The Hunter Reborn

By R. Richardsson

"The battle against Draegan was won. With the help of my friends, I'd finally avenged my great-grandfather of the atrocities he had committed. At long last, it was over. All that was left was to find where he had hidden my family.

I felt so strong, so powerful. In just a few short minutes, I had done what those before me could not.

Decades of battle had hardened me against the horrors I've witnessed, but nothing would prepare me for what came next.

They were gone. Brutally taken from me, one by the hands of Draegan's henchmen, the other by the hand of Death; a monster not even I could stop.

For the first time in ages, I was alone. First my sister, then, my wife and son, and now my closest and dearest friends; all were gone. I failed them. I may have defeated the monster, but I have also thrown away everything for the sake of my own personal war.

What more is there for me to live for? What's left for me to believe in? Just as my will begins to slip away, so too does my belief in the divine creator who once bound my lineage with his sacred charge."

-John Rizzerio

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Richardsson
• Release date: May 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301811731

R. Richardsson

R. Richardsson began writing in the early nineties, but it wouldn't be until 2012 when he would complete and publish his first book; ‘The Rise and Fall of John Rizzerio’, Book 1 of the ‘Ballad of John Rizzerio’ trilogy. When not working at his part time job, he spends his days off working on his current project, as well as with his social media sites. A like for his author page on facebook, or a follow on twitter is the best way to keep up with what he is currently working on. Any of his remaining time is spent with his wife and four children, though he hopes to one day be able to sustain his family on his writing alone.

Book preview

THE HUNTER REBORN

By R. Richardsson

Cover art by; Lars Nielsen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013, All Rights Reserved

For my wife, who continues to stand beside me.

Also for C.B., who recognized me at my part time job

and later brought in a printed copy of my ebook for a signature.

*And for Gabe, who has shown me the error of my ways.

Table of Contents

Prologue

I. The Coming Dawn

II. Into the Darkness

III. Welcome To The A.S.P.D.

IV. Putting The Pieces Together

V. The Aftermath

Coming To

VI. A World You’ve Never Imagined

VII. A Shadow of Doubt

VIII. No Escape from Reality

IX. Examining the Evidence

X. Without Looking Back

XI. Broken

XII. The Scarecrow and Miss Hudson

XIII. Nowhere To Hide

XIV. A Priest, An Ex-Cop And The Blonde

XV. From the Ashes

Epilogue

Translations From Latin Vulgate To English

PROLOGUE

Excuse me Miss, can you tell me anything about the patient in 103? His voice was smooth, sensual, and as he spoke, a rather pleasant chill ran down her spine. Before looking up from her work, she moved the pointer on her computer screen to the save icon and clicked.

As her eyes began moving up from her work to meet those of the speaker across from her, her breath caught in her throat. He wore a form fitting black shirt, which was not only decorated with three inverted chevrons on the sleeves, but was also adorned with a badge that identified his precinct by number.

Ma’am, he asks politely, reminding her that he had a question waiting to be answered.

Her eyes snapped up and for a brief moment she thinks she won’t be able to bring herself to reply. His face is chiseled and handsome; offering her a melting smile as he patiently waits for her answer. His oceanic eyes are warm and full of compassion, drawing her further away from what little bit of professionalism she had left.

He runs his right hand up through his thick black hair and clears his throat, glancing down the hall toward the room he had originally asked about.

I-I’m sorry Sergeant, it’s been a long night. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and as she speaks, she can feel a nervous energy building up within her.

The patient is currently resting comfortably, but has yet to regain consciousness.

He nodded thoughtfully as she confirmed this to him, at the same time reaching down to a small pouch attached to his belt. As she finishes speaking, he moves his left hand across the desk and gently lays it on top of her right, at the same time leaning in until his mouth is a breath away from her right ear.

If anything changes, please don’t hesitate to give me a call, he whispers softly.

The combined effect of his touch and warm breath sends a hot flash roaring through her, nearly causing her to swoon from its sudden rush. As he backs away from her, he lifts his hand and in its place is his card. He then gives her a smile dangerous enough to melt her heart, glances down the hallway once more, and turns to leave.

Sergeant, she calls out unexpectedly. The sound of her voice startles her, as it hadn’t been her intention to say anything, and inwardly she chastises herself for acting like such a timid schoolgirl.

