One Tomb Short of a Graveyard: Alex Cheradon, #5

By Jason Krumbine

The Messer Building is located in the heart of downtown Callahan. It's a building of architectural wonder. It's visible from almost anywhere in the downtown area. 

And it's home to the Darketo Sanction, a top secret organization that's housing the largest collection of mad scientists anywhere in the country. 

Two weeks ago, the security system in the Messer Building tried to kill every single human onsite and nobody knows why. 

Since the geniuses in the Darketo Sanction can't figure it out, they've decided to outsource the mystery to Alex Cheradon. 

(Although, to be fair, it's a building filled with a bunch of mad scientists. This one shouldn't be too hard to figure out, right? Right?) 

Meanwhile, Devon Christian is on the edge of sanity. The voices in his head get louder every day. At some point, he's not going to be able to ignore those voices forever. And when he stops, there's only one person at the top of his hit list.


• Language: English
• Publisher: One Stray Word
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507044438

Jason Krumbine

Jason Krumbine loves to write! He's happily married and lives in Manhattan, NY where he enjoys reading in Central Park, going to movies and discovering new stand-up comedians. You can connect with Jason at either his website, www.jasonkrumbine.com, Facebook, Twitter (@jasonkrumbine) or good ole' fashion email [e-mail]. He's always up for a talk about the newest Star Trek movie or what's happening in the world of comic books and TV. 

Book preview

PART I

ODD MAN OUT

CHAPTER 1

THE ODD CASE OF DOCTOR ODD

The bruiser’s name was Bill.

Or was it Bob?

Burt?

Benny?

Bilbo?

Actually, you know what, now that I think about it, as his massive hands grabbed me by the black hoodie, I’m not so sure that his name started with a B. It’s possible I only thought that because of the whole incantation thing where the bald little twerp kept shouting, bruiser, over and over again. So, it was possible that I filled in the B part because of my weird obsession with alliteration.

The giant bruiser, who was made from clay (did I forget to mention that?) jerked me into the air, his massive fists clutching at my hoodie so tightly I probably would have heard it tear if not for my own, untimely, girlish screams.

The clay beast howled back at me, it sounded like somebody was drowning a bag of kittens in a porcelain bathtub surrounded by ceramic tiles. He smashed me against the wall and the creepy African facemasks that hung there cracked apart, scattering across the wood floors.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

I smacked my fist into the side of the clay monster’s misshapen head (it looked like a cardboard box that had gotten soaked, torn apart and then haphazardly taped back together. You’ve probably seen a similar look on any number of friendly, neighborhood drunks and Joan Rivers), but there was no effect.

(Other than, of course, the blinding pain in my fist. Ow. Ow. Ow.)

Then I was being flung through the air and across the room.

There had been a plan. We had put together what I thought was a fairly meticulous plan. Me flying through the air like I was a human football was not in the plan.

(At least, I was pretty sure it wasn’t in the plan. Admittedly, I wasn’t paying one hundred percent attention to the plan as Angie was going over it. Mostly because it seemed awfully complicated and, for some reason, I had chosen that particular moment in time to reflect on what made a better Superman costume: underwear on the outside or no underwear on the outside. It’s a tough call, honestly.)

I slammed into the window across the room and it burst apart on impact, shattering around me. I was immediately outside in the worst rainstorm to hit Clayton City in months, dropping down ten flights towards the pavement.

Of course.

The creepy bald creepster could conjure up supernatural clay and sculpt it into a mindless thug to do his bidding, but he couldn’t be bothered to make his windows impact resistant? I mean, what are we talking about here? A quick little spell? I’m no wizard, but I was pretty sure it would have been a lot less complicated than conjuring up supernatural clay warriors. I’m just saying.

And now I was about to meet my untimely demise and the one square block of concrete that was rushing towards me.

(Actually, I was rushing towards it, wasn’t I?)

I probably should be a little more upset, right? I mean, I was about to die. Any second now my life was going to flash before my eyes.

Any second now.

Annnny second now.

....

Okay, well, on the upside, thanks to all the rain my blood and guts would get cleaned up fairly quickly.

