Deadhead

By Glenn Wood

The story starts with the death of Constable Garrett... and continues with his resurrection as  a  conscious  cyborg  initially  controlled  by   Spencer   Langley   aged   13,   inventor,   entrepreneur and car thief. Things get even more  complicated  with  the  introduction  of  sinister  criminals  and  Garrett's  ex  partner.  Includes graphic replays every third chapter for the  entertainment  of  all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: OneTree House Publishers
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781990035869

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Deadhead_COVER.jpg

Produced with the assistance of:

First published by OneTree House Ltd, New Zealand

© Glenn Wood, 2020

ISBN: 978-1-990-035-86-9

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Illustration © Scott Pearson

Cover Illustration: Scott Pearson

Cover font: Otis Frizzell

Prologue

The rain fell hard. Constable Garret Hunter wiped the water from his eyes and tightened the hood of his police-issue rain jacket. He was in a crouch, hidden behind a low stone wall about one hundred metres from a boat ramp. The ramp was located on a remote stretch of the Yellowbridge River on the outskirts of Stamport city. He edged to the corner of the wall and peered into the early evening gloom.

Garret heard the low growl of an approaching engine and pushed himself closer to the wall. He lifted his jacket and checked the charge on his taser. The light was green.

The sound of the engine grew louder then rattled to a stop. Garret risked a look. A car had pulled up beside the boat ramp. It was an orange 1972 Valiant Charger, with crudely painted flames adorning the bonnet and the words ‘Death’s Disciples Motorcycle Club’ inscribed on the doors. Two men got out of the vehicle and moved towards the ramp.

The first man was huge. His eyes were small and mean and his bald head was scarred like a golf ball that’d been hit too many times. The other man wasn’t as tall as his partner but was covered in tattoos and looked lean and hard.

The bald man carried a solid black torch in his right hand. He clicked it on and played it over the boat ramp and the surrounding area. Garret saw the light and snapped back a few seconds before the beam hit the wall. He held his breath. The shaft of light flicked past him then died.

Garret slid along the wall looking for cover. He shimmied over the top, jumped quietly to the other side and hid in a clump of trees, trying to find a better vantage point. A disused shed with rotting walls and a collapsed roof stood nearby. It was tagged with graffiti and old gang signs that had faded and blistered.

The cop crept inside and picked his way through fallen timber and rubbish to a shattered window frame. He kept to the shadows then looked cautiously outside. He had a good view of the boat ramp. He watched as the two men stood on the dock. They were partially obscured by a swirling mist.

Garret quietly eased the zip of his rain jacket down and took a Nikon D750 camera from around his neck. He checked the exposure. The light was low so he’d have to shoot quickly. Garret zoomed in on the men and snapped a few shots. He checked the playback screen. The pictures were dull and grainy but they’d do.

Seconds later he heard another engine and recognised the tick, tick, tick of an outboard. This was what he’d been waiting for. Garret had been tipped off that tonight’s drop would be made by a ruthless crime lord known only as the Undertaker. The Stamport Police had no idea what the criminal looked like and Garret knew his career would get a major boost if he got his photograph.

He lifted the camera to his eye and scanned the river. The nose of a sleek, black speedboat cut through the rain.

As the boat approached, Garret clicked off a few shots and zoomed in so he could examine its interior. He frowned. It was weird. He couldn’t see anyone aboard the craft and it wasn’t slowing down as it neared the dock.

Twisting the zoom further, he brought the boat into sharp focus but still couldn’t see the driver. Then he noticed the rope. The outboard had been placed on its lowest setting and a cord had been tied around the steering wheel to keep the craft on course.

The cop watched, incredulous, as the front of the speedboat slammed into the dock. Metal screeched and wood splintered as its prow chewed through the planks like a shark through swimmers. The two men on the dock weren’t expecting the collision and they leapt desperately out of the boat’s path, the structure shattering beneath them.

The lean man landed roughly in a pool of mud directly in front of the jetty while the bald man issued a guttural yell and threw himself into the river, limbs flailing.