Yes?

Your men DID manage to catch the one responsible for all this madness, didn’t they? Her voice quivers fearfully as she speaks and her eyes are like saucers, openly displaying her unease to him.

He turns to regard her, the remnants of his brilliant smile still on the edge of his expression.

We have a suspect in custody, yes, he offers.

So is it true, she asks.

I’m sorry?

You know… Is it true that he’s crazy? I mean, I heard that he was carrying a black bag with all sorts of crazy things in it.

The smile vanished completely from his expression as a dark cloud seems to come over it. His brow furrows together, and in the moment before he next speaks, his lips tighten into a thin white line.

What have you heard, he asked tonelessly, …and from whom did you hear it?

Immediately her heart sank to the lowest pits of her stomach and she felt nauseous at the thought that this beautiful creature was angry with her.

O-only that he had this black bag and in it were these little books written in some other language, she answered carefully. In truth, she had heard about a couple other things which had been found in that bag, but at this point she only wanted back the smiling Adonis that had stood before her just moments ago.

Seconds stretched into minutes as he considered her answer. To her relief, the look of anger finally faded from his expression.

I’m sorry, he offered with a hint of the smile he had earlier given to her. This is a sensitive matter that we’re dealing with. It’s imperative that nothing gets out to the public before we’ve had a chance to go over all of the details.

The rising panic which had been building up inside of her melted away as he once again turned those deep blue eyes into hers. Reaching once more across the desk, the smile having returned to full strength, he once again placed his hand over hers before speaking.

I didn’t catch your name.

It’s Natalie. Natalie Hendrick.

It’s a pleasure to meet you Natalie. You may call me, Michael.

I

THE COMING DAWN

He sits on the edge of the bunk, completely enveloped in darkness, with his legs spread slightly and elbows resting just behind his knees. His head is facing the floor, resting into his upturned palms, and the only sound in the room is the occasional tear after it rolls off the end of his nose and splashes against the tiled floor.

There is very little to remind him of how he arrived in his cell, with most of his memories having fled the onslaught of his grief long ago, and even with his eyes closed he can still see her dying visage floating before him. No matter how hard he tries not to, he can still smell the soft hint of Scotch on her breath. She had continued to look into his eyes lovingly, even after her death, and he could still feel her gentle touch against his cheek.

He slid his hand to where she had last touched him and once again felt the bloody print she had left on his face. He recoiled in horror. His mind created a new image of his lost friend, one which looked up into his eyes as if to blame him for what had happened to her.

How could you have let this happen to me Jooohn, the apparition implored of him. Blood gushed from her mouth, gurgling as she spoke, and it poured in rivers from the wounds in her chest and leg onto the floor below.

I’m dead because of you!

He croaked feebly, unable to answer as he swatted at the ghost before him. Its lips curl upward into a hideous smile, exposing sharp canines that slowly lengthen out of its mouth.

Look at what you’ve done to me! Aren’t I jussst the prettiessst thing? Come on Jooohn, come give me a kisss!

He flinches, throwing his arms in front of his eyes while trying to fend off the evil thoughts assailing him. The specter cackled, taunting him with its rictus grin, and suddenly the pain is just too much for him to bear. From deep inside of him a low moan begins to emanate, full of pain and outrage as he languished over the ones he had so recently lost. The sound arose from within the depths of his soul, and as it increased in momentum, so too does it increase in volume, until he is unable to contain it any longer.

His head tilts back as he releases a wail so full inner torment that the power alone sent the vermin scattering into every nook and cranny to escape its wrath. The sound gushed from him like a waterfall, slipping around the cracks of the door and into the hall on the other side. It followed the walls, passing by cells just like the one he was sitting in, into a central area occupied by one larger holding cell.

It spread into the holding cell, weaving around the bars and pummeling the eardrums of a drunk sleeping on one of the many benches there-in. Awakened by the terrifying noise, and still feeling the effects of the previous night’s bender, he falls from the bench and crawls hurriedly over to the darkest corner he can find, curling into a ball and babbling incoherently to himself. The sound travels quickly up a nearby stairwell, and around the door at the top, into the room beyond.

The room has several desks pushed against one another in the center allowing for each officer to face each other while they work, and it’s at two such desks that the anguished wail ends its journey.