Then someone grabbed my wrist and my drop came to a sudden halt. Momentum kept me moving for another second and I slammed into the exterior brick wall.

I swore loudly as a sharp pain shot through my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what a dislocated shoulder felt like, but I’m pretty sure it couldn’t feel any worse than this.

Stop crying like a little baby and help me out here!

I looked up to find Angie leaning over the edge, through the window, holding on to my right arm with both hands.

"I’m not crying like a baby, I gasped, spitting out the rainwater as it kept pouring into my mouth. I twisted around in her grip, trying to reach for the windowsill. I’m crying like a thirty-year-old man who just got tossed through a window by a giant man-shaped piece of clay."

Between the two of us, we got me back inside as thunder boomed and the storm kicked it up another notch.

Like my day really needed to get any worse.

I didn’t even bother with the pretense of continuing the fight. Once safely inside again, I dropped to the floor. The wall was the only thing that kept me from just lying down.

I give up, I said, futilely trying to wipe the water from my face. How did I get so soaked in such a small amount of time? Seriously. It was, like, nano-seconds. Let the life-size claymation abominations pound me into paste. I sucked in a large gulp of air.

Angie grumbled something under her breath and then hauled me back to my feet.

Hey, I started, and then I noticed Billy the Bruiser lying in a heap of melted clay. Oh, I said, nodding my head. That’s why you were going on and on about the flash grenades.

Angie pushed her wet hair out of her face. Yeah. Who would have thought? The plan had a purpose.

(Huh. Maybe I should have paid closer attention to that plan after all.)

I followed her through the empty room and down the hallway of Dr. Stephen Odd’s office. I squeezed my shoulder. It hurt like hell, but it was still working like a shoulder was supposed to work.

You know, just for the record, this wasn’t really what I had in mind when I suggested you come work for me, I said, checking my pockets for the flash grenades. She had given me two. Where did they go? I glanced back over my shoulder at the broken window. Oh, that’s probably not good. I pulled out my gun instead. The idea was that you would bring in some normal cases to balance out the weird that I was already attracting.

This is normal, Angie said. She pulled out two more grenades and pulled the pins. Bounty hunting work is perfectly normal.

Yeah, except, this doesn’t feel very normal, I replied. I mean, this feels normal for me. But not normal for you. Unless you’ve been working on changing your normal and you forgot to tell me. In which case, we’re gonna have to reevaluate the terms of this partnership.

Angie didn’t bother to respond as we reached the doors at the end of the hallway.

You know, I continued. "The word ‘normal’ isn’t sounding so normal now. Normal. Nor-mal. Nooor-maal."

There was some weird grunting and mumbling from the other side of the double doors.

I took a step back. Based on what we observed when we came in here five minutes ago, I’m very hesitant about going through those doors.

Get ready, she whispered.

Did you not just hear me? I said. Technically, I’m your boss now. You do realize this, right?

Angie kicked in the doors and quickly tossed in the grenades.

We ducked as the grenades went off, covering our eyes from the bright blast of light. I felt the brief explosion of raw heat burst from the room, and it was rather welcoming given the fact that every inch of me was soaking wet.

Somebody (and something) howled in pain.

Angie barked, Now!

I spun around, holding up my gun.

Three more giant melted lumps of clay greeted us. One of them even had a fist extending from the top.

Well, that’s the kind of stuff that’s going to give me nightmares, I muttered.

Doctor Odd, Angie snapped, sweeping the room. Please don’t make this any worse than it already is.

The office space, if you could call it that, was an oversized large room with a lot of creepy stuff: weird African masks, human bones, a couple of skeleton heads, and, what I was reasonably certain, was a giant stuffed spider.

An involuntary shudder ran through me. Yeah, I think I spoke too soon about the nightmare thing.

There was a small ruby red statue on a pedestal to my right. I’m not sure what it was supposed to be, but it looked like a naked figure holding its own head, with creepy ruby tentacles extending from said head.

Yeah. I was definitely sleeping with the lights on tonight.

From now on, I said, I want to know the intimate details of whatever bounty you’re supposed to be picking up. Like, down to the last little bit. Don’t leave anything out. Even the boring stuff. I want to know it all. Preferably itemized in some way, too.