Finally, the boat hit the structure’s main support beam and juddered to a halt, the engine still ticking.

Garret wondered where the owner of the boat was, and a feeling of dread crept up his spine. He heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked directly behind him. He quickly dropped the camera onto his foot and slid it under a pile of rubbish as he turned around.

The man holding the pistol was tall and corpse-thin, with sunken cheeks, sallow skin and cold, grey eyes. He wore simple dark clothing and smelt of rot. He smiled, his mouth like a fresh cut that had just started to bleed.

Misdirection, the man wheezed waving his gun at the smashed boat. A favourite trick of mine. His voice crackled and hissed like a dying fire. Should have had someone watching your back. Rookie mistake.

Garret let out a shallow breath and inched his hand towards the taser tucked in his belt. The thin man’s smile grew wider and he shook his head. He pointed the gun at the cop. I’ll take that.

Reaching under his jacket, Garret reluctantly removed the weapon and gave it up. The man tucked the taser into the waistband of his pants and nodded towards the shattered boat ramp. Move.

Garret turned and felt the barrel of the pistol dig into his back as he was marched toward the wreckage of the dock.

The two gang members stood at the edge of the river, dripping wet and muddy. Their eyes widened when they saw the cop and the thin man. They silently backed away. Garret was pushed past them onto the broken dock then forced to walk along the splintered planking to the river’s edge. He could see the cold, black water through a gap in the timber. It ran swift and silent beneath his feet.

The cop felt a bony hand grab his shoulder. With surprising strength, the man spun him around until they were face to face. Garret looked deep into his captor’s eyes hoping to see a flicker of humanity but saw nothing but darkness.

I take it you’re the Undertaker, he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The man stared back impassively. What gave me away? Was it the black clothes or the smell of dead flesh under my fingernails? I wash them regularly but some smells linger.

Garret’s mind raced. He knew if he didn’t do something quickly he’d be dead. He drew back his forehead and slammed it into the bridge of the man’s nose. Pain exploded behind Garret’s eyes and he fell to his knees, barely conscious. He felt as if he’d rammed his head into a rock wall. It was a blow that would have dropped a normal man but the Undertaker barely flinched.

That wasn’t very smart, sneered the man in black.

Struggling to stay conscious, Garret dragged his eyes to meet the pitiless stare of the man towering above him. I’ll get you, he snarled. It was a statement, not a threat.

The Undertaker ran his tongue over a row of yellow teeth. Oh, I don’t think so.

The corpse-like man pulled the taser from under his jacket, aimed at the cop’s neck and pulled the trigger. Garret’s body jerked as electricity coursed through him, the shock sapping what remained of his strength. The last thing he saw, as his consciousness slipped away, was the distorted shape of the Undertaker bending down to whisper in his ear.

Saved me a bullet, the man hissed.

Garret felt a sharp kick in his side and his limp body rolled off the dock into the freezing river. The water was suffocating; its cold drew him deeper into blackness. He saw a brief flash of white then nothing.

Chapter One

It was a good night for grave-robbing. A full moon shone brightly in the cloud-free sky on a Tuesday evening, in the small town of Pegler which lay about fifty kilometres west of Stamport, and the roads were, excuse the pun, dead.

This was fortunate for Spencer Langley as he was driving a stolen car and didn’t have a driver’s licence. Being only thirteen, he wasn’t old enough to drive legally but he’d always treated the law as more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule.

Spencer would argue that the car wasn’t actually stolen but borrowed. It was an old, battered Honda Civic which belonged to his mother. Just because she hadn’t given him permission to take the car didn’t mean she wouldn’t have. Okay, she wouldn’t have but, technically, he hadn’t asked, so she hadn’t said no.

Spencer flicked a glance at Regan, the short, blonde girl who sat next to him. She was dressed in an eclectic mix of op shop clothing that shouldn’t have worked together and didn’t. They had been friends since they were kids and she regularly displayed poor enough judgement to accompany him on outings such as this.

Regan was chewing on a pink strand of hair. The ends had been dyed about ten centimetres from the tip. She took the hair out of her mouth then drew her feet up so they pushed against the glove box.

