Ferryman

By Michael Blaylock

Some people can fly. Some can see impossible distances. Some can change their appearance, control the elements, or run at incredible speed.
Charlie Ferris can kill with a touch.
Contrary to what the superhuman government believes, Charlie has no dreams of world domination or mass murder. Neither does he wish to pretend his powers don't exist. He wants to use his abilities for good, but how? As the immortal years pass, Charlie fears that villainy is the only option for the master of death.
But when an undying army appears at their doorstep, the superhuman authorities have no choice but to call on a professional killer. Charlie wants to believe that this is his chance to prove he's a good guy, but sparks fly at every encounter. When harassment mounts and prejudice backs him into a wall, The Ferryman must decide what is more important: a good reputation...or goodness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Blaylock
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370426867

Michael Blaylock

Michael A. Blaylock was the kid in school who wrote ten-page essays when only five were required. He loved writing that much. Born and raised in the Greater St. Louis area, Michael eventually moved west to southern Idaho, writing his first novella, Ferryman, in the process. He remains an eclectic art lover, fascinated by books, movies, anime, video games, fine arts, and music, drawing inspiration from all of them in his writing.

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Ferryman

Michael A. Blaylock

First Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Michael A. Blaylock

All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author.

www.fencingwithink.com

This book is also available in print from online retailers.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Acknowledgements

About the Author

If You Liked This Book…

Chapter 1

I am on my way to kill a man, but I am not murdering him. That distinction is what keeps me from being the villain everyone already thinks I am—or at least, the villain they wait for me to become.

I am a killer, not a murderer. A murderer kills because he hates. I kill because I can. It’s the gift I was given. I didn’t choose it and I can’t return it. I’m not a killer because I kill. I kill because I am a killer, and if I’m to be accepted, I must have actions to back up my words. I must reinforce that just because I take a life, it does not make me evil.

Admittedly, it’s difficult to not cross that blurred line, especially with criminals. It’s hard not to hate a man who has murdered, corrupted, raped, or otherwise broken the law so frequently or so exquisitely that the state has decided to end their life. Thus, when the state calls me, I don’t ask what crimes the condemned has committed. I just ask for proper, public documentation to make sure nobody is trying to trick me into offing a political enemy.

People think I’m shady as it stands—at least, those who recognize me. Thankfully, I’m innocuous enough to the naked eye—just another thirty-ish white male in a country full of them. My hair is a bit wavy, but that doesn’t signal me as a killer. Its inky color might, though. And I suppose my dark, button-up shirt, black slacks, raven gloves, and shiny shoes make me look rather . . . well, grim. But this job and this life require professionalism and appropriate somberness. Glib mockery only enhances suspicion.

My shoes clap lightly on tiled floors. These back hallways are well lit, clean, and a lovely way to bypass the inmates of this maximum-security prison. I’m not scared of them. I just don’t want to run the risk of hating them.

The security guard who escorts me is armed to the throat and thankfully, silent. Some escorts like to chat me up, ask a lot of questions about what I do, or worst of all, tell me how the inmate has it coming. I prefer to remain as silent about my talents as I can, not glorify them unnecessarily. I don’t like this job per se, but I like getting paid, you know?

He opens a door with a security key and lets me inside. The room is sparsely furnished with a few cabinets, a sink, and a scrawny black man strapped to a reclining chair. He can still move his head, so he turns and looks me in the eye.

You’re the guy? he asks.

I nod. I’m the guy.

I always feel I should introduce myself, but what am I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Charlie. I’m here to kill you.

So few people here. True, we have two doctors, a state official, a chaplain, and the spectacled warden whom I have met before—this is Texas, after all—but no family or friends are here to comfort the condemned. I’ve been to plenty of executions and there’s always somebody who loves the prisoner and stays with them until the end.

Poor guy.

The warden shakes my hand first, as if to show the others it’s okay. The doctor and state official are more hesitant to touch me, even with the gloves.

I give them each a firm shake, as if to say, I’m not here for you.

The man in the chair inhales long and slow, like the final drag of a cigarette. They all do that, and it makes me pity them. This is the last room the poor fellow will ever know, and it’s chilly enough to make goose pimples on his arms. These are the last five people he’ll ever see, and while I’m moderately attractive, we aren’t the hottest lineup.

Even if it’s pointless, I want to make small talk, so I ask the same question I always do. What did you have for your last meal?

He says, A bag of Jolly Ranchers.

I shake my head and fail to stifle a laugh. What? Jolly Ranchers?

It’s what I like.

I’ve heard of gourmet dinners, high-fat fast foods, mama’s home cooking, and every pizza known to man, but this is new and I can’t help laughing. I know I’m not supposed to, but the inmate smiles, and I think that’s something.

But then, he asks, Hey, man, does it hurt?