A tweedy little guy with an awkward bald head and tiny nose popped up from behind a desk in the corner. Don’t shoot! he screeched. You’ve already killed my babies!

I frowned and glanced back at the lumps of clay. Oh boy, I muttered.

Angie pulled out her handcuffs. Dr. Odd, you missed your hearing.

I’m innocent! he proclaimed, waving his hands around like that was going to convince us of his innocence. He was dressed in what looked like my grandmother’s muumuu. There was a normal doctor’s lab coat over it, but that actually made the whole getup look even worse.

This is definitely the low point of my day, I said. In case anybody cares.

I’m innocent! he squealed again.

We don’t care, she said.

Also, I added, pointing my gun at his dead clay babies, "you are mucking around in the dark arts. So, you know..." I shrugged.

His eyes darted back and forth between us.

Then he actually tried to run.

He actually tried to run in my grandmother’s muumuu.

If I wasn’t already soaking wet and kind of cold and irritable, I would have laughed. I would have laughed myself into a seizure.

The muumuu kicked up, revealing a pair of scrawny, oddly shaped legs that had more in common with a chicken than a human being.

I just shook my head. You know, I once took down a Kaos cell and stopped a demon from taking over the planet.

And not two minutes ago you were screaming like a little baby girl as a giant clay monster tossed you out a window, Angie reminded me.

"Context, Ang. Context."

Now you’re just saying random things in hopes of digging yourself out of the hole you’ve fallen into.

Odd managed to make it around his desk, but that was as far as he got because in three steps I was in front of him.

I popped him in the nose with my fist and he dropped to the ground, wailing.

"Now that’s crying like a baby," I said to Angie.

She cuffed him. "That’s exactly what you sounded like."

I sounded nothing like that, I insisted. You should probably get your hearing checked.

Angie just shook her head and hauled Dr. Odd back to his feet. His tiny little nose looked all bent out of shape.

I holstered my gun. What kind of hearing exactly did this knucklehead not show up for?

Angie pushed him towards the doors. All of his former patients are suing him under a class action lawsuit.

Seriously?

Yeah. Apparently he forgot to mention the fact that he was going to use the dark arts to cure their ailments.

It worked! he cried. I cured them all!

And you also stole a few of their souls, caused a few extra appendages to grow and, in one case, turned a man into a woman, Angie said.

Odd sniffed. "Well, it is called a practice, after all. I never told them the cures would be perfect."

Yeah, I said. We’re definitely reevaluating this arrangement.

CHAPTER 2

TWO BIG MEN TALK ABOUT BIGGER THINGS

The Bertolen was one of the most exclusive restaurants in Clayton City. Located at the top of Clayton City’s famed Ybor Tower, patrons had an unparalleled three hundred and sixty degree view of the entire city. The waiting list to get a seat at the Bertolen was almost six months long, and that was only if you were willing to pay the special rush fee of two thousand dollars.

But Mayor John Brennen, however, was granted special consideration. He was, after all, the Mayor of Clayton. If he couldn’t be guaranteed a table at the most exclusive restaurant in his city (rated five stars by The Clayton Examiner), then, honestly, what was even the point of being mayor?

Brennen’s table was kept at the back of the restaurant and had what was generally considered the best view of the city. Staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Brennen often felt he could simply reach out and crush the city from this vantage point. The people were so very tiny and the buildings, well, they reminded him of children’s playthings.

It was an empowering, almost intoxicating view, to say the least.

The owners of the Bertolen, two Parisian twin sisters with a passion for cooking and a taste for burly Russian men, offered to secure the more private conference area for the Mayor, but he turned them down. He liked to be seen enjoying the good life. After all, he was the Mayor.

John Brennen was a tall man with a square jaw. He had been blessed with good genes and a full head of wavy gray hair that was never going to fall out. He was fond of dressing in black suits with hints of blue, like the dark blue tie he wore tonight. In fact, he was the sort of man who could look good in almost anything.

Except for surprise. He didn’t wear that very well.

So you can imagine how awkward he looked when he found Jonathon Bragan sitting at his table.

"What the hell? Brennen snapped. His face twisted up into a dark scowl and he jabbed a finger in Bragan’s face. How the hell did you get in here?" Angry spittle flew from his mouth, punctuating each word.