You know, there’s some pretty poor parenting going on here, she muttered.

Spencer’s brow furrowed. How so?

It’s obvious, isn’t it? We’re two thirteen-year-old kids, out robbing graves, miles from home and not an adult in sight. She paused for effect. I’m sure you won’t find that in the positive parenting handbook.

Spencer smiled. You’re only twelve-and-a-half.

Regan considered the ‘Blueberry Blast’ nail varnish on her left hand. The green colour on her right-hand nails was called ‘Bugs Blood’.

That makes it worse! she wailed.

Spencer tapped the steering wheel with his finger then flicked his hazel eyes to the rear vision mirror and briefly studied his reflection. He supposed he was quite good-looking, not handsome but certainly not grotesque. He was of average size for his age though a bit on the skinny side. His sandy-coloured hair was shaved short at the sides but had a bit more length on top. He had an annoying curl at the front of his hair which sat up like a curling wave. Everyone thought he was using hair gel to get this effect but he wasn’t. His hair just did it and he’d stopped trying to tamp it down years ago. Other outstanding features included thin lips, a sprinkling of freckles and teeth that were even and white. This gave him a nice smile which he didn’t use as much as his mother would have liked.

Spencer’s dress style wasn’t as unconventional as Regan’s. He didn’t really care about fashion, although he did have a ‘thing’. Jeans and Teeshirts were his uniform but not just any Teeshirts. He almost always wore one featuring an obscure band, reflecting his unconventional musical tastes. Today’s attire featured a faded photo of a mole rat with the band name ‘Skunk Mud’ above it.

Spencer answered Regan. My mum thinks I’m safely tucked up in bed at home so she can’t really be blamed.

Regan considered this. Yes, but it’s her job to know her son well enough to expect this sort of behaviour. I mean, she didn’t even lock the car.

Spencer swung the Civic off the main road and onto an unsealed side road. Gravel crunched under the tyres and the rear of the car began to fishtail.

Regan braced one hand against the passenger window and pulled tightly on her seatbelt with her other hand. She carried on talking. Not that it would have done any good. You’d have just picked the lock and hotwired it.

Spencer turned the steering wheel against the direction of the skid and the car snapped back into line. He was getting annoyed. You know full well that I wouldn’t have taken the car unless it was an emergency. And what about your parents? I bet they don’t know where you are tonight.

Regan snorted. They never know where I am and they don’t care anyway. She dropped her head and stared hard at her nails.

Spencer noticed the change in Regan’s body language. He calmed down; his voice softened. Sorry about that, Regs. I’m sure they do.

The girl shrugged. Nah, they don’t but it’s all right. Doesn’t matter.

Spencer couldn’t think of anything to say to make his friend feel better so he kept quiet. Even a slightly uncomfortable silence was better than comparing his mother with hers.

The car bumped down the side road for several more kilometres, its wheels crashing in and out of potholes. Spencer finally pulled onto a grass verge beside the rear of a large cemetery. The boy had avoided the main entrance on purpose, choosing a less frequented path into the graveyard.

The gates to this part of the cemetery were old and ornate, with thin steel bars curled into the shape of spirals and spearheads. Two large, fat bodied spiders were sculpted into the top of each gate, their spindly steel legs splayed out from their bodies as if they’d been squashed.

The gates had been pushed aside some years ago and left open until they had rusted in place. Pale green lichen spread in patches over the black metal. It looked as if someone with a bad cold had sneezed on them. Scattered stands of ancient trees pressed against the cemetery walls, bare branches clawing at the sky.

Spencer and Regan left the car. The boy popped the boot and removed a large black bag and two shovels. He handed one to Regan, slung the other over his shoulder, picked up the bag then walked confidently into the cemetery.

Regan hesitated then broke into a trot to catch up with her friend.

They strode purposefully past rows of tombs and gravestones that were deteriorating with age and neglect. A plump blackbird watched them from the top of a marble cross, its yellow eyes glinting in the moonlight. Spencer paused at an old granite statue of a winged angel whose beautifully carved face had cracked and slipped.