Nearest the stairwell, one officer is leaning back in his chair, thumbing through the newest equipment catalogue while his partner is finishing up some paperwork across from him. The sound startles him so much that he jumps to his feet, his hand immediately going to his sidearm.

Across from him, his partner loses his balance and crashes to the floor.

Jesus-Jumped-Up-Christ, he exclaims as he claws his way back to this feet. What the hell is THAT?!

I think it’s that prisoner they brought in from the James Street Massacre, at the old clothing store. Hey, I got an idea, why don’t you go find out, the first cop suggests as he takes his hand off of his holster and sits back down behind his desk.

You’re fucking kidding, right? Did you not just hear that shit?

Yeah, I sure did just hear that shit, Officer Vargas. Are you trying to tell me you’re afraid of a little noise that may or may not be coming from a prisoner locked in solitary?

Vargas only looked across their desks, glaring at his partner as he pushed his chair beneath his own before walking to the stairs leading down to containment.

You’re a real dick, you know that?

And you’re out of line, the other returns as he tosses a set of keys to him. Here, take these with you. They might be helpful.

Yeah, yeah, Vargas muttered as he turns away.

He approaches the door with trepidation. Even though the sound had since faded and the office had returned to its previous state of silence, his nerves were still sensitive toward anything else that might come unexpected.

Upon reaching the door, he lifts the key ring and begins sorting through the keys until he finds the one that will turn the lock.

The key rattled in the lock as he turns it, and after a moment of fumbling, clicks open. His partner had stopped working on his reports long enough to watch him open the door, and when he turned to face him, gives an exaggerated smile as he waves. Vargas flipped a middle finger in return before turning back and entering the stairwell.

After pulling the door shut behind him, he turned around and carefully walked down the stairs, thirteen in all. As he got closer to the bottom he could hear the sound of someone softly whimpering nearby. It took a moment of searching, something he never thought that he’d have to do in the cell where they kept the lesser offenders, but he managed to find the drunk who had been earlier brought in on a DUI.

He was curled in a fetal position between the metal toilet and the far wall, his arms around his knees, rocking gently back and forth.

Hey, he called out softly. What’s going on in there?

Pleash, the other whined pitifully in response. Pleash make it shtop!

Just as he was about to yell at the frightened man, a baritone voice poured into the corridor, bouncing off of the walls and surrounding them. It originated from the other prisoner’s cell, an indecipherable chanting which was low and unlike anything he had ever heard. Vargas stepped back from the holding area, momentarily startled, and glanced furtively toward the solitary confinement area. At his feet, a soft metallic jingle went unnoticed.

Oh god, I shwear I’ll never drink again if you jusht get me the hell out of here, the man in the holding area babbled fearfully.

The voice continued to build in cadence and volume, much like it had done with the anguished wail moments before, only this time it was reciting word after word in a language unknown to him. His palms suddenly began to sweat as he squints, attempting to peer into the darkness of what he called The Bad Stretch; forty straight feet of hallway, on either side of which were four reinforced rooms used for solitary confinement.

His heart drummed in his chest as suddenly from behind, and a little ways above him, there came a dull thumping. The drunk, who had returned to the shadows between the wall and the toilet, suddenly shrieked in terror. The combination of both caused him to involuntarily stumble backwards, first to get away from the thumping noise above, and then to get the HELL away from the shrieking man in front of him. His left foot slipped out from beneath him as it skidded on something metallic, causing it to slide out from under him. The result was him tumbling to a heap on the ground, his legs forming a ‘V’ before him with his hands supporting him from behind.

The voice rose in volume as it continued to chant in its strange dialect. Parallel to its ascension, his fear continued to rise as well. One by one the dim emergency bulbs down The Bad Stretch exploded, bringing the darkness ever closer to the main holding area, until only the light above him was all that remained.

His eyes remain frozen in the direction the chanting was originating and he unconsciously scooted himself backward, closer to the wall. As the terror welled up from within, all other sounds faded into the background. The steady thumping from the top of the stairs is replaced by the thudding of his own heart heavily beating in his chest.

The voice of the man in solitary continued to rise in volume, its words filling with an electric power that he can feel crawling over his skin like a thousand tiny fingers. He doesn’t realize it but he has begun to shriek, each deep breath producing a sound worthy of any ‘B’ movie scream queen.