Bragan looked up from his meal and smiled. Through the front door, of course. My money is just as good here as yours. Though, some might even say it’s better. You’ll forgive me, I already started. He glanced at his watch. I was told you were going to be here almost an hour ago.

Brennen looked around for his bodyguards. Bragan, he growled, I’m gonna have you tossed out the damn windows.

For what, exactly? Bragan asked. He was a picture of calm in his dark gray suit and green striped tie. He sliced off a piece of his veal. Last time I checked, joining the mayor for dinner wasn’t a criminal offense. He paused. Although, to be honest, I don’t really keep up with all of the laws you like to draft on a daily basis. I imagine it’s fairly tiring to always be telling the citizens of Clayton what they are and are not allowed to do, depending on your whims.

"Except I didn’t invite you." Brennen kept looking around the restaurant for his security detail, but they were nowhere in sight.

Bragan paused for a moment, thinking it over. Well, I’m certain that inviting myself to dinner with the mayor isn’t a criminal offense either. Bragan pointed to the chair opposite him. Please. Sit. You’re going to cause a scene.

The mayor turned back to Bragan, his eyes blazing. Bragan, he started. You’ve got a lot of nerve-

Bragan cut him off. This is what happens when you don’t return my calls. Two weeks, Mr. Mayor. Two weeks and not a single call back. My feelings were starting to get hurt.

Then maybe you’re not aware of how this is supposed to work, Brennen growled. "I’m the mayor. I don’t answer to you."

You’re a public servant, Bragan replied, sipping his wine. I’m part of the public. So. Please. Sit. Down.

There was an unspoken threat in those last two words.

Brennen finally noticed that while his security detail was absent, Bragan’s wasn’t.

The other guests of the Bertolen were starting to take notice of the quiet, harsh exchange between the two men.

Brennen quietly cleared his throat and sat down.

You wouldn’t dare, he said, lowering his voice so that only Bragan could hear him.

"I wouldn’t dare what exactly? Bragan asked, helping himself to more of his veal. I wouldn’t dare to enjoy a pleasant dinner with the mayor? That seems a bit melodramatic. I don’t know what you normally order here, but you must simply try the veal. Not to overuse a cliché, but it is to die for."

"I’m the mayor," Brennen hissed. His eyes looked about ready to pop out of his skull and his face was turning a deep red.

Bragan sighed. Yes. We’re all aware of your job, he replied. His voice was still calm and even. As you needlessly remind the public in a constant cycle of never-ending campaign commercials.

"You’re nothing but a filthy mobster, Brennen spat. You wouldn’t dare."

Bragan paused and set his fork down Now. Let’s not start name calling. It’s unbecoming of men in our positions. He wiped at the corners of his mouth with the napkin. I am a legitimate businessman who cares very deeply for this city.

Bragan, Brennen growled again, his face turning an even darker shade of red. His hands clenched into tight fists.

But Bragan was unperturbed. But let’s talk about labels. You’re a power hungry mayor and not a very good one at that. You’re also the leader of a group dedicated to control through advanced scientific methods. What do you call yourselves again? He paused for a moment, making a show of trying to remember and then snapped his fingers. "Oh, that’s right. Kontrol. With a K. How clever," he added dryly.

You have no idea. Brennen leaned forward over the table. You have severely underestimated me, Bragan.

Is that so? Bragan raised an eyebrow.

"I could crush you right now, the mayor continued. Think about who you’re dealing with here. It would happen so fast, you’d end up in Hell before you even knew you were dead."

Well, in that case... Bragan’s hand dipped beneath the table. When his hand came back up he was holding a blue box.

The color immediately drained from the mayor’s face and he sat back in his seat.

Bragan smiled. Good. You recognize it. That will make this considerably easier.

Where did you get that? Brennen asked. His voice had dropped to a whisper.

Bragan shook his head gently. You needn’t worry about that. That I have it is all that matters. He set the box down on the table and pushed his plate aside. I do apologize. I hate to deal with matters as sensitive as these in such a public place.

Brennen shook his head. No. You wouldn’t.