Spencer nudged Regan and pointed to the decaying visage. Nothing a bit of Botox wouldn’t fix.

Show some respect! hissed the girl. The sombre air of the cemetery was getting to her.

Spencer shrugged. Just trying to lighten the mood. I doubt anyone here’ll complain. He shifted his shovel from one shoulder to the other. When did you get all spiritual?

I have hidden depths.

Really well-hidden, muttered Spencer.

Regan ignored him. How much further?

Spencer ran his fingers over a nearby gravestone; the rock crumbled. A little way yet, we’re still in the old part of the cemetery. The grave we want is in the new bit.

After ten minutes of solid walking the appearance of the cemetery began to change. The gravestones were less damaged and had been maintained with more care. Floral displays appeared at the foot of some of the graves and the grass between the plots was recently mown.

Spencer grabbed Regan’s arm and pointed to a bright yellow mechanical digger that lay sleeping by a mound of freshly dug dirt. Let’s try over there.

He hurried to the digger, waited for Regan to catch up, then cast his eyes over a line of new plots. He moved closer to the graves and walked slowly down the rows carefully examining the engravings on the headstones.

Spencer suddenly stopped. He stood in front of a freshly dug mound of dirt. The headstone at the end of the grave was made from a slab of black marble. The stone was so dark it seemed to absorb the moonlight and, unlike most of the other curved gravestones, it was rectangular in shape. Its thick black edges were sharp and precise and in the half-light it looked like a large bible that had been rammed into the ground.

Spencer waved Regan over. She approached with caution.

This is it, he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Come and meet my new bodyguard.

Regan crept closer to the headstone. The first thing she noticed was a silver emblem centred near the top of the stone. The design consisted of three entangled letters - SPD (Stamport Police Department). Engraved in large gold type beneath the insignia was a name - Garret Hunter.

• • •

Two weeks earlier digging up a potential bodyguard was the last thing on Spencer’s mind. He was simply trying to survive another school day.

Spencer fell between the cracks when it came to high school cliques. He didn’t have the money or the right family name to be popular. He wasn’t big enough to be a jock, wasn’t stupid enough to be a stoner, wasn’t depressed enough to be an emo and wasn’t socially awkward enough to be a nerd. Although with an IQ in excess of 145 he was definitely smart enough. Not that his schoolmates knew how intelligent he was. Spencer hid his superior intellect as much as possible. He’d learned early in life that it made him a target for stronger but less gifted kids.

What Spencer was, however, was a survivor. His dad had left when Spencer was five. He walked out the door one day and never came back. There were rumours that he deserted them for another woman but Spencer didn’t know if that was true. All he knew was that his dad was a loser who had dumped his family when they needed him the most. His mum, Tessa Langley, took it hard, blaming herself for her husband’s departure. She became depressed and could barely get out of bed some days. Spencer had stepped up and made sure things got done and, even though his mum was much better, he was still stepping up. He realised long ago that his job was to do whatever it took to get what he and his mum needed.

He applied the same logic to his situation at school. He’d added up his assets; brains, quick wits, charm (when required) and a healthy disregard for rules. Bearing this in mind, he’d carved out a niche as a fixer. If you wanted anything, anything at all, Spencer would organise it. For a fee.

Want a girl to like you? Spencer would get you a date.

Need to ace the upcoming chemistry exam? Spencer would supply you with enough answers for a credible pass.

By doing this he ensured he was not only useful to all the school groups but made enough money to help his mum pay the bills. He was also able to put cash aside for a college fund. Spencer knew the only way they would get ahead was if he got a decent education and a well-paid job. His mum did her best but she didn’t have a career or the qualifications required to get one. She worked hard but was paid poorly and, from an early age, Spencer knew he didn’t want to spend his life struggling like his mum or being a waste of space like his father. This attitude kept Spencer strong and focussed but it also gave him a ruthless streak.