He’s the first person to say that, too. No, it doesn’t hurt at all, I tell him. It’s one of the reasons the government agreed to hire me: I am the most humane killer on the planet.

The state official reads off his official speech in an official way, all proper and grim. The inmate doesn’t cry like some do. He doesn’t curse or act defiant, either. He seems to know the finality of his situation, and I respect that.

When the speech is over, and the inmate politely refuses any last words, the state man nods to me and I take off my gloves. The inmate finds another drag of oxygen and savors it. He’s nervous and I want to say something.

Close your eyes and pretend you’re going to sleep.

He does, breathing one more time. I place my hand on his shoulder and give him an affirming squeeze for comfort and to show him one last shred of respect.

Then, the Marlboro of life falls from his lips and snuffs on the floor. I remove my hand and reapply my gloves.

The doctor calls the time and we all sign the appropriate papers. The state man hands me a check. I thank him and the security guard escorts me back through the well-lit halls. He doesn’t walk as close to me as he did earlier.

They never do.

I can control my power, but once people see you kill with a touch, they do anything to avoid contact with you.

As I drive home, I listen to an interview with a recently-discovered evolved. He’s a man who generates electricity, but only via electronic means like cables and wires. He can’t shoot lightning bolts like Zeus.

I always wondered why the batteries never ran out on my Gameboy, the man jokes.

The interviewer laughs and asks, Do you think your gifts could be used as an alternative power source to fossil fuels?

Gifts? I think. That’s not what they call mine.

That’s the plan, says the evolved. I don’t know how to do it now, but I want to work with Olympus and scientists of the world to figure out how. I’m just one guy, so maybe it’s all for naught, but I want to try. I want to show the world that the evolved are not as scary as we seem. Yeah, there are evil ones, but there are plenty of good ones, too. We just want to use our powers to benefit the world.

Well, good for you. I snap off the radio. I shouldn’t be mad at him. It’s good he is trying to bridge the gap between the ordinary and the evolved. I’m just jealous. So many evolved can find ways to better the world with their strengths. Demeter cultivates the earth, Codex shares his incredible wealth of knowledge with the world, now this guy is working on free, renewable energy.

Me? Well . . .

Executioner is really the only thing I can think of other than turning to crime. I toyed with the idea of being an exterminator, but I’d have to actually find the varmints. The military seemed like a no-brainer, and it worked for a while. Some of the higher-ups paid through the nose for my talents, but you can only take so much money from killing before you start to question your own motives.

Unless you’re a villain.

But I’m driving a Toyota Camry, not a black chariot drawn by onyx horses with flamethrowers for mouths. And I don’t pull into a dark castle with a lava moat and pterodactyls circling overhead. It’s just a two-bedroom ranch-style with sprinklers and a wasp nest.

I park the car in the driveway and head inside. The simple act of turning the knob and opening the door sends an echo through the empty halls. Ch-chk . . . ch-chk . . . ch-chk . . . I flop down onto the couch and my butt snuggles into the familiar groove.

I wait.

For what? I don’t know. Opportunity, perhaps. Maybe a miracle. But for now, I glower at the Band-Aid-colored carpet and consider hard wood floors just for an excuse to rip the stuff out.

That interview got to me. Living a quiet life isn’t too bad, but seeing other evolved celebrated, landing interviews, babbling on about their great plans for humanity, or just plain going public is as pleasant to my ears as microphone feedback. I know I’ll never end up on a talk show, and frankly, it’s better that way.

Besides, Olympus doesn’t need me. Zeus spat those exact words in my face.

I rub my palms into my eyes until I see green spots—better than drugs, I swear—then I grab my phone and order a pizza. It’s late and I’m not in the mood to cook. I change out of my suit and slip on jeans and a tee shirt, then pop in a movie while I wait for dinner.

When the doorbell rings, I grab my wallet to pay for the pizza, but it’s not the pizza man on the other side.

It’s the cutest little girl I’ve ever seen. She’s about ten, Asian, with rich, long black hair tied in pigtails. She has powerful brown eyes and wears a Catholic school blouse and skirt that outlines a slender figure. Hmm, maybe she’s not so much cute as a pedophile’s daydream.

Hi there, she says, holding up several colorful boxes. Can I interest you in some Girl Scout cookies?

I look over her head at the inky sky with only the faintest shades of blue. It’s a bit late to be selling cookies, isn’t it?

What’s wrong with selling cookies at the same time people start craving a bedtime snack? she smirks.

I smile back at her. Well, that’s downright clever. All right, you win. Give me a box of the coconut ones and the peanut butter.

No Thin Mints?

No, I’m afraid you found the one person in the world who doesn’t like Thin Mints.

She raises a brow. How do you not like Thin Mints?

I shrug. I’m weird, I guess. I hand her the money. "There you go,