Actually, Bragan said. "I would. Make no mistake, Mr. Mayor, I don’t make threats. I make promises."

Promises? Brennen wanted to laugh, but he kept his mouth shut for fear it might be taken as a weakness.

I am fully aware of the, shall we say, shenanigans, you were up to in what I’ve been advised is now an ‘alternate timeline.’

Brennen’s face darkened again. Cheradon.

Yes. Alexander Cheradon. What a strangely resourceful young man. It seems to me that you got off rather lucky, Bragan said. "If Mr. Cheradon hadn’t returned to his proper timeline, you would have been, well, exposed is one way of putting it. But I imagine we both know it would be much worse than a bad PR day. Bragan smirked. What are the odds?"

Brennen folded his arms, his eyes flicking back to the blue box every so often. Let’s get to the point, Bragan. What the hell do you want?

I want a great many things, Bragan said. "Like any human being, I’m greedy. I’m sure it’ll eventually be my downfall. Hopefully, though, that won’t happen for a very long time. I have, however, been blessed to get much of what I’ve desired. Money. Power. But these days I find myself desiring something a little different. It’s a desire that is slightly harder to grasp, if you will. I don’t know if there’s specifically a name for it."

Bragan leaned forward. "I want you people out of my city."

You people?

Kaos. Kontrol. The Midget Mafia. I want you all gone, Bragan said.

I don’t really have any influence over Kaos or the Midget Mafia, Brennen pointed out.

I know. I hope the irony doesn’t escape you. However, Kaos is already in ruins. The Midget Mafia is completely wiped out. So, Mr. Mayor, that just leaves you and your annoying control-freak minions.

Brennen looked at the blue box again.

Bragan drove his point home. "Clayton City is mine. I’ve tolerated you and your tiny, ridiculous groups long enough. I humbly suggest, Mr. Mayor, that you step down from office and relocate Kontrol. He paused. Perhaps someplace on the east coast? I think the sun might be good for your complexion."

Brennen looked at him, struggling to keep his face a mask of composure and failing completely. You wouldn’t dare start a war.

Bragan shook his head. Please, he said, waving a dismissive hand. A war would imply that both sides are evenly matched. He gently tapped the closed top of the blue box. We both know that’s no longer the case.

Brennen looked at the blue box nervously. A thought flitted across the landscape of his mind and this time he did laugh.

Bragan raised an eyebrow again. That was unexpected.

I know what this is really about, Brennen said.

I assure you, Mr. Mayor, Bragan replied. This is about exactly what I’ve told you it is about.

You’re after the Ybor Treasure.

Bragan stopped cold.

Brennen laughed again. I knew it. You’re no better than the rest of us.

Trust me, Brennen, Bragan said darkly. You and I are not even in the same league.

The fear and tension drained from Brennen, despite Bragan’s increasing intensity. You’re never going to find it. Nobody has. Not even that Timothus idiot from the Midget Mafia. Whatever the Ybor brothers hid under their cities is long gone. It’s a damn fairytale and I would know. I ran the Probability Engine for days while my people looked for the Ybor treasure and not a single thing popped up on our radar. Brennen held out his hands. All this, Bragan, was for nothing. You’re making a power play for something that doesn’t exist.

Then you are mistaken, Bragan said. Because I’m not making a ‘power play,’ he spoke the words distastefully. "I’m asserting my power."

He opened the blue box.

Brennen didn’t move to look inside, but his body language immediately changed back to the cowering, whimpering fool of a few minutes ago. You’re insane, he whispered.

"No, actually, you are the one who is insane, Bragan said. Based on what I learned from the alternate timeline, Mr. Mayor, you are essentially two steps away from permanent incarceration at a home for the criminally insane. You really are quite sloppy in your methods."

Brennen fidgeted in his seat, his skin turning a sickly pale. My constituents-

Wouldn’t even think twice about you stepping down, Bragan finished. How many sex scandals have you been implicated in now? I’ve lost count.

Brennen’s shoulders sagged as defeat settled in on him. It’s not fair.

Of course it isn’t, Bragan agreed. But such is the way of the life we’ve chosen to live.

Brennen loosened his blue tie and rubbed his suddenly tired eyes.