Spencer had initially hoped to get a scholarship for college. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to study yet, it would be either medicine or robotics, both were subjects that fascinated him and he’d spent years researching how the human body worked and applying those learnings to robotics. He knew that the first person to effectively replicate a human in mechanical form would make a killing.

And while Spencer was certainly smart enough to get a scholarship he’d recently organised a spectacularly bad date for the daughter of the head of the advisory committee. After that he was pretty sure his chances had dropped to nil. Due to this unfortunate turn of events he was actively looking for work.

Spencer was in the boy’s bathroom when it began. He had just finished conducting a very successful match fixing negotiation with the captain of the school hockey team when Carl ‘Psycho’ Barrington walked in. Carl lived up to his nickname; he was as unpredictable as a wild dog and just as dangerous. The best thing to do when Carl turned up was to get the hell out of there, which was exactly what Spencer was attempting when his arm was taken in a steely grip.

Where’re you going Langley?

Spencer turned to face the boy trying to get a measure on Carl’s mood. He appeared relatively calm but with Carl it was hard to tell. Spencer decided on a strategy of complete compliance.

Nowhere if you need me Carl. How can I help?

The larger boy indicated that Spencer follow him to the urinal. He bent down and checked under the bathroom stalls as they walked. Once Carl was satisfied that they were alone he lowered his voice to a whisper.

I’m starting a Burdale Chapter of the Yakuza.

Of all the things Spencer had expected Carl to say this was near the bottom of the list.

Firstly, Spencer wasn’t aware that the Japanese organised crime syndicate known as the Yakuza was active in Stamport. Secondly, he didn’t think they’d choose the exclusive and upmarket suburb of Burdale as a base if they were. Finally and most surprisingly, Carl wasn’t Asian. In fact, he was about as European as you could get. He had wavy, shoulder length blond hair, cold blue eyes and pale skin. He was built more like a rugby player than an oriental assassin.

However, if Carl wanted to be a Yakuza, Spencer wasn’t about to argue. He answered, barely missing a beat.

Great idea. I’m in.

Carl grabbed Spencer by the shirt collar and pushed him against the bathroom wall. Don’t be stupid. I wasn’t asking you to join the gang. As if! We are gonna be an elite group of feared warriors... Carl poked a solid digit into Spencer’s skinny chest. ...not scrawny ummm, chicken chested girls.

As insults go Spencer had heard worse but he knew Carl was better with his fists then he was with his mouth.

OK, Spencer replied in his most soothing tone. What do you want then?

Carl released his shirt collar and stepped back. I need a samurai sword.

Of course, said Spencer as if it was the most natural request in the world. You can’t be a leader of the Yakuza without a sword?

Can you get me one? said Carl with a nod of his head.

Spencer sucked air through his teeth. It won’t be cheap.

How much?

At least four hundred.

Carl took out his wallet and handed Spencer two one hundred dollar bills. Half now, half when I get the sword.

You’ll have it by the end of the week, said Spencer, now feeling quite positive about the meeting.

• • •

Later that afternoon Spencer visited one of his many business contacts, Jimmy Lee. Jimmy was the manager of The Two Dollar Shop in one of Stamport’s less salubrious suburbs. After some intense negotiation Spencer was able to secure a ‘semi genuine’ samurai sword, which Jimmy had hidden out the back of the store. It cost Spencer twenty five dollars and fifty cents.

Spencer took the sword home, gave it a polish to remove some of the rust from the blade, then repaired and redecorated its sheath, which had definitely see better days.

He presented the hastily renovated weapon to Carl the following afternoon.

It’s not as fancy as I thought it’d be, muttered Carl as he examined the tatty black sheath that protected the sword.

Spencer nodded. Yeah, I thought the same thing but the sensei master I bought it off said ‘the plainer the sheath, the more powerful the sword’.

Carl pulled at a rotting piece of string that hung from the scabbard. It broke off in his hand. He whistled. Wow, this must be really powerful then.

Yeah, said Spencer, warming to the task. "It’s called ‘Gut Spiller’ and it was owned by this, like, super ninja dude. He had to rescue this hot princess