Inside the holding cell, the solitary occupant has also succumbed to the same feelings of terror Vargas is experiencing. The moment that the officer fell to the floor and the lights began to burst, he darted to the bars nearest the hallway. His hands are wrapped around the bars directly in front of each of his shoulders, gripping onto them so tightly that his knuckles had become white from the strain. He pressed his head forward, trying to squeeze it through in an attempt to better make himself heard over the cacophony of words around him, and he began to scream his own song of fright toward the stairwell.

Amidst the shrieks and the pleas that continued to go unanswered, the voice continued to march along the cadence of its speech. It reverberated off of the walls, booming its message, and a sickly yellow glow pierced the darkness beyond the cell from which the voice was speaking. There were two sources to this light, small and focused as if the speaker were holding two pen lights.

However, unlike the light which comes from a flashlight, these two beams did not reach the other side of the hall. Just as sickly as their color was their strength. As the length of each beam seemed to pulse, reaching outward with the force of the words being spoken, they also drew quickly back into the cell in the silence between them.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the voice fell silent. The golden beams of light fled into the cell and the hallway down The Bad Stretch was gone from sight as the darkness rushed in to cover it once more.

An unnatural calm crept over the containment area, washing over the two men where were still consumed by feelings they couldn’t control. Respectively, Vargas and the drunk eventually become silent; the former looking up into the frightened eyes of the latter, whose face was still pressed between the bars as far as he could get it.

Pleash mishter. For the love of God, pleash let me out?

At that moment the fluorescent bulb over the holding area exploded, plunging the cell into darkness behind him, and there came a bubbling sound from the corner where he had recently cowered. It was a sound not unlike boiling water, only there was something more sinister underlying it. Soft, almost unnoticeable, beneath the bubbling sound of water was something one would expect to hear when letting the air out of a tire.

Fuuuck…this, Vargas suddenly croaked when, in the darkness behind the other came the sound of something wet plopping onto the concrete. He half turned, clawing at the wall as pulled his legs under him in an attempt to return to his feet.

The drunk suddenly reached through the bars and latched onto his tie, pulling him close enough that Vargas could smell the alcohol on his breath.

GET ME OUT OF HERE, he screeched at him.

There was no reasoning left in Vargas. Nothing the man could say would at this point be logical enough to keep him down here any longer. There was nothing in his seven years on the force that could even come close to preparing him for what was happening down here.

The sound of boiling water churned more urgently in the darkness and there were several more wet splats against the concrete.

Vargas jerked mechanically, frantically batting at the hands of the person keeping him from getting as far away from here as possible. There was a brief struggle as each man, whose blood now flowed with adrenaline born of terror, fought two separate battles; one to get away from his captor and flee from this seemingly haunted basement, and the other to keep him rooted until he was set free, that they might both escape.

From behind the only locked door in solitary, the prisoner’s voice suddenly spoke with an intense sadness.

It is too late. He has come.

Their struggle ceased when the prisoner’s voice stole from the darkness and each had turned toward it to listen to what it had to say. At the moment that he finished speaking, so too did the sounds in the darkness of the holding cell cease as well.

…pleash…

The drunk had unknowingly loosened his grip on Vargas when the other prisoner had spoken, allowing enough slack that the latter could now slip out of his reach.

Pleash, he begged for the second time, one hand reaching pitifully outward. His fingers were stretched out and he tried to force as much of his shoulder through the bars as possible to help shorten the distance between them, but there wasn’t going to be much relief this time. Vargas was too far away and the bars were made specifically for this purpose.

As Vargas stepped into the line of sight of those on the other side of the small window in the door above, the thumping renewed as his partner pounded on it from the other side.

…open the door!

Vargas had just enough time to reflect on how he could barely hear his partner. He thought of when he was on the other side and he had heard the prisoner in solitary as if he had been right next to him, when suddenly a pair of glowing eyes appeared in the darkness of the holding cell.

They were behind the poor man reaching out to him, who continued begging to be let out of the cell and who was also yet unaware of the danger behind him. They hovered a full foot over his head and seemed to be staring deep into Vargas’s terror-filled soul.

From the top of the stairs, he could hear his