I think we can both agree that a press conference tomorrow would probably be best, Bragan said.

Of course, Brennen agreed hollowly.

And now that we understand each other, Bragan smiled, closing the box. Let’s talk about that wonderful little Probability Engine of yours...

CHAPTER 3

ALEX GETS FLACK FOR HIS TASTE IN CLOTHES

"Seriously, Alex, you look like a hobo. Seriously. I’m not even kidding. Look at my face. This is my Not Kidding Face."

I looked down at my t-shirt, faded gray with an image of a monkey giving me a thumbs-up. I think you’re being a little extreme.

Devon Christian pointed to my sneakers, which, admittedly, did look a little rough. "My goodness, Alex, your shoes have no tread. They have no tread."

Okay, well, I started.

And jeans? Jeans? He shook his head in disbelief. "Jeans?"

Hey, you know what I love? I love it when people repeat the same word over and over again, like it’s supposed to singlehandedly change a person’s mind about something.

You look like a hobo, Christian repeated.

I shrunk back in my seat. The receptionist behind the desk was starting to give us that look that said, ‘Maybe I should call security because these two weirdo’s are starting to freak me out.’

Please stop calling me a hobo, I hissed at Christian.

Maybe you should stop dressing like one then.

There is nothing wrong with the way I dress, I replied. And, even if there was, I don’t think now’s really the time to be discussing it.

Christian was, as usual, dressed in a sharp, charcoal gray suit and black tie. The man looked impeccable. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said he was a high-priced stockbroker and not a private investigator recovering from a bout of insanity.

The little gray quantum suppresser on his right ear blinked soulfully, almost like it was taunting me. Like it was saying, Any second now I could just shut off and Christian could have a much more explosive reaction to your taste in clothing. Any. Second.

Well, I tried discussing it with you before we left the office and you simply stuck your fingers in your ears and went ‘la-la-la.’ He gave me his serious look. "We are on a job, Alex. A job."

And you’re still repeating the same word over and over again. I glanced over at the receptionist again. She was inching her way back from the desk.

"And that’s what you’re wearing? He took off his rectangular glasses and rubbed his eyes. I’ll be surprised if they don’t toss us out."

I gave a friendly little wave to the receptionist to show her that only one of us was crazy. That’s a thing, right? Waving at people to convince them you’re normal? That’s actually worked for other people, right? Somebody please tell me that’s worked.

Please stop talking now, I whispered to Christian. And besides, we’ve already got the job. Ranson hired us weeks ago. This is a done deal.

So, on top of being a sloppy dresser, you’re also lazy. What have you become, Alex?

Somebody who obviously has poor time management skills, I replied. Seriously, is this even newsworthy at this point?

I’m very disappointed in you, Alex, Christian said, using the same tone I’d imagine my father would have used had he caught me stealing the neighbor’s gnomes, instead of, you know, running out on us. I thought you were better than this.

I held up a finger. Out of idle curiosity, but have you even paid any attention to what hobos actually wear? Because, I’m pretty sure their outfits are a little more flea-ridden and torn up then what I’m wearing. I smacked my forehead. And now I’m actually defending my choice of clothing to a crazy man.

Nope. Christian held up his hands and got to his feet. "This isn’t going to happen. We’re not going into this meeting with you looking like that."

I plucked at my shirt. There is nothing wrong with the way I look.

"Literally everything is wrong with the way you look, Christian said. I wouldn’t hire you to find my virginity."

Okay, well, that’s an interesting turn of phrase that I could have gone without ever hearing. Also, I’m pretty sure that’s a case I would turn down anyway, I replied, feeling a little ill at the thought. I pointed to the seat next to me. Sit back down.

He just kept shaking his head. Nope. Not gonna happen.

It has already happened, Christian, I started to say and then Christian tried to pull my shirt off.

He grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt and yanked it up over my head.

Hey! I snapped. But he kept pulling. "Okay! Safe word! Safe word!" I tried to push his arms down, but they wouldn’t budge. I’m pretty sure this was my worst nightmare ever.

Stop wiggling around, he said. This is for your own good, Alex!

"Devon, stop! Stop what you’re doing!" I kept jerking my