of shuttered shops rattled and clanged. Seven feet in height, Golem stood as a creation of imposing proportions. Made of solid dirt, he was willed to life and controlled by the mind of an eleven-year-old boy by the name of Drew Riese. Even now the young boy lounged in a tattered brown recliner ten blocks away, safe from the danger and destruction his creature caused. Through a psychic link with the creation, he could control its actions. Should the link fail, the will that held the dirt together would fail and the creation would return to a pile of dirt. It was Drew who had decided upon the name "Golem" for his imposing creation, having remembered the name from a story in his childhood. He could not remember the specifics of the story, but only that the golem would appear and protect the innocent. Little that had to do with the intent of the creation he now controlled.

  Most of the lights were turned off in the mall. Shadows played around small pools of light as Golem tracked his guide. Though Golem was shaped much as a man, his face did not resemble a face in the proper fashion. Two hollow eye sockets served as eyes. There was no nose to speak of, and the mouth was a wide-stretched maw that opened and closed in the manner of a puppet. Despite these rudimentary designs, Drew could still see from the creation's eyes. His creation could speak, and though the smooth head held no ears, Drew could hear what was spoken around his creation.

  His eyes were upon the figure that strolled before him. Close to a foot and a half shorter than Golem, the woman was of an athletic shape and moved with a single purpose. He had guessed upon meeting her that she was in her late twenties, but he knew enough about social politeness to not ask her such a question. Her slender legs were bound in black leather so thin that it resembled yoga pants to him. The whole outfit looked tight-fitting, black leather that seemed to have a softer quality than the leather Drew had seen on shows. It gleamed with each movement and each movement demanded attention.